Because We Are Jews
October 28, 2009
BECAUSE WE ARE JEWS
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.
Our people have come down through history with a unique identity. Judaism stands for something: for justice, and for learning, because through learning we keep the flame burning as the civilization around us changes so rapidly. It stands for tikkun olam, making the world a better place. These are part of who we are as Jews. Whether you’ve come to worship here for decades or are in this sanctuary for the very first time, we all share a piece of this heritage. This is what we are obligated by covenant to pass on to our children, and to make sure this essence also lives within our children’s children.
Today, as we’ve seen in the recent Northshore Task Force report, our local Jewish community isn’t doing too well. Our institutions are struggling. Our loyalties are fragmented. Only one in four Jews in our area even belongs to a synagogue: one in four. But Judaism has survived for centuries not because of individual Jews like you and me but because of our institutions. Judaism is a religion not of me but of us.
While this poverty of participation flies in the face of our shared history, it is also easy to understand. We live in a world overflowing with diverse options and opportunities. That world is oriented to what we can get not what we can give. Our goals are spoken of in terms of things, activities, and experiences we can acquire and have.
And it has to do with money, because most everything we do is fee for service. The telephone bill is fee for service, as is the mortgage, even our children’s tuition. When the synagogue bill comes, it’s natural to ask what are we getting for our donation, and if the return is worth the cost. (By the way, you should know that the full family donation here at Temple Emanu-El, $1875, compares with dues at the Reform temple in Lexington, $2525, Framingham, the same figure, and Wellesley closer to $3000.)
But Judaism is not fee for service. There is a cost associated with belonging, not just as a member of this Temple but as an engaged being in the chain that goes back to Moses. When Judaism becomes fee for service, there will be no more Judaism. If we let go of the instruments and institutions of our Jewish community, our synagogues and community centers, we forsake what has brought us to who we are as Jews.
I’m not asking you for money tonight. The Fund for our Jewish Future presentation is tomorrow morning. It’s a compelling family story. I hope you’ll come hear it. We are also in the process of creating a bequest campaign; more on that in the coming months.
I am asking you to live a bit more Jewishly. Light Shabbat candles. It’s an addictive tradition. Collect tsedakah in your home and distribute it where it is needed. If we can’t be bothered to remember to live Jewishly, what message will our children and grandchildren receive? And make no mistake: living Jewishly is not a matter of juggling the schedule. It is a series of actions born of deliberate choice.
I have a vision for what Temple Emanu-El can be, with your involvement, and I’d like to share it with you. And I ask you to share it with your unaffiliated Jewish friends.
I see this temple as a vital expression of who we are as Jews, as a place that ripples with the passion for life that is central to what it means to be a Jew. I am especially keen to transcend generational boundaries. The more families with children and grandchildren, the more brimming with life the Temple will be.
I visualize weekly Shabbat worship vibrant with sacred meaning that comes not from sitting back and mouthing the words but from jumping in heart and soul first. Worship only works to the degree we invest ourselves in it. You can’t sidestep the leap of commitment and expect any meaningful benefit. I invite everyone here to attend Shabbat worship at least twice—Friday evenings or the Saturday morning round table minyan—within the coming year. And when you do, take a chance. Participate with kavanah, spirit. It may take some practice to get the hang of it. When you do, it’s got some juice.
I see our festival celebrations, including these High Holydays, as an anchor that grounds us in the sense for the ineffable that resides in our bones, inherited from time before knowing.
I see our education programs stimulating and rewarding for children and adults. Continuing learning is central to what it means to be a Jew. If you crave more Jewish learning and are not getting it, whatever your age, ask.
Mostly what I see in this vision is our engagement. Yours and yours as well as mine. We benefit from a lot of love in the form of lay participation here. If you’ve got some love you’d like to share, come talk to us. Serve this community and help shape it. Be counted.
And not just here: join the JCC; support Federation. This Temple and our sister institutions are nothing without you, and you, and you. Step up. Since the time of the patriarchs Judaism has been a religion of covenant, active engagement. Make Temple Emanu-El the Jewish community institution that touches you and feeds you as nothing else can.
And if you wonder why bother, why show up, why participate, just look inside. It’s because of who we are. We are Jews.
Judge Generously
October 8, 2009
Judge Generously (1)
A teaching from tradition:
Da ki tzarikh ladun et kol adam lekaf zekhut;
You have to judge every person generously.
Even if you have reason to think that person is completely wicked,
it’s your job to look hard and seek out some bit of goodness,
some place in that person where he is not evil.
When you find that bit of goodness
and judge the person that way,
you may really raise her up to goodness.
Treating people this way allows them to be restored (lehashivu),
to come to teshuvah. (2)
So taught Rabbi Nachman of Bratslav,
great-grandson of the Baal Shem Tov,
the founder of modern Hasidism.
A Hasidic master himself,
born in 1772 in Medzhybizh, Poland,
Rabbi Nachman lived a brief, brilliant, and spiritually dramatic life.
Like his great-grandfather, he served God with joy, and
was capable of attaining great heights of devekut—
a meditative state of dedication to the Eternal.
He also suffered from dark depressions, and was
“a person more burdened than most with a sense of sin and guilt.” (3)
You have to judge every person generously….
Treating people this way allows them to be restored [le-hashivu],
to come to teshuva.
Tonight begins Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year.
The first of
aseret yamei teshuva,
the ten days of teshuva.
Often we translate “teshuva” as “repentance”:
these are the Ten Days of Repentance.
But what is teshuva, really?
The word “teshuva” comes from the Hebrew root shuv,
which means “turning,” an idea contained also within the concept of repentance:
turning away from error or sin,
turning through contrition and remorse,
finally turning to a better path, an improved version of ourselves.
And yet, something about the very idea of turning
itself resists definition or containment;
every time you think you’ve arrived,
a new turn presents itself.
In our Torah portion last Shabbat, Nitzavim,
the parashah we always read
on the Shabbat immediately preceding Rosh Hashanah,
we find in a passage of ten verses eight repetitions
of the root shuv.
The people stand on the shores of the Jordan River,
preparing to enter the Promised Land,
listening to Moses’ final exhortations.
They hear him speak
of a turning of their hearts,
a moral and spiritual turn toward core values, toward God;
of a physical return to the land,
a restoration of this wandering people
to the home God promised their ancestors;
of an emotional restoration,
a return to wholeness.
Moses assures the people:
Adonai will “delight in your well-being,
just as God delighted in the well-being of your ancestors . . .
once you return (tashuv) to Adonai your God
with all your heart and soul.” (4)
Always returning to something always already there:
a restoration of all things lost.
“Everything returns,” writes Rabbi Lawrence Kushner;
“Comes back to that which it was.
This is not futility.
It is fulfillment.” (5)
Elohai neshamah shenatata bi
tehora hi:
My God, the soul you have implanted within me is pure. (6)
This, then, is teshuvah:
A return to what you were,
to what you already are;
a return to what you are supposed to become.
*****
Da ki tzarikh ladun et kol adam lekaf zekhut;
You have to judge every person generously. (7)
But where does Rabbi Nachman get this idea,
that, tzarikh, we “must judge everyone generously?
Why must we?
The teaching does not originate with Rav Nachman;
he is quoting Pirkei Avot,
“Chapters of the Fathers,”
a tractate of the Mishnah that
collects the ethical teachings of the Tanna’im,
great rabbinic teachers who lived in the land of Israel
beginning in the late first century C.E.
and continuing to the end of the second.
Aseh lekha rav ukenei lekha chaver
vehevei dan et kol ha-adam lekhaf zkhut.
“Get yourself a teacher, find someone to study with,”
reads the first, more familiar part of this teaching;
“and judge everyone generously.”
The Mishnah is the oldest,
most authoritative collection of
Jewish law and wisdom in our tradition,
and it is telling us that judging generously
is the right thing to do.
That may be reason enough for some,
but here’s one more good reason,
in the words of Rav Nachman again:
Treating people this way allows them to be restored,
to come to teshuvah.
Not only must we judge every person generously
because our sages the Tanna’im
have told us it is a mitzvah, the right thing to do;
we must do it because it brings on another mitzvah:
it brings people to teshuvah.
*****
Da ki tzarikh ladun et kol adam lekaf zekhut;
You have to judge every person generously.
So what does it mean to judge generously?
What, especially, does it mean to judge generously
when dealing with one whom we have reason to think
is “completely wicked,” rasha gamur?
Does judging generously mean we have to
forgive everything,
ignore the record of evil,
let the rasha off the hook for his wickedness?
This is not justice, we protest.
Must generous judgment be poor judgment?
“No, no,” I imagine Rav Nachman responding
to us, his students.
Not at all.
For judging generously still is judging,
and we are all responsible for our transgressions
against God and humanity.
Rather, judging generously means
seeking out every side of a matter,
every aspect of a human being.
It means, as Rabbi Nachman urges us,
seeking out ayzeh me’at tov, “some bit of goodness,
someplace in that person where he is not evil.”
Treating people in this way allows them to be restored,
to come to teshuvah.
Rav Nachman continues:
This is why the psalmist says:
[‘Od me’at] “just a little bit more
and there will be no wicked one;
you will look at his place and he will not be there” (Ps. 37:10).
…
By looking for that [‘Od me’at, that] “little bit,”
the place, however small, within them where there is no sin
(and everyone, after all, has such a place)
and by telling them, showing them, that that’s who they are,
we can help them change their lives.
Even the person you think (and he agrees!) is completely rotten—
how is it possible that at some time in his life
he has not done some good deed, some mitzvah?
Your job is just to help him look for it, to seek it out,
and then to judge him that way.
Then indeed you will “look at his place”
and find that the wicked one is no longer there—
not because she has died or disappeared—
but because, with your help, she will no longer be
in the place where you first saw her.
By seeking out that bit of goodness
you allowed her to change,
you helped teshuvah to take its course.
Some of you might think “well, isn’t that nice?”
“Always see the best in people. So what?”
In fact, one of my best friends, a rabbinic colleague,
said exactly this
when I told him that I had taken this teaching of Rav Nachman
as the theme for my Rosh Hashanah sermon.
But I’d like to turn this text for you in a different direction
and propose that Rabbi Nachman’s message here,
“judge generously,”
is radical.
Teshuva is a returning, we’ve said,
to what you were,
to what you already are;
to what you should be.
But how do we do it?
Rabbi Nina Beth Cardin explains:
“[t]he process of teshuvah begins
when we acknowledge that we were wrong,
that we did wrong.
It continues when we seek forgiveness from the one we wronged . . .
and when we strive with honest intention
not to repeat the wrongful act.”
It is a fairly standard three-step process
that is taught and discussed
from kindergarten Sunday school classrooms
to the halls of rabbinic seminaries:
1. Recognize that you have done wrong;
2. Seek forgiveness from those you have wronged (including yourself, and God);
3. Do your best not to do it again.
But this is not what Rabbi Nachman is describing;
not at all!
Da ki tzarikh ladun et kol adam lekaf zekhut;
You have to judge every person generously.
Treating people this way allows them to be restored,
to come to teshuvah.
Before the rasha, the wicked one,
feels the smallest twinge of remorse;
perhaps before she even recognizes that she has done wrong,
let alone seeks forgiveness—
By seeking out that bit of goodness
you allowed her to change,
you helped teshuvah to take its course.
We raise that me’at tov, that bit of goodness, to the light.
We show the rasha
something about himself
that he had lost sight of.
We remind him: betzelem elohim bara oto(8)
in the image of God, God created humanity;
and thus the divine reflection resides
in every human being,
somewhere, however deeply buried.
By looking for the little bit of good
in every person,
Rabbi Nachman teaches,
we allow that person to come to teshuva,
even the one who seems completely wicked,
the one to whom it has not yet occurred to feel regret.
The German poet Goethe said:
If we take people as they are, we make them worse.
If we treat them as if they were what they ought to be,
we help them to become
what they are capable of becoming. (9)
Such power each one of us wields,
every moment, and so often
unawares:
over others,
over our whole world,
to “hel[p] teshuvah take its course.”
Every one of you has an example you can share.
The teacher who helped a child blossom,
emerge from his shell,
by finding his me’at tov,
the one so many others called troublemaker:
It turns out this kid, who doesn’t think school applies to him,
is meticulous about keeping his pencils sharpened and in order,
so the teacher makes him the classroom pencil monitor.
His duties: giving out pencils, collecting pencils, sharpening pencils,
sorting out the pencils that have outlived their usefulness.
He’s good at it. All the students, now,
always have sharpened pencils
with working erasers.
He feels good. He catches himself
paying attention to the teacher’s lessons now and then.
And this student, in the course of half a year, goes from
troublemaker to top of the class…
I have a friend who was unhappy
because the city never plowed his street after a snowstorm.
All the other streets, but not his.
He called public works
and asked to speak to the director,
the guy who’s already had hundreds of people
call to complain to him this winter,
the guy who today is also answering the phone,
because his secretary’s kid is home sick.
My friend asks, cordially enough, if he can
send someone over to plow his street.
It’s a city street, after all, and the snow
stopped falling 36 hours ago,
the third big storm in two weeks.
“We’ve been working twenty-hour days over here!”
the exhausted director snaps.
“We’ve got to get the schools cleared out first:
the driveways. the sidewalks . . .”
My friend, feeling not heard,
begins to speak with an edge to his voice, and soon
both men are shouting.
My friend’s wife
(sorry—not to stereotype, but it’s a true story)
takes the phone from her beloved and
begins thanking Mr. Public Works for the great job he’s doing
clearing all the other streets in the city
(except for hers
and maybe a few other short little cul-de-sacs),
because truly, the streets that have been cleared
look like the storm never happened:
“so thorough! and efficient!
we know how hard you’re working…
long hours, short money,
we really appreciate it . . . .
And oh, about our street?”
“Can’t promise anything,” says
Mr. Public Works, considerably softened. “Maybe in another twelve hours.
We’ll do the best we can.”
Call ended, not five minutes later
the snow plow shows up.
[And this is the part I imagine:]
Back at the city offices, Mr. Public Works is smiling,
radioing his crews about the nice compliment they’ve received,
realizing how tense everyone has been
these last two weeks
since he’s been barking orders like a drill sergeant.
And the next day,
after an evening when he and his wife for once didn’t argue
when he got home late,
but enjoyed a glass of wine together
while looking out on the clear winter night,
he brought doughnuts to the office for all the drivers,
and made a point to ask his secretary
how her kid was feeling this morning.
It’s not as dramatic as a jailhouse redemption,
or a Holocaust story. Those happen
too. We’ve all heard such stories,
of amazing transformations,
a spectacular blossoming of the me’at tov,
that little bit of goodness
someone saw in the former villain.
And then there are the little things that happen every day….
We help others to teshuvah,
to return, to fulfillment of
the best that they can be,
by judging generously.
Each one of us possesses this
wondrous gift.
But there’s yet one more reason to
judge every person generously.
Rabbi Nachman continues:
So now, my clever friend,
now that you know how to treat the wicked
and find some bit of good in them—
now go do it for yourself as well!
…
I know what happens when you start examining yourself.
“No goodness at all,” you find. “Just full of sin.”
…
[But y]ou too must have done some good
for someone, sometime.
Now go look for it!
But you find it and discover that it too is full of holes.
You know yourself too well to be fooled:
“Even the good things I did,” you say,
“Were all for the wrong reasons.
Impure motives! Lousy deeds!”
Then keep digging, I tell you,
keep digging,
because somewhere inside that now tarnished-looking mitzvah,
somewhere within it there was indeed a little bit of good.
That’s all you need to find:
just the smallest bit: a dot of goodness.
That should be enough to give you back your life,
to bring you back to joy.
By seeking out that little bit…
and judging yourself that way,
you show yourself that that is who you are.
You can change your whole life this way
and bring yourself to teshuvah.
We return to ourselves our very life,
Rav Nachman writes.
What else?
Is it truly living
when we have become a distortion of ourselves,
twisted to fit into the false consciousness
built of all our careless transgressions?
Find that nikud tov, that dot of goodness
in yourself,
and you can change your whole life this way.
Harsh judgment distorts us just as much
as the transgressions.
By judging generously,
we give ourselves the strength to
make a change,
to return to the holiness of our origin,
our tzelem elohim, the image of God reflected in each and every one of us.
This is the most important part:
if we can judge everyone generously,
we can do it for ourselves.
And, doing it for ourselves,
we are so much better prepared to do it for others.
And now, in judging everyone generously,
we return ourselves, the whole world, to who we really are,
what we are supposed to be.
We can bring ourselves to teshuvah.
Rabbi Nachman concludes:
It’s that first little dot of goodness
that’s the hardest one to find
(or the hardest to admit you find!)
the next ones will come a little easier,
each one following another.
And you know what?
These little dots of goodness in yourself—
after a while you will find that you can sing them!
Join them to one another
and they become your niggun, your wordless melody.
You fashion that niggun by rescuing our own good spirit
from all that darkness and depression.
The niggun brings you back to life
and then you can start to pray…
[Singing niggun.]
1. I am grateful and indebted to Rabbi Art Green, who brought me this text; to Rabbi Laurie Phillips, who taught it to me; and to Rabbi John Linder, who provided me with Goethe, lots of encouragement, and the perfect ending. And, of course, to Rav Nachman.
2. Nachman of Bratslav, Likutei Maharan. Translation, Art Green in Ehyeh.
3. Art Green, Ehyeh.
4. Dt. 30:9-10.
5. Lawrence Kushner, Honey from the Rock, “Circles of Return.”
6. Birkot Ha-shachar, morning liturgy.
7. Pirkei Avot 1:6.
8. Genesis 1.
9. Quoted by Viktor Frankl in The Doctor and the Soul: From Psychotherapy to Logotherapy.
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.
