High Holy Day Sermons 5773/2012

Mispachtology
Rabbi James Prosnit dddd Erev Rosh Hashanah 5773

It’s good to see that the delegates to this annual gathering of the JNC – the Jewish National Convention are arriving.  Tomorrow and during the next ten days we’ll continue to assemble on mass and it is my sincere hope that you will be positively drawn to the platform that is before us.    Ours of course is an annual event – we don’t have to wait four years to hear the speeches; anticipate the nominating rituals.   There will be no formal roll call, but presence says a lot and your being here is one that I will take as a vote of affirmation. 

We have some new delegates with us tonight and this week and we certainly welcome them.  And like every year we look around and note that some familiar faces are not here; there place is empty.  Whether they have moved away, slipped away or passed away – in every case we miss them.   Rabbi David Hartman uses the word mispachtology, the study of the family, to describe the gathering of the Jewish people.  A collective united by a prisms worth of faith, culture, ethnicity and habits. 

He writes, “How a family lives together eats together, mourns and celebrates together is what creates the spiritual dynamicism that is the essence of Judaism.”1

In my sermons during these Holy Days, I plan to talk about culture, faith and habits — all in an effort to help us understand that mishpachtology;  that special quality that draws us near and inspires us to take part.    Of course over the years our definition of the classic Jewish family has changed.  This synagogue, most synagogues are far less homogeneous than they were a generation ago.

Today we come in all sizes and colors.  We’re made up of people born of two, one or no Jewish parents. To those who hold an ancestral connection where both genes and deeply rooted stories provide indelible ties, we’ve added those who have recently linked themselves to the Jewish people by dint of study, rite and ritual.  Abraham and Sarah have become your adopted parents and while always linked in love to the people who gave you life, you are now linked in faith to a four thousand year old tradition. 

And today we’ve learned to consider those who have fallen in love with a Jew as part of the family as well.  Our Vice president Shari Nerreau taught me and quite a number of rabbinic students who we met in Cincinnati when we were interviewing soon to be ordained rabbis that while she may have an interfaith marriage she has a very Jewish family.  We are blessed by the non Jews among us who support and sustain this congregation, who regularly schlep children to religious school and who are very much part of the convention this day.

Of course to those who came to Judaism later in life and those who are here with their Jewish partners there are aspects of our strong culture and religious identity that are sometimes difficult to figure out. Judaism is that strange mix of birth community and faith community.  As a religion we know that people can choose to believe or choose to abandon the beliefs.  As an ethnicity it’s harder for a new comer to be accepted or for a member of the tribe to slip away.   If we are a faith group why do the Mets include in their promotions to fill a less than full ball park, Jewish night.  How interesting that there’s no Catholic night or Episcopalian night or Islam night – for the Mets management, Jews are to be linked with other ethnic and national groups —  Irish, Italians Latinos.

My rabbi of blessed memory Jack Stern, told the story of sitting next to a man on an airplane who had been born in London of an Indian father and a Portuguese mother who was Catholic by religion.  He was married to a Jewish woman from Milwaukee whose family in his words was “very Jewish.”  When he learned that Jack was a rabbi (information that I by the way am very reluctant to give up on a long flight, at those times it’s easier just to say teacher) the man asked if Rabbi Stern couldn’t help him understand his wife a little better because as he perceived her, her being Jewish appeared to be more important to her and her family than being American. Rabbi Stern answered by describing that unique blend among Jews of ethnic identity and a strong sense of responsibility to preserve the ancient covenant with God.2

During confirmation class from time to time Ira Wise and I have had the classic conversation with our tenth graders as to whether they see themselves as American Jews or Jewish Americans.  Which is the noun and which is the adjective we ask?  And I’m always surprised that some, by no means all or even most, but some still have that sense of being American Jews – something that I thought might have dissipated over the years.

Now don’t get me wrong as JNC delegates we are unbelievably proud of this country. When Marco Rubio and Julian Castro tell stories of their immigrant parents and grandparents we can relate and we pray that the dream that drew our ancestors a century or so ago is still alive for those who have come in more recent years.  Like no place else America has been good for the Jews, but we also state proudly that in countless ways Jews have enriched the life of this country.

And what is it that we’ve done.

We’ve pushed for rights for all minorities.  We advocated for democratic ideals (small d) and we’ve insisted that one can integrate loyally into the American body while keeping ones religious and cultural heritage intact.  While many of our ancestors may have dropped their t’fillin and yarmulkes into New York Harbor and most no one passed their language on to their children – they kept their group focus and their communal pride.  And because they did and we are their descendents we have inherited a powerful blessing.  Precisely because we are part of a more limited family group we know we make a difference.  If you are part of an enormous human mass, you believe your impact is lessened.  We matter, we feel and we become determined to act precisely because we are part of something small, more unique, with a message.

And it’s interesting that as part of a particular people we learn to care about individuals other than ourselves. As such we extend that empathy and reach out to others who are not part of our group.  Small wonder so many Jews were at the lead in the struggles of labor and in civil rights battles, in the woman’s movement and in the quest for marriage and other equality for lesbians and gays.  It’s part of our collective DNA.  The sense of obligation to others stems from first learning an obligation to one’s own family, community and people.  It is due to our particularness that we can contribute to the universal.  It is because of our particularness that we learn to tolerate the views of others.  Rabbi Daniel Gordis writes, “Ironically the desire to suppress the other’s view, the need to destroy its voice and to eliminate all differences is the result not of a world built on a variety of different cultures, but precisely the opposite; a world in which people can claim that there is only one truth.” 3

This summer Wendy and I went to Philadelphia and visited the new museum of American Jewish History, situated right off of the independence mall directly across from the Liberty Bell.  Both the location and the content of the museum provide testimony to the achievements of our people.  In so many spheres our contributions belie our numbers.  In science and art; music and film, politics and literature it is astounding the lasting impact.

If we did a search of Jewish obituaries of those who died in recent months – look who we’d come up with.  Mike Wallace, Vidal Sassoon, Maurice Sendak, Marvin Hamlisch, Nora Ephron. Some became cultural icons –and some lesser known but highly influential figures in the collective culture.  -- and some very tragic deaths of some younger talents Beastie Boy singer Adam Yauch and NPR and this American life correspondent David Rakoff.

None of these figures was particularly steeped in yiddishkeit or actively engaged in Jewish Religious life.  Adam Yauch was actually one of a generation of Jewish seekers who found a spiritual home in Buddhism rather than the Judaism of his birth.  But always an interesting question for me to grapple with is a twist on the question I ask the confirmands – were these Jewish artists or were they artists who just by chance happened to be Jews.  Was there something about their being born Jewish that propelled their creativity and underpinned even their largely secular world. 

It’s the question that Professor Philip Eliasoph asks his students at Fairfield U: Is there such a thing as Jewish art?  Sure you’d put Chagall’s work or Chaim Soutine’s paintings into a Jewish museum – but what about the work of Modigliani or Lucian Freud, of Mark Rothko or Richard Serra. (Serra'sThe Matter of Time at the Guggenheim Museum Bilbao is at right.)

Is there something in the Jewish soul that leads these non-practicing Jews to paint and sculpt Jewishly.  Is abstract art attractive and advanced by Jews because we were banned from making graven images.  Is icon breaking art part of the DNA of those descended from Abraham who’s break with idols we will talk about tomorrow. And is our long experience of exile something that also inspires the Jewish painter’s soul and affirms that according to British art critic David Sylvester, “art has no business to exist if it does not speak to the onlooker of the miseries and occasional triumphs of human existence.” Something I suspect we Jews know a lot about.4

Is it why some the funniest people around are Jews; contemporary comedians as well as tellers of some well worn stories and jokes that have been around a long time.  Who could imagine that in 2012 there would be a popular Off-Broadway play and web site about Old Jews Telling Jokes! I hope it not offensive to anyone if I suggest a play about old Episcopalians telling jokes, would probably not have a long run on Broadway.  While the scope of Jewish humor is as broad as Jewish art there is something that goes deep into the fabric of the Jewish experience – whether it’s laughter beneath the tears or a way to cope with the hostility that surrounded us.

Psychoanalyst Martin Grotjahn put it “an essential feature of the truly Jewish joke is aggression against the self …. You do not need to attack us.  We can do this ourselves and even better”.  Jewish humor is an extension of the Jewish mind – highly self critical and very willing to search for evidence of the storm beneath the surface tranquility of everyday life.5

There is of course that unique pride we feel when Jews achieve.  When Paul McCartney marries another Jew or Ally Reisman wins a gold medal while flipping and tumbling to hava nagila.  And conversely when a Jew fails or cheats and is publically exposed we feel it personally. Not because today we fear such falls from grace will fuel anti-Semitism (several generations ago that would have been more true), but today we just think – that’s not the Jewish way. 

Albert Einstein arguably was the most famous Jew of the 20th century.  “The world’s first scientific celebrity, a gentle icon of humanistic values and a living patron saint for Jews”, according to his biographer Walter Isaacson.  Near the end of his life, in 1955 he stated, “My relationship to the Jewish people has become my strongest human tie.”  And in his book the World As I see It, Einstein wrote “the pursuit of knowledge for its own sake, an almost fanatical love of justice and the desire for personal independence  --these are the features of the Jewish tradition which make me thank my star that I belong to it.”6

Clearly there was no religious motivation to his Jewish identity. He refused to be a dues-paying member of any specific religious community – but he understood that the culture emanating from the broad group identity combined with a shared religious belief was a powerful force in his personal story.

As we gather tonight and throughout this season I hope we can be keenly aware of the power and gift of that story. The collective one and the individual one that we carry in our hearts and souls. The inner identity that like a swallow returning to Capistrano draws us to this sacred place at this holy time of year. We don’t know why we do it – but we do.  And the more rational one that gets the message of return and repentance and the annual gift that these days provide in opening up a new year of increased possibility for growth and goodness.

Of course as we look out tonight, tomorrow and throughout these days from our perch at the convention there will be one significant question that lingers.  Will our children and grandchildren show up and vote.  The identity of which I’ve been speaking, may not translate to the generation that will need to carry it forward?  Today, ethnicity is no longer as binding.  We are not living in neighborhoods of ostensible Jewish character. Memory of the Holocaust is fading. Nostalgic recollections of the “old country” are so over. Our tribal DNA is changing.  The tide is changing.  But my prayer is that the enduring message of Judaism and the pride we feel for the Jewish people remains vibrant and can be passed forward.

No, this is not a partisan convention.  But as I was working on this sermon I took a break to watch the mayor of San Antonio, Julian Castro give the keynote speech to the Democrats in Charlotte.  He had one line that I especially loved.  He said, “In the end, the American dream is not a sprint, or even a marathon, but a relay.”  I thought what a great way to describe the mispachtology of the Jewish people. Our hope has long been to grab hold of a sacred tradition, to add our mark to it, adapt it a bit so it makes sense for the times in which we live and then to pass it along for the next generation.  Like the conventions of the past few weeks we the party base, the faithful, take delight in the possibilities that await us for this New Year and for years and years to come. 

Responding to the Voice
Rabbi James Prosnit dddd Rosh Hashanah Morning 5773

If God spoke to Abraham, to Isaac and Jacob, to Moses and Aaron and to those prophets of old, some of us ask, “Why doesn’t God speak to me?”  Perhaps the bigger concern is –what if God did speak to me?  For today many either ridicule or fear those who profess hearing God’s voice. If I spoke assuredly this morning of some mountain top revelation that I had received this summer or divulged details of an intimate conversation that I had with the Divine, I dare say many of you, not the least of whom would be my wife, would have a lot to talk about this afternoon at Rosh Hashanah lunch.

The irony is that many of us yearn to hear God’s voice and want desperately to feel God directly in our lives, but we fear the encounter, because we don’t want to be perceived as a fanatic or as nuts.

That’s why I like to say I hear God’s voice in the sacred stories of Torah.  It’s safer.  I have from time to time repeated my belief that God speaks to me when I study. I speak to God when I pray.  It’s a pretty good system.  I recommend it to you all.

Of course some of the stories we study are not so easy to digest. Like the one we read a few minutes ago.  The Akedah, the binding of Isaac, presents the most challenging view of Divine communications and subsequent interpretation. “Take your son your favored one, Isaac the one you love – and offer him up on the mountain that I will show you.” (Gen.22:2) And Abraham as we read, eagerly complies.  It takes three days for him to get to the mountain, so this is not some spur of the moment action that he may later regret; he has considerable time to reflect on what he is about to do.

In Torah study we noted that his behavior seems at odds with the Abraham we witnessed a few chapters earlier.  There in the story of Sodom and Gomorrah, God looks down and sees the lawlessness of those cities and resolves to destroy them, innocent along with the guilty.  But fascinatingly, God seems to wonder aloud, “Shall I hide from Abraham what I am about to do?” (Gen. 18:17)   Rashi the famous medieval commentator brings in a midrash and elaborates on this question.  “Before Abraham, I was the God of the world, says God.  After Abraham, he’s the God of the earth and I’m the God of the heavens.’’

With this covenant, God cannot act without asking permission from Abraham.  God empowers Abraham, read humanity, to assume responsibility in earthly affairs.  And what does Abraham do?  With a significant display of chutzpah, he challenges, “Shall not the God of all the world deal justly?”  (Gen. 18:25) Abraham demands from God not only justice, but also compassion.  A God who would destroy the righteous would be unjust; a God who would punish an entire city would lack compassion. 1

We the reader, left with these two stories almost side by side, confront the question –what’s up with Abraham?   He’s quick to bargain with God and plead on behalf of strangers in a foreign city, most all of whom are corrupt and evil – and he’s quick with the knife – a loyal obedient servant unquestioning when it comes to his own son.

How we may wonder do we hear God’s voice in these two stories.  How do we reconcile them to each other? To ourselves?

I suspect that to the majority of us liberal, reform Jews it is the message of Abraham at Sodom and Gomorrah to which we resonate the most. We like human - divine partnership and a commitment to social justice.  I dare say we find it easier to warm up to a God who expects us to get involved, to stand up to power and to make a difference in this world.

Tangent #1
In the past year or so I have become a Facebook user.  I admit I am not a regular poster and weeks can go by without my checking my wall. But I do enjoy from time to time seeing the photos of some of you and your children ­­and its nice to have reconnected, albeit tangentially, with a few old camp and college friends.  But I’ve also noted the ubiquitous use of the “like” button. 

For those uninitiated when someone posts a video of a cat or a photo of a beach sunset or provides a link to an article they found so worthwhile they just have to share it with all their friends --  you can hit a little button and tell your friend that you like what he or she has put up on line. 

But there’s a problem.  It’s so easy to like something, you don’t have to write a response, you don’t have to do anything, just click a button. When it comes to liking someone’s cause or someone’s passionate stance on a political issue, I don’t really have to get involved – all I have to do is say - like.  It gives me such an easy way out. 

So and so just swam across the sound to support cancer research. Like!

Rabbi Schultz is running the NYC marathon to support American Jewish World Service – I can just tell him I like it, I don’t have to contribute a penny or a run alongside. 

Occupy Wall Street!  I sure don’t want to camp out down there, but I’m glad a few of the 99% are taking this protest thing seriously. Like!

So and so is working for a particular candidate in New Hampshire.  Good for her! I like that!

Abraham bargaining with God to save the righteous of the city -- Like!    

No, if this Abraham is our model we need to do more than push a button on the computer.   If the God of Abraham is going to speak to us we had better be prepared to speak truth to power as father Abraham did.  We had best actively engage in a cause in which we believe.  Too often we squander the power we have and silence the Divine voice within.  I imagine God is saying to Abraham, “I love you for challenging, Me.  I want to hear you challenge Me more.  Don’t give in too quickly.”2

Now, I well understand that some who have different political frames of reference can claim to hear a different divine message when it comes to any particular issue. 

But for me, God’s voice is heard in the work of the Israeli Religious Action Center when it speaks up for religious pluralism or advocates on behalf of women being told they can’t carry a torah or must ride in the back of the bus. 

It’s in the voices of Jews that rise up when Arabs are targeted and discriminated against by Israeli extremists and it’s in the Muslim voices of tolerance and broadmindedness that we hear in local gatherings of Bridgeport Tent of Abraham, but find so frighteningly absent in other parts of the Muslim world especially as we witnessed this past week.

It’s the voice that drives me in my work to stem the idolatrous gun culture that pervades our society – or to challenge the societal indifference that leaves too many with substandard or no housing. 

In good liberal fashion – the voice I hear is passionate, but not fanatic; fervent but not zealous. This is the covenant I like; for me it is my understanding of a Jewish God. And it is the God who calls to Abraham at Sodom and Gomorrah.

But wait a second.  There are two text before us – although I might like to, I can’t just ignore the voice that calls out to Abraham in the Akedah. The Bible presents both stories on equal footing. The test we read about earlier portrays a Jewish view of God as well.  In this context to respond to the voice,  is not to protest but to submit.  The religious adherent surrenders to God’s will without argument. Obedience is endorsed and the passive acceptance of Abraham holds sway.

To help me understand this I was fascinated by an article I read recently by Rabbi David Hartman, a highly regarded Orthodox rabbi and professor emeritus at Hebrew University.

Hartman maintains that the “Akedah is not constitutive of Judaism.  It is a moment in a religious life, but it is just that: a moment.  It is not the organizing framework for how to live.”3

What the Akedah represents is that the world is not always intelligible.  Sometimes even empowered people feel overwhelmed. There are going to be moments in which the tragic dimension of life hits you.  Are you able to sustain your faith in moments of the incomprehensible?  This is the Akedah, he writes, “when we have to learn to live with tragedy and uncertainty as well as with rationality and predictability.”4

Hartman says, “….for me the Akedah is the moment when we say Kaddish.  At the very time when we feel that life has lost its meaning, we affirm our commitment to stay in the covenant.  Yitgaadal. veyitkadash shemei raba.  Kaddish means, I’m not leaving because of a tragic moment.   The most authentic religious reality is not lived through tragedy, though tragedy is inescapable… The Akedah reminds us that at some point in our lives, we all must face the dark night of the soul – but that we do not permit that darkness to eclipse our commitment of life.”5

Tangent 2.
A barracks at Auschwitz , described  in Elie Wiesel’s play the Trial of God.   There, with the young boy as the only witness, three great Jewish scholars-masters of Talmud, Halakhah, and Jewish jurisprudence-put God on trial, creating, in that eerie place, a rabbinic court of law to indict the Almighty. The trial lasted several nights. Witnesses were heard, evidence was gathered, conclusions were drawn, all of which issued finally in a unanimous verdict: the Lord God Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth, was found guilty of crimes against creation, humankind and the Jewish people. And then, after what Wiesel describes as an “infinity of silence,” the Talmudic scholar looked at the sky and said “It’s time for our evening prayers,” and the members of the tribunal recited the evening service.

As Jews, as contemporary Jews especially, we struggle mightily with our relationship to the God who was silent at Auschwitz and the God who put Abraham to the test on Mount Moriah, but most of us maintain our hope and our belief and carry on.  Rather than being disturbed by Abraham’s faith we should be inspired by it. Because when we look around the congregation we know that many have been put to the test. 

Storm clouds at various points throughout the year have affected many –literally and figuratively.  A divorce tears not only a ketubah, but foundations on which a partner has long stood. Parents struggle to support a child whose special needs can be overwhelming. Unemployment causes not only economic difficulties but raises questions of self-worth. A recent diagnosis makes someone take special note when we read, “who shall live and who shall die.” 

The Akedah means we acknowledge –and allow a place for resignation as a moment in the spiritual life.  But only a moment.  As Hartman suggested it is not constitutive of Jewish belief. Soon after our faith is tested, like Abraham we learn to descend or climb the mountain –moving forward even when the incomprehensible is part of our reality. We continue living as best we can.

This summer we spent some time with a colleague and his wife in California. He had recently retired from a position that he had held for many years.  In June there was to be a huge community wide celebration to honor him for his years of service and his many significant contributions.  The night before the gala he received a diagnosis from his physician that he had a life threatening rare form of Leukemia.  He sat through the wonderful celebration that had been planned for him and no one other than his wife knew what was hanging over his head as he joked and thanked and acknowledged all who had come to wish him well.  But as he looked around that night he wondered, how many other people are here this evening carrying an overwhelming burden unknown or unseen by more than just a few.

So when we go back to our story – there’s Abraham up on the mountain.  Isaac bound before him.  The knife is raised the sacrifice ready.  And what happens?  The angel cries out to Avraham and tells him not to go through with the deed. But what’s interesting is that when the angel cries out -- it says Avraham, Avraham, mentioning his name twice.  Commentators suggest that that’s because the angel wants to be certain to get his attention.  But I wonder if the double Abraham isn’t to acknowledge the two aspects of Abraham’s persona about which I’ve been speaking and the two ways in which God’s voice can be heard by all of us.

The  voice who encourages Abraham to protest and cry out on behalf of justice; and the voice that acknowledges there are times when we stand in lonely faith, moving forward despite really knowing what’s happening and why.

Final Tangent:
Can we expand these stories beyond the confines of how they speak to and challenge our personal faith?

It’s both aspects of Abraham that inspires me and helps frame the possibilities for us as a community in the year ahead.  On one hand asking you to be part of a community committed to tikun olam, repairing a broken world; on the other asking you to be part of a community that cares about one another and stands ready to be supportive when burdens seem more than blessings.

I realize it may well be a question of semantics and probably few of you have noticed – but we have purposefully taken the word committee out of our lexicon when describing social action and caring.  There is a conscious desire not to outsource those mitzvot to a handful of loyal committee members.  When it comes to the injustices in the world, the problems of the city in which we pray- all of us can engage.  When it comes to responding to folks within our walls who are struggling with life’s harshness – all of us can engage. 

It doesn’t take a lot to do just that. And it doesn’t take a lot to make a difference.  And no action is insignificant if it is for the good.  When God’s voice calls in the coming year –as I believe on many occasions it will let’s not ignore the caller ID and fail to answer. 

As individuals who are part of a sacred community we can recognize God’s voice, not run from it.  We can be moved by it, not fear it and we can know that the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, Sara, Rebecca, Leah and Rachel continues to speak urgently and poignantly in our lives.
May this be the year when we hear it and respond in kind.

The Power of Habit
Rabbi James Prosnit dddd Kol Nidrei/Erev Yom Kippur 5773

The mood of the Kol Nidre service is the most powerful and dramatic of the entire year.  A day of fasting has begun, some lit memorial lights for those who are no longer with us;  We’ve gathered as one congregation more so than at any other time throughout the entire year. The mournful tones of the cello have set the stage, and the plaintiff yearning prayers will drive us forward.

No experience in the synagogue is quite like this one.  According to tradition it is” Hayoma” –The Day, the most significant twenty four hour period in our liturgical calendar, so this then is HaLaila – the night when we seek connection to our highest selves, when we yearn for holiness and wholeness. 

There is a story about an assimilated German Jew who decided that he was going to convert to Christianity like other members of his family had already done. But he felt he owed his own tradition one last good-bye. Ninety nine years ago, Yom Kippur 1913, he attended Kol Nidre services in a Berlin shul. The experience changed his life, and brought him back to Judaism. In fact, Franz Rosenzweig went on to become one of the greatest Jewish philosophers of the 20th century.

While few of us, I dare say no one, will have the epiphany that Rosenzweig had, tonight is our reset button. The chance to consider the gap that exists between what we are what we in our heart of hearts know we can be.  We have the time and space to think,                               

"What can I do differently to make myself or the world better?"

And tonight, we dare to think about ways in which we can atone for certain behaviors, change our habits, and focus on embracing and nourishing new potential.

This year on my summer reading list was a fascinating book titled: The Power of Habit: Why We Do What We Do in Life and Business, by Charles Duhigg. The author unpacks the neuroanatomy of habits. He breaks down the formation of habits of individuals. Then he studies habits of companies and organizations. Finally, he demonstrates how entire societies can be conditioned by habits for better and for worse. 

On this sacred night of hesbon hanefesh, self scrutiny, it’s worth exploring some of what he has to say for the sake of ourselves and our community.
 
Duhigg posits that even though deeply rooted in our minds, habits aren't destiny.  While many are essential to healthy living, sparing us from having to make actual decisions, others get in the way and hold us back. Everything we know about habits, from neurologists studying people with amnesia and organizational experts remaking companies, is that any of them can be changed, if you understand how they function. And most central to that process is changing or replacing one routine with another. 1             

Sometimes to change a habit one needs to commit to some larger global belief, like the commitment made by people in AA.  And sometimes it’s a small change in routine that can be transformative. 

I know that if I put on my sneakers in the morning before I go downstairs for breakfast, I am much more apt to exercise.  My nephew who is a professional guitar player and teacher instructs all his pupils, never to put their guitar away in a case when they’re home.  Leaving it out makes them much more likely to get in the habit of practicing.

Mayor Bloomberg has taken a lot of heat lately for his promoting laws banning supersized sodas. But while I hear the arguments against the so called “nanny state”, I actually think he has a point.  I habitually clean my plate or drink everything in my glass – because it’s there.  If I limit the size of my plate or cup, I consume less and will likely live healthier.

Similarly no action has reduced smoking in our society more than banning it in bars and restaurants.  People have been forced to substitute different cues and routines for what used to trigger the habitual after dinner cigarette.

And what is true for our secular lives is also true for the spiritual.  A religious life, like life in general, thrives on routines.    For the overwhelming majority of people, be they Jewish or not express their deepest spirituality in seemingly routine actions. 

For Judaism the familiar is the pathway to the divine.

I spoke a minute ago about Franz Rosenzweig’s transformative moment.  And while a true story and a powerful one at that – that kind of life-altering experience is rare.  If we’re waiting for the earth to move, the heavens to open and our lives to be transformed I dare say we’ll be waiting a long time.

More than a rapturous event, repetition brings about revelation. For Jews spiritual connections are built more on the mitzvoth of daily living than on the one off moments as inspiring as they may be.

Think about the prayer that’s recited every morning.  Eilu Devarim sh’ayn la’em shiur – these are the obligations without measure whose reward too is without measure,  -- acts of love and kindness, daily study and regular prayer.  Now some may argue, all this sounds so humdrum, we need Kol Nidre moments to really inspire us. But I’m not so sure.  On this night, when we’re so focused on the spiritual, let’s talk about embracing a few sacred habits in the year ahead.  All of you won’t resonate to each, but I hope you’ll find something to consider embracing. All of you won’t resonate to each, but I hope you find something to consider embracing.

The power of the Shabbat dinner.  Candles, challah, sweet wine and grape juice.  A few songs, a simple blessing for the children.  The first time one does this an awkward feeling, the second and third less so – eventually it becomes a habit you would not want to do without.  Especially with busy lives - commuting and meetings, practices, games and rehearsals, a sacrosanct Friday night meal can be the only time the family and friends gets to eat and talk in a given week.  With our Shabbat table guests we have long enjoyed the simple ritual of describing the best part of the week.  Other families use it as a chance to share roses and thorns, discussing the high and low points of recent days. 

By the way teenagers aren’t off the hook, they may rebel as teenagers do, but you can give them a few get out of Shabbat dinner free cards when there’s a big game or prom and expect them to be present the rest of the time. If it’s a habit, it’s never an issue.  Those without children either starting out or older can use the Friday night table as a time to stay connected to friends.

For those with young children the bedtime shema is a powerful ritual moment.  Children love regularity and routines.  The parents among us know it’s a lot easier to get a child to bed each night with the same books, songs and good night moons. Try taking a short cut to the standard way and invariably the child will complain.  How easy to add a Jewish moment, book or prayer to something so natural.  It can long be remembered as a sacred moment for a child and for a parent as well,

And so deeply embedded, a bedtime shema or prayer can remain a precious ritual through out our lives.

I love the B’nai Mitzvah we celebrate most Shabbat mornings and I do think the ritual is an amazingly powerful rite of passage for the celebrant and his or her family, but I’m saddened that for most families, the moment in the spotlight isn’t likely to translate into tomorrow’s practice.  The most successful Bar or Bat Mitzvah isn’t the one who chants magnificently it’s the one who shows up the following Monday for eighth grade.

But regular study isn’t only for children. I wrote in the Bulletin this month about watching in awe earlier this summer as 70,000 mostly ultra orthodox Jewish men packed Met Life Stadium in the Jersey Meadowlands to conclude a seven year cycle of Talmud study called daf yomi – a page a day.  I professed being a little jealous.  Why should grappling with a Jewish text only bein the domain of the Orthodox? It just doesn’t make sense.  How wonderful it would be if more liberal Jews made sacred learning a daily or a weekly habit.  The Union for Reform Judaism has its 10 minutes of Torah. I wonder how many of us here take part in that or some other regular commitment to Jewish thinking.

And for some Tzedakah is a habit.  Danny Siegel, known around the world as an expert in “microphilanthropy,” or targeted giving, teaches that tzedakah can be addictive in the best sense of the word.

Almost 2000 years ago, he writes the brilliant sage Ben Azzai stated it beautifully, and succinctly: “mitzvah goreret mitzvah – one mitzvah exerts a pull on another.”  And Rabbi Janet Marder adds, “Tzedakah is like eating potato chips.  Just as you can’t eat only one chip so, too with acts of tzedakah. Doing one mitzvah gives you a craving for the next.”2 How much better to get hooked on doing mitzvoth – providing food for the soul, rather than the false nourishment of junk food.  Generous people are in the habit of giving and give regularly.  They know the positive feelings that come with doing acts of kindness and with writing checks to support noble causes.  You can start with our High Holy Day appeal and move on from there.

And similarly, let’s consider the import of communal worship.

From time to time after a Friday night or 8 a.m. service I chat with congregants who I have not seen for a while.  They are likely to tell me how much they enjoyed being here.  It may have been a Yahrzeit or a special event that drew them, but invariably they felt very positive toward what they experienced.  They cite the music or the message, the sense of community that was present or in the case of the Friday night worshipper, just the nice feeling of TGIF – they got from acknowledging the week ending and the shift if not into Shabbat mode then at least to the weekend.  They say, ‘this was really nice – we should come more often.’

My hunch, however, is that they will not.  Now I know these folks have very good intentions, and I believe they are not patronizing me with their compliments or being deceitful in their desires, it’s just that they’re not in the habit of attending – so the act of turning up the next week has not been routinized in their lives. It will take a conscious act of will to bring them the following week. 

Contrast that to the dozens of regulars who attend our Sabbath services.  For them, it is not a matter of will; over time it has becomea habit.  The work or school week ends, and they mark it by coming to synagogue.  The alarm clock goes off on Saturday morning and a key ritual for the day includes the 8 a.m. service and or Torah Study.  Connecting to this community is not a decision, it’s what they do.  And my contention is that making such routines core to our lives is not only good for the sense of community we strive to create here in the Temple, but good for the individual soul.

 Of all the liturgical changes that we have made over the years I believe the one that has been the most effective has been the regularization of our Shabbat services.  I used to think that services had to be creative and not repetitive.  Stimulating programs were more important than familiar prayers.  But over time it has become clear that we are at our best when we connect to our routines.  Regular worshippers prefer it.  The more familiar someone becomes with the service, the more does it become part of them.  The new only stimulates the mind; the familiar goes deep into the soul. 

Our relatively new prayerbook Mishkan T’filah got away from the ten different choices in services that the old Gates of Prayer provided.  Now within each prayer rubric there may be some choice in translation; we may experiment with different melodies, and hopefully the study component or sermon will have a new insight, but in the main each week the service is the same.  In Hebrew we call this keva—fixity, sometimes contrasted with kavana, devotion.  My point however is that the two are integrally linked.  Devotion in prayer is as contingent on the fixed routine as it on the power of the intentional moment.

I believe that religious observance provides structure to human existence.  Religious ritual is the way we deal with matters of ultimate importance: life and death, love and God. And I do believe that when they become a matter of habit and routine these sacred rites and rituals can be transformative in providing the meaning to our lives that so many of us are seeking.

Now, for those of you who are perceiving this as the classic–“where are they the rest of the year” sermon,   I hope you will not go away feeling that guilt has been the central message tonight.  I have long found it tacky and counterproductive to give a sermon admonishing folks who are present on a particular night for not being present at other times.  Each year in fact I look out and feel blessed that so many do choose to connect at this sacred time of year.  But I also know that an extraordinary experience may be beautiful and moving and a communal moment at B’nai Israel may be uplifting, but its impact will hardly change a life unless it’s translated into a routine. We are after all more defined by our habits, than by our excursions.

Sacred living is about the full journey. Even though we hire photographers to preserve memories of the peak moments, it’s the day to day stuff of living that matters most. So, tonight’s message is not about guilt –  It is about asking you to consider the positive dimensions of taking on some new routines and building Jewish habits. 

Of course we know that Yom Kippur is about much more than making resolutions.  It’s about the serious work of teshuvah, repentance and it’s about embracing a sincere commitment to change.
This after all is the night where we are encouraged to scrutinize our lives, to consider our behaviors and to make the necessary adjustments to get on a path of which we can be more proud.  It’s a night when the goal of our public words and the urgings of personal introspection call on us to take a long hard look at ourselves, our failings and our potential. And it’s a night to contemplate the blessings of sacred living --the habits and ordinary moments from which our blessings flow.

This I Believe
Rabbi Evan Schultzdddd Rosh Hashanah 5773

This I Believe.  Based upon a 1950s radio show, This I Believe was a four year radio project on National Public Radio. During each program, Americans from all walks of life would share the personal philosophies and beliefs that guide their daily lives.  The show interviewed a multiplicity of Americans – young and old, rich and poor, the famous and the previously unknown, Nobel laureates, teachers, prison inmates, students, politicians, farmers, poets, entrepreneurs, activists and executives. 

Scientist Sheri White wrote, “I believe there is more that unites us than divides us.”  Sixth Grader Macklin Levine wrote, “I believe in the Beatles.”  Jennifer Thompson-Cannino – speaker on judicial reform: “I believe in forgiveness — the kind that has the power to release a person from a place of anger and hate, to a place of peace.”

And my favorite from former boxer Muhammed Ali, “Nothing in life has defeated me. I am still the "Greatest." This I believe.” 

The message of this program is quite compelling – no matter who we are – rich or poor, young or old, famous or unknown, we each possess a story and experience the world.  The one thing we can be certain of in the world are the things we experience.  From those experiences, each of us can then make the following statement – this I believe. 

Yet, how many of us take the time to make these statements?  We as human beings have a deep desire to share our stories with one another.  Today I saw the craziest thing.  I was stuck on line for over two hours.  I am a proud new grandparent.  We had an amazing vacation.  My father passed away this weekend.  My daughter was just Bat Mitzvahed.  My best friend just got married. 

However oftentimes we stop there.  It is a scary thing to take the next step.  Sometimes we just don’t have the time in our demanding schedules.  Or we can’t find the right words.  Or something happens that throws off everything we thought we believed about the world. 

I remember when I was in grade school, our teacher assigned us to write an essay entitled, “This I believe.”  Back then it was easy – I had not experiences a great deal of joy or pain in the world.  Although I cannot remember exactly what I wrote, I can bet that I no longer believe most of those statements.  I find that for every year that I get older; it grows increasingly difficult to make a definitive “I believe” statement.  Between what I experience in my own life and what I read in the newspaper each morning, I simply have trouble finding the words.

But I remind myself, I must try.  I must try today, on Rosh Hashanah, as I sit in a space of liminality between last year and the year to come.  Today we review the year that has passed – the people, the places, and the experiences.  The gains and losses, proud moments and missed opportunities.  Young and old, rich and poor, we all sit together in this space each with an individual task. I have experienced one more year of life.  So what is it I believe?  By doing this, by striving to answer this single question over the course of the High Holy Days, we accomplish three things – we affirm our Jewish identities, we strengthen our community, and we gain a deeper understanding of ourselves.

There is precedent for “This I believe” in Jewish tradition.  Way before the original radio program of the same title aired in the 1950’s, Moses Maimonides wrote his Thirteen Principles of Jewish Faith in the late 12th century.  Recited in many traditional synagogues each morning to conclude morning prayers, Maimonides begins each of his thirteen statements of belief with the Hebrew words, “Ani Maamin b’emunah sh’leimah,” meaning, I fully believe that…” Maimonides begins, “I firmly believe that the Creator, blessing be God’s name, is the Creator and Ruler of all created beings, and that God alone has made, does make, and ever will make all things.  To share a couple more, “I firmly believe that all the words of the Prophets are true.”  And, “I firmly believe that the Creator, blessed be God’s name, is One, that there is no oneness in any form like God’s; and that God alone was, is, and every will be our God.”  With his 13 Principles of Faith Maimonides sent the rest of the Jewish world a message – to be Jewish means to believe in something.

Our High Holy Day machzor too pushes us to think about our beliefs.  Over the course of the High Holy Days, we read many different prayers, statements, metaphors, and images of God.  Are we expected to believe every word printed on the pages of our High Holy Day prayerbook?

The answer is no, explains Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum, who is the executive director of the Kavanah Cooperative in Seattle, Washington.  She writes that, “the machzor presents not one image of God or of the relationship between God and human beings, but, rather, a composite sketch, a collage of many images.  These images are far too diverse to be understood literally, so we are invited to inhabit each metaphor temporarily and to thank about what each of them can teach us about God, ourselves, and the world.”

In other words, each of the prayers in our prayerbook were written by individuals who had certain life experiences.  As we read, chant, and pray their words, we are to consider our own life experiences, and think about which words in the prayer book resonate with our own story.  We discover then that one of the purposes of the High Holy Days is not to take each prayer at face value, but to find inspiration in these words to develop our own statements of belief.  The authors of our prayers did not write their stories, but rather, what they learned from their stories about God and themselves.

In Torah study class, we often refer to this method of uncovering a truth as the PaRDeS method of study.  Pardes is a Hebrew acronym-

Pay – Pshat – what is happening on the surface level?
Resh – Remez – what clues or hints lie right beneath the surface level?
Dalet – Drash – what is a learning or teaching from this story
And finally:
Samech – Sod – at the deepest level, what is the great secret that lies beneath this story?

While most often used for Torah study, this method has become a popular avenue for thinking about all things Jewish.  We don’t take anything at face value – our ultimate goal is uncovering the sod, the secret of the story.  So if we can apply this to our stories within the Torah, why not our own personal stories?  The Torah is a living document – our personal narratives are embedded within the Torah scrolls behind me. 

To live Jewishly is to go beyond the Pshat, the surface level of our experiences.  To express our Judaism is to strive for the drash, the teaching, or even deeper, the sod, the great secret beneath it.  This is the I believe statement, the Ani Maamin.  Each year, on Rosh Hashanah, by affirming our beliefs, we affirm our Jewish identities as well.

Writer Milton Steinberg sums up the concept of the sod this way, in his article, “The Reasons for Religious Faith.”  “To believe in God,” he writes, “is to believe that reality did not just ‘happen,’ that it is no accident, no pointless interplay of matter and energy.  It is to insist rather that things, including man’s life, make sense, that they add up to something.” 

We can apply this concept to our Jewish community as well.  A shared sense of belief can collectively strengthen us.  One of my favorite teachers in rabbinical school, Rabbi Larry Hoffman, often shared stories of his visits to consult with struggling synagogues across the country. 

When I was about five years old,
just around the time of Thanksgiving,
I was caught for shoplifting. (Pause)  By my mom. 
As the story goes, my mom and I were in a Hallmark store
and I become enamored with a little porcelain turkey. 
So enamored, in fact, that I took it all the way home with me. 

Without paying for it. 
It was only when we got home
that my mom had noticed what had happened.
My mom, in what I’m sure was a difficult decision,
decided that we would return to the scene of the crime
and that I would personally return
the stolen turkey to the store manager.

What I mainly remember from that day
was screaming and crying all the way back to the store. 
I did not want to give back that turkey. 
And I’m pretty sure I was old enough to realize
that I had messed up. That I had stolen that turkey,
and I was dreading the moment
when I would stand face to face with that store manager
and be forced to fess up to my crime.

In what I’m now sure was a major scene at the local mall,
my mom dragged me, literally kicking and screaming
back into that store to return the turkey. 
I still remember, walking up to that store manager,
handing him back his turkey,
and apologizing for taking it without paying. 
He was very understanding,
and appreciated that we came back to explain what had happened. 
It worked – from that day forward, I never stole again.

Every Rosh Hashanah I think about that story –
how is a memory from when I was five years old
still remains so vivid in my mind. 
That event had such an impact on my actions as an adult. 
Yet it’s a painful memory for me,
and on Rosh Hashanah I’ve tried many times
to throw that memory into the water at tashlich,
attempting to cast it off from my file of memories. 
Yet it remains with me. 
That moment is one of many
that has shaped the person that I have become. 

Every year on Rosh Hashanah I am thus reminded,
when I hear that call of the ram’s horn,
the blare of the shofar, that there is no such thing as closure. 
With the call of the t’kiah, the shvarim, and the truah,
all of our memories return to us,
whether painful or joyful,
they shape the people that we are today. 

Abraham, whose story we read on Rosh Hashanah,
was the first to learn this lesson,
when he sacrificed a ram in place of his son Isaac. 
Our Torah portion reads:

“And Abraham lifted up his eyes, and looked back, and behold behind him a ram caught in the thicket by his horns. And Abraham went and took the ram, and offered him up for a burnt-offering in the stead of his son.”
  
End scene.
Cue Abraham and Isaac returning home
to mother Sarah who has been worried sick for days
about her husband and only son.
Cue angel of God, who affirms that Abraham’s faith in God is unbroken.  His seed will be a blessing for all time. 

Abraham sacrificed the ram.
Abraham can now have closure on this whole Akedah/
sacrificing his son Isaac ordeal.  So who cares about the ram?
Each of us should.

The ram is that character in the Akedah story
to which we rarely pay heed. 
Understandably, our thoughts focus on Abraham,
who is commanded by God to sacrifice
his only son on Mount Moriah.  
Or on Isaac, who seeks to understand
why his father is raising a knife to his son.  
We feel for Sarah, whose distant cries for her son
reach to the inner depth of the hearts
of every parent in the room.  
Or God, we question and seek to understand
why God would put Abraham to such an unfathomable test. 
But the ram? 

Consider Israeli poet Yehuda Amichai’s  poem entitled,
“The True Hero of the Akedah.”
Highlighting the significance of the ram
in the Genesis story and on Rosh Hashanah:

The true hero of the aqedah was the ram
who did not know of the conniving of the others.
It is as if he volunteered to die in Isaac’s place.
I want to sing a tribute to his memory,
to his curly wool and his human eyes,
to the horns that were so quiet on his lovely head
and after the slaughter were made into trumpets
to sound for their wars
or for the blasts of their vulgar joy.
I want to remember the last picture
like a nice photograph in an elegant fashion magazine:
the spoilt tanned lad in his dandified clothes
and beside him the angel dressed in a log silk gown
for a festive reception,
both with empty eyes
staring at the empty places.
Behind them, as a colorful background, the ram
caught in the thicket before the slaughter.
And the thicket is his last friend.
The angel went home.
Isaac went home.
Abraham and God left a long time ago.
But the true hero of the aqedah
is the ram.

Amichai’s poem asserts that it is the ram
who has remained with us –
all of the other characters returned home, yet the ram,
whose horn was transformed into our shofar, has lingered.  
The horn of the ram is our primary symbol of Rosh Hashanah,
our sign of remembrance on this day.  
When we blow the shofar we assert the role of the ram,
the shofar is the cry that forces us to acknowledge
to look at our actions from the past year right in the eyes,
to stand with straight backs before God,
ready to deal in both our proudest actions and our most painful. 

According to Midrash, our Jewish folk tradition,
Abraham tried to bargain with God
that the High Holy Days wouldn’t have to be this way for us –
that thanks to Abraham’s actions
we Jews could just sit back and relax on the High Holy Days,
that we could bank of God automatically atoning for our sins.  
Abraham essentially tried to “take one for the team,”
so that we Jews 3000 years later
wouldn’t have to actively atone for our actions,
that we somehow really could just forget all painful memories. 
It was a nice attempt, however God didn’t really like that idea -

We read in Leviticus Rabbah, a  Biblical folk tale written by our rabbis, this exchange between Abraham and God:

Abraham sought a sense of closure on the Akedah,
essentially saying to God,
“Hey I just did this for you without any complaint,
so now whenever Jews sin, just forgive them, ok?”  
God replied and said,
“Well I hear you Abraham, but how about instead
I make them blow the shofar
and really confront their sins and their actions head on.  
Then, and only then, I will forgive them.”

Rosh Hashanah is about looking back,
about actively listening to the shofar
and standing face to face with our deepest, innermost selves.  
In the Torah portion it says that Abraham
“lifted his eyes and looked back,”
in the Hebrew the word is Achar, he looked behind,
to the past, and saw the ram caught in the thicket. 

The ram is a reminder that we can only look forward
if first we deal with the “achar” the past.  
The shofar cry is loud, it is blaring,
we can’t ignore it’s power and presence.  
The High Holy days are about being active,
about standing with our backs straight,
looking in the mirror, facing all of our memories.  
There is no such thing as closure. 

This is exemplified in the tension
between two Rosh Hashanah rituals,
the blowing of the shofar and tashlich,
which we will perform after services today. 
During tashlich we take bread and cast it into water,
hoping to shed ourselves of our burden and guilt,
our sins from the past year. But can we really do this?  
Can we fully just forget what we have done?
And do we want to?  
Perhaps we cast away the action, the burden of it,
however the memory, or the lesson of our action,
those we keep with us.  
We cannot throw those into the water.
That is how we grow, how we each develop as human beings – specifically never forgetting the lessons of our mistakes –
and just in case we forget –
the piercing cry of the shofar is there to remind us.

The ram serves as the symbol of personal amendment –
nobody – not Abraham, not our friends, family, or spouses
can do the personal work that we need to do for ourselves on this day.  Rabbi Dov Peretz Elkins, a modern day scholar,
writes, “God calls to us in the tekiah to awake and take a good, hard look at ourselves, to examine our deeds, look well into our souls, mend our ways, and improve ourselves this coming year. We are not eternally chained by what we have been. We can throw off the tyranny of enslaving habits. Our tomorrow can be freed from the shackles of yesterday. We can take control of our lives and direct ourselves on a better path.”

The sacrifice of the ram was only in vain
if we sit idle over the next ten days,
if we fail to really hear the call of the shofar.

Be stirred by the sound of the shofar.  
As long as we continue to blow the shofar,
there can be no such thing as total closure.  
We instead confront, we open our eyes and our hearts,
and carry our memories of the past in our hands.  
Who should care about the ram – we do–
for through the ram and the sounding of the shofar
may we jar our memories, find true self discovery
and a path towards personal wholeness today on Rosh Hashanah.

There is no such thing, as closure.

Shanah Tovah.

It is that time of year - the High Days
and the height of the baseball pennant race
(and it is certainly no coincidence)  
Personally one of my favorite times of the year,
as I love talking and thinking about baseball
almost as much as I love discussing Judaism.  
You can imagine how excited I was
the first time I stepped into Rabbi Prosnit’s office
 and saw the framed Sandy Koufax picture hanging on the wall.  Sometimes, I think, “why is it that rabbis love baseball so much?”  
As my rabbinical school mentor,
Rabbi Daniel Zemel once told me,
Baseball is a very Jewish sport.  
Baseball metaphors so perfectly illuminate our Jewish values,
beliefs, and ideals.  

Consider, for example, Former Comissioner of Baseball
Francis T. Vincent, who once said

“Baseball teaches us, or has taught most of us, how to deal with failure.  We learn at a very young age that failure is the norm in baseball and, precisely because we have failed, we hold in high regard those who fail less often - those who hit safely in one out of three chances and become star players.  I also find it fascinating that baseball, alone in sport, considers errors to be part of the game, part of its rigorous truth.”

This quote, albeit about baseball, for me,
illuminates one of deeper messages of Yom Kippur.  
This is not a day about achieving perfection.
 Perfection is an impossible goal.
Rather it is the opposite –
Yom Kippur teaches us
how to deal with failure,
a yearly, spiritual reminder
that on our quest for wholeness,
we are imperfect beings.

The Kol Nidre prayer,
the haunting melody which Cantor Blum
so beautifully chanted last night,
interestingly is not a prayer
about the sins of the past year,
but in fact, affirms that we will, with certainty,
make mistakes in the coming year .

The words of the prayer read,
All vows and prohibitions and oaths …
that we may vow or swear or prohibit upon ourselves
from this Yom Kippur until the
Yom Kippur that is coming upon us for goodness—
regarding all of them, we repudiate them.
All of them are undone, abandoned, cancelled,
null and void, not in force, and not in effect.
Our vows are no longer vows, and our prohibitions are no longer prohibitions, and our oaths are no longer oaths.

Kol Nidre is a prayer not which atones for broken promises
of the past year, but rather a prayer which negates the vows
which we will inevitably break in the coming year.  

I have long struggled with this prayer
and it’s role within the Yom Kippur liturgy.  
The Kol Nidre prayer, written in the future tense,
is an affirmation that in the year to come,
I will absolutely make mistakes.  
So why should I atone today on Yom Kippur,
apologize for my sins, if I am going to make mistakes
and break promises in the coming year?  
What exactly is the point of all the ashamnus and bagadnus
if I’m going to do it all again?

There are three potential responses to this question
regarding the meaning and nature of the Kol Nidre prayer.

One response to this question is equate it, for example,
to a trip to the dentists office for a cleaning
(although I hope this is more enjoyable)
Although I brush my teeth every day,
I need to go to the dentist twice a year
for that great professional clean –
so the plaque and tartar don’t build up too much.
I’ll sit before God today and get a professional soul cleanse,
so there is not too much iniquity buildup –
a spiritual housecleaning, so to speak.  
And I know that I’ll make mistakes in the coming year
and sit right back in this seat next year.

This metaphor, however, can be problematic –
don’t I want to come here to improve myself?  
This is Yom Kippur, not groundhog day,
shouldn’t I be coming to services on Yom Kippur
to track my progress, to assess where I’ve come
and assert where I would like to go?

Thus a second response to the Kol Nidre prayer is to say –
Ok, well if God is so sure I will break my promises and vows,
then I simply will not make those promises and vows in the first place,
that way I can’t break them.  
As Rabbi Helen Plotkin, a contemporary rabbi and teacher
wrote in an article for the online Jewish literary magazine Tablet,

“Kol Nidre reminds us not to make Yom Kippur about these sorts of vows, not to make it a day of New Year’s resolutions. New Year’s resolutions are a pessimistic project because everybody knows they will be broken. They feel optimistic at first, accompanied by a great surge of willpower, but their downfall is something most of us know from experience: Willpower works for a while, and then it stops working. Once the power of the will is broken, once perfection is no longer a possibility, it’s very hard to get back on track.”

I find Rabbi Plotkin’s rather challenging –
we are Jews,
remember - it’s not in our nature to keep silent.  
As Rabbi Nachman of Breslov once taught,
“The entire world is a narrow bridge,
the most important thing is not to be afraid.”  
Kol Nidre should not prevent us from making vows,
from attempting to move forward.  
We mustn't be afraid.

Then a third interpretation of the Kol Nidre prayer
is in some ways a re-interpretation
of Commissioner Vincent’s statement -

The Kol Nidre prayer teaches us
how to deal with failure.  
Errors are part of life, part of its rigorous truth.  
We are imperfect beings.
In a society that oftentimes pushes us to be perfect,
Jewish tradition stresses just the opposite –
that not only are we not perfect,
but there is a deep spirituality in our imperfection.

Consider the story of creation,
which we read on Rosh Hashanah.  
God creates human beings
and declares them to be “exceedingly good!”
while all other aspects of creation,
God simply states that they are “good.”  
God creates humankind in God’s image –
but are they perfect?
No, they are described as very good!
In fact, it does not take them very long at all
to disobey God and eat from the
Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil.  
Then after that they lie to God about it!  

In the Talmud, the rabbis refer to Adam as a Golem,
meaning “unformed” or “imperfect.”  
The Golem was the creation of deep mystical meditation,
a creature that was not fully formed,
or in a state of incompletion.  
Oftentimes the rabbis would write the word “Adam,”
meaning human, on the forehead of the Golem.  
Rabbi Eliezer stated that Adam
was created by God in the form of a Golem,
not fully formed, or in a state of incompletion.  
An imperfect, incomplete being.  

In fact, there is no word in the Hebrew language for “perfect.”
A search in the Hebrew-English dictionary
for the word “perfect” instead yields only the word shalem,
which really means completeness, or wholeness.

Perfection, in the Jewish tradition, is an impossibility.  
It doesn’t exist.   
We Jews instead strive for shleymut, for wholeness -
But what is wholeness really?  
This is the essence of t’shuvah,
of returning to our true selves, on the High Holy Days.
An complex mixture of our successes and imperfections –
An acceptance of our entirety –
a recognition that Yom Kippur is not about a achieving
a perfect, clean, slate,
but rather the difficult task of trying to come to terms
with the messiness of who we are.  

This concept of shleymut is a challenging one –
it is complex, difficult, and can take time.  
Some of you may know that one of my joys in life is running –
although it has not always been that way –
Over the years, I have had a complex relationship with running
and the workings and non-workings of my body.  
I have been a runner since middle school.  
I was never the best on the team,
falling somewhere in the middle of the pack in most races
and training runs, but I enjoyed the camaraderie
and  loved seeing the world from my running shoes.  
At some point in my mid-twenties,
I started to develop a discomfort in my knee a few miles into my runs.  
At first, I denied that the pain was there –
I just kept going and going, through each painful stride.  
When that didn’t work, I grew frustrated.  
I was angry at my body for not working the way I wanted it to.  
The story often went like this: I would run as far as a could,
the pain would come, I would grow very angry,
and walk home frustrated with myself and my body.  
I eventually gave up running altogether for many years,
but I held on to the anger.

It was only recently that I decided to give running another shot,
after several books on running that asserted the ways
in which a positive mindset can impact one’s running.  
Additionally I thought more and more about the prayer we say
each morning, the Asher Yatzar, which thanks God
for the workings of our bodies.
Most importantly, instead of getting frustrated,
I came to anticipate the knee discomfort,
accepting that it is part of who I am as a runner.  
Each morning on my run when the pain hits,
I calmly stop, readjust my body, take a breath,
and am back on my way for a few more miles.  
It is not perfect, I have to stop more than I would like,
but I get to do what I love to do.
I have discovered this sense of shleymut,
of wholeness about myself,
of accepting my imperfections
as part of who am I as a complete being.

We each have stories like this –
in all areas of our lives: physical, emotional, spiritual,
and we are all at different points in those stories –
Yom Kippur is a check in,
and for each of us struggling with those stories,
our liturgy teaches us us how to engage with our failures,
our prayerbooks remind us that to be a complete human being,
is to be imperfect.

Tonight we will close Yom Kippur
with the sound of the shofar.  
Kol Nidrei opens, the shofar closes.  
Beautiful bookends,
each a reminder of the imperfection embedded
deep within each of us
on this most powerful day.

Rabbi Laura Metzger writes,
“The sounds of the shofar are odd, squawky, uneven.  
They are echoes of an ancient world.

We've made technological advances
to improve virtually every area of human life.  
Yet we still use shofarot made as they always have been,
from sheep or goat horns,
minimally cleaned up, hollowed out,
with a roughly cut mouthpiece.

Why hasn't someone made a better shofar?  
One that would tekiyah with a pure and clear blast
like a trumpet.  
That would shevarim to break your heart
like a blues saxophone.  
That would teruah vibrating, well, like a vibraphone.  
Why not a better shofar?  We could do it.

The bleating, blasting, burping shofar
gives a most haunting sound.
It's not pretty, no.  
But it stirs us, perhaps because it is imperfect, as are we.”

As we enter into 5773, may we strive for shleymut,
for wholeness,
in that area of our life which we struggle
When we read our prayers and hear the sound of the shofar
may we be comforted to know that we are each
imperfect beings -
striving to find the balance between improvement and acceptance
we, like Adam, are unfinished products,
still incomplete today on Yom Kippur
Yet we return each year, to assess where we are in our stories,
our goals, our processes
Almost comforted by our Kol Nidre prayer, which reminds us
that when we walk out of these doors,
we needn’t be perfect, but rather only striving for something
what that is is different for each of us
yes we will fail at points in the upcoming year
we are imperfect beings
on a search for shelymut, for wholeness
as the coming year begins.