Love is the Answer - Yom Kippur Morning Sermon 5786

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[ii] “Above all, we are Jews,” p. 177

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

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

[v] “Judaism is About Love,” p. 227

[vi] “Judaism is About Love,” p. 360

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

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

[ix] “Judaism is About Love,” p. 113

[x] “Judaism is About Love,” p. 230

[xi] “Judaism is About Love” p. 233

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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[i] Genesis 32:24-33

[ii] Genesis 32:29

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

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

[v] “Tablets Shattered,” p. 210 - 219

[vi] Beresheit Rabbah 77:2

[vii] “Tablets Shattered,” p. 210

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

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

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

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

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

Hineni - "Here I am!" - Rosh Hashanah Morning 5783

Thirty-six years ago, on a Rosh Hashanah morning similar to this one, a small group of families assembled at the Masonic Temple on Eutaw Place[i] to welcome the New Year for the very first time. The congregation didn’t yet have a building of their own, but as they gathered, prayed, and celebrated those first High Holy Days, they dreamed about the synagogue they one would day become.

 

Almost a year later, in the summer of 1987, Marvin Steinberg, the second president of the newly named Bolton Street Synagogue, asked in the second issue of the newly named Chavarim,[ii] four questions, or as he called them in Yiddish, the fier kashes:

·        Where will we be this time next year?

·        How many members will we have?

·        What will we be doing?

·        Most important, what will we be?

As Mike Green, our resident historian,[iii] shared recently: “It’s the Fourth Question that seemed to have defined us for the past 36 years.”  That question: “What will we be?” is central to our identity as a synagogue.  It is my belief, that this question can only be answered, when all of us stand up, when all of our voices are heard, when all feel called to act!

 

One who felt called to act, was a shepherd who lived long ago! [iv]  That shepherd was tending his sheep, minding his own business, when across the way he saw that a fire had sprung upon an old bush.  The shepherd ran over to put out the fire, when he heard his name reverberate across the hills, “Moses, Moses.” To which he uttered one of the most powerful phrases in our entire Torah: “Hineni.  Here I am.”  Moses was called to serve his people; to take them out of Egypt.  It was his time to stand up and act. 

Now, it's hard to translate Hineni into English.[v]  Hineni is not being physically present.  That is Ani Po, “I am here,” a phrase often uttered during attendance taking at religious school.  Hineni means much more: “I am mentally, spiritually, and emotionally present.” Hineni is significinat because it only occurs 14 times in the entire Jewish Bible.  Hineni isn’t a flippant answer, it means “Here I am, ready to serve”

 

Our synagogue’s foundation is built upon Hineni.  We would not be here today if our founders, many of whom are in this room, did not stand up and proudly proclaim, Hineni, “Here I am.”  From our very beginning, Bolton Street Synagogue was all about sweat equity.  We are who we are today because members of our congregation stepped up and did their part to help us flourish. 

At our founding, we had no religious school.  Cathy Lyman Fox, Donna Speer, and of course Mike Green, answered the call to create our very first classes, Aleph Blue and Aleph White.  Dozens of you, then and now, Jewish and non-Jewish, adults and teens, experienced teachers and those who had never entered a classroom before, heard the call to teach our kids.  You proclaimed: “Hineni, Here I am.”

 

In our early years, services were often led by members of the congregation.  Someone like, Mark Giuliano, who has joined us monthly for years playing piano, guitar, and banjo, adding so much joy to our services.  There so many of you, then and now: who lend your voices, play your instruments, lead our services, or give divrei Torah.  You proclaim, “Hineni, Here I am.”   

 

We could name dozens of others who pitched in with their time, energy, and talents.  I can’t name you all or we would be here for an hour!  For thirty-six years, you proudly stated: “Hineni. Here I am.”  We are better for it, we are stronger for it, because of each one of you!

 

As you can imagine, Hineni isn’t always easy.  And some of our Biblical examples are down right challenging.  Take the most famous, the first utterance of Hineni.  God calls Abraham to sacrifice his son Isaac and Abraham answers, “Hineni, Here I am!”  Like me, you are probably angered by a God who would ask a parent to sacrifice their child.  You might also be dismayed by Abraham’s actions or inactions.  So lets look at this story differently, through a modern midrash told by Rabbis Rachel Bearman and Paul Kipnes.  This story is told through Sarah’s eyes:[vi]

“My heart began to pound as I realized Abraham had misunderstood.  God was commanding an offering to help transit leadership to Isaac.  A sacrifice of the finest of our flocks was called for, not a sacrifice of Isaac…

 

I hoped Abraham would figure it out himself.  But in case he did not, I had to intervene.  So I went back to bed and with my eyes closed, I planned my next step.

 

Abraham got up early, gathered his supplies, and took off with Isaac.  He didn’t even try to wake me.  No explanations; not even a kiss goodbye.

 

As soon as they were gone, I gathered my supplies and took our finest ram.  I followed carefully, hiding in the shadows.  At dawn on the third day, as they slept, I hurried up the mountain, releasing the ram into the bushes.

 

The rest happened so quickly.  Abraham was holding the knife, about to sacrifice Isaac.  He seemed to be in a trance.  So in my voice that he often called ‘angelic,’ I called out, ‘Abraham, Abraham.’

 

That broke the trance.  Realizing what he was about to do, he dropped the knife.  He looked up, saw the ram that I brought for him to sacrifice instead, and stepped toward it.”

Sarah takes matters into her own hands.  She recognizes quickly that Abraham has made a terrible mistake, misunderstanding God’s command.  What moves me is the interplay between Sarah and Abraham.  What we miss in this modern retelling is Abraham’s response.  When Sarah calls out in her angelic voice, it is Abraham who responds to her with: “Hineni, here I am!”  That is the power of relationship.  Abraham hears Sarah.  It is her voice that helps him change direction.  It is Sarah who awakens him to act!

 

For Hineni centers on relationship.  We answer Hineni when our family, our loved ones, our friends, and community call out in need.  When we are in deep relationship, we answer Hineni.  When we can make an impact on the people and community that surrounds us, we answer Hineni, Here I am!

And yet, living through this pandemic has been so challenging.  We’ve seen how difficult it is to connect and to reconnect!  So many of us feel separated from community. Perhaps you’ve run-into a member of the synagogue and realized that you haven’t seen each other in months?  Maybe you came regularly for services, study, or volunteering, but now with covid, you don’t enter the building in the same way.  You once knew how to get involved, how to share your talents, but now you might feel unsure.  Maybe you joined our community during the pandemic and are still figuring out what it means to say, Hineni!

This summer, in response to these questions, we launched Gesher – the Bridges Project.  Fifteen members of our congregation said Hineni and stepped up to become Bridge Builders.  They have begun to reach out to new members and older members for a one-on-one conversation.  Perhaps you’ve already gotten together over a cup of coffee, or a walk in the park?  We know how busy we all are, how much we have on our plates, and it might be a stranger who reaches out, but we hope that you will answer Hineni to that invitation.  These conversations, hopefully dozens this year, are not and I repeat are not, to pressure you to join a committee!  Gesher is about building relationship, learning about one another, creating connections, and together to answer Marvin Steinberg’s most important question: “What will we be?”

 

For we Jews, know what it’s like to live through some difficult times.  Some 2,500 years ago, the country of Judea was defeated by the Babylonians.  The society was decimated, the Temple destroyed.  It was at this moment, at the lowest of the low, that the Holy One shared these words with our ancestors: “I responded to those who did not ask, I was at hand to those who did not seek Me; I said, ‘Hineni, Hineni,’ ‘Here I am, Here I am,’ to a nation that did not invoke my name.”[vii]

Our people were fragile, worried, pessimistic.  They didn’t know where to turn or what to do, and yet the Holy One who reached out.  That’s what so powerful about these words.  Twice God answered “Here I am, Here I am” to a question that was never asked.

 

Now, I’m not asking you to be God.  I am asking you to emulate this act of courage.  It’s hard to stand up.  It’s difficult to put ourselves out there!    Too often we wait to be called. Too often we wait to be asked.  This passage from Isaiah asks, no demands, that we step-up through our own volition.  Don’t wait to be asked, share your self, your passions, your skills, your talents! 

 

For we are a congregation that stands up and helps.  Dinah Winnick recently shared that once without being asked she brought a homemade challah to the oneg and dropped it off in the social hall prior to services.  Afterwards, she was dismayed to see another challah on the table, until she realized proudly that it was her challah that was being eaten!  To all of you who provide your gifts without being asked, you too proclaim: “Hineni, Here I am”

From the very beginning, we hve striven to do the work of Tikkun Olam, repair of the world.  I think of the fierce passion of so many of us, then and now, who work to provide food for the hungry, a home for the homeless, who tirelessly spend your energy fighting for racial justice or Marriage equality, who without being asked stepped up to advocate for a better world.  You proclaim: “Hineni, Here I am.”  

Thirty-six years ago, a small group of families gathered for our very first Rosh Hashanah service.  They dreamed about the congregation they hoped to become!  This dream continues to become a reality because so many answered, then and now, “Hineni, Here I am!”

Just as our founders were called, just as year after year, decade after decade, each member of Bolton Street Synagogue was called, so too today, on this New Year, are each of us called.  Perhaps you are called by God, perhaps you are called by tradition, perhaps you are called by guilt, but hopefully you are called by this community, and by the still small voice that is found deep within your own soul.  As you are called, may you answer that deeply powerful word: “Hineni, Here I am!”

We know that it’s not easy.  We know that we are tired, busy, and scared.  We know that life today is different than it was before.  And yet, we need you, each one of you, young and old, new member, and old member, to stand up and once again say Hineni.  We need you to share yourself, to share your passions, to share your presence, and to volunteer.  We need you to answer Marvin Steinberg’s most important question: “What will we be?”  Don’t wait to be asked, don’t wait to be called.  It is time for all of us to say, “Hineni, Hineni, Here I am, here I am!” 

 

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[i] I’m in much gratitude to Michael Green, Ken Karpay, Sharon Krevor-Weisbaum, and Elaine Richman for sharing their memories about the founding of Bolton Street Synagogue and our first Rosh Hashanah

[ii] “Message by the President” by Marvin Steinberg, Chavarim July-August 1987, ed. Elaine Richman

[iii] Chavarim January – February 2022

[iv] Exodus 3:1-15

[v] I’m in much gratitude to Rabbi Norman J. Cohen, my teacher and mentor, for his reflections found in his book, Hineini in Our Lives

[vi] https://www.midrashicmonologues.com/post/where-was-sarah-during-the-akedah (Based Upon Genesis 20)

[vii] Isaiah 65:1-2