Will We Walk Away or Will We Fight? - Yom Kippur Morning Sermon 5782 / 2021

 

A few weeks ago, after a long day, I was lying on my couch reading the New York Times, when I came across an opinion piece that stopped me in my tracks.  Perhaps you saw it too?  Dr. Anton DiSclafani is a Professor of Creative Writing at Auburn University.  She’s a proud Democrat living in ruby red Alabama.  And she loves the south.  She speaks fondly of southern hospitality as well as the kindness of strangers.  But these last few weeks have caused her to lose faith in her neighbors.  Lee County where she lives has only 34% of eligible adults vaccinated.  On a local Facebook group, people compare wearing a mask to experimental medical procedures.  While a local pediatrician is bullied for enrolling her children in a vaccine trial.  

 

But it’s Dr. DiSclafani’s words that hit home: “[The pandemic has upended] one of my deeply held beliefs – that living among people who are different from you is a good thing.  That it is good because it challenges you to think and act compassionately.  To love your neighbor.  I still believe that, but to be honest, right now I’d rather live in a place where everyone thought the same way I do, simply because I’d like to live in a place where everyone was vaccinated.”[i]    

 

How true are these thoughts!  How difficult it is to live amongst those who think and act differently from us!  How much easier would it be to just walk away! 

 

One person who walks away is the Prophet Jonah.  Later today, we’ll read his story, but here’s a quick refresher. Jonah was minding his own business when God called him: “Get up!  Go to the great city of Nineveh and proclaim against it – for their evil deeds have risen up before Me.”  So, what does Jonah do?  He flees!  He finds a boat leaving the port city of Jaffa and heads in the opposite direction.  He sails as far away from Nineveh as possible.

 

Like Jonah, Dr. DiSclafani sometimes dreams of walking away.  Like all of us, she’d rather live in a place where everyone was vaccinated.  And let’s be honest, unlike Dr. DiSclafani, we aren’t living in a red state surrounded by anti-maskers.  Most of us are living in our bubble with those who often think and act similarly to us.  We might mock the vaccination rates in Mississippi, be horrified of the anti-maskers in Florida, or angry at the policies enacted by the Governor of Texas, but at least we’re here in Maryland, far from them!  We might pretend that we can protect ourselves with our mask mandates, our covid prevention policies, and our high vaccination rates.

 

Unfortunately, that’s a fallacy.  We are one country.  Whether we like it or not, those who think or act differently from us are still fellow citizens.  Covid has shown that we can’t escape, that we can’t walk away.  If we can’t convince those in our country to wear a mask, take the vaccine, or protect the vulnerable, then we can’t get rid of covid.  We are fighting for our health and safety.  We are fighting for science and medicine.  We are fighting against cynicism, selfishness, and fear.  We might dream of walking away, but we know that this is simply not possible. 

 

Even Jonah finally realizes that he can’t flee. God sends a huge storm, so ferocious that the ship he’s on is about to be shattered into pieces.  The sailors cast lots to see which person caused the storm.  The lots fall upon Jonah.  He tells them, “Throw me away into depths and the sea will calm down for you.”  But the crew refuses.  They continue to row towards dry land even as the sea rages more and more fiercely around them.  Jonah was able to see something that the others could not.  The sailors on the ship needed to change direction, but they continued to do what they’ve always done.    Jonah made the brave decision to speak out; that a new path needed to be taken. 

 

It reminds me of the story of Nahum Goldmann, the Jewish leader in the diaspora after World War II and a fierce Zionist.  Goldmann co-founded the World Jewish Congress and served as one of the leading figures in the World Zionist Organization.  In the 1960’s Goldmann as an American Jew was a thorn in the side of Prime Minister David ben Gurion.   The Prime Minister believed that Goldmann and American Jews had no right to tell him how Israel should or should not act.  Even still, Nahum Goldmann spoke out.  He was critical of Israel’s military might.  He was also a realist: “There can be no future for the Jewish state unless agreement is reached with the Arabs.”  Goldmann felt strongly that if American Jews had the right to support Israel, we also had the right to critique Israel.  Even David ben Gurion agreed.  As he shared with Goldmann: “I have had one concept of Zionism since I was a child, and I hold to that concept.  I live in a free country, as you do, and both have the right of free speech.”

This is a difficult moment to be a liberal and a Zionist.  I love Israel.  I love the people of Israel, the state of Israel, and the land.  It is my spiritual homeland, a place of deep devotion to me.  But, that doesn’t mean that I’m not also troubled by many of the Israeli government’s policies.  It has been unsettling how many of the values that I care about and that I fight for here in our country are ignored or even worse abused in Israel.  To see anti-Arab sentiment, homes being destroyed, Reform Judaism lambasted, and women’s rights diminished, has personally been difficult.

 

And so, should I, should we walk away from Israel?  Should we ignore what’s troubling us and pretend that it’s not happening? Or should we badmouth Israel and trash everything about her?  No! Neither! It’s much more difficult to engage with Israel in a more nuanced and complex way.  

Israel can’t continue to hide behind walls or fences.  If these policies continue in the long term, the Israel that we love: a Jewish state, a democracy, a country where all religions and people are free will no longer exist.  We already see that Israel’s relationship with the world is fracturing, that its moral position is weakening, and that our Jewish community especially the youngest amongst us is losing its deep connection to the Jewish state.

 

Nahum Goldmann reminds us that we are all interconnected: Israelis and American Jews.  And that we have an obligation as American Jews to show our love, always our love first, and our critique.  And our words and our actions work.  Goldmann changed Ben Gurion, American Jews vision on civil rights help reframe the occupation.  Like Jonah, our perspective is needed more than ever to help Israel make the brave decision that a new path must be taken.

Jonah also takes a new path.  After his time in the big fish, Jonah arrives at the great city of Nineveh.  He proclaims: “Forty more days and Nineveh shall be overturned!”  And amazingly, his words and actions work.  The people of Nineveh fast, they put on sackcloth, from the richest to the poorest.  Even the king of Nineveh gets off his thrown and declares, “Let all turn back from their evil ways and from the violence.”

 

Every single citizen, from every single neighborhood, came together for the betterment of their city to end the violence and to lift up the fallen.  The wealthy could have said, “not my problem!”  They could have stayed in their homes, ignoring the problems that surrounded them, but they didn’t.  Jonah’s words impelled them to act.

 

I’m sure you know where I’m going.  Our city is broken.  Murder rates continue to rise, crime unabated, hunger, and poverty.  Thousands are about to be evicted from their homes.

 

It’s so much easier to just look away.  If we only stay in the White L and ignore the Black Butterfly.  If we only we walk in our safe neighborhoods.  If only we drive on specific streets and never after dark, all will be ok.  But will it?

 

What happens when we walk away?  When we turn a blind eye?   Further population decline in the next census? Increased crime? Loss of city services?  More poverty and hunger?    

 

Jonah was one person, but he represented the entirety of the Jewish community in a very non-Jewish city of Nineveh.  As a Jew, his words mattered, his voice was heard, his actions helped transform a community.  As one of only a few synagogues in Baltimore City, our congregation has a unique voice when we join together with our interfaith allies.  We can have a greater impact.  Whether with partners like BUILD, ICJS, the Black Lives Matter Interfaith Coalition, Jews United for Justice, or so many of the other organizations that you are working with, to better Baltimore. We have the power as a synagogue and a Jewish community to change the trajectory of the city that we love.  So many of us have already done this hard work, but have we done enough?

The Book of Jonah ends in a peculiar fashion.  It’s the only Book of the Jewish Bible that ends with a question.  God says to Jonah: Should I have compassion for the great city of Nineveh and the more than a hundred and twenty thousand human beings that live there?  This is a question not only for Jonah.  This is a question for each one of us.  Do we have compassion?  Do we care?  Will we fight?  Will we fight for our country, for our democracy and our kids’ safety? Will we fight for our city and for the most vulnerable? Will we fight for Israel to succeed as a democratic, free, and Jewish state?  It’s so much easier, so much simpler, to walk away and pretend that the anti-vaxxers can’t hurt us, the crime in our city can’t reach us, the continued violence in Israel is not our problem.  We’re all interconnected, whether we like it or, whether we believe it or not.

 

That’s the question at this moment.  The question asked of each one of us.  Will we engage with those who think, act, and view the world differently from us?  Will we walk away or will we fight?

---

[i] https://www.nytimes.com/2021/08/13/opinion/Alabama-Covid-vaccine-politics.html

Follow the Thread - Kol Nidre Sermon 5782

 

Beginning in the spring of 1884, the artist Georges Seurat traveled to a bucolic retreat at the very gates of Paris to draw and paint.  Over the course of more than two years, he created his masterpiece, “Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grand Jatte.”[i]  Perhaps, you’ve been lucky enough, as I have, to have seen this work in person at the Art Institute of Chicago.

 

Seurat was avant-garde on the canvas, in contrast to the painters who came before him as well as the Impressionists of his day.  They were about the fleeting moment, while Seurat focused on permanence. 

 

His used a technique called pointillism.  At a distance the painting is beautiful; shimmering and luminous in the light.  But as you come closer and closer to the canvas, the images disappear and all you see are dabs of color.

 

What you might not know is that pointillism came about because of the scientific work of French chemist Michel Eugene Chevreul.[ii]  In the late 19^th century, Parisian tapestry makers wanted to improve the vibrancy of their colors.  Chevreul realized that the problem wasn’t the dyes being used to make the tapestry, but the ways that the hues were combined.  Most important to provide a vibrant tapestry was a thread of color.  The thread was central to make the tapestry come together.  This is what Seurat did in his painting, finding a juxtaposition of colors, blues and oranges, just as the chemist had found with the thread. 

 

Every year, it seems that we need this moment of Kol Nidre to reflect, to reframe, and to step back from our canvas of life.  But, even more so this year.  So many of us worried, fearful, and plum exhausted.  We’re standing way to close to the painting.  Our focus is on the dabs of color.  We’re worried about tomorrow, the to-do list, and keeping ourselves and our families safe,

 

Tonight, we search for that thread of color, that is found across our canvas of life.  The thread that is central to who we are, and to who we wish to become.

 

Author, educator, and activist, Parker Palmer shares this metaphor so beautifully in is poem “Everything Falls Away.”[iii]

Sooner or later, everything falls away.

You, the work you've done, your successes, large and small,

your failures, too.

Those moments when you were light,

alongside the times you became one with the night.

The friends, the people you loved who loved you,

those who might have wished you ill,

none of this is forever.

All of it is soon to go, or going, or long gone.

Everything falls away,

except the thread you've followed, unknowing, all along.

The thread that strings together all you've been and done,

the thread you didn't know you were tracking

until, toward the end, you see that the thread is what stays

as everything else falls away.

Parker Palmer describes a thread that continues from birth until death.  A thread that connects all the different pieces of our life.  The thread encompasses our failures and successes, the known and unknown.  This Yom Kippur, I urge you to take some time and reflect.  What matters most to you?  What drives you?  What connects you to those who came before and those who will follow?  What is the thread that weaves continually through your life?

 

The memoirist, Pauline Wengeroff, wrote a two-volume book about Jewish life in Russia at the turn of the twentieth century.  She shares there a beautiful story[iv] about how the Jewish women in her village would prepare for Kol Nidre to arrive.  Sara, the entrusted matriarch, gathers everyone together to recite T’chines, the Yiddish prayers and supplications that were recited by Jewish women in the old country.  Sara also brings forth an enormous ball of wick thread and a large piece of wax.

The women begin their work of candle making for Kol Nidre.  Sara places the ball of wick thread in her pocket.  She and Pauline’s mom stand three feet apart and pass the thread back and forth.  As they do this task, they speak about family members who died long ago, recalling their acts of goodness and kindness.  A thread is added for each person that they remember, until the wick is good and thick.  And then, living members of the family are remembered for life.  The threads of the dead and the threads of the living joined together to form the wicks of the Yom Kippur candles.

 

Our thread is multi-layered and is interwoven with the threads of our family and friends.  We know that those who came before us, our loved ones who are longer with us, and our family who continue to strengthen us, shaped us into the people that we are today.  It is the values, the history, the cultural framework, and even their mannerisms that give us our persona, our thread. 

When a family member dies, we take a black kriya ribbon and we cut it until the threads are shown.  The ripped ribbon serves as an outward expression of the torn grief and the broken heart that we feel on the inside.  Yet, even with the torn ribbon, our thread is not fully separated from the rest, reminding us that we are always connected to our past. On this Yom Kippur, we have the gift of time, to remember where we came from and of those extraordinary individuals who provided us with the thread that we carry forward.

 

Now, not to get too morbid, but tonight we do focus our thoughts on death.  Yom Kippur is considered a rehearsal for our passing.  Many of us don’t eat or drink, focusing on spiritual matters.  The Aron, the Ark, is also the Hebrew name for a casket.  Earlier this evening, after we removed the Torah scrolls, we looked inside the empty casket.  And tonight, many will wear a tallit, a prayer shawl, which traditionally is the garment worn when buried.

The tallit consists of four tzitzit, four fringes, four threads on each of its corners.  The tzitzit are to serve as a reminder of the 613 mitzvot, the commandments of living a full and meaningful Jewish life.  These tzitzit help us to recall our sacred obligations: to our Jewish practice, our moral commitments, and our observance of holidays and acts of loving kindness.  Those threads, the tzitzit, that we hold in our hands during the shema, should awaken us to follow a path of sacredness: our life mission.

 

One person who found his thread, who lived out his life mission, was Cleve Jones,[v] a gay activist.  Cleve lived during the early days of the AIDS epidemic.  In 1985, 1,000 San Franciscans had been lost to AIDS.  Our leaders and governments officials ignored the crisis or at worse, didn’t care.  Our country wasn’t responding.  And so, a march was planned.  Cleve asked all those who attended to create placards for friends and loved ones who had died of AIDS.  They taped those placards on the wall of the San Francisco Federal Building.  Cleve realized that placed together, the placards looked like a patchwork quilt.

 

And so, with fabric and thread, Cleve and others set out to create a memorial for those who had died of AIDS, and to show the devastating impact of the disease.  Two years later, in 1987, a beautiful and haunting quilt of 1,920 panels, larger than a football field, appeared on the National Mall in Washington.

Mike Smith[vi] was one of the co-founders with Cleve Jones of the NAMES Project AIDS Memorial Quilt.  Mike believed that the quilt was a cry for help to reach Middle America.  Not something threatening, but warm and comforting, like your grandmother’s quilt.

 

Mike thought that they’d work on the quilt for a little while, a few months, and then be done.  They weren’t prepared for the beauty.  They weren’t prepared for the mothers all over the country who sent panels for their dead sons to preserve them in perpetuity.

The quilt has become Mike’s life work.  It began as a protest banner and became a National Treasure.  From that first fabric and thread, it has become the largest communal art project in the world.  54 Tons in weight, 50,000 panels.  Hundreds of thousands who’ve worked on the quilt.  But, it wasn’t just fabric and thread.  The making of the quilt inspired people to do something, to express themselves, to tell their stories, and to turn their grief into action.

 

Over the course of their lives, Cleve, Mike, and so many others, found their thread, physically and metaphorically, to express their life work, to turn their grief into action.  We are living through another pandemic.  A time of mourning and sadness and grief.  It’s so easy to be bogged down, to be exhausted, to be transfixed by the blur of colors, unable to see the thread that connects us to  what matters most and to each other.

 

This Yom Kippur, step back from your canvas, take stock in yourself: who you are, what you stand for, what you care about.  Step back from the dabs of color and find your thread.

 

As Parker Palmer concludes in “Everything Falls Away” -

Follow that thread as far as you can

and you'll find that it does not end,

but weaves into the unimaginable vastness of life.

Your life never was the solo turn it seemed to be.

It was always part of the great weave of nature and humanity,

an immensity we come to know

only   as we follow our own small threads to the place

where they merge with the boundless whole. 

Each of our threads runs its course,

Then joins in life together. This magnificent tapestry—

this masterpiece in which we live forever.  Amen.

---

[i] https://mymodernmet.com/georges-seurat-a-sunday-afternoon-on-the-island-of-la-grande-jatte/

[ii] https://www.britannica.com/biography/Michel-Eugene-Chevreul

[iii] I’m in gratitude to Rabbi Jordi Schuster Battis for sharing this poem at our CCAR High Holiday Sermon Seminar.  As well as a thank you to other colleagues for their thoughts and inspiration on the topic of thread.  Special thank you to my husband Brian ten Siethoff, who constantly reads and lovingly critiques every High Holy Day sermon and is my best editor.

[iv] Mishkan HaNefesh, Yom Kippur, p.8

[v] https://www.aidsmemorial.org/quilt-history

[vi] Mike Smith, Co-founder, Names Project AIDS Memorial Quilt - Brief but Spectacular | PBS NewsHour

Faith - Rosh Hashanah Morning Sermon 5782

 

This has been a tough few weeks.  For months, we were pining for a vaccine.  It would be the end to all our troubles; and for a while it was.  It felt almost “normal” again.  But that feeling of optimism has ended.  With the rise of delta, many of us are worried about our kids; others nervous about the vaccine’s effectiveness.  If feels as if the doors have begun to close; as if we are stepping back into the darkness.  There is a lot of uncertainty, a lot of fear, and a lot unknown.

 

For millennia, when our ancestors felt those same feelings of worry, they would recite the words Ani Ma’amin.  “I believe.”  “I believe with perfect faith in the coming of the Messiah, and even though the Messiah might delay, nevertheless, I wait each and every day for the Messiah’s arrival.”

 

Faith.  For years, our ancestors had faith that the Messiah would bring peace and celebration after so many years of fear and sadness.  They possessed faith that tomorrow would be better than today; faith in something greater than themselves.

 

Our Torah and Haftarah readings on Rosh Hashanah describe individuals who have everything stacked against them, and still, even in their struggles, they possess faith that their dreams will come true.  Abraham and Sarah have faith that they will create a new religion.  Hagar and Ishmael have faith that they will survive the horrible ordeal in the wilderness.  Isaac has faith that a ram will appear, so that it and not he would be sacrificed to God.  Hannah has faith that after years of infertility, she too would become a parent.

 

Our ancestors possessed faith.  They believed.  They described this as faith in God who would provide them with the answer, with the gift, with the assurance that they could live a full and meaningful life.

 

I know that I’m taking a big risk here!  It’s one thing to talk about faith at a Shabbat service, but on Rosh Hashanah, to talk about God?  We don’t often talk about faith in Judaism.  Unlike Christianity or Islam, Judaism doesn’t require belief in a specific theology or divinity, in order to be a Jew.  I also know, from conversations with so many of you, that our congregation is filled with those who question God.  You might describe yourself as agnostic, atheist, or humanist.  I love our community’s willingness to question, to have difference of opinion, to address our beliefs in unique and diverse approaches. 

 

This morning, I’m not asking you to believe what I believe.  What I ask is that you have an open mind.  I ask that you reflect upon faith, however you define it.

 

In Hebrew, faith is translated as Emunah.  Emunah can mean many things.  It can mean faith, trust, or fidelity.  Throughout our Torah, there are numerous descriptions of faith in God.  In Exodus 14:31, we read: “Israel saw the work of Adonai upon the Egyptians, the people feared God, and believed in God…”  Emunah is translated here as belief.  During Biblical times, faith was a belief that God would provide miracles or other actions to help us during our time of need.

My belief is different.  Albert Einstein once taught, “There are two ways to live your life.  One is as though nothing is a miracle.  The other is as though everything is a miracle.”[i]  Or to put it differently, in our prayer book we poignantly read, “Pray as if everything depended on God.  Act as if everything depended on you.”[ii]  I recognize my power, my voice, my actions, but I also believe in miracles and in the divine.  I feel our world is limited when we focus solely on human power.  I must believe in something greater than myself, something that can comfort me, provide me strength, and help propel me and humanity forward.  I call that belief, God.

 

That is my belief.  My understanding of the world.  You might believe something completely different and that is wonderful.  I ask only this, whether you have a firm theology or if you question God or if you are an avowed atheist, please take time this holiday to reflect upon your belief. What is your faith?  What do you believe?  What provides you strength at this moment?

 

For all of us, are struggling.  This is a very difficult moment in all of our lives.  And I don’t know about you, but I am constantly questioning myself.  Everything these days is gray, there is no black and white.  I look at all of the decisions I need to make and I lack faith that I’ll find the right answer.

 

The question, I keep coming back to, and I’m sure you’ve asked it hundreds of times as well: “Am I doing the right thing?”  It’s become my mantra.  Should I go on that trip? Should I attend that funeral, that wedding, that birthday party?  Am I being a good parent?  Am I taking care of my family and friends?  Am I acting with kindness with compassion to those in need?  

 

Our tradition asks us to be faithful in our actions.  To have faith in ourselves.  Yet, how can we when we aren’t sure we are doing the right thing?  That’s why I urge you to be mindful of this famous commandment in our Torah: “love your neighbor as you love yourself.”  We often focus our energy on the first part, “Love your neighbor,” but it’s high time that we address the latter half, “love yourself.” 

 

We don’t have all the answers.  We will make mistakes.  We aren’t perfect.  That’s ok!  It’s time to focus on love, self-love.  This holiday, give yourself a break and love yourself, respect yourself, forgive yourself, and most importantly have faith in yourself. 

 

I’d like to return to that phrase, “Love your neighbor as you love yourself.”  Honestly, I’m having difficulty with the “love your neighbor” piece.  I have little faith in humanity at this moment. When so many of our fellow citizens don’t believe in science.  When others won’t take the vaccine or refuse to wear a mask; when it seems that our society is crumbling, growing ever further apart, it is excruciatingly difficult to have faith in humanity. 

 

I’m not sure I have the answer, but I turn to Margaret Mead who once famously said, “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it’s the only thing that ever has.”[iii]  That’s what provides my faith in humanity.  That a small group of us, here in our congregation, our allies in Baltimore, our Jewish community, and so many others, can join together and bring about a small spark that can transform our world. 

One way in Judaism that we show that faith in each other is through a little word, Amen.  Amen means “I agree” “May it be so.”  It’s connected to Emunah, faith.  It’s an acronym for El Melech Ne’aman, “God the Trustworthy King.”

 

Our tradition teaches that the person who answers Amen receives more reward than the person who recited the blessing in the first place.[iv]  Amen boosts the power of the statement.  Amen expresses a commitment to each other.  Amen means solidarity.  Amen is an affirmation of faith.

 

On this Rosh Hashanah, I ask for your Amens, your commitment, your affirmation, your solidarity:

This year, may we have faith in our personal power to make change.  Amen.

This year, may we have faith that we can fix the brokenness in our world.  Amen.

This year, may we have faith in the sacred.  Amen.

This year, may we have faith in ourselves, Amen.

This year, may we have faith that we can change the course of history.  Amen.

 

Long ago, our ancestors would recite the words Ani Maamin, I Believe, when they yearned for the Messiah’s arrival during moments of great challenge. There was no more difficult time than the Holocaust, when our ancestors prayed for a better day.

 

A tale is told that after the Holocaust ended, a Swiss journalist found a small cellar in Cologne, Germany where Jews hid from the Nazis.  On one of the walls, is a note, written into the pavement by those who stayed there: “I believe in the sun even when it’s not shining.  I believe in love even when I can’t feel it.  I believe in God even when God is silent.”[v]

 

It has been a difficult year, and the weeks and months ahead look bleak as well.  A lot of uncertainty, a lot unknown, a lot to worry and fret about.  Our ancestors always believed, even in times of difficulty.  They believed in God who would support and strengthen them.  They believe in the Messiah who would rescue them.  They believed in the sun, even when it was dark outside.  They believed in love, even when all they saw was hatred.

 

Your belief will be different than theirs, that’s ok.  But you need faith, too.  What do you believe?  What provides you strength and solace?  What helps you get up each day to make a difference? 

 

Ani Maamin.  I too believe.  I believe in a power that connects us to nature, to history, to one another.  I believe in myself, even when I don’t know the right answer or even when I make a mistake.  I believe in humanity, even with all of its failures, and fractures, even with all of its weaknesses, pettiness, and self-centeredness. But, most importantly, I believe in you.  I believe in your power, our collective power to make a difference.  For I know, that I have you, you have me, and we have each other.  For together, we say: Amen.

---

[i] http://www.alberteinsteinsite.com/quotes/einsteinquotes.html

[ii] Mishkan T’filah: A Reform Siddur, p. 165 (words by Ferdinand Isserman)

[iii] https://americanhistory.si.edu/collections/search/object/nmah_1285394

[iv] Babylonian Talmud, Berachot 53b

[v] https://humanistseminarian.com/2021/04/04/i-believe-in-the-sun-part-v-the-source/

The Luster of the Pearls - Erev Rosh Hashanah Story 5782

 

As has become our tradition, each year on Erev Rosh Hashanah I begin our High Holy Day season with a story.  This year, I’d like to share a story with you entitled “The Pearls of the Habsburgs.”  For many years a story similar to this one was told and retold by Milton Bendiner, the Education Director of Temple Beth-El in San Antonio.  Generations of children and adults in San Antonio grew up with this story and I proudly share with you my own version this evening.

Long ago,[i] lived the great European rulers known as the Habsburgs.  As you might know, the Habsburgs ruled an empire spanning east to west, over tiny hamlets as well as the large and elegant cities of Vienna, Budapest, and Prague.  The Habsburgs were known for many things: their magnificent palaces, their love of music, their collection of art, but most especially for their crowns and their jewels.  Their tiaras and swords, orbs and scepters, were the most stunning in the world.  Gold, silver, rubies, and diamonds, but most precious, were their very rare pearls.  The emperors, empresses, dukes, and duchesses regaled the world with their beautiful pearls.

Over time, the Habsburgs saw that their pearls began slowly to lose their luster.  The pearls didn’t sparkle in the same way; they no longer shimmered; they became dull, ordinary.  The pearls were no longer unique or as precious as before.

“Call, the Imperial Jeweler,” screamed the Emperor. 

“Yes, your majesty, how can I be of assistance” 

“Imperial Jeweler, our pearls have lost their luster.  As you know, the coronation of our son, the Duke, will occur in three-months-time.  Our jewels can’t be ordinary; our pearls must shimmer.  Find someone, anyone, to restore these pearls to their original luster.”

“Yes, your majesty!”

The Imperial Jeweler tried his best, but nothing he did could restore the pearls.  He decided instead to send officials to every town in the land asking for guidance and assistance.

The officials began in Vienna, the capital city.  The owner of the most prestigious jewelry store suggested using a cloth to buff the pearls.  But that didn’t work.

Onward the officials traveled to Budapest.  The Imperial Jeweler of the East suggested setting the pearls in sunlight for seven straights days.  But that didn’t work either.

Onward the officials traveled to Prague.  An important gem collector suggested rubbing the pearls with sand.  But unfortunately, that didn’t work either.

Onward the officials traveled, from larger city to smaller town, from smaller town to even teeny tiny village, but no one could come up with the correct approach to restore the pearls’ luster.

Finally, with only days left until the three months deadline, the officials arrived at the very end of the empire, at a small hamlet on the Adriatic Sea.  There they saw a tiny house that stood next to the water.  Inside, they met an old woman who glanced intently at the pearls. 

“I know what must be done,” she said.  “Leave them with me and in three-days-time, I will return them to their former beauty.”

True to her word, three days later, the woman entered the capital city of Vienna.

The Imperial Jeweler and the Emperor quickly rushed her into the Throne Room.  There, she pulled out a small mesh bag, opened it, to reveal the shimmering, sparkling pearls.

“They are beautiful once again!” cried the Emperor.  “How did you return them to their former luster?”

“These pearls are very special.  I recognized them immediately as the pearls found near my village on the Adriatic Sea.  Only one thing can revive pearls such as these.  To return to their former luster, the pearls must be immersed in the waters where they were originally formed.  And it must be done annually, at the same season!”

And so, every year at this time, the Imperial Jeweler is entrusted to take the pearls to the shore of that distant land.  The pearls are placed in the same mesh bag and immersed in the waters where they were originally formed.  And once again their luster is restored for another year.”

Rosh Hashanah is a moment turning, of returning.  We even call this season Aseret Yamei Teshuvah, the 10 Days of Return.  We return to be renewed by our Jewish tradition.  We return to deepen our connection to our Jewish community.  We return with the hope to become our best selves.  We return with the dream that together we can build a better world.

Each year, as summer comes to a close, as September begins, we recognize that like those pearls, we too have lost a little bit of our luster.  We see that our shells have dulled; no longer do they shimmer or sparkle.  This year especially, has been very long and difficult.  Each of us, in small and in big ways, have struggled with how best to cope in this changing world.  So many of us are tired, beaten down, dulled by many challenges of this past year.

How many of us are angry?  How many pessimistic for our future?  How many of us are cynical?  How many of us depressed, worried, or anxious?  Our pearls no longer shimmer.  We need spiritual renewal; we need hope, optimism, and a sense that things will get better.

And so, on this start of the New Year, I welcome you back home!  Whether you are with us on Zoom or gathered in our Meadow, you have returned again for another service, another High Holy Days, a new year.

Just as the pearls were revived by the waters where they were originally formed, so too, do you venture back home.  May you be revived in the waters of Torah.  May you be renewed through the words of our Jewish tradition.  May your luster shine once again through the companionship of your Jewish community.  May you sparkle and shimmer through the renewing acts of prayer, study, and lovingkindness.

The Habsburgs pearls continued to dull year after year.  It was only when the Duke’s coronation arrived, that the Emperor recognized the urgency of the situation.  For all of us, it’s often easier to ignore our troubles and to pretend everything is ok.  We need those moments of urgency to awaken us, to propel us to repair ourselves and our world.

We’ve all had those moments of urgency this past year: loss, saying goodbye to loved ones, illness, and struggle. But, let us not forget the moments of simcha: new babies, graduations, birthdays, joyous celebrations!  What are the moments of urgency that awaken you?  What, my friends, brought you here tonight, to be with your Jewish community?  What propels you to join us on these High Holy Days?

The old woman reminds us that the pearls should be immersed each year, at the same time.  That is good advice, I recommend it!  But don’t forget that it took years and years until the pearls were first immersed in the living waters.  Let that be a reminder for all of us, that it’s never too late to return.  Whether you’ve been gone for years or this is your first ever High Holy Days, welcome!  It’s never too late to begin anew, to start again, to return again.

These next few weeks and months will be difficult.  We will need to change and adapt in order to transform ourselves and our world.  Returning will be different this year, just as it was last year.  Yet, here we are and together we will make a difference, build a community, and heal our world.  Like the Habsburg pearls, may you be revived in the waters of Judaism.  May you find our moments together a source of blessing and renewal.  May prayer, community, and acts of kindness provide you with the strength you need to not only survive this year, but to thrive this year.  Here we are, as we return again.  Amen.

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[i] My own story which is adapted from a version told by Milton Bendiner of Temple Beth-El San Antonio