A Window for the Future: Israel and Gaza - Parashat Noach - October 20, 2023

 

This week has been very difficult.  I’ve spoken with so many of you over the last few days.  Whether it’s a pastoral meeting, a long phone call, a quick hello, or even an email, we are all hurting.  Like many Americans, when I see someone, I often ask: “How are you doing?”  Almost instinctively, we all answer: “good” or “ok.”  But this week, we are not ok.  We are not good.  We are sad.  We are angry.  We are fearful.  We are numb.  We don’t know what to think.

I’ve been reflecting a lot on this week’s Torah portion, Noach.  The famous Noah and the Ark.  You might know that Noah is not a Jew.  He lived a few generations before Abraham and Sarah (the original Jewish people).  Noah represents all of humanity.  His story is all of our stories.  He is Israel.  He is Palestine.  He is America.  He is everyone.

Noah spends forty days living through a monsoon.  The storms were so threatening that the entire earth was covered with a flood.  Noah didn’t know up or down.  He was alone on that Ark for months, with his immediate family, and no one else.  His world felt threatened, so fragile, so out of his control.

Let’s take a step back.  Before the storm waters, before the first raindrop, God told Noah to build an ark. The Torah tells us of the number of cubits (the length, width, and height) of the ark.  We learn of the gopher wood, tar, and other supplies used to make the ship.  And then we learn this interesting detail… “Create a Tzohar in the Ark and terminate within it a cubit on top” (Genesis 6:16).  I’m doing that rabbinic thing where I don’t translate the Hebrew!  Create a Tzohar in the Ark.  The word tzohar is connected to tzoharim which means noon.  Our rabbis believed that Noah created something on the ark that was connected to noontime, to midday.

One answer by our rabbis is that Noah created a gleaming stone that would allow light into the ark.  There was so much darkness, rain, wind.  There was no sun or stars to provide navigation.  The gleaming stone allowed Noah, his family, and the animals to see.  It also provided them with support and comfort during a very dark time. 

I know that many of us feel very alone at this moment.  We are a liberal Jewish community that is quite progressive in our thinking and in our advocacy.  Our synagogue in recent years has worked closely on issues around immigration, reproductive rights, anti-racism efforts, climate advocacy, and education reform.  We have stood firmly in word and action with many progressive organizations making our voices heard and supporting our allies in these efforts.

And yet, this week, not all, but many of these organizations have either been silent about the devastation in Israel or even worse have said very hurtful things about Israel.

Perhaps you’ve seen strongly worded statements in support of freeing Palestine or creating a Palestinian State from river to sea (which means that Israel would cease to exist).  Perhaps you’ve read friends or allies’ comments on social media in support of those who have been killed in Gaza, but watched in disbelief as they remained silent and did not issue a statement for the Jewish women, men, folk, children, elderly, and others who were brutally murdered in Israel.

At this moment, we want our allies to reach out and ask us: how are you doing?  We look to them to condemn the violence against innocent Jews.  We might disagree politically about the crisis. That’s ok.  We are all human beings.  You can issue a statement supporting Palestinians and the innocent civilians in Gaza and also condemn the violence and the terrorism of Hamas and speak up for the Jewish civilians who were murdered.  The gemstone that Noah created was to provide comfort to him during a very dark time.  For many of us, that light has been missing.

But for some of us, that isn’t exactly true.  I luckily have been surrounded by love and light this past week, even in the midst of darkness.  Over the last week, so many non-Jewish friends have reached out to check-in on me.  And seven different interfaith leaders reached out to me directly (by phone or email) to see how I was doing, to express their horror of what happened in Israel, and to give their support and love to Bolton Street Synagogue.

Out of those seven interfaith leaders, five of them are from BUILD, the interfaith community organizing initiative that we are a part.  After hearing from the first four clergy leaders, I asked the fifth leader, “Did someone share that we are hurting and reminded you all to reach out to me?”  “What, no.” they said.  “We didn’t discuss this.”  I was truly flabbergasted.  Each clergy person had each reached out on their own accord because they knew I was not ok.   

That is light.  This gives me strength in times of darkness to know that a group of clergy leaders in Baltimore knew that I was hurting.  They knew me well enough because of the relationship that we had created that they should reach out.  May we continue to strengthen relationships in our lives with those who are different from us.

I want to conclude with one final thought.  As you know, two Jews, three opinions!  Some of our rabbis didn’t like the definition of Tzohar as a gleaming light.  Instead, they defined tzohar as a window.  Noah was expected to build a window in the ark.  Why a window?  The rabbinic commentator Radak teaches that Noah needed a window for the future.  At first, the window would need to be closed because of the heavy storms.  If the window was open, the rain would pour in.  But one day, in the future, the rain would stop.  Noah would be able to open the window, to see outside, to bring in the natural light, and to send the raven and the dove out into the world.  This was the symbol of peace!  Noah built the window during darkness because knowing that one day the window would be needed.  One day, there would be peace.

For so many of us, we are still in darkness.  We are terrified for our siblings in Israel.  We are so scared for the future of the Jewish state.  And we are fearful for the innocent Palestinians in Gaza.  War is excruciating and when we hear that water and electricity are shut off, when we hear that trucks are unable to enter Gaza with needed supplies, we are heart-stricken.  We condemn all violence.  We wish for peace and for protection for Israelis and Palestinians alike.

And yet, we still need hope.  We still need to believe that one day the rain will stop, the waters will recede, the clouds will disappear.  We need to be ready for that moment, to be able to open the window and look out into the world.  May we, at this difficult time, create a window within our soul, that helps us look beyond this tragedy towards peace.  Perhaps that window is slammed shut right now, but it’s there.  That’s ok.  One day, may the window open and may the light shine in.

Reframing the Myth: Creating a New Relationship with Israel - Yom Kippur Morning Sermon 5784

 

Fifty years ago, on the second week of October 1973, Egypt and Syria struck Israel in a surprise attack.  Like today, Jews around the world gathered in synagogue on the holy day of Yom Kippur.  Israel was caught completely unaware.  In hours, the Israeli Air Force crumbled, planes and pilots decimated.  The Yom Kippur War was truly one of the worst moments in modern Israeli history.

In the Sinai desert,[i]  as troops prepared for battle amidst smoke, blackened tanks, and fatigues, a jeep appeared seemingly out of nowhere with the “Poet of Rock” Leonard Cohen.  In 1973, Leonard Cohen was a huge star. Just one year earlier, he had performed in front of half a million people at the Isle of Wight festival.  Cohen arrived at Hatzor, an Israeli air force base, deep in the Sinai Desert.  An ammo crate was his stage, no back-up band or amplifier, just Cohen and his guitar playing his hits: “Suzanne,” “So Long Marianne,” and “Bird on the Wire” for the Israeli soldiers.

In between the concerts, Cohen began writing a new song, “Lover, Lover, Lover.”  If you listen closely, it doesn’t sound anything like a typical love song.  He begins with, “Father, change my name.”  That makes sense when you learn that Cohen asked the Israelis to call him not Leonard, but by his Hebrew name, Eliezer.  He also writes that a body could serve as a “weapon” and professed the hope that “this song could be a shield against the enemy.”

Matti Friedman, the Canadian Israeli author of the new book, “Who by Fire: Leonard Cohen in the Sinai,” shares that Cohen was filled with emotion while writing “Lover, Lover, Lover.”  Here was one of the original verses found in Leonard Cohen’s orange notebook:

I went down to the desert

To help my brothers fight

I knew that they weren’t wrong

I knew that they weren’t right

But bones must stand up straight and walk

And blood must move around

And men go making ugly lines

Across the holy ground

Although Cohen never liked to define his lyrics, in one sense, this was a love song for his fellow “brothers” in Israel.  He arrived to fight alongside his Jewish brothers and vowed to protect them with this song.  Like so many of us, Leonard Cohen was swept up by his visit to the Holy Land.

Maybe you too have had a moment like this?  Watching in 1967 as the Old City returned to Jewish hands for the first time in 2,000 years or paralyzed on that Yom Kippur day 1973 as you thought Israel was finished.  Perhaps, like me, you had such optimism in the late 90’s as Yitzhak Rabin and Yasser Arafat signed the Oslo peace agreements.  It could be each time you hear the singing of Hatikvah (Israel’s National Anthem), the wearing of an IDF t-shirt, or a visit to Israel: hiking up Masada or touching the ancient stones of the Western Wall.

Maybe, it was a similar moment to my grandfather, who as he walked along the streets of Tel Aviv came across Rechov Gordon, Gordon Street.  He became teary eyed for he always believed our family name was changed once we left Eastern Europe.  Here was proof of our connection to our Jewish family in Israel. 

Today, these moments of homecoming seem so quaint.  Leonard Cohen shared that he was “called to his mythic home.”  That’s why he arrived amidst a dangerous war.  For most of us, this myth of the perfect Jewish country has been shattered into a million pieces.  Our relationship with Israel, the stories we were taught, feel less like reality and more like a myth.  Perhaps, you were never taught about the Palestinian people or learned of their struggles.  Maybe your Jewish education was like sweet Kool-Aid, always discussing falafel, camels, and the dead sea and never addressing the challenges or stumbles of Modern Israel.  Many of us, especially our young people, walk away because these myths can never be reconciled with reality.

Leonard Cohen also tasted reality after he returned home from Israel.  When Cohen released Lover, Lover, Lover a few months after the Yom Kippur war, the verse “went down to the desert to help my brothers fight” was notably absent.  We aren’t sure why Cohen removed the verse.  Perhaps, it had something to do with this memory that he described in his manuscript:

Helicopter lands.  In the great wind soldiers rush to unload it. It is filled with wounded men.  I see their bandages and I stop myself from crying.  These are young Jews dying.  Then someone tells me that these are Egyptian wounded.  My relief amazes me.  I hate this.  I hate my relief.  This cannot be forgiven.  This is blood on your hands.

Cohen never shared publicly that “Lover, Lover, Lover” was written for Israelis.  In fact, at a concert in France in 1976, he claims to have written the song for, “the Egyptians and the Israelis” in that order.

Cohen steps back and removes the connection to Israel in Lover, Lover, Lover.  That change occurs after 1973.  Was Cohen upset, dismayed, perhaps ashamed by Israel’s actions?

It wasn’t just Leonard Cohen.  Everything changed after the Yom Kippur War.[ii]  That moment fractures Israeli society.  The Labor party and the old guard of Ben Gurion and Golda Meir comes to an end because this war feels like a defeat.  Instead of focusing on the collective, we see a splintering of Israel into many small pluralistic identities.  There is the rise of the Likud party, Mizrachi (Middle Eastern Jews), the settler movement, Ultra-Orthodoxy, LGBTQ Jews, and even our Reform Movement.  The old Israel which stressed consensus is gone.  Today, there is no unifying identity.

For us in America, our relationship begins to change as well.  For many of us starting in the 1990’s, the blind love and obedience many of us felt for Israel evaporates.  It’s hard to focus on puppy love when policies enacted by the Israeli government are deeply distressing to us.  And it’s only gotten worse.  In recent months, Prime Minister Netanyahu and his coalition work diligently to dismantle democracy and erode the separation of powers between the Knesset (Israel’s parliament) and the Supreme Court.  The government continues to mistreat Israeli Arabs as well as those Palestinians living under occupation.  Ultranationalists sit in prominent government positions and openly attack minorities.  While Ultra-Orthodox Jews gain more political power and work to turn Israel into a theocracy.  It is troubling to say the least.  It seems easier to walk away, to turn our back.  As the myth is shattered, many American Jews say good riddance, rather than create a new story.

And yet, Israelis are not walking away.  In Israel, a revolution is happening in the streets.  Over the last year, hundreds of thousands of Israelis gathered in protest each Saturday evening blocking traffic, protesting in public squares, to lambast the actions of the Israeli government.  It is believed that more than 1/3 of all of Israel’s citizens have marched in the streets; a large and very vocal group of Israelis are fed-up with the direction of the country.

Rabbi Gilad Kariv, an Israeli Reform rabbi and member of the Labor Party in the Knesset, stresses that Israelis are marching in the streets to protect both Israel’s fragile democracy AND Israeli pluralistic Judaism.  As he shares, the two major symbols of the protestors are the Israeli flag and the Israeli Declaration of Independence.  The Israeli Flag symbolizes the hope for a Modern Zionism that encompasses all in our Jewish community.  While the Israeli Declaration of Independence represents Israeli democracy and the protection of all, including Arabs, who call Israel home.  

Rabbi Naamah Kelman, Dean of the Hebrew Union College, Jerusalem campus, recently shared that the Israeli Reform Movement has been critical to these rallies.  We were the first religious group to sign on to the protests.  The 130 Israeli Reform Rabbis and the 54 Reform synagogues in Israel have been at the center of organizing and training the protestors.  For years, our Reform leaders in Israel have been in the trenches, speaking out against injustice and prophetic Judaism, and now this work is finally bearing fruit.

There are so many stories!  Yali Levanon, a 17-year-old, who is currently in mechinah, a pre-army program run by the Reform Movement, who is galvanizing thousands of Israelis to speak out for LGBTQ+ rights.  Or a Reform synagogue in Petach Tikvah that works with the local school district to bring pluralistic Jewish voices into the classroom.  Or Rabbi Yael Vurgan, a roaming Reform rabbi, who visits ten small communities in the Negev near the Gaza strip and brings together Bedouin and Christian Arabs fostering unity and connection.  We have allies in Israel who fight the occupation, raise their voices against the mistreatment of minorities, and work to protect Israel’s fragile democracy.

Rabbi Talia Avnon-Benveniste reminds us that “Israel is not one story, but many stories.  Our goal is to bring together many narratives, many stories, in order to understand the many truths of Israel.”  Yes, there are great challenges in Israel.  Yes, we often disagree profoundly with the Israeli government’s actions.  But that is only one narrative, one story.  Many of us were fed a myth when we were younger.  We must not move from one myth to another.  Israel is complex, a country with lots of problems who makes lots of mistakes (just like the United States).  We must bring the shattered pieces of the prior myth together to create a new narrative, a new story.

Leonard Cohen seemed to walk away from Israel.  For many years, he lived in a Buddhist monastery, separated from the outside world and his Judaism.  In 2009, Cohen planned a concert tour around the world with the final stop in Israel.  Over 50,000 people attended that concert in Tel Aviv, to welcome Cohen back home.

It was a similar day to today, late September, between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.  The soccer stadium was filled with all Israeli society: Jews and Arabs, secular and Orthodox, young and old.  Cohen dedicated the singing of Hallelujah, his most famous song, to those who lost children on both sides of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.  The proceeds from the concert went to a fund he created for reconciliation, tolerance, and peace, for both Israeli and Palestinian organizations.  At the end of his performance, Leonard Cohen blessed those 50,000 people with words of Birkat Cohenim, the Priestly Benediction, in Hebrew.

Over the course of his life, Cohen reframed his connection to Israel by creating a new story which encompassed all that makes up Israel: the good and the bad, the challenges and the successes.  He brought his full self, lifting up the values and beliefs he vowed Israel should become.

Today, a revolution is happening in Israel.  One group that is most visible at these protests are the veterans from the Yom Kippur War.  They stand with signs that say: “Fighters from Yom Kippur 1973 battle for the character of the state.”  Long ago, they fought to save Israel from enemies abroad, now they fight the enemies within.  They fight for democracy, pluralism, and Israel’s Jewish soul. 

Fifty years ago, on a similar Yom Kippur day, the American Jewish community was glued to their radios, terrified that Israel would be decimated by its enemies.  We didn’t take Israel for granted.  We didn’t remain complacent.  Fifty years later, too many of us are ready to walk away.  The myth has been shattered and many of us say, “good riddance.”

May we take the shards of a broken myth and reframe them into a new narrative, the many stories that make up Israel.  May we engage with Israel at a deeper level: read the newspaper, be informed, attend lectures, and learn more about what is happening.  May we take action: to support the Israeli Reform Movement, to donate to progressive organizations in Israel, to deepen relationship with Israelis, and to attend a rally here in America alongside our Israeli siblings. We almost lost Israel in 1973, we don’t want to lose Israel today.  Amen.

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[i] This sermon is based upon the writings and recordings by Matti Friedman.  Some of the resources for this sermon were based upon “Who by Fire: Leonard Cohen in the Sinai”

https://www.tabletmag.com/sections/arts-letters/articles/leonard-cohen-songs-yom-kippur-war

https://www.timesofisrael.com/why-leonard-cohen-joined-a-war-to-sing-for-his-brothers-and-never-spoke-of-it-again/

[ii] https://www.ajc.org/news/podcast/matti-friedman-on-how-1973-yom-kippur-war-impacted-leonard-cohen-and-what-it-means-today

The Broken Clock - Kol Nidre Sermon 5784

 

Long ago, there was a small village located far away at the very edge of a kingdom.  Although the village was very tiny, it was a vibrant community with its own park, library, school, hospital, court of law, even a synagogue.  Only a few hundred people lived in that village, yet there were tailors, shoemakers, carpenters, and masons.  Only one trade was missing; there was no clockmaker. Once, there was a clockmaker, but long ago they moved away.  Before leaving, the clockmaker warned the village, “Make sure to wind your clocks each and every day.”  At first, they all followed the clockmaker’s directions, but after many years, the clocks became increasingly inaccurate.  How annoying to always be looking at the wrong time!  No one knew if or when a new clockmaker would arrive in their far-off village.  And so, they stopped winding their clocks and let them run down.[i] 

Our world these days is filled with lots of ifs, whens, and maybes.  There is so much uncertainty.  Too many problems keep us up at night!   Will our democracy survive another election?  What about our Jewish community with the threats of antisemitism, Israel’s future, and continued assimilation?  What about the climate?  Can we stop emitting carbon quickly enough to save our planet?  The problems of the world seem unsurmountable, but perhaps, maybe, with a little bit of human ingenuity, technological knowledge, and a miracle everything will be, ok?   These challenges seem beyond our capacity as individuals.  What does our Jewish tradition teach about navigating uncertain times?

Dr. Alyssa Gray, professor at the Hebrew Union College, teaches[ii]  that for our rabbis, “uncertainty is the stage of which all human beings, Jewish and not, act out their lives.” Our Jewish tradition loves to live in the gray, in uncertainty.  Major theological questions often go unanswered.  Does the innocent suffer?  No, says Deuteronomy. Yes, says Job.  Are we punished for the sins of our ancestors?  Yes, says Exodus.  No, says Jeremiah.  Unlike other religions, so many of our Jewish beliefs are unclear.  It is in uncertainty that we thrive as a Jewish community.

It can be liberating to have such flexibility in answering theological questions.  Unlike many other religions, we Jews love to ask questions, to debate, and to come up with dozens of answers to a single query. But how do we move forward?  We can’t live in uncertainty forever, can we?

One answer to that question is found in a Talmudic debate.[iii]  We learn that the Roman military leader Turnus Rufus encounters the great teacher, Rabbi Akiva and asks him this provocative question: “If your God loves the poor, why does your God not support them?”  As befits this type of question, a theological debate occurs between rabbi and general.  Each of them, contemplates God’s role in the world and attempts to understand why God would or would not act.  After much back and forth, Rabbi Akiva concludes his argument with a quotation from the prophet Isaiah (a verse found in tomorrow’s haftarah reading), “It is to share your bread with the hungry, and to take the homeless poor into your home” (Isaiah 58:7).  Rabbi Akiva then asks the question: “When do we bring the poor into our homes?” He answers: “Right now!” 

Dr. Alyssa Gray sums up this idea: “Over the course of his dialogue with [Turnus Rufus], [Rabbi Akiva] has come to realize that there can be no certain, confident answer to a “Why?” question (“Why are there poor?  Why doesn’t God take care of them?”).  The only possible certainty lies in answers to questions of “How?” and “When?” to act.  And the answer to “When?” is clearly “Now.”[iv]

What must we do in uncertain times?  We act!  Our world is burning, and we can’t fathom why humanity allows this to continue.  Russia attacks Ukraine in an unjust war and we can’t understand why the world refuses to act.  Homophobia, racism, misogyny, and antisemitism fester openly, and we question why decent people won’t speak out.  Why do bad things happen to good people?  Why does God allow these problems to continue?  We don’t know and are often unable to answer any of these why questions!  We can’t contemplate the theological or complex problems that are seemingly beyond our personal reach.  But we aren’t expected to find an answer to these questions. Our role, according to Rabbi Akiva, is to do our small part to answer how and when we can make this world a better place.  We just need to act, right now!

How must we act?  Just reflect upon Rabbi Akiva’s answer to Turnus Rufus.  “When do we bring the poor into our homes?”  “Right now.”  Our Jewish tradition believes that during uncertain times we must act together.  We do this work not alone, not off by ourselves, but in solidarity with each other.  Our Jewish tradition teaches that we pray together in a minyan with at least ten adults, we study together in chevrutah with at least two people, and we work to heal this world in community.

I believe that many answers to our questions can be found by looking closely at the natural world.  The beauty of nature has so much to teach us.  One example is the incredible sequoia trees known as the California redwoods.[v]  Perhaps you’ve been lucky enough to see them?  These magnificent trees can grow well over 300 feet tall, up to 35 stories, and can be up to 26 feet in diameter, so big that a car can drive through them.  Many have lived over 1,000 years.  What contributes to their incredible height, but also their longevity?

You would think the trees would have deep root systems, but their roots only travel five or six feet into the earth.  That is shocking considering how tall the trees can become.  A redwood tree, alone in the world, with a root system this shallow would not survive even the smallest gust of wind. 

Instead, the roots of each tree branch out over 100 feet away from their trunk.  Each sequoia tree intertwines their roots with other sequoias providing them with strength and vitality and resources to continue their growth. 

The redwoods only thrive when they form “tribes” or communities of trees where their roots can fuse together. This provides them with incredible resilience to survive the most damaging floods, droughts, earthquakes, and other natural disasters.

During uncertain times, we too only thrive when we are in community.  Alone, we will fall, but together we support, strengthen, and continue each other’s growth.  When we act together, in solidarity, we are better equipped to fight adversity and survive the challenges of uncertainty.

But what keeps us going?  Last summer, Dahlia Lithwick[vi] of Slate was feeling utterly shattered in this uncertain world.  Not only had COVID gotten her down, but in only a few few weeks, Roe was overturned, the Uvalde school shooting, the racist attack in Buffalo, and the continued assault on LGBTQ+ people paralyzed her.  Dahlia was searching for a word that summed up her feelings of helplessness, a word that expressed the need for action and hope.

Out of nowhere, a friend introduced her to a Yiddish word, tzebrokhnkayt, which is typically translated to mean dejection or despondency.  But Dahlia’s friend translated this word in a more positive light “the quality of broken heartedness that gives strength in healing.”  As Dahlia Lithwick shares, “at its essence we each carry our shattered pieces with us.”  Tzebrokhnkayt is not something in need of a quick fix, it instead should be honored.  We are obligated to gather up, tend to, and honor the pain, but also take up the work of healing.

Our people encountered pain and adversity for thousands of years.  Our Temple was destroyed, we were expelled from our land, we wandered the world never truly feeling at home.  We faced crusades, pogroms, and antisemitic attacks.  And yet, during the uncertainty, we continued forward, that path was hope.  We always believed that tomorrow would be better than today, that there was always a possibility of redemption. 

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks teaches:[vii] “Optimism and hope are not the same.  Optimism is the belief that the world is changing for the better; hope is the belief that, together, we can make the world better.  Optimism is a passive virtue, hope an active one.  It needs no courage to be an optimist, but it takes a great deal of courage to hope.”

Our world is filled with uncertainty.  There is so much worry and despair, so much unknown about the future.  It’s so hard to keep going.  The big problems seem so overwhelming and out of our control.  How can we stop climate change when too many deny that it’s even happening in the first place?  How can we end gun violence when our leaders prevent even the smallest regulation to pass?  How can we protect transgender individuals, queer people, women, and the most vulnerable when laws are enacted that take away their rights?

We navigate these uncertain times by holding on to hope.  Hope isn’t passive, it isn’t pollyannish, it’s not rainbows and unicorns.  It is courageous to hope.  Hope is the belief that through our actions we can make this world a little bit better.

Long ago, there was a small village whose clockmaker moved away.  “Make sure to wind your clocks each and every day.”  At first, many followed the clockmaker’s directions, but after many years the clocks became increasingly inaccurate.  No one knew if or when a new clockmaker would arrive in their far-off village.  And so, many let their clocks run down.  There were others, a small group, who maintained that if the clocks ran, they should not be abandoned.  So, day after day, they wound their clocks even though they knew they weren’t accurate.  One day, news spread through the town that a new clockmaker had arrived.  Everyone rushed to see the clockmaker with their clocks in tow.  But the only clocks that could be repaired were those that had been wound every day.  The abandoned clocks had grown too rusty!

After so many years, too many of those villagers lost hope.  How long can you stare at the incorrect time before giving up? But for others, the clock was of value to them.  They cared, they hoped, they kept winding those clocks.

In this uncertain world, may we too be filled with hope.  We face so much despair, so much fear of our shared future.  Our small actions often seem like a drop in the bucket.  But, if we stop turning the clock, we guarantee that it will break.  Hope requires action.  May we find the courage to wind our clocks day after day, for even the smallest actions can make this world a little bit better.  Amen.

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[i] Story by Rabbi Israel Friedman found in Man’s Quest for God (1954) by Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel (Adapted)

[ii] Uncertainty, Action, and Faith: Talmudic Theological Musings for the Year(s) of COVID by Dr. Alyssa Gray (pp. 3-4)

[iii] Babylonian Talmud, Bava Batra 10a

[iv] Uncertainty, Action, and Faith: Talmudic Theological Musings for the Year(s) of COVID by Dr. Alyssa Gray (pp. 9-10

[v] https://joanneeddy.com/2016/06/29/intertwining-roots-a-lesson-on-community/

[vi] https://slate.com/news-and-politics/2022/06/uvalde-shooting-politics-is-the-poison-and-the-cure.html

[vii] Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, To Heal a Fractured World, p. 166

Loneliness to Belonging: Rosh Hashanah Morning Sermon 5784

 

Long ago,[i] at the very dawn of humanity, all the inhabitants of the world moved from the east to gather at a singular spot.  They wished to build a great tower that would reach the very heavens.  A tower we call Babel. 

There were no stones in that valley, so the people forged kilns to make bricks.  As the Tower grew taller and taller,[ii] bricks were hauled up to the very top of the construction site.  If a brick fell, the build  ers would lay down and weep: “Woe to us, when will we have another to replace it?”  But, if a person fell down and died, they would step right over them and continue their work.  No attention was paid to those who perished.

The Tower of Babel is a stark warning of what can occur when human life is devalued.  The builders became so transfixed in their work that the people who stood next to them became insignificant, irrelevant, invisible.  Each person’s humanity was reduced until they became “nothing of importance.”   

Unfortunately, that’s not just ancient history, Americans are becoming more and more separated from one another.  The cause or perhaps the symptom of this problem is loneliness.  This past May, Surgeon General Vivek Murthy[iii] warned of the growing “epidemic of loneliness and isolation” that threatens our personal health.  Loneliness leads to greater risk of heart disease, dementia, depression, and strokes.  Most surprisingly to me, loneliness is as bad or worse for our health as smoking up to 15 cigarettes a day.  Rising levels of suicide as well as deaths from alcohol and drug overdoses are linked to loneliness.

Our country’s social fabric is fraying, trust is shrinking, and social connection is declining.  We now spend more time by ourselves than ever before; many of us socialize less than 60 minutes a day.  Surveys also show that many Americans have less than three confidents or close friendships in our lives.  Loneliness affects us all, but especially older adults, those with physical or mental health challenges, those with disabilities, racial and ethnic minorities, and our young people.

Our Jewish tradition has a lot to teach about loneliness.  As the first human beings were created, God recognized that “It is not good for human beings to be alone.”[iv]  We all need people in our lives, whether friends, family, partners, or a beloved community, who we can share our lives by way of comfort, companionship, and friendship.

Our Jewish tradition teaches the importance of being together, panim al panim, Face-to-Face.  Our ancestors recognized that we create deep personal relationships when we are in each other’s physical presence.  Ironically, technology and social media can make it much more difficult to be social!  Those who use social media more than two hours a day had increased perceptions of social isolation.  We need to put down that phone, reach out to homebound neighbors, strike up a conversation with a stranger while waiting in line, ask the cashier their name, and spend more time with family and friends in physical company. 

Alas, it didn’t happen that way at Babel.  Our Torah teaches[v] that all the inhabitants spoke the same language and the same words.  Then, God came down and said “Look – these are all one people with one language, and this is just the beginning of their doings; now no scheme of theirs will be out of reach!  Let us go down and confuse their speech so that no one understands what the other is saying.”   That is why it is called Babel, for God confused their speech and scattered them all over the face of the earth.

What a strange action by God!  You would think it would be preferable to speak the same language and same words, but not so says our tradition.  Rabba Sara Hurwitz reminds us that “conformity ‘being of one language with one common purpose’ at first seems compelling.  But the Tower of Babel shows us that conformity leads to selfishness, to prioritizing things over people. So God introduced us to diversity.”[vi]

God didn’t want us to walk in lockstep.  God compels us to recognize the power of diversity and does this by creating many languages, dialects, and diverse communities.  The Tower of Babel serves as a reminder of the threats of conformity and the fear of totalitarianism.  I often wish that we all possessed the same beliefs and similar opinions.  But the danger in speaking one language is the dehumanization of the other. 

That’s happening more and more.  Loneliness and separation are not just affecting our physical health, it’s also bubbling over in resentment, anger, and even paranoia.  Americans live in their echo chambers, only hearing their own opinions. As the Surgeon General writes about loneliness, “We will continue to splinter and divide until we can no longer stand as a community or country.”[vii]

Just reflect about the ways we engage with each other on social media and out in the world.  We block each other, mute each other, cancel each other, or ghost each other.  Is that how we should deal with conflict?  Ignore those whom we disagree with?  Cancel them completely?  What does that say about American society?  What does that say about our own humanity?

A few weeks ago, David Brooks in The Atlantic wrote a piece entitled “How America Got Mean.”  He develops a connection between loneliness and divisiveness to the rise in hate crimes, murder rates, and gun sales.  America is becoming more violent while social trust is plummeting.  As Brooks writes, “Politics… provides an easy way to feel a sense of purpose.  You don’t have to feed the hungry or sit with the widow to be moral; you just have to experience the right emotion.  You delude yourself that you are participating in civic life by feeling properly enraged at the other side.”[viii]

I experienced these ideas personally this past May when I attended the Maryland-Israel Development Center Annual Gala.  I witnessed firsthand the deep division amongst our Jewish community. 

As I arrived at the Israel Gala, a group of mostly Jewish protesters stood by a fence waving Palestinian Flags while raising up their voices against Israeli actions.  As I drove past, I saw a local rabbi who I very much respect standing with the protesters.  I was struck by the division.  A fence divided two Jewish communities, two rabbis with two very different political perspectives on Israel. 

As the event unfolded, a small group of the protesters entered the building, disrupted the speakers, and caused even more angst.  On one side of the room, some Jews yelled, “Free Palestine,” while across the room, other Jews yelled “Am Yisrael Chai,” “The people of Israel live.”

I was very taken aback by the events that happened that evening.  And yet, I believe in dialogue.  I believe in healthy debate. I believe that no one should run away from conflict.

And so, I called this rabbi.  I was so thankful that she agreed to meet in person.  Over the last three months we have gotten together a few times to discuss what happened that evening and to listen to our very different opinions on the conflict.  It has helped strengthen our relationship.   I’m saddened, but not surprised when she shared that I’m the only person who reached out to talk.  Hundreds of people attended that event, but no one else picked up the phone to talk, listen, or hear an opinion different from their own. 

Now, don’t get me wrong.  I’m still upset at how the protest unfolded.  We don’t see eye to eye on some of these issues.  But, not to talk, then what?  To grow farther apart?  To create further stereotypes, divisions, anger, or God forbid even violence?  

Jewish tradition believes firmly in the principle that: “These and these are the words of the living God.”[ix]  Even when we disagree, we believe in debate, diverse opinions, questioning, and dialogue.  Now, I know that this is hard, especially when one side’s views might be anathema to us.  It might feel better to just scream at each other and go into an argument with guns blazing.  Instead, we need to do our best to also listen, be empathetic, to learn and to teach. 

You might know that my theology and personal practice follows the teachings of Martin Buber, the German Jewish theologian.  Buber believes that each of us needs to do our part (whatever we can) to engage deeply with those that surround us.  Buber recognizes that often we engage with those in what he calls an “I – It” relationship.  We ignore the other treating them as nothing but a passerby.  Buber urges us to move to “I – Thou” relationships where we see the other, engage with the other, listen to the other, and are present for each other. 

Unfortunately, the builders of Babel didn’t even know each other at the most basic level.  Biblical scholars notice that throughout the Babel story not one name is mentioned.  No individual people are described; it’s only one mass of people. Contemporary interpreter Judy Klitsner[x] points out that the verses immediately prior and immediately following the Babel story describe dozens of individual names, including one of the sons of Noah, Shem, which in Hebrew means name!  The Torah hits us over the head with the belief of how best to build a community, a country, through relationship: one person at a time, one name at a time.

That’s not easy, especially with our fraying social connections.  Just a few weeks ago, Perry Bacon Junior[xi] opinion writer at the Washington Post addressed the great dechurching of America.  More and more Americans, 40 million in total, used to attend church, but do not now.  Mr. Bacon grew up in a charismatic church in Louisville, but because of reasons of theology, politics and values, now classifies himself as a “nothing in particular” or a “none.”  I was most heartened when he ended his piece with these words, “Theologically, I’m comfortable being a none.  But socially, I feel a bit lost.”

Too many in our country and in our Jewish community are clicking the “none” or “nothing in particular” box.  The rise of the “nones” weakens our social fabric and lessens our social bonds.  Socially, many of us also feel a bit lost.

Our Jewish tradition teaches: “that it is not good to be alone.”  I pray that in this New Year, each one of us will walk away from being a “none” to become a “someone.”  A someone who witnesses the humanity and the value of each person who comes across our lives.  A someone who strengthens social ties with family and friends and spends more time in each other’s physical presence.  A someone who sets down roots in community: whether with your synagogue, a civic group, club, or activity.  A someone who engages with those whom we disagree: who listens, debates, questions, and learns. 

As America grows lonelier and more isolated, as our differing opinions divide and fracture us, more than ever we need to walk away from being a “none” to become a “someone.”  Amen.

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[i] Genesis 11:1-9 (wording adapted from “The Torah: A Modern Commentary, Revised Edition” edited by Rabbi W.  Gunther Plaut

[ii] Pirke D’Rabbi Eliezer, 24

[iii] Our Epidemic of Loneliness and Isolation (hhs.gov)

[iv] Genesis 1:18

[v] Genesis 11:6

[vi] https://ejewishphilanthropy.com/harmony-not-conformity/

[vii] “Our Epidemic of Loneliness and Isolation (hhs.gov) (p. 4)

[viii] https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2023/09/us-culture-moral-education-formation/674765/

[ix] Babylonian Talmud, Eiruvin 13b

[x] “The Heart of Torah, Volume 1” by Rabbi Shai Held, “People Have Names,” p. 19

[xi] https://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/2023/08/21/leaving-christianity-religion-church-community/