Erev Rosh HaShanah 5780 - Lead with Light

A version of this sermon was delivered at Temple B'nai Torah - A Reform Congregation on Erev Rosh HaShanah 5780, Sunday, September 29, 2019.

In the beginning.

Powerful opening words.

In the beginning.

So certain,

So positive,

So open to possibility.

In the beginning.

Powerful opening words.

I wish I had

A writer, like the Torah’s,

Who, with so few words,

Conveys so many thoughts,

So many ideas,

So much history,

And future.

In three small words.

It should come as no surprise

To learn

That these three words in English

Are but one word in Hebrew.

One complicated,

Important,

Powerful word.

Bereishit:

Beginning with a bet.

The second Hebrew letter.

The first one with sound.

The beginning of blessing, brachah,

A powerful opening word.

It will come as no surprise

To learn

That whether in English

Or Hebrew,

The opening of our story -

The story of humanity,

The story of life,

The story of meaning -

That opening phrase,

One word or three,

Has been hotly debated.

What does it mean?

How do we translate it?

What is the root?

Why doesn’t it fit

with the next word or phrase?

Why does it stand out?

Why does it start with a bet?

The questions go on

Infinite,

Eternal,

Like the One Who Spoke

And Creation Came to Be.

Robed in light,[1]

In the beginning.

In the beginning.

Powerful opening words.

Tonight is the beginning,

A new year,

A new Book of Life,

Opportunity to renew,

To revise,

To repent.

Tonight is the beginning. 

Tonight we start again. 

It’s not about forgetting the past,

it’s about embracing

the potential for creation.

The pages are not written. 

The book is not published. 

We fill in our story,

we fill the pages,

with actions,

with intentions,

with missed opportunities.

Our deeds,

Good and bad,

Fill the pages,

Write the words

Of the book of our life

The beginning is powerful.

Not just the words -

thoughts of a distant past

known only to Eternity.

No, the moment,

This moment,

is powerful:

Full of potential,

Of possibility,

Of Divine impulse,

Requiring only our recognition

Of what we’ve got,

Of the chance we have

To create anew,

To start again.

An empty page

Staring at us.

The beginning is powerful

Because of what it is not.

It is not what comes after.

It has not yet

Achieved the shine,

Or the tarnish,

Of the unwritten next.

Tonight, let this beginning

Challenge us,

Encourage us,

To emulate The Beginning.

To find within us

That spark

Of creative force,

Of Divine speech,

Of Divine mimicry;

The Spark of opportunity

To create something good - 

Something very good, even,

In the year ahead.

We all have it,

That light within us -

The Eternal force.

It surrounds us,

Permeates us,

Connects us to possibility.

We all have it:

The divine spark

That begins things,

That starts them anew.

Before creation, only God.

Before space

And breath,

Before matter and form

Only God.

Unending,

Ein Sof

Infinite. Until

God Contracts

Inhales deeply, Eternally,

To make space,

For creation,

For possibility,

For The Beginning.

God began creation

In the midst of chaos,

Primordial confusion,

Dark and deep.

And from that

Wild and waste:

A voice

Hovering like a wind

Proclaiming

"Vayhi Or!

Let there be light!"

And there was.

God begins with light.

God fills that space

That once was God

With light.

God sends God’s light into the void.

Vayhi or!

Let there be light!

And that light

Burst forth

In the beginning - 

Unchallenged,

Un-containable,

Shattering even the vessels

Which God had set in place, 

Leaving divine sparks behind.

The shattered vessels

Descending to creation

Waiting for repair: for tikkun.

But those vessels,

Described enigmatically

Centuries ago

By rabbis on a mountain

Overlooking the sea

Listening for Divine pronouncements,

Are not the

Most powerful containers

Of God’s divine creative force

Of God’s eternal light.

For we are vessels

Of that light

In existence since God spoke:

Eternally brilliant.

We are vessels carrying those spark with us.

When we let them shine,

When we channel the divine within us,

When we lead with light,

As God began with light,

We perfect creation

Just a little bit.

When we lead with light.

We lead with light

When we lead with our best selves,

When we approach with kindness,

With love for our neighbor

Not cynicism or judgment.

We lead with light

When we allow our better angels

To guide our steps and our speech.

We lead with light

When we incline toward the good

Turning away from evil.

We lead with light

When we recognize

that though we have been gifted

this glorious awesome gift,

we are still imperfect beings.

We lead with light when,

Like God,

We make space

for others different than us.

We lead with light when

We demand truth

From ourselves and our leaders.

We lead with light when

We demand reciprocal kindness.

We lead with light when

We are spurned to action

On behalf of those with less

Than we have,

Than they need.

We lead with light when

We teach our children

The values we hold dear:

Charity, Compassion, Love, Tradition, Acceptance.

We lead with light when

We keep our word

And follow through.

We lead with light when

We overcome pettiness, anger, vengeance, and resentment.

We lead with light when

We forgive

As God forgives.

Easier said than done

To be sure,

But tonight is a beginning.

And it can be the beginning

Of leading with light,

If only we commit

To emulating God

in the way we approach

our lives, our relationships,

And our community,

All so desperately in need

Of light.

We need light.

If may feel especially so today,

To banish the darkness

That can surround us.

We need to kindle light

No matter the circumstance

So that our eyes become

Not accustomed to darkness[2]

But expecting light,

Adjusted for the glare.

Expecting light

Requires projecting light.

As God sends light

So too does God expect it.

Unlock fetters of wickedness

untie the cords of the yoke

Let the oppressed go free

break off every yoke.

share your bread with the hungry

take the wretched poor into your home

When you see the naked, clothe him,

And ignore not your own kin.

The Prophet Isaiah

Calls out to the people.

Then shall your light burst through like the dawn

And your healing spring up quickly;

Your Vindicator shall march before you,

The Presence of the Eternal shall be your rear guard.

Then, when you call, the Eternal will answer;

When you cry, God will respond: Here I am.

If you banish the yoke from your midst,

The menacing hand, and evil speech,

And you offer your compassion to the hungry

And satisfy the famished creature

Then shall your light shine in darkness,

And your gloom shall be like noonday.[3]

The darkness around us,

The prophet reminds us,

Is up to us to enlighten.

When we walk with God,

When we act with righteousness,

When we love our neighbors,

When we care for the downtrodden,

When we value protecting Creation,

When we seek to help rather than hinder,

When we partner with God...

Then our light shines forth

Overcoming the darkness

Emanating that first light of Creation

The light of The Beginning,

In existence forever,

Waiting for us to set it forth.

That is our role.

That is our job:

To lead with light.

To make every decision

With light at the forefront

Of our hearts,

Of our souls,

Of our hands,

Of our tongues.

Now, it was not always

That the light was hidden.

It was not always

That we were responsible

For banishing the darkness.

Our tradition teaches:

Rabbi Elazar taught:

The light that the Holy One created

on the first day

was visible

from one end of the earth

to the other.

But when the Holy One

observed the generation

of the Flood,

the corruptness of their deeds

and how cursed their deeds were,

God removed a portion

of the Divine light and

hid it away.

As it is written:

"Their light is withheld from the wicked, And the upraised arm is broken." [Job 38:15][4]

The darkness

That can seem all encompassing

It is not new.

It is not unique to our times.

There is division.

There is discord.

There is a flouting

Of the truths we know.

There is idolatry.

There is apathy.

There is mendacity.

There is xenophobia.

There is baseless hatred.

Darkness, to be sure.

It is up to us

To overcome the darkness.

And God knows!

God left us the light

In the shards,

In the sparks

Within us.

God made us the vessels.

After all, God knows what we are capable of.

Rabbi Elazar continues:

And for whom was [the light of creation] hidden?

For righteous people

who would come along in the future,

as it is written:

"And God saw that the light was good ['טוֹב']" [Genesis 1:4] –

"good" must refer to the righteous,

as it is written:

"Say to the righteous that all will be good ['טוֹב']" [Isaiah 3:10][5]

God knows

We have it in us

To do what needs to be done:

To lead with light

To bear God’s message

Of righteousness

And justice.

And when we do this…

When we reveal the light within,

Even for a moment,

Even just a glimmer,

It is as if

We bring God joy.

Rabbi Elazar concludes:

And even now,

whenever God pauses

to contemplate

the concealed light

God rejoices

as it is written:

"The light of the righteous brings joy." [Proverbs 13:9][6]

Today is a beginning

Today, let us hear the call

To be bearers of God’s light

To become what we were created to be

In God’s image,

Partnering with God

In the ongoing work of creation.

Ensuring that the never-ending light

Continues to shine

Brilliantly

As it has done since

God made space

For us.

A story from the Zohar,

The Book of Light

Rabbi Isaac said,

"The light created by God

in the act of Creation

flared from one end of the universe

to the other

and was hidden away,

reserved for the righteous

in the world that is coming,

as it is written:

'Light is sown for the righteous.' (Psalm 97:11)

Then the worlds will be fragrant,

and all will be one.

But until the world that is coming arrives,

it is stored and hidden away."

Rabbi Judah responded,

"If the light were completely hidden,

the world would not exist

for even a moment!

Rather it is hidden

and sown like a seed

that gives birth

to seeds and fruit.

Thereby the world is sustained.

Every single day

a ray of that light

shines into the world,

keeping everything alive;

with that ray

God feeds the world.

And everywhere that Torah is studied at night

one thread-thin ray appears

from that hidden light

and flows down

upon those absorbed in her.

Since the first day,

the light has never been fully revealed,

but it is vital to the world,

renewing each day

the act of Creation."[7]

If it is true that

Everywhere that Torah is studied at night

One thread-thin ray appears,

How much more light is emitted

When the Torah is not just studied,

But lived?

When the clarion call

To care for the vulnerable,

To respect tradition,

To pursue Justice and Righteousness,

Commands us to lead with light?

Well, then we sow seeds of light

That give birth to seeds and fruit;

We demonstrate God’s presence

In our actions…

When we lead with light.

Embedded in that beginning,

In that first word,

The word that begins it all,

In the middle of Bereishit:

Resh – Alef – Shin,

Rosh,

Calling out to us this night

Rosh HaShanah,

The head of the year,

The beginning of things.

An opportunity for us to

Consider

How we will spend

This next year

How the pages of the year ahead

Will be written.

We have before us the choice

Between curse and blessing

Between darkness and the light of God.

What could become

Of our unwritten next?

If we commit on this night

To making this a year

Of leading with light.

Shanah Tovah

---

[1] Psalm 104

[2] After Hannah Arendt in Men in Dark Times

[3] Isaiah 58

[4] Ein Yaakov Chagigah 2:2

[5] Ibid.

[6] Ibid.

[7] Zohar, translated by Daniel Matt, The Essential Kabbalah: The Heart of Jewish Mysticism, page. 90. Zohar 1:31b-32a; 2:148b-149a

Korach 5779 - When We Feel Like Falling on Our Faces

A version of this sermon was delivered on Shabbat Korach, 5779 at Temple B'nai Torah - A Reform Congregation in Wantagh, NY.

This week’s Torah portion begins:

“Now Korah, son of Izhar son of Kohath son of Levi, betook himself, along with Dathan and Abiram sons of Eliab, and On son of Peleth—descendants of Reuben—to rise up against Moses, together with two hundred and fifty Israelites, chieftains of the community, chosen in the assembly, men of repute.  They combined against Moses and Aaron and said to them, “You have gone too far! For all the community are holy, all of them, and the Eternal is in their midst. Why then do you raise yourselves above the Eternal’s congregation?”  When Moses heard this, he fell on his face.”[1]

Korach, the namesake of the Torah portion, is known for the rebellion and the aftermath in which he and his band of rebels are swallowed alive by the earth and sent down to Sheol, a sort of Hades of the ancient Hebrews.  Korach challenges Moses’s authority and his humility, calling Moses arrogant.  Aren’t we all holy, he argues?  Didn’t God make us a nation of priests and say that we are all allowed to partake in kedushah?  Why do you raise yourself above this community, Korach demands of Moses?  What makes you think you’re so special!?  Why not us?  Why do we have to follow the rules and morals of this society? 

Korach doesn’t agree with the way things are being done.  He doesn’t like the direction the nation is going.  He thinks it’s time to take drastic action for the safety and security of the people.  He thinks it’s time to upend the still new and untested rules, which not only stipulate the laws of the people, but their morality as well.

Moses hears Korach’s challenge and he doesn’t know what to do.  He is seemingly embarrassed by their actions.  Korach’s complaint flies in the face of everything Moses has tried to teach the people about how things are supposed to run in the Israelite camp and society.  He doesn’t know how to respond.  It’s in this moment, when he just doesn’t know what to do, that we read that Moses falls on his face.[2] 

            Rashi explains that this moment, Moses falling on his face, is because this is the 4^th time that the people have risen against him, the golden calf, the demand for quail, and the incident with the spies all precede this moment.  It also won’t be the last time the people rise against him.  Moses and Aaron will fall on their faces again in a few chapters when the people complain they are hungry and thirsty and demand to go back to Egypt.

Rashi goes on to describe Moses in this scene as finally coming to a sense of powerlessness, and he explains his point with a parable from the Midrash: This may be compared to the case of a prince who sinned against his father and for whom the father’s friend gained forgiveness once, twice, three times. When he offended for the fourth time the friend felt himself powerless, for he said, “How long can I trouble the king? Perhaps he will not again accept advocacy from me!”

Chizkuni, a rabbi who lived and worked in France a couple generations after Rashi, describes Moses as: so ashamed he put his face on the ground in order to offer a prayer. Moses had hoped to receive a revelation from God how to confront this challenge.  But he doesn’t get instruction from God.  He doesn’t wait for God to come fix the evil he sees around him. 

Rather, unlike in other instances of face-falling, when we hear God’s suggestion, this time Moses doesn’t fall on his face before God; he doesn’t fall on his face before the Tent of Meeting.  He just falls.  And then, we assume, he gets up, and he challenges Korach to a test to see who truly knows how things are supposed to run.  You put your incense on the fire pan and Aaron will do the same and we’ll see who God chooses! 

Moses is caught in a destructive pattern with the Israelites.  What should be a proud march toward the Promised Land has, time and again, turned away from the ideals of the nation and the ideals of the society.  All Moses can do is turn his face down and pray for an answer.

            He doesn’t get that answer from God.  Rather, he devises the test.  He doesn’t wait for someone else to do something about it; he acts.  And the Torah makes this explicit because later we read that Moses has to tell God not to accept the incense they offer.  Moses takes this issue of upending societal norms into his own hands, establishing and administering the test.  God will dole out the punishment, but Moses sets the terms.

            What are we to do when the norms of our society are trampled on?  How are we to react when, as we celebrate the anniversary of this nation’s independence, the land of the free, we see image after image and report after report of children, separated from their parents, caged in inhumane conditions, without medical care.  Without running water.  Without adequate place to sleep.  Without toilets.  Without tissues, soap, toothpaste, diapers.  Without compassion.  Without humanity. 

These children are living in Sheol, and it is happening in our name and in our nation.

The images cry out to us, as if challenging the joyous fireworks and bbqs, asking what makes this country so special?  What makes us think that we’re any better than anywhere else?  What makes us think we have the market cornered on life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness?  Why does this country raise itself above others?

            It feels as if all we can do is fall on our faces and maybe pray to God, embarrassed by the behavior of the leadership of our country, shocked by the pictures we see of fathers and daughters drowned alongside each other.  Resigned that we may never live up to our ideals, if we ever have. 

If we fall on our faces, and turn our eyes away, and pray to God to fix this mess, we abdicate our responsibility.  Moses understands that he cannot allow this to continue.  The nation will be irrevocably lost if Korach is permitted to offer his incense to God.

We are a nation of immigrants who fled persecution, economic hardship, danger, and lack of opportunities over the centuries.  What are we going to do to ensure that the norms of this nation, of welcoming, of promising liberty, of standing up for humanity are maintained?  What are we as Jews going to do to ensure that we live up to our sacred norms, of welcoming the stranger because we were strangers? 

What arrogance we must have to not remember where we came from, how we got here, how many of our families died because they couldn’t reach these shores or were not permitted to do so.  What idolatry we traffic in when we see the stranger suffering and we do nothing to alleviate it, when we see images of humans detained in camps and we choose to argue over what to call them rather than how to liberate them. 

What test must we devise so that those who would ask us to upend our norms, our morality, our humanity, will know that we are not willing to do so? 

We are supposed to learn from our past, not repeat its mistakes.  After Korah is swallowed by the ground, his firepans, now sacred, are used as plating for the altar, for all to see, to remind the Israelites that there are boundaries of behavior that are not acceptable to cross. The people don’t quite listen. 

Our nation’s history is replete with examples we have not learned from.  May this not be one of them.  May this nation finally learn to live up to its highest ideals such that in future years, when we celebrate independence, we do so knowing that the project of freedom, of self-governance, of unalienable rights, has been extended to all who would be a part of it.

I close tonight with a prayer, For Children at Our Borders, by Alden Solovy:

God of mothers and fathers,
God of babies and children,
Youth and teens,
The voice of agony echoes across the land,
As children are taken from their parents,
Perverting our history as a nation of immigrants,
Perverting our values,
Perverting the ways of justice and peace.
These children
Wait in misery
To be reunited with their families
So that a few may reap the political rewards
Of their suffering
By playing tough at our borders.

Source of grace,
Creator of kindness and goodness,
You call upon us to stand in the name of justice and fairness,
To witness against this abuse of power,
To battle the systematic assault on human beings,
To speak out against their suffering.

Bless those who rise up against this horror.
Give them courage and determination.
Bless those who plead on behalf of the oppressed and the subjugated
Before the seats of power.
May the work of their hands never falter
Nor despair deter them from this holy calling.

Bless those now in bondage at the hand of the U.S. government.
Grant them shelter and solace,
Comfort and consolation,
Blessing and renewal.
Release them. Free them. Heal them from trauma.
Reunite them with their families.
Hasten the day of their reunion.

Blessed are You, God of All Being,
Who summons us to oppose violence, oppression, slavery and injustice.

Amen.

---

[1] Numbers 16:1-3

[2] Ibid. 16:4

Thanksgiving Homily 2018

A version of this homily was delivered at St. Frances de Chantal RC Church in Wantagh, NY, on November 21, 2018, during the Wantagh Interfaith Thanksgiving Service.

Thank you for the kind welcome!  I’d like to thank the members of the Wantagh Interfaith Clergy Council; the community, clergy, and leadership of St. Frances de Chantal; and especially Father Greg Cappuccino for the kind welcome and invitation to preach on this evening of Thanksgiving.  Thank you also to our choir for adding such joy and spirit to this evening!  It’s not easy being the new guy in town, but one of the blessings is that I get to preach here tonight, before one of my favorite holidays.

Tomorrow we will gather around our Thanksgiving tables.  Whether we serve the Thanksgiving meal as lunch or as dinner, or at a point in between when finally everything is ready and warm at the same time, many of us will participate in the same ritual.  Together with our families of origin and of choice; with our friends and neighbors; and perhaps even as we break bread with new friends we meet for the first time tomorrow, we will all pause for a moment to consider what it is that we are thankful for.  We will go around the table and each share those parts of our lives for which we are grateful, and for which our hearts are full. 

Now, I’ve been cooking all day, so if you’d please indulge me, I’d like to get a head start on my list…There are many things for which I have immense gratitude this year.  First, I am thankful for my health of mind and body.  The human body is an imperfect creation, and I recognize that so many struggle each day.  I am thankful for my family.  Too many are estranged from loved ones, grapple with loneliness, and have no one to turn to when in need.  I am thankful that I have a comfortable home to go to each night, when so many are without.  I am thankful for my community and congregation, and the opportunities that have been afforded me by my profession and calling.  Too many are without work, or underemployed, or suffering as prices rise but incomes stagnate.

That list may match yours in some ways.  But this year, and this evening, as we gather together to ask the Lord’s blessings, I must tell you all that I am also thankful for you.  For it was you,  this interfaith community, who showed up at Temple B’nai Torah just a few weeks back, as we paid tribute to the 11 worshippers, gunned-down in the midst of prayer, in the senseless massacre at the Tree of Life congregation in Pittsburgh.  The attack on that synagogue left me shaken as a rabbi, left my soul aching, and left me wondering what is next for the Jewish community in America.  But then, Rabbi Nacht, whose partnership I have been immensely grateful for these last months, put out a call to our friends and neighbors, the pastors, reverends, and ministers you have heard from this evening, and you all showed up for us.  You brought your communities with you to mourn with us and to lend us your strength.  You lifted your voices in prayer alongside us just as we are all doing tonight.  And you stood beside us, reminding us that the Jewish community is not alone in the fight against anti-Semitism and hatred of all forms.

And then, something miraculous happened that afternoon: that part of my soul that had been beaten down was lifted up.  Each day in the morning, Jews bless God as the lifter of the fallen.  But when my soul was downtrodden, you lifted me.  I called out from the depths, I looked up wondering from where my help would come, and there you were, our community.  The prayers rising to the heavens, and ringing in my ears brought such comfort, and made me recognize that among the many things for which I am thankful, I am also thankful for America.  Though America, and we Americans, often fall short of our ideals, the times when we get it right emphasize what a gift this nation is and can be.  For helping me to feel this, and for healing my soul, I thank you as well.

It is the premise and the promise of America that neighbors ought to be of different backgrounds, and that those neighbors can and should come together in times of hardship and struggle, as well as times of celebration.  It is in the premise and the promise of America that people of different faiths come together in our schools, in our armed services, and in our businesses, and that those differences don’t alienate us from each other, but rather enrich us.  It is the premise and the promise of America that the differences don’t matter, that above all else, we are all Americans.  As an immigrant myself, it is the concept of “E pluribus Unum,” “out of many, one,” that makes America wonderful.  It is up to all of us to remember that.  When we gathered together at B’nai Torah, I was reminded of that truth about us and about our nation.  And this evening only solidifies what I was reminded of those weeks ago.

Tomorrow, as you take a moment around your tables, consider the gratitude we ought to show to the promise of this nation, which has afforded all of us opportunities unlike any other place on earth.  When we, or our parents, or grandparents, or however far back, made our way to these shores, it was because this nation promised us that what unites us is stronger than what differentiates us.  Humans are imperfect and fallible.  And this nation is run by humans, so this nation will always be a work in progress, as we humans are always a work in progress.  But the promise of America, that individuals can come together, can help one another, can care for each other, can look out for the other, that promise endures.  I am thankful for that promise, and urge us all to recognize that tomorrow.

But, for that promise to endure, we all have to do more.  We see the divide growing between us and our neighbors.  We see the rancor, built of anonymity, which can only be resolved by community building.  And so, if you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’m going to preach to the clergy.  We have to do more together.  We have to come together more than once per year, or in the wake of tragedy.  If we come together, and build relationships, then our houses of worship can begin to come together.  If our houses of worship come together, the fabric of our community is strengthened, we become neighbors instead of strangers.  When we become neighbors, we look out for each other.  And when we look out for each other, we strengthen the promise of America.  And when that promise is strengthened, we all have much more to be thankful for.  Let us therefore work together to bring this clergy council into a new generation.  One which seeks to meet regularly, to understand what’s happening in our town, and in our neighborhoods.  Let us become true friends, bound by faith, even as our faiths differ.  Let our congregations’ doors be open to each other, such that when, God forbid, another tragedy strikes, we do not show up to support strangers or even neighbors, no we show up to support our friends. 

What am I thankful for?  I am thankful for you.  I’m thankful for this community, and I am thankful for the opportunities this nation allows us to meet and become friends with people of all faiths and backgrounds.  Out of the many traditions in this room, we are indeed one on this night.  Let us continue that work tomorrow, and the next day.

I’d like to close with a prayer for Thanksgiving:

Sing Hallelujah - a poem for Thanksgiving
By Stacey Robinson

Sing praise and
shout hallelujah,
as bullets sing their siren song
and death is never far;
and sing praise
while fires rage and
children fall silent
behind barbed wire fences, and
children fall silent
with bellies distended, and
children fall silent
as their homes are devoured,
and they race against monsters and time.
Sing praise, for the monsters are winning.

Free the captive.
Feed the hungry.
Give shelter to those in need.
This is my song,
this praises my name -
Be kind.
Work for peace.
Hallelujah!
Hope is an action.
Pray with your feet.
Hallelujah!
Lift your eyes and see God
In the eyes of the other.
Hallelujah!

All the earth is holy ground.
The bush burns,
do you not see?
Open your eyes -
there are such wonders!
Open your heart -
there is such love!
Sing hallelujah!

This is my bounty.
This the glory.
For this we give thanks.

For the richness of life,
And the jagged edges that cut
and draw blood,
And the beauty
In the sound of rain
and silence,

We give thanks.

For the Creator of eternity
and time,
Who calls to us in darkness
and light,
In our hunger
And our want,

We give thanks.

For the fullness,
For the stones that bite
And the bedrock upon which we stand,
For the hands that lift us,
And the song that fills us

We give thanks.

For our breath,
For our bodies
For the grace of  healing,
And the blessing of light,
So that we can taste the sweet,
The sharp,
The weary,
Lonely,
Lovley
Holiness of this day
Sing hallelujah
And give thanks.

May we all have a happy and safe Thanksgiving!

Yom Kippur Morning 5779 - A New Era of Accountability

It happened once that a group of friends were traveling on a train. They were college students, and they were coming home for the High Holy Days. They all went to the same synagogue, so when they saw each other in the station, they decided to sit together. And of course, the minute the train started moving, so did their mouths.[1]

"I heard we are getting a new rabbi!" One of them started.

"I wonder what she's like!" Another said.

"Is she married?"

"Does she have kids?"

"What does she look like?"

"Where did she come from?"

"I wonder if she can sing."

"I wonder what kind of sermons she'll give."

"I wonder what she'll wear on the bimah. We've never had a woman rabbi before."

This went on for a good half an hour. They knew nothing about the new rabbi, so they could only ask questions and guess at the answers. By the time the train stopped at the next station, they were almost out of questions to ask and guesses to make.

At that next station, a young woman got on the train. She wasn't pretty or ugly. She wasn't tall or short. She wasn't fat or thin. She wasn't dressed in a particularly interesting way. In fact, they wouldn't even have noticed her except for one thing:  she was wearing the ugliest shoes they had ever seen.

Now, a lot of people wear ugly shoes when they are traveling. Most of the young people themselves were wearing comfy old sneakers or cheap plastic flip-flops. But these shoes were something different.

The shoes were SO ugly, in fact, that there was a full minute of silence in the train car while they looked at the shoes and thought about what they would say first.

They started with the obvious. "Those are the ugliest shoes I've ever seen."

"Really! What was she thinking?"

"What a horrible color!"

"The pattern makes me dizzy!"

"And they don't even match!"

"What is she, a clown?"

"Ugh, even clowns have better taste."

Now, as usual when people are talking about someone on a train, they don't always remember to be quiet. The woman's ears perked up, like they sometimes do when someone is talking about you, and she stared in their direction, looking hurt.

"Well," one of them whispered. "It’s her fault for wearing such ugly shoes."

"Really," another whispered, "We're doing her a favor. She should know never to wear those shoes again!"

Soon the train came to a stop. The woman in the ugly shoes got off and so did the rest of the people. They didn't think much about what they had done. Their parents picked them up and they went home to change for Rosh Hashana services.

The service began, and the new rabbi stepped up to greet the congregation. She wasn't pretty or ugly. She wasn't tall or short. She wasn't fat or thin. And since she was wearing a robe, they couldn't tell if she was dressed in any remarkable way. But she did look kind of familiar...

And then, all at once, they saw them. Peeking out from beneath her robe were the ugliest shoes they had ever seen. The ugly shoes they had been making fun of for the entire train ride home.

They didn't find out if the new rabbi could sing or what kind of sermons the new rabbi would give. They were so embarrassed and ashamed that they couldn't listen or concentrate. But this was the High Holy Days. They knew what they had to do. They had to apologize to the rabbi.

After services, they waited at the rabbi's office. Each of them nudged the other, saying, "You tell her. No you tell her" until at last one of them stepped forward.

"Rabbi, we're so sorry we made fun of your shoes. Please forgive us."

The rabbi looked at them. "It is nice of you to apologize. But I can't forgive you."

"But really!" One of them said. "We didn't mean it. Your shoes are lovely. Such bright colors, such a pretty pattern."

The rabbi just looked at them. "It is nice of you to apologize. But I can't forgive you."

The next day, they all came back with flowers, the same colors as the rabbi's shoes. "We're so sorry. Please forgive us."

The rabbi just looked at them. "It is nice of you to apologize. But I can't forgive you."

The day after that, they came with a box full of all their old shoes. "We're going to make up for what we did by giving all of our old shoes to charity. Please forgive us."

The rabbi just looked at them. "It is nice of you to apologize. It's nice of you to give shoes to charity. But I can't forgive you."

This went on for days, each day of the Ten Days of Repentance, in fact.  The college kids would come back and think of a new way of apologizing. And each time, the rabbi would say, "It's nice of you to apologize. But I can't forgive you."

Finally, on the afternoon before Kol Nidre, the college kids came back and said, "Rabbi, it is almost Yom Kippur. This is THE day of forgiveness. Why won't you forgive us?"

The rabbi said, "It's not that I don't believe you are sorry. It's not that you don't deserve to be forgiven. It's just that, I'm not the one who can forgive you. I'm the rabbi. You didn't make fun of the rabbi. You made fun of a woman on a train, when you didn't know who she was. You didn't feel bad about your words then. It was only when you found out who I was that you were sorry. Her feelings were hurt, not mine. You have to apologize to her!"

Apology, repentance, these fill our minds on Yom Kippur.  Having concluded our confessionals, we move into the afternoon of the day, as the hunger pangs begin to gnaw at our insides, cognizant that there is still time to apologize.  There is still time. The gates are open. 

The rabbi of our story seeks to hold the young people in her congregation accountable for their words and their actions.  And, though the group of college students know that they have erred, they cannot go back and apologize, for they are accountable not to the Rabbi, but to a woman they didn’t know, a woman they judged and insulted, that woman with the ugly shoes.  The young people learn that they are accountable for their words and deeds whether or not someone is listening or paying attention.

We are in a new era of accountability, fraught with complexity as we try to balance the need to finally hold many accountable for their words, deeds, and actions while ensuring that due process and rights of the accused are maintained.  But, there is no question that this era of accountability is a positive for our communities, our nation, and for the world. 

This new era began, some would say, with the publishing of articles in the New York Times and the New Yorker, highlighting accusations of the abuses many women faced at the “hands” of Harvey Weinstein.  His power and prestige in the entertainment world meant that many had known about it, and had whispered about it for years.  Some worked behind the scenes to keep others safe.  Others enabled the behavior by looking away, by weakness of will, by fear of repercussion.  As a result of this, and what some call the Weinstein effect, the #metoo movement came to be, first on Twitter and other social media outlets.  Women in this country, and other countries all over the world, stood up to tell their stories of harassment, abuse, and worse.  After months, years, or for some, decades, thanks to a newfound #metoo community, and a sense that others were finally willing to listen and believe, many women and men spoke up, holding their abusers accountable, shining a light on their behavior, and working to ensure that it would not happen again.

Weinstein was held accountable, and many of his terrible actions were brought to light. He no longer has his work or many of his friends.  Though a trial is still to come, the sheer number of accusations is hard to discount, and the stories told by the women who found themselves on the receiving end of his abuse of power are difficult to brush off.  He’s got enough money, and he will live comfortably even if he never works again, but he has, at least for now, been shunned by his community and his company, feeling the weight of accountability.

The first articles last year, on the heels of the trials of Bill Cosby, and leading up to the most recent big name to be accused, Les Moonves of CBS, opened the eyes of the many of us to what too many women and men already knew: no one was holding the powerful, primarily men, accountable for their abusive and exploitative actions.  The power dynamics at play prevented it.  The society we live in and the culture of Hollywood, the boardroom, and even religious institutions, prevented it, but no longer.  While too late for many, #metoo is a mirror for our society, reflecting how we are all accountable for the way we treat each other, and for how power and sex are used as weapons of control.

The original choice for the Yom Kippur afternoon Torah reading by the rabbis of old was not the Holiness Code we will hear today, which advises us to be holy as God is holy.  Rather, the original reading comes one chapter earlier in Leviticus, which advises us about illicit sexual relationships, detailing which relationships God permits and which God does not.  We are rightfully uncomfortable with this section because our society has evolved enough to recognize that not all which the Bible considers abhorrent is actually so.  But if we take a step back and consider the larger theme rather than the specific prohibitions, we sense that the rabbis recognized that relationships require accountability.  Relationships, especially ones involving intimacy, require boundaries.  Not every relationship is healthy, or consensual, Leviticus tells us.

The purpose of including this chapter of Torah, about the accountability we have to our partners and to our families fits in with this day, for this day, the Sabbath of Sabbaths, is about our accountability in all aspects of our lives.  We remind ourselves over and over, as thirst parches our throats, and our heads ache from lack of caffeine, that we are accountable, that we are held accountable, and that we ought to hold others accountable, as well, for the wrongs they commit.  And yet, there is room for forgiveness.  Forgiveness is a divine quality, but before apology and forgiveness are reached, there must be accountability.

Teshuvah is, in essence, a recognition that we are accountable for our actions.  We list the many sins we have committed to tell God that we are holding ourselves accountable for where we missed the mark, for where we overstepped, for where we spoke out of turn.  We hold ourselves accountable for where our thoughts turned to cynicism, to lust for power, to misogyny, to anger.  We hold ourselves accountable for when we were too lazy to do the right thing, though we knew what it was, too meek to speak out, though we knew we should.  We hold ourselves accountable for where we failed to further the cause of justice and of peace, for where we failed to be allies.  For each of these sins, and the many more enumerated in our al chets, we stand before God saying that we recognize our errors, and that we hold ourselves accountable for them.

This era of accountability, however, ought to cause us to seek out where else we might hold ourselves and others accountable.  Accountability does not stop and should not stop with our personal actions.  In addition to holding ourselves accountable to God, let this new era of accountability push us to seek accountability in all areas of our lives.  Our confessionals are in the plural because we are all accountable, as much as we are each individually accountable.

Let us hold ourselves accountable to our community.  A congregation, especially a newly merged and growing congregation cannot work without everyone’s help.  If we value this congregation, and we value what it provides for our lives and our families, we have to put in the work, and not just between Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur, but between Yom Kippur and Rosh HaShanah!

What are the ways that in the last year we missed the mark in terms of how we supported our house of worship?  Finances are only one means of contributions.  A community requires that we hold each other accountable to do what is best for the community, even if it might not be what we prefer.  Holding ourselves accountable means we find ways to use our talents to help whenever and wherever we can.  So many put in a lot of time already, and for that we are grateful.  Imagine what a difference it would make if instead of a handful of folks stepping up time and again, we had a large corps of volunteers willing to help at an event, willing to sit on a committee, willing to work together to create a thriving community with a culture of excellence.

What could we create if we held ourselves accountable to be with each other when we mourn and when we celebrate?  What kind of community would we have if we started treating our B’nai Mitzvah like communal events rather than a private family event, if we all tried to attend the shivah at the home of a fellow congregant we might not know?  What we would see is that by holding ourselves accountable to our community, our community becomes accountable to us, to be with us in our joy, to sit alongside us in our sorrow.  Our community would be with us because we were with our community.

We would be living the words of Hillel, who reminds us not to separate ourselves from the community.[2]  When we actively include ourselves into the community, we hold ourselves accountable and we establish new communal norms of behavior that benefit everyone and bring us closer together.

We ought to also remember to hold ourselves accountable to the next generation.  We are working on fulfilling the vision of a regional Reform congregation for the future generations, but what kind of world do we want to live in, and what kind of world do we want to leave behind?  If we believe in l’dor vador, passing down of traditions from generation to generation, and if we live by it as a principle, it is up to us to ensure not just that there is a next generation, but that the world we leave them is better than the one we were handed.  By recognizing that our actions and our work have lasting impacts, how are we working to make the world as we would like it to see?

What are we doing to combat climate change, as storms rage bigger and more destructive each year?  What are we doing to combat the scourge of gun violence, so rampant in our nation?  What are we doing to support the youth of today, who are speaking up in record numbers against gun policies that keep their lives in danger, and our lives in danger?  How are we working to build a world where differences are appreciated, respected, celebrated and do not become the source of division?

The answers to all of these questions require holding ourselves accountable for our actions and their effects.  But there is only so much each of us can do alone.

We also must hold our elected leaders accountable.  Elections have consequences, and no matter which box we might check, or which bubble we fill in, their purpose is to hold our leaders accountable.  This year, in advance of the upcoming midterm elections, the Reform Movement and the Religious Action Center have announced a civic engagement campaign.  This campaign seeks not to sway any outcome, but to encourage voter participation, with the goal of registering and encouraging everyone to vote as a part of working toward every eligible member of every Reform congregation voting in the November elections, “As Reform Jews, each person is an agent of change. Our Movement has long been committed to protecting and elevating the cornerstone of our democracy: the right to vote.”[3] 

Our Social Action committee has taken up this charge, and has already held voter registration drives in conjunction with the nonpartisan League of Women Voters, who will also be here registering people to vote at Bingo in the next few weeks. We can help you, too, if you’re not registered to vote.  Our votes are our voice, and if we are to hold our leaders accountable, we must speak up and use them.  Our Social Action committee will be letting us know about candidate forums and deadlines for registration, all in an effort to bring elections back to what they were always supposed to do, hold leaders accountable, for the good they do as well as the bad.

We’re just 10 days into this New Year.  There is so much potential for what can be accomplished in the days and months ahead.  Likewise, we are only just beginning to understand this new era we are living in.  Let us welcome this new era of accountability.  Let it usher in a time of tremendous growth for us as individuals, as a community, and as a society.  Let every voice add to the chorus demanding accountability, helping us to live in a community we are proud to pass on to the next generation and a world we leave better than we found. 

May we all be inscribed for good and blessing in the book of life.

G’mar Chatimah Tovah.

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[1] With Gratitude to Rabbi Leah Berkowitz for this rendition of The Rabbi's Ugly Shoes--A Children's Story September 11, 2009 LRB JRC based on a story by A.J. Heschel about Rabbi Chaim Soleviechik of Brisk (Dosick, p. 140).

[2] Avot 2:4

[3] Rac.org