Erev Rosh HaShanah: Where Was Grandpa?
Sermon by Rabbi Sim Glaser
2018/5779
This summer Barb and I became grandparents for the second time, as Benjamin and Melissa welcomed Alan Glaser into the world. Alan! I have not yet met him, but I understand he is a fine young man and is already seeking gainful employment.
It appears that Alan may have inherited his Baba’s red hair and his Grandpa Sim’s stomach issues. His two-and-a-half-year-old sister Margaret is coming to terms with no longer being the center of the known universe. Something most of us are supposed to grapple with before we are five, and yet many of us believe ourselves to be the center of the universe our whole lives.
Grandchildren are a big deal in Judaism. They are said to be the very embodiment of the word Naches. The ultimate blessings. They are the proof there is such thing as a free lunch – you play with them, bring them stuff, and then go home and let their parents deal with the mess. Though I am a man of the cloth, I don’t really do diapers.
Psalm 128 says: “May you live to see your children’s children,” from which comes the beautiful teaching that to gaze into the eyes of one’s grandchild is to see eternity. There are some Jews who refer to their first grandchild as “my Kaddish,” meaning: This child will guarantee my immortality by way of memory. But someone does have to make sure they know the Kaddish…
We have been doing FaceTime with our granddaughter Margaret for a while now. Barb usually initiates the connection, so I hear from the next room the lovely chirping of my granddaughter saying, “Where’s Grandpa Sim?”
I quickly insert myself into the picture frame. “Right here!” I cry. I’m charmed by her request, but on some darker days, when I am thinking about the future of our world and, God willing, the longevity of my grand-pups, this question, “Where’s Grandpa Sim,” takes on greater meaning. Where, indeed, is Grandpa Sim?
Who doesn’t want to be present in the lives of our children and our children’s children? We want to show them the deepest love, and comfort them in the warm blanket of our affection. And we want to share with them the joys and significance of our religious traditions. And most of this comes naturally to us.
But I wonder, as the years continue, if Margaret’s poignant question might become: “Where were you, Grandpa?” Or: “Tell me the story about what you did when you heard about the world warming up?” Or: “How big was your carbon footprint, Grandpa?” Or: “Is it true you lived during a time when there was still a fighting chance to reverse climate change, Grandpa?”
As they grow older and wiser, my grandkids might ask me if I was one of the people who didn’t believe the scientists. Or upon becoming aware of their inherited Jewish lineage: “Doesn’t the Torah teach us right from the beginning that we are responsible for the health of the planet?” And I don’t think it is going to mean a darn thing to our grandchildren if we respond with: “Well, honey, it was all very political…”
We often hear about the consequences of a warming planet in long term figures. “Statistics reveal Miami will be under water by the end of the century!” blares one recent headline. Why do we project the consequences of our actions to 80 years from now? Are we trying to soothe ourselves, as though we need not feel overly burdened by something that will reach its peak until long after we, ourselves, have departed this world?
I think if we learned anything this last year it is that we don’t have it all figured out. I also think we learned that it is hard to be human, and it is especially difficult – and even problematic to believe – that we can solve the world’s problems solely by using our mammoth brains and technological advances. Or that we can leave it to our elected officials locally and nationally to bail us out.
Rosh Hashanah, the birthday of the world, brings many messages. The call of the shofar awakens us to gaze mindfully and honestly at ourselves and our relation to the world we affect with every breath.
These holidays teach about both human power and humility. As the tradition goes, each of us should carry with us in one pocket the sacred name of God, acknowledging that we were created in the Divine Image. And in the other pocket, we should carry dust and ashes to remind ourselves that we are mortal, physical beings interacting with a physical world. We tend to forget both things.
A story goes that a man was once complaining to God, saying: “You have no idea how hard it is to be human — to live a life darkened by suffering and despair in a world filled with violence and destruction, to fear death and worry that nothing we do, or create, or dream, seems to matter. You have no idea how hard it is to be human!”
God responded, “Wait, you think it’s easy being God? I have a whole universe to run, galaxies upon galaxies demanding constant vigilance. You think you could do that?”
“I’ll tell you what,” suggested the Man, “let’s switch places, for just a moment. For just a little bit You be human, and I’ll be God, and that way we can determine who has it harder.”
“For just a moment?” God considered, “OK, why not.” So the man and God switched places. The man sat upon God’s throne and God descended to the earth. After that one moment had passed, God looked up and said, “OK, time to switch back.” But the man refused. He refused to give up the throne of God.
And, as the story maintains, we still haven’t given the throne back to God. We still think it is easier and more beneficial for us to maintain control as supreme beings, rather than to re-establish God’s place on the throne. Why is that important? Because when we know our place, we can shudder at the hugeness and fragility of the earth. When we know our place we can feel awe and wonder at stuff we might otherwise just take for granted.
In the old days there were storms, and fires, diseases, drought, crops would die, people would get sick, cities would be destroyed in wars and the population devastated. Ah, but today we have category 5 storms and 600 square mile fires, diseases, drought, sickness, war, and devastated populations.
The difference is that back in the day we used to attribute these horrible events to God’s being angry with us. All those disasters were because of God’s divine wrath. But now, because we are smarter, more scientific, more sophisticated, we don’t look to God’s will to explain our fate. We look out upon a reality shaped by politics and economics, a reality shaped by our own choices.
Human beings can achieve amazing feats, but we are not gods.
Maybe the idea of God controlling every detail of the universe was helpful because it meant that God actually gave a hoot about us.
I am reminded of a story about my son Benjamin, the father of our new grandson. Way back in the difficult days of his junior high school days, Benjamin, who has Tourette’s, had been getting no small amount of teasing at school for his verbal and physical tics. One evening Barb heard Ben up in his room sobbing and saying: “Why did God do this to me?” It broke her heart to hear this, and she mentioned it to his therapist at the time. The doctor calmly shrugged and said, “It isn’t so bad. Obviously your Benjamin thinks well enough of himself that God is taking the time to deal with him personally.”
And that’s kind of how it is with us when we sing the Avinu Malkeinu. The jury may still be out on whether or not anybody is listening. But see how we care enough about ourselves that we want to believe we really are in relationship with a God who cares!
The midrash tells a story of Adam and Eve’s very first day on earth. The story begins with a sunset. The very first sunset. As Adam and Eve watch their only source of light disappear, they panic. They beg and pray for the sun to return. In fear and anger they order the sun to stop its descent. Then, as darkness falls, they mourn the loss of their light. But it is only when they finally let go and trust in the natural cycles of the earth and the ability of the world to heal itself that they are able to fall asleep. When they awaken, there it is! The sun, in all its glory!
There are other versions of that story that add that the first human beings learn to make fire, a light of their own devising, and that is what comforts them. Their ability to take control. How delicate is that balance between trust and control…
On this holiday, in these complex modern times, we need to acknowledge both truths. That we are blessed with immense ability to alter nature, and that the world knows how to heal itself. That we may wield the physical power of gods, but need to humble ourselves before the Creator.
When you look into your grandchild’s eyes, Jewish tradition tells us, you see eternity. You realize that every energy decision you make daily, every official you vote into office, every movement you join or avoid, every religious imperative to be stewards of a fragile planet you either dismiss or take to be morally binding, is clearly more than about just you. It is about a future that will contain people we love dearly.
If we are not adequately attentive to this monumental challenge, those innocent questions of a grandchild might very well become: “Where were you, grandpa and grandma? What did you do? Is it true you could have made a difference?”
Let us celebrate this New Year with pledges and goals that go beyond improving only ourselves to seeking a refuah, a healing on a global and a multi-generational level. We are at an immensely important moment in human history… in the eye of the storm, so to speak. We are this amazing mixture of mortal and Divine. And it is time for us to use human physical strength to achieve a Divine future that will allow us to look into our grandchildren’s eyes and say: “I was there, and I did everything I could for you.”
Keyn y’hi ratzon…