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 20^th 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 (2^nd 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

5772 — Erev Rosh haShanah — Mt. Sinai/Horeb: The Magic Mountain

“Mt. Sinai/Horeb: The Magic Mountain”

Erev Rosh haShanah – Day 1
Neil F. Blumofe
28 September 2011

As we sit in our sacred space this evening, on the cusp of our New Year, a time when we pause to breathe a grateful and deep sigh that past all of the challenges and unexpected snags that we may have had this year, we realize that we have made it this far – we breathe a profound breath that can restore our spirit, or we emit a seemingly bottomless krechtz that heals us as it rattles us from the inside – as we gather now, let us take this moment to do just that – to heave a sigh, to take what vexes us and challenges us and weighs us down, and as we fill our lungs, let it go – either slowly through our nose, or all at once, in relief. And then maybe when you’ve done it once, do it again and notice what changes – we may relax, we may discover some ease, and we may refocus ourselves past the details of being present and now just be present and open for what may be. We may feel lighter, and even in this space filled with people, we may feel even weightless.

I have been anticipating, as we gather again this year, what this reunion would be like. For some of us, this is our first time in this sacred space, for others, accustomed as we are to being here, perhaps we have felt distant or at this moment, for whatever reason, strangely unfamiliar. In contrast, many of us may be comfortable and feel supremely at home. I liken this experience this evening to our assembly at Mt. Sinai, as all of us stood in a mixed multitude and received a revelation of God at the foot of the mountain. We were a community; the sum of all of our parts, and each of our individual journeys was linked to create something bigger than ourselves. So, let us transform this sacred space and recognize it for what it is – a reunion among friends and strangers, alike. An ingathering – a creation of the moment at Mt. Sinai as we come together past ourselves, to dedicate this time as we take hold of Torah and apprehend the power of something much greater and ultimately unexplainable.

Take a moment and set an intention for yourself that you are not again at services, or even here celebrating the turning of the New Year. Now, place yourself at Sinai and look around and take a couple of moments to greet each other – to welcome each other to this new edge – perhaps you can get to the place that this is no ordinary time in synagogue – and you can remind yourself that you are doing something active and important and vital that has the potential to effect the rest of your life. So, take a moment and create a hubbub of Shana Tova greetings with each other – engage with each other and then after a few moments, we will reflect on the power and the parts that are left dangling after gathering at Sinai.

(PAUSE)

Earlier this week, I had the great privilege of being invited by US District Judge Lee Yeakel to help preside over a Naturalization Ceremony that welcomed 351 new immigrants from 74 countries as US citizens. This event, in the big LBJ auditorium at UT, was filled with people from all over the world – babies crying, people who were excited and filled with every conceivable emotion as they were recognized from one country where they had once resided, and then in the course of a morning, pledged their allegiance and were welcomed as legal residents of a new land. It was quite stirring as the official from the United States Citizenship and Immigration Services read the name of each country, to see the people from that country stand in turn, anticipating a shift in status and identity. By the end of that long list, you could see incredible diversity and a range of backgrounds and you could even hear a wide variety of languages spoken as the Oath of Citizenship was offered and promised in the common denominator of English.

While I sat with the other invited guests, I imagined this to be a scene similar to Sinai – when the erev rav, the mixed multitude, gathered from every walk of life and situation and were brought together into the covenant with God, as a nation was fashioned. This covenant at Sinai represents a new freedom – a new opportunity to begin again together and as we join with each other this evening, to welcome our New Year, a chance to recommit and reconnect in a wholly new way with our covenant and with our traditions, going beyond our individual situations – beyond our own achievements and our restraints, looking to intermix the unremarkable with the remarkable in our personal understanding of meaning. There is an animated activism at work here that lifts us up from the regularity of our life and invites us to find magnified meaning in a community.

Torah did not come from the mouth of Moses alone – the magnificence of Torah – its power comes from a shared experience, as different and distinct people gathered from their places around a single mountain in a timeless moment.

And yet, what if that isn’t enough? The Torah teaches us that the experience of Sinai was loud and filled with colorful drama – the mountain quaked and shook and many shofarot sounded that pierced the sky — and all of this frightened the people. Maimonides, one of our greatest sages, comments that this fear was necessary in order to build a resistance against spiritual challenges to come – if the moment of ma’amad har Sinai – revelation at Sinai — was so frightening, this will be a good protection against other crises that will test our beliefs and threaten our convictions. And yet, the moment of Sinai was untouchable – ringed around the mountain, the people could not approach – they were one step removed from direct acuity and it is as if the beginning of their new selves happened to them – in a moment of human reaction to the divine.

And in the Book of Prophets, Sinai has another name that represents an intimate experience – an individual grappling with meaning and purpose – an invitation to not stand at a distance from the mountain, rather to enter the mountain itself, and work for transformation from the inside as we address our deepest doubts. In our fullest picture of revelation, there is one mountain with two names – Sinai for everyone, and Horeb for the progress and change of a singular soul.

As the people together witnessed God at Sinai, it is the lone prophet Elijah who stood within a cave in the mountain of Horeb for forty days and forty nights and who let the drama go by – the strong winds, the earthquake, and the fire – who was not moved until he heard the unlikely kol d’mama daka – the still small voice and then was able to continue to pursue a life of meaning and purpose.

So underneath the Sinai that we are creating here this evening, know too that there is a Mount Horeb within our collective experience – a place past the special music of this season, and the special books and all of the preparation – past the thrill of seeing all of us assembled – there is still a nagging discontent that leaves us hungry as it does not satisfy our most honest and penetrating matters of our heart. It is one thing to come forward and say in this time that we are here – it is quite another to have this moment resonate for us and to sit with it and struggle with it as we assess our own commitments to our timeless traditions and struggles that we have in encountering our faith.

It is not an accident that the one working through his anxieties from within the mountain is Elijah. We may be most familiar with Elijah from the days of the seder – during Pesach, when we open the door and hope that he will visit our table. This past year, many of us have been present too at one of the many brisses that we have celebrated with different families, where we always reserve a seat for this prophet – who represents with his presence, a sign of better things to come, a harbinger of better days. Yet, in our sacred texts, Elijah was grumpy and came to his task as one convinced that he was not effective in what he tried to accomplish.

Within the larger rites of peoplehood – within the prayers that we recite and the rituals that we enact, we hear the famous question that Elijah heard – provoked to answer twice by the angels, when he was in the depths of his hesitation – ma l’cha po, Eliyahu? What are you doing here, Elijah? And his answer, both times, missed the mark – as he concentrated on his emptiness, rather than on his fullness of spirit.

And our tradition builds on this question, ma l’cha po, as we ask the very same thing of each other and ourselves. Perhaps this will happen to you –

A rabbi was walking home from the synagogue after a long day of anticipating, connecting to, and responding to the needs of his community. It was later than usual and as he walked home, the sun set and then disappeared. Deeply lost in thought, he went left instead of right, in the place where the path divided. So instead of nearing home, he was walking towards a border patrol station, near a hazardous borderline. “Who goes there – what are you doing here,” boomed a menacing voice in the darkness, which shook the rabbi from his meditations and thoughts. Flustered, the rabbi wondered who was shouting at him from his own home.

“Who are you and what are you doing here,” thundered a massive guard who stepped into view. The rabbi quickly realized his mistake, and instead of answering the guard’s question, he asked a question of his own. “How much are you paid to stand here, everyday?” The guard looked at him and then answered – “minimum wage.”

The rabbi walked a bit closer and said to the guard – “I will pay you twice as much to stand at the front door of my house and ask me the same question every day, when I return home.”

Which brings us directly to another story, which grows out of the first one and challenges us to find purpose and meaning beyond the deeds that we may do publicly.

A man went up to his rabbi and dissatisfied, pledged to not give any more money to the synagogue – not to pay his dues for the next year or be a kol hakavod member or support any fundraiser, unless this man was able to see Elijah the prophet. The rabbi paused and after a moment encouraged the man to go to another shul, where the rabbi’s friend was the rabbi to share Rosh haShanah there. So, the man went and he stayed with a family and attended services and participated in the other community, and yet he did not glimpse Elijah. He returned home unhappier than before and spoke directly to the rabbi, upset that he was not able to see Elijah.

The rabbi was puzzled and convinced the man that he should return to this other community next Rosh haShanah, for surely Elijah was dwelling in that place, and he did not know it. And so, it was – in the next year, he arrived early to the same family’s home and was unpacking his things – the kids came home and excited, he could hear them exclaim through the wall – he’s back? Our guest is back? Eliyahu haNavi as returned to us again this year? How great!

And the man then understood that he was Eliyahu haNavi and after the Festival Days returned home secure in this realization, happily leading with a generosity of heart.

We too sometimes go through the motions – even spectacular ones like Rosh haShanah. Our goal is to create a second Sinai in the middle of the first one. As Judge Yeakel explained it to me – in Austin, we swear in new citizens all the time – creating a special moment does not make their citizenship any more special, however, it may inspire them to work harder, to vote more often and to take their responsibilities and privileges more seriously – if it is demonstrated that we take it seriously.

And this is the secret of standing here today – this is what makes this time special – a unique time of initiation through the tempo of experience. Sinai leads to Horeb – all of us standing together, leads to individual moments of spiritual revolution. Our collective experience at Sinai is reflected back to us, like a mirror, inspiring us to seek the answer to what we are doing here. So, those of us coming from places of celebration rise together with those of us coming from places of pain – like the span of the different countries represented earlier, we too have different places that we have experienced as we are invited around the mountain of Sinai and then into the mountain of Horeb. Like Eliyahu haNavi, we recognize our power – the power that we have to change or influence any situation – finding joy in adversity and optimism in absurdity.

I ask this year that we lead with generosity of our hearts, risk takers who found new states of holiness, grateful for our citizenship in k’lal Yisrael, the people of Israel, proud of our covenant – and all of us, new citizens of 5772, let me close with an adaption of the blessing that I gave the newest citizens of our country, a few days ago:

As we take our leave from this sanctuary this evening, may you go out into the world to build on these principles that you have today entered anew. May you work for what you desire and may you enjoy the shade of the trees already planted by those who have established roots here. May you live with respect for our laws, speaking out against tyranny and with a boundless sense of responsibility and appreciation for freedom. May you teach those who will learn from you, the greatest traditions of our people, and may you not take for granted the hard work that has brought you to this magnificent moment. May you embrace new customs as you retain your established ways of life. May you be a beacon of light that shines brightly in this world, knowing that you belong to a people who believe that anything is possible. May your journey be blessed in your way and may you open your hand to all of those in need around this world, becoming your new status – confidently answering the question, ma l’cha po — which in answering, everyday improves and transforms all before you. God bless you – go in peace from here.

Shanah Tova u’Metukah
A Sweet and Blessed Year for you and your loved ones.

(Eliyahu haNavi)