We are One Human Family - Lessons from 9/11 - Erev Rosh Hashanah Sermon 5787

 

Like every other weekday morning, Usman Farman[i] stepped off the train and headed to work.  It was 9am on a beautiful sunny September morning, not a cloud in the sky. Usman, a twenty-two-year-old recent college graduate, walked to his office and took the elevator up to the 27^th floor.  When he arrived that morning, he looked out his office window and saw to his horror, a flaming hole in the North Tower. 

With strong urging from his boss, Usman Farman, Pakistani by birth, Muslim by faith, bounded down the stairs of 7 World Trade Center to reach the street.  Just as the South Tower was collapsing, Usman tripped over his own feet and fell onto his back.  As the billowing cloud of glass was about to overtake him, Usman wondered if this would be his end.

Twenty-five years ago, September 11, 2001, our world changed forever.  Those of us who lived through that fateful day remember exactly where we were when we heard the news.  We gathered in shock around tv sets as the towers collapsed.  We worried about those at the Pentagon.  We heard of heroes who took down a plane in Pennsylvania.  We numbly watched first responders save countless lives.

Those early days were filled with so much fear.  Some hunkered down with family or co-workers, but many of us were isolated, all alone.  9/11 brought darkness, mistrust, and uncertainty.

Those feelings seem so incompatible with the start of this New Year.  Rosh Hashanah is our antidote to disunity, isolation, and fear.  Today is our homecoming when we gather as one Jewish community.  Indeed, Rosh Hashanah is truly our holiday of hope.  As 9/11 and Rosh Hashanah intertwine this year, we gather in mixed emotions: sadness and optimism, mourning and hope.  This Rosh Hashanah we dream of a better world as we remember our past.     

Remembrance is a funny thing.  We each remember the past through our lived experience or the unique memories we hold.  But, what about those who weren’t alive on that fateful day?  25 years is a long time.  An entire generation has passed.  A kindergartner in 2001 is now an adult while a forty-year-old is nearing retirement.

I’ve been thinking quite a bit about memory.  What memories do we wish to pass down to our children?  Which values and lessons do we wish to impart to the younger generation?  How do we remember that fateful day?  This evening, I’ll share three short stories.  These stories are filled with emotion that touch upon the very themes of Rosh Hashanah.  As we blow the shofar, we recognize our responsibility towards one another.  That we are all one human family.   

Rick Rescorla[ii] was the head of corporate security for Morgan Stanley.  After the 1993 terrorist attack, Rick was worried about the security risks at the World Trade Center.  He demanded that Morgan Stanley move their offices to New Jersey, but when that wasn’t feasible, he decided to take matters into his own hands.  For years, his co-workers grumbled when Rick made them practice emergency drills.

When American Airlines Flight 11 slammed into the North Tower, the Port Authority ordered everyone in the South Tower to remain at their desks.  With some colorful language, that I can’t share tonight, Rick told them: “not a chance.”  From his office on the 71^st floor, Rick grabbed his bullhorn, walkie-talkie, and cell phone, and got to work.  He began the evacuation of all Morgan Stanley employees from the 20 floors they occupied.

On September 11^th, they were prepared.  Employees calmly descended, two abreast, down the stairwells, just as they had practiced.  In just 16 minutes, more than 2,500 employees and visitors at Morgan Stanley were safely out of the building before the second plane even hit their South Tower.

Once his co-workers were safely out of the building, Rick was told to evacuate the premises.  “Not a chance!” he said, as he rushed back in to search for any other stragglers.  Rick was last seen helping people evacuate on the 10^th Floor; He never made it out.  Rick Rescorla was credited in saving 2,694 lives. 

Each year, we gather in the Meadow for Rosh Hashanah and take time to reflect upon our Jewish identity and Jewish community.  I’d like to be so bold to refute that premise.  It’s a misnomer to call Rosh Hashanah the Jewish New Year.   Today is not for us, it’s for all of humanity.  Rosh Hashanah is the world’s birthday.  Today marks the creation of the entire world.

We might think our Torah should begin with the story of Abraham and Sarah, the first Jewish people, but that is not the case.  Our Bible opens much earlier with Adam and Eve.  This serves as a reminder that each of us traces our line back to the very first human beings.  For, as our rabbis teach, “if you save one life, you’ve saved an entire world.”[iii]

Rick Rescorla lived that dictum till his dying breath.  He realized that if just one secretary, banker, custodian, or Vice President didn’t make it home, entire worlds would be destroyed.  Rick didn’t know and couldn’t know all 2,694 people he saved that day, but he believed in their humanity and of his obligation to take care of them.  We might not be as brave or courageous as Rick, but we Jews are obligated to look after each member of our broader human family.

It was late morning on September 11^th when Jacque Pinto’s[iv] flight from Italy made an emergency landing.  She was supposed to land in New York, but was diverted to Gander International Airport in Newfoundland, Canada.  Some of you may have seen the musical “Come from Away” which documents this beautiful story.  Thirty-eight commercial flights touched down at Gander that day.  The 10,000 residents didn’t have enough hotel space for the 7,000 stranded passengers.  And so, a call went out to “lend a hand and do what you can.” 

The “plane people” were welcomed with open arms, warmth, and love.  Locals provided meals, bedding, and showers.  Schools, churches, and legion halls were converted into dormitories.  People welcomed strangers into their homes, pharmacies filled prescriptions for free, and their ice rink was converted into “the largest walk-in freezer in Canada.”  When asked about their generosity, a resident responded, “For us, it was like every other day… You don’t turn your back on people in need.”

The residents of Gander didn’t care about a person’s religion, nationality, race, income, or if they were part of their social circle.  Whether they knew it or not, they lived by our Jewish command: “love the stranger for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.”[v]  In our Jewish tradition, we show love by acting, by taking care and supporting those in need.  How embarrassing that twenty-five years later, we treat our Canadian neighbors with such contempt.

Rosh Hashanah is the most universal of all our Jewish holidays.  Our rabbis sprinkled many prayers in today’s service that speak of our responsibility towards our human family.  No prayer better highlights this idea than three paragraphs called uvechin, “And so…”[vi]  Earlier this evening, you may have stumbled across these unique words during the silent prayer.  I call these three uvchein paragraphs, “our Jewish sandwich.”  The first paragraph addresses all of humanity, the second paragraph, the meat, speaks of the Jewish people, while the third describes all righteous human beings.  This prayer begins and ends with our obligation to all people.

Uvechein[vii] is a utopian vision where God is revered, respect given to the Jewish community, and where righteousness overcomes all evil.  Our rabbis teach that this vision can only be achieved through action.  As a Jewish community, we are a small part of a very large world, but nonetheless, we are commanded to do our part, to show kindness to all people, support the most vulnerable, and embody righteousness in all that we do.  We might not be as generous as the people of Gander, but we can open our wallets, provide needed necessities, volunteer, and fill our days with acts of loving kindness.  For we know that one small act can change a person’s life.

That’s what happened 25 years ago. Usman Farman, the 22-year-old Pakistani Muslim, ran from 7 World Trade Center, when we tripped over his feet, and fell onto his back.  Dozens of people ignored his plight, running around him as the South Tower began to collapse.  Usman thought he was a goner when a man approached him.  This wasn’t just any man, but a Chasidic Jew, with a big beard, long Payos, and a big black coat.  The man grabbed the pendant that hung from Usman’s neck and read the Muslim prayer filled with Arabic writing.  The Jew than extended his hand and with a thick Brooklyn accent said to him, “Brother, if you don’t mind, there is a cloud of glass coming at us, grab my hand and let’s get the hell out of here.” 

Usman reached for his hand, and they both ran far from Ground Zero.  In the mayhem, the two lost each other, but Usman later reflected upon that moment, saying, “Regardless of who we are and where we come from, we only have each other.” 

Those days after 9/11 were a dark time for our country. Islamophobia dramatically increased.  Muslims were afraid to wear headscarves in public and whispered when speaking Arabic for fear of reprisal.  There were attacks on Muslims and a backlash against the building of any new mosque. 

Twenty-five years later, we watch as antisemitism rises in our country, whether by hateful slurs, microaggressions, or our Jewish institutions being vandalized.  We worry about verbal or even physical attacks.  We are scared to be open and honest about our Judaism or our Jewish identity.  How embarrassing that twenty-five years ago we treated Muslims this way?  How outrageous that this type of hatred festers today against our community?

Today is Rosh Hashanah, our antidote to disunity, fear, and isolation.  Rosh Hashanah is our pivot, our reset, from a time of fear to a time of hope.  Rosh Hashanah is the Birthday of the World - our reminder that we are all one human family.  

This New Year may we be brave and courageous like Rick Rescorla and always do our part to take care of one another. 

This New Year may we be generous in spirit and in action like those in Gander and never turn our back on people in need.

This New Year may we and our allies not ever remain silent about antisemitism or any type of hatred.  Like the Chasidic Jew, may we recognize that we are all one human family.

This New Year may the world recognize our obligation to each other.  As Usman Farman reminds us, “we only have one another.” Amen.

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[i] https://www.cnn.com/2002/US/08/30/ar911.usman.farman/index.html

[ii] https://www.washingtonpost.com/archive/lifestyle/2001/10/28/a-tower-of-courage/c53e8244-3754-440f-84f8-51f841aff6c8/

[iii] Babylonian Talmud, Sanhedrin 37a

[iv] https://www.911memorial.org/connect/blog/lend-hand-do-what-you-can-remembering-generosity-gander

[v] Leviticus 19:34

[vi] Rosh Hashanah Machzor, third prayer of the Amidah.  See pp. 49-51 of Mishkan HaNefesh Rosh Hashanah

[vii] See commentary on p. 48 of Mishkan HaNefesh Rosh Hashanah

Love is the Answer - Yom Kippur Morning Sermon 5786

 

The 1970’s were a fearful time for our Jewish community.  Just a generation or two after the Holocaust, there was once again trepidation about our demographic decline.  As recently as 1920, less than 1% of marriages in our Jewish community were outside the faith, but by the 1970’s, 30% of Jews were marrying non-Jews, and that the number was rising steadily. 

Our Jewish community’s response to these changes was fear, anger, and indifference.  Many leaders openly condemned interfaith relationships while some parents sat shiva when their child married a non-Jew.  Almost no rabbi in the country would officiate at an interfaith wedding and non-Jewish partners felt most unwelcome in our synagogues. 

This summer, I read “Above All, We are Jews” written by Michael Meyer, a biography about the life of Rabbi Alexander Schindler.  Rabbi Schindler, the president of our Reform Jewish Movement from 1973 to 1995, took a different, radical response.[i]  As a refugee from Nazi Germany, Rabbi Schindler wished to restore our Jewish community.  He believed that the only way to do that was through Ahavat Yisrael, a love of fellow Jews.[ii]  It was not fear, hate, or indifference that propelled him, but a love of every single Jew regardless of who they married or who they loved.  Rabbi Schindler urged our Reform Movement to welcome interfaith families warmly and to encourage them to raise their children as Jews.

Rabbi Schindler also saw that there were too many barriers for non-Jewish partners.  They too should be invited to recite the blessing over the Shabbat candles, to hold the Torah scroll, and to serve as leaders of our synagogues. 

Alongside the Central Conference of American Rabbis, Rabbi Schindler worked to broaden our recognition of who is a Jew.  Through patrilineal descent, babies born to either a Jewish mother or a Jewish father would now be considered as Jews in our synagogues.

And when Beth Chayim Chadashim, a LGBTQ synagogue in Los Angeles, approached our Union to be admitted as a congregation, Rabbi Schindler accepted them.  He urged Reform Rabbis to welcome LGBTQ individuals into our synagogues.[iii]

Our Jewish community has changed dramatically for the better since the 1970’s thanks to the leadership of Rabbi Alexander Schindler.  But we must not forget that these changes were not easy or simple. Rabbi Schindler received deep critique for his stances.  Reform rabbis believed that we would be at the periphery of Judaism.  Jewish leaders were outraged by his plan to “dilute” the Jewish community.  Others thought we were spending far too much effort on “outreach” instead of “in reach to Jews by birth.” 

Rabbi Schindler’s response was love.  Ahavat Yisrael, the love of our Jewish people, as well as the love of our fellow human beings.  Because of love, we are a stronger and a more vibrant Jewish community today.

Unfortunately, we are living at a time when love is not the prevailing emotion.  There is too much hate and too much anger. ICE agents terrorize citizens and non-citizens alike.  SNAP benefits are taken away from those who are the hungriest.  Medical research is being decimated, vaccines demonized.  The justice department indicts the president’s enemies and the FCC comes after those speaking their truth.  While the National Guard marches in our streets.

This is not who we are as a country.  These are not our American values.  We are not a perfect country, far from it, but at our best, we stand for democracy, equality, and freedom.  We are a country who takes care of one another.  We are a nation of immigrants who welcomes the refugee as the Statue of Liberty beckons.

As our country changes so rapidly, so many of us are unsure of what to do.  How do we combat hate?  How do we lift up the American and Jewish values that we care so deeply about?

Our Jewish tradition teaches that we combat hate with love. This year, I read Rabbi Shai Held new book, in which he teaches, “Judaism is about many things, but above all else Judaism is about love.”[iv]  Over the course of these High Holy Days, I seek to answer the same question in different ways, “How do I be a Jew in this moment?”  I’ve already shared my thoughts around community, wrestling, and grief.  My answer this morning: “to be a Jew is one who loves.”

Our first command to love is not the easiest, but perhaps it’s the one you know best, V’havata et Adonai Eloheicha, “You shall love Adonai Your God.”  What’s most surprising is how we express that love of God.  We convey our love by “walking in God’s ways.”  Just as God clothes the naked, visits the sick, comforts the mourner, buries the dead, so too must we.[v]  Even more than that, we learn in the Torah that God loves the most vulnerable.  God loves the orphan, the widow, and the stranger.  We are commanded to love who God loves.[vi] 

Our role as Jews is to transform hate into love.  We do that through action.  We love by taking care of the immigrant, by feeding the hungry, by lifting up the poor, and by protecting the persecuted.  When we can no longer rely on our government to protect and take care of its citizens, it’s now up to us. 

Unfortunately, hate is not the only emotion that many of us are feeling at this moment.  There is also a sense of helplessness and indifference.  Elie Wiesel once said: “The opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference.”[vii]  Indifference can be found in so many ways.  When we choose not to act, that’s indifference.  When we won’t figure out how to make change, that’s indifference.  When we yell angerly at the news, but go right back to our normal lives, that too is indifference.

A few weeks ago, we welcomed Catalina Rodriguez Lima, the Director of the Mayor’s Office of Immigrant Affairs to speak at our Friday evening service.  That’s in recognition of our second command to love, “to love the stranger.”   Miss Rodriguez Lima spoke movingly about the plight of immigrants and the work our city is doing to keep them safe.  She concluded her remarks with a warning.  Too many immigrants no longer feel safe being in public or attending a rally for fear of their or their family’s legal status.   She urged us, “Those of you who have the ability to act, must step up for those of us who can’t.”  Not all of us are able to act, but many of us have the privilege and the ability to make a difference.

Our actions can be both large and small.  Rabbi Betsy Teutsch recently shared that her husband David broke his leg and was transported home from the hospital via ambulette.  A few days later, she ran into her next-door neighbor in the driveway.  She explained to her neighbor that David had broken his leg during a bike accident.  She was flabbergasted when, her neighbor responded, “Oh, yes, I did see that he came home in an ambulette, but I didn’t want to intrude.”

Rabbi Teutsch shares her response, “Get over it folks!  If your neighbor comes home in an ambulette, do not stand on ceremony.  Offers to help are not intrusive; they are what good neighbors do.”[viii] 

As Jews, we are also commanded to “love our neighbor.” Rabbi Yaakov Tzvi Mecklenburg, a 19^th century biblical commentator, believes that we love our neighbor by being a faithful friend.[ix]  He gives examples of what we would expect of a friend: “to love us, to treat us with respect, to seek out our well-being, to share in our sorrow, to welcome us warmly into their home, to judge us favorably, to gladly go through a little trouble for our sake.”  When our neighbors are in need, we don’t remain indifferent.  We aren’t  intruding when we reach out and show we care. 

There is a third emotion that many of us are feeling: fear.  Fear and retaliation are being used as weapons against us.  Too many pillars of our society are being culled: the press, universities, philanthropists, cities, governors, law firms, and businesses.  We’re so fearful, and sometimes rightly so, of our government contracts, federal funding, non-profit status, bad press, a loss of job, or God Forbid, a justice department investigation.

There is also a real fear of our physical and emotional safety.  A few weeks ago, I was invited to attend a rally for Kilmar Ábrego García just before he was to enter the George Fallon Federal Building for his ICE hearing.  Although the rally was scheduled at 6:30am, downtown, that really wasn’t my concern.  I grew fearful about my presence there.  Would I be seen as a rabble rouser?  Would I be entered onto a government watch list?  Was I being crazy or would I be next? 

I did decide to attend the rally along with four other rabbis, a dozen clergy people, and hundreds of others.  Luckily, I don’t have nearly as much to fear as do many other members of our community; trans individuals, immigrants, black individuals, and so many others who fear for their physical safety.

I know it’s cliché, but I think back to Dr. Martin Luther King Jr, John Lewis, and the dozens of other brave civil rights leaders, including Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, who marched across the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma, Alabama.  There was real fear: fear of violence, fear of their livelihoods, and yet they bravely marched.

We Jews fight fear with love.  When we are afraid, we often wish to flee.  Judaism teaches us to do the opposite.  We are to run towards the people and the places that make us most afraid.[x]  When we are filled with fear, we show up with love.  We visit the sick, we comfort the mourner, we raise our voices, and we stand with the persecuted.  As Rabbi Shai Held teaches, “The goal is not to be fearless.  The goal is to learn to sit with our fears… Certain things may understandably scare us, but we can learn to stop being governed by fear.”[xi]  We do this by showing up, by gathering in community, and by expressing our love.

During the last weeks of 1995, Rabbi Alexander Schindler addressed our Reform Movement for the final time.  He shared these words: “My core conviction, the mainspring of all my actions, the driving power of my life is Ahavat Yisrael, a love of my fellow Jews which knows no limits.”  Over the course of his presidency, Rabbi Schindler, provided us with a different path forward.  It was not easy or simple, but because of his leadership and vision, our Jewish community is more diverse, more open, more welcoming, more loving, and more vibrant.  His response to hate, indifference, and fear, was love.

At this moment, so many of us are unsure of how to act.  How do we respond to our changing country?  How do we want to use our energy?  Should we sit in fear, stew in anger, or remain indifferent to the plight of others?  Or do we wish to love?  Our tradition commands us to love our neighbor, to love the stranger, to love and walk in God’s ways.  It may seem naïve to fight hate or fear with love.  But, Dr. King reminds us: "Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that."  May we choose love.  May we choose kindness.  May we choose compassion.  May we choose rebuke.  May we choose fortitude.  May we choose bravery.  May we choose love.  Amen.

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[i] “Above All, We Are Jews: A Biography of Rabbi Alexander Schindler,” by Michael A Meyer

[ii] “Above all, we are Jews,” p. 177

[iii] “Above all, we are Jews,” p. 125-128

[iv] “Judaism is About Love,” p. 7, by Rabbi Shai Held

[v] “Judaism is About Love,” p. 227

[vi] “Judaism is About Love,” p. 360

[vii] Elie Wiesel, US News and World Report, 27 October 1986

[viii] Rabbi Betsy Teutsch, “Connecting with Neighbors,” September 2, 2024, evolve.reconstructingjudaism.org/connecting-with-neighbors

[ix] “Judaism is About Love,” p. 113

[x] “Judaism is About Love,” p. 230

[xi] “Judaism is About Love” p. 233

A Time for Grieving - Kol Nidre Sermon 5786

 

A year ago, I lost my grandma.  Elaine Gordon was the most loving, special, and incredible grandmother.  She always looked 20 years younger than she was and wore the most stylish clothing.  Dinners were extremely important.  At any restaurant, whether we were 4 or 12 people, we’d always sit at a round table.  A glass of wine would be ready with a toast that she’d make: “to good health.”

Elaine Gordon loved her family and held us close.  She never forgot to send a birthday card.  She’d ring me on the phone and end every call with “I love you, bye dear” and because she never wanted the call to end, she’d repeat it, “I love you, bye dear.”  It’s been a year and a half since her death, I still miss her dearly.

Tonight, on Kol Nidre, we remember.  There’s something about this evening, this service, whether the haunting music, the darkened sky, the empty ark, that summons us to remember.

This Kol Nidre, we are each grieving our own losses.  For some, its relatives and loved ones who’ve been gone for months or even years, who are in our hearts tonight.  There are many other losses as well.  Our country has changed so dramatically since January.  Too many of us lost jobs, lost grant money, lost colleagues, lost our voices.  Too many of us lost faith in our country, lost hope in our future.

Throughout our history, we Jews mourn individual losses, but also communal losses too.  Over the centuries, we faced so much destruction.  Our Temples were in ruins, and our beloved Jerusalem decimated.  We were expelled from our homes, our shtetls ransacked, our future unknown.  As a community, we gather to grieve, to mourn, and to support each other during the challenging times. 

This moment is also a difficult one.  Each of us is unique not only in our beliefs, but also in how we respond to these changes.  Some of us are angry, some ready to fight, some fearful, a few might be uninformed or unaware.  All of these are important emotions.  But, one Jewish response is to grieve.  We mourn individually, communally, and as a country. 

Over the course of these High Holy Days, I seek to answer the same question in different ways, “How do I be a Jew in this moment?”  Over Rosh Hashanah, I spoke about the importance of being in community and of wrestling.  My answer tonight: “to be a Jew is one who grieves.”

Not long after my grandma’s death, my family looked to me for guidance.  I am “the family rabbi.”  The question that kept coming up was around shiva.  Did we really need shiva?  My grandmother was 94 when she died, my grandfather is 96.  They have a small home.  Would anyone come to the house?  If they did, would everyone fit? 

Luckily, with a little prodding we did sit shiva.  I’m so glad we did.  My extended family came together to eat, to comfort each other, and to share memories.  Old neighbors who moved away stopped by for a shiva call.  Second cousins from California called on the phone to check-in.  Shiva was a strange confluence of sadness and laughter, tears and joy.  Shiva allowed us to remember my grandmother, to mourn our loss, and to begin the process towards healing.

Unfortunately, my family’s experience seems rarer these days.  We are more disconnected than ever from our Jewish mourning rituals.  I’ve heard so many good excuses.  “My family member wasn’t Jewish.  My loved one lived out of state.  No one knew them here.  Everyone already said their goodbyes.  We’re just too busy now.”  These excuses, although valid, quickly turn to inaction.  Too many of us forego some, if not all, of our Jewish mourning rituals.

There are consequences when we refrain from mourning.  We don’t give our bodies and our souls the time needed to grieve.  Losing a loved one is extremely difficult with many emotional ups and downs.  We aren’t doing ourselves any good when we jump immediately back to normal life.  We also aren’t providing a space for our family and friends to comfort us.  They aren’t sure how best to support us and to show us they care.

These well-crafted rituals: gathering quickly after death, cutting a kriyah ribbon, sharing memories at a funeral, burial, sitting shiva, praying at a minyan, reciting kaddish, and yahrzeit are for us, the living.  These rituals[i] help acknowledge our pain, to share our emotions, to be in the presence of others, to rely on friends and family, to find the support we need, and to turn our grief into a positive experience.  If we arrive at the Mourner’s Path, may we take the time to grieve; and when those in our community do walk in the Shadow of Death, may we do our part to support them in their sadness.

Over the centuries, our rabbis also created rituals to help navigate communal grief.  When the First Temple was destroyed in 586 BCE, many of our ancestors were taken by force to Babylonia.  It was there, in a strange land, that they wrote these famous words from Psalm 137:

“By the rivers of Babylon,
there we sat,
sat and wept,
as we thought of Zion.

There on the poplars
we hung up our lyres”[ii]

Our ancestors created rituals to mourn together communally.  They even foregoed playing their instruments to mark this moment of sadness.  Powerfully, some of these rituals continue to be observed today.  At the conclusion of a wedding, we still break a glass to mark our communal grief.

While in the Middle Ages, during the height of the Crusades, the Christian armies marched across Europe to “free” the Holy Land.  As they reached the Rhineland, these armies massacred the Jewish communities living there.  It was our Jewish survivors who crafted new rituals to mourn the loss of their communities.  The Kaddish became a prayer of mourning while the yizkor memorial service was created to mark communal grief.

We too need rituals to mark this moment of a changing America.  There are already kernels of ideas bubbling up like Park Rangers hoisting upside down American Flags in our National Parks signaling an SOS or brave athletes who kneel during the National Anthem.  I honestly am not sure which of these or other rituals will be the most meaningful to us.  But we need to create rituals together, to help us journey through grief towards healing.

One of the most important mourning rituals in the mourning process  is the sharing of stories.  As I sat shiva in my grandparents’ house, my family and I began to tell stories about my grandmother.  Elaine Gordon would make sure her salmon was “very, very well done.”  When you came to visit, there’d always be bagels and lots and lots of rugelach!  Whenever there was a simcha, a birthday or major anniversary, she would plan a big party.  Family was so important.  We’d gather for Rosh Hashanah dinners and Passover seders.  But the highlight was Thanksgiving.  Every other year, we  all gather in one big house, all 27 of us, four generations, for a full extended weekend together.  The stories we shared about my grandma that day were the first crucial step towards healing.

As a Jewish community, we also tell the stories about our past.  It inspires me that year after year, we continue to read the same stories from our Torah.  Each time we arrive at Leviticus, there’s always one person who asks, “Why do we read all these rules about animal sacrifice?  We’ll never again offer animal sacrifices as part of our ritual observance!”  My answer: we read these words to remember our past and to never forget our history.  A Jew is one who remembers.  Without our past, we have no future.

In our country, too many are trying to take away our past.  Whether good or bad, our American history is being censored, stripped away, or cancelled.  The Enola Gay airplane and its brave pilots erased because of the word Gay.  Harriet Taubman deleted from the National Park Service website about her role in the Underground Railroad.  Transgender Activists Marsha P Johnson and Sylvia Rivera silenced from their brave actions in the Stonewall Uprising.  Slavery, Civil Rights, Women’s Suffrage, LGBTQ Pride, especially the T, are being deleted from the history books.  As we mourn, we must never forget our past. 

As we grieve, we walk the Mourner’s Path.  Sometimes that path is short, sometimes more winding, but hopefully it leads us in the direction of healing.   We mourn to begin the journey forward.

After the destruction of the Second Temple in 70 CE, our rabbis recognized that what was would never be rebuilt.  The Temple was the central meeting place for the Jewish community.  Pilgrimage holidays, sacrifices, Levitical worship, all occurred in the Temple in Jerusalem.  Once the Temple was destroyed, our community was without its heart and soul.  Our rabbis had an answer.  They transformed our Jewish way of living by creating new alternatives to Temple worship.

Torah study became so central to rabbinic Judaism that it equaled all other commandments.  Acts of loving kindness were considered by our ancient sages to be even greater than Temple sacrifices.  While the dining room table became our communal altar expressing the centrality of our Jewish homes.  Jewish worship in the synagogue became a way to repent for our mistakes and to gather in prayer.[iii]  The Temple was gone, but a new path was set for future generations.

One reason we grieve is to reflect upon what comes next.  I know that my grandmother will never again have dinner with me, but every time I’m seated at a round table, I think of her.  I’m always thoughtful of how best to keep her legacy alive, whether it’s saying, “to good health” whenever we clink our glasses, celebrating with gusto at every birthday, sending a card, calling a loved one, or marking holiday celebrations.  She won’t be there with me, and I miss her dearly, but her presence is always felt.  Her memory propels me forward. 

We too must begin this difficult work for our country. Taking time to grieve provides us with the opportunity to dream dreams.  Our country was never perfect, but we must envision what a country “For the people, by the people, and of the people” could truly become.  What could our country’s future look like?  What should it look like?  I have no idea what we will create, but we must dream in order to bring it to fruition. 

I know that many of you are not ready to grieve.  You might be too angry to grieve.  You might feel that mourning is giving up.  Plus, we will grieve differently.  But, our sages teach that grief and mourning are the first steps towards healing. 

Tonight, Kol Nidre calls us.  We are called to grieve.  We are called to remember.  We are called to hope.  May we take the time to mourn our losses, to gather in community, to comfort each other, and to turn towards a new day.  Amen.

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[i] Based upon the ten guidelines for grieving by Rabbi Earl Grollman found in K’vod HaMet edited by Rabbi Stuart Kelman

[ii] Psalm 137:1-2

[iii] “From Time by Time: Journeys in the Jewish Calendar” p. 313-315 by Rabbi Dalia Marx, translated by Rabbi Peretz A. Rodman.

We are Israel: Spiritual and Moral Wrestlers - Rosh Hashanah Morning Sermon 5786

 

Long ago,[i] a man named Jacob worried about an impending attack.  An ancient enemy headed his way alongside 400 armed men.  Jacob first sent his family to safety across the Jabbok River.  As he gathered his final possessions, ready to cross the river himself, he ran out of time.  Darkness fell.  Jacob found himself alone, all by himself, when a stranger appeared.  That stranger and Jacob wrestled throughout the night.  As dawn approached, the stranger pleaded with Jacob to let him go.  He replied, “I will not let you go until you bless me.”  The stranger answered, “Your name will no longer be Jacob, but Israel, for you have wrestled with beings divine and human and have prevailed.”[ii]

Jacob is our namesake.  We are called Israel, for we Jews wrestle with the divine, with fellow human beings, and with ourselves.  As Rabbi Shai Held teaches, “To wrestle with God’s word is to ask ourselves – even and especially when it is uncomfortable – what it is that God asks of us in the present moment.”[iii]  Over the course of these High Holy Days, I seek to answer the question, “How do I be a Jew in this moment?”  Last night, I spoke about being in community.  My answer this morning: “to be a Jew is one who wrestles.” 

One person who helped me with my personal wrestling is the author, Joshua Leifer.  This summer, I read his book, “Tablets Shattered: The End of an American Jewish Century and the Future of Jewish Life.”   Leifer believes that American Jews are living in what he calls the diasporic double bind.  This means whether we like it or not, we are inescapability connected to Israel.  Leifer writes, “As long as the state of Israel exists, American Jews will find themselves pulled within its orbit.”[iv] 

He proves this point through sheer demographics.  Today, Israel is home to 7 million Jews, while 6 million live in America. By 2050, there will only be 5 million Jews in the US with over 8 million in Israel. For the first time in over 2 millennia, a majority of Jews will live in a sovereign Jewish state.  Israel has already begun to displace the United States as the focal point of World Jewry.[v]  As the war in Gaza continues, whether we like it or not, we are pulled into the orbit of Israel.

Our ancient rabbis were fascinated by Jacob’s wrestling.  They spent countless hours debating the identity of that nighttime stranger.  Did Jacob wrestle an angel?  God?  His brother Esau?  Or was it someone else?  Beresheit Rabbah,[vi] the great commentary on Genesis, teaches: “the stranger appeared to Jacob in the image of a shepherd. The stranger had sheep, just like Jacob had sheep. The stranger had camels, just like Jacob had camels. The stranger said to Jacob, ‘I’ll pass over the river, just like you will pass over the river.’”  Who was this stranger, so similar to Jacob?  It was Jacob wrestling himself.

Like Jacob, we Jews wrestle with ourselves.  As Jacob fought with himself, so to do we, American Jews and Israelis often clash with each other.  Even more difficult is the fact that the relationship between Israel and the diaspora isn’t always reciprocal.  American Jews must struggle with the reality that Israel’s actions impose a burden upon us, but we do not exert the same power over our Israeli brethren.[vii]  So what do we do?

The first option is to walk away.  More and more members of our Jewish community want nothing to do with Israel.  I’m saddened by how many wish to dissolve all ties between their Jewishness and Israel.  I’m challenged by those who see Israel only as a Goliath, as a bully.  Earlier this September, I met with a few members of our congregation who are struggling.  One member even left our synagogue because of our connection to Israel.  All shared that for them a red line had been crossed.  They were done.  The actions of the Israeli government, whether the famine in Gaza, the lack of water and necessities, the indiscriminate bombings, the ongoing occupation, or the lack of perceived effort towards a cease-fire were just too much. They were so troubled by Israel’s actions that they were unsure if they could remain a Jew.

A second option is to believe that Israel can do no wrong.  Throughout our organized Jewish community, too many never question any of Israel’s actions.  Many doubt the media.  They might counter every argument about the events in Gaza with differing facts.  Many believe that Israel can do any action it pleases regardless of the consequences to innocent Palestinians.  I’m saddened that when a famine occurs in Sudan or a bombing occurs to civilians in Ukraine, we speak up.  But, when innocent Palestinians are hurting and hungry, many in our Jewish community say not a word.

There is a third option to navigate this moment: denial.  Many of us do our best to ignore what is happening in Gaza and in Israel.  We might refrain from watching the news.  We scan the headlines, but don’t learn the details of what is going on.  We pretend that what’s happening across the world has no bearing on our lives.  Denial can go both ways.  We can deny that Israel is doing anything right.  We can also deny that Israel is doing anything wrong.  We can deny Hamas’ role in this war.  We can also deny that Israel has at times acted unjustly.  I think most of us are in denial because the situation is just too complex.  It’s much easier to put our heads in the sand and to deny that anything is wrong.

Sometimes we chose one of these options and sometimes we take a little bit of this and a little bit of that.  Honestly, I believe all of these options are missing something important: wrestling.  We aren’t wrestling! 

A few weeks ago, I hosted 12 local rabbis at Bolton Street Synagogue who sat down with Shira Ben Sasson Furstenberg, the Associate Director of the New Israel Fund.  Since 1979, the New Israel Fund (NIF) has worked to strengthen civil society in Israel: supporting women, LGBTQ people, religious minorities like Reform Judaism, and Palestinians.  As you can imagine, this has been a difficult three years for NIF, from the judicial overhaul, to the immediate needs after October 7^th, to the long Gaza war. 

Shira Ben Sasson Furstenberg shared with us a recent, and shocking, Israeli poll result.  61% of Israelis do not believe there are any innocent Gazans.  61%!  That’s shocking because this includes children, babies, and the elderly.  And yet, at the same time, thousands upon thousands of new Israeli donors have donated to NIF for the sole purpose of providing food to hungry Gazans.  NIF has been able to provide three times the number of grants than before October 7^th to help Israelis and Palestinians as well as strengthen Israeli democracy.

Shira shared that what Israel needs right now is healing.  Healing for the Israeli political system, healing for the hostage families, healing for Israeli soldiers fighting in this long war, and healing for all in innocent Gazans in harm’s way.  I heard Shira’s call loud and clear.  If we’re not going to respond by walking away, or believing that Israel can do no wrong, or living in denial, our role as American Jews can help Israel heal.  We can donate to Progressive Zionist organizations, we can speak out in a loud voice at rallies, we can stay informed, and we can wrestle with the complexity of this war.  We can help our Israeli friend and family, and help ourselves be healed.

For we need healing too.  This war is tearing our Jewish community apart.  We are screaming at one another.  The temperature continues to rise with the language of violence permeating our conversations.  We are dividing ourselves into two communities. 

A few years ago, Natan Sharansky and Gil Troy wrote an article in Tablet Magazine in which they call Jews who are avowedly Anti-Zionist, “Un-Jews.” [viii]  As they write, “We call these critics “un-Jews” because they believe the only way to fulfill the Jewish mission of saving the world with Jewish values is to undo the ways most actual Jews do Jewishness. They are not ex-Jews or non-Jews, because many of them are and remain deeply involved Jewishly, despite their harsh dissent.”

This division between “Jews” and “Un-Jews” is not new.  In the Babylonian Talmud,[ix] our rabbis over fifteen-hundred years ago, called those Jews who were outside their circle Amei Haaretz which we often translate as the uneducated.  The rabbis saw Amei Haaretz as a threat because they observed Judaism and ritual practices differently than they did.  The rabbis were so worried about Amei Haaretz that they forbid one another to eat at the same table, to live in the same neighborhood, to marry one another, and even justified violence against them.  Coexistence was not possible.[x] 

Deborah Barer, at the Shalom Hartman Institute, connects this ancient struggle to our modern moment: “We have been operating from a sense of threat...  We have closed ranks in order to protect that which we hold most dear, and in doing so, we have framed a conversation as a dispute between us and them, between the “Jews” and the “un-Jews,” rather than as an exploration of what is and what should be, of what is possible and how to build it.”[xi]

This is such a difficult time.  It’s often much easier to divide ourselves into our different camps instead of wrestling with what is and what should be.  It seems simpler to spout out our own facts, terms, or opinions, instead of discussing together what is possible and how to build it.  For Israel is in an existential crisis.  Missiles reign down on its cities, and we’re still waiting for the hostages to come home.  And at the same time, thousands of innocent children and the elderly have been killed by Israel’s bombs, while too many Gazans are starving.  Our dream of vibrant home for the Jewish people living peacefully with her neighbors seems so far away.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks teaches: “[The] path chosen by [Jacob] is not for the fainthearted… It is not easy to face our fears and wrestle with them, refusing to let go until we have turned them into renewed strength and blessing.”[xii]  If we believe Israel is always in the wrong, we aren’t wrestling.  If we believe that Israel is always in the right, we aren’t wrestling.  If we can’t respect and hear differing opinions, we aren’t wrestling.

We are called Israel.  It’s the name of our people and it’s the name of our land.  We are not the ones who walk away.  We are not the ones who forego our ethical responsibilities.  We are not the ones who deny what is happening.  We are the ones who wrestle.  Wrestling is not easy.  Jacob was wounded in that nighttime attack and forever after he walked with a limp.  Our wrestling is not for the fainthearted and there might be wounds.  But wrestling is what we do. We are the ones who wrestle with ideas. We are the ones who wrestle with each other.  We are the ones wrestle with ourselves.  For we are Israel: the Ones who wrestle.  Amen.

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[i] Genesis 32:24-33

[ii] Genesis 32:29

[iii] Rabbi Shai Held, “Judaism is About Love,” p. 191

[iv] “Tablets Shattered: The End of an American Jewish Century and the Future of Jewish Life,” by Joshua Leifer, p. 209

[v] “Tablets Shattered,” p. 210 - 219

[vi] Beresheit Rabbah 77:2

[vii] “Tablets Shattered,” p. 210

[viii] https://www.tabletmag.com/sections/news/articles/the-un-jews-natan-sharansky

[ix] “When Community Becomes a Zero-Sum Game: Lessons from a Troubling Talmudic Text” by Deborah Barer, in Sources: A Journal of Jewish Ideas: Summer 2025, p. 85-88

[x] “When Community Becomes a Zero-Sum Game…,” p. 87

[xi] “When Community Becomes a Zero-Sum Game…,” p. 91

[xii] Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, “Covenant and Conversation, Genesis: The Book of Beginnings,” p. 241