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!
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