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

Black Jewish Lives Matter - Yom Kippur Morning Sermon 5781

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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[i] As shared by Rabbi Jonah Pesner

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

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

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

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

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

Forgive Yourself - Kol Nidre Sermon 5781

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

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

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

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

“Reb Wolf, it’s time” 

“But, rabbi… I can’t!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[ii] Rabbi Aaron Brusso

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

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

Look Out the Other Window - Erev Rosh Hashanah 5781

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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[i] Nehemiah 8:9-10

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

Yom Kippur Sermon: Restoring the Gate of Compassion

Long ago,[i] in the Old City of Jerusalem, there was once a small gate that faced towards the East.  This gate was called Sha’ar HaRachamim, the Gate of Compassion, and it was the main entrance to the Holy Temple.  Many centuries ago, the Gate of Compassion was buzzing with people.  Wedding Couples and Mourners would meet there and the entire community would congregate around them, to celebrate and comfort, to provide solace and compassion.

Sha’ar HaRachamim was so important, that tradition teaches that the Messiah, the Moshiach, the bringer of Redemption, would one day enter through this gate to herald the Messianic Age – a utopia filled with justice, peace, and compassion for us all.

That thought terrified Sultan Suleiman the Magnificent.  The last thing he wanted was a Messianic entering the Old City!  And so, in the year 1541, the Ottoman Sultan filled the gate with stones, barricading the entrance. A fence was constructed, and a cemetery placed in front, preventing the Messiah from entering Jerusalem to bring about Redemption..  For hundreds of years, the Gate of Compassion has been sealed shut. 

That image resonates deeply with me.  There too many walls, fences, and even locked doors in our world today.  We need more gates, more bridges, more pathways to see and understand one another.  To bring about the Messianic Age – to build a world of love, acceptance, and peace, we must unlock the doors of suspicion, hatred, and animosity.  We must restore the Gate of Compassion.

For there is a severe lack of compassion in our world these days.  We see this problem globally, with the rise of refugees, authoritarianism, world conflicts, and of course Climate Change.  Just weeks ago, hundreds of thousands of people gathered in the streets for worldwide climate march.  It was Greta Thunberg, the 16-year old Swedish environmental activist who became a worldwide sensation when she addressed the UN Climate Action Summit in New York:[ii]   

“This is all wrong!  I shouldn’t be up here.,” she said.  “I should be back at school on the other side of the ocean.  Yet you come to us young people for hope.  How dare you!  You have stolen my dreams and my childhood with your empty words and yet I’m one of the lucky ones.  People are suffering, people are dying; entire ecosystems are collapsing.  We are at the beginning of mass extinction and all you can talk about is the money and fairy tales of eternal economic growth.  How dare you!” 

Greta vividly described the major obstacle of solving Climate Change!  As a society, we have the resources, we comprehend the problem, and we know what to do, yet nothing ever changes.  Our politicians and leaders refuse to act, focusing their efforts on economic growth, rather than making the tough choices of curbing emissions.  There is a lack of compassion by our leaders, for the biggest impact of Climate Change will be on the most vulnerable.

Most of us in this room will be fine, even if the climate continues to change dramatically.  We have the resources to rebuild our lives.  It is those who are the poorest, who are most in harm’s way.  The floods, droughts, and severe climate weirdness will affect the most defenseless, as well as animals, and biodiversity.  Our lack of action points to a lack of compassion.

Earlier this morning, we read the famous words: “I have put before you, life and death, blessing and curse – choose life – if you and your offspring would live.”  Rabbi Eliezer Davidovits asks the obvious question: “Is there really a person who would choose death?  Wouldn’t everyone prefer life to death, blessing to curse?”  

As Rabbi Josh Zweibach teaches, there are in fact two ways to “choose life.”  One approach is to focus on ourselves first, considering our needs and desires, and only afterwards the wishes of others.  But there is another way to “choose life.”  Before we act, we can think about how our behaviors will affect others as well as future generations.  A real choice is offered to us: “Will we live in a way that supports life in the broadest sense, or will we live in a way that serves only ourselves?”[iii]

Although it may mean less economic growth and giving up on certain behaviors that we cherish, I believe the choice is obvious.  We must choose compassion over self.    We must recognize that our actions affect those around the world including those who will follow in our footsteps.  We must choose life for all. 

Yet, often, it seems difficult to choose which issue to put our full energy behind.  Each day, there seems to be more and more problems in our country: from immigration to racism; LGBTQ rights to anti-Semitism; Reproductive Rights to Gun Violence prevention, and on and on and on.  There are so many challenges in the world, it seems overwhelming to even try and fix one problem.  So, what do we do?

There is no right answer.  Every single issue seems to be a moral imperative.  Yet, if we wish to restore the Gate of Compassion, we must first begin by seeing every single person in this world as a human being, as a person created B’tzelem Elohim “in the image of God.”  Compassion means seeing each other not as an It, but as a person worthy of respect and dignity.

After the constant news of the inhumane treatment of refugees at the border, three of our own members, Elisabeth Liebow, Leslie Margolis, and Joyce Moskovits, decided that they needed to do something.  With help from HIAS, they traveled down to Tijuana, to volunteer with an organization, Al Otro Lado, which assists refugees in Mexico who are seeking asylum in the United States.

Why did they drop everything to head down to the border?  As Leslie Margolis shares:

“Because sending money to immigration organizations is good but is no longer enough.  Because attending vigils and protests is good, but no longer enough.  Because what is happening at the border is eerily reminiscent of 1930s Germany, and it is imperative that we bear witness.  Because this massive overwhelming crisis feels intensely personal, and I felt compelled to do something – anything – to make whatever difference I could.”

We’re living in a time where we must do more than we’ve ever done before – because this is personal – because our ancestors navigated these troubled waters – because “Never Again!” does not mean “Never Again for just the Jews!”  it means “Never Again for us all!”

The world’s problems are so severe.  And we are limited to fix them.  We can’t all travel to the border.  We can’t take in every homeless person.  We can’t feed every hungry person.  So, what can we do? 

We marshal our resources.  We join together as a congregation to fulfill the responsibility of Tikkun Olam because we know that we can make a bigger impact when we do this work together.  We partner with organizations who are leading the charge, like: BUILD, Jews United for Justice, HIAS, Strong Schools Maryland, and so many others.  We can’t do this alone.  By ourselves, change is slow.  Together, as one community, with those across this country, we can begin to restore compassion and dignity to our world. 

For there is much work to do.  Whether it’s around the world, at our nation’s border, or here in our own city of Baltimore.  We can and must make a difference.  Each and every day, we have the ability to restore the Gate of Compassion. 

Why did our ancestors call this gate: the Gate of Compassion?[iv]  Tradition teaches that were actually two small gates, side by side.  Everyone would enter the Temple through the right gate and exit through the left.   Unless, you were a mourner, or excommunicated from the community.  These individuals would enter the opposite way, through the left gate and exit through the right. People would ask them: “Why are you entering the opposite way?”  They would reply: “I am a mourner.  I feel isolated.”  And so the community would look them in the eye and share these words of blessing: “May the One who dwells in this House comfort you.  May the One who dwells in this House open your hearts and the hearts of those close to you.”

The Gate was a meeting place to provide each other with solace and comfort, blessing and compassion.  We too regularly meet strangers and neighbors in our City, who look to us for sustained kindness and compassion.

It’s the barista at the local coffee shop.  The custodian who cleans your building.  It’s the neighbor whose name you don’t remember.  The homeless person standing on the street corner.  It’s the squeegee boy who waits for the light to turn red. 

It’s easy to ignore them.  To roll up the window.  To walk on by.  But instead of thinking: “How can I get rid of the squeegee boy?  How about moving a little more towards compassion?”  Maybe it’s providing a dollar, or at the very least, it’s treating him with a little bit more respect, dignity and humanity.

As the poet Danny Siegel teaches:

If you always assume

the man sitting next to you is the Messiah

Waiting for some simple human kindness –

You will soon come to weigh your words

And watch your hands.

And if he so chooses

Not to reveal himself

In your time –

It will not matter.[v]

For the Messiah is waiting.  Waiting for us to restore the Gate of Compassion.

Long ago,[vi] Rabbi Joshua ben Levi asked Elijah the prophet. “When will the Messiah come?”  Elijah replied: “Go and ask him yourself!  He’s sitting at the entrance of the city.”  “How will I recognize him?”  “He sits among the poor who suffer from illness and helps them tie and untie their bandages.”  Rabbi Joshua went to meet the Messiah.  “Greetings to you, my rabbi, my teacher.”  “Greetings to you, Joshua ben Levi,” came the reply.  “Oh Messiah, when will you come?  We’ve been waiting so patiently for you!”  The Messiah answered: “Today!”  “Today!”  Rabbi Joshua was overwhelmed!  Yet, just a short time later, he returned to Elijah visibly upset.  “The Messiah lied to me.  The Messiah didn’t come!  Elijah replied, “That was no lie.  The Messiah said: “I will come today, if you only hear God’s voice” (Psalm 95:7). 

The Messiah has been here all along.  The Messiah walks among us, caring for the sick, looking out for the most vulnerable, welcoming the refugee, searching for peace.  Yet, the Messiah waits.  Waiting for us to act.  Waiting for us to bring kindness and compassion into our world!

Long ago, there was a Gate of Compassion.  A meeting place where Wedding Couples and Mourners gathered.  Where the community celebrated and provided each other with solace and comfort.  Centuries ago, the Gate of Compassion was filed with stones, the entrance barricaded.  A fence constructed, and a cemetery placed in front.  The Messiah is waiting there, unable to enter, waiting for us to restore the Gate of Compassion, for the Gate of Compassion is sealed shut.

In these dark times, when more and more fences, and walls, and locked doors are being constructed, it is our responsibility, our obligation, to do the opposite: to build bridges, to create new pathways, and to restore the Gate of Compassion.  We must chip away at the animosity, the suspicion, and the hatred.  We must tear down the fence and put others wellbeing before our own.  We must create a new path forward by reaching out to allies and neighbors and working together to change our society.  We must open the gates and restore compassion and humanity to our world.

For only, when we join together and open the Gate of Compassion, can the Messiah enter and bring about that Utopia that we yearn for, a world of justice, a world of peace, and most importantly, a world of compassion.

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[i] In gratitude to Rabbi Karyn Kedar for sharing the story of Sha’ar HaRachamim (Gate of Compassion) with me

[ii] https://www.npr.org/2019/09/23/763452863/transcript-greta-thunbergs-speech-at-the-u-n-climate-action-summit

[iii] Rabbi Josh Zweibach, p. 265 Mishkan HaNefesh Yom Kippur

[iv] Mishnah, Middot 2:2 and Pirke d’Rabbi Eliezer 17. 

[v] Danny Siegel “And God Braided Eve’s Hair”

[vi] Babylonian Talmud, Sanhendrin 98a