A Covenant People
October 12, 2011
Judaism is a covenant religion; we are a covenant people.
Distinct from religions that claim believing as their central act, being Jewish means that we collectively and individually affirm a permanent bond with God, as made by our ancestors. You don’t have to believe the stories or even be comfortable with the idea of an Almighty. To be a Jew means my life stands in affirmation of that covenant.
The covenant has given us many wonderful rewards. Who among us does not feel honored to have been born a Jew or to have chosen to become one? We are proud of our heritage, and proud of the accomplishments of other Jews. We can embrace the extraordinary values inherent in Jewish thought, such as learning, justice, and devotion to making the world a better place. This benefit is ours, simply for being Jews.
Our covenant also comes with responsibilities. First among these is to sustain ourselves and our people as Jews. That means take action. The clearest way to do that is to affiliate with a synagogue. Then stay affiliated. Even if your children are finished with Religious School and even if you don’t come to the Temple very often.
The synagogue is the central institution of Jewish community in our time. Without synagogues, Judaism would fail. That is why it is so critically important that we collectively assure the stability, even flourishing, of our synagogues.
We Reform Jews appreciate our unique flexibility. While the obligation to perform mitzvot is central, in Reform we have choices how we go about it. We can focus on causes that are personally meaningful and reinvent our style of worship, as we are continually doing at Temple Emanu-El. The one thing that is not negotiable is the covenant.
If you feel that sense of belonging inherent in being a Jew, keep your synagogue affiliation strong. Encourage your Jewish friends who might have left their synagogue to rejoin. We cannot be who we are if we lose sight of all we get simply by saying “Hineni”, Here I Am, in a Jewish context. Please share this message with your friends.
High Holyday Speech to Congregation
October 10, 2011
Delivered Yom Kippur, 5772 (October 2011) by Stuart Cohen
Pleasure is transitory. Enjoyment doesn’t last after the activity ends. Researchers in the field of positive psychology tell us that pleasure, as enjoyable as it is, does not contribute significantly to a long-term sense of well-being. What does make us feel contented and satisfied with our lives is meaning.
We have two types of meaning. The first is inner meaning, a spiritual knowing that our life matters and is inherently valuable. The second is outer meaning, the sensation of contributing to the greater whole through work, relationships, creative efforts, and service to others. Everyone in this room has felt the rewards of meaningful contribution at various stages along your life’s journey.
Religion should be a place we find meaning. Why else would we have religion at all? Yet for many, religion has lost that meaning. You can tell by the way many of us use it only as a formality to take off the shelf on occasions like this, or as a matter of identity that we happened to inherit.
Judaism addresses this question, the question of life meaning, in both the inner and the outer.
As concerns the inner, the idea of one God, Judaism’s great gift to Western civilization, speaks to spiritual unity. Our heritage tells us there is one source, rather than many, one unified, all-comprehensive force of existence and of life with which we are deeply connected. Whether or not you are comfortable with the traditional notion of “God.”
Our sacred texts were written in ancient times to provide meaning for those people then. Surely we can access the wisdom of timeless principle reframed to fit our own lives. If you use the pathway of study, contemplation and prayer, as written or in a spiritually more meaningful form such as meditation, as Jews we are intimately connected to that unity of source.
In the realm of outer meaning, we have personal relationships, the arts, learning and commerce. Jews have been disproportionately represented among the world’s great artists, also in science and education. As our vehicle to create meaning in our lives, we Jews have the obligation of tsedakah and the requirement to perform mitzvot, good deeds for the purpose of tikkun olam, healing the world.
Tsedakah, you understand is not mere charity. It comes from the word for justice. Through our tsedakah we give of ourselves to make the world a more just and better place. And in doing so, we make our own lives more meaningful. There are few satisfactions greater, and I’d say holier, than giving deeply of yourself in the service of others.
We live in an era when the marketing of goods and services has put way too much attention on me. How do I feel? What do I get? What increases my pleasure? I understand this is what drives our economy. But it’s backwards. It doesn’t generate satisfaction and contentment. You can’t build a happier life by acquiring ever more stuff and more pleasure. But you can by making your life more meaningful.
Tsedakah traditionally means giving money to the poor, but that is just the beginning. Give of yourself, your time, your talent, your love. Give in a way that works for you. I understand that many of us here are quite active in this regard. Thank you. But if you don’t already have an outlet for your generosity, find one. The spirit of tsedakah embraces many avenues, whether or not you have much money. Recall, the Talmud says that even those who receive tsedakah should give tsedakah.
I am not suggesting this just because it’s a good thing to do, though it is. You’ll be happier because your life will have more meaning. Be generous for the selfish reason of your own satisfaction; that counts. Join with people doing good things in the world. I especially want to recognize the recovery community that has done so much to rescue so many lives.
Temple Emanu-El is ramping up our menu of opportunities for service this year. You can help create that. If you did not participate in the annual food drive on the way here tonight, do it tomorrow morning. Give them the good stuff, beyond the box of pasta and a roll of paper towels. Bring two or three bags, not just one. Notice how that feels.
There’s more. Join the monthly cooking night, preparing meals for those who need a little extra help, led by Heidi Greenbaum, Dan Rosen and Sharen Solomon. Show up at My Brother’s Table in Lynn on Temple Emanu-El night, the first Thursday of every month, at 4:30—we were there last night—and Marc Kornitsky will put you to work serving dinner to the needy. Participate in Mitzvah Day on Sunday, October 23rd. This month, Deahn Leblang is creating a new social action initiative to help meet the needs of homeless young adults in Lynn. There’s room for more.
You don’t have to do any of this. Please don’t feel guilty if you choose not to. But if you do, it will enhance your sense of well-being and life satisfaction. Today is Yom Kippur, a sacred day. We are here as Jews, and all this meaning is a blessing Judaism offers us.
Inner meaning, spiritual unity through prayer, meditation, music, study, even a walk in the woods, is part and parcel of your Jewish birthright. Outer meaning through creativity, work and service, is an opportunity Judaism gives you.
What will you do with this life of yours?
Good yontif
Date Callout
October 9, 2011
T’rumah, 5772
THE TORTOISE AND THE SCORPION: CAN PEOPLE CHANGE?
October 8, 2011
Yom Kippur Morning 5772
In the middle of his beautiful work of poetic fiction, David Rakoff, recent winner of the Thurber Prize for American Humor, included an original version of an ancient fable, which like the rest of his composition, is written in rhyming couplets. The theme of the fable carries not an answer, but a most profound question that is likewise perhaps, the most central question and concern for this sacred Day of Atonement. So I would begin my message on this morning of Yom Kippur with David Rakoff’s telling of the legend of the Tortoise and the Scorpion:
“The scorpion was hamstrung, his tail all aquiver;
just how would he manage to get across the river?
“The water’s so deep,” he observed with a sigh,
which pricked at the ears of the tortoise nearby.
“Well why don’t you swim?” asked the slow-moving fellow,
“unless you’re afraid. I mean, what are you, yellow?”
“It isn’t a matter of fear or of whim,”
said the scorpion, “but that I don’t know how to swim.”
“Ah, forgive me. I didn’t mean to be glib when
I said that. I figured you were an amphibian.”
“No offense taken,” the scorpion replied,
“but how about you help me to reach the far side?
You swim like a dream, and you have what I lack.
Let’s say you take me across on your back?”
“I’m really not sure that’s the best thing to do,”
said the tortoise, “now that I see that it’s you.
You’ve a less than ideal reputation preceding:
there’s talk of your victims all poisoned and bleeding.
You’re the scorpion — and how can I say this — but, well,
I just don’t feel safe with you riding my shell.”
The scorpion replied, “What would killing you prove?
We’d both drown, so tell me: how would that behoove
me to basically die at my very own hand
when all I desire is to be on dry land?”
The tortoise considered the scorpion’s defense.
When he gave it some thought, it made perfect sense.
The niggling voice in his mind he ignored,
and he swam to the bank and called out: “Climb aboard!”
But just a few moments from when they set sail,
the scorpion lashed out with his venomous tail.
The tortoise too late understood that he’d blundered
when he felt his flesh stabbed and his carapace sundered.
As he fought for his life, he said, “tell me why
you have done this! For now we will surely both die!”
“I don’t know!” cried the scorpion. “You never should trust
a creature like me because poison I must!
I’d claim some remorse or at least some compunction,
but I just can’t help it; my form is my function.
You thought I’d behave like my cousin, the crab,
but unlike him, it is but my nature to stab.”
The tortoise expired with one final quiver.
And then both of them sank, swallowed up by the river.
The tortoise was wrong to ignore all his doubts —
because in the end, friends, our natures wins out.”[i]
The ancient parable can be found expressed in a wide variety of forms, and Rakoff’s version of the story, even were it not written in poetic couplets, is not the only expression of the same narrative. In some renditions, the scorpion is, in fact, unable to pierce the turtle’s hard shell, so having learned his lesson, the tortoise simply dives under the water, and leaves the scorpion to his watery grave. In other versions, particularly among certain Christian homilists, the story is told as a caution against following the temptations of one’s own devising.
But as expressed in the poem with which we began is, I believe, most faithful to the message of the fable, and as such, it expresses the philosophical warning so typical of the Hellenistic world view; that one can never escape, change, or avoid the consequences of one’s own inclinations. We are held captives by a fate beyond our control, even as we are prisoners to our inherited personalities. This basic fact is the foundation of all of Greco-Roman mythology, and informs the tragedies of Greek theater and even much of some contemporary, psychological paradigms. Try as he might to avoid an action that will certainly lead to his own demise, that scorpion must sting the tortoise. The moral of the fable is that the he really had no other choice.
Likewise, there is no shortage of contemporary, conventional wisdom, which argues that we are who we are – end of story; that true, essential change as human beings is never really possible. In the end, our personalities dictate our behaviors often, like the scorpion, to our own destruction.
But Jewish thought and philosophy differed at the most basic level with that of the Greeks and their followers, as Judaism always held fast to the belief that human beings stand alone among the creatures of the earth precisely because of the free will we possess, and therefore, the ability to change, to grow, to evolve as individuals and as a species. That is precisely why we read this morning a section of Torah specifically chosen for this sacred day: “See I set before you this day life and good, or death and evil… Choose life…!”[ii] Yom Kippur as our Day of Atonement, rests upon the belief and the trust that people are capable of transcending their own, innate inclinations, and are able to make changes for the better.
It is the ability to grow, to choose our ways in life is what makes us human; it is the meaning of being created in the image of God. Although animals do grow, they do not voluntarily change themselves. The transformation of a caterpillar to a butterfly or a tadpole to a frog is programmed in their genes. They do not willingly make this transformation, and they are powerless to stop it. What makes us unique among earth’s creatures, what makes us fully human and according to some medieval philosophers – what it means to be created in the Image of God, is our ability to transcend both biology and environment, and to intentionally change our lives towards a higher moral vision.
The modern philosopher, Abraham Joshua Heschel wrote: “A stone is characterized by its finality, whereas man’s outstanding quality is in its being a surprise… To insist that I must be only what I am now is a restriction which human nature must abhor. The being of a person is never completed, [never] final.”[iii]
Expressing the same idea in somewhat less lofty language, the playwright, George Bernard Shaw is quoted as saying: “The only man I know who behaves sensibly is my tailor; he takes my measurements anew each time he sees me. The rest go on with their old measurements and expect me to fit them.”
This past Spring, I taught a course in our community’s “Torah Hub” Adult Education series, which explored the spiritual discipline of Jewish, moral development. Generally, when we think of Jewish, spiritual disciplines, we think of activities such as study and prayer, holyday observance, keeping Kosher, or other such focused practices. But particularly by engaging the Jewish literature known as “Musar”, personal, moral development is also pursued as an authentically Jewish, spiritual discipline.
The study of Musar, a word that means “inherited wisdom”, has always been part of Jewish learning, but it became in the early 19th-Century a specialized area of focus. The texts of Musar deal primarily with the development of ethical qualities, moral virtues, and the highest ideals of human conduct. The primary goal of this literature is not to inform, but to transform its students and readers.
As I shared with the adult learners who studied with me in the spring, it is through the combination of focused study of the literature, alongside an active, regular practice of contemplation and self-evaluation, we can transform ourselves in such a way that our values emerge as a stronger force, than even our natural tendencies, and our personality. So unlike the scorpion, even if were to have a “stinger” (say, in our personalities), that doesn’t mean we would always have to use it!
I believe that one of the most important and effective ways of bringing about the change we want to see in ourselves begins with the work of honest reflection, which is why making the time for quiet contemplation needs to be a regular aspect of our day to day lives. Only then can we truthfully evaluate our behaviors and responses in our relationships with others, our relationship with our own selves, and even our relationship with God.
One of the most remarkable passages in all of the Talmud relates a story of how the greatest sages of a generation came together with all of their wisdom, mystical insights, and even magical powers in order to rid the world, once and for all, of the human inclination to do evil. And amazingly – they succeeded! But there is a concept popularly known as “The Law of Unintended Consequences,” which applied to the rabbis’ predicament, for according to the Talmud, no sooner had the Evil Inclination been banished, then people stopped building houses, stopped having children, and stopped engaging in business. So the rabbis came back together and prayed that the Evil Inclination be returned to the world, and only then did the world return to its normal patterns.[iv]
The lesson from the Talmud is that the same human motivations can be directed towards good or towards evil; towards building or towards destruction; or in the words of our Torah Portion, towards life or towards death. It’s all a matter of how we channel our inclinations, or in other words, how we express our personalities.
In the Torah, there is little question that the greatest sin of the Israelite people came only days after having received the Torah. Gathered at the base of Mt. Sinai, the people grew restless for the return of Moses, their leader, and in their agitation, they prevailed upon Moses’ brother, Aaron, to forge a Golden Calf – the very sort of idolatry that they had been taught to abandon, and in their frenzied passion, the men and women literally ripped the golden rings from their ears in order to hastily construct the idol! Of course, at the conclusion of the story, Moses came down from the mountain, and saw the people dancing in ecstatic celebration around their Golden Calf. In his rage, Moses cast down the tablets of the Law he had received from on High, and the entire community was punished for a their backsliding, their transgression, and their loss of faith.[v]
But now fast-forward only a short while in Torah-time. God says to the Israelite people: “Asu li mikdash, v’shachanti b’tocham” – Build for me a Tabernacle, that I may dwell in their midst.” And here, perhaps in their finest hour, the people responded with unmatched enthusiasm and generosity. So abundant were the gifts of gold and silver, precious stones and fine linens, fabrics, and utensils, that Moses had to issue the cry: Enough! We have enough for the building of our shul! Please – let no more donations be made. I venture to say this was the first and only time in Jewish history that a capital campaign was called off for reasons of excessive generosity![vi]
But notice how these two stories, when viewed closely, are almost identical – except that in the first case, the generous offerings of the people were directed towards the creation of a pagan idol. And in the latter, the gifts were brought for holy purpose. I would argue that the personality of the people – a personality expressing generosity of spirit and spiritual intensity – was expressed equally in both narratives. In the first it was channeled in a destructive manner, but in the latter, towards holiness.
“Who is strong,” ask the sages of old? “The one who makes his adversary into his friend.”[vii] And sometimes, of course, the adversary is internal – it is our own personality and traits. But when we do engage regularly in both contemplation and study, we can recognize those aspects of our own inclinations of which we are less proud, and transform them into expressions of our higher values.
Now the meaning of a beloved, Chassidic story comes into better focus. It is the story of a king who owned a magnificent diamond, a gem so rare that he jealously guarded and protected it, rarely bringing it out even to display. Once it happened, during the course of a royal banquet, that the king was showing off his treasured stone, and it accidentally slipped from his cradling hands, and fell crashing to the floor. The stone didn’t break, but the perfect gem now bore a slim crack down one side. Obviously, the king was distraught over this great misfortune, and he consulted with the most renowned jewelers and trained diamond cutters from throughout the land. All of the experts agreed on the sad fate of the once-perfect gem, for regardless of the amount of polishing and cleaning they might try, the imperfection was now a permanent feature of the king’s beloved diamond.
Some time later, a jeweler from a distant land who heard of the disaster that had befallen the king arrived to the palace, and requested that he be shown the stone. “You see,” insisted the jeweler, “I can repair the diamond.”
“In fact,” he continued, “I could make the gem even more beautiful than it was before the accident, if the king would so consent.”
With nothing to lose, the king agreed, and so the jeweler set about his work. Within days, he returned to the palace, and presented the king with the results of his handiwork. As the king examined the diamond, his eyes grew wide, first with surprise, and then with delight! The crack had not been removed from the stone. Instead, it had been transformed by the jeweler’s carving into the long stem of a magnificent rose, with leaves coming from each side of the stem, crowned by an exquisite, flowering bud. The broken gem had become a precious work of art, more valuable now than ever before.
On Yom Kippur, we take up the challenge again to make our own lives into a precious work of art. We remember, and we affirm that we are not held prisoner by our circumstances, our experiences, our even our innate personalities. People can change. We can change; we can grow — towards a clearer vision of our better selves. And even our imperfections can be brought to the service of a higher calling.
David Rakoff’s rendering of the “Tortoise and the Scorpion” is delightful, but we are not like the scorpion, or any other creature for that matter. We can safely make the crossing from who we have been to who we might yet become. And today, of all days, is the time to begin the journey.
[i] As read by the author on “This American Life”, produced at WBEZ in Chicago, originally aired on 9/11/2009.
[ii] Deuteronomy 30:15-20.
[iii] Abraham Joshua Heschel, Who Is Man?, Stanford University Press, 1965: p. 41.
[iv] Genesis Rabbah 9:7.
[v] Exodus 32.
[vi] Exodus 36.
[vii] Avot deRabbi Natan, Chapter 23.
“FOR THIS WERE YOU CREATED”
October 7, 2011
Kol Nidre 5772
For the past 20 years, Dr. Richard Light, a professor of education at Harvard, has been conducting interviews with Harvard College students who are on the verge of graduation. Not long ago, he started to notice a trend. Even though undergraduates were content with the academic education they were receiving, many felt unprepared to take on bigger questions. One student told Light that although his classes had equipped him for work in chemistry and physics, “Harvard forgot to offer the most important course—a course in how to think of living my life.”
So together with the Dean of Freshmen and another professor of education, Dr. Light set up a voluntary discussion series, “Reflecting on Your Life,” for first-year students eager to explore those very ideas. The program has been quite popular, to the surprise of its creators. “We expected there to be 15 or 20 students interested in talking about this,” Light said. “But in the past three years, the program has had an average of 150 students—10 percent of the freshman class.”[i]
Our Temple President spoke tonight about the importance of creating meaning in our lives. Several weeks ago, when Stuart and I first discussed the content of his Yom Kippur message to the congregation, I told him that I would like to expand a bit further on the idea of meaning, in Hebrew, “Mashma-ut”, on this most sacred night of the year.
Even though the Harvard class exploring life’s meaning seems to have struck a chord among its freshmen participants, the search and struggle for meaning is hardly a concern limited to young men and women. In fact, I believe that the search for meaning becomes even more essential as we age, and as the reality that our lives are finite begins to come into sharper focus.
In his epic work, Man’s Search For Meaning, the 20th Century psychotherapist and, we must add, Holocaust survivor, Viktor Frankl insists that the search for meaning is a primary force in our lives. Breaking from the foundations of psychotherapy laid by his contemporary, Sigmund Freud, Frankl traces various forms of neurosis to the failure of the sufferer to find meaning and a sense of responsibility in his or her existence. He writes, “This meaning is unique and specific in that it must and can be fulfilled by him alone. Only then does it achieve a significance that will satisfy his own will to meaning.”[ii]
Frankl spoke of an “existential vacuum” affecting people in the post-WWII era, the growing loss of the feeling that life is meaningful. He also predicted, successfully I believe, that the problem was likely (in his words), “to grow increasingly crucial, for progressive automation will probably lead to an enormous increase in the leisure hours of average workers. The pity of it is that many of them will not know what to do with all their newly acquired free time.”[iii]
Of course, to speak of a search for meaning begins with the assumption that there is meaning to be found in our lives. But there is no shortage of philosophers, poets, writers and other skeptics who repudiate the very possibility of life having even a sliver of enduring meaning.
So we think of the musings of Shakespeare’s Macbeth: “Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”[iv]
The famous trial lawyer, Clarence Darrow, described life as “an awful joke”, and wrote: “Life is like a ship on a sea, tossed by every wave and by every wind, a ship headed for no port and no harbor, with no rudder, no compass, no pilot; simply floating for a time, then lost in the waves.”[v]
Similarly, the acclaimed scholar of mythology, Joseph Campbell once said, “I don’t believe life has a purpose. Life is a lot of protoplasm with an urge to reproduce itself and continue in being.”
And in contrast to Viktor Frankl, who asserted that the quest for meaning is a core and primary human need, Sigmund Freud wrote: “The moment a person questions the meaning and value of life… he is sick. By asking this question one is merely admitting to a store of unsatisfied libido to which something else must have happened, a kind of fermentation leading to sadness and depression.”[vi]
Even some of our own, Hebrew authors of the Bible questioned life’s inherent meaningfulness, and our Sacred Scriptures did not censor their expressions of angst. “Vanity of vanities – hevel havalim”, writes the elderly, Biblical poet, Kohelet, in the Book of Ecclesiastes, ‘All is vanity.’ Kohelet considered life nothing more than a passing breath of air, and that we, composed of dust, in the end, merely return back to the dust, and whether we are good or evil, wealthy or impoverished wise or foolish, the same finality awaits us all.
Now keep in mind that Kohelet was part of a very small minority. Neither other biblical writers nor the rabbis and theologians of our tradition are so negative. In contrast, they are convinced that life does have meaning. Despite the infinite immensity of space and time, most biblical writers believed that man was a moral and spiritual reflection of the Creator, and according to the dominant themes of Jewish belief, the meaning of human life comes from this special relationship between God and man.[vii] In the words of the modern philosopher, Martin Buber: the existence of God is the “inexpressible confirmation of meaning. It is guaranteed. Nothing, nothing can henceforth be meaningless.”[viii]
But for many of us, believing in God is still not enough to satisfy our search for meaning, because as we sometimes struggle with our sense of God’s Presence, then we also struggle with our sense of life’s ultimate meaning. So I want us to consider, that at the very beginning of the Jewish spiritual quest, we go back to God’s first call to Abraham: “Lech L’cha – go forth.” Our sages paid attention to the unusual wording, and translated the Hebrew in the most literal manner: Lech L’cha, meaning “Go toward yourself.” That is to say, look inward — for that’s the essential direction of the spiritual journey – toward oneself.
Notice that the essence of God’s call to Abraham is NOT to create a sense of pervasive meaning for his people, his nation, and his descendants. Rather, the call from God is a summons to find meaning for his own life, for his own struggles, hopes, and vision. It is, I believe, somewhat ironic that in our age, where the Self is placed high above so many other values, and the spiritual journey is seen in popular culture as an individual’s unique exploration, that often our religious institutions sometimes tend to ignore that very personal motivation, and try to instill meaning through social action, by debating social policy, giving workshops in understanding public worship, or teaching a catechism. Now of course, those are all important aspects of sharing a communal faith tradition. But we also need to take our cue from the story of Abraham, and, I would add, from that course at Harvard in guiding seekers towards discovering personal meaning to the most important questions in their lives as well. As the philosopher, Heschel states, “The moment we become oblivious to ultimate questions, religion becomes irrelevant, and its crisis sets in.”[ix]
Again, we look to our Biblical tradition to find evidence and examples of that struggle for personal meaning in life, and to some extent, we can watch each and every one of our Biblical heroes and heroines engage in that deep, personal search. And only when they discover it, can their stories be complete.
I want to offer up two examples. First, is the story of Joseph – he of the “Amazing Technicolor Dream-Coat”. Envied and hated by his brothers to the point of fratricide, he is sold as a slave into Egypt, where in time he rises to great power. Later in his life, he will again come face to face with those same brothers who come down to Egypt to purchase food during a time of widespread famine. When the brothers finally recognized that it was indeed, Joseph who stood before them, wielding power over their very lives, they feared that he would choose to exact revenge for all they had done to him in the past.
But Joseph embraced his brothers, and spoke to them with kindness. He explained: “For it was not you, but God, who sent me here, in order to save countless lives during this famine.” At that moment, Joseph understood the meaning of his life. So Joseph was able to forgive his brothers, and bring about renewed family harmony, along with providing sustenance for countless thousands of starving people.
And let us also call to mind the story of Queen Esther, the heroine of our Purim Festival. The Book of Esther is a rather bawdy tale, a historical novel filled with debauchery and violence as befitting to our “spring fever” holiday, the Jewish Mardi Gras. If you recall the story, Esther, a lovely, orphaned Jewish girl enters the harem of the Persian King, Achashverosh, where she encounters the plot of the genocidal villain, Haman, to wipe out all the Jews of Shushan. Esther’s cousin and mentor, the wise Mordecai, appeals to Esther to risk her life by confronting the King with Haman’s evil intention. And she steps forward bravely to foil Haman’s plot, because she realizes in her heart that it was just for such a purpose that she had achieved her high and lofty status in the court. In that moment, she experienced the meaning of her life, and it was for Esther the source of her courage.
Like the Biblical figures, often our own sense of life’s meaning comes in moments – moments of clarity when we understand our own, unique mission. That realization is also described by Viktor Frankl:
“For the meaning of life,” he wrote, “differs from [person to person], from day to day, and from hour to hour. What matters, therefore, is not the meaning of life in general, but rather the specific meaning of a person’s life at a given moment… One should not search for an abstract meaning of life. Everyone has his own specific vocation or mission in life; everyone must carry out a concrete assignment that demands fulfillment. Therein he cannot be replaced, nor can his life be repeated. Thus, everyone’s task is as unique as is his specific opportunity to implement it.”[x]
I want to share with you one such moment in my life, which happened only a few years ago. I’ll admit to feeling a little uneasy sharing aloud and so publicly such a very private and intimate experience and emotion. But after twenty years together, I trust you with my story as you have trusted me with yours
It may have been one of the lowest points in my rabbinate, brought on by a seemingly relentless series of tragic losses. When people ask me what’s the most difficult part of being a Rabbi, my answer is pretty consistent: It’s presiding over the funeral of a young child, a teenager or even a young parent. While I need to maintain a degree of professional distance in order to help bring the family and the community through such heartbreak, the utter sadness, the depth of pain and my feelings of compassion for those mourning the loss of one so young tears very deeply at my heart, my guts, and my spirit. And so, I guess after one too many of such agonizing funerals coming in rapid succession, I felt emptied of strength, a kind of spiritual weariness that led me to decide that I could not again, to the best of my ability, willingly put myself into such a situation.
The very same day, maybe even within a couple of hours after having made my inner declaration, I received an urgent call from a local funeral home. I don’t remember exactly, but the essence of the message was: “Rabbi Meyer, there’s been a terrible tragedy, and we told the family that you were the one best able to help them.”
“Of course, I’ll be right there,” I answered.
So I hung up the phone, closed my eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath, asking God — as I always do — for the wisdom and the words to guide the devastated family into and through that valley of shadows. And as I thought about the timing of having just decided to try to avoid that very circumstance, suddenly, two words entered into my mind, so clearly — it was as if I could hear them; words used by our sages for just such a moment: “L’chach notzarta “ – It is for this that you were created.”[xi]
L’chach notzarta. How might I best translate those simple, two words? Yes, literally, it means – “For this were you created”. But from a more complete understanding, I take those words to mean — (to paraphrase grief counselor, J. Shep Jeffries) — [It's] not simply a matter of ‘This is what I do because this is what I have been trained to do,’ or, God forbid, ‘This is what I do because it’s what I am paid to do.’ But rather ‘This is what I do because this is part of the meaning of who I am and how I choose to live [my life]!”[xii]
That’s not to say that the horrific situations which I am sometimes called upon to navigate with others, no longer affect me in those most the fragile depths of my spirit, my emotions, and my heart. But still to this day, I hear those two words guiding me and providing that sense of meaning through a variety of challenges, giving me strength, clarity and even occasionally, the bravery to live up to my highest potential – not only as a Rabbi, but also as a parent, a spouse, a child, and a friend. L’chach notzarta – for this were you created.
And on this sacred night of Yom Kippur, these words I offer as both a message and a challenge for our lives: To what can you say, l’chach notzarti – For this was I was created? I encourage you to look for those moments in the midst of loving, human relationships. Sense those moments in your work, or in your response to a call for help. Experience those moments when you perform a mitzvah, or in any act that improves the world for this and future generations.
Only yesterday, I received an e-mail from a member of the congregation, who was responding to our Temple’s efforts to help families who suffered damage to their homes and property during Tuesday’s flash-floods. She wrote: “My family and our homes were unaffected and I am profoundly grateful for this, and I am confident it is because I am supposed to help others.” What a beautiful insight into a moment of experiencing meaning in our lives! And I would only add: L’chach notzarnu´– It is for this that we were created!
As I conclude my message on this evening of Kol Nidre I cannot help but wonder if the answer to the mystery and the miracle of Jewish survival through the millennia is not somehow linked to our own sense of meaning as a people. Yes, God’s call to our Patriarch, Abraham, with two words — “Lech L’cha” — was a challenge to explore and experience the very meaning of his own life. But God’s call also ended with another two words: “V’yeheh b’racha – And you shall be a blessing.” When Abraham, in his inward journey, discovered the meaning of his own life, he was then able to bring great and enduring blessing to all of humanity. In fact, he changed the world forever, for the better. Through Abraham and his journey, the world began to learn the truth of Ethical Monotheism. Through Abraham was born the opportunity for all men and women to enter into relationship with the One God, and to bring to life in our world those Godly values of justice and love, of compassion and peace.
So – Lech Lecha! Go forth in the year ahead, on a journey inward towards the meaning of your own life, and then, like Abraham, may you also be a blessing.
For like Abraham — l’chach notzarnu – for this, we, too were created.
[i] Madeleine Schwartz, “The Most Important Course. Do Harvard Students Ponder the Meaning of Life?” Harvard Magazine, May/June 2011, pp. 56-57.
[ii] Viktor Frankl, Man’s Search for Meaning, – p. 154
[iii] Frankl, p. 169.
[iv] Act 5, Scene V, lines 24-28.
[v] Cited in Byron L. Sherwin, Faith Finding Meaning. A Theology of Judaism, Oxford University Press, 2009, p. 70.
[vi] Ibid.
[vii] See Jack D. Spiro, “Meaning” in Contemporary Jewish Religious Thought. Original Essays on Critical Concepts, Movements, and Beliefs. Arthur A. Cohen and Paul Mendes-Flohr, editors. The Free Press, New York, 1972: pp. 565-571.
[viii] Martin Buber, I and Thou, (1970), pp. 158 – 159.
[ix]: Cited in Sherwin, pp. 68–69.
[x] Frankl, pp. 171 – 172.
[xi] See Pirke Avot 2:8.
[xii] J. Shep Jeffries, Helping Grieving People – When Tears Are Not Enough. A Handbook for Care Providers, Brunner-Rutledge, NY, 2005.
