Erev Rosh Hashanah Sermon 2009

Lessons of the Commuting Rabbi

Rosh Hoshanah is an odd name. Literally, it is “head of the year.” Rosh is straightforward enough: head. But shanah is a contronym, meaning it has multiple meanings which are opposite one another. Shanah means to repeat, as in Mishne Torah. Or it can mean to change as in l’shanot. In Hebrew, when a word has multiple meanings, it’s because, at a deeper level, the multiple meanings are connected to one another. So, how might repeat and change, seeming opposites, be connected, so that together, they mean “year”?

Rosh Hashanah. A year is both a repeating of the annual cycle and it is also moving forward, changing into something new. The basic rhythms that form the background our lives will repeat themselves. We will yet again have Indian summer and sukkot, winter, skiing, and Chanukah then the new growth of Spring and Pesach, and summer once again. But with this repetitive program running in the background, in the foreground, we may make whatever change we see fit going forward. RH comforts us because the familiar cycle of life will repeat. But it also challenges us to use our review of the past year to do the teshuva -- make the shifts – that we need to make to heal ourselves and the world. Our holidays give us the spiritual technology, if we choose to use it, to evaluate what we have been doing, to repeat what works, and to change what doesn’t work.

There’s so much I could say about this past year in review. In the world at large, we elected the first ever African American president, there were corrupt Iranian elections, with protests and an anti-semitic government, a war in Gaza, and the most un-Jewish swine flu. In America, there was (and is) the most severe economic crisis of our lifetimes, the downfall of Bernie Madoff and the exposure of the culture of greed that he represents, and the arrest of Rabbis in NJ for money-laundering and selling human kidneys. Locally, there was fire in Bozeman, the largest seder ever in Montana, new HiHo music (thank you Fran, others?), and a new resident Rabbi at CBS. Some in our community got married, others became bar mitzvah, new babies were born. Some lost loved ones. It was for sure an eventful year full of fodder for sermons.

But what I want to talk about this RH is something that’s not in the news, something that history will never note, something personal: I want to introduce you to some of the people I met and some of what I learned in my year as a Commuting rabbi.

Now, by commuting rabbi, you may think that I mean being the Rabbi in Bozeman on a Commuting basis and the joys and hardships involved in that: the joys of meeting so many of you and the kindnesses you showed me, balanced against not being here when needed and living out of a suitcase. But that’s not what I have in mind at all. I am referring to being a Rabbi in the many airports and airplanes through which I passed. Watching people, talking to seatmates. There’s so much I learned there.

I’d like to tell you about all of them, but I’m reminded of little David, who was in the lobby of the synagogue staring at a plaque of names when the rabbi approached him. . . . So, I’ll include only the highlights. I’ve been in so many airports this year. If you pay attention, airports are powerful places. People cry as they say goodbye to loved ones, and longingly greet them after long separations. In the Denver airport, as I headed down an escalator next to a 15 year old girl, I watched through a glass partition as her parents and brother waved goodbye. They were trying so hard to smile, but the tears welled up and finally burst out. At the bottom of the escalator, the teary girl and I got on the train together to head to the gate. Sobbing, she said she would be studying abroad for a semester. We chatted about the exciting experience that awaited her, and about how hard it is to leave the ones you love most.

Then, there were the soldiers arriving in Atlanta as their families waited those last tense moments for them to get through the exit area and the raw emotions that exploded after long separations. As the Commuting Rabbi, I kept on thinking if only we could express our joys and sorrows so openly in our synagogues, what an amazing family we could be.

Then, there were so many interesting airplane seatmates. Some inspired me, like the human rights lawyer who was on his way to meet with White House staff about human rights violations in South America, and who drew deep inspiration from his Christian tradition.

Some allowed their suffering to get the better of them, turning to desperate measures. Like the disabled man who understandably couldn’t survive on his $600 monthly disability check, so he was headed to the Phillipines where he had lined dozens of women who he would “interview” and were apparently very anxious to share his check, which was large by Phillipine standards.

There were the seat mates who made me a bit uncomfortable. When I boarded the long flight from SLC to ATL, I was reading my book when out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man sit next to me with tzitzit hanging from under his shirt. Imagine that, I thought, an orthodox Jew in SLC. Maybe we’d get to discuss Talmud on the flight. I glanced over and noticed hanging around his neck a very large cross. And then I saw the book in his hand: “Rapture, the Earth’s Last Days.” He noticed my kippah and asked asked a few questions about Judaism, which I happily, but with some discomfort, answered.

Some seat mates gave me a good chuckle. On another flight from SLC, my seat mate, who sold anti-aging cream, was coming from a national meeting of the top sellers of her miracle product. Within minutes, she was applying some with its special applicator to the back of my hand, which she promised, in her thick Brooklyn-Italian accent -- would look 10 years younger, although it might require a few applications meaning I’d have buy the $500 initial packet. Soon after we took off, she got up and never came back. Later, I noticed that she had been demonstrating her cream to most of the passengers and even the flight attendants, who had cream all over their faces. My seat mate confided in me that she also sell vitamins and other health products, but nothing sells like the promise to look younger.

All these people and many more, going here and going there. When they heard I was a Rabbi in Bozeman, MT, many had lots of questions about Judaism or theology, and I tried to answer. Some had spiritual issues in their lives, and I was called upon to comfort more than one traveler who had suffered a recent loss. Almost all of them asked one question in common. What do you think it was? . . .Are there Jews in MT? How many?

Yes, there is a thriving Jewish community in Bozeman. I proudly told them of our community. It’s amazing how curious non-Jews are about Judaism and it’s such a privilege to be the ambassador. When I get to talk about what we’re beginning to do here, I sometimes feel like we are the light to the nations that we’re called to be.

But the seatmate who most influenced me was a man named Peter from Texas. He was traveling with his 20 something daughter, but they were not seated together. He was very interested in Judaism in Bozeman, as well as Jewish ideology.

Towards the end of the flight, he told me at a few days earlier, his daughter had come home and told him that her best childhood friend needed a kidney, and since she was a match, she was going to give her kidney to her friend. Peter at first strongly objected, listing all of the pitfalls he could find on the internet: potential illnesses, health insurance problems, restrictions on activities, even a shortened life expectancy. But his daughter said, “Daddy, what if it was me who needed the kidney and she was the donor, would you still object?” Peter had no possible response, and now he was accompanying her to the surgery where she would donate her kidney to her friend. The powerful story between the passengers on Flight 243, in Seats 22A & B ended with a long silence. . . After a while he said to me “sometimes it’s not about ideology, but what you do.” He was so right.

There’s a debate in the Talmud where, after the tragedy of the destruction of the Temple, the Rabbis asked, seeing that humans are the most destructive species, might it have been better if we were never created. There would still be violence and pain. Lion would still pursue antelope. But there would be no conscious, no premeditated, no purposeful evil. In the end, the Rabbis agreed that it would have been better if we were never created. However, they said, since G!d saw fit to create us, there must be something we contribute that only humans can contribute. They debated what that is. Some said art, some architecture, some love, some song, but each one of these existed somewhere else. The Holy Ari had the answer that closed the debate. He said it’s healing, healing. Only humans are capable of fixing what is broken. We break a lot. We destroy a lot. But we’re only species capable of healing what is broken, whether it be in one another or what’s around us.

For Jews, it’s never been about sitting around and praying for moshiach. We’re doers, we hold ourselves out as G!d’s partners. This leads me to two ways that we must get involved in healing one another. The first is to acknowledge that there are some 46 million Americans – many of them Jews – who are suffering because of the failings of our health care system. A study released this morning by Harvard Med school shows that 45,000 people doe each year in the US – one every 12 minutes – because they lack adequate health insurance. Rabbis across the country are reporting horror stories among congregants in need of health care who cannot afford it or are excluded on some technicality. Jewish law and Jewish values make it clear beyond any question that we are all obligated to make sure that all in need of health care have it available to them. We must all do our part by participating in the debate and working towards a solution to this crisis.

Apart from the national scene, though, there is much we can do in our own community to work for healing. This is the time of year I normally talk about all the reasons to be part of and more active in the Beth Shalom community, promoting all that we’ll be doing and urging you to become part of it. To be sure, what we have planned this year is amazing and I really hope that all of you will take advantage of some of it, whether it be socializing together, learning together, exploring our spirituality together, praying together, or doing social justice together. But, this year, I’m not going to talk about all that.

Instead of talking about what we have to offer you, I want to talk about what you have to offer us. Healing. Like the young girl on the airplane. Sometimes it’s not about ideology, but about what you do. The Talmud.

So, my big push for this year is a new way of caring for one another. In the past, we have had a caring committee, consisting of 2-3 people and when someone was sick, they would write a card or try to visit. This should not be the job of 2-3 people, but an opportunity for all of us. Visiting the sick, says the Talmud, is how we imitate G!d.

So, here’s what we’ll do, if you’re willing. I am indebted to Alan Rassaby for the idea and to DeeDee Rasmus, who will make it function smoothly. The congregation will be divided into 12 caring teams of about 8 families each, each team assigned one month of the year. Within the next week, you will receive an e-mail letting you know to which month you are assigned. If you are in the process of joining or if we somehow overlook you, please call DeeDee or me so we can get you in a group. If you decline to participate or if you know you’ll be out of town that month, please let DeeDee know, and she’ll make adjustments. My hope is for 100% participation.

Around the beginning of your month, you will get an e-mail from DeeDee reminding you it is your month. I will host a shabbos dinner at my home for those families that are the caring team for that coming month. This will be mostly a social occasion, but we’ll spend a few minutes talking about Jewish caring. During your month, your group, together with me, will be responsible for caring for those in our community who need caring. That may mean visiting people in the hospital, or bringing meals to someone’s home. It may mean setting up a shiva minyan following a death, or caring for a young child while the family deals with some crisis. It may mean attending a bris for a family that has just joined the congregation, or it may mean just a visit to an elderly member. The idea is that everybody cares for one another, but each of you are on duty only one month a year. It may be that during that month, there is nothing to be done, or there might be several needs. And if you want to participate in other months, that’s great. Just let DeeDee know.

It is my deepest hope that the rewards you will reap from participating in our new caring community will be many. You will not only be helping others, and encouraging others to help you when you need it, but you will be an active participant in creating something much bigger: holy community.

Now I know that this call I make to you, to get involved in caring in these ways may meet with resistance in some of you. If you haven’t done this before, like Peter, you may find lots of reasons why my call tonight doesn’t work for you. I want to remind you of the words of Peter’s daughter, a young woman who this commuting Rabbi never met: if it was you who lost your job and the health insurance that went with it, or if it were you that was in the hospital and feeling alone and scared, what would you say then?

This, then, is the gift of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur: both to review the past and to know that we can do better, even if only in small steps. For Jews, the opposite of sin is not salvation, but another dollar given to tzedakah, another verse of the Torah understood, another moment at prayer, another unkind remark held back. Another mitzvah done. And it is our role at Beth Shalom to create the infrastructure that will allow you to be fulfilled by performing mitzvot out here in G!d’s country. . . .

So many airports and so many seat mates. Lots of words heard and uttered. Listening to stories, laughing at face creams, saddened by distress, encouraged by altruism, avoiding some, embracing others, comforting, teaching, explaining. But, looking back, I’ll surely remember the irony of Rabbis arrested in NJ for selling kidneys, while a young girl in Texas gave her kidney to a friend. I’ll most remember her words to her father, Peter: “if I needed the kidney, would you still object;” and what he learned from the experience and taught me: “it’s not about ideology, but it’s all about what you do.”

May that lesson gently nudge all of us. May this year be one of stunning growth, breathtaking moments of meaning, and sweet connections that lift us all up into places we had only dreamed of.

L’shanah tovah.

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Rosh Hashanah Sermon 2009

The Road to Moriah

Most commentators on this morning’s Torah portion, which is the akaida, or in English, the binding of Yitzchak, focus either on Avraham’s willingness to sacrifice or the role of his son, Yitzchak, in agreeing to be part of it. Rarely do we hear about the two mystery figures in this Torah portion. If you look in your machzorim on page 125, you will see that the text tells us Avraham took two na’arim, lads (or servants) along with him and Yitzchak. The Torah doesn’t tell us who these lads are, or why Avraham took them along. Their presence is really puzzling as it sets up a transparent lie by Avraham in verse 5 when he tells them, “Sit here with the donkey, the boy and I will go up there, we will worship and we will return to you.” If Avraham believes that he will sacrifice Yitzchak, why is he telling the two servants that Yitzchak will return? Just who are these mysterious lads anyway?

Our sages speculate on their identity. One theory, from a 9th century midrash, Pirkei d’Rabbi Eliezar, identifies them as Ishmael, Avraham’s first son through Hagar, and Eliezar, Avraham’s most trusted servant. This midrash imagines a conversation between Ishmael and Eliezar as they trail behind Avraham and Yitzchak on the trail up the mountain: Ishmael begins: “You know that my Dad is about to sacrifice Yitzchak.”

Eliezar answers: “That’s what I understand.”
Ishmael continues: “You know, that means that the major inheritance will go to someone else, because Yitzchak will be gone.”
Eliezar answers: “I am sure that I will be the main inheritor. After all, am I not Avraham’s most trusted servant?”
Ishmael counters: “What do you mean you will inherit? You are just a servant. I am Avraham’s first son. I will gain the inheritance!”

At this point, the midrash makes a pun on the Torah text. Instead of Avraham saying to the lads, “Sit here with the donkey,” which in Hebrew is “sh’vu lachem po, im hachamor,” the midrash has G!d saying “sh’vu, lachem po am k’chamor,” which means “sit, here, you people are like a donkey.”

Now this would be little more than cute wordplay until one considers who Ishmael and Eliezar represent. Moslems take Ishmael to be their ancestor. He represents Islam. Eliezar was from Damascus, which in the early middle ages was a Christian city, so he represents Christianity. This midrash is really a polemic – mocking insults -- against Christianity and Islam. Both Christianity and Islam are portrayed as donkeys. . . to be polite, for considering themselves legitimate inheritors of the legacy of Avraham.

As modern Jews, there are two main ways we might understand this midrash, depending on whether you are pulled more by the tribal or the universalist message of Judaism.

The tribal message calls to that part of us that relates to Judaism primarily as a sense of belonging to a “peoplehood.” The tribal message understands that our people have been attacked time and time again and we must stick together. Experience has taught us Jews to rely on no one but ourselves, and we have developed an ethnic bond, tempered by centuries of watching our backs.

But, when we define ourselves in terms of a group, then we necessarily define ourselves as distinguished from the “other,” those not part of the group. This inevitably leads to comparisons, like in those endless e-mails which talk about how Jews are so tiny in number, but yet are disproportionately better in most everything -- but sports. For that part of us that is drawn to the tribal message built on group identity, we hopefully don’t think of the other as donkeys, but the midrash about the two lads might evoke a chuckle.

If, however, you are more drawn to Judaism’s universalist message, you might see this pun differently, perhaps as discriminatory or even racist. The universalist part of us takes pride in those parts of Judaism which sets a high moral standard for human to human dealings. It is proud of the messages of social justice found in the prophets, and the Torah’s constant emphasis on being just to the strangers, for we were strangers in Egypt. This part of us believes that all religions are different, but equally valid paths to the same G!d. The universalist part of us is suspicious of the tribal part since the tribal part tends to make us more insular. The tribal part of us is suspicious of the universalist part since the more we accept others as equals, the less distinguishable is our own group identity.

Neither tribalism or universalism is all good or all bad, but they are two imperatives driving us, often pulling us in opposite directions. These parts of each of us are what we bring to the table in encountering this legacy we inherited from the middle ages which refers to our Christian and Muslim cousins as “donkeys.” The question for us, as modern Jews is: “how will these parts of us determine what we do with this inheritance, beyond a superficial chuckle or an embarrassment.” And this question is tearing at the soul of the Jewish people.

Most of us here would likely understand that this midrash was a product of a different time and place -- the early middle ages -- and it must be read against that historical background. Although that historical background is complex, basically, Christianity developed because Jews would not accept a Roman version of Judaism with Jesus as messiah. Similarly, Islam developed when Mohammed realized that the Jews of Medina were not prepared to accept an Arab version of Judaism. As offshoot religions of Judaism, both had strong needs to distinguish themselves from their parent religion, and they often did that with polemical attacks on Judaism.

Those polemical attacks developed practical consequences. In the early middle ages, where the Roman government had become officially Christian, the blame for Jesus’ death shifted from the Romans to the Jews, resulting in forced conversions, attacks on Jews and synagogues, and expulsions of Jews from many cities. Although things were relatively better for Jews in the Muslim world, Jews there were considered dhimmi – protected people who were not Moslem. Dhimmi paid additional taxes and were not allowed to build new religious institutions or repair old ones.

Facing these sorts of discrimination and persecution, and not to be outdone, Jews developed their own polemic in response. Several parts of the Talmud from this period are very derogatory towards gentiles and some Jewish publications portrayed Jesus and his family in a most unflattering light. And the midrash I quoted earlier, comparing the paradigmatic Christian and Muslim to a donkey is an example of Jewish polemic of the time, which, given this background, makes perfect sense. It is an example of the tribal parts of us coming to our aid in the face of persecution, functioning like our bodies’ immune system which protects the body from attack. The potential problem, however, is that once the immune system is trained to react, it can sometimes overreact, like an autoimmune disease. That is a danger we face today.

Just a couple of months ago, in the highly acclaimed Jewish magazine “Moment,” the editor posed this question to 9 Rabbis, who represented the spectrum of Jewish opinion: “How should Jews treat their Palestinian neighbors.” Eight of the Rabbis, ranging from Modern Orthodox to Reform, all agreed we need to take every precaution against fanatical Muslim terrorism, and although they had differences in nuance, all eight also agreed that the issue is governed by Judaism’s central teachings that we are created in G!d’s image and that we are taught to love the stranger because we were strangers in Egypt, so we need to treat our Palestinian neighbors with respect and dignity.

The response of Rabbi Friedman, an important Chabad Rabbi, was quite different from the other 8. He wrote: “I don’t believe in western morality, i.e., don’t kill civilians or children, don’t destroy holy sites, don’t fight during holiday seasons, don’t bomb cemeteries, don’t shoot until they shoot first because it is immoral. The only way to fight a moral war is the Jewish way: Destroy their holy sites. Kill men, women and children (and cattle). With their holy sites destroyed, they will stop believing that G-d is on their side.”

Rabbi Friedman’s response dramatically demonstrates the schism in the Jewish world. The view of Rabbi Friedman has a large, but minority, following of those who understand the Torah’s command to wipe out Canaanites as a command to eradicate Palestinians from Israel and the occupied territories. For those who follow that view, there can be no peace with the Arabs. For them, Ishmael is indeed a donkey, falsely claiming Avraham’s inheritance.

Now, it’s important to understand that Rabbi Friedman was not speaking for Chabad as a whole, which does not have one unified voice. And I asked Rabbi Chaim here in Bozeman, who says he disagrees with this column. Yet, Chabad has taken a leading role on the extreme religious right in Israel. That said, the dynamics of fundamentalism, including denigrating the value of Arabs’ lives, extends far beyond Chabad. Some of this ilk have praised Baruch Goldstein, who massacred 29 Muslims as they prayed in the Tomb of the Patriarchs on Purim, 1994. And recently, the chief Rabbi of Jerusalem, Rabbi Avigdor Nebenzal, said “anyone who hands over parts of the Land of Israel to gentiles will be punished according to din rodef,” a halachic law that justifies pre-emptive murder in certain cases, and was used by some on the religious right to justify the murder of Yitzchak Rabin because he talked peace with Palestinians.

The following month, Jewish author Gershom Gorenberg, responded to Rabbi Friedman. He said that “while Rabbi Friedman may believe that his answer represents ‘old time Judaism,’ in fact, his words are an example of thoroughly modern fundamentalism.” Gorenberg explained that fundamentalism is a philosophy that places all authority outside of us and in a book that speaks for G!d – the Torah -- then claims that the book has an obvious literal meaning, and then derives from that text a willingness to believe and do things that are scandalous in modern ethical terms.

And here is how this rising trend of fundamentalism intersects with the question of whether we are pulled to the tribal or universalist parts of Judaism: because our people were highly tribal in ancient times, our ancient texts emphasize that tribalism, and because fundamentalists read those texts very literally, fundamentalism takes on a strong tribal message. In fact, fundamentalism – whether Jewish or otherwise -- almost always fuses religion with national identity, so fundamentalism feeds on tribalism. Even though tribalism has its very healthy aspects, it makes us particularly vulnerable to the fundamentalist message.

In this case, Rabbi Friedman builds on tribalism, adds to it a fundamentalist reading of sacred texts, and ends up with a view that expressly rejects Western ethics in favor of what he sees as Jewish biblical ethics. This is exactly how Muslim fundamentalists like Chamas operate as well, but citing the Koran instead, and then by turning Palestinian nationalism into a scared Islamic value.

Rabbi Friedman reminds us that before rushing to condemn the fundamentalist views advanced by other religions – and there are many – we should see that none of us are immune from its thought. The healthy tribal parts of us are vulnerable to the fundamentalist message, unless we keep that part of us in careful balance with the universalist part of us.

Because issues of fundamentalism sometimes arise in connection with Israel – as it did in the Moment magazine column -- I want to make clear that I am a staunch supporter of the existence of Israel as a Jewish state. I believe that Israel’s existence has profound meaning for the Jewish people. Indeed, I believe that a vibrant Israel is a necessary component for healthy Jewish survival.

However, this debate is not directly about Israel, but is about a fundamentalism which claims to have ultimate truths in many areas, ranging from approaches to religious practice, to how we treat non-Jews, to the role of women, to how we understand our sacred texts and their intersection with science, to what G!d wants from us, and to views on Israel. Fundamentalism can be appealing because of its black and white claims to ultimate truth, but for that same reason, it is outside the traditional Jewish path of striving to get closer to G!d, while acknowledging that as humans, we cannot know ultimate truths. Judaism is a didactic process designed to bring us closer to ultimate truths, but the minute we claim to have arrived at the ultimate truth, we most assuredly have not, and we have left the process of seeking that is Judaism’s nature.

We live in an historical time and place where our Christian brothers and sisters have, by and large embraced us, and many liberal Christians have worked hard on understanding the Christian polemic in their tradition as a function of an earlier time and understand that it belongs only in that earlier time. While historically, we generally fared better in the Muslim world, the situation is now reversed, largely because of the controversy about Israel, which has added to the divide in the Jewish world.

The universalist camp welcomes the new relationship with Christianity and believes that it is possible to end the polemic and enter into a real and lasting peace with Ishmael’s descendents; the tribal Jew is understandably more suspicious. That part pulls us to believe that given who they are and have always been and what they believe and have always believed, peace is not possible, and even if it were, it must be strictly on our terms because they cannot be trusted. And the fundamentalists exploit the otherwise healthy caution that resides within the tribal part of us, and seek to heighten that caution into zealotry by attaching it to a narrow reading of our sacred texts, which they interpret as a command to kill women, children, and cattle, and to destroy mosques.

Today, Judiasm is Yitzchak, sitting atop that altar on Mt. Moriah, waiting either to be sacrificed to a god of severe, exacting decree, or to be rescued by a god of mercy. The two lads trailing behind, sitting with the donkey, they are not Ishmael and Eliezar, Moslem and Christian. They are each part of us. One is the tribal part of us, justifiably worried about ethnic survival. The other is the universalist part, concerned about the moral implications. Both want the sacrifice to be stopped. Both see that Yitzchak, therefore themselves, is in danger. Both care deeply about the impending disaster. But both are sitting with the donkey, leaving Judaism’s fate in God’s hands.

But there is hope. Several months ago, the Muslim Student Association brought Norman Finkelstein as a guest speaker to MSU. Finkelstein claims to be an expert on the middle east and that, in a nutshell, the Palestinians are completely right and Israel is completely wrong. I’m proud to say that members of our community who work at MSU organized and responded. They prepared and distributed information that told the truth about Finkelstein and his agenda. They are in the process of arranging another speaker for this semester. In choosing a speaker, we learned that there were two camps of “experts” available. One set of potential speakers were Finkelstein in reverse, and claim that Israel is all right and the Palestinians are all wrong. The other would say that we have each inherited a legacy of polemic that has lead to mistakes on both sides, and more important, it serves no purpose to continue to wallow in the polemic of the past, but what is important is where we go from here and how we can achieve a real and lasting peace. It is my hope that someone from the latter camp is chosen.

In the meanwhile, during the process, I met the professor who advises the Muslim Student’s Association, a decent and well-meaning man. We agreed to begin a dialogue and this morning, I want to announce my intention that this year, those in this congregation who wish to participate will begin a Muslim-Jewish dialogue in Bozeman, as has been done by many Reform congregations throughout the United States. I mentioned this to my friend, Rev. Clark from the Episcopal church and he indicated that his church wanted to be involved as well, so we’ll see where that goes. It is only by getting to know one another and through real listening that we can move through the polemic of seeing one another as donkeys.

We walk together on the road to Moriah. We can choose if that road will end in senseless sacrifice, or in legacy and blessing. A midrash teaches, “When you go to make war, begin with proclaiming peace.” It is not too late. Let us together proclaim our hope for peace and work for it in the coming year.

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Yom Kippur Sermon

Slicha: It's Hard to be Human

I once attended a Yom Kippur service and when it came time for the sermon, the young rabbi walked out into the congregation, took his infant daughter from his wife, and carrying her in his arms, returned to the bima. The little girl was about a year old and was cute as can be. She was smiling at the congregation. She turned towards her daddy and patted him on his cheek with her tiny hands. He smiled lovingly at her and then, very dignified, he began a rather traditional YK sermon, talking about the meaning of YK and some of the history. [Yawn!] Like many, I began to yawn.

After a little while, the baby, feeling that his attention shifted away from her, reached out and grabbed his nose, pretty hard. He managed to free himself and like nothing happened, he continued the sermon, After a little bit, she took his tie and put it in her mouth. Everyone started chuckling. The rabbi rescued his tie and smiled at the child, and she put her arms around his neck. Something about that changed him, and he stopped the sermon about the history of YK. He said, “look at her. Is there anything that she can do that you could not forgive her for?” Everyone seemed to nod in agreement, no doubt thinking about their own children and grandchildren. Just then, she reached up and grabbed his glasses and tossed them to the ground. Everyone cracked up.

The rabbi picked up the glasses and put them back on his squeezed nose, and he began to laugh as well. He waited for silence, and I was expecting something stern from this stern man. When silence came, he said “And when does it stop? When does it get hard to forgive? At three? At seven? At fourteen? At 35? How old does someone have to be before you forget that everyone is a child of G!d?”

Back then, I found forgiveness very difficult.. I thought of it in terms of lowering of standards rather than how we act in a family relationship.

Nothing is worth not forgiving, yet, for many of us – probably for most of us -- forgiveness of others is the hardest thing. It’s near impossible some times. Last year, you may remember, I talked about how while some traditions teach to “turn the other cheek,” we acknowledge that that is easier said than done. So, we teach that in order to forgive, really forgive, we first have to heal the wounds within ourselves that were caused by the other person, and only then can we really release them in true forgiveness.

But there’s more to it than that. Our ability to forgive is directly tied to how we see one another: family or stranger. What are our underlying assumptions about the other: are they basically good or basically bad?

So many Jews I know view the world and other people with hostility and suspicion. The assumption is that it’s every man for himself. This outlook means that everybody else steals and cheats on their taxes, so I better do it also. When I go to a mechanic, he probably wants to rip me off. Politicians are all corrupt, not a one is in it for love of public service. And we better be sure that illegal immigrants don’t get a dime of our money, even if our own grandparents may have been immigrants in their day.

The other way to view the world, that everyone is like family, everyone is basically good -- even though this is the most basic teaching of Judaism – seems to many of us as dangerous.

Our sages taught that we are all created in the divine image, and while some traditions talk about original sin, we talk about original good. In fact, this idea of original sin versus original good is the main practical theological difference with Christianity, even more significant in terms of day to day theology than the differences of opinion about Jesus’divinity. The idea of original good means that our souls are actually a piece of divinity and in that way, each of us is god-like. That doesn’t mean we do good all the time. Like a snake, we acquire a skin over the course of the year, and at YK, we shed that skin so we can return to our original good selves. A big part of the process of shedding that skin requires resolve on our parts to forgive ourselves and to forgive one another for the mistakes we made during the year. And the reason it is so hard to forgive is because we often don’t really accept the Jewish idea of original good, choosing to see the “bad” that is done to us as the work of a “bad” person, rather than the work of a family member also made in the image of G!d.

There’s a wonderful story in the Talmud – Tractate Ta’anit -- about a righteous Jewish doctor named Abba the surgeon. He often treated people for free and never embarrassed anyone. He was a tzadik who always assumed everyone else was coming from a good and pure place. He was so righteous, it says, that he received visits daily from a heavenly voice. Other righteous men did not receive these daily visits and were jealous, so one, Rabbi Abaye sent two young Rabbis to test Abba the surgeon. When they arrived, Abba fed them, gave them drinks, and gave them fine woolen rugs to sleep on. In the morning, the two young Rabbis left and took the fine rugs. Later that day, Abba sees the two young Rabbis at the marketplace with the rugs, and the Rabbis offer to sell them to Abba, who, without any hesitation, offered them a fair price. They eventually admit that they are Abba’s rugs and ask Abba what he thought at the time about them taking them. Abba said: “I assumed that a case of ransoming captives must have come before the Rabbis, and you needed them to ransom captives and were embarrassed to tell me about it. They offered to return the rugs, but Abba refused, saying “from the moment I concluded that you took the rugs to raise money to redeem captives, I put them out of my mind, and assigned them to charity.”

I knew someone in Florida who had an appointment with a rabbi, and the rabbi flat didn’t show. The person left the shul, muttering about how the rabbi doesn’t really ever work and is so rude to miss the appointment. By happenstance, I later learned that the Rabbi was called to the hospital to hold the hand of a man dying of AIDS. He later apologized to the person for missing the appointment, but never said where he had been or what he was doing.

Even though Judaism teaches us to assume others are coming from a place of goodness, sometimes we just can’t. What is our second line of defense? What pother underlying assumptions about the other can we add that might help?

What I’ve learned in my life is it’s so hard to be a human being. It’s much easier if you’re born a cat to be a cat, because you come programmed with most everything you need. But to be a human being is very hard. Just to be human is hard.

There’s a parable in the talmud where the angels are having a chat with G!d. G!d mentions to the angels that humans are on a higher rung than angels. The angels are insulted and astounded. They look down at human beings and they say, “that, they are on a higher rung than we, we are who are so high, so holy, so pure. Look at them? On a higher rung than us?” G!d turns to them and says “YOU are born in an instant in an expression of my will. You need nothing. But THEY live their whole lives knowing that everything that they love they will lose.”

Just to be human is so hard. So many bad things happen to us. It’s a wonder that we ever behave well. So many bad things happen to us. From the moment that mom answers phone in the middle of breast feeding and we experience separation, loss, fear, terror, abandonment, betrayal. It never ends. Amidst all the wondrous things, it’s such a crazy mix. It’s like being a dreidel being turned, is it wonderful, is it awful, from one minute to the next . . .

We have so many memories and they’re playing all of the time. So many assumptions, and armors and ideas, and things that people have said to us. It’s so hard to be a human being. We blame other people, and blame ourselves. Judge others, judge ourselves. It’s a wonder that anyone can ever be nice.

And it’s so hard to understand you because I can only understand you through the filter of my own expectations and assumptions. Everything I know about you is filtered through the assumptions of my own story. Even when we speak the same language, we have to clarify it endlessly. Because you use words differently than I use them. How many conversations I had this year that were passed on and repeated back to me and I asked, how could have he understood that I said that?" And e-mails are worse. They never told me in Rabbi school that so much time would be needed to resolve hurt feelings that were never intended by e-mails.

There isn’t anyone alive who has said “I think I’ll have a life full of terrible things.” Generally speaking, terrible things have to happen to a person to cause them to do terrible things. Yes, every moment we choose between good and evil and when people do terrible things, the terrible behaviors needs to be addressed. But, sometimes, the collective product of our human misbehaviors congeal on some people more than others, so if I don’t do to you as many terrible things as you’ve done to me, it’s because at least they’re balanced by some good things that happened at certain stages of my life, so instead of having NO trust, I have some trust, instead of having NO idea what love is, I know what love is, but I also know what the absence of what love is.

There was an experiment that was not planned, an experiment that unfolded in the orphanages of Romania, where there were so many babies abandoned that the caretakers had gymnasium like rooms filled with cribs, each one with an infant, so that all they could do was change diapers and feed, they had no time to pick up a baby. All those babies grew up with their diapers changed – most of the time -- on a schedule, and they were fed on a schedule. When they were teenagers, it was discovered that the ones that didn’t die had terrible attachment disorders, most were sociopathic, they had no ability to love, they were entirely narcisisticly wounded.

All of us have had our measure, large or small, of those sorts of issues, because they are part of the package of being a human being. No matter how loved and wanted you were as a child, your mother will answer the phone and put you down when you don’t know what a phone is. And the passage of time has no meaning because we live in the eternal present, so that abandonment is forever.

The difference between Forgiving and Faginnin, the yiddush word that’s like forgiving, is that the fagin place is where I know for myself how hard it is to be a human being. When we forgive, we say “ok, I’m going to let go of this.” But, to fagin is to have compassion for how hard it is to be a human being and for all the things that happened to a person along the way, including the things that happened to a person that that caused that person to do terrible things.

If I understand this, it’s easier for me to understand how it is that people make terrible mistakes. I still want to correct the behaviors and work on having them not happening again. But I would like for the people who are present when my capacity to behave well is compromised, to fagin. To just say, I know you’re tired and stressed out, it’s too much, gosh, I know how easy it is to [fill in the blank]. Instead of “you always track in mud” or “you just don’t care about me.”

About 20 years ago, a jury convicted my client of first degree murder, and the next morning, there would be a second trial before the same jury on the question of punishment: either life without parole or death by electrocution. That evening, at about 7 pm, I stopped thinking about the next morning’s trial long enough to put my 4 year old daughter to bed. As was our custom, she read a goodnight story to me. I listened at first, but my mind drifted off to thinking about what I would tell that jury the next morning so that they might fagib this man enough to spare his life. I was called back to reality by my daughter’s voice calling me: “Daddy, daddy, are you listening?” At that, I caught her eyes, so focused on me and as I looked deeply into her eyes, I saw clearly her child-like capacity for love, her pure inner goodness. The Holy One had sent me the answer: once we understand that loving goodness is at the core of every human being, and that it’s hard to be a human being, it is hard not to forgive. She read me the rest of the story and I listened intently until she fell asleep.

The next morning, after recounting the evidence about my client’s past and noting how hard it can be sometimes to be human, I told the jury about the loving goodness I saw the night before in my daughter’s eyes, a loving goodness that is at the core of every humen being because we are all G!d’s children. The jury was able to see in my client what I saw in my daughter.

Forgiveness is possible when we see the G!d in one another, when we understand the Jewish teaching of original good. And when we understand that the bad we do is a departure from the original good, not the other way around. And when we understand how hard it is to be a human being. Then we are not just forgiving, but faginnin.

Forgive. Slicha. Slichot. Foregivenesses. I’m sorry. V’al kulam. For all of them, slach lanu, forgive us, or at least fagin us.

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