Monday, September 25, 2017

Rosh HaShanah Morning 5778 - The Divine Nature of Creating

A version of this sermon was delivered Rosh HaShanah morning 5778 at Temple Emanu-El of East Meadow

            Before there was anything, there was God, a few angels, and a huge swirling glob of rocks and water with no place to go.  The angels asked God, “Why don’t you clean up this mess?”
            So, God collected rocks from the huge swirling glob and put them together in clumps and said: “Some of these clumps of rocks will be planets, and some will be stars, and some of these rocks will be…just rocks.”
            Then God collected water from the huge swirling glob and put it together in pools of water and said: “Some of these pools of water will be oceans, and some will become clouds, and some of this water will be…just water.”
            Then the angels said: “Well God, it’s neater now, but is it finished?” And God answered…
“Nope!”
On some of the rocks God placed growing things, and creeping things, and things that only God knows what they are, and when God had done all this, the angels asked God, “Is the world finished now?”  And God answered…
“Nope!”
God made a man and a woman from some of the water and dust and said to them: “I am tired now.  Please finish up the world for me…really, it’s almost done.”  But the man and the woman said: “We can’t finish the world alone!  You have the plans and we are too little!”
“You are big enough,” God answered them. “But, I agree to this.  If you keep trying to finish the world, I will be your partner.”
“The man and the woman asked: “What’s a partner?”  And God answered…
“A partner is someone you work with on a big thing that neither of you can do alone. If you have a partner, it means that you can never give up, because your partner is depending on you.  On the days you think I am not doing enough and on the days I think you are not doing enough, even on those days, we are still partners and we must not stop trying to finish the world.  That’s the deal.”  And they all agreed to that deal.
Then the angels asked God, “Is the world finished yet?”  And God answered…
“I don’t know.  Go ask my partners.”[1]


In this telling of the creation story, God makes a point to emphasize that creation is not done, and that humanity is God’s partner, tasked with creation.  Rosh Hashanah commemorates the creation of the world, the reason why our Torah reading for the second day is the story of creation from the first chapter of Genesis.  A little later our choir will end our Shofar Service with the words of Hayom Harat Olam: this is the day of the world’s birth.  Our ancestors did the math in the Torah, adding up all the dates of birth and lifespans, and they determined that this year is the 5778th year since the world’s creation.  Perhaps we would have expected that in almost 6000 years, we’d be done, but this last year has taught us that creation is still awaiting perfection and that creation’s perfection still waits on us and our actions.  We are indeed partners in divine action.  And the angels are still asking if we’re done yet.
The Torah starts with a bang!  God’s first action is creation.  Bereishit Bara Elohim.  In the beginning, God created.  We understand God’s role to be primarily, or at least initially, that of creator, forming something of value and importance out of the primordial wild and waste, the tuhu vavohu.  We recognize this and praise God for it.
This morning, as every morning, we read the prayer Baruch She’amar, which begins: Baruch she’amar v’hayah ha’olam / praised be the One who spoke and the world came to be.  Every morning we thank God and praise God for the act of creation.  We recognize the unique ability that God has to speak creation into being. 
As humans, our words are indeed powerful, but not powerful enough to create worlds or beings.  As humans we are called to try to emulate God, we are created in God’s image, but we don’t have the divine tools.  We have our hands, our hearts, and our brains.  The closest thing we have to a divine tool is our voice; and its role, though not one of creation, is important.  When God is done with creation, God takes a moment, gazes over God’s handiwork, takes a divine breath, and recognizes that what God had created was not just good, but very good, and ultimately worthy of blessing, when God blesses Shabbat.  Our voices have the ability to bless and praise, but it’s our hands and our minds which have the divine creative impulse within them.
A year ago, as our congregation was deliberating our future, I described our place as in the wilderness, a place of uncertainty between where we’ve been and where we’re going.  The wilderness, though scary, is a place of great creativity.  This year, as many, but certainly not all, of the questions about our community’s future have been answered, we find ourselves moving closer to the border of the Promised Land, though not yet arrived.  And we are now given the opportunity to determine what our new community will be, so that we will arrive next year, on Jerusalem Avenue.
Our voices have been heard, so now it is time to put our hands and minds to work.  Let us, in this New Year, channel our divinely given charge of creation toward the establishment of our new community with divine impetus and skill, with a determination that everyone has something to contribute, with an eye toward seizing the opportunity presented to us, with the charge to make space for others, and with a sense that new doesn’t mean getting rid of the old. 

Let us create with divine impetus and skill:

In the middle of the wilderness, the people are commanded to create.  God calls to Moses and requests that the people build God a sanctuary so that God may dwell among them.  In order to make this happen, God singles out one man, among the many Israelites, to be the foreman of the divine building project.  This man’s name is Bezalel, and he takes up the mantle of overseeing creation of a house for the people to communicate with the divine.  The Torah tells us:
See, the Eternal has singled out by name Bezalel, son of Uri son of Hur, of the tribe of Judah.  God has endowed him with a divine spirit of skill, ability, and knowledge in every kind of craft and has inspired him to make designs for work in gold, silver, and copper, to cut stones for setting and to carve wood—to work in every kind of designer’s craft, and to give directions. He and Oholiab son of Ahisamach of the tribe of Dan have been endowed with the skill to do any work.[2]

Bezalel is singled out, but also partnered with Oholiab.  Oholiab is often forgotten in this story, First, because God singles out Bezalel first, and second because Bezalel has a school of art and design named after him in Jerusalem.  Each of them, and both of them, are filled with what the Torah calls chochmat lev.  While this is translated simply as skill, the literal translation is the wisdom of the heart.  The skills Bezalel and Oholiab have are divinely inspired, and a combination of both wisdom and soul, heart and head together.[3] 
            The rabbinic tradition reinforces this point about Bezalel.  In the Talmud,[4] we read of Bezalel:
In the moment that the Holy One of Blessing said to Moses: Say to Bezalel: make for me a Mishkan, an ark, and vessels. Moses went and switched the order, and he said to [Bezalel]: make an ark, vessels, and a Mishkan. [Bezalel] said to him, our teacher, it is the custom of everyone that [first] one builds a house, and afterwards [one] places inside vessels, and you are saying, make for me an ark, vessels, and a Mishkan. Where do I place the vessels that I am making?

In this moment, Bezalel recognizes an incongruity in Moses’ instructions.  Something doesn’t add up.  When he asks Moses what he’s supposed to do with the vessels, he’s asking Moses the purpose for all that he is asked to construct.  He wants to know the why.  He wants to understand deeply, in his heart as well as in his mind, so that he can build and create with intentionality, with kavannah
            Moses responds to Bezalel’s retort with words that amount to a blessing: “Perhaps you were in the shadow of God.”  Here, the Talmud makes a point of emphasizing the meaning in Bezalel’s name.  Shéma betzel el hayyita.  Betzel-el, in the shadow of God.
If, as a community, we make our choices with intentionality and purpose, if we ask the right questions, and seek the purpose.  If we focus on the why and use the skill of our mind as well as the skill of our heart, we will be blessed to do so in the shadow of God.  We will be blessed to create with divine impetus and skill.

Let us be determined as well that everyone has something to contribute to this creative project:

Bezalel gets the accolades, and deservedly so.  But even before God singles out Bezalel in the book of Exodus, we read: “the Israelites, all the men and women whose hearts moved them to bring anything for the work that the Eternal, through Moses, had commanded to be done, brought it as a freewill offering to the Eternal.”  But it’s not just that they brought the gold and the precious stones and the skins and the yarn and the wood, the materials commanded for the building.  It’s that everyone who wanted to be a part of the creation was invited to be.  Everyone whose heart moved them to join in the act of creating a home for God was welcomed to participate.  Big tent Judaism in the service of building a big tent for God. 
We read that the women who were skilled in spinning, spun yarn, and then brought it.  Everyone’s skill set was put to use.  Everyone who could do, did.  Everyone, men and women, helped to create the beautiful house for the Eternal, because they knew that it was also a house for them.  A place where they could reach for the sublime and find the answers to life’s most difficult questions.  A place where their connection to heaven was made manifest.  A place where God would dwell among them.  A place where they could create community and pass traditions on to their children.
Bezalel may have been imbued with a divine skill, but he was only given two hands, like the rest of us.  He needed everyone’s help to accomplish the task.  He needed everyone to give of their time and their effort, in addition to their donations.  It was the first capital campaign in history, but it has an important lesson to teach, because it wasn’t a passive campaign.  It asked people to participate and made space for everyone.  It asked of people to express their talent for everyone’s benefit. 
Everyone in our community has been asked to be a part of this creation, with your skills and your hearts.  Each of us has our own skills we can add.  If we choose to use them, and choose to give of our talents, we will be blessed to create a place where God will surely dwell among us.

Let us work to seize the opportunity given to us to build something to the glory of God:

The building of the Mishkan in the book of Exodus is the first of the two great building projects dedicated to God described in the Bible.  The other is the Temple in Jerusalem built by Solomon in the book of Kings.  David, Solomon’s father, was not allowed to build the Temple for God because even though he was the king of Israel and established Jerusalem as the capitol, his sins of the heart and body render him unfit in God’s eyes.  So it is left to his son, Solomon the wise, to establish God’s permanent abode atop Mount Moriah, that same mountain where Abraham brings Isaac, that same mountain where Adam and Eve find refuge after exile from Eden.
In the book of Kings, Solomon’s building of the Temple comes about not only by divine command.  We read of Solomon corresponding with Hiram, the King of Tyre, in modern day Lebanaon:
You know that my father David could not build a house for the name of the Eternal his God because of the enemies that encompassed him, until the Eternal had placed them under the soles of his feet.  But now the Eternal my God has given me respite all around; there is no adversary and no mischance.  And so I propose to build a house for the name of the Eternal my God, as the Eternal promised my father David, saying, ‘Your son, whom I will set on your throne in your place, shall build the house for My name.’[5]

Solomon, as any good son would, tries to clean up his father’s reputation by commenting that it was David’s enemies, not his dalliances, which caused a delay in the building project for God.  Solomon then goes on to tell King Hiram that it is his idea to begin construction now.  “I propose,” he says, “hineini omer.”  The Hineini here is important, because it is most often used as the marker of a response to God.  When God calls to Abraham twice in our reading this morning, once with the command to sacrifice his son, and once with the command to stay his hand, Abraham responds both times with the word, Hineini.  When God calls to Jacob, Moses, and Isaiah, each of them respond with Hineini.  Here I am, but also with an implied sense of being ready to do what God has commanded. 
            In Solomon’s case, there is no call from God to build as there was in the desert to Moses.  Solomon looks around, sees the peace he has been able to establish after his father’s wars, and the wealth he has begun to amass due to his expanding empire, and he determines for himself that he is ready to do God’s work in building the Temple.  It is only after Solomon finishes building the Temple that God’s voice is heard.  “The word of the Eternal came to Solomon: With regard to this House you are building, if you follow My laws and observe My rules and faithfully keep My commandments, I will fulfill for you the promise that I gave to your father David.  I will abide among the children of Israel, and I will never forsake My people Israel.”[6]
            Solomon takes it upon himself to look around at the situation and determine that the time is right to begin construction.  The time has come to create a house for God.  It is only after Solomon takes the initiative himself that God recommits to the covenant with the people Israel.
            We have looked around.  We have determined that the time is now and the time is right to commit to a new project to create a house for God and a house for our community.  By devoting ourselves to that task, by taking the initiative, we will make an opportunity for God’s presence to dwell with us, and be blessed to find our covenant with God reaffirmed.

Let us make space for others:

            We know that not everything will be the same.  Many elements of what we have come to know and love about Temple Emanu-El may change.  Much will most likely stay the same, but we also must look with honesty at the reality of what it means to bring two congregations together.  It means bringing together two sets of customs, two sets of expectations, two distinct histories, two traditions, and two groups of people.  In many cases there can and should be room for both.  But in order to make room for both, we have to take a cue from God.
            Before there was anything, there was God.  The Kabbalists teach that in order for God to create the world, God had to make space, since there was only God, and God filled all space.  This process of withdrawal is called tzimtzum, contraction, making space, and it is a necessary part of creation.  Creation cannot come to be without it.  “How did God create the world?  Like a person taking a deep breath and holding it, so that the small contains the large.”[7]  “Before the creation of the world, the Eternal God withdrew itself into its essence…it left an empty space within its essence in which it could emanate and create.”[8]
            For God to create the world, God has to make space.  God takes a deep breath in…holds it…forever.  It is in that void, in the space that used to be filled with God’s essence, that God creates.  God has to make room.  God has to clear away some of God, give up some of what God had always been.  God gave that up for us.  God made space for us, for the earth, for the universe to be.  In order to create, God had to give.
            We will no doubt be asked to compromise, and make space for traditions, customs, and ideas which are new, unfamiliar, and possibly even uncomfortable, for both sides.  But if we remember the divine contraction, the divine making of space, the tzimtzum, we can try to emulate the divine way and make room to create something new and worthy of blessing.

New doesn’t have to mean getting rid of the old:

            When Moses goes up to the mountain of God a second time, after the Golden Calf, after he throws down the tablets of the law and shatters them, he is given two new tablets.  But, unlike the first set, these are not etched by God.  They are etched by Moses.  The second time, God tells him, the work is up to you.  You were handed something, but now you have to create.  Moses transcribes the Ten Commandments onto two new tablets and descends from the mountain with them in his hands, as he had done 40 days earlier.
            When the time comes to place the tablets in the Ark of the Covenant, the gold covered box, carried by the priests, and upon which God’s presence was said to dwell, there was a choice to be made.  Moses had before him two sets of tablets.  One, shiny, new, etched by his own hand.  Another set, shattered, broken, a remnant from an earlier encounter with God.  Moses decides that both sets belong in the Ark.  The new and the old have a place.  Each set of tablets has holiness.  Each set of tablets has within it the word of God, the breath of God, the presence of God.  There is room in the Ark for both.
            When we come together as a new, merged community, we will make space for both sets of tablets.  Those that are a remnant of what was, and those that represent the new direction.  There is a place for both, and both deserve to be preserved and revered.  When we make space for both sets of tablets, we will be blessed to have completed the creation of a new community devoted to God, built upon the foundation that was laid by our forebears.

            In this next year, we have a special opportunity to channel our internal divine impulse in the service of creation of a new community.  It will take a lot of work and effort from all of us, and everyone is invited to participate.  If we channel the divine skills we have been given, if we ensure that everyone has a role and a contribution, if we seize the opportunity afforded to us, if we work to make space for others, and if we work to bring the best of the past with us, we will no doubt be successful.  We will be successful such that a year from now, when we gather together on Rosh Hashanah 5779 we will be blessed to look back at the work that we have created, declare that it is very good, and find cause to take a divine breath, and bless all that we have created.

Kein Yehi Ratzon.

Shanah Tovah!



[1] From: Does God Have a Big Toe?
[2] Exodus 35:30-35
[3] Thanks, Rabbi Jillian Cameron for this teaching about Bezalel
[4] Berachot 55a
[5] 1 Kings 5: 17-19
[6] 1 Kings 6:11-12
[7] Matt, Daniel.  The Essential Kabbalah,  p 92
[8] Ibid. 93

Erev Rosh HaShanah 5778 - If Not Higher: Consider the Litvack!

A version of this sermon was delivered on Erev Rosh HaShanah 5778 at Temple Emanu-El of East Meadow

During the month before Rosh Hashanah there is a custom for Jews get up early to say selichot; prayers asking for forgiveness from God.  And every Friday morning, during these prayers, the Rabbi of Nemirov would disappear.  He would simply vanish!
He was nowhere to be seen—not in the synagogue, not the house of study.  He was certainly not at home.  His door stood wide open; whoever wished could go in and out; no one would steal from the Rabbi.  But there was not a living creature inside.
Where could the rabbi be?  Where should he be?  He must surely be up in heaven!  A rabbi has plenty of business just before the High Holydays.  Jews, God bless them, need a living, peace, health, and good matches for marriage.  They try their best to be good, but it isn’t easy, and so our sins are many. Who can help us if not the rabbi!
That’s what the people thought.
One day a Litvak heard the people talking about the rabbi being up in heaven, and he laughed.  You know the Litvaks.  They think little of spiritual things but stuff themselves with the laws of the Talmud.  So this Litvak points to a passage in the Law where it is says that even Moshe Rabbaynu, Moses our teacher, did not ascend to heaven in his lifetime but remained suspended two and a half feet below.  Go argue with a Litvak!
So where can the rabbi be, if not in heaven?
“That’s not my business,” said the Litvak, shrugging.  Yet all the while — what a Litvak can do! — he is scheming to find out.
That same night, right after the evening prayers, the Litvak sneaks into the rabbi’s room, slides under the rabbi’s bed, and waits.  He’ll watch all night and discover where the rabbi vanishes during the selichot prayers of forgiveness.
Someone else might have gotten drowsy and fallen asleep, but a Litvak is never at a loss; he recites an entire book of the Talmud by heart to keep awake. 
At dawn he hears the call to prayers.
The rabbi has already been awake for a long time.  The Litvak has heard him groaning for a whole hour.
Whoever has heard the rabbi of Nemirov groan knows how much suffering, how much sorrow for Israel, lies in each groan.  Your heart could break, just hearing it, but a Litvak is made of iron; he listens and remains where he is.  The rabbi —  long life to him! — lies on the bed, and the Litvak under the bed.
Then the Litvak hears the beds in the house begin to creak; he hears people jumping out of their beds, mumbling a few Jewish words, pouring water on their hands, banging doors.  Everyone has left.  It is quiet and dark again.
Afterward the Litvak admitted that when he found himself alone with the rabbi a great fear took hold of him.  Goose pimples spread across his skin.  To be alone with the rabbi at the time of the selichot prayers!  But a Litvak is stubborn.  So he quivered like a fish in water, but remained where he was.
Finally the rabbi gets up.  First he says his morning blessings.  Then he goes to the closet and takes out a bundle of peasant clothes: linen trousers, high boots, a coat, a big felt hat, and a long wide leather belt studded with brass nails.  The rabbi gets dressed.  From his coat pocket dangles the end of a heavy peasant rope.
The rabbi goes out, and the Litvak follows him.
On the way the rabbi stops in the kitchen, bends down, takes an ax from under the bed, puts it in his belt, and leaves the house.  The Litvak trembles but continues to follow.
You can feel the approach of the holy days, there is a hushed awe hanging over the dark streets.  Every once in a while a cry can be heard from a prayer minyan where the selichot prayers are being said, or from a sickbed.  The rabbi stays to the sides of the streets, keeping to the shade of the houses.  He glides from house to house, and the Litvak after him.  The Litvak hears the sound of his own heartbeat mingling with the sound of the rabbi’s heavy steps.  But he keeps on going and follows the rabbi to the edge of town.
A small wood stands behind the town.
The rabbi enters the woods.  He takes thirty or forty steps and stops by a small tree.  The Litvak, overcome with amazement, watches the rabbi take the ax out of his belt and strike the tree.  He hears the tree creak and fall.  The rabbi chops the tree into logs and the logs into sticks.  Then he makes a bundle of the wood and ties it with the rope in his pocket.  He puts the bundle of wood on his back, shoves the ax back into his belt, and returns to the town.
He stops at a back street beside a small broken-down shack and knocks at the window.
“Who is there?” asks a frightened voice.  The Litvak recognizes it is the voice of a sick Jewish woman. “I” answers the rabbi, in the accent of a peasant.
“Who is I?”
Again the rabbi answers in Russian, “Vassil.”
“Who is Vassil, and what do you want?”
“I have wood to sell, very cheap.”  And not waiting for the woman’s reply, he goes into the house.
The Litvak sneaks in after him.  In the gray light of early morning he sees a poor room with broken, miserable furniture.  A sick woman, wrapped in rags, lies on the bed.  She complains bitterly, “Buy?  How can I buy?  Where will a poor widow get money?”
“I’ll lend it to you,” answers the rabbi disguised as Vassil the peasant. “It’s only six cents.”
“And how will I ever pay you back?” asks the poor woman, groaning.
“Foolish one,” says the rabbi.  “See, you are a poor sick Jew, and I am ready to trust you with a little wood.  I’m sure you’ll pay.  While you, you have such a great and mighty God and you don’t trust God for six cents.”
“And who will kindle the fire?” asks the widow.  “Have I the strength to get up?  My son is at work.”
“I’ll kindle the fire,” answers the rabbi.
As the rabbi put the wood into the oven he recited, in a groan, the first part of the selichot prayers, asking for God’s forgiveness.
As he kindled the fire and the wood burned brightly, he recited, a bit more joyously, the second part of the selichot Prayers.  When the fire was set he recited the third part, and then he shut the stove.
The Litvak who saw all this was so moved he became a follower of the rabbi.
And from that day forth, when any of the people would tell how the rabbi of Nemirov goes up to heaven at the time of the Penitential Prayers, the Litvak wouldn’t laugh.  He would only add quietly, “If not higher.”
*     *     *

If not higher.  This famous story by among the greatest Yiddish authors of the late 19th to early 20th century, I. L. Peretz, has many messages that resonate on these High Holy Days.  Messages about the work we are supposed to engage in, the work of self-evaluation, the work of cheshbon hanefesh, the accounting of our souls.  A central message of this story is a meditation on the message of the Yom Kippur Haftarah when the prophet Isaiah reminds us that God prefers we care for those in need rather than make our sacrifices.  The rabbi in the story understands that the way to demonstrate to God that we are repentant is to remember this call.  It is not enough to make our confessions and repent in word and prayer only.  No, we must act. 
But this message is a standard High Holy Day message.  This year marks the 6th Rosh HaShanah I am spending with you on this bima and I have preached this message over and over.  It doesn’t get old, mind you.  We’ve been preaching it for thousands of years and it still has merit.  You’ll certainly hear it again from me; it is at the core of what it means to be a believing Jew.  But this evening, I’d like us to consider the Litvack. 
Now, far be it from me to deign to say that the rabbi is not the most important character in this story.  No, it’s the Litvack.  Everything hinges on him: his thoughts, his impulses, his prejudices, his cunning, and ultimately his humanity, capacity to learn, and deep faith.  The Rabbi doesn’t have an emotional arc.  The Litvack does, which is especially funny, considering Litvacks are known for their analytical and legal approach to Judaism, as opposed to the religious fervor and emotion of the Chassidim. 
The first we learn of this Litvack is that he’s out of his element.  He’s come to a town where he doesn’t know the people and he doesn’t know the rabbi.  He knows a lot, though; and he’s quite certain that all that he’s learned in his Talmud sessions and his poring over tomes of Jewish law can explain away everything in God’s creation.  When the people tell him that their rabbi is up in heaven, he knows that’s not possible.  He laughs at the suggestion!  He scoffs at the townsfolk and even cites a verse in the Talmud that says that even the great Moses himself didn’t ascend that high!  He only got within arm’s reach.  If Moses didn’t reach heaven, certainly this rabbi didn’t either!
And so he goes out to disprove the theory, like a good Litvack, searching for a logical explanation that fits into his worldview.  The Litvack may know his Jewish law, but he seems to have forgotten his pirke avot.  Particularly the verse that tells us: “Aseh lecha rav, u’kneh lecha chaver, ve havei dan et kol ha-adam lechat zechut.”[1]  The first two phrases: Aseh lecha rav, u’kneh lecha chaver : Get yourself a teacher, and find someone to study with, are clearly in the Litvack’s wheelhouse.  He’s a learned man.  But it’s that last one, “dan et kol ha-adam lechaf zechut,” that he has trouble with.  This short phrase can be translated a variety of ways: judge everyone favorably, judge everyone as meritorious, or judge everyone with the benefit of the doubt.”  At his core, this is the Litvack’s great sin.  He does not give the rabbi the benefit of the doubt, nor the townspeople.  He’s certain in his answer, and cannot fathom being wrong.  Ultimately he is proven wrong.  Not literally wrong, but wrong in how he understood the Rabbi’s merit.
To get to the bottom of things, the Litvack goes to hide under the rabbi’s bed.  You might think this an odd way to try to learn, but it’s a common trope in the Talmud: a student hiding under their rabbi’s bed in order to learn from their every move.  It is an intimate experience and an action done out of sincere devotion.  But here, the Litvack uses this scheme to catch the rabbi at something.  The Litvack lacks faith, for such a pious man.  He lacks faith in his fellow man.  He does not judge the rabbi meritoriously.
This last year, we’ve been bombarded with a lack of giving people the benefit of the doubt, or judging of people as meritorious.  We’ve seen, and been guilty of, becoming entrenched in what we believe, declaring it the truth.  We have been unwilling to see another perspective.  We’ve been loath to look at someone who disagrees with us and find within them some merit.  Too often we don’t even know a person, and we approach with skepticism and a lack of empathy.
Research has shown that constantly judging toward the negative has an effect on our ability to trust others, stranger and friend alike.  It hinders our ability to be empathetic, and diminishes the happiness we can experience.  If we assume the negative, it comes from a place of mistrust, suspicion, judgment and prejudice.[2]  This leads to a cycle of negativity in our lives and in our relationships, and even to loneliness, as we push people away before we have a chance to bring them close. 
If we truly want to have a shanah tovah, a good and fulfilling new year, let us remember the words of the great sage Shammai who teaches us to “greet everyone we meet with a cheerful countenance.”[3]
In this new year, let us resolve to treat each other, and approach the people in our lives, not with the cynicism and apprehension we’ve allowed to become all too normal.  Let us strive to approach others with the benefit of the doubt.  When the townspeople see their rabbi missing, they think the best case scenario.  They assume that he’s in heaven.  Where else would he be?! 
Our sages understand this quality, that of being generous in your judgment of others, as being immensely worthy of merit in and of itself.  One commentator on the verse from Pirke Avot describes it as akin to welcoming the stranger, visiting the sick, and comforting the mourner, actions which have dividends in the world to come.  It is placed on par with the greatest of the commandments,[4] loving your neighbor as yourself, v’ahavta l’reacha kamocha.[5]  And as I have preached before, the crux of this commandment is a call for empathy.
The Litvack here learns empathy, therefore, in two distinct ways.  First, by following the rabbi and learning from his anonymous good deeds.  And second, by learning to judge a person with the benefit of the doubt.  When the rabbi disappears next, the Litvack is the only one who knows the rabbi’s secret, but he doesn’t reveal it.  He has learned from the townsfolk.  And, his experience leads the him to become a follower of the rabbi.  He has learned what it means to assume the best of someone.  And he has learned what it means when that assumption is also the truth.  He has been changed by his experience for the better.  He no longer laughs at the suggestion that the rabbi is in heaven.  No, he just recognizes to himself that the people are right.  And always have been.
Let us strive to reach higher in the new year.  Yes, by ascending toward the heavens with our deeds and our actions to make the world better, even for just one person, as the rabbi does.  But also by giving others the benefit of the doubt and greeting each other cheerfully.  Let our year truly be happy and sweet because that is how we will have treated others.  Then will we achieve untold heights of empathy, kindness, and relationship.  Then will be opened the gates of heaven to us.  If not higher.
Shanah Tovah!



[1] Avot 1:6
[2] See the work of Brene Brown
[3] Avot 1:15
[4] According to Rabbi Akiva
[5] Magen Avot