Parasha VaYigash: "Jewish American -- Or American Jew?"

Are you an American Jew – or a Jewish American?

In a recent op-ed piece in the New York Times, the writer Mark Oppenheimer notes that Presidents from Reagan to Trump have assiduously avoided the use of the noun “Jew” and instead have used the adjective, “Jewish” when referring to members of our community. In his last Passover message, for example, President Obama referred to “Jewish families” twice, but never once used the word “Jew”. In closing his joint message for Passover and Easter this year, President Trump said he prayed for the day when “good people of all faiths, Christians and Muslims and Jewish and Hindu, can follow their hearts and worship according to their conscience.” A worthy  sentiment.  But notice that “Christians”, “Muslims” and “Hindus” are all nouns used to describe people – “Jewish” is the only adjective. To be grammatically correct, he should have referred to “Christians, Muslims, Jews and Hindus”.  But, like his predecessors in the Oval Office, he chose to use the word “Jewish” and avoided the word “Jew”.

When I was growing up, we referred to ourselves as “American Jews”. I have noticed that this has changed in the passing years. We more often now refer to ourselves as “Jewish Americans”. I think the change reflects the fact that being a Jew has become less central to our identity. Referring to ourselves as “American Jews” sets us apart from other Americans.  Understanding  ourselves as “Jewish Americans” feels more inclusive, less starkly different.  An “American Jew” is a Jewish person who happens to be American. A “Jewish American” is an American who happens to be Jewish too.  In preferring the term “Jewish American” we assert that we are just as American as our Catholic or Protestant neighbor.  We are just a different flavor of “American”, so to speak.  In the op-ed I cited above, Mark Oppenheimer advocates for the return of the word “Jew” to our vocabulary. He notes that there is something prouder, more confident and more assertive in describing oneself as “a Jew” than there is in describing oneself as “Jewish”.    Think “I am a Jew” versus “I am Jewish”.

It may come as a surprise to many of us that the Hebrew word for “Jew” – “Yehudi” -- is not found in the Torah. We are called Hebrews, we are called “Bnai Israel”, we are called “Yeshurun”, we are called “Yaakov”, and we are called “Ephraim” when the Bible refers to the Jewish people. The first use of the word “Yehudi” in Hebrew Scriptures comes rather late in our history. In the Scroll of Esther, Mordechai is referred to as an “ish yehudi” – which means either “a Jewish man” or “a man from Yehud”—“Yehud” being the Persian word for the Jewish homeland.  That means it took over a thousand years between Abraham and Mordechai for the term “Yehudi” to appear in writing. Still, we do not know whether this refers to a place or to a religion. It wasn’t until 1275 CE that the word “Jew” makes its appearance in English. It is spelled “G-Y-U”. It isn’t until 1775 that we find its first English spelling as “J-E-W”. Perhaps this explains why the letter written by the “Hebrew Congregation of Newport Rhode Island” (pointedly, not the “Jewish Congregation of RI”) to George Washington, only 15 years later in 1790, refers to the members of that community as “the stock of Abraham”.  President George Washington uses the same phrase in his letter in response.

Think:  “I am of the stock of Abraham” versus “I am Jewish”.

The word “Jew” has its origins in the Tribe of Judah, the largest of the tribes of ancient Israel. This tribe is named after Judah, the fourth son of Jacob by his wife Leah. The Torah itself says that this means “to give thanks”. Thus, a Jew is one who gives thanks to G-d. The Talmud derives the name Yehudah from the word “Hoda’ah” which means “to acknowledge”. Thus a Jew is someone who affirms that G-d is One and who submits to G-d’s authority through the practice of mitzvoth.

Judah, the person, figures prominently in our Torah portion this week, and indeed, throughout the story of Joseph. So much so that Rabbi Meir Soloveitchik has proposed that the story of Joseph might better be called the story of Judah. For although we may admire Joseph, writes Rabbi Soloveitchik, he is too flawless to serve as a model for us. He succeeds in everything he does. He never falters. He resists the temptations of Potiphar’s wife and forgives his brothers who have wronged him. Joseph survives every situation he encounters and comes out smelling like roses.

Judah, on the other hand, betrays Joseph by selling him into slavery, then redeems himself through his offer to go into slavery in place of his brother Benjamin. Judah gets angry at his daughter-in-law, but has the courage to admit that he has wronged her. Judah gives in to temptation, then acknowledges that he did wrong. Judah sins, and Judah shows remorse and Judah asks forgiveness.

Judaism, writes Rabbi Soloveitchik, is really “Judah-ism”. In our faith we are asked to put ourselves in Judah’s place. Joseph is a static figure, perfect and pure from the beginning of the story to the end. Judah is flawed, like we all are, but Judah grows, like we are asked to do. Judah struggles to do the right thing, as our religion, Judaism, teaches us to do. In the end, Judah overcomes his limitations. Judah is an imperfect namesake who can serve as an inspiration to us all.

That is what it means to be a Jew.

Shabbat Shalom

Parasha Miketz: The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow

I began this sermon by playing the song below:

The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow from the play "Annie"

According to the Talmud, whether the sun would come out tomorrow was a real concern of the very first human being.  "When Adam, on the day of his creation, saw the setting of the sun he said, 'Alas, it is because I have sinned that the world around me is becoming dark; the universe will now become again void and without form - this then is the death to which I have been sentenced from Heaven for eating of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil'. So Adam sat up all night fasting and weeping and Eve was weeping opposite him.  When however dawn broke, he said, `I understand, “This is the usual course of the world.'"  (Avodah Zarah 8a)  

It is no coincidence that Chanukah is celebrated at the darkest time of the year.  It also is always celebrated around the time we read Parasah Miketz in our synagogues. In Parasha  Miketz we find Joseph in prison in Egypt for 12 long years. He was sold by his brothers into slavery when he was 17 years old – he is now a young man of 30. He dwells in the darkness of a prison cell. But Joseph never gives up hope. Placing his trust in G-d, he is suddenly freed and is thrust from darkness to light.

Perhaps the words left on another prison wall, of sorts, on a cellar wall in Cologne, Germany by Jews in hiding during the Holocaust, best expresses the thought.  "I believe in the sun even when it is not shining, I believe in love even when I am alone, I believe in God even when He is hiding."  When everything is dark, we can rely on our faith in G-d that the sun will shine again.  

The person who penned those words on the cellar wall would perhaps not be surprised to read that a few days ago  Berlin Mayor Michael Müller, German Justice Minister Heiko Maas and Israeli Ambassador to Germany Jeremy Issacharoff stood together to light the first candle of Europe's largest Hanukkah menorah at The Brandenburg Gate in Berlin. The Brandenburg Gate, which had once been used as a symbol by the Nazi party. The Brandenburg Gate, where West Germans had once gathered to protest the Soviet building of the Berlin Wall, the symbol of the iron curtain behind which millions were deprived of their freedom. The Brandenburg Gate, where President Reagan addressed these words in 1987 to the General Secretary of the Soviet Union, Mikhael Gorbachev, “If you seek peace, if you seek prosperity for the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe, if you seek liberalization: Come here to this gate! Mr. Gorbachev, open this gate! Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!” Is there a more fitting place for the Menorah, the symbol of freedom, to be lit than at the Brandenburg Gate in Germany?

Each night of Chanukah we light one more candle on our Menorahs. Each night, the light grows and the darkness diminishes.  Chanukah is a holiday of hope – lighting the Menorah an expression of our faith that even in the darkest of times, the sun will come out tomorrow.

Parasha VaYeshev: O' Jerusalem!

Our parasha for this week continues the story of Jacob. Of all of our Biblical ancestors, with the exception of David, Jacob leads the most tumultuous life. He struggles with his brother in the womb, deceives his father, steals the blessing reserved for the first born and must flee his home to escape the anger of his brother who has threatened to kill him. He is in turn deceived by his father-in-law, Laban, into working three times longer for his wife Rachel as he had agreed. He marries two sisters who are rivals with one another for his affection, takes their maidservants as wives as well, and sires 12 sons and a daughter. His daughter is kidnapped and raped and his sons’ violent response to that event make him fear for his own life and the lives of his loved ones.

Our Torah reading opens with the words, “Jacob settled in the land”. From the use of the word, “settled” the rabbis deduce that Jacob finally believed that, after all his troubles, he had finally found peace and tranquility in his life. The midrash has G-d criticizing Jacob for asking for too much.  “Isn’t it enough to know that the righteous will have tranquility in Messianic times? You expect peace and tranquility in this world as well?”   In fact, no sooner does Jacob “settle down” than his favorite son Joseph is sold into slavery and his much sought after tranquility is shattered.

Peace and tranquility is what the Jewish people have pursued for the longest of times. Israel was founded in 1948 with the hope that having a Jewish state for the Jewish people would normalize our condition and allow us to take our place among the family of nations.   We would abandon our status as “guests” in other people’s homelands and “settle down” in a home of our own – Israel. But like Jacob, our hoped for peace and tranquility has not materialized. In many parts of the world anti-Semitism – the irrational hatred of Jews – has simply been transformed into anti-Zionism – the irrational hatred of Israel.

That is not to say that there has not been progress made toward peace. In 1978 Israel signed a peace agreement with Anwar Sadat of Egypt. That peace turned out colder than had been hoped, but it constituted peace nonetheless, and it has held. In 1993 the Oslo accords were signed. Although the hoped for peace failed to fully materialize, the Oslo accords did lead to mutual recognition between Israel and the PLO. This constituted another historically important step.  A year later Jordan and Israel signed a peace treaty and each country opened its borders to the other. There were other serious efforts toward peace in 2000 and 2006, but the parties failed to reach an agreement.

One of the most contentious issues that is left “unsettled” is the status of Jerusalem. The UN partition plan of 1947 envisioned Jerusalem being a “corpus separatum”, Latin for “separated body”. This meant that Jerusalem would be placed under UN sovereignty as an international city. Ben Gurion and the provisional Jewish government accepted the plan – the Arabs, who rejected the idea of partitioning the land between a Jewish and an Arab state altogether – rejected the idea. After the War for Independence in 1948, Jordan ended up holding the Old City of Jerusalem. Israel ended up with the Western part of the city, which they declared their capital, with a “no-man’s land” dividing the Jordanian held side from the Israeli held side. Under Jordanian rule the Jewish population of the Old City, which at the time constituted a majority was expelled, synagogues in the Old City were blown up, Jewish sites desecrated, and Jews forbidden from entering.

Although the State of Israel declared the Western part of the city as their capital, the world never accepted it, holding to the UN Resolution that this area should be under international jurisdiction. That sentiment did not change when Israel captured the Old City in the 1967 war and declared the city as a united Jerusalem.

Still, in 1980 there were 13 countries with embassies in Jerusalem. They all fled Jerusalem for Tel Aviv when the Knesset, Israel’s Parliament, passed what is called a Basic Law which is equivalent in our country to a Constitutional Amendment.  The Basic Law stated that the city of Jerusalem would be the “complete and united capital of Israel”.  Today there are no foreign embassies in Jerusalem. The international consensus now is that the future status of Jerusalem needs to be decided upon by Israel and the Palestinians.

This is precisely why President Trump’s recognition of Jerusalem as Israel’s capital is so controversial. The United States has broken with precedent by seeming to decide on the status of Jerusalem outside of the framework of negotiations between Israel and the Palestinians. And while it may be emotionally satisfying for some to see the United States ratify Israel’s position on the status of Jerusalem, it is unclear how this in and of itself contributes to peace in the region. At best it has no effect in that it offers no blueprint as to how we may proceed along the long road towards peace.  At worst it inflames the passions of Muslims around the world and makes that road all the more difficult. It makes it more difficult for the United States to appear like an honest broker for peace.  It is also hard to understand how it promotes our country’s interests in the region or around the world.

A few hours after the President’s announcement American rabbis, including myself, received an Anti-Defamation League Security Warning saying that the announcement “is engendering strong reaction in the Middle East and there is potential for extreme reaction on the ground in the United States as well.” How does this enhance our security here in the United States?  In many ways it seems that the announcement has a very small “upside” and a very big “downside”.

Many early Zionists, most of whom were secular Jews, were ambivalent about having the capital of a modern Israel in Jerusalem. Herzl envisioned building a capital in the area of Haifa. A young David Ben Gurion was uneasy about Jerusalem and the city’s fraught religious history. Many of us today are discomfited by the lack of separation of “Church and State” in Israel. This intertwining of religion and politics is mirrored in Jerusalem, which is both the political capital of Israel and the religious capital of Jews around the world. That makes things very, very complicated. Like Jacob of yore, we hope that someday things will “settle down” and Israel can live in peace, tranquility and security with her neighbors –not only in Messianic times, but in this world of ours as well.

Shabbat Shalom

Parasha Vayishlakh: When Men Behave Badly

I knew what I would speak about this evening when I emerged from my office at noon on Wednesday and was greeted by Dorothy with the following words, “The rest of my day has been ruined.” At first I wondered If my presence had elicited that response, but she quickly followed her remark  that Garrison Keeler  of Prairie Home Companion had been accused of sexually harassing a co-worker and had been fired from his position at American Public Radio.  I am sure that those feelings were shared by many in our country. If Garrison Keeler, who has portrayed himself as the most wholesome man in America , now is  facing serious accusations of sexual harassment,  no wonder our faith in people  we look up to is been severely shaken.   By now a very long list of journalists, actors and politicians, of both parties, have been accused of sexual misconduct.                

I know this is a difficult subject for all of us to talk about.  The multiplicity of issues raised are ones many of us would not even want to hear, let alone talk about. But silence is not an option, silence is not conducive to healing, and silence is precisely one of the ways in which we collude in keeping these insidious actions occurring and reoccurring in all spheres of our lives, public and private. These accusations bring up difficult moral questions for us. When we read about the behavior of these men we feel, disgusted, we feel revolted, we feel repelled. Their behavior is rightly condemned.  But   I have no doubt that many of us are confused, many of us have contradictory feelings.  What if I our political positions are close to Al Franken’s?  What if we feel torn because we vehemently condemn his inappropriate behaviors but value his experience and record as a Senator?   Or, let’s place ourselves in the position of an Alabama voter who now needs to make an important decision about voting for a man against whom serious accusations have been leveled by multiple people. Do they vote for Roy Moore, about whom they may now have serious reservations, or do they vote for a Democrat and thereby make it almost impossible to pass the Conservative agenda in the Senate?

   

Do we I now watch “House of Cards” with a clear conscience with the  now disgraced Kevin Spacey in the lead role? How do we  now feel about watching television or movies starring the disgraced comedian Louis C.K.? Does Leon Wieseltier’s appalling behavior with women detract from his insightful writing or brilliant analysis? And what, in heavens name, do we do with the accusation of the woman who claims that Elie Wiesel, of blessed memory, groped her when she was 19 years old? To add to the complexities, we know that even among those who engage in what is broadly defined as inappropriate behavior with women, there are different grades of inappropriateness. Do we treat everyone the same?  

Before the internet it was well known in certain circles that the great Rabbi and song writer, Shlomo Carlebach, sexually abused women over the 40 years of his rabbinate. In the Spring of 1998 Lillith, a Jewish, feminist magazine, published an article entitled “Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach’s Shadow Side” which revealed to the public what only a few knew had been happening in private. We can condemn him—but should we still sing his melodies that he set to our prayers at our services?

This type of moral confusion, this ethical disorientation is also found in our parasha for this week. Dinah, the daughter of Jacob and Leah, is kidnapped and raped by a local Canaanite prince. He claims he loves her, and sends word to Jacob, her father, that he wants to marry her. The family agrees, on the condition that all the men of the town the prince rules circumcise themselves. The men agree and circumcise themselves. After they do so Dinah’s brothers Simeon and Levi steal into town, kill all of the men who are now too weakened to fight back, kill the prince and rescue Dinah. The other brothers descend on the town, plunder it, and take all the women and children as war booty.

What is Jacob’s reaction to this episode of cunning and brutality? Does he reprimand his sons for breaking their word to the Prince, for violating an agreement that was entered into in good faith? Does he scold them for their excessive violence? Jacob says none of this. Jacob only worries about the effect of his sons’ actions on his own reputation. He worries that when the other Canaanites in the land hear about what happened, they will unite and destroy him. To which his sons respond, “Should our sister be treated like a harlot?” And Jacob is silent. Notice how silence here points to an alarming component of the abusive dynamic since Biblical times.

Only years later, when Jacob is lying on his deathbed, does he unambiguously condemn the violence of his sons Levi and Simeon. This, perhaps, speaks to the years that it may take to sort out the sordid revelations about some of our beloved cultural and important political figures. The world is by and large not black and white, but many shades of grey. These revelations about sexual abuse in the workplace raise moral and ethical issues that we will struggle with for many years to come as a nation, as communities, as individuals. A major part of the struggle is to voice it, to name it, is to discuss it.  Above all, we must not be silent.

Shabbat Shalom

"On Visiting the Sick"

This past Sunday I visited our third grade class.  One of the students asked me a question – How many letters are there in a Torah? In rabbinic school we learn that although we “Rabbis to be” will not be able to answer every question put to us, we will be able to know where to go and look for the answer to any question we cannot answer immediately. I immediately knew exactly where to go to answer this question. As the students looked on, I whipped out my cell phone and googled it!  There were, I told the students, 304,805 letters in the Torah. In addition, there were 79,847 words in a Torah scroll.  In fact, the Talmud tells us that the early Sages were called “soferim”, or “counters” because, so dear was the Torah to them, that they counted every letter and word. To this day, a person who writes a Torah is called a “sofer” – a counter – and not a “kotev” or writer.

Paying close attention to each word in our Torah can lead to some surprising insights. Last week our Torah reading concluded with Abraham circumcising himself, his son Ishmael, and all the males of his household as a sign of the covenant that G-d had made with him. Our Torah reading opens this week with the words, “And G-d appeared to Abraham at the Groves of Mamre, while he was sitting at the opening of his tent in the heat of the day. He raised up his eyes and he saw three men approaching. He ran to them from the opening of his tent and bowed to them.” These three men would turn out to be angels who announce to Sarah and Abraham that, even at their advanced age, they will have a son.

Given that these words are written right after we read about Abraham’s circumcision, our sages deduce that this episode takes place as Abraham is healing from this procedure. The fact that he runs toward his guests and bows low to the ground to greet them while enduring the post- circumcision pain shows, according to the sages, the extraordinary effort that Abraham makes in order to welcome guests. It becomes the example, par excellence, of the mitzvah of “hachnasat orchim”, or hospitality.

I want to draw your attention to the words at the beginning of the verse, “G-d appeared to Abraham.” In every other place where it says, “G-d appeared to Abraham”, G-d says something to him.  Take two previous examples. In Genesis 12:7 it says, “G-d appeared to Abraham and said, “I will give this land to your descendants…..”  In chapter 15 G-d appears to Abraham and says, “Do not be afraid, I will protect you and your reward will be great.” In 17:1 G-d appears to Abraham and says, “I am The Almighty …… I will make a covenant between you and me…..”  In our verse, it simply says, “G-d appeared to Abraham.” We would expect, on the basis of G-d’s previous appearances to Abraham, that this time G-d  would follow his words with a message But, this time there is no  such message to Abraham. There are no words to Abraham from G-d. We are left to ask – if G-d didn’t say anything to Abraham, what is the purpose of G-d’s appearance at this time?

Rabbi Joseph Solovetchik, of blessed memory, was perhaps the most important Orthodox Rabbi of the 20^th century. He teaches that G-d did not say anything to Abraham because there was no need to say anything to Abraham. Following the circumcision, with Abraham in severe pain, G-d simply drops in to visit Abraham.  G-d has no message for him, no commandment to impart, no law to decree, no promise to make. G-d visits as a close friend might visit, just to be present, just to be there. When people are friends, writes Rabbi Soleveitchik, when there is a shared sense of intimacy and companionship, there is often no need for words. The relationship between Abraham and G-d has changed as a result of G-d’s promise to Abraham and Abraham’s circumcision. There is now a sense of friendship between G-d and Abraham. This is why the prophet Isaiah refers to Abraham, in the haftarah we read last week, as “ohavi” – my beloved. The bond between G-d and Abraham has become more like the bond between and husband and wife, between parent and child, between siblings or between good friends. G-d shows up, G-d is present, and that is enough.

The Talmud quotes a verse from Deuteronomy, “Thou shalt walk in G-d’s ways”, and then asks the question, “How is it possible to ‘walk in G-d’s ways’”. The response is that one should try to imitate G-d’s  in the ways G-d relates to people.  We have before us the instance of G-d visiting Abraham when he is sick, and so we should visit the sick as well. Oftentimes we are uncomfortable visiting others who are in hospitals, or in nursing homes or are confined to their homes. One reason for our unease is that we don’t know what to say. Our Torah portion gives us a model to follow. We do not have to say much. What is really important is our presence. What is really important is our simply showing up. As one of my colleagues quipped, “Just don’t do something, stand there!”

Just as each letter and word of the Torah is precious, so each person in our congregation needs to know that they are counted, and when they are missing that the rest of us notice. It ought not to be only the clergy’s responsibility to visit the sick. Each and every one of us has the obligation to do this mitzvah. In order to help all of us feel more comfortable with this, we will be providing some teaching sessions in the near future through the Jewish Healing Network on Bikur Cholim, the Hebrew term for visiting the sick. Please watch for the notice in our weekly bulletin and consider attending.

Shabbat Shalom

Lekh Lecha -- "A Sermon on Inclusion"

Senator Tammy Duckworth tells the story of Lisa Carl, who, on May 28, 1988, went to her local theater to see a movie. The theater manager refused to sell her a ticket. It was not because of her race, or because of how she was dressed, or because she had been barred from the theater due to previous behavior. Lisa Carl was denied entrance to the theater because she had cerebral palsy and was in a wheelchair. When an advocate called the theater on her behalf, the manager said, coldly, “I don’t want her in here, and I don’t have to let her in.”

The manager was right – he was not legally obligated to let Lisa Carl into the theater to watch a movie. The law was on the manager’s side – he was free to discriminate based on Lisa’s disability. Lisa later testified before Congress, “I was not crying on the outside, but I was crying on the inside. I just wanted to watch the movie like everyone else.” Two years later, Congress passed the Americans for Disability Act, which ended decades of legally sanctioned discrimination against people with disabilities.

This week in our Torah portion, we are introduced to the first Jews, Abraham and Sarah. The midrash tells us that their tent was open on all sides, symbolizing the hospitality that Abraham and Sarah extended to all. The tent open on all sides also represents the inclusiveness that was a part of Abraham and Sarah’s daily lives. The rabbis tell us that Abraham and Sarah reached out to others quite unlike themselves, and brought them under the wings of the Shekhinah, into the Presence of G-d. All who wanted to enter and to be included were welcome by Abraham and Sarah. This message of inclusivity is reinforced at Sinai, when all of the Jewish people – the Torah says “the men, the women, the children, the stranger, the wood-chopper to the water drawer – meaning even those of the most humble of status—all stood at Sinai, together, and accepted the covenant. As it says in the Book of Isaiah, “[G-d’s] house shall be a House of Prayer for ALL people.” Thus, from the very beginning of our tradition, inclusivity was part of the vision that Judaism aspired to.

Therefore, it is incumbent upon us to ask the question – are there those in our Congregation Beth Shalom community who do NOT feel included? What can we do as individuals and as a community to make people with disabilities feel welcome? My colleague Rabbi Michael Schwab of Northfield addressed this issue in his Yom Kippur sermon this year. He suggests, first, that we be careful when we are tempted to label someone. He tells the story of one woman’s experience with the labelling of her son:

“When my son, Jake, was born, I was . . . clueless about motherhood. I was even more clueless about Down syndrome. For two weeks all I could see was the diagnosis. I cried a lot and thought about all the things Jake would never be. Waiting at pediatrician’s office for his 2 week appointment, I felt ashamed and guilty, like his diagnosis was my fault, and I covered Jake with a blanket so no one could see him. A woman in front of me turned around and nosily peeked under the blanket. She said to me, "Is that a Down's? My friend has one of those," - as if my child were some breed of dog! I was horrified. But I felt powerless and I didn't know what to say . . . Finally, when the doctor came into the exam room, the first thing he said to me was, "You have to remember, he is not a Down syndrome child, he is a CHILD, who has Down syndrome, amongst many other characteristics." For the first time in his tiny life I saw my SON. His beautiful almond eyes, chubby little cheeks, and curly hair captured me like never before. And the tears of anger and helplessness became tears of pride and joy. Suddenly what mattered wasn’t that he had Down syndrome, what mattered was that he was Jake”.

The lesson is that we should avoid defining a person by their disability. A person is not a “dyslexic child” as if their diagnosis describes their total character. A child who struggles to control his or her impulses is much more that a “behavior disordered child” as if that is the sum of their personality. We should make a conscious effort to look beyond a person’s diagnosis, whether it be mental illness or addiction, and see the whole person, and not just the illness they struggle with.

One in five Jewish families has a member with a disability. Most synagogue rabbis and leaders feel that they do a pretty good job when it comes to addressing members with disabilities. But, according to Joanne Newmark, a leader in a JUF sponsored educational program to address inclusion issues in Chicagoland synagogues, many people who have disabilities themselves or who have children with disabilities do not feel welcome in their synagogues. Wouldn’t it be great if our congregation had a sub-committee to explore and address this issue in a systematic way? For example, Congregation Shaare Tefilah in Boston has a standing Inclusion Committee that sent out a letter to each family in their congregation along with High Holiday tickets. It said, in part:

“Reducing stigma, educating ourselves and creating an accepting and supportive environment for those with disabilities and their families is a mission we ask you to embrace with us. We each probably have no more than 3 degrees of separation from someone with an impairing disability. This is a part of the vista to which we at Shaarei Tefillah raise our eyes as we begin this New Year.”

I want to challenge our congregation this evening to develop our own Inclusion Committee. If you are here and are interested in being a part of this committee, please let me know. I you are reading this sermon on-line, and want to be part of this effort, call or email me. Let this be the year when we move closer to the vision of the Psalms – Kol Haneshama Tehalel Yah – May every soul praise G-d.

Shabbat Shalom

Yom Kippur Day 5778 "The Two Steps to Forgiveness"

I want you to think to yourselves, but not say out loud, what is the first thing that pops into your mind when you hear the word, “scapegoat”. Hold on to that thought, and we will come back to it later.

The story is told of a leader of an Eastern European nation discussing his country’s problems with President Woodrow Wilson following World War I. “If our demands are not met at the conference table,” said the Prime Minister, “I can foresee serious trouble in my country. Why, my people will be so irritated that many of them will go out and massacre the Jews.”

“And what will happen if your demands are granted?” asked President Wilson?

“Why, my people will be so happy that they will get drunk and go out and massacre the Jews!”

There is much black humor that plays on the fact that the reasons offered by anti-Semites for violence against Jews are seldom the real reasons for that violence. In 1968, for example, when anti-government riots erupted in Poland, the then-communist government blamed the Jews of the country, who at that time represented less than one tenth of one percent of the population. Thirty four years later, in 2006, at the height of the avian flu scare, the official Syrian newspaper accused Israel of intentionally developing the virus in order to harm its Arab neighbors.  Three years after that, in 2009 a survey conducted in several European countries found that 31% of respondents believed that Jews were responsible for the financial crisis of 2008. These are just three examples of the scapegoating of Jews that has been part of the fabric of the history of Western civilization for the past 2500 years.

The word “scapegoat” is first found in our Torah reading that we just heard this morning.  It is the strangest and most mysterious element of the ancient Yom Kippur ritual. According to Rashi, "Aaron placed his right hand on one goat, and his left hand on the other. He then removed both hands from the heads of the goats, and put them in an urn where there were two lots. Written on one of the lots were the words “For the Lord”. Written on the other lot were the words, “For Azazel”.  Aaron took one lot in his right hand and one lot in his left hand, and placed them upon the corresponding goat. The goat so designated as “For the Lord” was to be slaughtered as a sacrifice in atonement for the sins of the Israelites. Aaron confessed the sins of the people on the other goat, the goat for Azazel. This goat was then sent, off to live, in the wilderness, never to return. 

One of the mysteries of this Yom Kippur ritual is the very name “Azazel”?  Who or what is “Azazel”? It is a “hapax legomenan” – an ancient Greek term meaning “something said only once”. The word Azazel is only found in this morning’s Torah reading.  There are no other places it is used in the Bible, and therefore no other contexts in which to understand what it means. The translation of the Bible from Hebrew into Greek in the second century BCE, known as the Septuagint, understood the word to be a compound of “az” or “goat” and “azel” or departing – in other words, “the departing, or vanishing, goat”. Six hundred years later, when the Bible was translated into Latin, the goat was termed “capro emissario” or “the emissary goat”. The first English translation, by William Tyndale in 1530, coined the word, “escape goat” from where our own “scapegoat” is derived.  This goat is thus both the “scapegoat” – the goat upon whose head all of the sins of the people are placed – and the “escape goat” – the goat that escapes to the wilderness and lives.

The two goats brought before Aaron had to be identical in height, in weight, in color and in monetary value. Yet they would have two different fates. One would live, and one would die. Their fates would be determined by the random movement of Aaron’s fingers as he placed his hands into the urn to draw the lots. This reminds us that there are some aspects of life that are determined by pure chance. It reminds us that there are some things in life over which we have no control. The Talmud puts it this way, “Our health, our children and our wealth are not determined by what we deserve but on our good or bad fortune.” We read about the drawing of lots on Yom Kippur to remind us that there are some facets of our lives that are totally in the hands of G-d.

I started this sermon by asking you for your associations to the word “scapegoat”. There are many famous scapegoats in history:

Adam blamed Eve for enticing him to eat the fruit from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil.

Marie Antointette was blamed for many of the problems that led to the French Revolution.

Can a cow be scapegoated? Mrs. O’Leary’s cow was scapegoated for the great Chicago fire of 1871. In fact it was a careless pipe smoker – a neighbor of Mrs. O’Leary’s, who discarded a match that started the fire.

Yoko Ono was blamed for the breakup of the Beatles.

Bill Buckner was blamed for the 1986 Red Sox World Series loss when a ball hit down the first base line went through his legs. Who did you think of?

Of all the scapegoats in history, how many of you thought of a Cubs fan who became the most famous scapegoat in Chicago sports history, Steve Bartman? He was in the news again just the a few months ago.

Steve Bartman was one of tens of thousands of Chicago Cubs fans at Wrigley Field on October 14, 2003 watching the National League Championship playoff game between the Cubs and the Florida Marlins. The Cubs were leading the seven game series 3-2 and were leading the game 3-0 with one out in the top of the eighth inning. Five more outs and the Cubs would be in the World Series for the first time since 1945. Florida Marlins second baseman Luis Castillo hit a ball down the left field line. It began to fall in foul territory heading toward the seats. Moises Alou, the Cub’s left fielder raced into the foul area to catch it for the second out of the inning. As the ball lofted toward the stands, Bartman also reached out from his seat near the left field line and deflected the ball away from the waiting glove of Alou. Instead of the second out of the inning Castillo’s pop up fell as a mere foul ball. Castillo then walked, Cubs shortstop Alex Gonzalez muffed a double play ball, and by the end of the inning the Marlins had taken an 8-3 lead.

As the Cubs lost their lead in the top of the eighth inning enraged fans turned on Bartman, holding him responsible for the ignominious defeat. He had to be escorted from the ballpark by security as he was cursed at and pelted with debris and even a beer.  He even needed to be placed under police protection for a time after his identity became known. Steve Bartman became a “scapegoat”. It was the Cubs that lost the game, but Bartman got the blame! Just as the goat designated “for Azazel” left the Israelite camp for the wilderness and was never seen again, so Steve Bartman was exiled from Wrigley Field and has yet to return. That’s right. In the 14 years that have elapsed since that fateful day, Steve Bartman, despite invitations from the Cubs management, has not yet set foot in that ball park.

This past July, the Cubs presented Steve Bartman with a 2016 World Series ring. National Public Radio host and Chicago native Scott Simon summed up the meaning of this gesture in saying, “Cubs fans have been waiting for a moment like this. Just to put their arms around the guy one way or another and say: ‘It could have been any of us; it just happened to be you. And we’re sorry for what happened to you.’”

I see this act as representing the completion of a lengthy process of atonement by the baseball community for the scapegoating of Steve Bartman. Forgiveness is not only about saying we are sorry. For although we are sorry for what happened, and our apology has been accepted, there is still the damage to the reputation, the shame and the diminished standing in the community which remains. How does one address the permanent harm done to a person that one has wronged? The World Series ring is the baseball public’s attempt to erase this stain.

This example might give us insight into why the Yom Kippur ritual in the Torah involved two goats. On all other days of the year, if an Israelite wanted to be forgiven by G-d for a sin, he or she would confess the sin on one goat, and that goat would be sacrificed to G-d. What, then, is the need for the other goat on this one day of the year, on Yom Kippur? And why was the goat upon whose head the sins were confessed not sacrificed, but let go? The Torah tells us in a verse we read this morning, “For on this day, the High Priest shall provide atonement for you for cleansing you – you shall be cleansed of all your sins before G-d.” The verse hints that there are two elements of forgiveness occurring on Yom Kippur – atonement and cleansing. Perhaps the two goats represent these two elements.  What is the difference between them?

The first stage, atonement, is called “Kappara” in the Hebrew. The word “kappara” is related to the name of this day, Yom Kippur. Atonement is achieved through the process called Teshuvah – repentance.  We are forgiven our sins when we recognize our error, understand that we were wrong, and resolve to try not to make the same mistake in the future. We acknowledge that we cheated in business and on Yom Kippur we asked G-d for forgiveness and resolve not to cheat again. We acknowledge that lost our temper and promise to try to be more patient in the future. We admit that we scapegoated a young man and made his life miserable. Kappara/Atonement means that G-d forgives us. G-d will not exact punishment for our misdeeds. On Yom Kippur, G-d pardons us. Whatever punishment we may deserve for our transgressions in the past year from G-d are mercifully rescinded. We may be guilty, but G-d will not hold us liable.

Kappara/Atonement is represented by the first goat, the one designated “For the Lord”.

But on Yom Kippur there is an additional step in the repentance process, represented by the second goat. A sinful act may be forgiven, through Teshuvah, but it leaves a stain on the soul that needs to be washed away. That step is symbolized by Tahara, or purification.

Atonement is concerned with guilt – the internal anxiety or unhappiness related to knowing our behavior was wrong, and we have harmed somebody.  Guilt takes place in the psychological realm – in our head.  Purification/Tahara may be more related to shame, which takes place in the social realm – between people.  Therefore, a person who cheats in business can admit his guilt, apologize, make restitution, and spend time in prison. But there is also shame involved, as a result of a stain on the reputation, which does not get erased because the apology has been accepted. A person who loses their temper may apologize, and that apology can be accepted. But there is also a stigma associated with losing one’s temper, which doesn’t go away because an apology has been accepted.  The businessman who has served time in prison may find it difficult for others to trust him, even after he has admitted his guilt and served his time. The one who loses their temper may forever be seen as a hot-headed and intemperate person, even after they have apologized for their outburst.

Moreover, once we engage in a wrongful behavior, our resistance to repeating that behavior weakens, becomes more fragile.  Tahara/Purification, therefore, symbolizes the need to make a break from the environments which contribute to these self- destructive behaviors. Purification implies identifying the factors which contribute to these self-defeating behaviors and avoiding them. It means that not only have we recognized our sin and resolved to improve, but that we have stayed off the paths that lead to sin. Only then, only when we have achieved both kappara and tahara, atonement from sin and purification, can we be said to have completed teshuvah. 

Judaism is a religion of hope. Yom Kippur holds out the possibility that not only can we be forgiven for our wrongful acts, but that we can erase the stain on our character that these acts leave behind. We are not condemned to live with our past mistakes. Yom Kippur teaches that with insight, effort and through the grace of G-d, we can truly turn around our lives and become better people.

To that let us say  --- Amen!