Black Jewish Lives Matter - Yom Kippur Morning Sermon 5781

Many[i] years ago, a young Jewish man from Boston travelled down to Florida for his honeymoon. He and his wife were picked up at the airport by a Black cab driver. As they drove through wealthy neighborhoods, they passed by a country club, with a large sign out front, with the words, “No Jews, No Dogs.” The man was shocked. He turned towards the cab driver and asked if that was common practice down there. The driver answered: “At least you made the sign. They don’t even mention us.’”

That young man, Kivie Kaplan, became an unsung hero of the civil rights era. He marched with Dr. King in Selma, traveled to Mississippi for Freedom Summer, and served as a president of the NAACP.

Late in life, Kivie helped found the Religious Action Center of Reform Judaism, our advocacy and social justice home in Washington. A few years after the RAC’s founding, the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Voting Rights Act of 1965 were penned on its conference room table.

The story of Kivie Kaplan is the story of Reform Judaism. We should be proud of the giants of that era: rabbis, Jewish leaders, and college students who risked their lives for the rights of all. But it is also a story of a bygone age. Kivie Kaplan was a white Jew, who fought for the rights of Black Christians. As the story is told, it was Jews and Blacks, two distinct and separate communities.

Ilana Kaufman addresses this dichotomy in a question: “Have you ever wondered if there were Black Jews on the Pettus Bridge?”[ii] To talk about a Jewish community and a Black community asks Black Jews and other Jews of Color to segment themselves in impossible ways. We are one community: white Jews, Black Jews, Brown Jews; a rich diverse Jewish tapestry. [iii]

On the High Holy Days, we are asked to be reflective of who we are and what we stand for. It is in this vein, that today, on Yom Kippur, we proclaim that Black Jewish Lives Matter.

I come to you this morning with trepidation because speaking about racism and our own bias is never easy. We want to believe that we don’t have racism in us, that we aren’t racist, but we are nurtured in a culture where even the most well intended of us can encounter blind spots and propagate racist ideas despite our desire to be kind. I never wish to cause hurt to anyone in our community, this is not my intent. But I do wish to make each of us, including those of us who are white, including myself, a little bit uncomfortable, because that is the only way to propel us to action.

Throughout Yom Kippur, dozens upon dozens of times, we will recite the words “Al Cheit Shechetanu… For the sins we have committed.” These sins are recited not in the singular, but in the plural, for each of us has an obligation for our personal sins as well as the sins of our congregation and our society.

That is why we must take responsibility, both individually and as a community, for the sins of personal, structural, and systemic racism. I share with you “For the Sins of Racism” by Yavilah McCoy. I urge you, as we do throughout Yom Kippur, to beat your chest for each of these sins.

“For the sins of racism that we have committed by not seeing racism as an evil among us.

For the sins we have committed through segregating Jewish souls in Black bodies from participation and leadership within our institutions.

For the sins we have committed in not caring for the ways that race and class intersect in our effort to welcome Black people in Jewish space.

For the sins of racism we have committed through creating hierarchies of value between our siblings from Europe and those from the Middle East and Africa.

For the sins of racism that we have committed by not committing to end it.

For all these, we seek pardon, forgiveness, and atonement” [iv]

I’ve taken this High Holy Days to focus my Cheshbon HaNefesh, the accounting of my soul – on my prejudice and discomfort around race. I’ve recognized that I fear talking about race. I worry that I will say something wrong or hurtful, so I shy away from discussing it entirely. I also sense my own vulnerability around my white privilege. Over these last few months, I’ve taken time to talk with peers, dug deeply into my own bias, and gathered as part of an anti-Racism course, to begin and address my own racism head on.

I urge us all, but especially those who are white, to take time to reflect. What is your bias? What is the inner racism which lies within your soul?

Answering these questions are not easy. We must sit in our own discomfort and truly listen to our hearts, but we must be brave enough to open up conversation, to be vulnerable enough to share our reflections with those who can hold a mirror up to our souls.

Reflection is good, but we need to make a commitment to heal this wound of racism. It means constantly working each-and-every day to be an anti-racist; speaking up when we hear any sort of racism or bias. Those of us who are white must recognize our whiteness, of what it means to be white. It means that we no longer will be a bystander, that we must be willing to give up our comforts to truly make a difference.

It also means relearning what we were taught. Our nation was founded on racism – so much of our country’s history is missing from our text books: Black people brought here against their will, not counted equally to white people, transition from slavery to mass incarceration, Black codes, Jim Crow, Redlining, laws created to disenfranchise Black people to voter suppression. We know there are double standards for how we treat white people and Black people, whether it’s police brutality to a simple traffic stop that could lead a black person to their grave. It’s time for us to rethink these standards, to reeducate ourselves by hearing the voices of Black and Brown members of our community.

Personal responsibility is a good first step, but we also must work to transform our congregation. Over the last few months, almost 20 members participated in a anti-Racism training, and another series will be beginning after the holidays. A separate task force has looked closely at “Not Free to Desist”[v] a letter to our Jewish community by Black Jews, Non-Black Jews of Color, and their allies about Re-Imagining Our Collective Jewish Covenant. This task force and our Board of Directors has begun to create an action plan that will work to create true equity and inclusion at Bolton Street Synagogue. This means new approaches to celebrating multi-racial Jewish identities; developing curriculum in our school that includes the full diversity of the Jewish people; creating new policies and practices that address racism and other barriers to Jewish participation, while finding new pathways to leadership for Jews of Color at Bolton Street and throughout the Baltimore Jewish community.

This is only the beginning; we have a lot of work to do! Yet, we can be proud of the community we’ve created: a home for the diverse Baltimore community. The foundation is laid, but now we must build upon the warmth and communal feeling of BSS. That means that if you are a part of our community, your liberation is bound up in mine. We stand together; we can’t move forward if anyone is left behind. We must dig deeper and do the difficult work of inclusion for all. This requires love, empathy, understanding, and vulnerability: anti-racism, yes, but also LGBTQ and gender equality and disability awareness; to make sure that our tagline “Doors Wide Open” is truly being honored.

Yet, we know that our work does not stop at our doors. The Jewish vision believes that prayer and Torah study must propel us to fix this broken world. This election is the most important of our lifetime; an election that will decide the survival of our democracy. We must vote like never before. That includes encouraging everyone we know to create a voting plan. We must speak truth to power and to do everything in our capabilities to change our nation, to fight against racism, to fight for decency. Whether it’s working on voting rights, joining with our local allies, or focusing on police reform and education reform, we need our broad Jewish community to risk something. If we say we’re an ally, what have we risked to be a true ally?

Many decades ago, Kivie Kaplan saw that sign “No Jews, No Dogs” and began a lifelong journey to build a just and inclusive world. We stand upon his shoulders, continuing to build a better world, not just outside the walls of our synagogue, but inside our community as well. In this New Year 5781, we are called upon to continue do this work of extinguishing racism and building an inclusive Jewish community. May we delve deeply into our own racial biases; may we work to transform how we as synagogue do what we do; may we risk our comfortable existence to stand up as an ally; and may we never forget that Black Jewish Lives Matter, for we are one community: white Jews, Black Jews, Brown Jews; a rich diverse Jewish tapestry.

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[i] As shared by Rabbi Jonah Pesner

[ii] Ilana Kaufman, “The Uncomfortable Truth,” Eli Talk, August 4, 2015

[iii] In appreciation to Rabbi Jessy Dressin, Alaine Jolicoeur, and KeSean Johnson for their thoughtful critique and guidance in helping to craft this sermon.

[iv] A Communal “Al Cheit” for the Sins of Racism by Yavilah McCoy, 2016 (Adapted)

https://www.truah.org/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/Al_Chet_for_Racism_Yavilah_McCoy.pdf

[v] https://www.notfreetodesist.org/

Forgive Yourself - Kol Nidre Sermon 5781

Long ago,[i] the Baal Shem Tov, the great founder of Chasidism, saw something special in Reb Wolf Kitzes. Reb Wolf was a good person: he cared about his family and his neighbors. Reb Wolf prayed fervently, studied diligently, and was a fixture in his small synagogue in Poland. And so, the rabbi asked him to become the congregation’s shofar blower. 

Reb Wolf agreed and each week, he met the rabbi. The Baal Shem Tov taught him, not only the required blasts, but all the teachings of the shofar’s origins, even the shofar’s mystical connection to the heavenly realm. 

As the High Holy Days approached, Reb Wolf became more and more panicked. He couldn’t get the shofar blast just right and he kept forgetting all of the rabbi’s teachings. Reb Wolf decided to write down copious notes of everything he learned. He put these notes safely in his front shirt pocket. He studied them all the time from sunrise until bedtime. He practiced and practiced the shofar blasts. At last, he felt ready. 

But, on Rosh Hashanah, as he felt his pocket, he realized in horror that his notes were missing. As the Baal Shem Tov called him, his mind went completely blank. He didn’t just lose his notes, he could no longer remember any of the teachings, not even how to blow the shofar.

“Reb Wolf, it’s time” 

“But, rabbi… I can’t!”

Broken hearted, with bitter tears in his eyes, Reb Wolf picked up the shofar and gave a short trembling blast.

After the the service had finished, Reb Wolf sat with the Baal Shem Tov and apologized for his panic and forgetfulness and utter despair during the shofar blast.

“Reb Wolf,” said the Baal Shem Tov, “In the palace, there are many chambers and each chamber has its own lock, but there is a master key, which can open any door. That master key is a broken heart.”

On this Kol Nidre night, I approach you with the same feelings of despair as Reb Wolf. I too feel brokenhearted. Brokenhearted and with bitter tears at the circumstances of this moment. I know that many of you feel the same way. Over the last few weeks, I’ve asked you, “How are you doing?” And, honestly, none of us are doing that well right now. 

I especially see the angst when I talk to parents of young children. Those of us who are parents feel the push and pull between work and family life. We’ve become our children’s teachers, navigating online schedules, work assignments, and home classrooms. We’ve needed to support our children, but also do our jobs. And everything is messy and hard, jumping from zoom call to homework help, making sure our children’s brains don’t turn to mush because of so much tablet time. 

And it’s not just those of us with young kids. It’s all of us. It’s the stress of not seeing our family members and friends face-to-face: our children or grandchildren who we can’t visit; or our parents and grandparents who we can no longer welcome into our homes. 

It’s our work and home responsibilities. All of us are learning new skills, navigating this new online world. Very few of us feel totally confident in this new skill set or completely satisfied in our work output or in keeping up with the to-do list at home. 

As these challenges weighed upon my shoulders, I found a little solace, in this reflection by Rabbi Aaron Brusso. It’s something I needed to hear. I hope it will give you comfort as well.[ii]

“For most of us this is the first time in our lifetime that doubling and tripling of efforts and time will not result in a work product that reflects the effort. And that’s because there is a current reality beyond our control. Like other traumas involving loss, the limitations of the pandemic grip are encountered anew every time we try to do something we used to be able to do thoughtlessly. And each time, we are introduced to the loss all over again.”

If I take Rabbi Brusso’s words to heart, I know that on this Yom Kippur, I must forgive myself. I must forgive myself for all the times I didn’t do my best, when I forgot to return a phone call, or when I just couldn’t complete the task at hand. I must forgive myself at all the times I lost my temper, when I became overly pessimistic, when my house was a mess, and when I didn’t fully support my husband or my son. On most Yom Kippurs, our task is to forgive others. Tonight, I ask you to forgive yourself for all the times since covid began that you didn’t do your best.

As Rabbi Naomi Levy shares: "Teach me to love myself, God. I am so critical of myself... I accept shortcoming of others, but I am so unforgiving of myself... Remind me to be kind to myself... Soften my heart God... Thank You, God for creating me as I am." [iii]

It’s time to adjust our expectations, to realize that what we were able to do in the past, we just aren’t able to do in the present. Tonight, we are given that permission. The Kol Nidrei prayer is a sticky prayer that bothered the medieval rabbis greatly. The prayer is literally, a “get out of jail free” card. It seems so un-Jewish to ask God to release us from any vows that we might break in the year ahead. But, at this moment, on this year, this is the request we need. We need permission to adjust our expectations; permission to do things differently; permission to forgive ourselves for the mistakes that we’ve already made AND the mistakes we know we will make in the year ahead. 

For this is not normal times and we are all depleted! Dr. Ann Masten, a professor of child development at the University of Minnesota, calls this “Surge Capacity.” Surge capacity is a collection of adaptive systems – mental and physical – that we draw upon for short term survival during stressful situations such as natural disasters.[iv] Natural disasters they occur over a short period of time – even if it takes a while to recover. Pandemics are different, the disaster itself stretches out indefinitely. 

Under normal circumstances, when we feel depleted, we find time to renew ourselves. But, with covid, we don’t have the luxury of time. We are constantly exhausted, trapped, and unable to focus. 

That is why, I urge you, to take the extra effort to replenish yourself. The world is in upheaval, every day there is a new fire to put out. The stressors of family life, work, an election, and a pandemic are almost too much to handle. Believe me, I know that it’s difficult to pause in our day to day activities, especially when so many of things we loved to do pre-Covid aren’t easily accessible. But, we need to find those moments of joy and rest that will give us a boost. It is a very Jewish idea – each week on Shabbat we are required to put away our work and our stress. We must find our own Shabbat: to carve out a few minutes each day or one day a week, to reach out to friends and loved ones, to get away from the news, and to replenish our souls for the tireless journey ahead. 

Long ago, after the service concluded, Reb Wolf approached the great sage, the Baal Shem Tov, apologizing for forgetting the rabbi’s mystical teachings and for a lackluster shofar blast! The Baal Shem Tov answered with this cryptic response: “In the palace, there are many chambers and each chamber has its own lock, but there is a master key, which can open any door. That master key is a broken heart.” 

It wasn’t the shofar blast or perfect retelling of the teaching that opened the gates of the palace, it was Reb Wolf himself, brokenhearted, tear filled, authentic Reb Wolf. It was his prayer, his very being, that was the master key. 

At this moment, we too are that key. Our broken hearts, our tear-filled cheeks, our worried and anxious selves, we are the master key that opens the gates of our palace. On this Yom Kippur, we are given permission to recognize the tumultuous nature of this moment. We are given permission to forgive ourselves for the past year, and for all the mistakes we will make in the year ahead. We are told to just be us, not perfect, just the authentic brokenhearted selves that we are at this moment. 

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[i] Adapted from “The Truest Shofar” by Rabbi Jason Rosenberg.     and https://velveteenrabbi.blogs.com/blog/2007/08/the-master-key-.html

[ii] Rabbi Aaron Brusso

[iii] A Prayer When We Are Too Hard on Ourselves, Talking to God, p. 235, by Rabbi Naomi Levy

[iv] https://elemental.medium.com/your-surge-capacity-is-depleted-it-s-why-you-feel-awful-de285d542f4c

Look Out the Other Window - Erev Rosh Hashanah 5781

 

Shana Tova!  I’d like to begin this High Holy Day season with a story as told by Rabbi Leora Kaye from the Union for Reform Judaism.  I urge you to sit back, take in a deep breath, and relax!

There[i] once was a young girl who lived in Baltimore City.  She loved our city.  She loved seeing her neighbors, watching the dogs as they walked by, hearing the car horns, and riding her bike to and fro down our streets.  Yet, each year, the girl looked forward to leaving Baltimore for her annual trip to visit her savta, her grandmother.

Now, the girl’s savta did not live any place like Baltimore.  Her grandmother lived far away, an hours long car drive, deep in the country.  The girl loved being with her savta because her home was so different from Baltimore.  The sounds were different, the sights were different, even the smells were different.  There were so many things to do, so many places to explore, and so many people to meet.

Most special of all, the thing that the girl most looked forward to, was an annual tradition, a train ride.  Each year, her grandmother would come up with an excuse for just the two of them to ride the train together.  The girl and her savta loved these train rides.

Year after year, they’d board the same train that always left the station promptly at 2:36pm.  They’d sit in the same seats: left side of the train, second row from the back.  They’d look out the same window and her savta would share stories about the places they passed.  She would reminisce about the farms, the buildings, the people, and the community.  Her savta would remind her of what had changed during her lifetime and what still stayed the same.  It was an annual pilgrimage, a time to hold each other tight, to remember the past, and to focus on the present.  It was truly the highlight of their visit together.

One year, as the girl arrived, her savta saw that the train schedule had changed.   Instead of the 2:36pm train that they always took, they’d need to board a different train which left an hour later.  “Savta, we always take the 2:36pm train!  How could we not take our train?!”  “Don’t worry bubbele, we’ll catch the other train train instead!” 

But, as they boarded the new train, they saw that an older couple was sitting in their seats!  The couple was moving quite slowly and had just gotten settled.  “Savta, that’s our seats!  We always sit on the left side, second row from the back!”  “Don’t worry bubbele, we’ll sit in these seats instead!” 

 But, as the train began to leave the station, they saw that directly next to them, on the parallel track, was a very, very long freight train.  As they looked out the window, all they could see was the cars of that train!

The girl became dismayed.  “Savta, how can you tell me all of our stories if the train is blocking our view?”  Even though the girl knew these stories by heart, she wanted to hear them from her grandmother and to look out at the farms and the trees and the people that she loved to see.

With a wisdom that only comes from being a grandmother, her savta gently touched her shoulder and turned her granddaughter’s face in the opposite direction.  “Don’t worry bubbele, there is another side of the train!  We haven’t even looked out this window, in this direction!  I have so many new stories to tell you!”  And so, grandmother and granddaughter turned their view, and saw a whole new world.

This evening, as we gather to welcome the New Year 5781, we know that our train is cancelled, our seats are taken, and a freight train blocks our view.  We can’t celebrate Rosh Hashanah as we did in the past.  We can’t gather in our meadow with our picnic dinners.  We can’t hear the moving music led by Shir Chadash.  Tomorrow morning, we won’t be able to fill our beautiful sanctuary, to kiss each other, hug each other, feel the majesty that only comes when hundreds of us gather in the same space together.

The stories, rituals, and traditions that have been a hallmark for generations of Jews and a staple of our Bolton Street Synagogue community are just not going to be the same this year. 

Like the girl, we too can’t take all of these disruptions!  We too are a bit dismayed, more than a tad saddened that this year’s Rosh Hashanah will be different.  Although we can’t experience things as we did in the past, we do have the stories and memories.  Rosh Hashanah is called Yom HaZikaron, the Day of Memory.  Today, we are urged to remember the past and remember what’s been taken from us.  We are permitted to mourn everything that we’ve lost, but we must not allow ourselves to become fixated on the past.

For our view is blocked.  It’s time for us, at this moment, to change perspective.  I’m not saying it’s easy.  I’m not saying it won’t be a little bittersweet, but there is power and strength when we shift our perspective. 

With that change of perspective, we can gain a new sense of creativity and learn about old traditions that haven’t been at the forefront of our own experience.

Tonight’s Erev Rosh Hashanah was not the same, but we would have never celebrated a Rosh Hashanah Seder prior to covid.  Over the holidays, we’ll have other new rituals, new voices sharing their stories, new approaches to transform the customs of the past and make them meaningful to our life experience during covid.  Tonight, we also recognize that because of the power of zoom, we can gather in community with friends and family from across the globe.

As we begin another new year, as we mark another notch in our Jewish calendar, may we not forget that many of the generations that came before us also faced struggle and challenge.  They did not remain unmoved.  Their change in perspective pushed them to transform our religion and our world.  We possess the rituals and the traditions of today because they needed to create them.  And so, we must do the same. 

We can and must mourn that our view is blocked.  We can and must focus on the memories of Rosh Hashanah past, but at this moment we must change perspective.  For our future depends on it.  We must plant new seeds that will uplift our Jewish community and allow it to flourish far into the future.  It’s time to create new memories, new rituals, new stories for the covid and post covid world.  It’s time to change perspective and recognize the blessings of our family, our community, and our world.  It’s not easy, but it’s time to look out the other window.

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[i] Retold from a version shared by Rabbi Leora Kaye https://reformjudaism.org/podcasts/stories-we-tell/stories-we-tell-look-other-way

Joy, the Source of Our Strength - Rosh Hashanah Morning Sermon 5781

On this Rosh Hashanah, I am sad.  I can’t help it.  Today, I am in mourning.  It has been an excruciatingly difficult couple of months.  I never imagined that we wouldn’t be together to welcome in another New Year.  And now, as Rosh Hashanah began, we hear of RBG’s death, it’s brought me to a state of despair.  How did we get here?  How do we get out of this nightmare?

I feel a little bit guilty sharing these thoughts with you.  However, I take solace that the New Year wasn’t always a day of celebration.  Take for example, a Rosh Hashanah, some 2,500 year ago. Ezra the Scribe convened the people by the water gate in Jerusalem.  On top of a large wooden platform, Ezra gathered the men, women, and entire community.  From dawn until midday, he taught words of Torah.  As the people listened to Ezra, they began to cry and mourn. 

For life was hard.  Our people had been exiled to Babylonia.  For generations, they were separated from their homeland and they pined to return to Israel, to return to normality.

Even after arriving home, life didn’t improve.  In Israel, our ancestors were harassed by locals.  The walls of Jerusalem and the Holy Temple were in disrepair.  Many of the returnees had adopted pagan customs and moved away from Jewish observance.

On that Rosh Hashanah, the people recognized how far they had drifted as a community and as a country.  They felt powerless to make a change.  And so, they did what they could: they cried and mourned the state of their world.

 

I know that many of you are in mourning too.  Covid has ravaged our country.  Almost 200,000 people dead from this virus.  Many loved ones have gotten sick; others terrified that they got covid or passed it on inadvertently.    Many of our children can’t go to school.  Our economy is shuttered, our synagogue closed, and there is no end in sight.

And it’s not just covid.  Our president and his enablers are making a mockery of our constitution and our democracy.  We worry about the ballot box and if every vote will count.  We hear about another police shooting of an unarmed black person and are reminded once again, of our country’s original sin, racism.  We too feel powerless to make a change.  We like our ancestors, mourn the state of our world.

At the water gate, Ezra had a choice. He could have overlooked the sadness or gotten angry at the people.  Instead, Ezra did not allow the people to mourn or wallow in their misery any longer.

“This day is holy to the Eternal your God.  Neither mourn nor weep… Go, eat and drink things that are sweet and delicious, and send portions to those who have nothing prepared, since this day is holy to our Eternal One.  And do not be sad, for your joy in the Eternal is the source of your strength.”[i]

Ezra changed Rosh Hashanah to the holiday we know today.  The New Year became a joyous day of food and drink and celebration.  “Do not be sad, for your joy, is the source of your strength.”

At this moment, we too, more than ever, need joy!  And we have a lot to be joyous about.  There have been so many hidden miracles during this pandemic.  You’ve shared some of these blessings with me:

Like the blessing of slowing down and stopping literally to smell the roses.  The afternoon walks with friends, time outside on our decks or balconies, gardening, and a new appreciation for nature. 

It’s the meals we’ve consumed.  Those of us lucky enough to have family around can have lunches and dinners together each day.  And others of us have taken up baking: challah, sourdough, and new sweet treats.

It’s the miracle of zoom.  We all get zoom fatigue, but being together for services, family reunions, drinks with friends, and even shiva minyans, that’s a blessing.

It’s time together at Bolton Street Synagogue: services, boker tov, Torah study, religious school, and our gathering remotely in celebration.

And there is a new appreciation for the nurses, doctors, and medical professionals; the firefighters, police officers and postal carriers; the teachers and babysitters; the cleaning people and the barbers.  We possess much gratitude for the hard work of those who help keep our society afloat.

There is so much pain and sadness in our world.  We need joy more than ever.  These blessings and miracle shine a small amount of happiness on our darkened world.  Joy provides us with the strength to get up each day, to repair our own lives, and provide a flicker of optimism that tomorrow will be better than today. 

Ezra also believed in an optimistic vision.  That Rosh Hashanah, some 2,500 years ago, became a clarion call, a rededication[ii] for a stronger community.  Ezra recognized that mourning and deep attachment to the past provided a pathway to nowhere.

Ezra’s joyful call was centered around Torah; a vision that we would live and breathe Torah: learn and teach Torah; gather in community to study Torah; act and follow the ethical and religious commandments of Torah.

At that moment, Ezra’s vision seemed preposterous.  The people had veered so far off the path, that they didn’t even understand a word of Hebrew.  There was no connection to Judaism or Jewish belief.  Their country was in shambles, lawlessness, fighting with neighbors, and a lack of morality. 

Over the course of months, years, even decades, that vision centered around Torah slowly became a reality.  The kernels planted on that Rosh Hashanah grew into the Judaism that we know and love today.  Teachers taught Torah and students learned; joyous celebration; the pursuit of mitzvot and acts of loving kindness became the heart of Judaism.  

This was not an easy change or a quick one.  There was no superman or superwoman or super person who changed society on a dime.  It took diligence and patience, it took collective action, it took everyone in the community to bring this vision into reality.  It was the long haul that brought us the Judaism of today.

Our holiday of Rosh Hashanah is a little bit muddled.  The New Year is a day of contrasts: of sadness and celebration, of memory and sweetness, of repentance and creation.  Today, we take a few moments to mourn; to be sad at all that we’ve lost and to cry at the state of our world.

But we must not wallow in our misery for much longer.  Our mourning and sadness can only bring us so far.  It is joy that is the source of our strength.  We must get to work, to bring to fruition the optimistic vision, that tomorrow will be better than today.  For we envision a society where democracy prevails, racism is extinguished, climate change averted, where Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s legacy is preserved.  A world where covid no longer impacts every moment of every day, where our Jewish community flourishes, and where all people, no matter who we are, are treated as the children of God. 

We must be in it for the long haul, for change does not come quickly or easily.  It takes patience and diligence and requires each of us to step up and build the world as it should be.  Believe me, we want change now; we want the quick win, the revolution.  But, sustaining a revolution takes hard work and energy and time.  I believe, no I am confident, that this vision will prevail, there is no doubt of it.  It just needs us to make it so.

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[i] Nehemiah 8:9-10

[ii] See the Introduction to “The Koren Rosh Hashanah Machzor,” commentary by Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks, p. xx – xxii.  I’m also in gratitude to Rabbi Leon Morris for sharing his thoughts at a CCAR High Holy Day Call – July 2020