Because We Are Jews
October 28, 2009
Delivered to the Congregation by Stuart Cohen, Kol Nidre 5770
Because we are Jews, we are here tonight. Something impels us to worship with our fellow Jews on this occasion. We may embrace it with enthusiasm, or we may not even be sure why we are here. Because we are Jews, we come, knowing that we belong. And being here honors our mothers and fathers and grandparents and all who came before us back into the dim corners of our collective past.
A “Jewish” Halloween?
October 8, 2009
Like some of the other American observances that have morphed from earlier religious practices, over the years Halloween has come in for its own share of controversy among Jewish families. After all, the pagan roots of the holiday have little to do with how Jews view the world and its unseen inhabitants. Not to mention that our customary and traditional holiday day for wearing masks amid parades and revelry is, of course, the Festival of Purim. But I have always seen Halloween as, at worst, harmless (of course, I’m not a dentist!), and at best, as carrying the potential for expressing genuine Jewish values.
The origins of Halloween are pre-Christian, rooted in the Celtic Pagan year, which was divided into two halves. The first half, roughly from spring to fall, was for the world of light, and the second half was for the world of darkness. Holidays marked the transitions from each half to other. In spring, “Beltane” celebrated the spiritual beginning of light-filled summer days and the life-giving force of the sun. By contrast, “Samhain” (pronounced “sow-an”), the precursor to Halloween, fell on November 1 and represented summer’s end, winter nights, and, in general, darkness. It was seen as a bridge between two opposite worlds: the human world of light and good on one hand, and the netherworld of darkness and evil on the other. Our evening “Ma-ariv” prayer and morning “Yotzer” prayer can be understood as twice-daily rejoinders to these Pagan ideas, by stating that there is but One God, who both “fashions light and creates darkness.”
However, I have never believed that the Pagan origins of Halloween should dissuade American Jews from allowing their children to participate in what has become a purely cultural, rather than religious, celebration.
I remember when my children were little, how they would dress in their costumes (somehow always favoring Red Sox and Patriots and Celtics get-ups over the more customary ghosts and goblins). We would go to one of the local nursing homes here in Marblehead, where the staff members had prepared a Halloween path through the rooms of the residents, and while the hundreds of kids walking through got their bags filled with treats, the residents were able to delight in seeing and greeting the happy children.
There were other years when we would take kids to “Trick or Treat” at the homes of Temple members who were ill or house-bound, thereby also fulfilling the mitzvah of “bikkur holim” (visiting the sick), which brought joy to everyone involved.
Yes, there are “Jewish” ways to celebrate Halloween, and over the years, we keep finding out new and different ways to make it more meaningful. Some families collect canned goods in addition to candy while going door to door. We have often sponsored a “Share the Loot” collection for kids to share their goodies with the needy. And because the holiday is absolutely NOT religious, it allows various communities to come together for the fun, who might otherwise have limited opportunities for celebrating together. These are not only American values, but they’re Jewish as well. So although at my age, I’ll still save my own costumed revelry until Purim, I’m looking forward to seeing the neighborhood kids, many of whom, of course, are Temple members, coming to the front door ready to fill their bags to the brim.
Playing on a Broken String
October 8, 2009
Rosh Hashanah 5770 / September 19, 2009
Temple Emanu-El, Marblehead
This past summer, I had the chance to be in Los Angeles on a Shabbat evening, which coincided with a reunion of staff members from the Brandeis-Bardin Institute, with whom I had worked back in the late 1970’s and through the 1980’s. For nearly a decade, I had been a songleader and Music Director at that unique educational center. It houses a Jewish summer camp for kids, special summertime study programs for college students, and year-round scholar-in-resident retreats for adults and families. As the reunion program got underway, one of my cohorts from those days told me, “Hey, David! I still have one of your guitar strings!”
I used to break a lot of guitar strings, using the same sort of 12-string guitar that I still to this day. And when I’d get particularly into the music, it wasn’t the least bit unusual for a string to suddenly snap right in the middle of a song. I’d then quickly pop it out, wind it into a little bracelet, and give it away to some youngster for a keepsake souvenir. I was a bit astounded to find out how many of those kids, some 25 and 30 years later, have kept those broken strings as a reminder of the music, the friendship, and the memories that is Jewish camping and Youth Grouping at its best.
Of course, when playing a 12-string guitar, losing a string or two doesn’t pose much of a problem — I can manage on even 9 or 10 strings pretty well. But what if someone were playing a violin – a four stringed instrument? It’s hard enough for me to imagine playing an instrument without frets. But what if one of those four strings suddenly, unexpectedly, and without warning – snapped? I know that some of you have heard this story before, about how:
On November 18, 1995, Itzhak Perlman, the violinist, came on stage to give a concert at Avery Fisher Hall at Lincoln Center in New York City (1). If you have ever been to a Perlman concert, you know that getting on stage is no small achievement for him. He was stricken with polio as a child, and so he has braces on both legs and walks with the aid of two crutches. To see him walk across the stage slowly, one step at a time, is an awesome sight. He walks painfully, yet majestically, until he reaches his chair. Then he sits down, slowly, puts his crutches on the floor, unhooks the clasps on his legs, tucks one foot back and extends the other foot forward. Then he bends down and picks up the violin, puts it under his chin, nods to the conductor and proceeds to play.
By now, his audience is used to this ritual. They sit quietly while he makes his way across the stage to his chair. They remain reverently silent while he undoes the clasps on his legs. They wait until he is ready to play.
But this time, something went wrong. Just as he finished the first few bars, one of the strings on his violin broke. You could hear it snap - it went off like gunfire across the room. There was no mistaking what that sound meant. “We figured that he would have to get up, put on the clasps again, pick up the crutches and limp his way off stage - to either find another violin or else find another string for this one. But he didn’t. Instead, he waited a moment, closed his eyes and then signaled the conductor to begin again…
We’ll return to the concert hall in a moment, but right now, here in our Sanctuary, we are gathered to celebrate the beginning of our New Year. The songs and prayers we share recognize the blessings with which we have been graced in the year now past, as well as the challenges that lie before us to make the coming year better. And there is no moment in our service more profound, and perhaps more ominous than the liturgical poem, Unetaneh Tokef, which we read and sung together a few moments ago.
“B’rosh hashanah yikatayvoon, u-v’yom tzom kipoor yaychataymoon.”
“On Rosh Hashanah it is written, on Yom Kippur it is sealed: Who shall live and who shall die; who shall perish by fire and who by water; who by sword and who by beast; who by hunger and who by thirst… Who shall be poor and who shall be rich; who shall be troubled and who shall be tranquil…”
The poem goes on. It’s quite the list!
No one knows for certain who wrote this hymn, U-n’taneh Tokef. It was first published by a famous, 11th Century poet, and even at that time, it was attributed to the pious martyr, Rabbi Amnon of Mayence. The legend of Rabbi Amnon’s martyrdom is as graphic as the poem itself. In short, he is said to have composed the hymn while being physically tortured to death for refusing to renounce his Jewish beliefs. So for nearly a thousand years, it has been recited on the High Holydays as a tribute to his unwavering faith.
Essentially, the prayer expresses a most powerful awareness of the uncertainties of human life. We gather to celebrate the beginning of a new year, filled with expectations and hope, but we also pause to consider that whatever the coming months may hold in store for us is a deep mystery; a letter unopened. And every year at Rosh Hashanah, as I stand here to lead our congregation in worship, I am absolutely staggered as I think back to all that has happened in the year now past which, at this time only a year ago, we might never have imagined. As the poem intones: “Who shall live and who shall die? Who shall be poor and who shall be rich… Who shall be troubled and who shall be tranquil…?”
I am thinking of those in our congregation today who have faced the tragic loss of dear ones, or the unexpected loss of employment; perhaps an unexpected turn of one’s physical health and well-being, or that of a cherished friend or family member. Of course, unanticipated joys and blessings have also been part of the story of our past year: remission from cancer; much hoped-for pregnancy; the birth of a great-grandchild; a much deserved tribute or award.
But this year, these are sadly somewhat fewer in number. And Unetaneh Tokef reminds us that we haven’t a clue as to what the next year will hold, except that it will bring challenges that are far beyond our control as mortal men and women.
These High Holy Days are known traditionally as the Yamim Noraim, the Days of Awe. But translated more literally, the Hebrew words come out as “Days of Fear.” Rabbi Milton Steinberg, explains why:
“As we sit in the synagogue at the end of one year and the beginning of another, contemplating the past and facing the future… deep in our hearts lies a haunting challenge. Who knows what the year to come will bring? … For the future behind its inscrutable veil holds many things…”
Rabbi Steinberg’s words, like the plaintiff assessment of Unetaneh Tokef are undeniably true. But I don’t want to ever look at this day, our New Year’s Day, as an occasion of fearfulness. For despite the uncertainty, Unetaneh Tokef, also reminds us that we are not powerless in the face of the unknown and unexpected. While the prayer describes most graphically the challenge of facing the unknown future ahead, it also tells us how we might respond, for it concludes with these words:
“U’teshuvah u’tefillah, u-tzedakah:
But repentance, prayer, and charity temper the severity of the decree.”
Notice that our prayer never makes the claim that we can somehow avoid unforeseen challenges, unanticipated troubles. But there are things we CAN control, and how we control them determines how our lives will be ultimately affected by what we CAN’T control. Unetaneh Tokef reminds us that while we can never know what’s ahead — and sometimes, we really don’t even have so much as a clue - we are yet far from powerless.
I want to consider with you these three Jewish concepts, Teshuvah, Tefillah, and Tzedakah, which we are taught can help soften the blow of misfortune, can lessen the impact, to see why and how they might allow us to regain power over our uncertain lives.
The first idea, Teshuvah, we generally translate as “repentance”, and certainly it is the primary theme of these High Holydays. We usually think of repentance as remorse and penitence for the errors of our ways, and yes, teshuvah is all about turning toward our higher vision. But teshuvah also means “direction”, “answer”, or “response”, and essentially, teshuvah is the process of deciding the direction of our lives. So although I cannot control all of the events that shape my life, so long as I am alive, I have control over my response to those events.
Not long ago, there was a terrible accident at the National Zoo in Washington, D.C. The ants that live in a big glass display case in the Invertebrate House beheaded their queen.(2)
They didn’t mean to do this, you understand. No one actually saw how it happened, but apparently the worker ants were trying to transfer their egg-laying queen from one chamber to another. But the hole through which they were trying to pull her was small. And a queen ant is big. And, well, you can imagine the rest.
Now what do you suppose the ants did when they realized what they had done to their queen? They reacted just like many of us do when we realize we’ve made a terrible mistake, or when faced with a thoroughly unexpected circumstance: they pretended nothing had happened. When the keeper looked, the ants were still tending the queen. And as long as she still smelled like a queen, they kept on doing this. But no matter how carefully the ants tended to their headless queen, their colony was finished. Without a queen, there can be no eggs, so eventually the colony dwindled down and died.
What a fitting parable for our New Year! In our personal lives, and in our community, how often do we retreat to the comfort of established habits? Teshuvah is changing direction, recreating who we are and how we how we wish to live. We are able to re-examine our priorities and our goals, and forced into the scenario of starting over, pursue new directions of meaning and purpose.
In so many cases here within our congregation, and throughout the nation, men and women faced with the loss of employment or relationships, or blindsided by a variety of unexpected changes, are choosing to respond not by simply trying to reestablish the status quo, but by taking the opportunity to recreate their very lives. I have spoken with those who have responded to loss by re-ordering their priorities, and are actually feeling more fulfilled and happy in the aftermath of some unforeseen crisis!
Understood in this way, teshuvah, is not simply expressing remorse over the past, but far more – it is an act of self-transformation and creative renewal. “Repentance,” writes the great Rabbi Joseph Soleveitchik, “is an act of creation – self-creation. The severing of one’s psychic identity with one’s previous ‘I,’ and the creation of a new ‘I,’ possessor of a new consciousness, a new heart and spirit, different desires, longings, goals – this is the meaning of… repentance.” (3)
After Teshuvah, the Unetaneh Tokef poem calls us to Tefilah, worship. If teshuvah is about connecting to something deep within ourselves, then perhaps we can understand Tefilah as connecting to something beyond ourselves. Yes, Tefilah means “prayer”, but I don’t believe that we are here simply suggesting that praying to God to relieve our pain or solve our problems is what Judaism has in mind. Of course we reach upward in our cries to God, and in our prayers, we beseech the Almighty to come to our aid and defense.
But I can’t help but think of the old joke between two, elder statesmen of their synagogue community: Goldberg who comes to Temple to talk to God, and Levine who comes to Temple to talk to Goldberg! (4)
Whether or not God intervenes to heal our pain, restore our lost ambitions, protect our security, or comfort our mourning is simply a question that I, and nobody else for that matter, can answer with unwavering certainty. But when I think of Tefilah, Jewish worship, I call to mind a community of worshippers, gathering for the sake of, and in support of one another. And I am absolutely certain that in the midst of a caring community, the storms of life find buffer. Our sadness and pains are always lessened when we share them in the circle of caring others.
I can provide personal testimony to this effect as experienced by members of our own congregation, some of whom I hope will come forward when we bring the Torah from the Ark later on in our service. I can’t begin to recount how many times I have heard, even during this past year alone, the importance for our families and friends simply knowing that their names are being recalled for blessing during our Shabbat evening and morning worship.
To be honest, I think that the scientific studies of how prayer might be an aid to healing are flawed at best – particularly the ones that contend that physical healing is facilitated even when the patient is unaware of prayers being said on his or her behalf. However, the most recent research of the local, Framingham Heart Study, as reported just this week in the New York Times(5) , breaks fascinating new ground in understanding how health, well-being and healing are all enhanced when we share in communities of prayer and support at our most uncertain times. Similarly, the rapidly emerging field of “Social Neuroscience” has discovered the existence of “mirror neurons” in certain brain cells, which allow moods and feelings to be shared in the wordless company of others. (6)
It turns out that hope and healing can be contagious, and so it is that Tefilah, prayer, can help us find both solace and strength as our burdens are lightened in the context of a community of worship.
Finally, the concept of Tzedakah, inadequately and rather weakly translated as “charity” provides that third effective and therapeutic response imagined by our tradition, by which we find the power to overcome the severity of the trials we face in our uncertain lives. As our young people are taught from an early age, Tzedakah, does not correlate well to the English and Western concept of “charity”. Charity, from the Latin word “caritas”, is a deed that comes from the feeling of love. It comes from the heart. Tzedakah, literally means “Justice”. Tzedakah, is not about feeling good – it is about doing good. And it is one way that we, through the gifts of our resources, help bring greater justice into the world.
According to Jewish tradition, our yearly, financial tzedakah, obligation is called a “tithe”, equal to approximately ten-percent of our annual income. Because I tend towards the more lenient position, I suggest that our tzedakah, obligation amounts to 10 percent of our income AFTER taxes, but there are other rabbis more generous and righteous than I…
To some of us, this idea is rather counter-intuitive. If, for instance, you have become suddenly unemployed, or have had your income unexpectedly diminish, how might the financial burden of tzedakah, lessen the hardship of the moment?
Well, there is an old story about a man who had a strange dream –he was standing in the middle of a room surrounded by thousands and thousands of candles. Some of the candles were burning bright, some were dim, and some were almost flickering out. He looked up to discover a man, who seemed to be in charge, tending the flames. He asked, “What is this place? Why all these candles?” The man replied, “Each candle represents each soul living in the world. The ones burning bright are in the prime of life. The ones low on oil and flickering are people who are dying. When the candle goes out, the person dies.”
The keeper of the candles turned his back for a moment, and the man quickly searched for his own candle. He found the candle with his name flickering in the corner. It looked as if it was about to go out. The man panicked, and looked around for some more oil to pour into his candle so it would burn brighter. He started to take oil from another candle that was burning bright – but a hand stopped him.
“That is not how it works here. Your candle does not burn brighter when you take oil from someone else. On the contrary, your candle burns brighter when you give oil to someone else.”
The man picked up his flickering candle, and poured oil into several other candles. When he put it down, the flame started burning brighter.
And so it is with our gifts of tzedakah, because tzedakah is more than a donation, even more than an act of graceful giving. It is our way of bringing justice into the world. I think that is why Jewish law demands that even a poor person, one who is himself or herself sustained by the tzedakah of others, is still required by Jewish law to donate that 10%, back into the system as it were. And in a universe that simply and frankly is random and unfair, what greater power might we articulate as an expression of our own personal relevance and vitality than changing that same world into a more just and meaningful place. Now THAT’S powerful!
Faced with a thoroughly unexpected and catastrophic moment, Itzhak Perlman, our violinist with the broken string, knew what he needed to do. And now the story continues:
The orchestra began, and he played from where he had left off. And he played with such passion and such power and such purity, as they had never heard before.
Of course, anyone knows that it is impossible to play a symphonic work with just three strings. I know that, and you know that, but that night Itzhak Perlman refused to know that.
You could see him modulating, changing, re-composing the piece in his head. At one point, it sounded like he was de-tuning the strings to get new sounds from them that they had never made before. When he finished, there was an awesome silence in the room. And then people rose and cheered. There was an extraordinary outburst of applause from every corner of the auditorium. We were all on our feet, screaming and cheering, doing everything we could to show how much we appreciated what he had done.
He smiled, wiped the sweat from this brow, raised his bow to quiet us, and then he said - not boastfully, but in a quiet, pensive, reverent tone:
“You know - sometimes it is the artist’s task to find out how much music you can still make with what you have left.”
On this first day of our New Year, as we read the harrowing words of Unetaneh Tokef, we acknowledge that we will, for certain, face challenges and crises in the year ahead we can not even begin to imagine. But we can be powerful nonetheless! I’m not trying to tell you that “everything happens for a reason”, or certainly not that “everything happens for the best.” No! Sometimes we can be blindsided by the stark randomness of and unfairness of life. Even from the earliest days of our people, Judaism has recognized the bad things DO happen to good people. And while we may not understand why, we are given the pathway and the means of how we might respond.
TESHUVAH – Repentance and re-direction — an inward response, as we discover the person we can possibly become, growing as men and women as we create and recreate ourselves anew.
TEFILAH, prayer — reaching upward and beyond, linking ourselves not only with that transcendent source of all creation, but also with the community around us, with whom we connect in our common need for support and strength.
And finally, TZEDAKA – a thoroughly outward response, making a difference in this world by tipping the scales of justice through the sheer force of our own vision and will.
We cannot begin to imagine what awaits us in the weeks and months ahead. But this much we do know: Sometimes the task and the challenge we all face, as we live our lives year by year by year, is to discover how much music we can still make with whatever we have left – even when we find ourselves holding onto a broken string.
Amen.
1. As attributed to Rabbi Harold Schulweis. Based on my own research, I have doubts as to whether this story is history or legend, but I’ve chosen Rabbi Schulweis’ recollection for its sense of both realism and impact.
2. Katie Sherrod, “Addicted to Ant Logic”, Fort Worth Star Telegram, June 19, 1991.
3. Joseph B. Soloveitchik, Halakhic Man, translated by Lawrence Kaplan, JPS, 1983, p. 110.
4. Generally attributed to the late, Harry Golden, who recalls his father explaining to him why an atheist would go to Temple.
5. “Is Happiness Catching?” New York Times Magazine, Sept. 13, 2009.
6. “Cells That Read Minds” New York Times, January 10, 2006.
