Erev Rosh HaShanah 5783 Holiness: Our Gift and Our Obligation

 A version of this sermon was delivered on Erev Rosh HaShanah 5783 at Temple B'nai Torah - A Reform Congregation in Wantagh, NY.

The Aleppo Codex, written in Tiberias over 1100 years ago, is one of the oldest surviving Hebrew manuscripts of the Hebrew Bible.  It contains the most accurate transcription of the traditions of the Masoretes, whose customs of pronunciation and chanting, inherited from the generations before them, we still use to this day.  The Codex, which looks more like a book than a Torah scroll, traveled to Jerusalem from Tiberias, and then to Egypt.  In Egypt, it was used by none other than Moses Maimonides, The Rambam, one of our people’s greatest scholars and philosophers, whose work we still consult to understand Jewish law and thought.  In his Mishnah Torah, written in the 12th century, he even remarks about this particular volume, referring to it as the Codex he relied upon while formulating his laws.  This is the book he used to look up verses and to cite sources in the Bible.

After Egypt, the Codex made its way to Aleppo, Syria, where it gets its name.  There it was kept by the Jewish community for centuries, until the 1950s, when it was smuggled to Israel.  Sadly, the Jewish community of Aleppo is all but no more, and their glorious synagogue has been destroyed, another casualty of the war.

The Codex now rests at the Shrine of the Book in Jerusalem at the Israel Museum, alongside the Dead Sea Scrolls, which were written and hidden almost 1,000 years before.

I have been to the Israel Museum a few times.  It doesn’t always make the list of sites that fit into a cramped itinerary.  It wasn’t until the last time I was there, however, that I saw, or maybe better, noticed the Aleppo Codex in the Shrine of The Book.  

Gazing upon those pages, those words, in deep dark ink, still legible and comprehensible today, still transmitting the same messages and commandments as 1100 years ago.  In many ways, the Codex is a representation of the Jewish people surviving through the generations. 

As a rabbi, standing above its thick glass case, peering into the words of Torah that I know well and remembering all that this book has lived through, was overwhelming and exciting for me.  It was clear, I came to understand, that the Codex was imbued with the holiness of the generations.  A holiness that was present as it was written with devotion and dedication to a divine obligation.  A sought-after holiness that was the impetus for Maimonides to do his work, clarifying our obligations.  A holiness that comes from an object that brings together divine purpose and the human action.  A holiness that has been passed down to us through the inheritance of our tradition.

It’s not often that we feel or experience such a definite sense of holiness.  We may seek it out.  We may try to fill our lives with it.  Yet it often remains elusive, internally and outside of ourselves.  Part of that elusiveness is because holiness is neither easy to define nor easy to understand, even if sometimes it may be easy to experience.  

Holiness surrounds us our entire lives: from the kiddush at a bris or a baby naming to the blessings of kiddushin at a wedding as the rings are exchanged, to the mourners’ kaddish at the gravesite.  Declarations of holiness punctuate the most powerful and important moments of our lives and the lives of those we love.  Yet, holiness is not meant to be a momentary blessing or prayer.  It is an endeavor, an act of emulation, a state of being.

When spouses under a chuppah speak the words of the vow of kiddushin to each other, they are declaring that their partner is set apart and special, different from all others on Earth from now on.  These events of generational and familial connection are indeed holy moments.  A soaring rendition of Avinu Malkeinu, as we heard tonight with thanks to our Cantor and our Choir, moves our souls and becomes for many of us a holy moment.  These Days of Awe, especially, call us to come face to face with the holiness presented to us, outside of ourselves, in order that we commit to the obligations which can lead us to reach the holiness within ourselves.  

Linguists tell us that the root kadosh means separate and set apart, often for special purpose.  As Rabbi Adin Steinsaltz explains it: “To be holy is, in essence, to be distinctly other.”   Yet we also know that holiness is ethereal and ephemeral.  It’s a feeling as much as a designation. It’s an obligation and a gift.  It’s internal and external.  It’s a part of us, yet we seek it.  For something we talk about so often, kedushah could use some clarity.  And so, this year, as a congregation, we will be studying, exploring, and working to understand holiness.  Holiness as a gift from God and holiness as our obligation from God.  And we’ll start at the beginning.

The first declaration of holiness takes us all there.  As Creation concludes, God proclaims it very good, tov me’od.  God has done a lot of separating and declaring purpose over the last six days, as water, earth, and sky are each given their own distinct and separate space and as each is filled with unique creatures.  Once creation is done, God ceases from working on the seventh day.  Then, וַיְבָ֤רֶךְ אֱלֹהִים֙ אֶת־י֣וֹם הַשְּׁבִיעִ֔י God blesses the seventh day וַיְקַדֵּ֖שׁ אֹת֑וֹ and God sanctifies it.   God doesn’t just say it’s holy.  Well, actually God does, because that is how God works, speaking equals creating.  In speaking the holiness of Shabbat, God makes it holy by separating it from the week,  by assigning it special rules and regulations,  by preventing creative work.  God also makes it holy for all time.   We are gifted the holiness of Shabbat from God.  We are commanded to remember and observe Shabbat lekodsho, in order to make it holy.  Shabbat, the holy day, is our gift and our obligation.

On Shabbat and other holy days, we make that holiness literal through the blessing of kiddush.  A few minutes from now, we will hear the special kiddush for Rosh HaShanah.  The kiddush tonight includes the root kadosh four times.  Our English translation masks the repetition by using synonyms.  We bless the sweet wine for a sweet year.  Twice we announce that God has chosen us from all other peoples to sanctify us, to make us holy, through service to God and the mitzvot.  The mitzvot, our obligations themselves, are our inheritance.  Our holiness through their observance is a gift from God.  

When we lit the candles earlier, ushering in the new year, we recited the blessing that reminds us: asher kiddishanu bemitzvotav, that we are made holy through God’s commandments, that which God calls us to do.  When we start to look for it, we see that holiness, kedushah, is the heart of our covenantal project.

We are chosen by God for special purpose.  The holy words we will chant from our Torah when we arrive at Yom Kippur afternoon, from the Torah portion Kedoshim instruct us as such.  In the longest hours of the fast, as we await sunset and see the finish line ahead of us, we make the deliberate choice to announce God’s words to the entire community of the children of Israel: Kedoshim Tihiyu.  You shall be holy!  We are obligated to be holy, God tells us, for I the Eternal your God am holy.   

What could that mean?  How is our holiness related to God’s?  God meets the criteria for holiness.  God is separate and apart.  There is only one God.  We call God the Holy One of Blessing, HaKadosh Baruch Hu.  We’re supposed to mimic that!?  We’re supposed to mimic that.  As our Shabbat rest emulates God’s rest, our holiness mirrors God’s.  According to Rabbi Yitz Greenberg, God possesses consciousness, power, love and freedom.  “Humans are instructed to become more like God.  They become more holy by developing their consciousness, by creating and applying more power for life and good, by deepening their capacity for love and relationship, by exercising free will to choose life and do good.”  

We emulate God when we utilize those gifts we have because we are made b’tzelem Elohim, in the divine image: those gifts of consciousness, power, love, and freedom.  As a holy nation, we are called, as Martin Buber writes, to “not withdraw from the world, but rather radiate a positive influence on it through every aspect of Jewish living.”   Holiness is manifest when our Judaism, our Jewish values, our Jewish commitment to Torah, Worship, and Deeds of Kindness, are felt by the world around us.  

The Midrash teaches that God’s holiness is above us.   A Chassidic teaching reframes the language to understand this midrash as God saying that the holiness that is above is the same as our own.   In this way, the holiness we create here on earth, the generational lessons, the customs, the recognition of and dedication to the special purpose, the accepting of the gift and the fulfillment of our obligations, all of that leads to holiness below and holiness above.  Our actions have a direct effect on the heavens.  It’s not just mimicking the divine, it’s the effect we have on the divine.  Our seeking holiness feeds the divine holiness.  We become partners with the divine in not just creation, but in bringing about God’s holiness.  What a gift we are given, if only we follow through with our obligation!

Holiness is not situational or momentary; it’s ongoing.  Kedoshim tihiyu is in the future tense Rabbi Chayyim Ibn Attar highlights, because: “The implication is that this is a commandment which is an ongoing process.”   We don’t just become holy once or experience it once; we constantly engage with it.  We seek ways to imbue our lives and our surroundings with it.  We are asked to constantly accept the gift and agree to the obligation.

Kedoshim tihiyu is an odd commandment.  On the one hand, we’re commanded to be special and set apart, distinguished.  On the other, we’re asked to do so as a part of our community.  Each of us seeks out holiness based on the communal obligation.  We are each called individually to honor our parents and keep Shabbat.  We are called communally to holiness.  Moses is to speak these words, declaring the people’s holiness, to the entire community of the children of Israel.  This formulation in the Torah stresses that everyone was to hear.  The gift is communal.  The obligations more often individual.

Being in the presence of holy words, as I was at the Israel Museum those few years ago, I sensed a holiness outside of myself.  Together, we will have opportunities over this year to come closer to holy words in a powerful and meaningful way, and I don’t just mean by studying them and hearing them.  By now I’m sure you’ve seen save-the-date information for our Torah Restoration weekend in early December.  We will all, as a community, participate in the writing and the restoration of holy words.  We will welcome our Torah scribe to teach us about the scrolls and the words and about their writing.  Those who choose will have the opportunity to write in a Torah scroll.  

When we gather in December, to write with dark black ink on parchment, with a feather pen, we will emulate our ancestors, who did it just the same way.  We will write and fix the same words that appear in the Aleppo Codex from 1100 years ago and the Dead Sea Scrolls of 2,000 years ago.  We will write and fix the same words handed to Moses on Sinai.  The holiness of the generations will be evident.  We will restore our holy sefer Torah, and we will ensure that the letters are bright and clarion for the next generation.  I encourage everyone to participate in this powerful and meaningful opportunity to come face to face with the holy words.  To ensure that the gift of holy words we have been given is passed down to the next generation.

Holiness is always around us and a part of so much of our tradition. We may take it somewhat for granted.  We’re in a sanctuary, a holy room.  We have a holy ark, holy Torahs.  Clergy are referred to as klei kodesh, vessels of holiness.  There’s no getting away from it!  At the same time, we are also always in pursuit of it, seeking it, looking for ways to fill our hearts and souls and our world with it.  The Kabbalists inspire us in this endeavor: “Be persistent in learning how to sanctify what you do.  In the end, the Blessed Holy One will guide you on the path that wishes to impart holiness to you, so that you become holy”   We seek holiness so God can gift us holiness.

Let us therefore dedicate our year of study to seeking out a deeper understanding of kedushah, of holiness, for ourselves and our community.  And thereby may we instill within each of us and all of us that holiness which is our inheritance and our calling, our obligation and our gift.

Shanah Tovah!

Kol Nidre 5781: A Strongly Worded Letter to God

 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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[1][1] Cf. Rabbi Elazar Taanit 25a

[2] Based on story in TB Taanit 25b