Rosh HaShanah: Morning Service

Sermon by Rabbi Sim Glaser
2020/5781

Fear

As we celebrate Rosh HaShanah we are afforded the opportunity to express gratitude for our blessings. Even unusual places where blessing might be found. Zoom, for instance, has blessed my life in many delightful ways. Who knew how well a jacket and a tie would go with pajama bottoms? And that mute button! What’s going to happen when we get back up on the bimah and you are sitting in the pews and we can’t mute you as we have been doing? 

As the new year begins, we also weigh the consequences of our actions of the preceding year, and what we might have done differently. I was saying to myself only yesterday, “If I only I could go back to February and buy shares of Zoom stock when it was trading at $118 and has since quadrupled…” But I digress.

Over the past few months we have received many kind words about Temple’s ability to adapt to our unique and challenging circumstances. In fact, while some religious communities deliberated over whether it was kosher to use electronic media on Shabbat or Yontif, Reform congregations around the country pretty much jumped in doing virtual services, classrooms, counseling sessions, funerals, weddings, and b’nai mitzvah celebrations fluidly. My biggest challenge was keeping the Torah I had brought home away from the family dog who has never smelled that much animal skin in one place before. My dog Flora was begging me to let her do a devour Torah! Don’t worry, it didn’t happen.

Additionally, the word “zoom” has increased its status as a verb: “Shall we zoom?” “It’s been nice zooming with you.” “Hey, I was zooming with my friends.” “Should we text or should we zoom?” 

Thinking about “zoom” as a verb reminded me of how the “reform” in Reform Judaism has also been long regarded as a verb. Not only did we reform Judaism 200 years ago, we have never stopped reforming! Our bold, audacious movement has always embraced change. And that reforming has often required great courage and intentionality during difficult times. 

A notable example is the bold 1983 Patrilineal Descent ruling that recognizes the child of a Jewish father and a non-Jewish mother as a Jew. A decision that sent shock waves through the Jewish world. Imagine the chutzpah of the largest movement of Jews in the United States changing the very definition of who is a Jew! But in the long run we saved tens of thousands of souls who otherwise would have been turned away from living Jewish lives, and their children and grandchildren after them.

Such a decision had to transcend fear of the consequences. One had to have faith that, despite our profound trepidations, we were doing the right thing and move on that assumption. 

An even more dynamic shift occurred now 48 years ago in the ordination of the first woman rabbi, Sally Priesand. Had other movements not followed suit they might not exist today. There are even branches of Orthodox Judaism that are now in the process of ordaining women, something that many believed would and could never occur. The progressive movement of Judaism has long been at the center of Women at the Wall in demanding the right to bring a sefer Torah to the women’s section of the Kotel.

The Civil Rights Act of 1964 was drafted at the Reform Movement’s Religious Action Center in Washington. It is also a hallmark of our movement to have taken the lead on immigration and sanctuary congregations. After much discussion on the consequences of assuming that posture, we forged ahead, knowing it was the right thing to do. Were we concerned about the fallout? Absolutely we were. Did we let it stop us? Absolutely not!

If we allowed our fear of the consequences to rule the day we would be fossilized and frozen, time would march on without us. But Reform Jews face their fears and thus we remain dynamic.

If we have learned anything during the past several months, it is that we cannot go forward governed by fear. We all have seen someone in the grip of fear — the staring eyes, the shivering, the flailing at self-defense to try and articulate what is happening. The anger that fear generates between one person and another. The retreat into safe monolithic camps. This cannot be the kind of posture our God wants us to take in a real world with real crises. 

Fear led many of us to make really moronic decisions over the past several months. I am reminded of the sign someone posted on an empty drugstore shelf which read: “To the people who have bought out the entire supply of hand sanitizer, may I remind you that you have left none for the rest of the population to protect themselves and thus not infect you?” Or the liquor store where all the six packs of beer were cleaned out, except Corona Beer. Or my west coast siblings reporting a deserted Chinatown in San Francisco because folks didn’t want to be exposed to the “Chinese flu.”

And yet for all of human history, fear has been a powerful motivator. According to social scientists, fear makes us hold more tightly onto what we have, and to regard the unfamiliar more warily. Put simply, fear makes us want to be protected, regardless of the reality of the threat. 

At this critical moment in our world I believe it is important for us to sit up and take notice of any news, or policy, or demagoguery that seeks to alter human behavior by poisoning minds with fear. If somebody is preaching fear rather than hope or faith, you can be sure they are misguided, and are leading us down a rabbit hole that does not have our best interests at heart.

We know that living without fear is impossible. But our Jewish tradition teaches us that it is possible to fear wisely, to fear with courage, to change our fear reaction from immobility and retreat to constructive action.

There are two different Hebrew words for fear: Yirah and Pachad.

Pachad is the projected or imagined fear of something. Pachad is the over-reactive, irrational, lizard-brain fear: the fear of horrible rejection that will destroy us, or the fear that we will simply combust if we step out of our comfort zones.

The second Hebrew word for fear is yirah. Yirah is the fear that overcomes us when we suddenly find ourselves in possession of considerably more energy than we are used to, we suddenly inhabit a larger space than we are used to inhabiting. It is also the fear we allow ourselves when we are standing on sacred ground.

If you’ve ever felt a deep calling in your heart, or uncovered an authentic dream for your life, or felt a mysterious sense of inner inspiration around a project or idea, and it terrified you, you have experienced yirah. This is the fear that emboldens us to make constructive, albeit sometimes risky, decisions for ourselves and for the betterment of our world. 

Yirah has a tinge of exhilaration and awe while pachad has a sense of threat and panic. Pachad freezes us in our steps, or causes us to react robotically, while yirah calls us to greater things. 

These days there are many things being called to our attention to be feared — the fear of others who don’t think the same way as we do, the fear of a warming planet, the fear of the foreigner at our borders, the fear of totalitarian authority, and foreign espionage. And they are often brought to our attention to stun us into frozen submission.

A call to fear the immigrant is a classic appeal to pachad. The very reverse of the biblical injunction to welcome the stranger! Instead, we become frozen in our places and demand barriers to keep this perceived threat at bay. The Jewish people know firsthand the fatal consequences of turning away desperate refugees without a timely and fair hearing. Our ethical teachings require us to extend the same opportunities to those escaping violence. 

This coming year of 5781 is going to demand courage in the face of adversity. Most of us will experience fear, but which kind of fear will it be? The destructive pachad or the empowering yirah? 

In the Tanakh, the Hebrew Bible, no less than 40 times, God comforts us with the words al tirah, do not fear. It is a timeless message for our people that is as important in our time as ever. God is not saying to have no fears — that ain’t going to happen. Rather, God is telling us to push through our healthy fears and keep them in check.

The God I believe in is not bent on scaring the living hell out of us. The God of justice and mercy wants us to create a society in which all human beings are endowed with dignity and blessed with security. The fear that we call yirah may be frightening to us because we know it is challenging us to enact Divine change!

One of the most profound narratives in the Torah involves the scouting out of the new territory promised to the Israelite nation. The spies that returned give a report based entirely in pachad —an irrational fear of the unknown. And because of that reaction, what occurs? An additional 38 years of wandering are mandated. There is no moving forward when pachad is the guiding motivator.

And the terrifying story we just heard chanted, and that we listen to every Rosh HaShanah morning — the story of Abraham and Isaac on Mt. Moriah — is the chronicle of a man about to do something really stupid out of pachad —out of fear — to take the life of his beloved son. The pivotal moment comes when Abraham’s God says: Al tishlach yad’cha el hana’ar —do not lay your hand upon the lad —ki yadati ki yir’ah Elohim ata! —I know you are one who fears God. Or to put it another way: I know you are scared about what lies ahead of you; it is scary! But don’t let your fear make you a fool! 

In essence, we are not a fear-based people and we don’t operate with blind allegiance!

There will likely be moments of fear this year for each of us. But I pray it will be not pachad —the fear that stops us cold in our tracks, but yirah —the sensation of outrageous audacious possibilities. The fear that leads to hope! Taking a chance of getting to know someone different from ourself; taking the risk to make ourselves bigger than we are today; allowing our dreams to take flight and not be held captive by the possibility of failure. 

May we someday look back at 5781 and say that was the Jewish year we faced crises, but transformed fear into faith that we can and will affect Tikkun— we can and will repair a broken world.

L’shana tova.

Rosh HaShanah: Confirmation Service

Sermon by Rabbi Jason Klein
2020/5781

Charge to Confirmands

Shanah tovah, everyone.

Earlier this week, in a very quiet Temple Israel, I put on my face mask and traveled to the floor we affectionately call the Lower Level, and visited the consecration class photograph of 2009, 5770, which you likely saw at the beginning of this service. I struggled a bit. It was easy to pick out Darcy standing alongside you, Shiri, your kindergarten teacher, and our clergy, but it was harder for me to recognize most of your faces right away. Luckily I had Wendy and Abby’s help and I started to see more clearly—Gigi’s stance, Robert’s smile, Melinda’s face. And now, eleven years later, some have gone and some relative newcomers have arrived. I am grateful that you are all here.

You started this afternoon echoing a long-time Temple Israel custom in virtual space. Since you could not pass actual sifrei torah, Torah scrolls, to one another, peer to peer, symbolizing a more adult relationship with Jewish tradition and values as you make your way through adolescence, you shared lessons from this summer, a summer with a bit of a quality of the Passover seder: “Why was this summer different from all other summers?”

The Torah portion that we read next Shabbat is called Ha’azinu, It is the last before Simchat Torah, Moses’ final song of warning to the Israelites before they would cross the Jordan into the land of Israel and he would finish his 120 year life on earth. There is a curious scribal tradition for Ha’azinu. Ordinarily words in the Torah might look something like this:

This is the very beginning of the Torah, Bershit barah, in the beginning, God created, written in a style that appears to be prose. You might also be familiar with a different scribal tradition in the Torah, the tradition of scribing Shirat Hayam, the Song at the Sea, in a different way. The Israelites have escaped Egypt, have crossed over the Sea of Reeds, and are now singing out their joy. 

It has been noted that the way the song is written may resemble two sides of the sea parting with our ancestors crossing in between. The text is both separate and yet connected.

This week’s Torah portion is different; it also appears in verse but in two mini-columns:

Why? Jhos Singer (in Torah Queeries) notes that it is as if at the Song at the Sea there was the beginning of separation—presumably from slavery in ancient Egypt, shown in the scribal tradition; in Ha’azinu, that separation is even more dramatic. There is a column of empty space between one column of text and the other. A whole generation of slaves has died in the 40 years in the wilderness; practically the entirety of the book of Deuteronomy, the last book of the Torah, is Moses’ warning to the people that the stakes will be higher now; the people will be more accountable in their own land, they will be more subject to outside influence as well. How separate are the columns? How wide is the space? Have the parents taught their youth the best lessons they were taught by their own parents growing up? Will the youth remember the lessons of their parents? Will there be a chasm between generations? 

We celebrate Confirmation in the middle of your teenage years to acknowledge that, in the words of Sharon Shorofsky Mack, separation is a lifelong journey. There are likely some ways in which you all may feel a greater sense of independence in and even from your family of origin that you did at the time of your b’nai mitzvah, but you are still a ways off from being further from home in that way that the post–high school years may bring. Confirmation celebrates your ongoing choice—to be engaged in Jewish community, to act Jewishly, and to grow in our faith, our doubts, our hopes, and our dreams.

About a year ago, you all came together; some had known each other since kindergarten or even nursery school; others just met in Minda Hall on Temple’s Lower Level. And in lots of ways, by sharing highs and lows, talking about Jewish tradition from kabbalah to contemporary music, reflecting on your own growth, half of you traveling to our nation’s capital and lobbying for what you cared about, reintegrating with the rest of the group, and transitioning to this world of remote learning and connection, you have become, in your own way, a kehillah, a community within a larger community.

“Yesterday was history, tomorrow is a mystery, today is a gift. That’s why they call it the present.” Today is a gift. You are all together in a way that was unpredictable a year ago—intellectually and emotionally so connected, even when physical togetherness is different. You have likely spent more time in person near your parents and your siblings than you might have imagined these past six months. Perhaps sometimes this is challenging. But it is real. It is the present. It is the moment. It is a gift. That’s why we call it the present. 

Scene after scene in the controversial and thought-provoking Netflix series “13 Reasons Why” reveal adult after adult who somehow just don’t get it. We as the viewers maybe see something obvious about a child who is struggling, about a teenager who is distressed. And somehow these adults appear somewhat oblivious to some obvious cues and clues, leading to a variety of complicated, painful, and tragic consequences for these teenagers.

You are a group who gets it and continues getting it more and more, understanding each other, who appreciates—each of you in your own way—when people show up for you and when you have the opportunity to show up for other people. These six months and now the time ahead, I believe, has provided you opportunities to grow with your family and grow yourselves that you may not have had in other circumstances, and I hope you will feel like a great blessing in the long run. I believe you will. Sure, you have still had to learn a certain kind of independence, a kind of resilience, but you have also learned to connect and reconnect to others near and far in whole new ways, ways in which I believe will come to serve you well in the long term.

You continue to grow in a world that needs you. Sometimes there seems like a gap, like in that Torah reading next week across the generations—sometimes generations talk past one another, you know—all the stuff the “hey boomer” jokes are made of. But the reality is that the generations are intertwined, like the scribal image of the Song at the Sea, the Israelites crossing—one generation entangled with the next. The world as your parents’ generation has shaped for you and that you have found has been wonderful in so many ways—miraculous ways that are hard to count, but it is also profoundly broken. This year of being reawakened to the global climate crisis, and this has been a year—and I believe we are only at the beginning—of re-understanding the American story as one of deeply seated racism that has needed to be undone for hundreds and hundreds of years. We want you to be connected to us like the Song of the Sea, but I hope you will also find the breaks in the columns when you need them, because sometimes the world needs something brand new, and we are depending on you to get us there.

I know Abby, Wendy, all our clergy and your teachers join me in saying we look forward to continuing to learn and grow with you.

Shanah tovah and mazel tov!

Rosh HaShanah: Sanctuary Service

Sermon by Rabbi Jennifer Hartman
2019/5780

Failure is not an option. 

This famous phrase is associated with Gene Kranz, the renowned NASA flight director for the aborted Apollo 13 space mission. It also became the tagline for the eponymous Hollywood movie . . . and it is purely Hollywood.  Krantz never actually said this phrase.

In my opinion, the line should have been failure is always an option. In fact, when we look back on the greatest inventions, failure – and more importantly, the courage to fail – is what led to success.

Which is why it is so confounding that we tend to focus on the “either/or” of success and failure, rather than the both/and. In fact, who we are, and how we respond to the events of our lives, makes a much greater impact than the events themselves.  Our first example of this is in God’s actions.  In Torah, God has many human attributes: God loses God’s temper and questions God’s own judgement.  God changes God’s mind and decides to take a different direction based on experience.  Even God is not so headstrong as to be unable to learn from mistakes.  We see this very clearly in the story of Noah’s ark.  We read in Genesis that God brought a flood to the earth because “God saw how much human evil there was on earth and felt that the only way to remedy this was to destroy humanity and begin again with Noah.” After the flood, there seems to be a change in God’s opinion.  The Torah reads: “I will not again curse the land because of humans, since the human heart is immature.”  

This idea of an immature human heart intrigues the rabbis.  They determine that it refers to our yetzer harah – our inclination to act only in our own self-interest without thinking of the bigger picture  (as opposed to our yetzer hatov – our good inclination – which comes later).  In the story of the flood, it is the yetzer harah that made humanity act dreadfully and anger God to the point of destruction.  It was only after seeing the effect of the flood on the world that God took a minute to unpack what caused humanity to act with such baseless instincts.  God began to try to better understand people and reflect on that hasty judgment in order to treat people with more patience moving forward. God, our commentators write, determined that Noah’s contemporaries were ruled only by aggression, viciousness, greed, and moral indifference.Therefore, God decided to give humanity the Torah with lessons of humility and honesty. 

As the sages unpacked this view of humanity, they began to realize this was only half of the story.  We are not all bad!  This is where the yetzer hatov – our good inclination – comes into play. The yetzer hatov enters us when we come of age, around the time of our bar or bat mitzvah. The sages continue by teaching that as we grow and mature from adolescence to adulthood, we develop our ability to balance these two sides of ourselves. 

While an interesting idea and explanation, this simplifies the concept to a degree that makes these two drives polar opposite rather than on a spectrum.  As Professor Jeffery Spitzer explains, our yetzer hara is not a demonic force that pushes us to do evil, but rather a drive towards pleasure or property or security.  It is a worldview that is just about us.  It is the material force inside of us.  

On the other side, the yetzer hatov is a worldview that holds us responsible for the other people in our lives.  It is what allows us to feel empathy for another person, to want to reach out and help.It is the spiritual force within us.

Both of these forces, if left unchecked, have negative consequences.  With our yetzer hara we act only in our own self-interest.With our yetzer hatov we act only in the interest of other people.When the two come into balance we do things that benefit ourselves and the community – like get married and raise families, start businesses that employ others, work for safe and friendly neighborhoods.  This allows us to live in harmony with our inner selves.    

A popular comedy that just began its fourth and final season, The Good Place, picks up on this very Jewish idea that each of us has good and evil inside of us.  Spoiler alert! The show begins with Michael, a demon, conducting a radical experiment on a new way to torture human beings.  He picks four people with questionable ethics, who would never have gotten along in life, and puts them into close community.  When they “arrive” in his neighborhood, he tells them they have come to “the good place” – heaven – and lets them loose.  His theory is that humans are self-centered and mean enough that they will spend eternity torturing one another.  

Then enters the protagonist, Eleanor, who wants to become a better person. When Eleanor enters The Good Place she is told it is because of all the humanitarian work she did in life. She is then introduced to her alleged soulmate Chidi, a professor of ethics.  During the first season Eleanor admits to Chidi that there was a mistake and she was not a humanitarian in life.  But, she wants to learn how to keep her yetzer hara in check. She wants to balance it with her yetzer hatov!  Chidi agrees to teach her ethics.  In return, and unknowingly, Eleanor helps Chidi to keep his yetzer hatov in balance: you see, in life, Chidi was so concerned with making the ethical decision that it paralyzed him making him unable to make any decision at all.  Eleanor’s self-centered experiences are exactly what Chidi needs to live life – even if he is already dead!

Recently at Temple, we heard an extreme example of what happens when our yetzer hara (our “selfish” side) is out of balance.  Oshea Israel and Mary Johnson-Roy told us their story of betrayal and forgiveness. On February 12, 1993, Mary’s 20-year-old son was shot and killed by then 16-year-old Oshea during a fight outside of a bar. Oshea was sentenced to 25 years in prison for second degree murder.  Twelve years into Oshea’s sentence, Mary sent a request to visit him in prison.  At first Oshea refused, but eventually he changed his mind.  The two met and talked for over two hours.  Oshea admitted to the murder and Mary forgave him, fully and completely.  She could not believe she was able to do this, but she said that as she did, she felt like a weight physically lifted from her.  For Oshea, Mary’s forgiveness brought both changes and challenges to his life.  He said, "Sometimes I still don't know how to take it, because I haven't totally forgiven myself yet. It's something that I'm learning from Mary. I won't say that I have learned yet, because it's still a process that I'm going through."

For Oshea, part of forgiving himself is allowing himself to make big changes to his life, and surround himself with people who will help him do this.  As he was speaking here at Temple, Oshea talked about adders, subtractors, multipliers, and dividers.  Adders are people who add to our lives while subtractors take away from our experiences.  Multipliers, on the other hand, lift us up to a higher plane then we could have imagined for ourselves while dividers pull us down into deep holes.Oshea talked not only about the need to surround ourselves with multipliers and adders, but that each one of us, at different times, are all of these things to ourselves and to others.

We all find ourselves in difficult situations, big and small.  And we all make mistakes.  But that should not, and cannot, keep us from asking: Who are we?  What role are we playing in the success or failure of our own life or the lives of others? What can we do next to move forward?  How can we help our compassion win over our fear? Our kindness over our greed?  This is the lesson of t’shuvah, of repentance, of cheshbon hanefesh, of examining our souls.Our goal is not to be perfect, but it is to be open enough to learn from our actions when we are out of balance.Our goal is to never stop trying to be the adders and multipliers in the world.  And those years when we are more to one side or the other then we would like to be?  Those are the years we tend to beat ourselves up the most.  But, in reality, those are the years when we have the most opportunity for growth. 

Rosh HaShanah is known in Jewish texts by many names including Yom HaZikaron - "The Day of Remembering” and Yom Hadin - "The Day of Judgment."  We understand the reason for Yom Hadin, but why, the rabbis wondered, is Rosh HaShanah referred to as a day of remembering?  The answer comes from a midrashic description of God sitting upon a throne, while books containing the deeds of all humanity are opened for review, and each person passes in front of God for evaluation of their deeds.  While I am not sure that my theology is such that I believe in a God who sits on a throne examining all of our actions over the past year, I do like the idea of spending time remembering – and assessing – our own past conduct and contemplating our path forward.

This image helped me recently as I thought about a comment a student made.  She felt that she apologized for wrongdoings as they occurred and therefore did not need a dedicated day of repentance.  As I thought about her comment, I realized that we give the wrong impression if we think that these days of awe replace apologizing in the moment.  Rather, they give us time to look back and reflect on the past year. Unpack times in which our inner selves were unbalanced.  Go back and finish conversations we only started.Maybe even apologize again, with more thought and meaning this time, to people we hurt.

As I think about my student’s statement, I cannot help but think about how defensive we all become when confronted with our wrongdoings.  When asked what made Oshea finally agree to see Mary, he said, “For years I didn’t even acknowledge what I’d done and would lay the blame on everyone else. I didn’t want to hold myself responsible for taking someone’s life over something so trivial and stupid. You blame everyone else because you don’t want to deal with the pain.  Eventually I realized that to grow up and be able to call myself a man I had to look this lady in the eye and tell her what I had done. I needed to try and make amends.Whether she forgave me or not was not the point.”  

It is truly all about the framing.  Oshea could have viewed apologizing for his crime and all of the pain he caused as a weakness, as something only cowards do.  Instead, he realized that this took courage and maturity.  It was not easy, but it has allowed him to use the senseless act of crime to help others avoid his mistakes.   Acknowledging, admitting, even accepting and embracing our flaws and imperfections is what will enable us to become the best versions of ourselves.  It is our drive to be perfect that can paralyze us from action.

I wonder what would happen if we understood and internalized that we are ALL at different points of the same path. That we have years when we take more steps forward and other years when we take more steps back.  That God is not perfect, therefore we should not and cannot expect ourselves to be perfect.Would this allow us to open our hearts and our souls to one another?  Would this enable us to look another person in the eye and say “I am sorry” with meaning and conviction? Would facing ourselves with this level of chesed, of kindness, allow us to see the other with the same empathy?  

Our machzor teaches that, “For sins against God, the day of atonement atones, but for sins from one human being to another, the day of atonement does not atone until we have made amends with each other.”  This very important text leaves out one integral part of the scenario.We cannot embark on the work or the lessons of t’shuva until we learn to treat ourselves with kindness and compassion.  Until we are able to admit and forgive our own wrongdoings.  Then, and only then, will we be able to look kindly on each other.  This is our challenge in the coming year, this is our path to move forward.

Rosh HaShanah: Youth-Led Creative Service

Sermon by Rabbi Tobias Moss
2019/5780

Un’taneh Tokef. Let us proclaim the sacred power of this day, awesome, full of dread.

Who by fire? Who by water? Who by slow decay? Who by moose? 

Who by moose?! No, that wasn’t said out loud. That was in my own reading as I thought of what was my closest call, closest brush with death during the past year.

Who by moose?

I began this summer with a 1,700 mile drive from my home in New York City to my new one here in Minneapolis. Accompanied by two of my most adventurous friends, we took the scenic route, driving on the Canadian side of the Great Lakes. It was beautiful and I was full of excitement for this transition, for joining Temple Israel, for leaving the crowded Big Apple and coming to the Land of Lakes.

As we started to drive Superior’s northern shore, a new traffic sign was spotted popping up along the road: yellow signs with muscular antler-clad animals in mid-gallop. These weren’t like the slender deer signs I’ve known in suburban New Jersey. There were two words posted below the image: night danger. But sometimes you see a sign without understanding its significance. So we drove along after the sun had set.

I was behind the wheel when, out of the darkness, only some yards in front of the car,

I suddenly identified a cluster of skinny legs and hulking bodies. I was horrified and confused about why people would cross a highway at such a dangerous spot.

My instinctive reactions took over as I swerved out of the way. We pulled over and caught our breath. The three of us pieced the image together. We had just barely dodged two humongous black-furred moose. They were nearly invisible on the dark highway. As far as I’m aware, though one never knows for sure, that was my closest brush with death from the past year. Who by moose?

Now were I to try to further update Leonard Cohen’s “Who by Fire,” itself an update on Un’taneh Tokef, “Who by moose?” just wouldn’t cut it. It doesn’t sound elegant enough; it’s not the way I’d choose to go. But then again, one of the points of this prayer is that in real life we don’t know how, we don’t know where, we don’t know when we will go. However, at this awesome time of year we muster the collective courage to ask the question who by this, who by that?

At last year’s asking of “who by fire,” no one could have known the answers: which house would have a freak electrical fire and everyone wouldn’t make it out, that the Amazon would burn with unprecedented intensity; that in nearby Duluth, Adas Israel’s 118-year old synagogue 

and eight Torah scrolls would go up in flames just weeks before this year’s High Holy Days.

And as for the coming year, we know that tragedy, or if we’re lucky, only adversity, will certainly befall us. So once again we ask: Who by this? Who by that? Come on God, come on Judaism, give us a roadmap for the year to come! We get none.

We hear no answers to those explicit questions of the poem. But we do hear an answer to unspoken questions. What shall we do in advance of such tragedies? What shall we do after they come to pass? We don’t get a roadmap, but we do get direction.

וּתְשׁוּבָה וּתְפִלָּה וּצְדָקָה מַעֲבִירִין אֶת רעַ הַגְּזֵרָה

T’shuvah, t’filah, and tzedakah will temper the severity of the decree.

Repentance, prayer, and righteous giving will ease the hardship of what’s to come.

It is not a detailed roadmap, but it is a compass, a way to navigate during these ten days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, and in the year to come. Three stars to follow: 

T’shuvah – repentance

T’filah – prayer

Tzedakkah – righteous giving

However, just learning a bit of orienteering doesn’t mean it is easy to get where you want to go. They don’t erase the hardships of life. They temper them, reshape them, help us to make meaning, move beyond the bad to experience more of the good.

I’ve learned about these three guiding principles from two of the most Minnesotan things I’ve done during my first few months here.

The challenge to “temper the hardship of the decree” was the central theme that I encountered during my obligatory first pilgrimage to the Guthrie Theater—you see Minneapolis caught my eye not just for its proximity to lakes and moose, but also the acclaimed theater scene.

At the Guthrie, Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright Lynn Nottage debuted her newest play about a truck stop sandwich shop, Floyd’s. The whole play takes place in the sandwich shop kitchen where ex-convicts are striving for two goals with equal fervor: repentance and the perfectsandwich.

Three young cooks were recently released from jail, but are struggling with the stigma they receive from the outside world and their own persisting guilt. They are easily set off when someone brings up their past, and they have great concern they’ll fall into bad habits. These three look up to a wiser and older cook, Montrellous, who seems to have moved beyond his own troubled past.

“Look here, being incarcerated took a little something from all of us. Cuz you left prison don’t mean you outta prison. But, remember everything we do here is to escape that mentality. This kitchen, these ingredients, these are our tools. We have what we need.”

This is the Jewish belief. We have what we need. T’shuvah is possible.

My teacherRabbi Larry Hoffman notes that one biblical description of sin is that it is a burden that weighs us down. God nosei avon, lifts up, that burden. If God removes the burden on a person, then so must society practice forgiveness, then so must we each practice forgiveness with ourselves.

T’shuvah is largely about dealing with our past. This season’s second guiding principle,T’filah, prayer—especially petitional prayer—is how we express our hopeful reaching out towards our future. We allow our souls to express our deepest desires. We join together with our people to do the same.

Throughout the play, the cooks come together for their own sort of communal ritual as they prepare simple sandwiches. They dream. They daydream. They dream out loud about discovering the ultimatesandwich!

“Cubano sandwich, with sour pickles, jalapeno aioli and . . . and sweet onions!”

“Grilled blue cheese with spinach, habaneros and . . . candied apples.”

“Maine lobster, potato roll gently toasted and buttered with roasted garlic, paprika and cracked pepper, mayo, caramelized fennel, and a sprinkle of . . . of . . . dill,”

(I knew I’d have to do this sermon on Rosh HaShanah, because this would be too painful to hear on Yom Kippur.)

Rafael asks: “Can the perfect sandwich be made?”

Letitia asks: “When we get there, will we know?”

And again, the wisest among them, Montrellous, responds: “We can only strive for the harmony of ingredients. That’s all.”

Here in synagogue, we don’t usually dream together of the perfect sandwich.

We dream of a world perfected.

We pray for peace.

We pray for community.

We pray for healing.

Our prayers don’t get answered in a direct or explicit fashion, but as Montrellous suggests, we nonetheless strive towards these ideals in our daily lives, though we do not know whether we’ll ever achieve our ultimate aims.

As 20th century Reform Rabbi Rabbi Ferdinand Isserman eloquently puts it: “Prayer cannot mend a broken bridge, rebuild a ruined city, or bring water to parched fields. Prayer can mend a broken heart, lift up a discouraged soul, and strengthen a weakened will.”

To elucidate our third guiding principle, tzedakah, righteous giving, I’d like to share a lesson from an unexpected place, from my most Minnesotan day here: the State Fair! We don’t have that sort of thing where I come from.

The fair’s nickname is the Great Minnesota Get Together. It seems to me that this has at least two meanings, the first being all the people that get together, and the second being all the subjects, themes, and attractions that get brought together. You can learn about the latest in organic lawn care or you can eat a deep fried waffle-encrusted breakfast sandwich on a stick—I don’t think that’s the perfect sandwich. You can walk through an art gallery made of corn kernels, or, as I did, you can spend half an afternoon learning how honey is made.

Rabbeinu Bachya, an 11th century Rabbi, writes in his book Chovot HaLevavot, Duties of the Heart, that one has the internal duty to see the world not just as it plainly seems to be, but to seek lessons from nature. We should observe and contemplate the natural world, and deduce Divine wisdom from this practice. And so in the middle of the State Fair I asked myself, and the beekeeper, what I could learn from the bees.

There are many other types of bees. There’s the bumble bee, carpenter bee, mason bee, leafcutter bee, and sweat bee, not to mention wasps, hornets, and other, meaner varieties.

When it comes to honey production, these other bee species are stingy. They only produce enough to survive day by day. When winter comes, the entire hive dies, every worker bee dies, save for the queen who hibernates alone for the winter, and then starts the hive from scratch in the spring.

But the honeybee does things differently. Even once they’ve made enough honey to keep the hive alive, they just keep going. They can end up making three, four, five times as much honey as they’ll ever consume.

Thanks to this generous spirit, if you will, when winter comes, even here in Minnesota, the hive survives along with queen. Thanks to this generous spirit, humans can enjoy from the honey surplus, without harming the health of the hive.

Likewise, for us, tzedakah helps our community survive the winter, the weak along with the powerful. Tzedakah is also how we share the sweetness of life.

Tzedakah is too often translated as charity, which limits the idea to only material giving. While our tradition does challenge us to do with less and give more, it also invites us to recognize the other bounties we have to share as well. Here the Bible’s Book of Proverbs teaches another lesson from the honey bee.

צוּף־דְּבַשׁ אִמְרֵי־נֹעַם מָתוֹק לַנֶּפֶשׁ וּמַרְפֵּא לָעָצֶם׃

Pleasant words are an overflowing honeycomb

Sweet to the soul, healing for the bones.

As you eat your High Holy Day honey, don’t just revel in the sweetness of the moment, but also let the honey serve as a guide. As you enjoy the surplus that the bees made, what surplus do you have that you can offer as tzedakah? What can you do to help the hive survive the winter, the weak along with the powerful? How you can help the community not only survive, but also taste life’s sweetness during these ten days and throughout the coming year?

One day we will all reach our end. Some of us by fire, some by water, some by slow decay, but hopefully none of us by moose, since we all now know what those “night danger” signs mean. 

Jewish tradition acknowledges this human reality, our human frailty. Rather than let it halt us in our tracks, we do not experience our mortality as a dead end, that there is nowhere left to go because of it.

Un’taneh Tokef concludes: 

Our origin is from dust

And our end is to dust.

But God, 

You are beyond description.

Your holy name suits You

And You suit your Name,

And somehow we are named After You.

May Adonai Eloheinu, the Eternal Source of Strength, give strength to Am Yisrael the People Israel and all humanity, as we navigate the New Year to come. We have no roadmap, but we do have these three stars to follow. T’shuvah, T’filah, Tzedakah. Repentance, Prayer, and Righteous Giving.

Shanah Tovah.

Rosh HaShanah: Sanctuary Service

Sermon by Rabbi Sim Glaser
2019/5780

A couple of weeks ago Barb and I saw a wonderful film about the origins and history of Fiddler on the Roof. Among the extraordinary facts about one of the world’s most famous musicals is that since it first premiered in September of 1964, Fiddler on the Roof has played on a stage somewhere in the world every single day, including Vienna, Mexico City, Iceland, and even Japan!

My favorite moment from the documentary was when they showed clips from the Tokyo production of Fiddler. The scene where Golde brings Tevye his Shabbat sushi is just precious… and the accompanying musical number:

This fish - it’s not - gefilte!

Gefilte - this fish it - is not!

Ok, I made that up . . . But there really was a Tokyo production and the lyricist, Sheldon Harnick, attended a performance, and after the show he was asked by some of the cast members: Do they understand this show in America? It is so Japanese! And then there’s the delightful snippet of the Temptations singing “If I Were a Rich Man.”And a recent production of the play by Harlem schoolchildren in New York.

Fiddler on the Roof may be a musical about the precarious nature of Jewish life in the Eastern European shtetl, but the message of the documentary was that Fiddler belongs to the world. Turns out that being uprooted from one’s homeland and forced to forge a new existence in a distant unknown land is not limited to the Jewish national experience. Nor is the celebration of life, or the desire to see one’s children find happiness in their relationships, or the importance of keeping alive one’s traditions! Fiddler endures because nearly every culture on Earth has gone through upheaval, including our own current American 21st century experience. 

Throughout history, the Jew has had an uncanny way of capturing both the admiration and the loathing of host countries. Rabbi Zimmerman brought back from her Eastern Europe trip some popular Polish talismans, or good luck charms. One of them – this one is of the little Yiddl with a fiddle clutching a 1 grosz coin – a Polish penny. This is not a relic from the 2nd World War era. You can buy this on a Warsaw street corner today! 

Perhaps the fascination with the all-at-once precarious yet successful Jew is in how we represent so many elements of human nature. As someone once said: “The Jews are like everybody else, only more so!” The urge to prosper and be secure and strong versus feeling the abject fear of rootlessness and vulnerability. Perhaps because we celebrate life so intensely and mourn death so deeply. Perhaps because we have suffered so immensely, but remain so steadfastly determined to choose life, and to battle suffering and oppression when we witness it anywhere to anyone. Because we sing about the sunrise and the sunset and swiftly flying years – One season following another, laden with happiness and tears…

Or maybe it is because we are so overtly familiar to people. We wind up being the mirrors of self-love and self-hate. And strangely enough, at .17% of the world’s population, our welfare winds up being the barometer of the health of any given society in which we dwell.

New York Times journalist Bari Weiss, who became Bat Mitzvah at the Tree of Life Synagogue in Pittsburgh 20 years ago, writes about how when a society is in decline, anti-Semitism takes root.  Societies in which hatred in general – and anti-Semitism in particular – thrives are societies that are dead or dying. Why is that? Because anti-Semitism is the ultimate conspiracy theory – so it thrives in a society that has replaced truth with lies. Anti-Semitism, she writes, is an intellectual disease, a thought virus – as long as the body is healthy the virus doesn’t cause trouble. But when the body is ill the virus breaks out!

This we should consider relevant, because our own American social immune system is in a weakened state. When we witness these sporadic but increasing incidents of hatred, we know that our nation is in trouble. We have witnessed Charlottesville in our own time. Pittsburgh. And in today’s political climate, not very far from our front doors, elected officials can make anti-Semitic statements and survive politically!For some of us this is a new phenomenon, for others it is 2,000 + years old.

The synagogue fire in Duluth turned out not to be a hate crime, but there was a collective holding of breath for the two days until that information was made public, and I don’t think it was the Jewish community’s fear alone that made it front page news. I think the people of this state were determinedly interested in knowing where we are headed! When a synagogue goes up in flames, the world takes note. 

The Tevye character in the most recent production of Fiddler enters the stage wearing a contemporary red parka as though he has just gotten off a raft crossing the Mediterranean. The characters’ accents are minimal as though to suggest: This is everybody’s story!

The Fiddler on the Roof documentary concludes with a striking series of photographs of refugees around the world in search of a new and secure home juxtaposed with the closing scenes of the Jews leaving Anatevka, followed by classic pictures of Jews being loaded into German boxcars and the liquidation of the ghettos. 

These are stark reminders that although we may have, as a people, endured some of the worst suffering in human history, an increase in hate and a wanton disregard for the plight of refugees are harbingers of societies in decline.

So it did not seem much of a stretch for the leadership of Temple Israel Minneapolis to take in an undocumented Nigerian man and provide sanctuary for him as he sought to evade ICE agents determined to deport him. Felix lived with us on the third floor of this building for six weeks before he endeavored to return to his workplace so as to have the health care required by his ailing wife. No sooner did this loyal employee arrive on the job than he was picked up by ICE; he now sits in a detention center in Elk River awaiting an uncertain future. 

And it doesn’t seem such a stretch to learn that one young member of our congregation gained knowledge of a family separated, with mother and daughter living here, while their 7-year-old son remains caged in a detention center on our southern border, and came to us asking for assistance. We arranged to have him basically ransomed, released and flown up here to join his family. 

And it doesn’t seem such a stretch for this holy place to be assisting a family from Central America seeking a better life for their children in finding a place to sleep at night. 

I know it may appear to many Americans that we are a more secure nation by breaking up migrant families, throwing children into detention camps, and deporting long-time residents who are richly contributing to our society. And I know there are those who believe that teaching each other to fear the foreigner – and each other – is good for the health and welfare of this country. I’m here to tell you, and I am the one with the microphone, that it is not! It is that same virus eating away at the American body. And nobody knows the consequences of that societal malady as intimately as the Jewish people do. 

Sadly, I heard from members of this congregation after Pittsburgh that they were scared to come into our building. On the other hand, there were close to 2,000 people of many faiths and backgrounds who assembled here in defiance of hatred following that tragedy. 

I believe people see themselves defined in the pages of our Jewish story. They feel the precarious nature of being human saw themselves in the telling of our personal tragedy. For at least a couple of days, everybody in town was fiddling on the roof.

Another interesting piece of Fiddler trivia, about which I was previously unaware, is that the original score contained an upbeat song toward its conclusion called “The Messiah Will Come.”

There is an old Broadway tradition known as the 11 o’clock song which they place a show-stopper number that wakes up the sleepy theater goers to keep their attention through the end of the show (much as a rabbi might do at this very moment in his sermon!). 

In Fiddler the song you’ve never heard was called When Messiah Comes, and it goes something like this:

When Messiah comes he will say to us 

I apologize that I took so long, 

But I had a little trouble finding you,

Over here a few and over there a few

You were hard to reunite 

But everything is going to be all right

Up in heaven there, how I wrung my hands

When they exiled you from the promised land

Into Babylon you went like castaways

On the first of many, many moving days.

What a day and what a blow!

How terrible I felt you’ll never know!

When Messiah comes he will say to us:

Don’t you think I know what a time you had?

Now I’m here you’ll see how quickly things improve, and

You won’t have to move unless you want to move

You shall never more take flight, 

Yes, everything is going to be alright!

The song never made it into the show. The familiar story of Tevye and his family ends on a tragic note of being forced out of their home in search of a new and more secure future. Fiddler is one of the few musicals that doesn’t end on a happy note. 

This is the universal message of the Jewish story that people of all faiths know in the deepest recesses of their hearts – We do not live in a Messianic world.We are still waiting for it! Working for it! And if we give into hatred and fear of the other, if we allow that virus to invade the body of humanity, then indeed, the whole world will know what it means to leave Anatevka in search of a new home…

On Rosh HaShanah, the birthday of the world, may we come closer to one another, and in doing so may we recognize all that the people of the world hold in common, far more than what separates us. The love of children, the deep devotion to long-standing traditions, a sense of humor, the fear of homelessness, a love of music, a will to live in freedom, and a desire for life!  - L’chaim!

Rosh HaShanah: Hello TIPTY!

Sermon by Rabbi Jennifer Hartman
2018/5779

Hello TIPTY!

I missed you guys last year!  Thank you for your understanding of my maternity leave.  And while I’m speaking to everyone in attendance today, I want you to know that YOU are the inspiration for today’s sermon!  I am sorry I am going to have my back to you, but I hope you will still listen!

With the production of Hamilton being in town, I would be remiss if I did not reference it!  In the show, Hamilton uses the refrain:

I am not throwing away my shot

I am not throwing away my shot

I’m just like my country

I’m young, scrappy and hungry

And I’m not throwing away my shot

So many of the most amazing changes in history were started by ambitious, energetic, and brave young people – like you.  This includes the establishment of the United States of America. At our nation’s inception, three of our most influential founding fathers were James Monroe at 19 years old, Aaron Burr at 20, and Alexander Hamilton at 21.  I understand this may be too “ancient history” for you to feel a connection with these great historical figures.  So, let us look more recently.  How about to the 1960s when four black teenagers walked up to the all-white Woolworth’s lunch counter in Greensboro, N.C. and refused to leave – leading to countless sit-ins that swept the South, and forced our country to confront racial injustice.  

Or how about the 1970s uprising of black high school students in Johannesburg, South Africa.  At this time, the white and black communities spoke different languages.  The South African government made a law that only the white language could be spoken, making it nearly impossible for black teachers to teach and for black students to learn.  This government mandate was forcing these students into poverty, without any chance of upward mobility.  Several of these students courageously responded with a peaceful protest, which turned deadly when police attacked the students with guns and tear gas. The parents of these students could not understand what their children had done.These parents felt that, by standing up and challenging their government, their children were only making life worse for the community.  But these inspirational students understood that this new law meant the end of their education and that was untenable for them.  Their protest brought international attention and outrage to issues of racial equality, which ultimately led to the dismantling of Apartheid.

Or we can look to this past February when the students of Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, FL turned their tragedy into action.  These students took up the cause of gun control and have not only spoken with President Trump, but have also persuaded companies such as Delta and United Airlines, Hertz and Avis Car Rentals, and Metlife Insurance to cut their ties with the National Rifle Association.  These students have done more in a few short months than many lobbying groups, with much deeper pockets, have done in years.  

In all ages, society has leaned on its youth to have visions of a better future, while listening to its elders share their dreams about a life once lived.  As the prophet Joel so eloquently teaches in the Tanach – “the old shall dream dreams, and the young shall see visions.”  During the time that the prophet Joel lived, only select individuals - those who showed their commitment to God by living lives dedicated to helping the vulnerable and taking care of our earth - were given the gift of prophecy.  Joel prophesizes that in days to come, in a world where we all work toward justice, at that time, all of our youth will have visions of the future, all will hear and pay attention to God’s voice. While we do not yet live in this more perfect time, we do live in an amazing era where our young adults not only see visions of what needs to be done, but have the courage to act on these visions to help build a future of which we can all be proud.

I want to tell you, the youth who are here today, the ones in the TIPTY choir and the ones in the congregation: the adults in your world are noticing all that you do! While I was working on this very sermon, a friend sent me a text asking if I wanted topic suggestions.  Out of curiosity I replied “sure.”  He texted: “If I could write the sermon, my topic would be ‘How adults in our country need to be as good as our youth.’”  I was delighted to have evidence that I am not the only one who notices all of the work you are doing and change you are making.  While we debate and discuss, you are out there getting things done.  You are changing the world.  Do you, the youth of our congregation, our world, truly understand the power that you have?  The difference that you can make?  I still hear too many of you question the kind of impact you could have; I see you shrug your shoulders in defeat.  The reality is that you are the ones who inspire the rest of us to act.  

In 2015 I traveled with a group of 8th grade students to Alabama and Georgia to explore the intersection of the Civil Rights movement and Judaism.  The movie Selma had just come out and it was the 50th anniversary of the march which happened because of the work of two brave young people – James Bevel and Diane Nash.  James and Diane understood that segregation was eating at the soul, not only of their community, but of the nation.  Our group thought of their courage as we walked across the Edmund Pettus Bridge with images of the beatings in our head.  When we entered the town of Selma we were met by a middle-aged and very energetic woman named Joanne.  She pulled us all together with her strong yet sweet voice and began to tell us her story.She spoke of the rush of excitement in early spring of 1965, as she walked across the bridge surrounded by her community, holding hands with her family.  And then the sheer terror she felt as the police descended on the march.  She remembers being beaten to the ground and out of nowhere being picked up and put into a car and taken to safety.  The events of that day defined her and her drive to bring equality to her community.  She challenged the students on the trip to find their passion and not let anything get in their way.  

Joanne did not know it at the time, but standing in the front of the line, next to Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, was Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel. The two became fast friends in the early 1960s.  Both were speakers at a conference on religion and race organized by the National Conference of Christians and Jews[1].  They supported one another through many endeavors including the march from Selma to Montgomery.  After the march, Rabbi Heschel was asked if he had time to pray on the journey.  He responded, “I felt my legs were praying.”  His marching, his protesting, his speaking out for Civil Rights was his greatest prayer of all.  He, as well as Joanne from Selma, did not let anything interfere with their vision, or actions towards, a more accepting, more equal, and more just society.  

You, the students of Temple Israel, the students of Minneapolis, have as much courage, passion, and fortitude as all of the students I have been talking about; these characteristics are ingrained in you, and I marvel at this all the time.  In the aftermath of the Parkland shooting earlier this year, you coordinated walkouts at your schools in conjunction with your peers in Florida.  Through the organization Students Demand Action, you planned and implemented a march that brought thousands to our state capital.

Your civic involvement is unprecedented in many ways.This is why I was not surprised to learn that youth, ages 18 to 24, decided the 2008 election.  Just by showing up to vote in greater numbers than previous decades, you changed the course of history and elected the first black president of the United States. In fact, according to the Youth Electoral Significance Index, voters between 18-29 years old will have the greatest impact of any age group on our Minnesota elections.  The races here are projected to be very close and in close races, even slight boosts in youth voting could mean the difference between defeat and victory for candidates from either party.  It is our responsibility as part of the Jewish community to play an active role in choosing our leaders. The Talmud teaches that "A ruler is not to be appointed unless the community is first consulted."[2]  Judaism views voting as a responsibility and as US citizens, it is our privilege and an opportunity for each of us to express our beliefs on what is best for our country.  

Not only do we, your parents, teachers, and clergy, listen to you and find inspiration in your words and your actions, we are also here to help you develop your skills of advocacy.Many of these skills are already built into what you do at school[3]. Problem-solving, critical thinking, collaboration, and perseverance are all a part of your daily experience. This morning, I have given you historical and modern-day examples of youth and young adults who are using these skills to change history.  My hope is that you will see yourselves in these stories, see that the current movements you are already a part of are connected to those you learn about in history class.  Your work for justice also connects you to our Jewish tradition.  If you have not yet reached confirmation, 10th grade, then you will soon learn more about this link.  During Confirmation class, Temple Israel students connect their Jewish learning to activism and spend the year studying Jewish texts - Torah, Tanach, Talmud. In these studies I work to show you how ancient texts are directly connected to current events.  Together, we use these texts to lobby on Capitol Hill! Jewish tradition supports you when you choose to protest or organize or speak truth to power.

You, the youth of today, are a part of a community of young people with a shared vision of a more equitable society that stretches back to Alexander Hamilton and even farther – to Moses, to King David, and to Rabbi Hillel who is so often quoted as saying:  

If I am not for myself who will be for me?

If I am only for myself who am I?

If not now, when?

If not now, if not when you are young and energetic, when you are idealistic and committed, then when will you, or any of us, have the determination to do this most important work?  You, the youth of today, have the knowledge, the passion, and the resources to change our world.  I want to be sure, before we leave this morning, that you know, unequivocally, that you have this power, this strength, this courage and that we, your teachers, your parents, your trusted adults are here to support you in your passions and, mostly, to stay out of your way as you work to bring justice to this world.I strongly believe, knowing you as I do, that you are NOT going to throw away your shot!     

[1]https://www.plough.com/en/topics/community/leadership/two-friends-two-prophets

[2]Babylonian Talmud Berachot 55a

[3]https://www.ted.com/talks/sydney_chaffee_social_justice_belongs_in_our_schools/transcript?rss#t-593794

Rosh HaShanah: Thinking Horizontally

Sermon by Rabbi Sim Glaser
2018/5779

This morning is a first. Behold, we have combined the downstairs TIPTY creative service with the traditional Sanctuary service to fashion something of a hybrid. We thought it might be nice for the generations to get a sense of what each other are up to. In this room we celebrate a hallowed history of worship. Our kids are thinking about tomorrow. It’s a nice blend.

One of our great biblical prophets, Yoel, said that the old shall dream dreams and the youth shall see visions. This prophet understood the delicate balance between those of us who represent the past and those who are the guardians of the future.

Yoel is what one of my favorite Kabbalah teachers called a horizontal prophet. A horizontal prophet is concerned with making clear God’s wishes, but equally about the welfare and future of the people. Isaiah, whom we will read on Yom Kippur, is a classic horizontal prophet when he tells us that our fasting on that day has to do not so much with our saying sorry to God, but with unlocking the yoke of poverty and not allowing another to go hungry.
Then there is the famous Amos – another horizontal prophet – who demanded Justice to flow like the mighty stream – in real human terms.

Vertical prophets, on the other hand, are all zealots for God. They are single-minded, caring only about pushing God’s agenda, sort of “stumping for God,” publicizing the Divine greatness with no regard for the people other than that they obey Divine law. They are extremists with one unalterable point of view, and one that rarely addresses the future welfare of others.

A classic example of a vertical prophet is Elijah. You’ve heard mostly the good press on Elijah. You’ve sung his song, put out his cup on Passover. But Elijah was a hot-headed God promoter who was more interested in punishing sinful Israelites than investing in the future and believing that we and our offspring mean business.

Contrast Elijah with Abraham who, in the case of Sodom and Gomorrah, challenged God’s own judgment to not act rashly in consideration of potential decent human character. Hey, there may be some decent folks in these towns!” Give humanity a chance!

Abraham’s goal was the future of humanity. His faith was tested many times, and he managed to show both his fealty to his God, and a love for the people he was forging into a nation. Abraham was a true horizontal prophet.

Oddly enough, the story we just heard chanted from the Torah is the one test Abraham almost failed! High atop Mount Moriah, Abraham almost becomes a vertical prophet, acting only for the sake of some bizarre Divine instruction to sacrifice his only son, and literally annihilate the future. He takes Isaac up the mountain, picks up the knife ready to end the future right there, and almost does the deed.

Spoiler alert: An angel stops him just in time! But just to keep you guessing, the Torah describes the two of them ascending the mountain, with no mention of Isaac on the way down, as though to give us a sense of what it would have been like, had the great Abraham cared nothing about the coming generations. It’s a sobering message to anyone who ignores the urgent calling of the future!

On the holiday of Shavuot this last spring I was asked to address our 10th grade confirmation students. Shavuot celebrates the giving of the Ten Commandments, but I wasn’t worried about these kids keeping the Ten Commandments. They were fifteen good kids and I didn’t spot very many potential adulterers, idol worshippers, thieves, or murderers among them. Well, there was this one kid, but never mind…

So I chose instead to give them five rules I hope they will break as they take our world into the future. Five expectations that many adults have about their likely behavior that I want them to prove false.

Rule #1

The statistics tell us that you millennials are going to replace human interaction with tech media; that some of you spend close to 6 hours a day on devices. I’d like to give a vote for looking at each other in the eyes. There really is no substitute.

Yes, it is true that Israeli technology came up with a lot of the science that led to smart media, but Jews have taught for thousands of years that real physical community is essential to our wellbeing. We need to sing and dance with each other. We need to agree and disagree with one another face to face. We need to hold each other accountable. We need to look each other in the eye. Peace negotiations are rarely made over wireless.

The Torah says that we, not our handheld devices, are, body and soul, created in the image of God. Silicon Valley says the rule is that they will tell you how to conduct your relationships. I told them to break that rule!

Rule #2

The numbers predict that when these kids come of age to vote in a few short years, more than half are not going to cast a ballot in local, state, or national elections. In the last national election, 40% of all eligible voters didn’t bother to go to the polls, and the percentage was even higher among young voters.

Our kids are growing up on a steady diet of complaining about our elected officials. How laws are being pushed through that do not have your best interests at heart. As a firm believer in the ancient Jewish law of karma I think we get what we deserve. Our generation, either by our vote or our abstention, brought about this political atmosphere.

There are people out there that are planning your future for you and are banking on the likelihood that you are going to stay home on voting day. If you have strong feelings about the issues – trade, foreign policy, LGBTQ rights, the climate, gun violence – make your voices heard and elect those who are concerned with your health, safety, and welfare.

One young person told me recently that she was not interested in politics or voting because, quote, “the politicians have ruined our world.” Maybe. But they work for you and they need to hear from you!

On Yom Kippur we will read the famous Torah passage that commands us to “choose life.” Most folks think the important word in that phrase is “life.” Actually the important word is “choose!”

Jewish historian, philosopher, and Holocaust survivor Elie Wiesel was noted to have said: the opposite of justice is not injustice, it is indifference. The opposite of peace is not war, it is indifference. The opposite of love is not hate, it is indifference.

Right now the rule out there says that over half of you are not going to exercise your right to vote. Break that rule!

Rule #3

You kids are inheriting a planet from us that we have not taken very good care of. The statistics about rising sea levels and alarming temperatures and storm systems are dire. We react to it as though the problem is insurmountable and we have passed the tipping point for climate change and it is out of our hands. But that is old-people talk. That is vertical prophecy nonsense. That is the language of people looking 50 years down the line and saying: “well, I won’t be alive anyway.” But you and your children will be.

The direction we take from today onward is very much in your control. If you think the people in charge of protecting the environment are not doing a good job, replace them. If you think the systems and energy policies of our nation are wrong-headed, change them.

Our Torah commands us back in Genesis: “be good stewards of the planet.” That instruction has never been more consequential than at this moment in human history.

The rule says your generation and ours are too self-absorbed to do anything globally. Break that rule!

Rule #4 - Israel

Many of you kids will soon find yourselves at a university that has an active anti-Zionist campaign going. The folks who may confront you about the Jewish state have done their homework. So learn your facts about Israel and its unique position in the 4,000 year history of the Jewish people. It is ok to take issue with the policies of the Jewish state. The history of Israel is not without blemish. But it is not ok to deny Israel’s very right to exist. No other country on the face of this planet has its existence regularly called into question.

You may find yourselves engaged in passionate debate about the Jewish state. So learn about Israel’s role in the world, including the many attempts to live in peaceful coexistence with its neighbors. Make up your own mind. Visit Israel. Get to know the people of Israel, and the amazing globally healing actions that are coming out of that country.

The rule says that with every passing year fewer and fewer American Jewish youth are connecting with Israel. Break that rule!

And lastly, Rule #5 - Religious Affiliation

According to the polls on trends in religious groups in this country, 60% or more of you are going to choose to not be affiliated with any official religious institution whatsoever.

Sooner or later every human being on the planet finds some type of belief system. It may not be an officially recognized faith system like Christianity, Islam, or Judaism, but sooner or later you, and your children after you will fall into a set of beliefs. You can certainly leave it up to chance. I think associating with a Jewish institution that fosters Jewish values will be good for you.

Did religious school totally prepare you for life in the real world? Maybe not. But there are millions of people out there spewing warped value systems, and millions more who are seeking to belong to something. Just surf the net and you’ll find them. Online communities have their purpose, but they do not, for the most part, console the bereaved, feed the hungry, provide companionship during life’s hard moments, or put ancient hallowed values to work in a world of people in need.

The rule says many of you are going to turn away from your heritage. Please break that rule.

Elijah the vertical prophet did not believe much in the will and ability of humanity’s future. He didn’t have faith in the children.

And so there were consequences for Elijah: The Bible story tells us that God gets sick and tired of him, actually firing Elijah from the position of chief prophet! Elijah is pink slipped and replaced by another fellow. Turns out that God of Israel has more faith in our young people and in humanity than the prophet.

Equally strange is that Elijah’s death is never reported, as though to suggest that he lives on eternally and as a punishment of sorts he must bear witness to how the people behave. Elijah is therefore eternally condemned to appear as a featured guest with his own center stage seat at every bris that will ever occur in the Jewish future. That’s why we set a chair for Elijah at our covenantal ceremonies.

He doesn’t attend brises because he loves smoked salmon and knishes. No. Elijah is being forced to witness our undying Jewish devotion to the future. That we will not allow ourselves to get trapped with old festering ideas, but to embrace tomorrow.

In my opinion, any philosophy that cares more about today than tomorrow is not a Jewish philosophy.

And what is the most well-known thing about Elijah? As the Passover Seder draws to its conclusion, a child is asked to go open the door for that famous guest who is running on Jewish time. It is a child who greets Elijah.

Why does Elijah have to show up at every Seder? To witness eternally that the Jewish people are committed to freedom eternally. Not just with our own, but with everyone’s freedom. And not just about our historical freedom, but our future redemption. He gets there just in time to hear us say “next year in Jerusalem,” which is really shorthand for “let us do the Messianic work we need to do to make next year healthier, saner, cleaner, holier, gentler, and more peaceful than this last year was.”

It is a child who goes to the door! Always a child! Because Elijah the vertical prophet needs to look squarely in the eye the young person who is going to inherit tomorrow.

Alas, we live in a world of too much vertical prophecy. We are so sure of ourselves. We retreat into our camps. We have stopped listening to the other voice. Our immediate security in the present moment overrides our concern for the future. And when we do this, the first thing that gets sacrificed is the world of our children and grandchildren.

As the great horizontal prophet Yoel said: “The old shall dream dreams and the youth shall see visions.” Our greatest prophets were about investing in the future, and this, I believe, is where we need to firmly set our sights: knowing that the only way to ensure tomorrow is to invest in those who are being born today.

L’shanah tovah.

Rosh HaShanah: Sanctuary Service

Sermon by Rabbi Sim Glaser
2017/5778

Written text of Rabbi Glaser's sermon is not available. Please enjoy the video of this Rosh HaShanah Sanctuary Service.

Rosh HaShanah: An Entire World

Sermon by Rabbi Sim Glaser
2016/5777

This is a year of celebration of our community. We expanded our Temple on a yuuuuuuuuuuge level! You came through our ginourmous lobby of 1.6 million square feet; our sanctuary now seats 65,000 people; we are partnered with over 20 different food and beverage companies; there are 125 suites overlooking the field; we have 1200 HD flat screen televisions, and the largest glass pivoting doors in the world! At our coffee bar you can get a beer for $11.50 a glass and… Wait, oh, how embarrassing. I’m being told I apparently have the incorrect building status report.

But those numbers are impressive, no? And ours are too! 6000 congregants, 2200 family units. I have to admit, I throw around big numbers all the time. Lots of folks do! There are over 7 billion people in the world. Did you know that the Powerball Jackpot is currently $47.5 million? Someone told me at Torah study this last Shabbat that there are something like 8 trillion stars in our universe!

When we use words like 6 million Jews, or read that 450,000 Syrians have been killed in that civil war which still rages on, we are dismayed, but on some level we cannot wrap our minds around big numbers of people. Their identities are drowned out by the brash statistic. When, after all, in our day to day lives, do we deal with 6 million or 450,000 of anything??

No matter how big we get, and no matter how colossal the numbers are in the daily news from distant lands, we are hardwired to deal with one person at a time. Our Talmud teaches us whosoever saves a single life it is as though he has saved an entire world.

Many years ago a documentary film was made about a classroom in Whitwell, Tennessee, a small community of 1600 people. They were studying the Holocaust and the consequences of extreme prejudice. The kids in Whitwell knew about hatred. The KKK had been founded about a hundred miles from their town. The challenge for the teachers was when the kids asked: What is Six Million?

Their solution was to have the kids try and collect 6 million paper clips in order to wrap their young minds around the enormous number of victims. They succeeded in doing so. Now they knew what the number 6 million meant.

Last week our scholar-in-residence was Yehudit Shendar from the Yad Vashem Holocaust Museum in Jerusalem. So we were steadying ourselves to hear from her about the millions of Jews who lost their lives during the Shoah, the real impact of her presentation, and this is definitely how she “rolls,” was when she began to tell us individual stories.

She told us, in loving detail, about Petr Ginz, one 14 year old Czechoslovakian boy, a gifted artist and author who wrote novels and created drawings while imprisoned in the Theresienstadt Concentration Camp, and who continued to write and draw even in Auschwitz where he was murdered. How Petr dreamed, in 1943, of flying in a rocket into space. And how 60 years later his drawing of an imagined moon landscape actually accompanied the first Israeli Astronaut Ilan Ramon on the ill-fated Columbia Mission.

A chill went up our collective spine when Dr. Shendar told us that the morning on which the Columbia disintegrated upon reentry into the earth’s atmosphere on February 1st, 2003 in the skies over Texas… happened to be the very day Peter Ginz would have turned 75 years old! Now the dark history became real. There, in the tragedy, hope and glory of one 14 year old boy, and the world’s first Israeli astronaut, lay the human drama.

Remember a single life, and you save an entire world.

Experts tell us that compassion fatigue sets in not when the number of victims reaches the hundreds or thousands, but when we hear about the fate of even two people! It seems we are hard-wired to relate to each other one at a time.

Lots of numbers flew at us last year, but what were the images that penetrated our consciences - the little boy washed up on the shores of the Mediterranean; the Syrian child who survives the bombing of his city and sits, shell-shocked, staring at us from the back of the ambulance.

Witness a single life, and you see an entire world.

Yes, we rejoice in being a large Temple community. But in reality we are built around individual joy, individual achievement, individual pain. Our shiva houses are mobbed because one family has lost one beloved person. Caring Bridge communications online when a single friend has a life threatening illness. Our community gets energized when we coalesce around one loss, when we trot out one young thirteen year old for her Bat Mitzvah, when we name one baby.

Just about a month ago the fate of Jacob Wetterling became known to us. Here is one young life, a boy whose whereabouts were unknown for 27 years, a tragic mystery that somehow galvanized a community. We cried, we waited, we searched and we hurt right alongside the Wetterling family for 27 years. We marveled at Patty Wetterling’s tenacity of spirit as she ran for public office, like she was our own mother, or sister. People in our congregation talked about how they were 11 years old when Jacob was 11 years old and feel as though they “grew up with him.” And when we finally learned what had befallen Jacob, we felt that strange combination of horror and relief, again, along with the Wetterling family.

Remember one young life, and you have remembered an entire world.

You have to ask yourself, how can it be, that such a thing happens to a family you don’t even know and may never even meet, and still you agonize alongside them and find relief, with them, in knowing, finally, an answer? This is what is truly meant by community. And we as Jews should celebrate it!

A friend of mine was a student rabbi years ago in the northeast. He used to marvel that many members of his tiny congregation, some of them over 80 years old, would somehow make it to services even in the midst of a big snowstorm. When he asked, one woman responded, “well, I wouldn’t want Ethel to be disappointed by my not showing up.” Another said: “well, Fred won’t know what to do without me here.”

The humorist Harry Golden tells the story of his father, a notorious atheist who nevertheless went to synagogue every single Saturday morning. When Harry asked his father about it, he replied, "Look, everyone goes to shul for a different reason. Garfinkel goes to synagogue to talk to God. I go to synagogue to talk to Garfinkel."

It is no coincidence that when any U.S. President gives the State of the Union address the high point of the talk is often when he points up to the gallery and identifies one soldier, one national hero, one individual story of heartbreak, one person’s act of courage. Even when you are speaking to millions of people through the media, you can’t portray the whole country as simply a mass of humanity – you have to look at the people – one by one.

Before construction began on Temple’s new addition, we invited members of the Kenwood neighborhood to a forum to talk about the new building. We asked if any individual had an issue with what we were proposing. Not a soul objected. Maybe it’s because we are good neighbors. Maybe it is because the people who come in and out of this building care about the individuals they meet up with on the street. Or maybe it is because we cared what each of them thought.

You know, there have been many stunning moments in this campaign season, and I’ll bet we’re in for a lot more, but one of my personal favorites was when, in addressing the plight of Syrian refugees and immigration quotas someone asked the question: If I had a big bowlful of Skittles and told you that just three of them would kill you, would you take a handful?

Called upon for comment, a spokesperson for the Mars Candy Company, maker of Skittles, had the wisdom to point out, quote: Skittles are candy, refugees are people. We don’t feel this is an appropriate analogy.

Personally, I imagined a group of Jews ferrying out to the Statue of Liberty to scrub the obscene graffiti off the Emma Lazarus poem and to re-hoist the lamp beside the golden door that the Statue of Liberty dropped when she heard the Skittles comment!

But here’s the more Jewish response: If you knew that in that teeming mass of people there were three who would bring joy and wisdom, brilliance, initiative and innovation to our society, could you refrain from bringing them to safety? If you knew that in that bowl of humanity was young Petr Ginz, who dreamed of flying to the moon, and would have delighted us endlessly with art, stories, visions and achievements, who may have discovered a cure for disease or devised new sources for clean and renewable energy, could we refrain from opening our golden door to him?

Save a single life, and you have saved an entire world.

We can talk big numbers, statistics, we can talk millions, hundreds of thousands, or dozens crowded on life rafts floating in the Mediterranean. But better each of us should think of a single person, or her descendent, someone  whom we know personally, even we ourselves, who would not be alive today had more Americans angrily protested the immigration of Jewish refugees to this country during World War II.

The Jewish people knows what it means to be counted as numbers. We’ve had them tattooed on our arms. We are commanded, in our tradition, never to count people. The Prophet Hosea said: And the number of the children of Israel shall be as the sand of the sea, which shall never be counted. The great sage Maimonides warned that to count people like so many cattle is a sin against God and humanity.

The paper-clip-collecting children of Whitwell Tennessee didn’t learn the lesson when millions of paper clips arrived in their classrooms. They got it when they saw the clips that held the name of a single person, or the faded yellow Jewish star, or the identification papers… the single photograph.

We are a people who love people. We find our treasures in the individuals we know. We celebrate milestones, one Jew at a time. We share the pain of those who have lost that special person they love. This is what is meant by community.

As big numbers come your way in the coming weeks, don’t think so big. Forget the 65,000 seats. Think of the individual fan. Never mind the 8 trillion stars – think of the fragile planet Earth. Don’t ruminate on 6 million Jews. Think of Petr Ginz. Don’t let the number 450,000 lull you into the stupor of indifference. Think of the one child in the ambulance staring past the camera.

And thus our Talmud teaches: To save one life is to have saved an entire world!

When Jacob Wetterling’s murderer led the authorities to his grave last month, tens of thousands of people uttered a communal gasp.

Why, on one of the holiest days on the Jewish calendar would a synagogue community, and a rabbi giving a sermon, want to remember Jacob Wetterling, an 11 year old boy who went missing 27 years ago? What does it have to do with us? What does the story of just one boy have to do with you and me?

Everything. For he was an entire world.

Rosh HaShanah: Watching Our Words

Sermon by Rabbi Jennifer Hartman
2016/5777

“The time has come

The walrus said

To talk of many things:

Of shoes- and ships-

And sealing wax-

Of cabbages and kings-

And why the sea is boiling hot-

And whether pigs have wings.”  

With words such as these we are pulled into Lewis Carroll's famous book, Alice and Wonderland, in which Carroll so vividly paints a mystical magical world for us through the use of his pithy phrases, short anecdotes and even, gibberish.  We follow as Alice, bored with the conversation of grown-ups, finds a topsy-turvy, upside down universe filled with entertainment and adventure.

As a little girl, I loved to escape behind the looking glass with Alice.  I was introduced to these stories by my grandfather.  Still a man of few—but powerful—words, he has always connected best through the wit and wisdom of books.  Whenever we were together, we had a nighttime ritual.  Once I was in bed he would come into my room and tell me a story.  Using the characters from Alice and Wonderland, he created an imaginary world and sent Alice, with me as her sidekick, on an adventure.  I could not help but be enchanted by the reality he created.

On one of my recent visits to my grandparent’s home I found Carroll's book amongst the vast array of volumes overflowing my grandfather's shelves.  I picked it up and began to read.  I was quickly reminded of Carroll’s brilliance and his mastery of the English language.  His riddles stay with us as their logic, combined with their whimsical nature, reverberates in our minds.  It is his creative genius and wordplay that keeps us engaged in the story.  Words have that power.  They have the ability not only to impart information but also to engage, motivate and transform. 

The great speeches of our time are remembered for more than the speaker's personality or charisma.  They are remembered for the anecdotes that speak to our hearts and endure in our minds.  “One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.” “Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country.” “I have a dream.”  I get chills just thinking about these words that marked such astonishing human achievements -  the celebration of space exploration, a President summoning us to be our best selves, and the greatest civil rights leader challenging the status quo.  They are motivational and inspirational.  They move us to act, they propel us forward, they enable us to envision a brighter future and bring that vision to reality. These are words that have the strength to inspire us to action.     

Our Jewish tradition understands the power of words.  In just a few weeks we will begin the Torah anew with these words: “Bereshit barah elohim et hashamayim v’et haratz. In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.” (Genesis 1:1)    God spoke and the world was created.  It is through God’s words that the world came into being.  With words we humans also create.  When a new couple stands beneath the wedding chuppah excited and nervous to begin their lives together, they exchange vows - Harei at mekudeshet li - that bind their lives together.  With their words they build a family.  For any of us who have had the privilege and the honor of witnessing this moment we can feel its power, its exhilaration, its hope.  In that moment we witness creation.

Words, however, also have the ability to harm.  We have all been at the other end of a snide remark, a hurtful comment, and a bad joke.  We all know that the nursery rhyme “sticks and stones will break my bones, but words will never hurt me,” is far from true.  Words hurt, a lot.  They get under our skin and attach to our soul. We carry harmful words around with us like bricks weighing us down.  They make us look at ourselves differently.  They deflate our confidence and cause us to question our being.  Now, more than ever, it seems we cannot escape the critical words that aim to tear us down.  They are everywhere.  They are on our many screens, in our pockets, at work and sometimes even at home. 

Do you know that there are people today who are surfing the Internet with the sole purpose of criticizing others?  They are called trolls, which is Internet slang for a person who sows discord by starting arguments or upsetting people, by posting inflammatory, extraneous, or off-topic messages in an online community. Factors like anonymity and a lack of authority strip away the morals that we as a society have spent millennia building, giving people the freedom to attack others.  They use social media to perform pranks, harass and threaten their victims.   

This is not a new issue or a new concern.  Entire books have been written on the dangers of having an evil tongue.  The Torah refers to the slander as lashon hara - derogatory speech about another person.  The prohibition against this is found twice in the Torah, both in the third book, the book of Leviticus.  “You will not go up and down as a tale-bearer among thy people” (Lev. 19:16), “You shall not wrong one another with speech” (Lev. 25:17).  The Talmud teaches us that the act of lashon hara kills three people - the person who speaks it, the person who hears it and the person about whom it is told.  In fact, the rabbis went as far as to say that slander, tale bearing, and evil talk are worse than the three cardinal sins of murder, immorality, and idolatry.  In truth, it is with words that we can affect others to the point of causing these latter three offences.

This is why sins committed with our words hold a central place in our confessions on Yom Kippur.  Of the 43 sins enumerated in the Al Cheit confession recited on Yom Kippur, 11 are sins committed through speech. According to Jewish tradition the tongue is the most dangerous of all instruments.  For this reason it must be kept hidden from view, behind the two protective walls of the lips and teeth, in order to prevent its misuse.

I would argue that our lips and our teeth are not doing their job these days.  The words that we are hearing from our pre-school children to our politicians are mean and alarming.  This summer I was at Camp TEKO sitting with a first grade group as they ate their snack when I heard one camper say to another, “Donald Trump is racist and hates woman.”  The camper responded “Hillary Clinton is a liar and a cheater.”  While it would be unwise to underestimate the aptitude of Camp TEKO first graders, I am fairly certain that our campers did not come up with these assessments on their own.  They were merely repeating what they heard around the kitchen table.  While they may not fully understand the words they are saying, they do know they are unkind. 

We have come very far from the debates over the white picket fence author Bill Bishop describes in his book, The Big Sort. He writes that although “America is more diverse than ever coast to coast, the places where we live are becoming increasingly crowded with people who live, think, and vote like we do. We've built a country where we can all choose the neighborhood and church and news show — most compatible with our lifestyle and beliefs. And we are living with the consequences of this way-of-life segregation. Our country has become so polarized, so ideologically inbred, that people don't know and can't understand those who live just a few miles away.” This trend is apparent in the way in which we speak to one another about the topics over which we disagree. 

This year’s political discourse has been characterized by a certain coarseness and demeaning quality.  Instead of news that teaches us about the merit or problems with each candidate’s policy suggestions, we are reading and hearing personal attacks on politicians themselves. And we, as private citizens, are repeating and perpetuating these campaign smears while also applying our judgment to our peers.  We are attacking each other for our political opinions. I regularly see Facebook posts threatening to end friendships over politics. We question the intelligence and sanity of those with whom we disagree. We are using our words to attack one another’s very being. We are judging people’s souls based on their political leanings.  We are assuming that because their thoughts differ from ours they are evil, malicious and going to cause the destruction of the country. We have replaced listening with judging.

Sh’ma Yisrael, Adonai Eloheinu, Adonai Echad. Listen Israel Adonai is our God, Adonai is one.  Listen Israel.  These are the words that Jews are commanded to say each time we pray, they are the words that our on our lips when we go to sleep at night.  They are on the doorposts of our home. We teach them to our children. They are the last words we say before we die. These words teach us to pay attention. We are not just to let the sounds pass by our ears. We are to use the skill of listening, not just the physical ability to hear, which not all of us have. Yet, we can all listen to the words being communicated to us, whether it be through speech, sign language or the written word. In fact, listening, paying attention, Sh'miat Haozen, is one of the virtues we are to aspire to. When we are committed to attentive listening we have the ability to understand and learn from one another.  

The Torah is full of times when God is trying to get our attention. “Listen well, O heavens, and I will speak.” (Deuteronomy 32:1)– only if we are paying attention will God talk to us. This idea of listening is of utmost importance in the Torah. Torah does not mince words.  Tradition tells us that every word is used for a purpose. It is no accident that we are commanded time and again to pay attention. The Israelites were not very good at listening. They rarely understood what was being communicated to them. Instead, they interrupted with their list of grievances. Too often, we are like the ancient Israelites. 

If we are honest with ourselves we know that we don’t listen very well. And when we do, we are often listening for what we want to hear. We have made a decision about what the other person will say and we are biding our time, waiting for when we can interject with our own opinion, or discredit the speaker with a counterpoint. Rarely do we slow down enough to ask questions, to dig deeper, and to understand another’s point of view and core values.  Rarely do we hear, let alone look for, the truths that differ from our own assumptions or understandings.  Rather than using our conversation to learn something new, we use them to convince others of our side.  All too often this leads to yelling and arguing, instead of listening and understanding.  

We all know how much better we feel when others pay attention to us. This is when we feel most valued, most understood, most important. It is also when we are most able to listen to another’s point of view. It is in this duality that we are able to find common ground where our paths, our passions and our concerns meet and where we can find solutions that were never imagined.    

As hard as it is to choose our words carefully, it is even harder to listen to those with which we disagree. Game of Thrones is a TV series, based on a book, that shows the best and worst of humanity. It happens to be much too gory for me, but I still can’t stop watching when Mike has it on! There are characters in it that are so despicable it hard not to root for their destruction. Then there are others whose wisdom far exceeds their position or stature. One such character, who happens to be my personal favorite, Tyrion Lannister, remarked: “We make peace with our enemies, not our friends.” Guarding our tongue and listening attentively are two crucial skills to living together amongst families and within communities. 

In a conversation with the Mad Hatter, Alice begins a sentence “I don’t think…” Before she has a chance to finish the Hatter jumps in with: “Then you should not speak.” This of course frustrates Alice to no end, for the Hatter is clearly not listening to her. In fact, in many ways it is the lack of listening that propels the story of Alice forward. But, in this instance, it is not the art of listening that the Mad Hatter is trying to teach us. He wants Alice to realize that she is not choosing her words carefully. So often we don’t think, but we do speak. We speak out of anger and frustration; we speak out of boredom or to fill the silence. We use our words without discretion. In so doing, we forget the power we have to create and to destroy.  Instead, we view speech as a credit line with no limit, rather than the most valuable possession we have. And the value of our credit is plummeting. 

It is time for us to take back the importance of speech and relearn the art of listening. It is time for us to work toward understanding one another. Our words, once released, are like an arrow. They cannot be recalled; the harm they do cannot be contained. Just as the feathers in the well-known parable cannot be put back into the pillow once they have been shaken out into the wind, our words have a tendency to fly away to places unknown where we are unable to collect them and the damage they do cannot be undone. But, as is said in Proverbs, kind words are like honey, they are sweet to the soul and healing to the body. They promote kindness and compassion. 

Therefore, as we celebrate this New Year, we have a choice to make. Will we use our speech to heal or to harm? Will we speak rashly like the thrust of a sword or bring healing with the wise tongue? Will we use our words to light fires in our minds or to wring tears from our eyes? And to whom will each of us commit to listen? Whose opinion will we try to better understand? Whose fears will we begin to acknowledge? Now is our chance to change the conversation. For:

“The time has come

The walrus said

To talk of many things”

Shana Tova

Rosh HaShanah: Transformation

Sermon by Rabbi Jennifer Hartman
2015/5776

This summer I had the opportunity to hike in the Dolomites, a beautiful region of the Alps located in northern Italy.  I was amazed to learn from one of our guides, that two hundred and eighty million years ago, this mountain range was completely under water.  The white, rock-like material that comprises these mountains is actually sea coral.  It was incredible to think about how much change has taken place since that time.  The continents moved, the water receded, and the mountaintops are now as high as 11,000 feet above sea level.  Rather than scuba diving down we were climbing up, rather breathlessly at times, to see the stunning views.  Canvassing this mountain range, hiking up farther and farther until we were above the tree line, seeing places where streams had slowly eroded the limestone and the way the rocks had settled into place, I could not help but think about the broader issue of how change occurs in the natural world… and in us.

One thing I realized, as I spent five days surrounded by the serenity and the beauty of this vast mountain range is that nature, when left alone, evolves very slowly.  As we hiked, higher and higher, day after day, pushing ourselves to take one more step, willing our lungs to fully take in the thinning air, wondering why uber was not there to quickly take us home, I realized that we – humans - also change slowly - both our minds and our bodies.  It takes a lot of time and patience for us to change our mindset, our thought process, the lens through which we see the world.  And it certainly takes a lot of time and patience for us to lose weight, to build strength, to gain endurance. I learned this as each morning I woke up and thought to myself, there is no way that I can do this again, and each evening as my calves and my knees and my feet ached I thought I cannot believe what I was able to accomplish today.  It was not until the last day when my muscles and joints hurt a little bit less that I knew I could conquer one more peak, that I appreciated that the reward would be incredible.  It took perseverance to reach this understanding.  If I had given up just a day earlier I never would have realized the full reward.

The transformation that took place to the dolomite mountain range and to me while hiking there made me remember a wonderful TED talk I had heard about one man’s personal transformation. Today, this man is a   prolific author and inspirational speaker who travels to inner-city schools around the country helping students understand they have many paths from which to choose.  This man, Shaka Senghor, knows this because he spent 23 years in jail. 

Senghor was raised in Detroit.  He was an honor roll student with dreams of becoming a doctor when his parents divorced leaving him angry and confused.  In his teen years, he fell in with a rough crowd and at 17 he was shot multiple times.  No one was there to help him through this trauma and instead of confronting his fears and anxieties he became irrational and paranoid.  Fourteen months later, at 19, his life changed forever when he shot and killed a man.  Senghor was convicted of murder and entered prison bitter, enraged and hurt.  He blamed everyone else for his position in life.  In jail Senghor fell deeper and deeper into trouble.  He ran the black market, he sold drugs and he broke all the rules.  Eventually he was sent to solitary confinement for 7 and a half years.  It was during this time that he received a letter from his 8-year-old son.  His son began the letter by writing, in capital letters, MOM TOLD ME WHY YOU ARE IN PRISON - MURDER.  His son went on to say, Dad, don’t kill, God is watching you.  In that moment Senghor learned that his son now knew what he had done and defined him by his action.

Senghor was transformed by this letter in a way he did not know possible.  It struck a chord in him that caused him to reexamine his life. He allowed the words of his son to touch his soul.  He did not become defensive but rather contemplated the message as he stared down at the letters.  He decided he would not allow them to define him.

He needed to take a step back and examine himself in order to bring about a transformation.  For Senghor this process was long, hard and included four key components – (1) mentors, (2) books, (3) familial support, and (4) writing.  Senghor had great mentors, including his son, who spoke to him honestly and candidly enabling him to see uncomfortable truths about his life.  He read inspiring books and poems by brilliant black scholars, philosophers and activists including Malcolm X.  His readings showed him he had other choices available to him and other, more fulfilling, paths to walk.  His family stood by his side while he was in jail, especially his father who was with him every step of the way.  This gave him confidence when stumbled and support when he felt discouraged.  Lastly, Senghor wrote, he kept a journal of all of his actions.  The process of writing down his experiences helped him to confront his choices and to realize his need to atone, to acknowledge that he had been hurt and had hurt others, to take the time to apologize even if he received no response in return.  This allowed Senghor to free himself of his harmful past deeds, to no longer be held hostage to his prior actions. In this way, when he was finally released from prison twenty years later, he was able to begin a new life as an author and speaker – a positive and productive member of society. Senghor was able to do what we are asked to do during the High Holidays, to see life with clear eyes and to begin, slowly, to change the parts of ourselves that are destructive and detrimental.  He began to see the potential blessing and burden in each moment and chose the blessings.  He learned that selecting good over evil, is a matter of life and death.       

So, you may be asking, what does a man who committed murder and a mountain range have in common?  They both teach us that to truly improve, to truly change, takes time.  Today, as we celebrate the beginning of the Jewish year 5776 we search our souls and cleanse our hearts of the trials of the previous year.  We have actions for which we need to atone, there are mistakes we still need to rectify.  We ask God to be lenient with us as we go through our process of teshuva, repentance. Yet, we know that to truly improve, to truly change, to truly transform, we must work beyond the ten days of atonement.  Beginning this work on Rosh Hashanah and ending it on Yom Kippur is akin to dieting between breakfast and lunch and thinking we will lose weight.   Change does not happen in a day.  It takes determination, commitment and resolve.  It takes openness, understanding and compassion.  It takes perseverance and persistence and lots of time to reach a beautiful place of blessing. 

This reality, that change takes time, is our greatest challenge.  Nothing else in our modern society takes time.  We expect responses to our emails within 5 minutes, we can watch whatever show we want whenever we want, and eat anything at anytime.  With our cell phones in our hands we are always accessible and can find information on anything with just a few clicks of a button.   It is no wonder we are frustrated when we do not understand a concept, conquer a challenge, or make a change instantaneously.  Any musician, scholar, linguist will tell you that becoming proficient in their field was partially talent and majority tuchas - sitting and studying for hours and hours on end.  Scientists have even gotten it down to a number.  It takes 10,000 hours or 416 and 2/3 days to become a master.  The greats in any field had to persevere through the tedium and boredom, the set-backs and failures, the frustrations and irritations.  They needed to push themselves to the end and be patient in order to succeed.   

When I think of the Dolomites I think of what majesty and beauty comes from slow and patient change.  They took millions of years, to become what they are today.  Senghor took time, years in prison that he spent working on himself, to turn his life around and become the motivational speaker and author he is today.  These days are not the time to complete the work, but they are a time, every year, for us to renew the work, to continue the work, to jump start the work on ourselves, the work that takes a lifetime to truly finish. 

Life is a journey with many peaks and valleys, at times we will try and try and try and still fail, at other times we will find great success.   The lesson for us to learn is to never give up. It takes time and it is hard to bring about change in our lives, but the reward is brilliant.  These days of awe help us to acknowledge our faults and failures, while still keeping the door open on change and improvement, embracing all that we have ahead of us.  If hiking in the Dolomites taught me one thing, it is that while change can be scary it can also bring about magnificent beauty.  Senghor’s story teaches all of us that even our worst deeds, our darkest moments, do not determine the final outcome of our lives.  Life can only be lived one moment at a time.  Our past does not have to determine our future.  We have a choice to make.  We get to decide what comes next. For this reason, the lessons of the High Holidays are only effective if we can carry them with us throughout the year.  Therefore, we pray that these days will bring about inspiration and give us strength to never give up on uncovering our true potential.   

Shanah Tova

Rosh HaShanah: Gratitude in Our DNA

Sermon by Rabbi Sim Glaser
2015/5776

I was in the nation’s capitol a few weeks ago. A hundred rabbis were having dinner in, of all places, the National Archives, which they had closed to the public. Now you understand how important rabbis are? They closed the National Archives so we could have dinner there. It was surreal to hear someone actually say the words: “Please don’t get any BBQ sauce on the Constitution.” 

After dessert and a speaker, we rabbis had the entire museum to ourselves to party with the founding fathers! There an old buddy, Rabbi Sidney from Chicago and I, found ourselves face to face with the Declaration of Independence – yes, the original!!

My eyes were quickly drawn to the words:  “We have a right, endowed by our Creator, to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.” and I thought about how very seriously we modern Americans take that inalienable right to pursue happiness. 

From there we entered an exhibit of the American history of immigration and inclusion. African Americans, European Jews, Asians, Latinos, the huddled masses who over the centuries have come to these borders grateful to be integrated into a growing thriving democratic society. 

I knew that logged somewhere in the hundreds of millions of records was my own mother’s arrival in this great nation.  She too was ready to seek happiness in her new home, thankful for the possibility of a new beginning, hopeful for the arrival of her parents. 

That, of course, was not to happen. They were trapped in a land where their most basic human rights ,and ultimately their lives, were to be taken from them. 

The Archives tell how Americans have expressed their gratitude over the centuries for the precious gift of living in a successful democracy by a dedication to responsibility, to an active participation in community. In political activism. In shaping our culture. 

It has not been lost on subsequent American Jewish generations that one’s right to vote in free elections is nothing short of a miracle to be thankful for. Just look at the countries these immigrants had fled. At the Archives and at the Holocaust Museum down the street, it is notably documented that Adolf Hitler ascended to power in the last German democratic election largely because of those who did not exercise their right to vote. 

As an election year approaches it is good to remind ourselves of free democratic elections. It has recently been noted that of our youngest voters in this nation, those aged 18-24, less than 20% find their way to the polls to vote in national elections. 

As I speak to you this morning, we see refugees in the millions fleeing horrible situations in search of a better life, and a world that is increasingly fearful of taking them in. Imagine in the year 2015, Hungarian transport trains destined for camps where the inmates are assigned numbers! There is nothing new, it seems, under the sun. The ongoing debate as to how we handle immigrants to this great land should send chills down the spine of anyone in this room who comes from a history of immigration. Excepting our Native American congregants, I believe that is every one of us!

One thing seemed very clear standing in the Capitol and seeing artifacts that chronicle the birth of our nation - Sensitivity to the plight of others has always begun with an appreciation of our own blessings. We simply cannot care about others if we have no gratitude for the goodness that is our legacy.

And yet how quick we are to forget to be thankful. The very character of a nation that provides us with the right of self-determination, the pursuit of happiness and success, and has allowed so many of us to succeed and thrive, may well have lulled us into a sense of sanguine acceptance.

This is nothing new. The final book of the Torah, Devarim, taught a lesson as relevant today as it was 3000 years ago when it first made the Israelite best seller list: When you come into a land already blossoming and fertile and bountiful, with everything prepared and ready for you, you might think you just deserve it. You may even come to believe it was all your doing. 

The biblical author, writing thousands of years ago was aware that even those of us with health, safety, loving friends and family, social intimacy, financial success and material wealth still might sense that there is something missing from their lives. What could it be? 

We have become like the child who is given the gift of a luscious orange from the fruit vendor, and when his mother instructs him: “now honey, what do you say to the nice man?” the child hands the orange back to the man and says: “oh yeah, peel it.” 

And thus the Torah repeatedly instructs us a simple mitzvah: Give thanks!

Gratitude is more than a religious imperative. It is a necessary way to make sense and order out of a confusing complex world. Gratitude may well be the antidote to the cynicism that is all around us and part of us. As our pessimism about a world in turmoil is lifted, new possibilities come into view. 

And if health is your concern, you should know that the cultivation of gratitude has been shown to enhance our physical well-being! 

The Declaration of Independence guarantees our right to pursue happiness, but it doesn’t come with instructions. I looked for footnotes on how to pursue happiness. There are no such footnotes! 

In Washington the author journalist Ari Shavit spoke to us said he always believed that “morality is in the DNA of the Jewish people.” Perhaps, I thought, but then so must gratitude be our DNA! After all, the biblical character Yehuda, from which we get our religion’s name comes from the verb l’hodot and means “grateful”.

You know, our Bar and Bat Mitzvah students write their speeches and they talk Torah and then they thank folks who made their big day possible. I remember years back one Bat Mitzvah girl wrote two pages on the subjects in her Torah portion and 14 pages of thank yous. At the time I was aghast and insisted that she reverse the order of her priorities. But she refused, and thinking back on it I think maybe she had it right. The theme of her speech was gratitude for the people who make up her life and have seen to her well-being. 

Gratitude is hard for some of us because it implies humility. Like the ancient Israelites, how quickly we forget that we could not have reached our lofty status without the help of others. One famous Jewish immigrant, portrayed in the Archives, Albert Einstein, notably said “I have to remind myself a thousand times a day of how much I depend on other people for my success.” 

Gratitude is the song human beings are supposed to sing. A song of humility and awe at what surrounds us. Remember the palpable chill in the crowd when President Obama broke into song at the memorial for the Charleston Nine? And the song? Amazing Grace of course. How sweet the sound. And how beautifully strange to hear the Commander in Chief sing the humble words “A wretch like me”. 

In listening to the first Republican debate several weeks back I was amazed by how each of the candidates, almost without exception, linked himself to his “humble” origins. I think they knew they were touching a national nerve, and wanted voters to know that they appreciated the opportunities this great nation affords people. That such gratitude was an essential part of being an American. 

There is much to be grateful for, even right here and now. A day devoted to prayer may not strike you as a gratitude opportunity, but look at it this way… Like the precious offering of new life given to the immigrant, this is a day given to us to begin anew! What other systems of thought or institutions grant you a “do over” in your life? 

I do think that the inclination to express gratitude is in our DNA. Every earthly being has their song. Coyotes howl at the moon. Rivers flow north to south. Flowers rise up to greet pollinating bees. Birds serenade one another. Children laugh and play spontaneously, smiling an average of 400 times a day! Our song is gratitude. It should be as natural as our breathing. 

This last spring I was invited as a scholar in residence to my old congregation, Beth Israel in West Hartford, CT. I was reunited with, among others, the temple custodians. One of them, a Jamaican gentleman named Bunny, greeted me at the door and it was like 17 years had passed in a day. I shared a reminiscence with Bunny from those many years ago. It was the end of a long day at Temple and as I opened the door to the parking lot I saw that it was pouring rain. “Damn it” I said rather un-rabbinically, and then there was a hand on my shoulder. I turned and it was Bunny the custodian who said words I have never forgotten: “Rabbi, the rain is a blessing.” 

At that moment I felt as though I should be setting up and taking down the chairs and Bunny the Custodian should be preaching on Rosh Hashanah. In typical fashion I had forgotten the integral part of being Jewish is to be grateful and to bless things, especially things that have somehow become ordinary or even burdensome to us. 

In that same congregation the domed ceiling was made up of over 7000 individual bricks. I had been told that over the hundred years of its existence about 6 of those bricks had come loose. On my not so good days at Beth Israel I would stare up at the ceiling and wonder which brick was going to come loose next. And if it was going to land on me! 

I recently learned, to my astonishment, that there is actually a condition known as Missing Tile Syndrome. When one sees the ceiling of tiles and only notices the ones that have become dislodged. When you look at the jigsaw puzzle and only see the pieces missing. 

Or the two shoe salespeople who are sent to an African country to scout out retail possibilities. One writes back, “Situation hopeless, no one here wears shoes!” The other writes: “Glorious business opportunity! They have no shoes!” 

Missing Tile Syndrome runs counter to Jewish thinking. We are supposed to look at our surroundings and engage in hakarat hatov – expressions of gratitude for what IS there… not despair at what is missing. We are supposed to look at each other and rather than note what is missing from their character, seek the good they possess. 

And the same goes for our own self-assessment. In ten days we will be called upon to recite all the sins, the flaws in our character. But why not take some time over the next several days to count the bricks that are still in the ceiling? Note the wonderful things about yourself. The gifts you bring to this world. The blessing you are to others. Be grateful for being you. Nobody else does it as well! And remember - all gratitude begins with the self. If you aren’t grateful for who you are, you’ll have a heck of a time being grateful for the presence of others in your life. 

There is so much going on in the world right now that yanks us to the pessimistic; so much that scares us into the defense mechanism of being cynical and dismissive. So many voices telling us to beware the other voice. And yet there are stories of Amazing Grace that must be a regular part of our life’s narrative. 

Standing in the archives in DC I was moved by the stunning portraits of men who came together in political consensus to shape American policy that would guide generations to come. And I immediately gravitated to thoughts of how divided and cynical we have become as a nation on so many issues. 

How do we move from this antagonism, mistrust, cynicism to a place of wonder and gratitude for what we do have, even in the face of rancor and bitter loss? 

We might start with those who have faced loss and still come out grateful for what they have. When a gunman took the lives of those 9 worshippers in Charleston the violence stunned the nation, but equally stunning was the victims’ families’ forgiveness of the shooter. A man who lost his mother that sad day said: “Love is always stronger than hate, so if we would just love, the way my mom loved, hate wouldn’t be anywhere close to where love is.” From a state of grief comes such a natural outpouring of gratitude for the gift of love that can conquer even tragedy! 

Holocaust survivor Simon Wiesenthal wrote a story he related to a rabbi soon after the conclusion of the Second World War. “In the camp,” Wiesenthal said to Rabbi Silver, “there was one religious man who somehow managed to smuggle in a siddur. At first, I greatly admired the man for his courage—, but the next day I realized, to my horror, that this man was ‘renting out’ this siddur to people in exchange for food. People were giving him their last piece of bread for a few minutes with the prayer book. This man, who was very thin and emaciated when the whole thing started, was soon eating so much that he died before everyone else—his system couldn’t handle it.”  Wiesenthal continued his story to the rabbi: “If this is how religious Jews behave, I’m not going to have anything to do with a prayer book.” 

As he was about to turn and leave the rabbi touched him on the shoulder and gently said: “Simon, why do you look at the Jew who used his siddur to take food out of starving people’s mouths? Why don’t you look at the many Jews who gave up their last piece of bread in order to be able to use a siddur? 

As I flew out of Washington, over the tributes of gratitude to those who gave their lives for this country, over the majestic monuments to great leaders, over the seat of western democracy I gave thanks for a day of learning and inspiration and it felt mighty natural to do so. 

Prayer comes in many forms. The berakhot – the praises we utter to our Creator; the bakashot, the petitions, the requests, and we are pretty good at those. And then there are, and the hoda’ot – the thank you’s. The Talmud teaches that in the end of days, when the messiah has arrived, and every single thing is perfect, and we are all joined together, and one with God, with not a single thing wrong in a perfected universe, the only prayers left to say in our little siddurim will be those prayers of gratitude. The hoda’ot. Yes, even when all hopes and dreams are answered, we will still be required to sing songs of gratitude. 

Gratitude is in our DNA. We have only to let it flow.

Rosh HaShanah: A Day to Regroup

Sermon by Rabbi Jennifer Hartman
2014/5775

There is so much going on in the world today. Most of the events are terrifying. There is the threat of ISIS, the conflict in the Ukraine, anti-Semitism and racism. This summer planes fell out of the sky, we learned more about the ever warming planet and Israel engaged in operation project edge. Add to all of this our everyday fears and worries - balancing work and children, paying our rent or mortgage, saving for college and retirement. We are concerned about our kids’ birthday parties, our jobs, making our relationships work. Just thinking about all of this makes my anxiety rise. How is yours doing?

I hope that most of you have your cell phones with you today. I would like you to take them out and turn them on! Yes! I know this is the exact opposite of what you were asked to do when you walked into the Sanctuary this morning, but I would like for us to be in conversation with one another. On the wall behind me you will see a number. During my sermon I am going to ask all of you a few questions. I would love for you to text your responses to the number. For those of you streaming this service, please participate also! If the technology works the way it is supposed to, and we all know that this is a big if, your responses will appear, anonymously, on the wall behind me. In this way we will all be able to share our thoughts and feelings and hopefully learn a bit more about our community.

Here is my first question for all of you: I wonder, what did I miss? What is making your blood pressure rise? What is keeping you up at night? What event in our society is making you want to lock your door, close your blinds and shut out the world?

Are you getting more and more stressed as the issues come streaming in? I know that I am and the more stressed I become the less I am able to confront any one issue. I think that looking to the wisdom of Judaism may help us to center ourselves in a society that seems to be spinning out of control. When we turn off the noise, the competition, the 24 hour news cycle, the doubts about ourselves and our families that social media and pop culture put in our heads, we are able to focus on our priorities, our values, our beliefs. We are able to return to the core of who we are as individuals.

We are taught in Genesis - God created the world in six days. God rested, blessed and hallowed the seventh day as holy time thus creating tranquility, serenity and peace. The Talmud teaches that Shabbat was God’s precious and guarded treasure, which God gave to the Jewish people as a gift. God gave us a time to reconnect, renew and refocus after a week of toiling. God understood people need this time to be productive, creative, and generous during the week.

Another question: How do you relax? How do you unplug? - Share this with us?

At the end of June my grandmother died, 24 days shy of her 92nd Birthday. As I watched my family during the funeral and the days that followed I was amazed by what my grandparents created. My grandparents had four children, twelve grandchildren, and four great-grandchildren. They built a large, tight knit and Jewishly committed family! Of my grandparents’ dozen grandchildren some of us went to day school and some to supplementary school, some of us went to Jewish overnight camp, some spent extended periods of time in Israel and some went for only a short period of time. However, all of us had Shabbat dinner every Friday night. All of us gathered around our respective tables to bless the candles and the wine and to say the Motzi. All of us missed social outings in order to be with our families, to talk to our parents, to refrain from fighting with our siblings and to play with our cousins. We all laughed a lot, ate too much and knew, without question that we were Jewish and that Judaism was completely connected to our family and both of these came before everything else. It is this connection and commitment that has lead to Jewish weddings and Jewish babies, to Rosh Hashanah services and Passover Seders, to great-grandchildren going to day school.

There is a famous quote by the Israeli author Ahad Ha’am that says: “More than the Jews have kept the Sabbath, the Sabbath has kept the Jews.” The regulation of time through the laws of the Sabbath gave the Jews the chance to regroup in communities at the end of every week, and that regrouping sustained their Jewish identity. As the ancient historian Philo taught, Shabbat does not have us abstain from work in order to instill laziness within us. Shabbat is intended to allow us to have time to relax from continuous and unending work. Our bodies and our minds need regularly scheduled breaks from labor. Giving ourselves this time to rest allows us to collect our strength and reenter our daily routines with better concentration and effectiveness. This was so true for my family. Our shared Shabbat experience made us stronger and more able to confront adversity both individually and together.

What is your favorite memory of spending time with family or friends? Please share with us!

Every Friday night my grandmother stood in front of the large, bronze Shabbat candlesticks that her mother brought to America from Russia. She said the blessing and then she closed her eyes, rubbed her hands together, and prayed silently for a few moments. It did not matter how much chaos was taking place around her, she was able to shut out the world and be alone with her thoughts, with her ancestors and with God. I knew, from a young age, that I was never to interrupt this ritual. When she finished she went back to the business of feeding and taking care of her children and grandchildren. Yet, now that we all saw the candles were lit, we all felt a little calmer - the sacred time of Shabbat permeated our home.

As Abraham Joshua Heschel so eloquently states: “Six days a week the spirit works under strain, beset with worries, enmeshed in anxieties - on the seventh day we are given a respite from this”. It is a time for us to be together, to talk to one another, to linger around the table longer than we ever would during the week and to relax.

Growing up the Shabbat table was where we connected, nurtured our family relationships, and learn about the world. At the Shabbat dinner table my politically diverse family argued vehemently about the Middle East peace processes, presidential candidates and domestic policy. We rarely agreed but that did not keep us from having the conversations. At the Shabbat table we learned about our history, hearing stories about our great grandparents, aunts, and uncles, their lives in Sioux City, Iowa, Aberdeen, South Dakota and Trenton, New Jersey. At the Shabbat table we learned to be proud of our roots and our heritage. Our stories informed our sense of self. There we shared triumphs and joy – successful report cards, promotions at work, engagements – and sorrow and pain, moments of heartbreak, divorce, and the death of family or close friends. It was at this table, at which we were all expected to be, that we understood completely we were not alone and perseverance through the hard times was our ONLY option.

Do you have a Shabbat memory? What is your favorite one? Please share it with us!

When we allow it to, the traditions, teaching and rhythm of Judaism keep us grounded when we feel pulled in many directions. The Torah reminds us from who and where we come, teaching us that every family has trials, but it also has joyous moments. Judaism gives us hope when we think things will never improve. We see this strongly in the symbols of Rosh Hashanah- a round challah to show that things are ever changing and evolving; honey to remind us that life is sweet, pomegranates whose many seeds remind us of the power of mitzvot to bring healing to the brokenness in our world. The holiday of Passover takes us on the difficult journey of becoming a free people, and teaches that after very cold, very bitter winters, spring does indeed come. Judaism brings us home to our community and our family by demanding that we mourn and rejoice with others. We are to say Kaddish with a minimum of ten people and we are also commanded to rejoice with the bride and groom. Shabbat helps us to regroup and refocus, brings us together to reconnect and reaffirm. In this way it helps us to gain perspective because we can take a deep breath and sit with our thoughts rather than have to react immediately in our society that seems to never stops moving.

I am not originally from here. I no longer have my Grandmother to make me matzo ball soup or my aunts are not in Minneapolis to make challah, brisket and blond brownies. I no longer open the door to my childhood home to the smell of roasted chicken and potatoes. It is hard for me to prepare Shabbat dinner. It takes planning ahead. It means inviting friends before their calendars get booked. It means preparing meals ahead of time. It means eating dinner late. Too often all of the preparation and planning feels overwhelming. I get stuck in the notion that if I can't do it big then I should not do it at all. That is not the purpose of Shabbat.

Shabbat is not about being extravagant, it is about being together so that we are better able to face challenges. The world is less scary, change seems possible, the work feels lighter when we open our homes and fill our tables with loved ones and friends, with people new to the community and those we want to get to know. So, I challenge you this year - light Shabbat candles, light them more than once, and see where that leads you. Now, turn off your phones :)

Rosh HaShanah: Do Not Slay The Other Voice

Sermon by Rabbi Sim Glaser
2014/5775

Several years ago I attended a meeting of African American Ministers and Rabbis to discuss issues confronting our community. The minister whose church it was greeted the group saying: Can I hear a hallelujah? To which we all responded “hallelujah!” He then quickly side glanced at me and said “Rabbi I hope it’s alright that we said “hallelujah” to which I responded – no problem, it’s Hebrew. We invented that word a few thousand years ago.

People seem so interested in the Jewish point of view about things. They’re always checking stuff with us, watching what we do, curious about our reactions, and yes, holding us to account. You know, we make up less than one fifth of one percent of the world’s population. You wouldn’t think it would matter so much what we think!

Jews have always seen things differently. We tell the true story of the great clock tower in the city of Prague. The old Jewish ghetto there faced the rear of the tower so its inhabitants watched the clock run backwards. The elders of the community finally got smart, climbed up and put Hebrew letters where the numbers go so now the backwards clock made sense. We are an adaptive people.

Our most well-known thinkers have always been individuals who thought outside of the box. Albert Einstein developing the theory of relativity. Sigmund Freud’s discovery of the unconscious; the courageous pantheism of Baruch Spinoza; the rebellious Emma Goldman fighting for workers’ rights; the dream and vision of Theodore Herzl for the necessity of a Jewish homeland some fifty years before the Holocaust.

But if there is any one element of Jewish thinking that transcends generations it is that we have never been satisfied with only the surface meaning of anything. We are not a linear people; and we have never stopped the conversation with only one voice being heard. We are the people of one God, and 13 million theologies, 2 Jews, 3 opinions. We brought nuance into the world. We do not go long and shallow, we go short and deep.

This summer was a painful one for the Jewish people. Israel attacked viciously with Hamas rockets and terror tunnels burrowing under Jewish homes, Israelis running for cover as sirens wailed; the targeting of Hamas operatives and weapons launching locations resulting in the deaths of thousands of Palestinian civilians. The combined anguish of losing Israeli soldiers and being tagged worldwide as murderers of innocents fell heavily on Israelis and Jews worldwide.

Even as the Syrian civil war death toll climbed into the hundreds of thousands, and the Islamic State slaughtered everyone in its path en route to the establishment of a brutal new Caliphate; and even as the world acknowledged that Hamas militants in Gaza were waging their war from schools, apartments and city centers, intentionally using civilian shields, the condemnatory eyes of the world turned most prominently to Israel. Anti-Semitic incidents broke out in Europe with cries for Jewish blood such as we have not heard since the Second World War. College campuses saw heated demonstrations. The International Presbyterian Church voted boycott/divestment/sanction initiatives against the state of Israel. The world turned Israeli selfdefense into a war crime; the UN investigated Israel, but curiously not Hamas.

What seemed strikingly familiar was the level of scrutiny the Jewish people still draws. Disproportionate to the extent of tragedies around the world, the critical eye was on Israel.

Why is this? I believe the very reason we are listened to, scrutinized, and held to a higher standard is because of the very hallowed Jewish traditions of negotiation, conciliation, compromise, and deliberation. We have always been a people internally and externally that seeks to listen to other voices and not squelch dissenting opinions.

Israel’s parliament, the Knesset, is made up of 120 seats representing Ultra-Orthodox religious parties, secular voices, the right wing Likkud, Israeli Arabs, centrists, and Labor, to name only a few. Some voices make more noise than others or wield more power, but this singular democracy in the Middle East demands that all voices have their say.

One of the greatest gifts of the Jewish people to the world, dating back to biblical times, was a system of justice for civilized nations. Courts of law, jury trials, fair and considered judiciaries to ensure just democratic societies.

The Torah states that among the first things to be established in the new land are the Arei miklat - cities for an accused killer to flee to until he has had his day in court to prevent exactly the kind of heated reaction that our animal instincts often lead us to do.

And thus one of the most disturbing moments this summer was the horrific revenge killing of the Palestinian youth. When the three Yeshiva students were abducted and slain and Israel’s enemies the world over danced in the streets with joy, no one seemed particularly surprised. But Jews doing such things? In a single deed, the complexities of justice, rationality and diplomacy were thrust aside. Revenge, Jewish tradition teaches us, never works. Revenge is the most surface and least nuanced of reactions. Brute emotional force with not an ounce of justice.

The events of this summer witnessed an ever growing division within the Jewish people. Our history demonstrates over and over that the greatest danger to the Jewish people comes not from without, but from within. When we stop listening to the diverse and multifaceted voices within our tradition and see only one side of an issue, or hang out only with people who share our world view we bring disaster upon ourselves.

The story of the binding of Isaac we read this morning features a much repeated phrase – vayelchu sh’neyhem yachdav – “and the two of them traveled on together”. This phrase is said so often we must gather that no great Jewish journey is done solo.

As Abraham lifts his knife to silence the other atop that lonely mountain, the angel calls out: stay your hand! Never – slay – the – other voice. L’chu sh’neychem yachdav. Walk together. Talk together. Dwell, argue, deliberate, but do it together.

Note that the greatest enemies of justice out there in our world today are quite literally “slayers of the other voice”. They do it viciously. They video tape it, put it on line and attempt to bully us with it. There is no law but theirs. There is no freedom. There is no democracy. There is no other voice.

Jews divided by hatred and anger is called sinat chinam. Literally “senseless hatred”. The problem is not our having strong ideas, or even disagreeing, but dismissing other people’s ideas as heresy. The downfall of the Jewish people has been linked time and again to our inability to see another Jew’s point of view.

With all the lessons and values the Jewish people have brought the world, perhaps the most important is the one of which we now must remind ourselves. We may have differing views on issues, but our lack of uniformity must never lead to a lack of unity.

The power and influence of our voice cannot hide the fact that there are only 13 million of us worldwide and we need to be forthright and intentional with our Jewish voices. But it has never been in our best interest to squelch opinions other than our own. The last thing a Jew should do is to slay the other Jewish voice. There is an ancient tale about the great sage Rabbi Akiva and his 12,000 pairs of students, (they studied in pairs so as always to be in the presence of another voice or potential dissenting opinion) All of them were taught Akiva’s most basic law: What is hateful to you, do not allow for your neighbor. Talmudic tradition tells the bizarre story of how the 12,000 pairs of students all learned this lesson, but in the heat of their debate over the law promptly forgot it, so that angry argument prevailed and they were consumed by a plague.

That’s an ancient rabbi story. Here’s a modern rabbi story. At this season rabbis all over the globe are attempting to bring messages of hope and peace to their congregations. In one case in New York a Rabbi cautioned her congregation not to harden their hearts to Palestinian deaths, and a board member posted on Facebook his resignation from the synagogue claiming the rabbi was spreading Hamas propaganda.

Conversely, my cousin’s rabbi in Montreal preached a sermon detailing how Israel had indeed lived up to the highest standards of Jewish ethics in wartime, and immediately heard from several members who were quitting because they felt there was no room to express their criticism of Israel. A Midwestern conservative rabbi was rejected from a position at a temple because he told the interviewing committee that he didn’t think there was just one Jewish point of view on Israel. Another rabbi’s board put a note in her contract indicating that she is forbidden to speak about Israel at all. A young colleague of ours locally preached about Israel this summer and was lambasted from all sides of the political spectrum with angry emails and threatened resignations. I told her I thought it was brave of her to address the subject, even though I didn’t entirely agree with her conclusion, but when you speak publicly such responses are hazards of the profession. But she said the lesson she learned was pure and simple. Never preach about Israel. I thought that was sad.

The danger of sinat chinam, internal fighting and division, is insidious and it is real – a civilization, a people, that loses its ability to speak to each other as sane adults, a community that rejects the Jewish gift of nuance, of subtlety and detail, and pulls itself into an a singular point of view that doesn’t allow for another is a threat to our national existence. The very thing that keeps Israel strong and the Jewish people vibrant is our willingness and readiness to engage with each other in a constructive manner.

The Jewish year is now officially 5775. That’s a symmetrical number – the first in 110 years. Its symmetry makes it much like a mirror, and mirrors cause us both to look at ourselves as well as to see things from a slightly different perspective. This is what keeps us human. Wrapped within the saddest of stories from this summer was perhaps the most beautiful lessons of our shared national experience. One of the first reported Israeli casualties this summer was that of a soldier Nissim Shawn Carmeli, a young man who made aliyah from the state of Texas to the State of Israel.

Nissim was what was called a lone soldier, meaning that he had no immediate relatives living in Israel. But Nissim (and that name means “miracle” turned out to be anything but lone soldier because by definition the Jewish people never leave each other alone. Some 20,000 Israelis attended this Nissim’s funeral. He gave his life for the Jewish state. But he was never alone.

I pray that this year will be more a more peaceful one than the last. Harmony and peace always begins with the act of listening to one another. Speaking passionately but allowing, in the great Jewish tradition, each voice to be heard. To heed the message of the angel atop mount Moriah at a critical juncture in ancient Jewish history.

Withhold your hand.

Do not slay the other voice.

Rosh HaShanah: Living a Life of Meaning

Sermon by Rabbi Jennifer Hartman
2013/5774

Our son will get straight A’s and be the captain of the lacrosse team. While in high school he will design a web program to help teachers create their own computerized multiple choice tests and it will be such a success that the profits will cover the small gap between his tuition and the giant scholarship that he will be offered by his college of choice. He and his girlfriend will give swimming lessons to underprivileged children during the summer.

Our daughter has to take a pre-AP course now, in eighth grade, or she won't be setup to take AP classes later on. And without AP classes on her transcript, she is looking at a state school, maybe not even the main campus of a state school. She definitely cannot take time off from Model United Nations to join the film club because everyone knows that the film club is code for “slacker kid.” Once she is ready to apply for college we will have to hire a professional to polish her personal statement because everyone else does.

Are you anxious yet? I am anxious! The expectations these parents are putting on their children are overwhelming for both the parents and the children. Yes, these are real anecdotes drawn from the work of child psychologist Wendy Mogul. I have a feeling that many of the people in this room have dreamed the dream or felt the pressures described above. There is a belief that the only way we, or our children, will find success is through a degree from a prestigious college or university and a high powered profession. We think that the best predictor of adult achievement is high school and college degrees. And yet, we know well that too often academic and financial success do not give us a sense of meaning or purpose. This was recently reinforced for me when a friend returned from a life changing trip to Israel.

My friend took a ten day trip to Israel to see the work that the Jewish National Fund is engaged in, visit with friends and explore the reform movement. He had the opportunity to watch as hundreds of people, most of them in their 20s and many of them all alone, descended from an El Al plane to a sea of cheering and smiling faces. These people were making Aliyah and being welcomed to their new home. These were individuals truly living their ideals, their values, their dreams. As he traveled the country he was exposed to the ingenious inventions and designs that Israelis have created and the priorities of the Israeli people. He saw an indoor playground that was built by the Jewish National Fund for children in Sderot. Rocket fire from the Gaza strip makes it too dangerous for them to play outside. He had Shabbat dinner with friends outside of Tel Aviv. He sat at the table with multiple generations of one family. Great-grandparents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins all came together to have a joyous and festive meal, to be together and a part of each other’s lives. This trip was truly a coming home experience for him.

This was not his first trip to Israel, he had been there many times before. Yet this time he was seeing things anew. Before his trip he had begun to feel unsettled, during his trip he began to articulate what had been gnawing at him. He wondered why so many of us choose to live far from our families. He felt that we have our values backwards. This was coming from an Ivy League educated young man with a lucrative job in New York City. By most accounts he was living the dream, but he began to question if he was living the right one. While his job was profitable and fun he did not feel that he was contributing to society, he did not feel that his work had a higher purpose, he did not feel he was making the world a better place in which to live. He realized that his soul was missing something.

There was recently an article in the New York Times entitled “The Busy Trap” by Tim Kreider. In it the author talks about how many of us proclaim that we are busy. We are proud of this, but we veil it as a complaint. The author writes: “Almost everyone I know is busy. They feel anxious and guilty when they aren’t either working or doing something to promote their work. The people who complain are almost always people whose lamented busyness is purely self-imposed: work and obligations they’ve taken on voluntarily, classes and activities they’ve “encouraged” their kids to participate in. They’re busy because of their own ambition or drive or anxiety, because they’re addicted to busyness and dread what they might have to face in its absence.” We live to work when people in most of the western world, Israel included, work to live. We are busying ourselves with things that we think will make us successful or feel fulfilled when too often it does not.

Interestingly, Psychologist Daniel Golman writes that high school and college degrees are not the best predictors of one's success as an adult. Empathy, optimism, flexibility, a good sense of humor, the capacity to function as a team member, and a positive reaction to setbacks are what will best predict our future ability to succeed. These are also many of the same values that will ensure our souls feel fulfilled. Let us look at these attributes one by one.

Empathy. We are commanded as Jews to comfort the mourner and rejoice with the Bride and Groom. The bereaved cannot say the mourner's Kaddish without having ten people present. We, the community, must be there to feel their pain, to walk with them through their grief, to support them and care for them when they feel most alone. The sheva brachot, the seven blessings that are said at every Jewish wedding ceremony cannot be said without a minyan. Our tradition is structured so that the bride and groom do not rejoice alone. We are obligated to visit the sick and take care of the widow, and the orphan. What could better teach empathy than being with people during times of their deepest sorrow and greatest joy?

The capacity to function as a team member. To be able to work and share with others takes all that we learn with empathy as well as discipline and preparation. Our tradition teaches that we need to have savlanut (patience and tolerance), rachamim (compassion) and acharayot (a sense of responsibility). We need to be tolerant of both the things that are within our control to change and those that are not. We need to have compassion for the other people in our group, our business, our community. We need to treat them with dignity and respect, leaving space for their thoughts and ideas. We need to take responsibility for our actions and for other people.

The root of the word achrayut is achar which means “other”. We have a responsibility not only to do our part, but also to care for each other. When we live these values we root out entitlement and we extend ourselves beyond our own ego. Only in this way are we able to work cooperatively and productively with others.

Optimism. There is a rabbinic value - hakarat ha'tov - which means "recognizing the good." The idea is that there is already good in our life, but it is up to us to uncover it. This is why, when something apparently "good" happens to us, we offer the blessing, Gam zu l'tovah, which means, "And that is also for the good." And also if something "bad" happens to us, Gam zu l'tovah, "And that is also for the good." There is no more optimistic outlook than this, the Jewish belief that no matter what happens we have the ability to turn it into something positive. In every challenge is an opportunity to advance our lives.

A good sense of humor. There is a theory that the reason humor is such a part of Judaism is because we have suffered so much oppression that laughing is the only thing we can do to stay afloat. It is survival by levity. Sigmund Freud said that humor is a means of circumventing civilization’s obstacles by making our enemy small, inferior, despicable or comic. The holiday of Purim is a perfect example of this. We dress up and parade around to show how absurd our oppressor was. We even made his hat into a cookie that we joyfully eat. It is a skill to be able to take life’s disappointments and turn them into laughable moments of wry recognition and honest reflection. It is one not easily learned, but one that can help us put situations into perspective and better live with them.

Being flexible and having a positive reaction to setbacks. The story of the Jewish people is one of disastrous defeats and miraculous triumphs, one of change and reinvention, one of perseverance in the face of great odds. Knowing our story should give us all strength and a sense of determination. According to a recent article by Bruce Feiler, recognizing and understanding one's story, helps that person to feel grounded and at the same time a part of something bigger than themselves. The children who do the best are the ones who know their family’s story. They know the struggles their family overcame. They have heard about the hardship, the failed business, the sickness, the tumultuous relationships. They also know the success, the stories of travel and celebration. They see that through it all their family has remained together, they have figured out how to survive! In this way they have a strong “intergenerational self.” They know they belong to something bigger than themselves and this it will survive even in the face of hardships. They have an identity, rooted in their past, that guides them. The Jewish story can do that for each one of us.

You may be thinking, Rabbi Gertman, this is all well and good, but we still need to work and our children still need to go to college. You are correct, there is a reality and we cannot ignore it, but that is a message you are hearing everywhere. And it has come at the expense of teaching our children and reminding ourselves that we must also be menches, upstanding, respectful people. Having an MBA from Harvard is meaningless if we don't have the moral character to conduct our lives properly. We need to raise children who understand they are a part of a bigger story, who give back to the community, and who treat each person with dignity and respect. The Talmud tells us that parents must teach their children to swim. They must teach their children not only the proper stroke, not only the skills to move forward, but also the correct way to breath, the way to take in air. We know how to successfully move forward, but we do not know how to nourishes ourselves and nurture relationships as we do this. We need to take in the values that nourish our souls and incorporate them into our lives. As these are the ones what will sustain us and our children as we move forward. These are the tools that help us succeed in teams and relationships. This is how we learn to accept defeats with grace and dignity. It is the breath that gives us the courage to explore the world and determine who we are. It is the ability to climb the corporate ladder with integrity and virtue. Our world will not end if we have less Ivy League graduates, but we will have serious problems if we forget how to treat each other, if we stop seeing each other as created btzelem eloheim, as created in the image of God.

Therefore I hope and pray that as we enter the New Year we all ask ourselves: are we raising citizens of the world? Are we living a life of values and intention or are we filling our time with meaningless tasks in order to satiate an inner emptiness? The holidays bring us face to face with these questions. Let us hope that we have the strength, the courage, the wisdom and the will to emerge from these days with a renewed sense of our goals and our purpose in the world.

Rosh HaShanah: Ultimacy

Sermon by Rabbi Sim Glaser
2012/5773

Some years ago I recall seeing advertised an interesting product for the person who has everything. It was a desk clock that ticks backwards, counting down seconds rather than adding them. You set the clock for your expected life span and then, at a glance, you are able to see how much time you have left. Isn’t that a great idea? Haven’t seen it? That’s because they don’t make it anymore. The life span of that particular product was over calculated.

I was thinking about that clock because there has been a lot in the news recently about life expectancy. We are being told that today’s children are likely to live to be over a hundred. Our congregation is blessed to share in the life of a woman who has taught more of our children than all the rabbis. Ruth Knelman, at the age of 102 remarked, “Well you know, Rabbi, the first hundred years are the hardest!”

You might think that an increase in life span would result in a more relaxed view of the meaning of life and how to accomplish what we are here to do, and yet it seems to have the reverse effect. Back in the days of shorter life spans one’s death was taken more seriously as an impetus for focusing your life early on, finding one’s ultimate value and asking, What do I live for? What is my unique gift to the world?

The High Holy Days are the holidays of ultimacy. Put aside our fantasies about Powerball, getting rich or becoming famous, forget amassing as many material goods as we can; never mind trying to outlive Methusaleh whom the Torah tells us lived 969 years and didn’t accomplish anything worth reporting. Instead: What am I here to accomplish?

Figuring out the “ultimate” is a tricky business, and yet Judaism does not shy away from it. The Shema prayer is an extraordinary acknowledgement of that oneness and ultimacy. We Jews are a very distractible people. This Adonai our God is One stuff, this monotheistic ideal, this unity principle is important to Jews. Stay away from multiple gods, saith the Lord, you’ll get confused! Don’t worship in a hundred different little places, you’ll get lost! Everybody come to the Temple in Jerusalem. We need focus, otherwise we wind up overwhelmed like the fabled Jewish weatherman who, as the storm rolls in, comes on camera and says: “Ach, trust me, you don’t wanna know!”

We are bombarded with so many issues by the media, the internet, reporters, writers, politicians, columnists, fund raisers, demanding that we make their issue our issue. With all that faces a well informed modern human being in a complex society it is time to ask: what is of ultimate importance to me? What do I live for? I cannot solve all the world’s problems. I cannot achieve every single one of my dreams, so what is my ultimate? I believe each of us is here with a purpose. Applying a somewhat mystical ideology, I trust that our hearts were designed as part of an aggregate human heart, a combined soul, if you will, in which each individual soul plays a part. If we are able to locate that which is most meaningful to us, our ultimate, I have faith that collectively we could cure the ills of this world.

But how to discover such a thing? It is said, "If you don't know where you are going, any road can get you there." We teach our children to get good grades, to be decent people, to choose a career, to find a partner, to go to college. But who asks them to scan their hearts and set a course to fulfill their life’s meaning?”

Unity, oneness, is an ultimate objective. Why else do we fall in love and unite with another? Why is family always mentioned as the ultimate value on one’s death bed? Why do those who dwell as one with others in a solid unified community live longer than loners? The oneness of being is an ultimate.

As some of you know, I was pretty sick this past winter. I thank God this yontif for creating within us only one appendix. It’s not really appropriate for a clergyman to discuss all his personal medical details from the pulpit. I’ll spare you that, though if you are interested after the service I do have the cat scan here…. or what my surgeon called his “strategic plan.” I will, however, share with you that mortality looked me squarely in the eye in a way it never had before, and asked me a question: What am I here for?

Mortality, death, is in and of itself an ultimate issue - thus Yom Kippur in 10 days is referred to as a rehearsal for Death. We fast from food, drink and sex. For one day we experience our existence without the distractions. It is even the custom that day to wear the clothes you will be buried in. On Yom Kippur we act as if it is our last day, our only day to face the truth of our implicit meaning; to remember who we are and why we were born. Truth is, we walk through most days half alive, but on Yom Kippur the reality of death urges us to face the urgency of living!

Rabbis are constantly asked: Why do the Jews play down the notion of an afterlife? Of reincarnation? Of other worlds beyond this one? It is because we know that this is it, and that the opportunity to achieve our mission is imminent, not eternal, not deferrable. The binding of Isaac story we read this morning is about identifying and committing to your ultimate issue. Abraham himself had to have been overwhelmed with his task of fathering an eternal nation and still had many obstacles ahead of him.

No passage in Torah illuminates the striving for ultimacy more than the one we read this morning. Abraham, the first human to intuit ultimacy in the universe, is then commanded to cross the ultimate line and murder his own child. What the heck is that about? God has spoken to Abraham saying: I’m going to make your people as numerous as the grains of sand on the shore of the sea and the stars that fill the heavens. Any nation that comes in contact with you will be blessed. Lech l’cha. Bring forth your message from your inner core!

I am going to imagine that the discussion might have gone something like this…

Abraham. I called you from your father's house. I led you through Canaan to the Negev, to the land of Egypt. I raised you up, made you a rich man. I defeated four kings in your name.

“All true, El Shaddai, all true”

“And when you asked me for your greatest desire, something so incredible your wife laughed at the very thought of it, what did I do, Abraham?”

“You gave us a gift more precious than the moon and stars; You gave us Isaac, El Shaddai, and I can never thank you enough for that.”

“My thought exactly.”

“Um, where we going with this?”

“Abraham, in the many years I have spoken to you, have I ever asked you for any favors, any special deeds, any burdens?”

“Not really.”

“Have I ever asked you to do anything unpleasant or injurious to yourself?”

“Well, there was the one thing with the flint stone and foreskin…”

"Other than circumcision Abraham?"

“No, you have been very reasonable. No other complaints. Is there anything at all you want from me?”

Well, now that you mention it, there is something.

“Name it, El Shaddai.”

I have a simple test for you. Take your favored son one, Isaac, whom you love, and go to the land of Moriah, and offer him there as a burnt offering on one of the heights which I will point out to you.

“That’s not even funny.”

I wasn’t joking.

“Ok, then that’s just not possible.”

It is possible, and I want you to do it.

“Why could you possibly want me to sacrifice my own son, God? That makes no sense. It goes against everything I believe in. Why?”

The Lord works in mysterious ways, Abraham.

"I’ll say! Look, You’re supposed to be all powerful, right God?" There is no ‘supposed’ about it.

“And, just so I understand, that means you can control everything, everywhere, all the time. Correct?”

Down to the sub-atomic level, but let’s not get into that. The answer is yes.

“So given that, what is the point of this conversation? My destiny is the future of my people. No offense God, but I am not going to kill my son. So if you would like to control my limbs, go ahead. But otherwise, I have to go feed the goats.”

Very well Abraham. I have now transported you to Moriah at the appointed place. Your son Isaac lies bound before you. The knife is in your hand. You must now do this thing and I will reward you greatly. If you do not, my anger will be stunning.”

“I will do anything except this God. Please ask me to do anything else.”

No. You must do it now, Abraham!

“Ok God. Have it your way.”

(pause)

Abraham?

"Yes, El Shaddai?"

You have defied me.

“Defied you God? I brought the knife down and one of your angels stopped me before I could land the blow. Talk to him!”

Abraham. Your blade was not aimed toward Isaac. You were going to kill yourself rather than do my will.

“Well, it is hard to lie to someone who is omnipotent. I told you I would not kill my son. It is wrong, no matter what you say. So I didn’t. Sorry.”

"Abraham, I have created you. And rather than heed my word, you have rejected my commands in favor of your personal ideas of what is right and wrong. Where is your faith, Abraham?"

“I have no faith that can lead me to murdering my own son. Even faith doesn’t work for me God when it contradicts the very purpose for which I exist. I’m only sorry God that I have failed your test.”

"You didn’t fail my test Abraham. You have shown me what is the deepest thing in your heart. You have confronted the Eternal here and you have made clear your ultimate. There is nothing more important to you than the future of your people and their mission. Now go out and tell the world!"

It may not be the easiest story in the Torah to digest, but it smacks us in the face and demands that we too answer the seminal question: What moves us to the core? What is the ultimate value that we are willing to sacrifice our very lives on the altar of time itself?

One writer hauntingly describes our lives as boats flowing down a river. At a certain point the boat is lifted out of the river into a boat lock for transport to a higher elevation. Slowly the vessel is raised by time seeping in from all sides. And with every passing day the desire grows for the moment when life will reach the top, and the sluice gates will open and we will finally move on. But lo and behold, by the time the boat is back in the water, there isn’t that much river left. We look back and say, how long was I in that boat lock? Why did I stay there? Where did the years go? What was I waiting for?

Do we expect to live that purposeful, fulfilling life by accident? We are expected to choose the standard components of friends, partner, career, neighborhood, children, and then hope that meaning will take care of itself. But we discover that this does not happen. We reach a certain point in our lives when health or love or work break down, when children move away, or simply the process of aging, and we lie awake at night and wonder why we feel empty inside. What we have learned is that we don’t fall accidentally into our purpose. And beshert? I’m not a fan.

But you and I have seen people driven to their inner depths discovering the purpose of their lives. Suddenly confronting oblivion they embrace real values, living with conscious direction and intention: they create true love, they embrace true friendship, they begin giving to a purpose that will endure beyond their bodies. For many people it takes a mid-life crisis, or a terrible loss, or an exploding appendix to even consider the problem of what they are supposed to do with this precious gift called life. That’s why we read Abraham’s greatest trial, the confirmation of his ultimate mission... so we will be able to detect and design our own destiny.

Obviously I don’t know the answer for each one of you. Of all the words God says to the people of Israel throughout the Bible, the most often repeated phrase is lo lefached - “don’t be afraid.” Above all things, do not succumb to fear.

Let us not, in the new year, fear to locate the inner core of our being and to act upon it. May we embrace our authentic selves and find our own unique piece of the human puzzle.

And when each of our hearts has found its place, may the sum total human heart beat as the heart of God.

Rosh HaShanah: All I Need to Know I Learned at Camp

Sermon by Rabbi Jennifer Hartman
2012/5773

There is a book and also a poem some of you may have heard of entitled All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten by Robert Fulghum. It is one of my favorite poems. I had a poster of the poem hanging on my wall all through college. There was something wonderfully ironic about staring at this poster while I spent hours doing homework. For those of you who don’t know the poem I will share it with you now.

All I really need to know about how to live and what to do and how to be I learned in kindergarten. Wisdom was not at the top of the graduate school mountain, but there in the sand pile at school.

These are the things I learned: • Share everything. • Play fair. • Don't hit people. • Put things back where you found them. • Clean up your own mess. • Don't take things that aren't yours. • Say you're sorry when you hurt somebody. • Wash your hands before you eat. • Warm cookies and cold milk are good for you. • Live a balanced life - learn some and think some and draw and paint and sing and dance and play and work every day some. • Take a nap every afternoon. • When you go out in the world, watch out for traffic, hold hands and stick together. • Be aware of wonder. Remember the little seed in the Styrofoam cup: the roots go down and the plant goes up and nobody really knows how or why, but we are all like that. • Goldfish and hamsters and white mice and even the little seed in the Styrofoam cup - they all die. So do we. • And then remember the Dick-and-Jane books and the first word you learned - the biggest word of all - LOOK.

I must admit I have not thought about this poem much since college. When I packed up my college dorm room for the last time and moved into an apartment I decided it was time to hang things with frames. My posters got rolled up and put into a poster tube and stored at my parent’s house. Maybe, one day, I would pull them out again. Then something completely unexpected happened in June. Our Camp TEKO director had to resign two weeks prior to the start of camp due to a family emergency. I was asked to step in. I would be less than honest if I said I jumped at the opportunity. While I was excited by the idea of spending the time helping to grow our camp and getting to know the campers, I was nervous. Was I capable of this endeavor? How would I quickly learn all there was to know about TEKO? Would I be able to make sure that every camper had a positive and memorable experience?

Growing up I went to camp every summer. JCC camps and theater camps, sports camps and overnight camps, I tried them all. I learned that I missed Shabbat and singing Jewish songs when I was at secular camp. I also learned that I did not really like overnight camp. More than that, all I knew was that camp was fun and something I had to do. As they both worked, my parents did not believe in letting my brother and me have two and a half months with no structure. When I talk to my friends who spent summer after summer going to Jewish overnight camp, their analysis is much different than mine. For them camp was not something fun to do over the summer, but a place where they discovered their true selves. It was a place where they felt independent and where they could safely explore their ideas and beliefs. It was the place where they made friends who knew them better than anyone else.

I became a believer in camp as an adult. As a rabbinical student I had the opportunity to observe the beginning stages of a new Union for Reform Judaism camp in the Pacific Northwest. Their enthusiasm for camp and all it has to offer children and families was contagious. This led me to run two summer programs for teenagers. One, in San Francisco, taught students about tzedakah and tikkun olam through volunteer projects around the city. The following summer I, along with other staff, led 40 teenagers through Eastern Europe and Israel. It turns out that everything I had ever heard about camp experiences is true. I watched as these teenagers blossomed through their experiences together, their need to rely on their inner strength and their new found friendships and their desire to forge connections with adults other than their parents. I was convinced of the benefits of sending teenagers away from home for a summer!

This past summer I saw, first hand, the incredible impact that camp, Jewish camp, had on over 300 children. I was witness to painfully shy children reaching out to others to make friends. I saw very competitive campers learn to lose with grace. I observed as kids learned how to make accommodations for their group members with special needs. I had the unbelievable responsibility of ushering 3rd and 4th graders into a stage of independence by helping them find the inner resilience to stay away from home for the first time. It was incredibly rewarding to see these children go from anxious, unsure campers to outgoing, independent, sleep away experts. For me, what was even more thrilling was seeing the campers excited about Judaism. By the end of their time at camp TEKO they knew the Motzi and Birkat Hamazon, they sang Modeh Ani with enthusiasm and Hatikvah with respect. The campers excitedly used the Hebrew word of the week and loved to guess the super heroes and heroines. It was exhilarating to see them engaged with Judaism.

Camp is a magical place. It is a place where “Parents, while supportive from afar, allow for the challenges of life, the successes and setbacks that a professional staff is prepared to channel into positive learning experiences. Children learn to respect one another and learn how to share.” In addition, the counselors at camp also learn and grow. As one camp counselor stated in a recent article: “What I do there matters.” She talked about helping a camper cope with her mother’s debilitating depression and comforting others whose parents were fighting or separating. She talked about the many hours devoted to water-skiing lessons, about instilling the confidence needed by awkward, gawky, painfully self-conscious 8 and 9-year-olds to stay prone in the water, hold on to the rope, then rise up and stay on their feet as the boat pulls away. “What’s more important than that?” she asked. Being a camp counselor gave her incomparable preparation for the future, requiring the skills to manage group projects and motivate individuals, set goals and juggle tight schedules, and stay available for 24 hours a day, six days a week, in sickness and in health.

As camp came to a close and I thought about all I had learned and all I had seen the campers and counselors learn over the summer I realized:

All I really need to know about how to live and what to do and how to be I learned at camp. Wisdom was not at the top of the graduate school mountain, but there in the gaga pit. These are the things I learned: • Be patient. • Help others. • New experiences help us grow. • Remember to be thankful. • It is ok to take a risk. • Friends are a treasure. • Be a good listener. • Drink lots of water. • Wear sunscreen. • Running, jumping and skipping are all good for you. • Play is a great way to learn. • Everyone, even grown-ups, make mistakes. • When you are scared, take a friends hand and approach life together. • It is amazing what you can accomplish when you work as a team. • Sometimes in life we need to get dirty. • We all need Shabbat.

As I moved from being a camp director to a rabbi preparing for the High holidays these lessons stayed with me. They are the lessons we remind ourselves of each year at this time. As we look back on the year we reflect on times we wish we had been more patient with ourselves and others. We think about the times others reached out their hand to help us in our times of need and are grateful for their love and friendship.

During this season we take the risk of looking deep into our souls. It can be an uncomfortable endeavor because we do not know what we will find. We find the courage to take this plunge because, as with most risks in life, the rewards are immeasurable. Doing this work together as a community makes it much less frightening! Our rabbis, in their wisdom, wrote the confessional prayers in the plural for just this reason. We admit our sins with the prayers of this season, almost all of which are written in the plural; we have sinned, we have transgressed, we turn to God, we ask for mercy. Alone, the act seems overwhelming, but together we can take on any challenge or confront any fear. This is one of the primary lessons of camp.

At camp we learn to listen, listen to counselors and life guards, but also to our friends. Rosh Hashanah reminds us of the importance of listening to and really hearing one another. Shema! We often forget to listen not only to what is spoken, but also to what is unspoken. Listen to the heart of another. Listen to the words of the eyes and the soul. Only in this way will we be able to ask for and give forgiveness. Only in this way will we truly be aware of all the blessings in our life and be grateful for them. The capacity to forgive, and the willingness of others to forgive each of us, is truly one of these blessings.

Life, not just camp, is dirty. It is filled with mud and dirt, scraped knees and elbows, hurt feelings and bruised egos. It is in these moments of messiness that we learn the most, grow the most, and uncover the most about our true natures. These are the times we learn to treasure our friends, not fight with them. They are the times we are reminded we are resilient enough to fall. They are the times we remember how important it is to take proper care of ourselves and our environment. As children we are encouraged to take risks and make mistakes. We are told that they are not a big deal and a part of learning. As adults we forget this lesson and think that we must always be perfect. We try to present ourselves as flawless. It is an ideal we cannot sustain. How much happier would we be if we gave ourselves the permission we give our children? How much more fun would we have if we held hands and joyfully skipped from one activity to another?

Most of us no longer have the opportunity to go to camp. Nor do we have the built in time for vacation that the school schedule provides. Rarely in our busy lives to we slow down and take account of all that has happened in our lives both good and bad. We rely on these High Holidays for a time to reflect. They support us, guide us, and help us to uncover these important lessons. During this time we are reminded of our obligations to ourselves, to each other and to our tradition. We are reminded of all we do every day and all those around us do to help make our lives meaningful.

Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur remind us of the lessons, but it is in our daily experiences that they come alive. That is part of what makes camp so special. It is a microcosm of what we wish the world might be. Let us leave these 10 Days of Awe renewed, restored and re-dedicated to making the wisdom of the Gaga pit real in our lives.

i May 29, 2012, The Camp Counselor vs. the Intern By DAN FLESHLER