A Version of this sermon was delivered on Rosh HaShanah Morning 5782 at Temple B'nai Torah - A Reform Congregation in Wantagh, NY.
Like
many of you, I’m sure, when I was growing up, my family would go out for
Chinese fairly regularly. At least once
every couple of weeks, if not more often, we’d all pile into the car and make
our way, excited at the prospect of kung pao chicken and using chopsticks. Every few years, the Chinese restaurant of
choice would change, as we discovered new favorites. What never changed, though, was what happened
at the end of the meal. With the check,
without fail, arrived a plate with fortune cookies, small, folded, crispy, thin
cookies with a vaguely positive or philosophical message written on them. “A chance meeting opens new doors to success
and friendship.” Or, “Patience is
bitter, but its fruit sweet.” Or, “It is
now and in this world, that we must live.”
Over the years, lucky numbers and Chinese
translation made their way onto these small slips of paper, too, and novelty
fortune cookies were sold at the candy store where I worked in high school. At the restaurants, there was usually one
cookie per person, but on those occasions when we’d get extra, if we didn’t
like the fortune the cookie offered, we’d take another, hoping for better luck. I once got one that said, no joke, “Everyone
agrees you are the best.” I didn’t open
another fortune for a year…
Now,
I don’t want to burst anyone’s bubble, but fortune cookies aren’t actually
Chinese. At best, historians can determine,
they are Japanese in origin and date to probably the middle of the 19th
century.[1] The fortunes are meant to be fun, not
prophetic. I mean, who would live their
life based on advice on small slips of paper?
Reb
Simcha Bunim,[2]
a 19th-century Polish Chassidic rabbi, advises that we all walk
around with two small slips of paper, one each in our two side pockets. On one slip of paper is to be written: “The
world was created for me alone.” On the
second slip of paper is to be written: “I am but dust and ashes.” Why carry around these two conflicting pieces
of advice?
According to Simcha Bunim, “When feeling lowly
and depressed, discouraged or disconsolate, one should reach into the right
pocket and, there, find the words: “The world was created for me.” This message comes from the Mishnah, the
Jewish law code of the second and third centuries. The phrase is found in a discussion about the
creation of humanity. The Rabbis debate the
meaning of Adam being created alone, asking what meaning there is in Adam’s
singularness. At the end of the
discussion, the text advises that “since all humanity descends from one person,
each and every person is obligated to say: The world was created for me, as one
person can be the source of all humanity, and recognize the significance of his
actions.”[3]
On
the other hand, according to Rabbi Bunim, “when feeling high and mighty one
should reach into the left pocket, and find the words: “I am but dust and
ashes.” This pocket-phrase is of much
earlier origin, coming from the mouth of Abraham during his debate and
negotiation with God at Sodom and Gomorrah.
Abraham presses God not to destroy an entire town, for perhaps there are
50 righteous people, and it is not just to kill them because of the sins of
others. As God agrees to Abraham’s
terms, Abraham senses an opening and responds in seeming humility: “וַיַּ֥עַן אַבְרָהָ֖ם וַיֹּאמַ֑ר הִנֵּה־נָ֤א
הוֹאַ֙לְתִּי֙ לְדַבֵּ֣ר אֶל־אֲדֹנָ֔י וְאָנֹכִ֖י עָפָ֥ר וָאֵֽפֶר׃ Abraham spoke up, saying,
“Here I venture to speak to my Lord, I who am but dust and ashes.”[4] After this genuflective statement, Abraham
asks God if God is really firm on that 50 people number. The negotiation continues and God’s final
offer is that if there are ten righteous souls, God won’t destroy Sodom.
Abraham’s tactic of humility in his conversation with God
comes at a moment when the Torah tells us that God chooses Abraham for
favor. Abraham has already been selected
to begin the covenantal relationship with the Eternal. This moment is different. God asks Themself: “Shall
I hide from Abraham what I am about to do?”[5] In this moment, the Torah
describes God’s internal monologue. God
decides that it’s not a good idea to keep Abraham in the dark, and so God
chooses to inform Abraham because of their special relationship.
In this moment of divine
selection, in this moment of communion with God, Abraham’s head could have
swelled. He could have seen himself as
more than just in the image of the divine, but as somewhat divine himself. After all, it’s not just that he listens to
God, God listens to him! Instead, Abraham
defaults to humility. Simcha Bunim wants
us to remember that even in those moments when we think that everyone agrees
we’re the best, even when it feels like God is shining on us uniquely, we are
to remember our patriarch and recognize that we are but dust and ashes.
This is an important way to live life, to be sure. Both of these phrases have to do with our
relationship with God, what we call ben adam lemakom. The world was created for me alone; created by
God, for me. I am but dust and ashes,
only here and with a soul because God breathes it into me pure every day. These slips of paper in our pockets are about
how we see ourselves in relationship with the cosmos.
These Days of Awe remind
us that as much as we are here at services in the service of repairing our
relationship with God, the harder work, and probably more meaningful work, is
to repair our relationships with each other, what we call ben adam lechavero. And so, while Simcha Bunim has a point, this
coming year, as we move through this complicated, damaged world, perhaps we change
the slips of paper in our pockets, the way we regularly require novel fortune
cookie wisdom. Let’s put those two slips
of paper in the geniza and find something new.
Or to paraphrase Rav Kook, perhaps we take something old and make it new
again. I want to direct us back toward
the sagely proverbial advice of the great Rabbi Hillel.
The details of Hillel’s
life are sparse. What we know of him is
mostly based on his teachings which survive in rabbinic literature and the
stories in that literature that open very small windows on that world.
Hillel is well known for
the following advice found in Pirke Avot: “אִם
אֵין אֲנִי לִי, מִי לִי. וּכְשֶׁאֲנִי לְעַצְמִי, מָה אֲנִי. וְאִם לֹא עַכְשָׁיו,
אֵימָתָי: If I am not for myself, who is for me? And, if I am for my own self alone, what am I?
And if not now, when?”[6] He is so well known, in fact, that this very
statement has been found in fortune cookies, and not just at the kosher places!
Rabbi Shmuly Yanklowitz calls this teaching the raison
d’être of Judaism, the reason for being.
He explains that, “Hillel reminds us that it is challenging to find the
proper balance between religious self-preservation and self-sacrifice.”[7]
Self-preservation and self-sacrifice. With this understanding, Hillel’s words from
2,000 years ago ring true in our ears today.
Self-preservation in the face of a seemingly unending pandemic. Self-preservation as we made difficult
choices. Self-sacrifice in order to protect
ourselves, our families, our neighbors, and our communities. Self-sacrifice as we kept ourselves at social
distance, as we cancelled gatherings, holidays, weddings, High Holy Day plans…
again…
If I am not for myself, who is for me? And, if I am for my own self alone, what am I?
And if not now, when? These statements
are meant to be understood and lived in tandem. They are offered as a set. Three legs of a stool that, when lived out,
hold up society.
If I am not for myself, who is for me? Hillel begins his advice with a recognition
that the self has worth. He reminds us
that sometimes we have to put ourselves first, because we may not be able to
rely on others. We have to make
decisions that further our lives. We put
on our own oxygen masks first.
Self-preservation.
And, if I am for myself alone, what am I? Ultimately, we also know that if our own
needs are not met, then we cannot be there for others. But once we’ve seen to ourselves, we must
look out for others. We are followers of
Torah, guided by its principles, called to witness the covenant with the
Eternal God, whose refrain over and over is to care for the vulnerable, the
orphaned, the widowed, the stranger, the marginalized, the oppressed, the
immunocompromised, in our midst. If we
take care of only ourselves, Hillel asks, are we a part of society? If we take care of only ourselves, and we
fail to take into account the wellbeing of the community, are we living
Jewishly?
When we fall victim to rampant individualism, what are we? When we spend more time looking into the
phones in our palms than the faces of others next to us, what are we? If we fail to act on climate change and leave
a less inhabitable world for our children, what are we? If we continue to sell weapons of war and
don’t work to protect our schools, our malls, our theaters, our concerts, our
houses of worship, from them, what are we?! If we take a woman’s autonomy of body away from her, what are we? If we fight against simple, proven, life-saving
policies, like vaccines and masks, what are we?
And if not now, when!?
We have to live both of these statements now, in the present, meaning at
all times. Because if we choose not to,
self-preservation and self-sacrifice are out of balance.
This notion that we have to live in a way that balances
self-preservation and self-sacrifice is discussed philosophically in ideas of
the social contract. But as Jews, we
don’t speak in contracts, we speak in covenants. Hillel’s statement is a societal covenant.
And so is his other most famous teaching. The story goes that once a Roman soldier came
to convert, on condition that the rabbi would teach him all he needed to know
while he stood on one foot. Addressing
himself first to Shammai, the legionnaire made his request and was promptly
pushed aside. The Roman went next to
Hillel who calmly responded, as he stood on one foot: “What is hateful to you,
do not do to another. That is the whole
Torah, the rest is commentary.”[8] Hillel reformulates language from Leviticus,
language which we read at Yom Kippur afternoon, from the centerpiece of the
Torah, the Holiness Code, in which God commands us to be holy as God is
holy. In that Holiness Code, God commands
us: V’ahavta lereacha kamcha, Love your neighbor as yourself!”[9] In order to love your neighbor properly, you
must also love yourself. For if you hate yourself, then you’ll hate your
neighbor too. Love yourself, but not only yourself, and only then can you ALSO
go beyond yourself to love the other.
V’ahavta lereacha kamcha, Love your neighbor as yourself, is a command of
God. It is also a sacred responsibility. God invites us to be in covenant with God, and
commands us to be in covenant with each other.
Our relationships, our community, our society require sacred
responsibility for each other, especially in difficult times like this
pandemic. This responsibility is
required not just when times are tough, though, like after a natural disaster,
but always! If we neglect these
responsibilities for too long, if we focus only on ourselves, we may find
ourselves in the position of Abraham desperately seeking 10 righteous among our
community. It was a lack of concern for
the other, a lack of a sense of sacred responsibility for the other, and for
the vulnerable, which the midrash points to as among the egregious sins of
Sodom, which cause God to condemn that city.
God calls us to be in covenant with each other. And this morning’s Torah reading, a stark and
complicated one, but one which bears out the dual covenants that these days ask
us to reaffirm. God calls Abraham to the
mountain to sacrifice his son, Isaac.
God is testing Abraham, the Torah reminds us. God is affirming that Abraham is a willing
participant in the divine Brit, the covenant.
God wants us to believe and follow God’s ways, and in return we are
blessed by God. Abraham has to prove his
belief, and so he does. Abraham is to
sacrifice of his family in order to preserve the blessing of God.
After a back and forth, perhaps hoping God might change Their mind, Abraham takes his son up the mountain. He is ready to sacrifice that which is most precious to him for his covenant with God. And then, as had been planned all along, God stops him. And in so doing, God teaches all of us that there is no covenant with God when we don’t care about the lives of others. There is no covenant with God when we sacrifice our future.
There is
no covenant with God when there is no covenant with others.
Why doesn’t Hillel just tell us these statements? Take care of yourself. Take care of others. Do it now.
Hillel’s are not the only questions in all of Pirke Avot, but they are
the only advice framed as such. Why does
he phrase them in the form of a question?
The Rabbi in me wants to answer that a question is always better because
it leads to more discussion and more wisdom.
The teacher in me knows that helping others come to a conclusion can
lead to enduring learning. I would guess
that even without educational theory, Hillel understood this intrinsically.
Hillel understood human nature. When he reframed Leviticus for that Roman
soldier, he put it in the negative: Don’t do what is hateful to you. Why?
Because he understood that sometimes stopping a bad action is easier to
do than starting a good one. These High
Holy Days take us to task with regard to God.
Hillel knew that in order to truly live out the covenant we have with
others, we have to take ourselves to task.
We have to ask ourselves these questions over and over because we are
always changing, even though we know the answers stay the same,. We have to ask ourselves over and over because
in so doing, we have the opportunity to constantly adjust our actions. We have the chance to turn, for teshuvah,
always, because we’re always checking.
If I am not for myself, who is for me? And, if I am for my own self alone, what am
I? Put these statements in your pockets.
Speak of them when you walk on the way.
Think of them when you lie down and you rise up. Because in doing so, we recommit to the
covenant we have with each other, the covenant which God commands us to forge.
If not now, when?
Shanah Tovah.
[1]
https://www.nytimes.com/2008/01/16/travel/16iht-fortune.9260526.html
[2]
Based on Buber’s Tales of the Chassidim, and other sources
[3]
Mishnah Sanhedrin 3:7, including comment from Rashi on BT Sanh. 37a
[4]
Gen. 18:27
[5]
Gen. 18:17-19
[6]
Mishnah Avot 1:14
[7]
Yanklowitz, Rabbi Shmuly., Pirke Avot a Social Justice Commentary. CCAR Press 2018
[8]
BT Shabbat 31a
[9]
Lev. 19:18
