Sunday, October 1, 2017

Yom Kippur Yizkor 5778: The Gravity of Memory

A version of this sermon was delivered at the Yizkor service at Temple Emanu-El of East Meadow on Yom Kippur 5778

A little over a month ago, the United States witnessed one of the great marvels of the heavens, a Total Solar Eclipse.  For a few moments, everyone’s eyes pointed upward, trying to catch a safe glimpse of the occluded sunlight, as the moon made its pass between the light of the sun and us here on the earth.  On Long Island, we had a little over 70% occlusion, and were able to see the crescent shaped shadows from the muted rays of sunlight.  But we could not look upon it with our eyes.  We needed either special glasses or to look through a pinhole.  We can only safely see an eclipse by not looking directly at it.

Almost 100 years ago, a total eclipse was used to prove Albert Einstein’s theory about light and the nature of space-time.  Light travels through space.  It comes from the sun to earth, a relatively short distance, taking but minutes to bask us in its glorious golden rays.  It comes from distant stars, taking years, centuries or millennia to arrive as a gentle twinkle, only visible in the night sky.  Einstein suggested that the path of light’s travel through space is changed by the mass of large objects like the sun.  The gravity of the star pulls the light of another toward it, as it creates a curve in space.  This is also impossible to see without special instruments and without special circumstances.  It is only when the sun is completely blocked that scientists and astronomers can measure the effect that the sun’s gravity has on the path of the light of distant stars before we see them.  Einstein used the eclipse 98 years ago to record this phenomenon, for the first time.

Einstein’s theory was proven thanks to the solar eclipse, and it upended centuries of Newtonian thought and understanding of the universe.  An eclipse literally changed the way we understand the foundations of the universe.  This predictable dance between the two great lights allowed humanity to come to a greater and fuller understanding of how the universe works, and how light travels through it.

This past summer, the National Geographic channel aired a truly magnificent docudrama biopic about the life of Albert Einstein, called Genius.  The series was based on the biography of the same name by Walter Isaacson.  Both trace Einstein’s life, his discoveries and calculations, through the early years while he was still trying to have his ideas accepted, until his later years, when he worked hard to fight against the proliferation of nuclear weapons, which his calculations helped bring to fruition.  We also learn a lot about his relationships, his triumphs and his regrets.  His life was marked, like all of ours, with love and loss, joy and tragedy, war and peace, belief and doubt.

Toward the end of the series, in a scene near the end of his life, Einstein comments to his friend Niels Bohr that he has regrets in his life, and he wishes he could turn back the clock.  Bohr jokes that perhaps time travel could be his final achievement.  Einstein retorts: “There are many moments I would like to relive and many ills I'd like to fix.”  Bohr ends the conversation with the truism: “Time is a tricky thing,” while complimenting that it was Einstein who taught him as much.

Time is a tricky thing.  Often a day feels like but a moment; we blink and it has passed us by.  Then we experience a moment that lasts for what seems like an eternity.  Sometimes we move past occasions of great joy in an instant.  And sometimes we dwell in our sadness and mourning, seemingly endlessly.  Our loved ones were at our side yesterday, it seems.  We can still hear their laugh, smell their perfume, feel their love.  Our loved ones have been gone forever, also.  It’s hard to remember what color that chair was in their house, the smell of my brisket is never quite the same as hers.  I can never tell that joke in the same way.  An eternity has passed no matter how long it has been since they were at our sides.   

Well, Einstein and Bohr never achieved the ability to time travel with the help of a machine.  Today, however, each of us becomes a time machine.  We hurtle through space-time toward the past.  It is through our memories that we are able to do the scientifically impossible.  We travel through time through the act of memory, through Yizkor.  Take a moment and allow yourself the journey.  

We travel back to our youth and experience anew the first look we ever had of our beloved, and we feel the love as we did then.  We travel to the moment we heard those words of wisdom our parents gave to us, and then to the moment we passed them on to our children, and we connect them in our hearts.  We arrive at the fight we had with our sister, or spend time reliving the trip we took with our brother, when we became closer and began to appreciate each other as adults.  We remember and experience again the joy at a simchah, and the sadness of a loss or an illness.  We travel back and forth between now and the past in our most sacred of obligations, the obligation to remember, the obligation to keep alive our loved ones through the blessing of their memory.

We journey through our memories, like a beam of light through space-time, pushed and pulled by the gravity of our memories.   But, like in an eclipse, it is only when the light of the sun is blocked that we can truly see the effect the sun has.  So it is with our loved ones of blessed memory.  As we travel through time in our memories, we come to realize that too often, the effect they had on us can only truly be understood and calculated after they are gone.  After their light has been diminished.  It is only then that we may truly come to appreciate what they meant to us, how they affected us, how the course of our life was altered by their presence.  Like the eclipse, we cannot look upon our memories with our own eyes, we need special tools, the tools of memory.

When Einstein and Bohr bantered about time travel, they knew it was only barely theoretically possible.  When we speak of memory, we know it is all very real.  We know it is real because we time travel.  We travel through time on this Yom Hakippurim and recall the relationships in our lives that were important to us.  We travel as a beam of light, through space-time, feeling the pull of blessed memory on us and our actions, feeling the force of those blessed memories on our souls and our lives.

Energy.  Mass.  The speed of light.  These explain the expanse of the universe.  But memory, memory explains the expanse of the heart.

Let us begin that journey to the past.  Let us begin our travel through time.  Let us experience the past anew, though our sacred work of memory.

Kol Nidre 5778: Be the Nechemta

A version of this sermon was delivered at Temple Emanu-El of East Meadow at Kol Nidre 5778.

Kol Nidre.  All our vows.  On Yom Kippur we spend much of our time looking backward.  Who were we in the last year?  What did we do in the last year that was worthy of praise?  Where did we err?  Where did we miss the mark?  Where were we kind?  Where did our baser instincts get the best of us?  All day, we look back; we repent for what we have done.  And yet, at the beginning of our fast, as we take the first step on this 25-hour journey of purification, supplication, and abstinence, we look ahead.  The abridged version of the Kol Nidre sounds like this, all the promises we make between tonight and next Yom Kippur, don’t really think of them as promises, because we know we won’t keep them.

We look forward, but not with hope.  Rather, as Catherine Madsen writes, “Kol Nidre is not an absolution, but a vote of no confidence.  It presupposes that we cannot be trusted: we make vows and fail to fulfill them.  We make the wrong vows, we are inconstant, faithless and hapless.”[1]  The Kol Nidre prayer, so beautifully and movingly sung by our Cantor and choir this evening, preemptively recognizes that we are not going to be as we want to be, hope to be, or wish to be.  Life is not going to be as we want it to be, hope it to be, or wish it to be.  No, in fact, life is often going to be hard.  No matter how hard we try to make it so, life will not live up to the expectations we set for ourselves during this Yom Kippur.

Man, but if this last year hasn’t proven the ancient Rabbi’s point!  5777 was a difficult year in a lot of ways, and it didn’t live up to many of our expectations.  There is much in the world that needs healing, and much difficulty has come to pass in the last year. 

Anti-Semitism has come roaring back.  We have seen this ancient hatred bolstered on the right by the Alt-right movement, white-supremacists under another name, dreaming of an ethnically cleansed America, emboldened by social media anonymity, Russian interference, and an administration that traffics in blatantly anti-Semitic imagery, messaging, and acquaintance, shouting "Blood and Soil" and "Jews will not replace us."  Horrifying images, and shocking in America in 2017.

We see it coming from the left, as well, in the anti-Zionist movement and the BDS supporters.  According to the most extreme on the left, Jews are the only group that doesn’t get the right to self-determination.  We are the only people who don’t deserve a homeland, anywhere.  According to these folks, prominent on college campuses and hiding behind innocuous names like Students for Justice in Palestine, and Jewish Voice for Peace, Jews are akin to Nazis, guilty of the worst crimes against humanity, and Israel ought to be a pariah state on its way to not existing.  Anti-Zionism is anti-Semitism because it singles out Jews as a group and rewrites the history of the modern Jewish State into a colonialist narrative that is historically inaccurate and intellectually dishonest. 

We Jews are caught betwixt and between.  But it’s not just on the news.  It’s in our high school, and middle school, affecting our families, and causing us to rethink how we train our kids for this new reality.

The climate is changing and seas are rising, making winds blow stronger, storms more powerful, and weather less predictable.  Those in authority react too late to the natural disasters and deny human involvement in the changes in our atmosphere, exacerbating the problems for the next generation.

Guns continue to ravage this nation.  Since the start of the year, there have been 333 mass shootings in this nation.  333.

Isis continues their fight in Iraq, and the bloody quagmire of the civil war in Syria rages on, bolstered by Russian weapons and a West unwilling to do more, because there is no good guy to get behind.  In Afghanistan the Taliban is resurgent.  There is ethnic cleansing in Myanmar.  North Korea has a nuclear weapon pointed at us and our allies, and a leader seemingly unafraid to use it.

In Israel, the government continues to restrict the rights of liberal Jews and cede authority over religion to the corrupt Rabbinical Authority, whose only interest is staying in power, not furthering the cause of Judaism for the many.  The government there turns a blind eye to the detrimental effects of settlement construction on the prospect for peace, and seems to have abandoned the two-state solution.

In our own nation, racial and societal tensions are seemingly at an all-time high.  Women’s agency over their own bodies and health choices are under attack.  The healthcare fight and tax code fight pit the few with power and money against the many without either.  Refugees fleeing deadly conflict with only the clothes on their back find this nation’s borders closed to them.  There is an opioid epidemic, coast to coast, taking lives, ruining families, and destroying communities.  Kids continue to go hungry, even though we have more than enough food.  States and even the federal government continue to discriminate against the LGBTQ community.

I could go on and on.  Each day of this last year seemed to bring new and difficult news.  Each time my phone buzzes with a NY Times alert, my heart beats a little faster, and I have to steel myself for whatever may be coming.  Even if there is good news, like a first World Series victory in 108 years, or the powerful images of neighbors helping each other after the storms, they are quickly overshadowed by the difficulties.

Each of these topics warrants a sermon of its own on a day like today.  Each warrants our attention.  Each deserves a platform.  And, truth be told, I started a lot of those sermons in preparation for tonight.  But each time I sat to write, the message eluded me.  Each topic seemed to be the right one for this auspicious evening, the evening when we recognize our mortality, and perch on the precipice of life and death.  And yet, no single topic fit just right.  The words did not come.  The spirit did not guide me.  The message did not form.

It is a tradition in Judaism that we not end on a negative note or idea.  Sometimes, in a Haftarah for example, an extra verse is added or repeated after the last verse, so that the portion ends on a positive note, word, or idea, rather than a negative one.  When we read from the Torah, we don’t end on a negative thought; we try to finish the Aliyah with a positive idea.  Likewise in preaching.  Sermons typically end with what’s called the nechemta, the moment of comfort for the congregation, to recognize that hope, which we Jews hold on to more dearly than anything except the Torah, is not lost.  Where is the nechemta this year?  Where is the hope?  Where is the comfort?  Where will it come from when the year ahead deals us its inevitable hardships?

I was looking in the wrong place.  I was looking outward for a message of hope and comfort, when all along, as this day reminds us to do over and over again, I was supposed to be looking inward.  I was searching for some external thing that would come and tell us all that things will be ok, and that we have reason to hope.  It was not to be found outside, but inside.

In the year ahead, it is up to each of us, and all of us, to work to be the nechemta, the comfort, the hope, when the promises we make, and the promises God makes, are not kept.  It is up to us to take that role and responsibility, and work to make the nechemta come to be, to bring the hope and the comfort this world sorely needs.  Let us vow this night, on the night when we recognize that the year ahead will be filled with difficulties, let us vow to be the nechemta!

How do we do it?  Well, first, let us recognize that we don’t have to solve all these problems.  That’s not the point.  We know we cannot do that.  But, just because we are not required to finish the task, doesn’t mean we are free to desist from it.

Tomorrow afternoon, we will read from chapter 19 of the book of Leviticus, known as the Holiness Code.  It is called this because it begins with a call from God: “And Adonai spoke to Moses, saying: ‘Speak to all the community of Israel, and say to them: You shall be holy, for I, Adonai your God, am holy.”[2]  We are supposed to be holy, to be like God.  What does that mean?  It means that we ought to channel our divinely inspired instincts and qualities: the qualities of compassion, generosity, and love. And, importantly for this day, the quality of forgiveness.  To bring comfort, we have to be willing to forgive those who have wronged us, and that includes forgiving ourselves.

God tells us what it means to be holy in this chapter.  Among the many commands: Honor your parents.  Keep Shabbat.  Do not steal.  Do not deceive. Do not exploit your neighbor.  Do not take advantage of those who are differently-abled.  Don’t bear a grudge.  And then, right in the middle of the reading, the greatest of the commandments: Love your neighbor as yourself. V’ahavta l’reacha kamocha. 

These commands, and the others I didn’t mention, teach us what it means to live a life of holiness, one that leads to being the nechemta.  If we look out for others as we look out for ourselves.  If we honor and respect our traditions.  If we listen to those with experience and work to put aside differences, and not carry a grudge, we can become the nechemta the world sorely needs.

But this chapter also has one more lesson to teach us.  Unlike the 10 Commandments which are in the singular in the Hebrew, most of these commandments of holiness are given in the plural.  Kedoshim Tihiyu, which I will roughly translate as: Be holy, y’all!  To be the nechemta requires recognizing that we cannot do it on our own.  It requires being a part of a community, agreeing on what is right and what is acceptable, and working together to bring about the comfort and the hope the world cries out for. 

Tomorrow morning, we will hear in the Haftarah the famous words of the prophet Isaiah.  “Is not this the fast I desire – to break the bonds of injustice and remove the heavy yoke; to let the oppressed go free and release all those enslaved?  Is it not to share your bread with the hungry, and to take the homeless poor into your home, and never to neglect your own flesh and blood?”[3]  It sounds like Isaiah would understand the world we live in today.  His time was filled with callousness and cruelty, a focus only on the powerful and wealthy, and not on the least fortunate, in direct opposition to the commands of the Torah.

To be the nechemta, we have to help those who are in need.  If we can become the hope or the comfort for even one person, we provide it for an entire world, for the Talmud teaches that the soul of one is as the soul of an entire world.  We are called to action by Isaiah, not prayer or fasting, but action.

And Isaiah recognizes the powerful effect of our actions and our desire and determination to become the nechemta.  “Then shall your light burst forth like the dawn, and your wounds shall quickly heal, your righteous one leading the way before you, the presence of Adonai guarding you form behind.”[4]  When we reach out to those in need, when we work to make the world better, we fill the world with God’s light and we become the nechemta the world needs, and bring comfort and hope to those who need it.

Tomorrow afternoon, a number of congregants will participate in a recitation of the Haftarah from the book of Jonah.  When Jonah arrives in Nineveh, the large city, which takes three days to walk across, he is set to deliver God’s message of doom to the city.  He makes it one day in and proclaims: “Forty days more, Nineveh no more!”[5]  Jonah expects that, like him, the people of Nineveh will not listen to God’s message.  He expects that, like him, they will try to flee from God and from their obligation.  But he is mistaken.  In the very next verse, before Jonah even says why God plans to destroy them, without even a moment in between for the people to think about it, we read: “The people of Nineveh believed God.”[6]

The people proclaim a fast, the king sits in sackcloth and ashes, and they are forgiven by God.  Jonah doesn’t love the outcome.  What he expected did not come to pass, and he feels he was sent on a fool’s errand.  But we learn from the people of Nineveh the power of listening, and the power of repentance, and atonement.  If we are to be the nechemta in the year ahead, we need to channel our inner Ninevite, we need to listen, and be open to hearing even those messages we don’t want to hear, and we need to be willing to change our ways when someone, or God, tells us we’ve erred or missed the mark.  We need to be willing to apologize and engage in the process of self-reflection, every day of the year, not just on the 10th of Tishre.  To be the nechemta, we need to be willing to be challenged to be better and do better.

Tomorrow morning, in the Torah, we will read from the book of Deuteronomy the portion known as Nitzavim.  It begins,
You stand this day, all of you, in the presence of Adonai your God, your tribal heads, elders, and officials, every man, woman, and child of Israel, and the stranger in the midst of your camp, the from one who cuts your wood to the one who draws your water, to enter into the covenant of Adonai your God, to establish you as God’s people and to be your God.[7]
These verses renew the covenant with between the people and God as they prepare to enter the Promised Land.
           
The list of who was standing there is important.  The Torah tells us that to be the nechemta we have to make room for everyone, from tribal head to water-drawer.  Everyone has a place and is it up to all of us to ensure that everyone has a place.  When we make space for others, and work to see in them the divine, the image of God implanted within, particularly when they are ostracized or marginalized, we become the nechemta this world needs.

In addition, we stand before God.  To be the nechemta sometimes requires taking a stand.  “The Talmud teaches, ‘If you see wrongdoing by a member of your household and you do not protest – you are held accountable.  And so it is in relation to the members of your city. And so
it is in relation to the world.’  As Jews we are held accountable in ever-widening circles of responsibility to rebuke transgressors within our homes, in our country, in our world.  One medieval commentator teaches we must voice hard truths even to those with great power, for ‘the whole people are punished for the sins of the king if they do not protest the king’s actions to him.’”[8]

The words I just shared are, in fact, words of protest.  They have been shared by hundreds of my Reform rabbinic colleagues across the nation in fulfillment of our sacred obligation over these High Holy Days.   Let us not be silent. Let us, without hesitation, decry moral abdication wherever we see it, and always take a stand so that we can be the nechemta the world needs.

The Kabbalists believe the world is in a shattered state, and it is up to us to pick up the shards and repair them, through the process of tikkun.  Every act of tikkun is an act of nechemta.  Every moment we spend working to fix what is wrong, is a moment we spread hope and comfort to a world sorely in need.

No one knows what this next year will bring.  We only know that what we expect will often not come to pass.  But we are not to be defeated by this knowledge.  No, we are to be emboldened to partner with God, to do the work of providing comfort and hope, to be the nechemta.

I close this evening with Julie Silver’s Prayer for Fasting:

Do not wish me an easy fast.
Let my fast be difficult

Let me remember the hungry people of the world who have no choice, no voice.

Let me understand that starvation and emptiness exist even when there is plenty of food on the table.

And if my fast causes me pain, let me sit with the pain.
If my head throbs, let me handle it.
If my stomach grumbles, let me welcome the sound as I welcome the shofar blast. 

Let my fast be the call.
Let my life on earth be the response.

Amen.

G’mar Chatimah Tovah.  

May we all be inscribed for life, blessing, comfort, and hope, in the New Year.




[1] Madsen, Catherine: “A Vote of No Confidence.” In, All These Vows: Kol Nidre, Lawrence Hoffman, ed. p.187
[2] Leviticus 19:1
[3] Isaiah 58: 6-7
[4] Ibid v. 8
[5] Jonah 3:4
[6] Ibid 3:5
[7] Deut 29:9-13
[8] From the One Voice Campaign

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