High Holy Day Sermons 5771/2010

A Jewish Spring
Rabbi James Prosnit dddd Erev Rosh Hashanah 5772

Shanah Tovah –

How fortunate that there is a circular nature to our being as well as a linear path.  Another year moves us forward; age and time move on, but a new year enables us to circle back –to take stock and review, to look forward and anticipate what lies ahead.  On this Rosh Hashanah some of us have cause to express great thanks at the blessings that came our way; others breathe a sigh of relief –glad that this one’s over; a tough year we say, please let the new year be better because it’s hard to imagine it being much worse.  My hunch is that for most of us, however, it was a bit of both. 

One of those moments when we know Dickens had it right --  the spring of hope or the winter of despair, a time when with everything before us and a time with nothing before us.  The message at a new year, however, is inherently optimistic.  Even when outside forces challenge us and make us worry as they have and do -- we possess the ability to take control of certain things and through our faith and our action we prevail.  “May it be your will, Eternal our God,” we prayed a few minutes ago, “that the year 5772 bring to us and the whole House of Israel life and peace, joy and exaltation, redemption and comfort.” 

And let us say Amen!

So tonight, as I reflect on the year gone by and try and wrap the headlines and the mood into a stand out theme, it seems to me as if it was a year of great and noble aspirations and a year riddled with uncertainty.   Again Dickens the best of times and the worst of times!

Many stories marked the year now ending; but few more profound and potentially far reaching than what has become known as the Arab Spring.  A man’s frustration with corruption and ill treatment in Tunisia last December unleashes the pent up frustrations of millions and spreads in one form or another to Yemen and Libya, Egypt and Syria and many places in between.  In some cases simple protests and in others out right revolution; in some bloody civil war and in others harsh retribution as governments crackdown against their own people in the most brutal way.  

People all over the Arab world feel a sense of pride in shaking off decades of cowed passivity under dictatorships that ruled with no deference to popular wishes. We who treasure our freedoms and rights rejoice at the spirit unleashed in areas where repression long ruled – but we know that change is hard –even our founding fathers knew that the road to freedom was perilous.   Pit falls are everywhere. Fundamentalism lurks and even largely secular societies don’t become liberal democracies over night – or ever for that matter.

Of course the desire of Palestinians to have a State of their own existed long before an Arab Spring.  But this week we watch as the aspirations of a people to have autonomy and land are both understandable and vexing for those of us who care deeply about Israel.  (More on that tomorrow). 

And within Israel itself, the voice of a shrinking middle class has been heard on the streets of Tel Aviv and in many, many other communities throughout the land.  Some suggest that even among Israeli Jews, the Arab Spring has had an impact, as the lament of one woman on facebook led to a tent city cropping up on Rothschild Boulevard, the center of Israeli affluence, in what some have called Israel’s version of Tahrir Square.  And the protest –everything from the high price of cottage cheese an Israel staple to the reality that rents are too damned high and people can no longer afford to live in their own neighborhoods. 

Tens of thousands of Israelis took to the streets. Three hundred thousand on one Saturday in the summer came together in peaceful protest and caught their government off guard, because in the midst of a “start up nation” too few are prospering.  We celebrate and marvel at the high tech boom that has come to the land, but when a great percentage of wealth lies in the hands of only twenty or so families –aspirations rise against the reality and discontent is born.  Tel Aviv economics Professor Manuel Trajtenberg appointed by the Israeli government to consider the protestors grievances said just the other day, “Social security is no less important than physical security.”

So it is not too great a segue from the vox popular elsewhere to our own land where the debate between spending and restraint dominants the news.  What to do with a poverty rate as high as it has been in a decade and unemployment greater than any time since the depression.  In affluent old Connecticut 10% of residents live in poverty, and in Bridgeport that’s 23%.   31% of our city’s children live below the federal poverty level, which by the way is about $23k for a family of four.

Aspirations to have greater security and opportunity are not just in the domain of the poor. Many of us learned how vulnerable our hard earned savings and investments are and agonize over every bit of financial news.   The union protestor in Wisconsin and the Tea Party advocate in Arizona are both equally frustrated with the way things are working or not working.  Our political stripes may influence who we favor and who we revile, but I do not for a moment minimize the combination of fears and frustrations that have helped form both perspectives.  Each has the aspiration to live securely, to educate children and to hope that the next generation will have equal if not more blessings than the current one. 

While the economic woes are unsettling for many we are further sobered by the feeling that we are victims, just pawns to the Government gridlock and partisan rancor! Is this the new normal as they say?  No wonder, at this moment of crisis, that the national mood is one of fear, the worst fear being that we might not be up to the task – an "uneasy feeling," a "sinking feeling," as the former New York Time's Bob Herbert put it, "that important opportunities are slipping from the nation's grasp." 

But you did not come here this evening to be depressed and it has never been my intent to make these Holy Day sermons solely op ed pieces. Rosh Hashanah after all is about aspirations removed from the headlines.  Our aspirations are timeless and our optimism is about the chance to seize the moment and change patterns of behavior in our own lives. And here I’m not talking about the January first resolutions that we break by February – the weight loss or the exercise routines.  

Rosh Hashanah asks different questions of us, it asks us to look into our character and take a personal assessment.  We know our images of our higher selves and we acknowledge that gaps exist between what we are and what we know we can be.  We aspire and resolve to narrow that gap in the year ahead.  Each year at this time, each fall we get to contemplate our own Jewish Spring; a fresh opportunity to explore new possibilities and renewed blessings.  And while the Jewish spring may not be dramatic enough to set a world alive in protest and transition they represent a yearning to make every day brighter and more hopeful.

So for a few moments let’s consider what that Jewish Spring would look like.  And while I know that there are many individualized hopes and some particular things we’d love to accomplish or have happen for our families next year, let me broaden the vision and suggest some classic Jewish values that underpin some of my aspirations for the coming year.

I wish we had more debates -- more discussions about the nature of our world and community. Good conversations and meaty disagreements are all too rare these days. We’re worn down by the blather on cable TV and the internet, we mostly talk to people who agree with our own views and those conversations become parve, not discussions that raise passions and challenge set perspectives. 

My central aspiration, however, is that the tone of every argument be carried out in a civil manner and that we truly hear the voice and view of those with whom we disagree.  Jewish tradition and much of Jewish life is built on discussion and disagreement.  Two Jews -- three opinions is not an expression from out of the blue.

Our sages speak of two kinds of controversy  –l’shem shamayim - for the sake of heaven – positive, enriching and  lo l’shem shamayim not for the sake of heaven – divisive, turf driven and one where there is no negotiation or dialogue. While discourse in the public, political domain may sadly be beyond our control we should be adamant that in our own homes, our workplace, schools everywhere in our daily lives exchanges be done with respect and a sense that compromise is no vice and changing one’s mind because of new information is not a failure or a sign of weakness.  

In my Jewish spring the haves would see fit to work on behalf of the have nots. Affluence in Jewish life is not at all sinful; in fact it is celebrated.  But the core teaching is that one need not feel guilty for what one has and can best enjoy it when one has been mindful and responsive to those who have less. Concern for the most vulnerable is a central theme in our tradition. A recognition that God’s world is not working out the way that God intended.  It is broken and we cannot desist from repair – from a commitment to tikkun olam.

Some of that spirit of repair emerges through the coalitions we form to work for social justice. Some new efforts are underway in the region to bring churches and synagogues, urban and suburbanites together to address common issues and create a powerful voice on behalf of average citizens.  I hope we as a congregation and you as individuals become involved in those efforts. At the same time I’m mindful of the good work we do just by staffing a soup kitchen or reading aloud in a Bridgeport school.

How proud I was that earlier this summer just by forwarding an email I received from my friend and colleague in Birmingham, Alabama we at B’nai Israel were able to assemble a team of a dozen people to travel to Cordova, Alabama to help in the process of tikkun after the devastating tornados tore apart those communities. 

The desire to be of help is at the core of the human spirit.  And while our fellow congregants spent a week working and sweltering in the southern sun they each reported gaining more than they gave. How typical is that response whenever we think and act beyond ourselves.  The expression S’kar mitzvah, mitzvah – the reward for the mitzvah is the mitzvah itself, guides us.  We should do more of them.  It does not take that much to do a world of good and to feel good about it when we do it! 

Our Bat Mitzvah student last Shabbat Taylor Berlin in her d’var torah spoke about how easy it was to complete the 13 Mitzvot Program leading up to her becoming a Bat Mitzvah.  What was the big deal she seemed to wonder -- to perform 13 mitzvot, isn’t this what you do? --- Exactly the point.

Another classic Jewish teaching is no action is insignificant if it is for the good.  And that is true if we’re helping improve the life or lot of someone else or if we are doing some small act to care for or better the planet. How noble I feel each time I remember to take those reusable bags out of my trunk.

A Jewish spring after all wants us to aspire to be mindful not only of the needs of humanity, but of the sacredness and import of all God’s creations.  An environmental ethic focuses us on wise use of the available resources and doing all we can to minimize the hurt we cause the planet.  

Changing behaviors will not stop earthquakes, tsunamis and hurricanes but most believe that the intensity of the global weirdness occurring around us as Thomas Friedman calls it, is connected to human behavior.  How many wake up calls do we need in a given year to understand that conservation and sustainability are core values that need to be practiced by all.

And going beyond the social action message I have no shortage of aspirations for us as a congregation as well.    I believe that especially in a time of uncertainty for many this community remains the most valuable place to inspire souls and heal fractured heart.  At the conclusion of a tough year we need a place that cares when life is hard, yet challenges us to live noble lives and be a place of Kedusha, of holiness, a sacred community measured in the holy acts and meaningful relationships that connect us to one another and connect us to God. 

I think it would be important in the coming weeks for us to join in various conversations focusing on what concerns us, what we would like B’nai Israel to be and how we can best get there.  One on one conversations, focus groups – chances to talk about: How we welcome new congregants; How we respond to the interests and needs of non Jewish partners; How we can enhance the worship experience or better integrate post bar and bat mitzvah students; how we plan strategically for the future.  The topics are endless. Please engage.

And what is true about aspirations for the congregation is also true for that vision we hold of our higher selves which is so central to the introspection and self scrutiny required of these days.  As educator Michael Josephson teaches: "If you want to know how to live your life, think about what you would like people to say about you after you die--then live backwards."

After all a Jewish spring reminds us that we matter and our actions can make a difference.  Maybe not a protest that brings a million people out in to the street and topples governments, but sacred living that impacts a family, a neighborhood, a congregation—and who knows maybe the world.    

A challenging year comes to an end.  A new year looms.  But all years have their challenges and all new years burst with possibility.  For all those yearning to be free – may it be a year of opportunity; for all those who fear may you find anxieties eased; and for all those who aspire – may those aspirations inspire you and be a call to action.  As tomorrow’s shofar blasts beckon us home – may the short wailing sounds of uncertainty give way to the clarity and blessing of a tekiah gedolah.  I pray this for our nation, our congregation and ourselves.

Israel Engagement
Rabbi James Prosnit dddd Rosh Hashanah Morning 5772

This guy is walking down the beach and he kicks something metal in the sand, He bends down to inspect it and realizes that there is a middle-eastern looking lamp at his feet. As he brushes it off there is puff of smoke and a genie appears.

“Your wish is my command,” intones the genie.

“Don’t I get three wishes?” says the guy.  

“Don’t get greedy,” says the genie. “And don’t be selfish either.”

“All right,” says the guy. “Listen, I have been a Met’s  fan all my life.  It has been 25 years since they’ve won the World Series,  my wish is that  they  win the World Series this year against the Yankees.” 

“Are you kidding?” says the genie. “Have you seen their line up, their starting pitching, Santana’s been on the DL all  season,  the rest of the guys are  unreliable, the hitting inconsistent and their fielding leaves a lot to be desired.   I’m only a genie. Try a different wish.”

Okay,” says the guy. “The Israelis and the Palestinians are trying to get back to the negotiating table. How about if you make it so they actually succeed in reaching a permanent and satisfying agreement for both of them?” 

The genie thinks for a minute and says, “Do you want the Mets to win in seven games or to sweep the Yankees?” 1

I had not planned on speaking about Israel at any great length during these Holy Days. But as I found over the years, September can be rather unforgiving to rabbis, and long planned remarks give way to more immediate concerns.  Some things are timeless and some things occupy the headlines; some things are on our mind and some things are part in our heart --  and one thing I’ve learned is that our relationship to the Jewish State is all of the above – timeless and timely;  intellectual provocative and emotionally driven.

So much this week – articles in the paper that many of you have read and asked to talk about; news from the UN; impact of the Arab Spring and fear of Israel’s increasing isolation  – all cause me to turn to a topic that I have addressed before, but feel must touch on again.  While the concerns may be heightened and some of the problems new, I tell you upfront the concluding message of this sermon of course will not be different from the past.  There is a profound and eternal relationship between the Land of Israel and the Jewish people.  The security and survival of the State of Israel must be a given not only for Jews who live there but for Jews who live here. 

And for the modern State of Israel truly to fulfill the ideals of its pioneers and founders it must not only be a State for Jews – it must be a Jewish State with an affirmation of values and principles stated clearly in its Declaration of Independence and in the Torah.

But let me begin like High Holy Day sermons should, with a bit of Torah teaching.  I’d like to call your attention to something I read recently written by Rabbi Jack Moline from Washington D.C.2

He focuses on two different prophetic texts that are read in synagogues at this time of year.  One from the prophet Isaiah, that we discussed in our Torah study group just this past Shabbat and the other from the Book of Jeremiah, the traditional reading for the Second day of Rosh  Hashanah.

What  they  have  in  common  is  a vision  of  Jerusalem  and by  extension,  of  the  Land  of  Israel. Both texts provide insights into the struggle over how Israel should resolve the dilemma of enemies close at hand.

“‘For the sake of Zion I will not be silent; for the sake of Jerusalem I will not be still.’ So begins Chapter 62 of the Book of Isaiah.  It’s a proclamation of the city rebuilt.  Last Shabbat’s haftarah is the seventh reading of consolation leading up to Rosh Hashanah and it is the crescendo of the series of visions of the city and people restored after their time in exile. Risen from the rubble, a strong and vital center of Jewish life has emerged as a lesson to the other nations of the world.”

The haftarah is filled with militant images of Jewish domination. “Nations shall see your victory,” says Isaiah, “and  every king  your  majesty.”  Isaiah asks the triumphant God, “Why are your garments so  red?” “I stomped them down in anger,” is the response. “I trampled them in my rage.  Their life-blood splattered my garments and all my clothing was stained.”

“This voice of Isaiah—a very different Isaiah than we will hear on Yom Kippur, by the way—recalls the military triumph that secured Jerusalem, the strikes in surrounding territories, and the standing army that keeps watch on her walls so that we may rejoice in Jerusalem.  

“Let me tell you, you don’t have to like that image and I have a hunch many of you do not. You can try to explain it away.  But there is a clear sense from within our tradition that the way to secure the formerly besieged city is to fortify it. The joy and gladness within for the Jews will come at a price for the enemies of the Jews without, and God will not only approve, but will lead the charge. The celebratory wine we drink will remind us of the blood that was spilled—enemies stomped and trampled like grapes for wine.”

“That is one image of peace for Jerusalem.” 3

It is essential, however, to compare and contrast  these words with the words of Jeremiah, which are read tomorrow.  Jeremiah also speaks of new grain and new wine, of a city rejoicing in the homecoming of its exiles. Jeremiah also speaks of God coming from a distant land, leading the people who are strong and well, as well as the people who are blind.  His words in the haftarah open with, “thus said God: the people who survived the sword found favor in the wilderness, Israel marching homeward.” Jeremiah does not deny the attacks, but says the conflict is over. God will lead them home to a waiting land of  plenty.

“This time, it is not the Lord robed in crimson garments, dyed red by the blood of enemies. This time, God proclaims, “they came to me in tears, but in compassion will I lead them to the flowing streams of water.”    God reassures, for your children are returning and there is hope for your future. Peacefully, fearlessly, with sword and suffering behind them, the people inhabit the land.”

“Let me tell you,  you don’t have to like that image. You can consider it naive, but you would be false to say that is not prominent in our tradition.  There is a definite sense that our return to the Promised Land would be complete when every person will sit under vine and fig tree and none will be made afraid. It is not that there never was and never would be conflict, nor that enemies would disappear, but the militant watchman would give way to the friendly neighbor. That is the other  image of peace for Jerusalem.”4

Fast forward a few thousand years.

Over the past several weeks I have received emails from various organization asking me to sign on to letters or petitions supporting the Israeli government position and asking me to encourage our government  to withhold funds to the Palestinians if President Abbas moves forward with his call to the United Nations as he did last week. 

And I have received emails asking me to join in criticism of Israel’s seeming unwillingness to make compromises and move the peace process forward.   While I like to think I’m someone who is not afraid to take a stand, thus far I see nuances galore and have not signed on to either perspective.

I’m tempted to call two sons of this congregation, young men who grew up at B’nai Israel — David Gillette and Steve Krubiner — and ask them what I should do.  David is Deputy Director for Policy & Government Affairs for AIPAC, the American Israel Public Affairs Committee and Steve is Director of Israel and International programs for J-Street,the new Pro-Israel, Pro-Peace lobby.

I’m proud of both of their work and their love and engagement in Israel and don’t really want to pit one against the other — one organization against the other because I actually believe both are crucial for the current climate.  But for sermonic purposes this morning let me turn to David first and then ask Steve to respond. David is putting AIPAC’s voice in my head as it articulates the current Israeli administration’s concerns.
 
He might tell me, there is an existential threat to Israel’s existence.  Changes in the Arab world have heightened that concern, not lessened it.   Diaspora Jews are not doing enough to show empathy to the real fear of living in a land where 40,000 rockets are aimed at the home front fromplaces where terrorists reign like Gaza and Lebanon. (Not to mention a potential nuclear Iran).  Rockets are capable of reaching population centers throughout the entire country.  An iron dome missile defense system can protect against some, but by no means all. 

And by the way, many Palestinians are not interested in returning to 1967 borders what they want is Israel gone.

In addition, efforts to isolate Israel from the region and world are more about the domestic agenda of surrounding governments than about Israeli policies.  For example a lot of talk about Turkey these days and its growing diplomatic rift with Israel.  In actuality, Turkey under President Erdogan is rebuffed by the West in its efforts to join the European Union and now turns towards the East and uses Israel as a convenient tool to gain credibility and influence with other Middle Eastern countries.

And now Steve, what’s your take on David’s argument?  He may tell me that he’s concerned with the above too.  But J-Street’s position is the role of Diaspora Jewry is not only to empathize with Israel’s situation, but to be honest in our critique.  Isolation from the world community with the United States as its only ally is not in her best interest. A Masada mentality protecting a shaky status quo cannot be sustained indefinitely.  

Most of all two million people on the West Bank cannot be invisible.  Israel did not return to its historic homeland in 1948 to deny another people their sovereignty. Yes, offers have been made in the past but they don’t seem to be on the table these days. A misguided settlement policy and a deafness to certain claims have raised more than one generation of Palestinians who know Israel only as an occupying force.  And occupation is brutal, even when you try hard not to have it so. Israel cannot be Jewish and Democratic and a possessor of all the land. If it is serious about being a Democratic Jewish State it must cede territory as painful as that may be.  Two states, side by side Israel and Palestine is the only path not only to peace but to security.   Tell Prime Minister Netanyahu not to be held hostage by his right wing and not to pay lip service. Negotiate in earnest.

This is the debate as I see it and the debate that David and Steve engage in on a daily basis.  And when I hear it I say –“you’re right and you’re right.”

This is the heshbon hanefesh – the internal account taking that needs to be done at this season when we are all called upon to take personal stock.  And this is the active engagement of Israel –that to my mind does not threaten Israel, but rather is crucial to Israel’s well being.  It’s okay for us to be confused, it’s not okay not to be engaged.

One of my biggest concerns for Israel’s well being is that far too many American Jews are turning off and away.   As some of you know there is a global BDS movement promoting boycott, divestment and sanctions trying to demonize and delegitimize Israel in world opinion, But as problematic as the BDS movement is of far greater worry to me is the divestment of interest in Israel among many American Jews.

And that is becoming increasingly prevalent with younger generations.   A recent survey taken by sociologists Steven Cohen who spoke at Fairfield U last week and Ari Kelman learned that when asked if the destruction of Israel would be a personal tragedy for them, among Jewish Americans sixty-five years of age and older 80% said that it would indeed be a personal tragedy.   But among those aged thirty five and younger over 50% said that it would not.

My premise this morning is that we will do far better preserving and promoting a love for Israel in the hearts and minds of the young and old if we allow Israel to be taught and discussed warts and all.   The Israel right or wrong view, too often presented and required by the American Jewish establishment is leading to a day when as journalist Peter Beinart who spoke at the JCCS just last week (as an aside --what wonderful lectures we’ve had in this community of late, enriching talks that we need to take more advantage of), Beinart  wrote, in a much debated article, American Jewish leaders “will wake up to find a younger, Orthodox-dominated, Zionist leadership whose naked hostility to Arabs and Palestinians scares even them, and a mass of secular American Jews who range from apathetic to appalled.”5

Can we not state loudly and teach proudly that Israel must exist as a Jewish State and that regardless of world opinion we support that right for few others will.  But even from our own security zone here in America we have the right to ask tough questions reflected in eternal values.  Being critical Zionists, not knee jerk Zionists does more to inspire and cultivate the connections crucial to the Israel –Diaspora relationship vital to Israel’s long term security. The aim of my remarks this morning is to express some mixed and confused feelings, but also serious fears about what Israel may become if only the views of those on the far right prevail. There is no monopoly that one particular perspective has on a boundless love and enthusiasm for Israel and what is happening there. 

One of my hopes of course is that we as a congregation never lose sight of that inextricable link between ourselves and the land and people of Israel.  Israel is central to our faith, a focus of our prayer and an expression of our yearning.  There is no question in my mind that the strength and existence of the State of Israel has impacted positively on the image of the Jew around the world and has made our lives as American Jews more secure and more positive. 

Our aliyah this morning included a number of our congregants who travelled to Israel this past year.  Some were part of a congregational trip that Wendy and I were honored to lead many first timers who returned in awe of the Land in love with the People.  Some were our wonderful teenagers who went with NFTY in Israel or with one of their summer camps, some were twenty somethings on a Birthright experience and a few others were family travelers on their own vacation or visiting relatives.  I have no doubt that the land of Israel transformed the Jewish sense of each of the travelers in profound ways.  Israel does that. 

Listen to Sydney Foulk one of our NFTY travelers describe her first encounter with Jerusalem. Her group started out first in Prague and Poland and then upon arrival in Israel went first to a fantastic experience camping in the Negev.  But after four days in the desert and a long bus ride they arrived in Jerusalem. 

“We are told to close our eyes and hold the hand of the person sitting next to us.  One by one, our hands linked forming a long chain of 43 anxious teenagers, not sure where our counselors were taking us.  A short distance later, we open our eyes together and look out on the beautiful, ancient city of Jerusalem.  It was there that I was hit with the strangest feeling, I will never be able to explain with words.  The beauty of the city I was in and the people I was with overwhelmed me and I knew from that moment that I was going to become a Bat mitzvah in Israel.  (Something that Sydney had not formally become here in Connecticut.)" 

A couple of weeks later, she did chant Torah, surrounded by her group, some friends from B’nai Israel and with her mother and brother watching on Skype from Connecticut.

At the end of the trip Sydney wrote me, thanking the people who helped make the trip possible saying,"This summer changed my life in ways I didn’t think were possible.  I will never forget the trip and how it helped me find the answers to questions I had about what my Judaism meant to me.”

Isaiah’s and Jeremiah’s vision may have differed in terms of how the city of peace was to come to be, but they were united in their understanding of its power.  Our vision of the politics and understanding of what a future peace settlement should look like may differ as well – but eternal is this image of the land and the place central and vital to our hearts. 

Debate we should, engage we must – for the sake of Jerusalem and for the sake of each and every one of us.

The Success of Failure
Rabbi James Prosnit dddd Kol Nidrei/Erev Yom Kippur 5772

Becoming a Conscious Community
Rabbi Rachel Gurevitzdddd Rosh Hashanah 5772

Joke 1

In a large Florida City, the rabbi developed quite a reputation for his sermons; so much so that everyone who was Jewish in the community came every Shabbat.
Unfortunately, one weekend a member had to visit Long Island for his nephew's bar mitzvah. But he didn't want to miss the rabbi's sermon. So he decided to hire a non-Jew to sit in the congregation and tape the sermon so he could listen to it when he returned.

Other congregants saw what was going on, and they also decided to hire people to tape the sermon so they could play golf instead of going to shul.

Within a few weeks time there were 500 strangers for hire sitting in shul taping the rabbi. The rabbi got wise to this. The following Shabbat he, too, hired a guy who brought a tape recorder to play his prerecorded sermon to the 500 hired hands in the congregation who dutifully recorded his words on their machines.

Witnesses said this marked the first incidence in history of artificial insermonation!

Joke 2

Coming out of the synagogue, Mrs. Goldman asked her husband Morris, "Do you think that Siegel girl is tinting her hair?"

"I didn't even see her," admitted Morris.

"And that dress Yetta Blum was wearing," continued Mrs. Goldman, "Really, don't tell me you think that's proper attire for a mother of two!"

"I'm afraid I didn't notice that either," said Morris.

"You did see Marilyn Kohn drink 7 glasses of wine after the service."

"I wasn't watching Marilyn", Morris said sheepishly.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," snapped Mrs. Goldman. "A lot of good it does you to go to the synagogue."

While Rabbi Prosnit and I might like to think that the number 1 reason you are part of this community is to receive the wisdom from our sermons, I’m fairly certain that it wouldn’t make the top of the list in Family Feud.  And I’m relieved that we are not a community that regards the High Holy Days, far less Shabbat, as the Paris catwalk, or the place to catch up on the latest community gossip. 

So why do we come here?  Why do we belong? Before I get there, I want to begin by telling you something about one of the most unusual communities I have ever been a part of.

My first extended visit to the USA was in 1999, when I arrived in cold mid-January to live at Elat Chayyim, a Jewish retreat center that was then housed in the Catskills (the retreat program has since relocated in the CT Berkshires).  Six people, from all different walks of life, different places, different ages, were the center’s first experiment at a year-round live-in intern community.  For 9 months, we lived in close quarters, worked together, and served the needs of the retreats that would be held at the center.

For the first four or five months that I lived at Elat Chayyim, most of the retreats were silent meditation retreats.  Some were just three-day weekends, but some were as long as two weeks.  As interns who served the community, we were able to participate in these experiences, but we had to move in and out as we took our turn to answer the phones in the office, take bookings, deal with problems as they arose, and more.

It was not unusual at the end of the retreat, when silence was broken, for us to sit and talk with those who had just participated in a retreat experience.  In a state of peaceful bliss, many would voice how wonderful this community was – how amazing it would be if their community back home felt like this.  How incredible if all Jewish communities could be just like this.

I would smile.  Can you imagine? It’s not so difficult to be a perfect community together when you only do it for a few days, or perhaps a week, at a time.  And in silence!  Being part of a community gets so much more complicated when the individuals in that community are talking.

I was very privileged to be part of the Elat Chayyim community.  But not because it was heaven on earth.  We were a motley crew – a Reiki master from Holland, a retired teacher who liked to be alone a lot, a therapist, a yoga instructor, a young philosophy major trying to figure out what he was going to do with his life, and me. 

I was there because part of my role was to work as researcher to Rabbi Arthur Waskow whose writings I had found inspirational in articulating a modern values-based approach to Judaism, and because I had a strong feeling that I would learn many things about Jewish community at this retreat center that no-one was ever going to teach me in Rabbinical school, which is where I intended to go next.

Living for nine months with this community was a very powerful and unusual experience.  Because we lived at a Jewish retreat center, where our task was to help create an environment where those coming for short periods got a taste of a spiritually intense and meaningful community experience, we found it necessary to do some very hard thinking and talking together.  We aspired to be the kind of community that our visitors tasted for a few days at a time, but we soon realized that it was much harder than it looked.

We found ourselves meeting to figure out how to share cooking and cleaning responsibilities in our intern lounge, how to find the right balance between time together and time alone in ways that honored individual needs but also provided companionship for activities that required us all to participate.  And praying or meditating or doing yoga together might sound like a lovely idea, but when one person thought it was lovely at 6:30 a.m. and another thought it would be much lovelier at 6:00 p.m., well… it wasn’t so easy for 6 people to figure out how to be a community together.

Once a week we would meet to study.  The book we chose was called ‘Conscious Community: A Guide to Inner Work’ and it was one of the last writings of Rabbi Kalonymus Kalman Shapira.  He was Rabbi in the Warsaw Ghetto, and his manuscripts that he had hidden were found after the war.  In his introduction, Rabbi Shapira wrote:

‘This is our current situation.  We are constantly distraught.  What is the point of our existence? Day after day, I try to be conscious of God with every thought, every word, every deed… I try not to become distracted by the confusion of daily life.  Yet each and every day, I undermine my own efforts… I find myself unmoored, in unchartered territory, confused.  What will we accomplish? We spend our days and years in emptiness and misery. 

Finally, as we approach the end, we wake up to the truth and cry in despair: Oh God, what have we done?  How have we come to this point with our spirits and bodies so rough and undeveloped? … We are distraught, but we do not know how to help ourselves. 

This is why we have banded together.  We want to find out how to improve our desperate condition.  If all of us work together and use these strategies to unite our hearts in the service of God, perhaps, with God’s help, we will not live in total waste and despair.’ (p.4-5).

We found these words of Rabbi Shapira, penned in the 1940s, to be incredibly relevant to our task of creating a conscious community in the late 1990s.  Our daily tasks at the retreat center included answering the phones, filling out paperwork, chopping or cleaning in the kitchen, the bathrooms, the bedrooms, staffing the help desk and responding to problems, big or small at all hours.  In the midst of the daily humdrum of the behind-the-scenes world of a retreat center, it was easy to forget that we, as the staff of the center, were trying to live each day as a community with the kind of spiritual awareness that our retreatants came to study and practice.

But what was most striking about Rabbi Shapira’s book was that, while most of the content focused on the inner work of each individual, on their own spiritual search, his solution to the uncertainties of life and its meaning, our questioning of whether we are using our days in useful pursuits that contribute anything to the world we are living in, was to band together.  Only by working together, with others, in the context of a community that is consciously seeking that meaning and purpose, can one’s individual spiritual goals be advanced.

What is powerful about his approach is that individual spirituality, in order to be meaningfully applied and not simply a narcissistic enterprise of navel-gazing, is best practiced within a community. 

His demonstration of how these two belong together is in stark contrast to what we sometimes hear in today’s world, where community is sometimes seen as an old-fashioned vestige of ‘organized religion’ and is placed in opposition to personal spirituality.

UCC Minister Lillian Daniel, from Glen Elyn, Illinois, recently shared her experience of this oppositional thinking in a blog that quickly made the rounds across religious and denominational boundaries.  She wrote:

‘On airplanes, I dread the conversation with the person who finds out I am a minister and wants to use the flight time to explain to me that he is "spiritual but not religious." …Next thing you know, he's telling me that he finds God in the sunsets. These people always find God in the sunsets. And in walks on the beach. Sometimes I think these people never leave the beach or the mountains, what with all the communing with God they do on hilltops, hiking trails and . . . did I mention the beach at sunset yet? Like people who go to church don't see God in the sunset! Like we are these monastic little hermits who never leave the church building… As if we don’t hear that in the psalms, the creation stories and throughout our deep tradition.

Being privately spiritual but not religious just doesn't interest me. There is nothing challenging about having deep thoughts all by oneself. What is interesting is doing this work in community, where other people might call you on stuff, or heaven forbid, disagree with you. Where life with God gets rich and provocative is when you dig deeply into a tradition that you did not invent all for yourself. Thank you for sharing, spiritual but not religious sunset person.

You are now comfortably in the norm for self-centered American culture, right smack in the bland majority of people who find ancient religions dull but find themselves uniquely fascinating… Can I spend my time talking to someone brave enough to encounter God in a real human community?  Because when this flight gets choppy, that's who I want by my side, holding my hand, saying a prayer and simply putting up with me, just like we try to do in church.’

When I left Elat Chayyim, I left with a rich experience that included studying with many wonderful teachers, practicing Jewish meditation and mantra chanting, learning about Jewish mysticism, and much more that has continued to inform my rabbinic work to this day.  I also encountered more stunning sunsets, and even some sunrises (but I’m not a morning person), than I can count.  But it was the learning that came from trying to figure out how to live with 6 extremely different individuals as a community that taught me the most.  And, in fact, after six months together we had to make space for about a dozen or so more individuals who came to work just for 8 weeks of the summer. 

We had to enlarge our community and, in making space for new individuals with different skills and different needs, we had to be willing to let go of some of the rhythms and assumptions that we had established over 6 months together as a smaller unit.  We talked for some weeks before the arrival of the summer interns to prepare ourselves to do this consciously and compassionately. 

We knew that there would be times when we would find it challenging.  Now, this was a unique kind of community – we didn’t just come together voluntarily as and when we felt like it.  We lived and worked together.  You could argue that we had a lot of self-interest at stake in making it work.  But is that the primary motivating factor for building community together?

We live in a world and, in our own country, at a time when it feels as though individualism and personal autonomy has become the new Idol at whose feet we worship.  If something doesn’t immediately seem personally meaningful or beneficial to me, then I’m not interested in it.  Some of the impact that this culture has had on our society at large is discussed in the 2010 book, The Narcissism Epidemic: Living in the Age of Entitlement, by Jean Twenge, and W. Keith Campbell. 

In their chapter on religion, they note that in a competing marketplace of religion where, according to a 2007 Pew Study, 44% of American adults change their religious affiliation during their lifetime, more people are selecting the religion that works for them – usually one that seems to offer the most benefits with the least pain.  Taken to an extreme, they cite the example of the religion of ‘Sheilaism’, discovered by Berkeley sociologists and reported in a book called ‘Habits of the Heart’ in the mid 1980s.  Practiced by a community of one, a woman called Sheila had created her own religion of rituals and beliefs which, she explained, at its core was ‘just try to love yourself and be gentle with yourself.’  No community conflict to deal with there.

The authors of ‘The Narcissism Epidemic’ go on to look at some of the evangelical mega-churches and the popular TV evangelists, many of whom promote Prosperity faith.  The authors compare a faith practice where God has expectations of you with religion that is promoted as a vehicle to fulfill your personal dreams.  “Many of today’s preachers say that God still doesn’t want you to sin, but He also wants you to have a big house”, the authors write.

I believe that many, many people want to be part of authentic community.  When I talk to people about what they seek at B’nai Israel, community is the no. 1 answer I receive.  Many of us are here because, in this world of ‘make your own way’ and ‘go it alone’ – a world that can feel so alienating and separating – we seek connections with others.  And a community that gathers around shared values and search for meaning and purpose that is at the core of faith and spirituality, has enormous potential to be our experimental ground for living in partnership with each other.
But signing up – the act of joining, of saying ‘I belong…’ is just the first step.  And we need to understand that Congregation B’nai Israel, or any other congregation, provides a vessel, a vehicle; it provides the infrastructure and some of the systems to enable us to do the work.  But only we can do the work. 

Community takes work – it requires each of us to engage, just as Rabbi Shapira explained in the Warsaw Ghetto, in our own individual spiritual practice, but to do so in the context of the group, banding together to support each other and to recognize that what we can do communally is so much larger and more significant than any individual self.

I believe that is why our work here together is so important.  Crucial, in fact, to the well-being of the larger society that we are a part of. 

When our teenagers give of their time to help younger children in our Religious school learn about and celebrate Judaism, we are doing the work of conscious community.

When our Young Families Chavurah comes to share Bagel Breakfast time with older members of our community on Shabbat morning, they highlight the way in which Jewish community praying together is for all ages… and we are doing the work of conscious community.

When teenagers and adults travel to Alabama to help a deeply Christian community rebuild their homes, we are doing the work of conscious community.

When members of our Caring Community deliver meals to someone who recently returned from the hospital, we are doing the work of conscious community.

When parents of our youth help them organize bottle recycling for our nursery school and Religious school, we are doing the work of conscious community.

When adult learners come together to learn Torah and find their world and their lives in this most ancient of texts, we are doing the work of conscious community.

When parents of young children come together on Sunday mornings for a Parent learning circle, so that they can talk about Jewish values and practices, and how to talk with their children about belief, good deeds, kind words, and more, we are doing the work of conscious community.

When we invite Christians and Muslims to join us at Interfaith events in the community, to get to know each other in genuine ways, we are doing the work of conscious community.

When we engage ourselves with the Thriving Jewish Community project because we recognize that Jewish life in our community at large will be enhanced by our collaboration with others, we are doing the work of conscious community.

When our board discusses how to remain responsible for the financial health of our congregation while also being welcoming and responsive to people with a wide range of means, we are doing the work of conscious community.

When we check in with each other, offering help and resources, after a hurricane has blown through our State, we are doing the work of conscious community.

When we show up at the home of someone during shiva so that they can share the stories of their loved one with another person, we are doing the work of conscious community.

When we don’t know the person who is standing next to us in the lobby before Shabbat services begin, and we take the time to ask and to learn something about them, we are doing the work of conscious community.

By recognizing that when we engage in the effort of creating community activities together – for our children, for our families, for the women, the men, the empty nesters, the retirees, to reach out and help others in Bridgeport, to reach out and help people in other places whether it be Alabama or Israel, New Orleans or Southern Sudan – we are experimenting and modeling what it means to make things happen as a union of human beings.  Individuals with different ideas, different means, different abilities, but yet united in a purpose that takes us beyond ourselves and creates meaningful living out of our efforts, we start to become, as Rabbi Shapira implored us, a conscious community. 

We begin with ourselves, but we do not end with ourselves.  We begin with our community – a community of faith, shared values, and purpose, but we do not end with our community.  We take the practices and experiences that we create together here, and extend them to the towns in which we live, the State, the Country, and even to the world in which we live.  But we can begin here.

There is much that we do here at B’nai Israel, but there is so much more we could do.  Many of us are engaged in the hard work of creating a spiritual, conscious community, but we need every single one of us to do this work.  Every single one of us is important and needed. 

As we enter a New Year, what will be your place in this community? 

What can you do to help us become more of what we aspire to be? 

What can you do to help us become more of what you think we can be?

Because we can’t get there without you.

The Climb (JESSI ALEXANDER, JON MABE; performed by Miley Cyrus)

I can almost see it
That dream I am dreaming
But there's a voice inside my head saying

"You'll never reach it"

Every step I'm taking
Every move I make feels
Lost with no direction
My faith is shaking

But I gotta keep trying
Gotta keep my head held high

There's always gonna be another mountain
I'm always gonna wanna make it move
Always gonna be a uphill battle
Sometimes I'm gonna have to lose

Ain't about how fast I get there
Ain't about what's waiting on the other side
It's the climb

On the opening evening of my Kitah Chet – Eighth grade class, my co-teachers and I rotate around small groups of our students, each of us asking them one question.  It’s a way to start to get to know them, and learn their names.  But more than that, the goal is to provide our students with a taste of the kind of inquiry that they can come to expect over the course of the year, in which we explicitly look for ways to draw on their own experiences and connect them to the themes of the curriculum we are teaching. 

One of the more obvious examples is the question our Israeli emissary asks each student – tell me something about Israel that you’ve either experienced or would like to know more about.  Later in the year, Rotem – one of our new emissaries this year - will have an opportunity to respond to their questions and share some of her Israel with them.

My question is about music.  I ask the students to share a song that contains a message that they think is an inspiring or important value for life, or expresses something that feels spiritual to them.  The two are often interrelated.  I ask, because when we take a few weeks to explore Personal Theology with them, we use a range of methods to help them articulate not only what they believe but the ways that their experiences in life can help them form their beliefs.  And contemporary music is one of the tools that we use to explore that.

While the range of songs they come up with is wide and varied – chart songs, songs from musicals, classics like Beatles songs, hip-hop, and rap, the themes that these songs express are much more limited.

One of the themes that I heard over and over this year is illustrated by the lyrics I opened with: The Climb, a hit for Miley Cyrus a few years ago.  Life has its ups and downs, you don’t always succeed, but you need to keep trying, over and over.  If you fail, don’t give up – you have to keep going.

I have to tell you, it felt good to hear our students share this message in a variety of ways.  They could choose any song and any value or message that they felt they could use in their lives, or felt inspiring to them.  And many of them chose this kind of message.  Now, perhaps you don’t find this so remarkable.  After all, isn’t the theme of poor/disadvantaged kid makes good a storyline theme since time immemorial? Isn’t that the Cinderella story? Isn’t that Karate Kid 1, 2 and 3? 

But beating the odds and eventually making good isn’t the message that I heard our eighth graders sharing with me.  It was recognizing that we sometimes fail, and that life is sometimes hard or difficult, but you have to keep trying and you have to keep going.  I didn’t hear any of them express the assumption or the expectation that it will all eventually work out great – even though, of course, that’s how we hope the story will go.  The message was one of resilience, determination, accepting failure and the downs and difficulties as a part of real life, and choosing how to respond.

If you read the New York Times magazine a few weeks ago (sept 18, 2011), it would be apparent that what I heard on Monday evening from some of our kids is not the norm.  The front cover was titled, ‘What if the secret to success is failure?’  Learning how to deal with failure, and not just giving up and walking away, the main article argued, may be a far better indicator of a student’s likely success in life and career in their long-term future than their I.Q. and test scores. 

Learning from our failures, being willing to own them, and the consequences that arise from them, is an indicator of resilience and, especially in the world we find ourselves in today, may be not only a valuable lesson but, looking at these lessons through the lens of Judaism, what we might call an important soul trait.

Being married to a music and drama teacher, I confess (and here is my opportunity to vent for a moment) my frustration when I hear that she has had to contend with situations where not everyone understands the valuable lessons that can be learned from failure.  For example, the parent phone call complaining that little Johnny didn’t get more lines in the school play.  This, I should add, is in productions where every child in the grade had to be given some part.  But there were still auditions to determine who would get the most significant roles.  What a terrible production it would be if the Director could only give out the most significant roles to everyone, over and over.  Of course, the parent calling doesn’t usually mind if another child gets a smaller part. 

But what about the lessons of humility?  What about learning where your strengths and weaknesses lie, or that competition is something to expect in life, or that every individual on a team is important – even the ones with the smaller parts.

Compare this to a parent who shared with me a few weeks ago that their child failed to get into a group that they tried out for.  But the truth was that the hard work to prepare for the try-outs hadn’t been done in advance.  It was hard, she shared, to see her child fail at something but, she reflected, it was also a very important life lesson.  She recognized that much came easy to her child, and the lessons learned from failure were best learned now so that this child would be better equipped to respond to those experiences that were bound to be part of life in the future too.

Learning from our failures.  We can draw on profound Jewish wisdom to help us understand the importance of these lessons more deeply.  There is an old saying, from the Yiddish that asks how should we define a tzadik?  Tzadik, from the same root as tzedek or tzedakah, literally means one who is righteous and just; it is usually used to describe someone who is wise and highly respected.  But the old Yiddish saying defines the tzadik as one who makes new mistakes.

It was the great Jewish philosopher and expounder, Maimonides, in the 13th century, who taught that the final stage of teshuvah – repenting for one’s mistakes – is that, would we find ourselves in the same situation again, we would not repeat that mistake.  Now, I know that a mistake is not the same as a failure. 

Failure can be the lack of a desired outcome, even when we did our very best and didn’t do anything wrong.  But the errors we make in life – errors of judgment, lack of effort, poorly chosen words, unethical choices … these are forms of failure.  To err is human, but our ability to pull ourselves back from harmful patterns of behavior, to reflect on what has gone wrong, and to choose our response when we are aware of our failures – this is a vital part of life’s journey.  And our Torah and traditions teach us that this is an important part of our spiritual journey too, as individuals and as a community of faith.

Take, for example, the story of our first great patriarch – Abraham.  His journey from his homeland – the land of his father to a new place that God will show him is not just a physical journey.  It represents the spiritual journey that takes him to a faith in one God, and a sense of purpose and meaning in life that is about establishing something that will go on long after his life is over.

Let’s take a look at how that story begins (in Genesis 12):

God said to Abram, ‘Go away from your land, from your birthplace, and from your father’s house, to the land that I will show you.  I will make you into a great nation.  I will bless you and make you great.  You shall be a blessing.  I will bless those who bless you, and curse those who curse you.  All the families of the earth shall be blessed through you.

Now, receiving a message like that could go to one’s head.  All these promises of greatness, and bountiful blessings – you’ve got to be something a bit special to warrant God’s attention in this way.  Was Abraham God’s golden boy? 

What’s interesting is what happens next in the story.  Abram, we are told, leaves just as God has commanded.  He stops near Beth El and builds an altar.  And then…
(12:10)

There was a famine in the land.  Abram headed south to Egypt to stay there for a while, since the famine had grown very severe in the land.  As they approached Egypt, he said to his wife, Sarai, ‘I realize that you are a good-looking woman.  When the Egyptians see you, they will assume that you are my wife and kill me, allowing you to live.  If you would, say that you are my sister.  They will be good to me for your sake, and through your efforts, my life will be spared.

You and I, the reader, know that whenever our ancestors had to go down to Egypt, things were bound to go pear-shaped. But doesn’t this strike you as a strange and rather sudden turn in the story?  Barely 4 verses earlier, God was promising Abram greatness and blessings.  What must Abram be thinking at this moment… famine, entering a land with customs and practices that put his very life at risk? And, of course, this is not the only time in Abram’s life that he will experience things not going as planned. 

The Mishnah, in Avot (5:3) tells us that Abraham experienced 10 testing times in his life.  A variety of commentaries offer different lists of what the ten are – some are drawn only from the Biblical text and some also include events from Abraham’s life that we only find in rabbinic midrash.

We see in these stories that, even in the midst of the very start of the spiritual journeys that led to the creation of our people and our faith tradition, failure and struggle are integral to that story. 

We may have a sense of mission, or a goal that we think we are aiming toward.  We may be infused initially with great enthusiasm about heading toward our goal.  But then life takes an unexpected turn.  Like the famine that sent Abram to Egypt, we are starved of the means to immediately get to our perceived destination.

This can be about life in general, but much more frequently it is about the specifics of our lives.  It might be about a new venture at work, or the implementation of a new strategy.  We may have some clarity of vision but, just a short while into the project, we come up against challenges – personnel, resources, bureaucracy… and we have to take a detour, or reassess.  Sometimes we can’t get to where we thought we were headed… at least, not at first.

We might have a vision of the kind of community we want to be part of.  Or the kind of family dynamics and relationships that we value.  But we don’t realize the kind of effort that is involved in realizing these visions.  We have unreasonable expectations of others, or a lack of patience for the timeframe involved, or a lack of willingness to take a close look at our role in the situation that is causing us frustration, and honestly evaluate our own failings and limitations.

The Mishnah about Abraham’s 10 tests tells us that they are there in the narrative so that we should learn how much Abraham loved God.  I’d like to reinterpret that language a little.  We have love prayers that are part of every Shabbat evening and morning service.  We declare in the V’ahavta – and you shall love the Eternal your God with all your heart, soul and might. 

The V’ahavta would seem to illustrate the ways we should love God through spiritual practice, sharing Jewish wisdom and values with our children, remembering to live by these values from the moment we wake up to the moment we lie down, in all of the things that we do.  Perhaps then, in other words, we love God when we strive to live according to our highest ideals and principals, doing our best, and walking the walk, not just talking the talk.

What happens when we fail?  What would keep us on this path of striving to live by such high ideals and ethics when we don’t always receive the reward of success and a life without challenge?  Don’t we sometimes have days, or years, when we find ourselves wondering what it’s all about, when we see others around us, who don’t appear to be better than us, succeeding where we are failing? Don’t we get tempted, like the school child who isn’t willing to accept the lessons of failure, to cheat?

‘Look!’, we are told by the Rabbis of old, ‘at our spiritual ancestor, Abraham’.  Not just one bad day, or one bad year, but 10 tests!  Famine, danger to his life, the inability to have a child, the sending away of a child, and the ultimate test that we read about in yesterday’s Torah reading.  Our spiritual life journey, even if we were the founding patriarch, does not teach us that a life of faith is a life of success.  It teaches us that a life of faith is a life of resilience.  A life in which we realize that we can gain wisdom from the downs as well as the ups of life.  Miley Cyrus sings it – it’s not about what’s waiting on the other side; it’s the climb.

Why does faith help us to understand this about life?  What does Judaism add to these lessons?  It provides us with narratives drawn from an ancient tradition in which we find these very human experiences.  But there is more to it.  Right before the Shema we find the words of Ahavat Olam in the evening and Ahavah Rabah in the morning service – Rabbi Rami Shapiro interpreted that prayer as ‘We are loved by an unending love.’  We used to say these words together as a community regularly on Friday nights when they were part of our Kabbalat Shabbat service booklet.

We are loved by an unending love.
We are embraced by arms that find us,
even when we are hidden from ourselves.
We are touched by fingers that soothe us,
even when we are too proud for soothing.
We are counseled by voices that guide us,
even when we are too embittered to hear.
We are loved by an unending love.

We are supported by hands that uplift us,
even in the midst of a fall.
We are urged on by eyes that meet us,
even when we are too weak for meeting.
We are loved by an unending love.

Embraced, touched, soothed, and counseled,
Ours are the arms, the fingers, the voices;
Ours are the hands, the eyes, the smiles;
We are loved by an unending love.”

The essence of the love of God goes both ways.  And when we are at our lowest place, and we don’t feel like striving or trying any longer, when we don’t feel like playing by the rules anymore because we are frustrated by our failures, when we don’t know if we have the strength to keep trying over and over again, our prayers remind us that there is a Greater Source of Strength that we can draw upon to help us to keep going.  We might be able to access that and draw upon it through prayer or inner reflection.  But we might, as Rami Shapiro interprets, realize that we can access it by acknowledging our own limitations, or our own mistakes, and by asking for help.

If we are the student in the classroom who didn’t make the try-outs, or didn’t get the scores we wanted in a test, there are teachers, friends, and parents who can help us practice or help us understand so that we might do better next time around.

If the project we were running at work hits a dead end, we can swallow our pride and reach out to a colleague who might be able to look at the problem with fresh eyes, or might be better at helping teams work together, and together we can achieve what couldn’t be achieved alone.

If, try as we might, we don’t seem to be able to free ourselves from a challenging situation, we can accept the support of friends and community, who can at least keep us company during the hard times so we don’t feel so alone, and who perhaps can help us find new ways out of our predicament.

The New York Times suggested on its magazine front cover that perhaps the key to success is failure.  If by ‘success’ we mean how much we progress up the career ladder, how much money we earn, how big a house we have, what exotic places we went on vacation, then I don’t think this is a lesson we want or need. 

But if, instead, by success we mean how we respond in times of challenge and need to each other, whether we reflect on our failures or mistakes with humility and self-awareness, whether we continue to strive to be a mensch even when life is getting us down, and whether we aspire to be what some of our Yiddish-speaking ancestors defined as the tzadik – one who makes new mistakes … if that is what success in this life looks like then, yes indeed, the key may lie in our failures, and the lessons and the resilience that arises from them.

Today, Yom Kippur, is a rehearsal for the day that we die.  Traditionally, Jews would fast from food, drink, sex, washing and wearing leather as a way to detach ourselves from the physical body, and experience the nakedness of our existence without distraction. It is the custom to wear the clothes that you will be buried in which, traditionally, would be a simple, white kittel; hence, some Jews wear white on Yom Kippur. Rabbi Shefa Gold teaches,

"For the whole day of Yom Kippur, we act as if it is our last day, our only day to face the Truth, forgive ourselves and each other, remember who we are and why we were born. Yom Kippur reminds us that we are all dying. There is no time for regret, worry, fear, no time to put off facing the truth, or to delay thanking our beloveds. On Yom Kippur each moment takes on an urgency. We walk through most days only half-alive. Yom Kippur, like every real encounter with Death, urges us into the fullness of living."

If we actually engage in the spiritual work of this day, we may emerge after the final shofar blow this evening as if reborn.  We leave this place being newly reminded that each moment is precious.   And that the next moment is not guaranteed.  It may not come. 

"Studies have shown that faith helps Americans fear death less.  But believing in heaven doesn’t protect you from the intensities of grief.  To contemplate death in any serious way, even as a believer, is to wonder what change death wreaks upon us."

These words from ‘The Long Goodbye’, by Meghan O’Rourke.  This book – a memoir of one woman’s journey through the last year of her mother’s life – a mother who died too young at age 55 from cancer, and the grief that followed, will be our guide this morning.  As Meghan, who is not Jewish and grew up with no religious upbringing, reflects on what caused her to write this book, she says,

"… As grief has been framed as a psychological process, it has also become a more private one.  The rituals of public mourning that once helped channel a person’s experience of loss have, by and large, fallen away.  Many Americans don’t wear black or beat their chests and wail in front of others.  We may – I have done it – weep or despair, but we tend to do it alone, in the middle of the night.  Although we have become more open about everything …, grief remains strangely taboo.  In our culture of display, the sadness of death is largely silent. 

After my mother’s death, I felt the lack of rituals to shape and support my loss.  I was not prepared for how hard I would find it to reenter the slipstream of contemporary life, the sphere of constant connectivity, a world ill suited to reflection and daydreaming.  I found myself envying my Jewish friends the practice of saying Kaddish, with its ceremonious designation of time each day devoted to remember the lost person.  As I drifted through the hours, I wondered: What does it mean to grieve when we have so few rituals for observing and externalizing loss? What is grief?"

With the help of Meghan’s powerful memoir, and the wisdom of Judaism that can provide some response to the experience she lays bare, we will explore what it might really mean to engage deeply with Yom Kippur as a rehearsal for death and, along the way, be reminded of how we as individuals and as a community, can find guidance in our faith tradition when loss enters our lives and we are mourning our loved ones.

I am taking us, I know, into difficult and emotionally charged territory.  I do not do so lightly. Our Jewish faith offers us ritual vehicles that are tremendously powerful; this day can be transformative.  But only if we are willing to engage – really engage.  This is not an easy day, and this is not an easy topic.  In facing death, we engage in the meaning of life.  If we are not willing to do this work on Yom Kippur, then when?

Rabbi Shefa Gold writes about those that she has accompanied as a chaplain through their final months or weeks in hospice.  She identifies some of the important things that can guide us in the spiritual work that this powerful day invites to us to consider:

• Saying, "I'm sorry."
  
• Forgiving.
  
• Saying, "I love you."
  
• Acknowledging self-worth
  
• Saying, "Good-bye."
  
• Stepping courageously into the Unknown.

Step 1:  Saying ‘I’m sorry’:

We all know that these High Holydays are the time when we are meant to seek forgiveness from those that we have wronged or hurt.  We think about it, but do we actually do it?  If you are anything like me, some of the things that float up in my consciousness first are the interactions where it is very easy for me to tell the story in a way that justifies my behavior, or brings up my anger and frustration at something that the other person did or did not do.  It’s human.  It’s natural.  But Yom Kippur asks us to find a way beyond these base instincts to access our higher spiritual selves.

I am always saddened when I hear stories of family members who have not spoken for years, because of an ability to find their way past their story of what went wrong.  Parents, children, siblings, or old friends who are now distant.  For those who manage to take the step to reach out and say ‘I’m sorry’, there is often regret that precious time was lost.  But this, at least, is almost always more healing than the case of a person in grief, finding that their protagonist is now deceased and it is too late to heal the rift.

In her memoir, Meghan O’Rourke tells a story about her fright as a young child in the family’s holiday home in Vermont.  At night she was convinced that she saw something flying in her room.  Her mother did not believe her at first.  It turned out that there was a bat living in the attic and it was flying around her room at night. 
Eventually her father trapped it and removed it.  Now, many years later, in her mother’s final year, she writes:

"I mention the story because after I got home one night, I was talking to my father in the kitchen, my mother came creeping down the stairs in her pajamas. “Meg!” she said, and shuffled over to me.  She hugged me and said, ‘I’m so glad you’re home Meg,’ She began to cry.  ‘It just makes me happy to see your face.’

‘I’m glad to be home, Mom,’ I said.

‘No, I’m just so glad’ she repeated, as if there were something I hadn’t understood, holding me close.  Then she pulled back and looked at me. 

‘I can’t believe that when you were a kid we told you the bat in the attic was a bird.  I can’t believe we made you sleep with the bat.  What were we thinking? She said, and she started laughing and crying, wiping the tears from her eyes. ‘I was such a bad mother.’ 

She was warm in her soft aquamarine nightshirt.  I heard the mournful croak of the frogs outside and suddenly we were close again.  This is how we apologized to each other, and first acknowledged that she was probably going to die."

Earlier this week I saw a poster image doing the rounds on Facebook.  It read:
Apologizing does not always mean that you’re wrong and the other person is right.  It just means that you value your relationship more than your ego.

Step 2: Forgiving

Another of these online quotes from this past week stated: "Atonement happens in your head.  Forgiveness happens in your heart. Work on both and begin the year with a sense of lightness, freedom and wholeness."

The Yom Kippur liturgy is filled with opportunities for personal and communal confession.  They are part of a ritual called Vidui.  But the Vidui ritual is not just about atoning.  It begins with a declaration:

"I hereby forgive all who have hurt me, all who have wronged me, whether deliberately or inadvertently, whether by word or by deed.  May no one be punished on my account."

These are not ‘Yom Kippur’ words.  They are part of the liturgy on this sacred day because they are traditionally recited, if able, on one’s death bed as the final vidui. To be able to face the end with a sense of lightness, freedom and wholeness.  To truly let go – to forgive (not to condone, not to excuse, but truly letting go) is central to the Jewish ritual of preparing for death – that there should be no unfinished business.  So that we can be at peace when our time arrives.

Step 3: Saying ‘I love you’

Meghan O’Rourke writes of her last year with her mother:

"… I grew to love her in ways I never had.  Some of the new intimacy came from finding myself in a caretaking role where, before, I had been the one taken care of.  But much of it came from being forced into openness by our sense that time was passing.  Every time we had a cup of coffee together (when she was well enough to drink coffee), I thought, against my will: This could be the last time I have coffee with my mother."

You know those heart-wrenching stories you hear about people who die in tragic circumstances?  For those left in a state of grief, you sometimes hear ‘… and the last thing I said to them was …’  It might have been as they left the house that morning.  Or before they hung up the phone.  When those last words were harsh or critical, the mourner’s pain is especially intense.  We wish we could reverse time – a do-over, a chance to say what we really feel.  If we’d known it would be the last time, we’d have said the things that really mattered.

Jewish tradition encourages each of us to consider the final message we might wish to leave for our loved ones.  An ethical will is an expression of love.  At a recent funeral held here in this very sanctuary, our beloved member, David Goby, gave such a gift to his family.  His daughter shared ‘David’s list’ as part of her eulogy. 
Following this service, Ira Wise will share that list in our Adult Yom Kippur study opportunity, so that we can spend some of this sacred day focusing on the legacies that we might wish to express, and the love that we want to ensure that family and friends know that we have for them.

Step 4: Acknowledging self-worth

Kahlil Gibran said, "You would know the secret of Death, but how shall you find it unless you seek it in the heart of Life?"

When someone knows that they have a terminal condition, or at least the awareness that they are facing something life-threatening, it can propel them to review the life they are living.  They hold on to what is precious and unique.  Sometimes they reassess priorities and make deliberate changes to how they are using the precious hours, days, and months ahead.  But the power of Yom Kippur is that it is a plea that we should not wait until the reality of our mortality and vulnerability is writ large in our life.

Step 5: Saying ‘Goodbye’

O’Rourke writes of the day, toward the end, that her mother’s sisters and her mother’s mother, came to visit at the hospital:

"She grew quiet.  ‘It was hard to say goodbye to them’ She paused and stared at her hands.  She had begun to have a pronounced inward quality, a withdrawn beauty, as if she were already on her way to another world.  ‘But not the way you’d think.’

Then she looked at me and said, ‘It’s good to have time to contemplate the end of your life.  I mean, when else do you do it? When do you really think about death?’  ‘It is good?’ I asked, as I rubbed lotion into her cracked soles.

‘It’s not what I would have thought,’ she said.  ‘I’m not afraid.  I feel I will still be here.’  Then she began to talk about what she wanted in her last days."

The Torah portion which recounts the death of our first matriarch – mother of B’nai Yisrael – is called Chayyei Sarah.  This means the life of Sarah.  It is at the point of goodbyes – at the moment when we are ready to let go – that we might be able to recognize the totality, the blessings, and the gifts of the life that we have lived.  If Yom Kippur is a rehearsal for the day of death, it is not just a day for chest-beating and declarations of sins.  It is a day to reflect on the essence of our lives, recognize and acknowledge the blessings and the gifts.  If tomorrow did not come, could we say goodbye in a state of grace?

But death is also, as we who have mourned loved ones know, a time of grief and a time of loss.  There is no way around this reality.  What do we do when someone dies?  In Jewish tradition we have a system of rituals that provide a vessel into which we pour our grief and experience of loss.  Many of us don’t realize the power of these rituals and this vessel.  How could we?  We don’t get to try them out until we need them.  Meghan O’Rourke writes about an experience without them:

We had no rules about what to do right after my mother died; in fact we were clueless –

‘What do we do now?’

‘Call the nurse.’

‘The nurse says to stay here.’

And so we sat with my mother’s body, holding her hands.  I kept touching the skin on her face, which was rubbery but still hers, feeling morbid as I did it, but feeling, too, that it was strange that I should think so.  This was my mother.  In the old days, didn’t the bereaved wash the body as they said their goodbyes? I was ransacking the moment for understanding…

My mother was cremated, and so we didn’t have a proper funeral for her.  At first my father didn’t want to have any kind of funeral – just a memorial service, perhaps a month or two down the road.

‘But she died,’ I said.

‘I’m really exhausted, Meg,’ he said, looking drained. ‘I don’t want to have to organize something and clean the house.’ I remonstrated with him and he said, ‘I’m tired, ‘ and went upstairs.

This resistance seemed bizarre to me.  My mother had just died.  And we weren’t going to have a funeral for her because we were tired? …  A few minutes later my father came back downstairs.

‘You’re right,’ he said.  We should do this.  It makes me anxious, but I’ll be OK.’ I reminded him that we were the bereaved.  We didn’t have to provide the food.  Someone would help us with it. 

And three days after my mother died, we gathered in our living room around pictures of her as a young mother – and said our goodbyes… and afterward, we all ate and drank and shared more stories of her life.

Instinctively, what Meghan and her family created as their vessel has been part and parcel of our tradition for centuries.  It is traditional for the body of the deceased in Judaism to be ritually washed, and it was once common for this to be done by members of the community who knew the deceased.  Traditional Jewish communities still provide this service, known as the chevrah kadisha – literally a ‘holy fellowship.’  More and more progressive communities are now re-embracing this powerful ritual, and our new colleague at Rodeph Shalom, Rabbi Daniel Victor, recently raised the possibility of us creating one again in our local community.

The funeral itself is a ritual vessel into which we pour our eulogies – the way that we begin to share memories and tell stories.  And the days of shiva at the home offer a ritualized way to grieve not in private, but in the context of community.  As community we do not need to know the deceased, or even know the bereaved.  Our duty is only to be the vessel – the people who help the mourner say kaddish, and who provide an audience as the mourner talks about the photos on the shelves, and the loved one that they are now missing so very much.  When we do not avail ourselves of these powerful ritual vessels, or when we do not recognize our obligations to each other as community to offer ourselves as part of these vessels, we may find ourselves, like O’Rourke’s family, trying desperately to find something to hold on to; something into which we can place our grieving.

A year after her mother’s death, Meghan’s family gathered to scatter her ashes.  Something instinctive about the turning of a full calendar year brought them together in another ritual moment.  In Judaism, this is the yarzheit.  While we can do it sooner, many use this time for an unveiling of a headstone for a loved one who was buried in a cemetery.  O’Rourke reflects:

"When memories you haven’t thought of since the death first come up, they hurt.  But I kept finding that it hurt less to remember things a second time.  I think this is why people always say that it gets better after a year – even though after a year you’re not done with mourning, you have cycled through the seasons, through holidays, family rituals, living through them for the first time without the person who’s gone...Of course, certain memories remain particularly vivid – whenever I remember them they feel like razor icicles, burning my mind…. My mother is not now.  But she was, and she is now, in the minds of those who remember her: her smile, her voice, her little intonations, her smell – all in us."

So a year has passed. Meghan’s father looks back on the rituals his family created together:

"You know, the Egyptians thought there were two kinds of time, one linear and one cyclical, one ritualistic, one everyday.  After a death, everyday time easily returns to take over and rule your life. 

It’s one of the reasons they had so many rituals, I’m now realizing, to deal with the dead – it was to push back everyday time and make space for contemplation of the cosmic.  When you do something like this, you step outside of everyday time for a moment, and that’s good."

Step 6: Stepping courageously into the unknown

What will be different this year?  This year, if we take the gift of today to walk through the steps of rehearsing death, how might we be transformed?  At Neilah, when the gates close and the final shofar blast is heard, how might we be reborn into life renewed?

I leave the last words to Steve Jobs, may he rest in peace, co-founder of Apple Computers, who died this past Wednesday, following 8 years living with cancer.  He shared these thoughts with the graduating class of Stanford University in 2005:

When I was 17, I read a quote that went something like: "If you live each day as if it was your last, someday you'll most certainly be right." It made an impression on me, and since then, for the past 33 years, I have looked in the mirror every morning and asked myself: "If today were the last day of my life, would I want to do what I am about to do today?" And whenever the answer has been "No" for too many days in a row, I know I need to change something.

Remembering that I'll be dead soon is the most important tool I've ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life. Because almost everything — all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure - these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important. Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose.

No one wants to die. Even people who want to go to heaven don't want to die to get there. And yet death is the destination we all share. No one has ever escaped it. And that is as it should be, because Death is very likely the single best invention of Life. It is Life's change agent.