Shemot: 5772 — Heavyweight Division
“Heavyweight Division”
Parashat Shemot
Neil F. Blumofe
14 January 2012
We have formed a new opportunity in our community – called the Kavod Committee – where sons and daughters acting as caregivers can gather monthly to speak about their own challenges in providing for parents.
With its wisdom, Torah opens up ample opportunity for us to explore issues and dilemmas that are closest to our heart. At present, one of the positive characteristics of our community is our diversity – the many folks connected to Agudas Achim have a wide variety of viewpoints, opinions, and outlooks that keep conversation lively and interesting as we seek ways to understand each other and develop compassion for attitudes that may be markedly different from our own. Over the years, many of us have seen an ebb and a flow of interest and attachment to synagogue life as our children come of age and as our own paths and situations rise and fall.
Yet, even in our assorted mixture, we all hope to share the common denominator of our own aging, as fraught as it may be. And over the years, while we encounter the changing face of our life, many of us too find ourselves in a situation of lending support and caretaking not only children – but our own parents, as well. Seeing our parents becoming elderly and in some cases, infirm – either in mind or body – can be incredibly painful. Not only acting as a portentous light for what may lie ahead of us, and activating our own fears– seeing the ones who raised us in a position of vulnerability and limited circumstances and decline, can bring us profound sorrow and guilt on top of increased responsibilities and meetings with folks and agencies whom we barely knew existed, before. For the child who becomes the caregiver, the industry of aging is a cavernous and lonely place.
It is striking that through Moses, our Torah commands that love God – v’ahavta et haShem Elokecha and that we honor our parents – kabeid et avicha v’et imecha. Which is a greater mitzvah? Which is more difficult to perform. One can always be in a relationship with love – falling in and out of it is the hallmark of an honest and committed relationship; however, honor is a different thing – it is facts on the ground – it is determined by our own actions. Honor gets us out of our place and demands that we are thoughtful and generous – it is the active extension of love. Love not acted upon, while cozy, remains theoretical. Honor commits us to a practice of relationship – and not a relationship where we reap absolute benefit. Practicing honor puts another first, before our self and thus, is more difficult to enact than love. I think that the Torah recognizes this – as we are presented with the 10 Commandments twice – in Exodus and in Deuteronomy – the first time mentions that as one honors a father and a mother, in turn, the child will have long life – and the second time, the commandments promise that with honor not only comes a long life – and also a peaceful life and even a good life – although, some may tell you, aiding a parent who has dementia, it is hard to see where the good life actually begins.
Can we honor our parents without loving them? Our Torah instructs us that we must. In our lives, we have a period of wanting to grow away from our parents – to leave them and establish independence – as Moses does with Pharaoh, the man who raised him. In fact, although not the established narrative, one can read the entire encounter between Moses and Pharaoh as a dynamic in family breaking and bonding. Moses wants to leave, is compelled to leave, yet can’t. Pharaoh has his heart hardened and his worldview become smaller, time and time again – not able to unclench his hold on the boy who grew up in his home and finally, he suffers an unbearable pain – the rupture of relationship – what our Torah calls the 10th plague — the death of the firstborn, one can read as a permanent severing of relationship between father and son.
Reading the relationship between Moses and Pharaoh in this way – one can see that Moses makes a definitive choice – he chooses God over Pharaoh. As he is learning, it becomes an absolute situation – either one or the other – either in or out – either involved or not involved. Compare this position with Rabbi Akiva, a sage found in our rabbinic literature. It is said about Rabbi Akiva that as his mother got older, she became senile, and she would often walk out in the street barefoot, and behaved too in other ways that appeared to be quite embarrassing. Our tradition claims that Rabbi Akiva, who was renowned for his teaching and his authority, would get down on his hands and knees in front of his mother and put his hands down under her feet, in order that she not get cut or bruised as she walked. Even in this extremely difficult situation, our tradition teaches, that Akiva found within his diminished mother – even at that moment when it was unsure that she was even still there – that he found a connection to God. Beyond the absolute confrontation between Moses and Pharaoh — Akiva, within the turbulence that he must of felt – the conflicting emotions, the inconvenience, and the dread – he found perhaps, the thinnest of threads of God to love within her. Can one look to recognize a sliver of love within an otherwise trying and opaque situation? Can one overcome very real and understandable emotions — perhaps feeling that elderly parents are more of a nuisance than a blessing.
Honoring a father and a mother involves us in a great spiritual practice. Honoring our parents is not the same thing as feeling obligated to honor them blindly – rather, it’s about a deeper inner gratitude for their having given us the gift of life. Obligation is toxic – honoring is joyful — obligation is toxic – honoring is joyful, and it is with this practice of recognizing the link in the generations – that even in the pain of hearing the same story told over and over and repeating information for the thousandth time – or buying diapers for those who have raised us, we are in this world because of them – because of an act of love or desire that they practiced, we are able to give voice to our own life – that there but for the grace of God we may also go?
May we constantly improve with the guidance of our tradition – may we see that all things are not black or white – as practiced by Moses in Egypt – that Akiva’s behavior was a bit extreme and that there is honor involved when making sure that our parents are safe and receiving proper care. Finding something – some sliver of God or grace when engaged in care giving that can be all consuming is a lifeline that can help us and all in our circles. Knowing that we are not alone can be an incredible comfort – acknowledging pain and frustration can be healing and can bring us to an additional level of appreciation of our own humanity. Knowing our limits can bring us strength to honor our parents well. May this new opportunity – a space within our community to come together, continue to build our relationships together honestly – and that despite our different opinions on other things, we can be united in our support for each other as we tend to our parents in days of frailty, exposure, and insecurity through similar circumstances that we all may yet share.
Shabbat Shalom.
Vayechi — 5772: “Praying in Hebrew”
“Praying in Hebrew”
Parashat Vayechi
Neil F. Blumofe
7 January 2012
I am habitually asked – why do we pray mostly in Hebrew? Many times, the one who asks the question is unfamiliar with the pattern and the scope of the liturgy and wants to learn more – or sometimes the person asking is uncomfortable with so much of a language that’s not understood so well or that wasn’t the language of prayer when growing up. This question comes from a place of a person’s distance as well as interest and oftentimes sparks a good conversation about the meaning and the purpose of prayer.
Hebrew is considered to be lashon hakodesh – the holy language – a language that has the power to create and to destroy. Among our sages there is an idea that chanting or praying in Hebrew brings with it a restorative power – that even though we may not be aware of it, while we are sounding out and pronouncing the various words and while we are listening to many in the congregation do the same, in that moment, our soul is filled with essential vitamins and minerals that replenish us and bring us longer term health. There is something healing about our Hebrew prayers – and that our siddur, our prayer book, is not merely the latest stage in the editing of generations of human messages to God, rather it is a daily regimen both to prevent malaise and to boost our strength of spirit. In short, according to this idea, we need to pray in Hebrew to keep rooted to the divine within us and thus to pray in Hebrew supersedes any normal or expected communication.
As we pray in a Hebrew that is different from today’s spoken Hebrew and in fact combines many of the stages of development from the origins of the language itself – Biblical, Mishnaic, Rabbinic, Medieval, Mystical, which includes some aspects of Aramaic into the Hebrew mix – we enter into a moment that is incredibly full and not assigned to any particular historical moment. We live in all times at once, able to transcend space and time and to experience the enormous beauty and benefits from an entire tradition. As we take our time to immerse in a language that is different for us – even if we are native Hebrew speakers – we enter into a different time – a mythic time where ordinary interaction is exchanged for something beyond us – where today, our lives are added to the vastness of a moment of revelation that continues – through us and through our students, as we can stand with Abraham, and Moses, and Rachel, and Hannah, and for some of us, our grandparents, as we unburden our heart directly before an ageless God.
Yet many of us crave understanding – and this explanation of cleaving to a tradition while nice, does not address real needs that many of us have to want to know what we are saying. Before exploring this thought for a minute, let me say too, that a parallel position that some have expressed to me over the years is that they specifically like not understanding exactly what they are saying – that in the routine of their lives, it is nice not to have to be pinned down, not have to get involved to a degree, and to let go for a bit and not worry about communicating effectively, or God’s gender and specific images embedded in our prayers that if they knew more about, would vex them and in understanding would cause them to be more distant.
So, the good thing about our prayers is that they happen frequently and that we have a lifetime to enter into them and gain meaning from them. While we may start with the line of Shema Yisrael, which proclaims God’s Oneness, every time that we engage in prayer in Hebrew, we can learn something more – truly, adding a word at a time. Granted, asking an adult to make learning Hebrew a priority is not easy – however, knowing that there is no expected outcome and that the more frequently one prays – establishing a practice of prayer — the easier it becomes, is true. There are many different prayer books available, both in book form and electronically, that provide useful study aids, such as interlinear translation and helpful commentary – in addition, classes in prayer book or liturgical Hebrew are readily found in our community and online that can bring a dedicated student much reward, even after a few weeks.
And truly, there is no expectation that one pray everything, all the time. While the shaliach tsibur, the pray leader establishes a pace, it is really up to us to find both our places of comfort and our places that gently push us a bit. Dwelling on a Hebrew word – or struggling with a concept in prayer, or finding a silence – whether in our individual Amidah or in a blessing before or after the Shema is not only welcomed, it is desired. I ask that we have patience with our progress and that we appreciate each word as we build our connections – that there is no expectation for finishing or for mastery as we devote ourselves to a regular connection with our prayers.
However, the real question might be – do we believe in these prayers in the first place? While many of us welcome a prayer for healing for those in our lives who may be ill – entering into a conversation with our sages and those who have creatively come before us does not resonate. Acknowledging this may help to ease our self-induced isolation. Entering into the synagogue, it certainly seems that we should believe what is in front of us and for those who don’t, or who don’t have positive feelings of inclusion or who are not prepared to open up to a non-rational experience, Hebrew is just another hindrance. While I don’t have a ready-made solution for this – I know that this kind of estrangement is more common than acknowledged. Let me say, that music – and how we chant the prayers, helps.
And as you may know, I also am a strong advocate for our original prayer. I recommend using our matbe’ah tefillah, our order and sequence of Hebrew prayers as a baseline. Our tradition is nothing without commentary – so I invite each of us to enter into a convention of mastering the Hebrew, word by word, and then also responding in ways that continue the conversation that have been established. How rich our synagogue experiences can be as we pray a few words in Hebrew and then respond immediately to them – turning them over and over – allowing them to penetrate us at that moment – and while we may only pray just a few lines, our time would be meaningful as we bring our fullest selves into the conversation, rather than let they prayer leader just carry us along. Even when we are not engaged in prayer at the synagogue – to try our hand at prayer – to open a siddur and with inspiration, draft our own poems about light, darkness, love, exile, and God.
Prayer is called avodat halev – service of the heart – and for us to open up a bit, to allow our self to flow even a little past our self-defined limits can be transformative. Moving past our doubts and our defenses and learning to express ourselves in a foreign land – in another language — is powerful. Incorporating elements of Hebrew – learning associations from our Torah and our prayer book and our oral texts like the Talmud is incredibly empowering and will serve us well as we encounter our identity and write the Torah of our lives.
Our tradition asks, what is shefa? And the answer is that is abundance in its highest form – a flow between the Creator to God’s creation. And prayer is the return of this sheaf, this abundance – it is what we offer back to the Creator of all – it is who we are, in all of our majesty and all of our impurities that we offer back to God, and while the container of all of this is Hebrew – responding to God, as God spoke words of prophecy, prayer and instruction to us, Hebrew is many things. Hebrew is just a beginning. Hebrew is the channel previously dug by our ancestors – Hebrew is just the vessel in which who we are, is carried, and within that vessel are words of English, and too, words that cannot be expressed, our tears and our voiceless hurts and expressions.
So let us dedicate our lives to the Hebrew letters and as we do, let us continue to open them up to propel our understanding of this extraordinary fertile language, to improve our connections with the many stories and people of our tradition and too, to plumb the levels and the boundaries of our beliefs – finding conviction in what we say and consolation in our distance, as well. Let Hebrew inspire us to create our own prayers, joined to the hopes and dreams of our resonant tradition as they too, implore, question, magnify and praise.
Shabbat Shalom.
Vayigash — 5772 — “Eminent Yosef”
“Eminent Yosef”
Parashat Vayigash
Neil F. Blumofe
31 December 2011
The Earth is degenerate in these latter days. Bribery and corruption are rampant. Our leaders are inept. Children no longer obey their parents. Each man cares only to write his own life story. The signs of our decay are obvious for all to see and indeed it is clear that the end of civilization is at hand.
This comes not from the latest blog or news article – it is not rhetoric out of any political campaign or am radio show – rather it is from an Assyrian tablet, dated back to the year 2800 BCE. Ein hadash tachat hashemesh – there is nothing new under the sun.
As we learn in this week’s Torah portion, finally it is the brother Yehudah who stands up to the vizier Zaphnat Paneah and breaks the dismal cycle of bullying and harassment that this powerful man was waging specifically against the youngest son Benyamin and too against all of Ya’akov’s sons. We learn that Yehudah approached Zaphnat Paneach, who was really his younger brother Yoseph, deep within, not in any casual way, rather in a way that was transformative both for Yehudah and for Yosef, himself. At this moment, Yehudah had nothing left to lose – in deciding to finally confront the man who stands directly before him, he roused his fullest self and was determined to not let a cycle of abuse continue.
For many of us, our days continue as they did before – we gradually getting older with each passing year, making plans for the future – or at least saying that we are making plans for the future — watching children enter another grade and continue to grow up and away from us. We, mourning friends, family and acquaintances who pass away – attending funerals and shiva services, shaking our heads in sadness and breathing deeply, fretful too about our own life, perhaps. And as the year goes, we continue to have to adjust, making room for new ways to stay connected – new information that is constantly available to us, at all times – and we find ourselves having to take a stand to separate from this continuous flow. The world may not be so different now than it was 4000 years ago – however, it comes at us much faster and without interruption.
It is amazing how our human body and mind can and will adjust to any situation. Like the metaphorical anecdote about a frog that is gradually boiled alive in water, not aware of gradual changes in its environment, the brothers in Egypt find that their circumstances are changed as they ask for food during the severe drought. They are confronted by their long lost brother Yosef, whom they sold into slavery many years before. Here he now stands, gripped by his own frustrations and traumas, and perhaps in spite of himself, he continues to needle and provoke these hapless brothers who are entirely in his control. The tables have turned, and in his authoritative role, Yosef turns into Zafnat Paneach — an aggressor – unwilling to let bygones be bygones and perhaps helpless to have his resentments rest. What turns good people into recreational antagonists? What brings decent people into a place of perverse pleasure – where hurting another is accomplished as part of a day’s work? How do worldviews become so narrow, so as not to admit even the possibility of another point of view?
In this case, we have one brother tormenting the rest of his family – which in many ways is more common than one who harms a stranger – and in this, I think ein hadash tachat hashemesh is true – we regularly wound the ones that we most love. The courageous one of the moment we learn, is Yehudah – one who is implicated in bringing upset to his family, yet who is not trapped by his past actions. Yehudah finds a way out of the cycle of despair and cruelty and in his ability to approach the authority figure in front of him, himself, and to bare himself openly and humbly before God, he changes the world.
Our Psalms teach, gam hoshech lo yachshich me’meka – even darkness is not dark for You – in any situation, one who is willing to stand up against injustice, to be responsible for his or her environment and surroundings, brings a light that can alter the inevitability of the world never changing. Indeed, this challenge may be our life’s purpose – we know that our effect is limited in this world – as leaders come and go – it is the rare opportunity that we have to reasonably and thoughtfully speak our truth which can bring small yet profound variables into an otherwise unyielding boiling pot.
So, where can we be Yehudah, standing before our master? Is there an issue that grips you, that causes your heart to beat faster? Where can we apply our limited energy and effectiveness to stand up and transform a situation by carefully weighing it out and then entering into it with all of our heart, our soul, and our might? Is there a situation in our city or in this country – or if you have been following the upsurge of unpleasantness in Israel – of Jews against Jews, specifically in Beit Shemesh, where an 8 year old Orthodox girl has been threatened by other Jews as she walks to school – is there something we can do to demonstrate that Judaism has more than one ugly, fundamentalist face?
Our mystics teach that Yosef is not just another brother – rather, the word Yosef means, “something more,” or “extra,” and the Yosef is found within each of us, usually in hiding. As we turn to standing up and attaching ourselves to that which is ineffable and godly, we can find our truest selves and ways to dedicate our lives that have meaning far beyond current events. We are to dedicate ourselves, not to expediency, or doing things that are most convenient, rather to revealing the holiest pieces of ourselves – our inner Yosef that can blaze forth past the trappings of our outer Zafnat Paneach that we usually display in the world. Yehudah found his Yosef within himself and we too, should not let the present circumstances of the world deter us. In 2012, let us locate the wholesomeness of our soul – the shalom part of our spirit, and apply ourselves to not changing the world, rather, to changing ourselves to effect the world – standing against any gradual injustice or sudden burst of terror. We can challenge and not be afraid – and in this bravery to stand like Yehudah and reclaim our eminent inner Yosef, there will be something new under the sun, every day.
Shabbat Shalom.
5772: Vayeshev — “One Day” — Thinking About Matisyahu’s Facial Hair
“One Day”
Parashat Vayeshev
Neil F. Blumofe
17 December 2011
A few years ago the senior class of a rural high school in Texas visited our sanctuary for a few hours. When I asked how many of them had been to a synagogue before, no one raised their hand – and in between their questions of “what’s that beanie on your head,” and “what do you think about your going to hell, because you don’t believe in Jesus,” we had a sweet point of connection when after a moment, the majority of the students all recognized who the reggae star Matisyahu was and began singing the chorus of “Jerusalem,” his hit at the time – Jerusalem, if I forget you/fire not gonna come from me tongue/Jerusalem, if I forget you/let my right hand forget what it’s supposed to do.
It was a poignant moment of revelation for me. These kids who had not met a Jew before and were quick to ask about what they had learned in church or at home – that anyone who doesn’t believe in the right savior is doomed to perpetual hell and in fact, once our conversation began to flow, they asked me about why I and all Jews felt compelled to kill Jesus in the first place; that these kids were able to sing lyrics based on the Hebrew Bible and felt that Matisyahu spoke to them. Matisyahu was an incredible shaliach, ambassador into the world – a spark of light carrying an important message of depth and possibility, with an added bonus of looking like a stereotype of a Jew – with his black suit and hat, long peyos, and substantial beard. More than Leonard Bernstein, Bob Dylan, Paul Simon, or the Beastie Boys over the years, Matisyahu – also known as Matthew Miller — attracted people to explore Judaism through his music and his lifestyle – making being Jewish an integral part of his music – bringing Judaism to millions of people in a way that could be appreciated and in some instances, emulated.
Matisyahu was affiliated with Chabad for about seven years, until 2007 – and after that, he was exploring and experimenting with various Hasidic sects. And this week, a clean shaven singer announces to the world that while he will continue to make music and live as a Jew, he has taken steps to reclaim himself and from now on there will be “no more Hassidic reggae superstar.” His explanation was revealing – that as he began to learn about Judaism and live as a Jew, the rules and parameters of Hasidic Judaism were helpful in keeping him grounded, and now, as he writes, he will be trusting his goodness and his divine mission, as he continues to develop as a Jew and as a musician.
So, we have been drawn into his journey, and while his next persona will not necessarily help identify the majesty of Judaism to the next class of rural high school seniors, Matisyahu’s, fluid exploration of Jewish identity is a positive and encouraging sign. Reminding us that even as some in our world forcibly maintain, there is not one way to be Jewish. Matisyahu’s look was shorthand for a type of credibility among some – and it certainly helped to distinguish him from many other aspirant artists – yet now, the hard work of meeting God everyday and struggling for faith, balance, and self-control, as it becomes public, becomes all of our concerned tasks as it too is more personal. Beyond relying on a convenient caricature or affiliation of identity, Matthew Miller’s story can mirror our own as he continues his journey, ready to grapple with a Judaism that is more nuanced as he makes decisions – potentially involving himself in a Judaism that admits pluralism, creativity and complexity in weighing out the significance of his actions. To recalibrate our connections to what we consider important is a true gift – and one that is a constant example in these portions of our Torah – from Ya’akov wrestling with the mysterious man on the banks of the Jabbok River, to the imprisonment of Joseph, where God was constantly and powerfully with him, thus creating a changed soul, a stronger self, that can rely on a private covenant with God, within a larger community-wide expectation of living and obligation.
We so often make people into who we think that they need to be – and it would be a tragedy if talents like Matisyahu ultimately renounced their Judaism. However, we should rejoice that our traditions, our pathways to God admit such honesty and expectation from an individual. This kind of work is what attracted me to the Conservative Movement in the first place – a movement that at its best, acts as a container for Judaism encouraging knowledge and observance, as well as questions. A platform on which one can explore diverse information in different combinations, and in my imagination – a life of Judaism that most accurately recreated the Talmudic depth and breadth of admitting a multiplicity of opinions and challenges to community and ultimately, the most honest place to cleave to God.
To be honest, when I attended Matisyahu concerts at Stubb’s over the years, I was never drawn in, like others seemed to be – and yet now, with this movement of his into the unknown, I admire his conviction to find God again within the generous portions of expansive Judaisms – splashing into the many contradictions that come with a well considered life and perhaps putting his career second to a more true searching for who he is, at this time.
May we have the courage to do the same – to examine who we are underneath what others say we are – or what our professional demands say that we are. May we have a moment on the Jabbok or a time to dwell in the darkness like Joseph, committed to walking a life that brings us closer to the ineffable and to bigger meaning. I am convinced that mitzvot and living within the light of a Jewish community propels us on our journey – I am also convinced that always turning our traditions over, probing them for new meaning, holding them up to the light and opening them up with constant learning, brings out a vibrant and enlivening lifelong relationship with what is most true in our lives.
While the image and the lyrics of Matisyahu brought a realization of difference to the high school seniors, I hope too that seeing an active synagogue — a living example of sincerely encountering questions of existence and not shrinking from their pointed questions will be influential to them to do the same. True and transformational change happens personally and in one on one meetings, day after day. As we live, may we celebrate the chances for holiness that we have – taking on new identities and everyday, changing our names from Jacob to Israel.
May we find much inspiration in this development of Matisyahu to take our own spiritual work seriously and not stop emerging and growing. May we be unconcerned with how others think about what we strive to do – as we continue to learn and apply our learning in directions unexpected. And finally, may we be aided in our lives by a charitable and understanding community that recognizes the centrality and the importance of the work that always lies before us and moves with each of us as individuals to meet us and improve us. The world’s children – both rural and urban — are waiting to be inspired — not by our superficiality, or our roles and titles, rather by our depth. Let us renew our work to study and to sing.
Shabbat Shalom.
High Holy Days — Poetry Reading List
By popular request, here are the books from which I selected the poetry that I offered on the Yamim Noraim. All collections are recommended.
-Yehuda Amichai — Patuch, Segor, Patuch — Schocken Press, 1998 (Hebrew); Open, Closed, Open — Harvest, 2000 (translated by Chana Bloch/Chana Kronfeld) (English)
-Yehuda Amichai — Selected Poetry — University of California Press, 1996 (paperback) (translated by Chana Bloch/Stephen Mitchell)
-Leonard Cohen — Stranger Music — Vintage, 1993 — contains selections from his extraordinary work, Book of Mercy (1984).
-The Dream of the Poem — Peter Cole (translator, editor) — Princeton UP, 2007. A fabulous anthology of Hebrew poetry from Muslim and Christian Spain 950-1492. As part of the Jewish Bookfair 2011, Peter will be visiting Austin in November, 2011 to speak about his new book, Sacred Trash — a history of the Cairo Geniza — proudly sponsored by Congregation Agudas Achim.
-Philip Levine — The Mercy — Knopf, 1999 — Levine was just appointed as US Poet Laureate.
5772 — Yom Kippur, Neilah — Mt. No Mountain (Finale: Two Texts)
“No Mountain At All”
Yom Kippur – Neilah
Neil F. Blumofe
7 October 2011
SUKKOT 52A
1. V’safda ha’aretz mishpachot l’vad – the land will eulogize each family by itself (Zechariah 12:12)
What is the nature of this eulogy – there is a disagreement among the rabbis.
One says that this refers to a leader who has been killed in battle the other says that this refers to the yetzer hara that will be eradicated in the future.
Q: How can this be? If in fact the yetzer hara will be gotten rid of in the future, wouldn’t that be cause for great rejoicing? Why would this bring out a eulogy – why would people weep?
A: It is as R’ Yehudah expounded: In the future the Kadosh Baruch Hu will bring the yetzer hara for destruction in the presence of the righteous and in the presence of the wicked. To the tzadikim the yetzer hara will look like a high mountain that can hardly be scaled, and to the r’shaim it will appear like the flimsiest hair that can easily be snapped. Both the tzadikim and the r’shaim will weep.
The tzadikim will weep and say, “How were we able to overcome such a high mountain?” And the r’shaim will weep and say, “How were we not able to overcome such a flimsy strand of hair?”
And so too, the Kadosh Baruch Hu will wonder with them both (as it says, ko amar haShem Tsevaot ki yipalei b’einei sh’eirit ha’am hazeh ba’yamim haheim gam b’einai yipalei – thus said the Lord, God of Hosts – as it will be wondrous in the eyes of the remnant of this people in those days, so it will also be wondrous in my eyes, as well).
2. Hinei samtich l’morag Tadush harim v’tadok, ugvaot kamotz tasim
Tizreim v’ruach tisa’aim, usara tafitz otam v’atah tagil badoshem. (Isaiah 41:15/16)
I will make you to be a threshing board and you shall thresh mountains into dust and make hills like chaff. You shall reduce them and the wind shall carry them off – the whirlwind will scatter them and you shall rejoice in haShem.
5772 — Yom Kippur, Yizkor — Mt. Nebo: Being at the Mountaintop
“Mt. Nebo: Being At the Mountaintop”
Yom Kippur – Yizkor
Neil F. Blumofe
7 October 2011
As we begin to turn our minds and hearts towards Yizkor, our memorial prayers, I am conscious of both my responsibilities in leading this holy community, and my more personal role as a son – especially as I have immersed myself in mourning my mother since this winter. I am struck by the quote from Isaiah that is a touchstone in this special time – dirshu haShem b’himatzo k’rau’hu bihyoto karov – seek God while God can be found, call upon God when God is near. Traditionally, this verse is a springboard for many Midrashim that depict God wandering, open and available in our lives ready to meet and be met.
In this moment, in the context of our prayers on Yom Kippur and with the weight of our admitting our wrongs and more than that, hopefully beginning to take responsibility for them, these prophetic words of Isaiah lead me directly to the Mishnah of Avot which states bluntly in the name of Rabbi Eliezer, v’shuv yom echad lifnei mita’tach, which is usually translated as, repent one day before your death. The question is raised, how do we know when that day is – what does it mean to truly repent – should we live as if each day could be our last?
And thinking of this chilling prospect, of course I continued to move from our tradition to the watershed speech given by Martin Luther King, Jr., on 3 April, 1968 in Memphis, Tennessee, where he uttered the uncanny words:
Well, I don’t know what will happen now. We’ve got some difficult days ahead. But it doesn’t matter with me now. Because I’ve been to the mountaintop. And I don’t mind. Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I’m not concerned about that now. I just want to do God’s will. And He’s allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I’ve looked over. And I’ve seen the Promised Land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people will get to the Promised Land. And I’m happy tonight. I’m not worried about anything. I’m not fearing any man. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord.
Martin Luther King was dead the next day, shot by an assassin’s bullet. One day before his death, he had placed himself on Mt. Nebo, as Moses stood in our Torah, looking out over the Promised Land and summoning the will to be content with just looking, and not entering. Martin Luther King has made peace with the culmination of his life. He does not shy away from naming the troubles that are the world’s burden, and at the same time, he recognizes the limited capacity of his efforts, contained by inevitable mortality. He advocates and works for what he wants, until he cannot do so any more.
And as we reflect on the walk of our life and the assuredness of our eventual death, whether late or soon, the words of Steve Jobs resonate today. Steve Jobs, who has been likened to a contemporary Thomas Alva Edison, died this past week from pancreatic cancer. He was 56 years old. Why I am mentioning this, at this moment is because of a speech he gave in 2005 – the commencement address at Stanford University where he spoke plainly about his life lessons and about confronting his own limited existence, after he had had his first series of surgeries to confront his cancer. At the time, he spoke simply – telling three stories – the third story perhaps is the most powerful. Steven Jobs speaks plainly about death. He reminds the students who are the up and coming generation that if you live each day as if it is your last, someday you’ll most certainly be right. He teaches them – that remembering that you’ll be dead soon, helps you make the real choices in life, leaving only things that are truly important. Remembering that you are going to die is the best way to avoid the trap of thinking that you have something to lose. Death is the single best invention of life. Heart and intuition somehow know what we truly want to become. Everything else is secondary, or as we might say in this context, everything else is commentary.
We are all on the summit of Mt. Nebo and we face our death. Part of the purpose of Yom Kippur is to practice for that moment – to get the hang of our mortality and rather than have it frighten us, to become habituated to its truth. What does it take for us to move in this way, to desert the fight of Moses, arguing for some more time, and for us to stand heroically like Martin Luther King or Steve Jobs or Rabbi Eliezer, who reminds us that every day is the day before our death and that we are on the brink of only what has come today?
We will stand in a moment, me with you, to enter the realm of shadow and memory. We grasp for the hand of those who are not physically there and our memories resound inside the echoes of absence. We know too that our time standing here is limited – and perhaps we cry just as hard for ourselves as we do for those who have died. Even with the dead, how much is still undone?
Knowing that each day could be our last, what would we do differently? What would impel us truly to change our behavior and find more meaning, more connection, and more love emanating from us, mixing with the love of those around us?
Mt. Nebo is a scary place. One can see the next days of the future in which we have no part. The Promised Land becomes a place of yet to be fulfilled images, a place of imagination, life that has not yet happened. It is the opposite of nostalgia. Martin Luther King viewed it as a place of foreboding, yet a place filled with hope — a place where real work remained to be done. Standing on that mountaintop he said, “[that there is] trouble in the land. Confusion all around. But I know, somehow, that only when it is dark enough, can you see the stars.”
We are standing at the crest. What do we see — a world that has been influenced by our example, or one that has forgotten us as soon as we are gone? What markers do we set up for ourselves, hoping that it is they that will bring us length of days? As Shelley writes,
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
What is our legacy? How do we remember others? We have literally worked all of our life to get to this place in the mountain. Do we stay here or climb le’aila u’le’aila – higher and higher, still? Is there more space to ascend or are we finished, comfortable, here?
The voices of those whom we love are calling to us now – we have activated our ears for hearing them as we opened the gates of our cemetery this past Sunday, in our Kever Avot service – bringing our dear ones into our journey. Mt. Nebo is the intersection of the past and the future. It is the highway of accomplishment, expectation, and regret. It is bihyoto karov – the place where God is nearest.
Let us turn towards our recollections, not to predict the future, rather to get out of our way and to listen to the many voices attached to our own, as we honor them and carry them forward with us – handing ourselves off along with our cherished ones to those who come after us, as the newly gathered may or may not remember us. Let us make peace with this – to stand as confidently as Rabbi Eliezer, and Martin Luther King and Steve Jobs to stare down our future and to metabolize our past, knowing that it is just this present moment that most matters – to act nobly and with purpose and to be satisfied with that, in the precious moments that we have.
We are at the mountaintop — all of us together, and each of us alone. Let us stand as we look out on the sweeping vistas of life that are open all around us — of life that has happened and life that will happen without us — and cherish the life that we have and be confident that no matter what, we can improve our days with the people around us, as we give up control and at the same time, follow our curious heart and our brimming intuition – that with our heart and with our intuition we can move into the most rewarding act of simply becoming.
5772 — Yom Kippur, Kol Nidre — Mt. Ladoshem: Laughing, Not Lying
“Mt. Ladoshem: Laughing, Not Lying”
Yom Kippur – Kol Nidre
Neil F. Blumofe
7 October 2011
It may be one of the rich ironies of this time that as our sacred spaces are filled tonight, more than any other time of year, and as we make an effort to show up and try for engagement, and as we are surrounded by our fullest community, we may feel, in this moment alone or adrift or somehow, not a part of things. Also among us this evening may be those filled with hope for new possibility, some small change to be handed out or taken – some of us may be on familiar ground, or honored guests, just passing through – some may be struggling mightily in this moment – to stay awake, or to gain focus, or to commit to what might lie ahead. Kol Nidre is a curious and an exigent evening to look for connection – we stand here, alone together in all of our places to ask for forgiveness for what we have done and for mercy for what we hope for in ways that may be totally unfamiliar and uncharacteristic of how we normally live our lives.
On Rosh haShanah, I compared our assembly to the gathering at Mt. Sinai – a time when all of our community, from all backgrounds and all expectations, gathered in one place to receive revelation or direction. I asked that we go further, finding an individual and personal space to connect with God, as well, outside of the buzz and activity of community. This would be Mt. Horeb, inside of Mt. Sinai – a place where our deeper selves are allowed to surface, even for an instant, as we find words to answer the question, ma lecha po – why are we here? And as we find our footing inside of the spaces of Mt. Horeb, I asked too that we consider the significance of Mt. Moriah – the place where Abraham brought his son Isaac, to be sacrificed. I asked that we honestly consider who and what we sacrifice everyday to pursue our ambitions, our delectations, and our fantasies. What price are our desires worth?
And tonight, on the most sacred of nights – when we turn page after page of our machzorim, giving witness to others in our larger family over the many generations who poured out their hearts like a flowing river to find a connection, any connection with God and thus, a foothold to climb up their own mountain of restlessness and isolation — they too are to inspire us to find our way, here and now.
And, what are our lies that we tell ourselves to give us a boost and to give us an easier way up the trail? What mountains of fictions do we bring into the world that will give us a moment of convenience and ease, while the harder parts, the parts that demand work and attention, are left dangling off the side of the cliff, like unwanted debris blowing in the brisk mountain air? How much of what we say convinces us that we are on the right path – how much of our daily deception, our fronting, is what we claim as truth, and more so, is what we truly believe to be true?
And we are here now on Yom Kippur, to try our hand at ritual theatre – to affect our soul, somehow in these melodies, these images, and in this company, all of us, together. An elderly colleague of mine tells of a man who used to stand outside of his home long ago, and as people would go by, on their way to synagogue, he would shout at them, “Hypocrites! Hypocrites!” And maybe this was his form of prayer, as inscrutable as it might be. Jean-Paul Sartre, a 20th century existentialist thinker, described a waiter at a Parisian café who goes out of his way to play the part of the waiter. He balances trays on his arms, just so – he speaks in a theatrical voice, and he does everything he can do to be this idea, this convincing waiter. What is clear to everyone, including this man, is that the whole thing is an act – an affectation; where one abandons one’s own true and authentic self in favor of some over baked bit of performance. How often do we play an acting part in our life, removed from what is essentially us? How about now?
Is it not easier to lie when honesty brings discomfort? Are we not lulled into a pattern, a lifestyle of lying, entertained by our inventiveness and secure in our abilities to hold all of these slippery strings together? We create a working world populated by our trickery, happy and heedless about the responsibilities of what we say in the moment, thankful to have the agility to deflect the requests and the demands of others. Lying gives us freedom and a space to move away from what we don’t want to do. And then, over time, perhaps we see our children lying – saying what they do and believing it to be true. How are we effected by seeing our children, our students, maybe our coworkers and friends lie, given confidence and safety in our own example?
Do we ever meet the lies that we have told – do they ever return to repopulate and haunt our reality? The Israeli writer Etgar Keret asked this question on a recent episode of Selected Shorts — how much are each of us a residual, permanent part of each other’s lies, an uncomfortable ontological presence that lingers as we meet each other during waking hours, our lives decorated by the elastic truths that we tell to each other’s faces, or more commonly, cruel exaggerations that we tell, behind each other’s backs?
I have long wondered about the significance of the imagery that is presented as we receive Torah on Yom Kippur. Our portion is always the same – Leviticus, chapter 16 and it describes the sacrifices that are offered on Yom Kippur – two goats extended on equal footing – one offered “ladoshem,” and one offered “la’Azazeil” — one submitted to God and one released in the wilderness to the mysterious force called Azazel. Why, on this holiest of days, does the Torah reinforce the disquieting idea that God is not God alone? Why, as we ourselves attempt to find at-one-ment on this long journey of self-discovery, after we have celebrated Rosh haShanah and proclaimed that God alone is God and that we live in God’s world, albeit imperfectly with our memories and our shofar blasts of ambition, why now do we jiggle that premise not slightly, and introduce a pretender, another character into our sacred drama who undercuts all that we have previously established?
And further, why do we offer a sacrifice to this Azazel – a sacrifice that we also give to God? Are we hedging our bets – are we making sure that we’ve got chips on both black and red, so we’re not taken advantage of and completely cleaned out of our spiritual investments that we’ve placed on the table? According to our Talmud, the goat for Azazel was lead out into the wilderness, past ten watch posts and then it was led to a steep mountain, from which it was pushed to its death.
According to later rationalist thinkers like Maimonides, this ritual could not possibly have happened. He writes that this scapegoating idea, this procedure to take sins off of our heads and transfer them to another being is only symbolic – allowing one to create a space for recognizing what has happened and to then take steps to remedy big mistakes, or careless, recreational transgressions that often cut even deeper.
Yet, allow me to suggest that Azazel is very real and to suggest tonight that we live within Azazel’s world much more than we live in God’s. To me, Azazel represents the antinomian world in which we struggle most days, far removed from an enduring and honest certitude. Azazel represents shuck and jive – it represents shadows and vague memorandum, half-truths that we tell each other and ourselves that get us through the day – the white lies that give a crispy edge to our soft and runny opinions – this goat of culpability is thrown from our own self-made mountain of lies.
We create this world – our mystics call it the sitra achra – the other side – a parallel world where our fabrications and our darker inventions reside, mirroring and sometimes ridiculing or cheapening the efforts that we put forth in God’s world, the world of the sitra d’kedusha. Even as our world seems to teeter before us, as we turn anxiously into this new year, insecure of the direction of our financial markets, the churning of a dissatisfied people — movements growing, hatreds hatching, and resentment fomenting in this country and around the world — and the increasing use of technology which connects us more globally and too, can serve to feed us as we recognize new challenges that we have in cultivating meaningful, committed, and private relationships.
I ask that we lead not towards the mountain of Azazel and our spectral dispositions that we create in each other’s image – rather that we walk confidently towards the peaks of morality and compassion — substantive truth and thoughtfulness, searching for God in our moments of Horeb and Sinai – alone and together. On this night of Kol Nidre, I ask that we interrupt our regularly scheduled programming – and we interrupt our accustomed time frames and that in this space together, we each go on a journey of transcendence and movement away from easy texting and discounted, unbounded speech.
Our experiences of Yom Kippur involve us in a performance of life and death – again, we are in this moment, as we may have been before – and our ingenious traditions ask us to play a part – to stand, separating hard work from mere expediency, appreciating best efforts while we eschew sloppiness, seeking real difference as we walk past shallow, insignificant change. We are asked to depart from a place of familiarity – to mobilize for this journey, recognizing the depths of our pain and the limits of our conditioning — expanding outward our moral imagination, which is made valuable as we recognize the many contradictions, paradoxes and dangers inherent in living a moral life.
I ask that we ask for forgiveness for our invented lives – for the lives that we assign to others from our own distortions, and our own willful misrepresentations. This is a time of celebration of happiness, to break free from the verbal prisons that we create for ourselves – tonight is the time to make something out of something — to beckon from our deepest places, places of the genuine – let us not catch ourselves and trip over the many slippery strings of our inventions.
So, let us bring our secrets with us. Let us bring our exaggerations with us. Let us walk away from the place that looms large in our everyday life – a place where prevarication is the rule of the day and dissembling is encouraged – let us not sacrifice our self-respect, throwing it off of Azazel’s mountainside to preserve something that we think precious in the moment. Rather, let us walk towards “ladoshem,” choosing to draw near to the mountain of the Lord, a place that is described in the last words of this entire magnificent sacred performance – words from our prophet, Isaiah – va’haviotim el har kodshi, v’simachtim b’veit tefilati oloteihem v’zivcheihem l’ratzon, al mitzb’chi – ki beiti beit tefila yikarei l’chol ha’amim – I will bring all of them up to My holy mountain and make them joyful in My house of prayer – all of their sacrifices will be acceptable upon My altar and My house shall be called a house of prayer for all people.
If we don’t pay attention to the mountain of Azazel, it will crumble and become less important to us. We will find ourselves not dragging a goat to its precipice – rather with discipline and fortitude, we will give it the scant attention that it deserves – we shall walk away from this place, empty-handed, expecting nothing in return. On this journey, let us stand together appreciating the sights of this extraordinary time. Let us have patience with ourselves and with others around us as we attune ourselves to this time and as we drop away the cosmetic trappings that prevent us from cosmic possibility. Yom Kippur is for everyone in this world – to improve, to drop our guard, and as we realize our mortality to celebrate a world more accurate that is not populated by our shame. So let us lift our heads and on this fast day, appreciate the wisdom of our tradition, which teaches — v’amrei leih, af b’sachako – it is in laughter that a person’s true character is revealed. So, tonight, we speak with high hopes for a shift in paradigm – for a meaningful change in our behavior, for meaningful bonds to be established or reestablished, for circumstances to be lightened, and for truths to be told, however hard, with love and kindness – this is what will heal us and link us together and will bind us in common purpose and will enable trust so we can weather any worldwide tempest – so, looking directly inward, even for a moment, let us laugh, let us restore, as we celebrate this day of atonement thus letting our truest character reveal itself – confident in our walk away from the deceits of Azazel and towards the significance and privileged consequences of preparing to encounter God.
So, a joke to close – laughter, which can point us in the right direction of ladoshem, as we ask ourselves whose life we are living, who is really in control – what reality are we in as we experience the peaks and valleys – the challenges and the rewards of Yom Kippur –
Two lifelong friends, Mildred and Sadie, both in their 80’s, were out driving towards the mountains in their old Lincoln, with their heads barely reaching over the dashboard. Cruising along, they went right through a red light. Sadie thinks to herself, “Something’s wrong. I must be losing it. I could have sworn that we went through a red light back there.” They zipped through the next intersection – that light was red as well. Sadie was becoming increasingly more concerned. She decides that she is going to pay especially close attention the next time. Sure enough, at the next intersection the light is definitely red and they sped straight through. Now sure of herself, Sadie turns to Mildred and says, “Do you know that you ran the last three red lights? You could have gotten us killed!” Mildred turns to her innocently and says, “Oh, really? Am I driving?”
[Elohim ten bamidbar har God, grant on the barren mountain
hadas shita b’rosh tidhar myrtle, acacia, cypress, and box trees
v’almazhir v’lanizhar and to the instructive and to the attentive
sh’lomim ten k’me nahar] grant well-being, that flows like a river’s waters.]
(Esa Einai)
G’mar Hatimah Tovah
Shabbat Shalom.
5772 — Rosh haShanah, Minchah — The Fiery Bear (Talmudic Interlude)
TWO TALMUDIC TEXTS REGARDING ELIYAHU HANAVI
TA’ANIT 20B
It was taught in a Baraita that a person should always be soft like a reed and not hard like a cedar.
There was a situation where R’ Elazar ben R’ Shimon[1] was coming from Migdal Gedor, from his teacher’s house. He was riding on a donkey and traveling along a riverbank – he was very happy and was feeling very proud of himself for during that visit, he had learned a lot of Torah from his teacher. Along his way, he saw a person who was exceedingly ugly.[2] The ugly man greeted R’ Elazar ben R’ Shimon – Shalom Alecha, Rabi! R’ Elazar did not return a greeting to him – rather, he said “Empty one – how ugly are you – are all the people of your city perhaps as ugly as you are?” The other man answered him – “I don’t know. Why don’t you go and tell the craftsman who made me – how ugly is that vessel that you made!”[3]
When R’ Elazar realized that he had sinned, he got down from his donkey and bowed low before the other man saying – “I have spoken out of turn to you – forgive me.” The other man answered – “I will not forgive you until you go to the craftsman who made me and tell him – how ugly is this vessel that you have made.” R’ Elazar traveled behind the man, seeking his forgiveness until he reached his city. When they arrived the people of his city came out to greet R’ Elazar, saying to him, “Shalom Alecha Rabi, Rabi Mori, Mori.” The other man said to them, “who are you calling a Rabi, Rabi?” The people said – “um, we are addressing the man who is behind you?” The man then said, “if this person you are greeting is a Rabi, may there not be many like him in Israel!” They said to him, “what do you mean?” He responded, “this “Rabi” did these things to me!” And they said – “ok, so forgive him already – he is a man dedicated to learning Torah and great knowledge.”
The man said, “It is for all y’all sakes that I will forgive him, provided that he learn from this incident.” After gaining forgiveness, R’ Elazar ben Shimon immediately entered the Beit Midrash and said – “a person should always be soft like a reed and not hard like a cedar.” And it was for this reason that the reed merited to have pens drawn from its ranks to be used to write sifrei Torah, tefillin, and mezuzot.
BABA METZIA 85B
Elijah often visited the Academy of the Rebbi. One day, it was Rosh Hodesh and Elijah was late. When he finally did show up, Rebbi said to him, “why were you late?” Elijah answered, “By the time I woke up Abraham and washed his hands and by the time he prayed, and I returned him then back to his grave – and the same with Isaac, and with Jacob, it got to be very late.”
Rebbi then asked him, “Why didn’t you just wake them up, all together (at once)? Elijah answered, “there is a rule in heaven that if the Avot pray all together, they will overwhelm the heavenly realms with prayer and will bring the Messiah before the proper time.” Rebbi asked, “Are there any like Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob who can be found in today’s world?” Elijah answered, “Yes. R’ Chisda[4] and his sons.”
Rebbi then declared a fast. He placed R’ Chisda and his sons around the amud. During the public recitation of the Amidah, R’ Chisda prayed, “mashiv haruach,” and the wind blew. He said, “morid hageshem,” and the rains fell.
When R’ Chisda was about to pray, “m’chayei hameitim,” the world began to shake.
Heaven exclaimed, “Who has revealed secrets in the lower world?” And they responded, “Elijah!”
So they brought Elijah to them and slapped him with sixty lashes of fire. Immediately then Elijah swept into the prayer service of R’ Chisda and his sons, appearing as a fiery bear and distracted them from their prayers.[5]
[1] R’ Elazar ben Shimon (2nd century CE) was the son of the famous R’ Shimon bar Yochai. Among other stories, father and son hid in a cave for 13 years to escape Roman persecution. R’ Elazar later worked for the Romans, becoming an official responsible for reporting on thieves. He was later roundly condemned, including by his teacher, Yeshoshua ben Korchah, who called him “vinegar, son of wine.”
[2] Relying on another manuscript of the Talmud, Rashi cites that this ugly man was the prophet Elijah, in disguise.
[3] Our commentary states in R’ Elazar’s defense that this man didn’t look as much ugly as he did a thug, perhaps thinking that this greeting was the beginning of a provocation to start something uncomfortable or even dangerous.
[4] R’ Chisda was an Amora, mentioned frequently in the Talmud, presiding over the Academy at Sura. He learned from Rav and Rav Huna.
[5] So, why a fiery bear? According to our commentaries, a bear typically attacks its victim until the heart is exposed. Thus, this is an allusion to the hearts and minds of that generation. Wanting to bring the Messiah through prayer, while hearts are not in spiritual order – a bear will then disturb the prayers exposing the work that the heart still needs to do.
5772 — Rosh haShanah, Day 1 — Mt. Moriah: The Steep Mountain
“Mt. Moriah: The Steep Mountain”
Rosh haShanah – Day 1
Neil F. Blumofe
29 September 2011
Last night, as we entered into our New Year, we began to explore the significance of mountains in our tradition. We gathered as if we were coming together again at Mount Sinai for an experience to share together – and we realized too that while we appreciate and are made better by living in community, our experiences are essentially personal and at the end of the day, we are more like the prophet Elijah, who took flight into a cave alone, within the mountain of Horeb, while an angel asked him the vexing question, ma lecha po – why are you here? Elijah was challenged — you may have deeds that you have done that you are not proud of – you may have frustrations because people are not moving in the direction that you’d like, you may have disappointment because your life is not what you thought it would be – and now looking in a mirror, you see so much time vanished — that has run down the sprouting wrinkles in your face; so within the public experience at Mount Sinai, we wrestle with our interior worthiness and significance inside Sinai, at Mount Horeb.
And now, our Torah is leading us on a journey — today’s Torah portion leading directly into tomorrow’s – where Abraham brings his son Isaac up onto another mountain – this one called Moriah, with the abject purpose of killing him through a divinely sanctioned sacrifice. It gives us pause, that as we celebrate the beginning of our New Year – as we appreciate turning over a new page in the Book of Life, our Torah presents an incredibly sobering account of relationships gone wrong, mixed up in a mélange of bewildering divine invitation, for Abraham to bind and offer his precious son on an altar in utter obeisance.
Our Midrashim teach that the prophet Elijah is here, also – perhaps walking with Abraham and his entourage as they make their way to the mountain, all the while reciting the words of the prophet Malachi that makes Elijah’s life and prophecy so compelling to me – v’heishiv leiv avot al banim, v’leiv banim al avotam pen avo v’hikeiti et ha’aretz heirem – and [Elijah] will turn the heart of the parents to the children, and the heart of the children to their parents – lest I come and smite the land with destruction.
Why should we be reminded of unpleasantness on this day of rejoicing? Why should our hopes and our newly refreshed commitments, unsullied like the New Year that has just begun, be punctured by this alarming description of a man offering his boy up for slaughter, at God’s supposed command? What is the Torah really trying to teach us as we are determined to have a good go at it in 5772 – to do better, to be better, to somehow this year, get it more right?
Something to consider: on what level are we repairing and renewing? Are we merely going through the motions, making superficial changes, processing just the words on the page while the thorniest issues of our lives still burn, remaining unaddressed? Do we enter into a certain exterior relationship with our concerns, dealing with things as they present, without delving deeper into why our lives are not improving, even if we keep moving, divorcing, or trying something else, new? Maybe the real answer is that it is not someone else who makes us happy or unhappy – who makes angry or grateful – just as we are Elijah the prophet, as we saw in last night’s story, we too are the truest agent of change that determines the ways of our life.
In these days of turning, we recognize that we do not suffer from a simple estrangement. Akedat Yitzchak, or the story of the Binding of Isaac is right in front of us to remind us that in order to have meaningful teshuvah, we must accept how we regularly throw others under the bus for our gain – and usually those whom we sacrifice, are those most dear to us. This sacred drama enacted by Abraham is for our benefit – to see him hike to Mount Moriah every Rosh haShanah reminds us that we too are on a journey, to a place only God knows. What is strapped to our back? Who do we carry, and as we set them down and bind them, what benefits do we think we receive? Amid our gratitude of reaching this year alive, the challenge is clear — what kind of real healing must we do with our family, beyond telling them that we love them? What true reconciliation must parents do with their children, and children must do with their parents? And when is it too late – too much water passed under the bridge – too many days spent as remarkable ships passing unrecognized in the night?
Sometimes in our family relationships we find ourselves alone without the benefit of a true reciprocating love – a hand that is held without feeling, or the realization that in a time of need, one’s friends, lovers, children, or partners didn’t respond well. And as I speak, I speak with a bit of pain – elderly or sick parents who are nearly abandoned in a nursing home by their children – or not adequately cared for because of a the professed squeeze of a busy schedule. Over the years I have been with people on their deathbeds with no one around to be with them in their last moments – I have spoken with our youth who were relentlessly bullied without a friend or an ally to stand up for them.
When we think back on the past year, it may be relatively straightforward to identity a few big mistakes that we have made – and that we regret and are resolved to repair. The much more difficult task, and the one that Abraham is calling out for us to notice is to look for the moments of our carelessness, of haste, and inattentiveness, especially as we think that we are acting in a bigger cause — times when we have caused damage without intention and even without awareness. How do we sometimes punish our loved ones with our own premeditated or even, thoughtless recklessness and neglect?
So, let us think of Elijah walking with us as we carry our commitments and our responsibilities on our back, as we walk towards the mountain of our just deserts.
There once was a little boy who wanted to meet God. He knew it was a long trip to where God lived, so one day he packed up his backpack with soda and chocolate cake, and he started off on his journey.
When he had gone about three blocks, he entered the park, and there, he met an old woman sitting on a bench, who was just staring at some pigeons. Without thinking the boy sat down next to her and opened his backpack, taking out a root beer. He was about to take a drink, when he noticed that the old woman looked a bit hungry, so he offered her some cake. She gratefully accepted them and smiled at him. Her smile was so pretty that the boy wanted to see it again, so he offered her some more to eat. Once again she smiled at him. The boy was delighted.
The little boy and the old woman sat there, all afternoon, eating chocolate cake, drinking root beer and smiling, never saying a word. As it grew dark, the boy realized that he should return home – he got up to leave, and before he had gone more than a few steps, he turned around, ran back to the old woman and gave her a big hug. In return, she gave him her biggest smile yet.
When the little boy opened the door to his own home a short time later, his mother was surprised by the look on his face. She asked him, “what did you do today that made you so happy? He replied, “I had lunch with God.” Before his mother could respond, he added – “you know what? She’s got the most beautiful smile that I’ve ever seen.”
Meanwhile, the old woman, also radiant with joy, returned to her home – her son was stunned by the look of peace of her face and so he asked her, “Mother what did you do today that made you so happy? She replied, “I ate chocolate cake in the park with God.” And before her son could respond, she added – “you know, he’s much younger than I expected.”
Does this story illustrate hesheiv leiv – a turning of the heart between parent and child, or between generations, or does it exacerbate things as they stand in our lives – knowing that somehow, this kind of interaction, while quaint, is not possible?
On Rosh haShanah, this majestic turning of the year, our tradition gives us an astonishingly tactile reality to work with – for really, if not now, when? The Akeidah disturbs us because it is a display of recreational, almost casual violence to a cause – a ferocious act committed in the calm of a normal day. Throughout the year, we are taught to cope – and to apply our best skills to go after what we want, while we learn to manage to get through the day. And in our coping, we can be dismissive and impatient and we can still be dissatisfied and unsettled in our relationships. And also, when those whom we seek to have a relationship with, or even love, become fixed in a moment in time, unable to change, unable to move out of an accustomed familiar place of resentment or selfishness, what are we left with – really, what does hesheiv leiv mean? Where is our heart supposed to turn?
The founder of Hasidic thought, the Ba’al Shem Tov, teaches that the world is full of wonder and miracles – and yet, we take our hands, cover our eyes and see nothing. Yet, with a recognition that if we see the world as if through an eager child’s eyes, we can remake our eyes for wonder and discover too that we have a turned heart, and consequently, magnetically pulled towards a particular person, or towards healing a difficult dynamic within a relationship.
So, elders of this congregation – in this upcoming year, alight upon a child from whom to learn. Watch their exuberance and while not co-opting their energy for your own, find radiance in their liveliness that encourages you to move past any stuck fears and bitterness – celebrate life with one who loves to live and who loves, unselfconsciously and beautifully, in fullness and feel as the burden of years melts away.
And children of our congregation – listen to the stories of our elders – even as they might repeat, and you will find tolerance and a deeper appreciation of this world. Pay attention to the most defenseless among us. Allow yourselves to gently touch the deep furrows of a cheek, or the interesting coarseness of skin on an arm and know that not only moments, also too, years of life are precious. Do not be deterred by limited mobility and you will find forbearance and self-control. Give attention, meaningful, compassionate attention, to those more mature around you – it is a desired tonic that heals.
May this be a culture that our congregation develops in this coming year – to be more understanding of each other and to link our generations together – as a colleague of mine writes, he was recently contacted by a man who was dying – who requested that he call his children with whom he had not spoken in over ten years. The man asked the rabbi to assemble the children so he could tell them how much he loved them and how he wished to beg their forgiveness for waiting so long, until his dying moment to reconcile with them. So the children came from all parts of the Western United States – and many brought their own children, some of whom had never met their grandfather. The reunion in the hospital room was powerful – regrets and bad memories were soon overpowered by love and appreciation. In our own lives, let us not wait so long. It is a steep mountain that we rapidly descend. Let us not wait until there is a gigantic mountain above us that casts a shadow onto our life, let us not wait until we are holding a knife above a child’s vulnerable throat and an angel has to shout at us to call us back to our senses.
Together as we reach across our community, expanding out from the more limited circles of people that we know, all of us will discover a generosity of the heart that will continue to turn in all directions towards everyone that we encounter.
Let us adopt each other in all of our imperfections and incomprehensible proclivities. Hadesh yameinu k’kedem – let us renew our days karan or panav – in the glowing of each other’s faces, and from there will come an extraordinary shift that will bring us more capacity, pleasure, contentment, and blessings from our God.
Shanah Tovah u’Metukah – Ketivah va’Hatimah Tovah
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