A version of this sermon was delivered at Temple B'nai Torah - A Reform Congregation in Wantagh, NY on Kol Nidre 5781, September 27, 2020.
God,
we need to have a talk.
The
Torah tells us that this is a day to afflict our souls. The Torah tells us that this day is supposed
to make atonement for us, for our sins, before You, God. This day is supposed to render us clean, as
individuals and as a nation. We are to
deny our bodies and offer ourselves to You.
We cleanse our bodies to cleanse our souls. But this year, God, I’m not so sure I’m going
to feel cleansed, or renewed, or atoned.
Because after this day, this Sabbath of Sabbaths, life continues as it
did yesterday, and I gotta tell You, God, life is hard right now, and I know
that I’m one of the lucky ones.
But,
when times are tough, where do I turn if not to You? To whom do we come if not to You?
I know
that we’re supposed to be cautious of how we speak to You,[1]
and that even great men and women should be careful about rendering harsh words
toward the heavens, but I think You can handle it. In fact, I know You can. Abraham argued with You at Sodom, the
covenant held. Jacob wrestled with You
in the wilderness, the covenant held.
Jonah petulantly refused to do Your will, the covenant held.
In
their footsteps, Eternal our God and God of our Ancestors, I ask: how do You
expect us to afflict our souls when they are already so wounded? How do You expect that we practice
self-denial when what we can do is already so limited?
You
want a listing of our sins? Fine. We have sinned, over and over again, we’ve
got one for every letter of the alphabet!
But when do we call You to account?!
We need some tikkun, God, some healing and repair for our souls which
ache with distress, for our spirits, which cry out to be comforted. We don’t need another day of affliction!
So
let’s make a deal: tonight, In the presence of the heavenly court and the
earthly court, we’ll forgive You and You forgive us.
What
for? I’m glad You asked.
Life
is hard, and my people and I are tired.
So tired. Not like in other
years. I know what it takes to make High
Holy Days happen. I know what it means
to stay up nights and agonize over words, to craft a meaningful prayer moment,
in the hope that they will make a difference.
I have done that before. This
year, there was so much new. New technology
to learn, new interpersonal skills to learn, new habits to learn, new worries keeping
me up. I’m a lifelong learner, God, but
hadn’t I already learned how to live my life?
So
fine, I learned how to do my job virtually.
But I don’t like it. It’s not the
best way to do this work, God. The work
of teaching Your Torah. I know You only
spoke to Moses face to face, but I’m used to doing it all the time! I miss seeing people’s faces in front of
me. I miss seeing students in
person. I miss shaking a mourner’s hand
and high fiving a bat mitzvah. I miss
handing out lollipops on Shabbat! I miss
blessing people in person! I miss so
much of what was before. We’ve lost so
much of what we knew, and there is no end in sight. And we don’t know what will come after.
On top
of that is all the worry. And it’s
exhausting, too. Every day, every
decision, based on worry for our safety, for that of our families. Who will be there and where have they been? How many people will be there? What’s the viral count in the county right
now? What about the state? Do I have a mask or sanitizer with me? Every day, all those questions, over and
over. I know You’re a fan of
intentionality, but is this what You had in mind?
And
then, God, there’s all the death. I
didn’t open with that because it’s all still so hard to talk about. So many have died. So many who did not have to. Across this country, and across this planet. I know how busy You’ve been ushering people
under Your sheltering wings. Who shall
live and who shall die!? Who by
plague?! These used to be rhetorical
questions, God, remnants of our ancestors and the lives of uncertainty that
they lived. A quaint throwback to a
simpler time, before science, before vaccines, when we believed all of it was Your
doing.
So
many are grieving their loved ones, their friends, their neighbors because of
this virus, because of the violence, because of hunger, because of fires and
hurricanes. So many families in our
nation, crushed in mourning. My people
and I are living in a constant state of mourning. Is that what You hoped for?! You are supposed to turn our mourning into
dancing. Any time You feel like it!
There’s
so much we can’t plan for. We’re all so
anxious because we don’t know what tomorrow will bring. All we have are questions. What will we be allowed to do? How can we plan for things? What is school going to look like? Will I have a job? Every plan needs a contingency. Every idea needs a backup. It’s twice the work and twice the worry for
every moment of our lives, God. And it’s
exhausting. It leads to twice the
anxiety for a nation that already doesn’t handle mental health well, that
thinks there’s something wrong with asking for help.
It feels like there’s twice the potential to
make a mistake every moment of every day, and yet, it also feels like we only
get half the reward for twice the effort.
Our simchas are joyous but not what we had been looking forward to: weddings
without parents, namings without grandparents, b’nai mitzvah without friends. Our grieving is more pained and without the
comfort of community. Our day to day is
so hectic and distracted and uncertain that we don’t know what to feel most of
the time. This cannot be the world You
want for us.
Forgive
me and my people if we’re just a little tired of bad news. 5779 was difficult, with rising antisemitism,
mass shootings, police violence, rising oceans, and a nation more chaotic. But 5780, You outdid Yourself! On top of all of that, you took so many from
us, and so many who stood for so much that we care about. You took Kobe and his daughter. You took John Lewis. You took Ruth Bader Ginsberg. You took Rabbi Steinsaltz. You took Carl
Reiner. You took Regis! My mother still hasn’t gotten over that.
Is
there supposed to be some lesson in this, in all this? My soul aches already, and now I’m supposed to
afflict it? Well, You’ll forgive me if I
just don’t have it in me to afflict myself anymore today. The affliction we’ve been feeling feels like
enough to make up for whatever we might have done to deserve it! But You know what God, tonight, in the spirit
of Yom Kippur, we’ll forgive You and You forgive us!
Forgive
us if we can’t be fully in it tonight.
Forgive us if the distance between us all is getting to us and if we
fail to feel Your presence in the deepest way from our living rooms or our
computer rooms. Forgive us if as nice as
this is and as hard as we’ve worked to make it work, if it just doesn’t feel
the same for us. Forgive us. Pardon us!
Grant us atonement! We’re doing
the best that we can, and this year, 5781, that’s going to have to do!
You
know, I’m not the first to come to You in prayer on behalf of my people. I’m not comparing myself to them, but if
their merit may have persuaded You, then perhaps, their merits can count for me
and my people. The rabbis of old who
came to You with pleas for help and demands for justice in the world were
imperfect like me. They worked hard to
make sense of Your Torah in their times, like we do. They looked out for their communities in
times of trouble like we do. You
listened to them. Listen to me now with
the added benefit of their merit.
What
story can we tell You, God, to avert danger away from us? What prayer from our people’s past can we
share so that Your grace and mercy might shine down upon us? Maybe the Rabbis who invented prayer have the
answer!
Some
years after the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem by the Romans, there was
a drought.[2] To implore You to send rains, Rabbi Eliezer
came before the Holy Ark and proclaimed 24 blessings, yet You did not answer
his pleas. No rains came.
Then
came Rabbi Akiva who intoned but two lines of prayer: “אבינו
מלכנו אין לנו מלך אלא אתה Avinu Malkeinu, we have no ruler but
You! אבינו מלכנו
למענך רחם עלינו Avinu Malkeinu, for Your sake, have mercy on us!” And then the rains fell. The drought was abated.
So,
fine. I’ll give it a shot! Avinu
Malkeinu, have mercy on us! Have mercy
on us for the pain that we feel, the distance that we feel, the hurt and the
mourning that we feel. Have mercy on us
for the anxiety that keeps us up at night, the stress of what this is doing to
us and to our children and parents. Have
mercy on us for the sadness and the division and the violence in our midst! Avinu Malkeinu, we have no other God but You! Where should we turn if not toward the East?!
What
was it about Rabbi Akiva’s prayer that moved You so? You told us in a voice from the heavens that
it was because Rabbi Akiva was forgiving but Rabbi Eliezer was not. So it has nothing to do with the prayer at
all!? It has to do with the person’s commitment
to forgiveness?! Are we supposed to
forgive so that the rains will come, so that these difficulties will end, so
that healing will come to wash away all the affliction? Who are we supposed to forgive? Are we supposed to forgive each other? Are we supposed to forgive ourselves?
Fine,
I forgive myself for the numerous times that I did not live in Your image. I forgive myself for the times that I did not
pay attention to Your will. I forgive
myself for the moments when I did not embody Your spirit of compassion and
Justice, Your spirit of consolation and grace.
I forgive myself for the times that I did not love in the way You have
commanded us to love, that I did not live in the way You have commanded us to
live. I atone for these and I forgive
myself and I forgive my community and my family and my friends, and I commit on
this night, this Sabbath of Sabbaths, that I will strive to turn away from
those moments of smallness toward moments of goodness and intentionality. Avinu Malkeinu, I don’t know any other God
but You, and I don’t know anything else to say.
Tonight, it’s going to have to be enough!
Maybe
it’s not ourselves we’re supposed to forgive, down here in the earthly
court. Maybe we’re supposed to forgive You,
up in the heavenly court? Rabbi Akiva taught
us that the greatest commandment is to love our neighbors as ourselves. Loving our neighbors means forgiving them as
we would want them to forgive us. Does
loving You demand the same thing of us?
Ok, fine, God, I forgive You! Now
You forgive us.
Inscribe
us and seal us in the book of Life for good and for blessing. Forgive us and make this a good year for
us. Forgive us for not acting to spread Your
light as we are commanded. For as much
as we are angry at You, we know that it is on us to do Your works here on Earth,
to heal the sick, to comfort the bereaved, to teach the next generation, to
help the needy, to spread words of peace, to not be daunted by the work ahead
of us. We know it’s on us, God. But, this year, would it kill You to maybe throw
us a little extra help?
Our
souls are afflicted. We’ve met the
requirement. We’ll forgive you. Now please, forgive us, pardon us, grant us
atonement.
Amen.
G’mar
Chatimah Tovah.
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