Rosh Hashanah 5780
The Power of Happiness and Chessed
Rabbi Rafi M. Cohen ©
The Merriam Webster Dictionary defines happiness as a state of well-being and contentment; joy; or pleasurable or satisfying experience. These outcomes are derived from a great many sources. Some of us are happy when we sing and dance; some draw or meditate while others engage in different activities each of which can yield positive energy which brings about elation - a feeling that we would like to repeat more often. What makes you happy?
A story is shared in Midrash Rabbah of the book of Bamidbar: A certain traveler went forth, and for days he wandered through the desert and found no town, no village, no oasis, no tree and no water, and no living thing. He went on like this, day after day. After he had carried on like this for ten days, he spied a tree in the distance and said to himself: "Perhaps beneath that tree there is water." When he approached the tree he found that it stood by a living spring, and when he saw that it was a beautiful tree, with ripe fruit upon it, and beautiful leafage, he rested, cooling himself beneath its shade and ate of its fruits. He drank from the water of the spring, and it was very pleasant to him. His soul was refreshed. And when he arose to go on his way, he said: "Oh tree, how can I bless thee, and what can I say unto thee? If I say, may thy wood be finely grown, it is so already; if I pray that thy shade be pleasant, it is so already; that thy foliage may be beautiful, it is already beautiful; that thy fruit may be sweet, behold it is already sweet; if I would pray for thee that a spring may bubble up beneath thy roots, behold the spring is already there, beneath thy roots. If I would say, may thy stand in a lovely place, thy already stand in a good position. What blessing, then, is there left for me to wish for thee? Only that every tree that is planted from thee may be like thee."(Bamidbar Rabbah, Chap. II).
A different story: One evening in the beginning of August, my wife and I drove into Manhattan to meet a friend for dinner. I was fortunate to find a spot (this was of course late enough that alternate side parking was no longer in affect) directly across from the restaurant. A modern-day miracle; maybe. As I maneuvered into the space, I noticed another driver trying to get into the space behind me. She was not jockeying for the same space, rather she only wanted to park close enough so that she could run into a restaurant to use a restroom. I signaled to her asking for her patience and, before I completely finished my parallel parking, I quickly exited my car, approached the car in front of me (an Uber), and requested that the driver move up a few feet so that there would be ample room for the pit-stop lady and me. The Uber driver kindly obliged, and we all parked and went about our business. The end of the evening approached and, following a fun evening of catching up and tasty vegan food (surprisingly those words can go together) Michele, I, and one of our friends who we were giving a ride back to her home in Riverdale walked to our car. At this point, Michele discovered a napkin placed beneath a windshield wiper on our car. On the napkin was written a very small and significant message: “Thank you!” We concluded that the woman who parked for the restroom left the napkin. I didn’t expect this gesture and was genuinely stirred by the moment. I admit while I am no pessimist, living in NYC long enough has impacted my attitude in a way that I just don’t expect these niceties. The New York Times Metro Diary proves me wrong from time to time.
The incident reminds me about the children’s book “What’s so Nice about Being Nice?”, a book we once had in our possession. What does it mean to be nice and, moreover, what’s the difference between being nice and kind? We have all probably heard someone say, "So-and-so is a nice person.” Being a parent and having worked in schools has prompted me to think about what it means to be nice. I want to offer some distinctions between being nice and genuinely kind.
Psychologists and others more expert than myself propose that “a kind person is loving and giving out of the goodness of their heart.” Genuinely kind people give because it is in their nature to care. They have no ulterior motives and they are not concerned with whether or not other people like them. Behavioral psychologists also point out that kind people are assertive and are able to set limits. Nice people, on the other hand, bend over backwards to be obliging. The latter types approach conflicts by placating the other person because they cannot bear to disappoint others and have someone upset with them. Kind people have good self-esteem and, because they love themselves as much as they care about others, they expect to be treated with respect. Nice people can be desperate for approval and, therefore, are often mistreated or taken advantage of by others. Nice people have a tendency to act on others’ behalf – especially those who may be undeserving – and are easy prey for others. Kind people are attentive to their own self-care and, while they may be altruistic, they’re generous without getting caught up in a user-pleaser type of relationship. Kind people are content, if not happy, to begin with, and increase their happiness through acts of generosity and altruism.
Are you a kind person or a nice person? Are you both? Would you leave a note on a car of someone who helped you out and you just wanted to let them know you appreciate them? The woman’s brief and simple nod to my kindness – or call it thoughtfulness – gave me a good feeling and was far more powerful a moment than my hour-long dinner that we finished moments earlier. Whether intentional or accidental, the parking space and the hand-written note are more powerful and memorable than the hour-long dinner I enjoyed in between. As Chip and Dan Heath wrote, “certain experiences have extraordinary impact.”
According to legend, a desert wanderer discovered a spring of cool, crystal-clear water. It tasted so good that he filled a leather container with the precious liquid so he could bring it to the king. After a long journey, he presented his gift to the king, who drank it with great pleasure and lavishly thanked the wanderer, who went away with a happy heart. The king’s son tasted the water and spit it out. It had picked up the smell of the old leather canteen and had become foul. The boy asked his father why he pretended to like the awful-tasting water. The king said, “Son, that man gave me a gift from his heart. It wasn’t the water I enjoyed; it was the sweet taste of his generosity. When someone gives you something with genuine love, the thing given is simply the container. The real gift is the thought inside.”
The wisdom of the king’s insight is best experienced when we get a gift from a child who loves us. Whether it’s a ceramic tray, a macaroni pin, or a crayon drawing, the purity of the child’s sweet intentions generates a form of joy we call gratitude.
Yet in most other settings we receive gifts without experiencing genuine appreciation. Consequently, our “thank yous” are simply ritualistic courtesies. One reason is we’re conditioned to value gifts based on their cost. Another is that gifts are often given to meet an obligation or as a form of investment rather than as expressions of generous affection. Abraham Joshua Heschel once said, “When I was young, I admired clever people. Now that I am old, I admire kind people.” Henry James was more emphatic when he said, “Three things in human life are important: The first is to be kind. The second is to be kind. And the third is to be kind.”
Wouldn’t the yamim noraim be so more joyous if we gave and received gifts as if they really were the thoughts that counts? Whether you write a note on a napkin or share verbal gratitude with another, giving the gift of genuine kindness to someone will last more than we may ever know.
When a man gave his seven-year-old son a ball, bat, and a glove, the boy wanted to play immediately.
The dad said, “Show me what you can do.”
The boy threw the ball into the air, took a mighty swing and missed. “Strike one,” he said enthusiastically. He tossed the ball again and missed again. “Strike two,” the kid yelled.
The dad tried to hide his concern when he said, “Concentrate, son. Remember, three strikes and you’re out.” The boy threw the ball again and swung so hard he fell to the ground after whiffling completely. The dad winced, but the boy had a triumphant grin.
“You struck out. What are you so happy?” asked the father.
“Because this means I’m really good at pitching,” said the boy.
The boy may not turn out to be a great hitter (or pitcher) but he’s likely to lead a happy life. He will bring warmth and cheer into the lives of others because an attitude like his is contagious. It’s not always so easy to remain optimistic, but it is possible. If we develop the wisdom to treat frustrations and failures as empowering experiences – if we generate the strength to let go of self-destructive resentments and hurt, our lives will be filled with joy, with bliss, with happiness.
A school psychologist shared the story that psychologists once rigged a phone booth so that some participants, when they finished their call and hung up the phone, got their dime back. Other participants did not get their dime back. One way or the other, as the participants left the phone booth, an actor walked by and just happened to drop all his books and papers directly in front of the people. For the participants who got their dime back, 87% of them stopped to help this stranger pick up his books and papers. For those who didn’t get their dime back, only four percent stopped. What does this mean? The money a more indirect form of tzedakah; it was an opportunity for the participants to help or give a gift to someone else. After all, when something good happens to us, we are more inclined to pay it forward. We can all be instruments of good or as my colleague at school said, “We can all be the dime.” Harold Kushner writes, “Our souls are not hungry for fame, comfort, wealth or power. Our souls are hungry for meaning, for the sense that we have figured out how to live so that our lives matter, so that the world will be at least a little bit different for our having passed through it.” This is where happiness lies.
Rabbi Rafi M. Cohen ©
The Merriam Webster Dictionary defines happiness as a state of well-being and contentment; joy; or pleasurable or satisfying experience. These outcomes are derived from a great many sources. Some of us are happy when we sing and dance; some draw or meditate while others engage in different activities each of which can yield positive energy which brings about elation - a feeling that we would like to repeat more often. What makes you happy?
A story is shared in Midrash Rabbah of the book of Bamidbar: A certain traveler went forth, and for days he wandered through the desert and found no town, no village, no oasis, no tree and no water, and no living thing. He went on like this, day after day. After he had carried on like this for ten days, he spied a tree in the distance and said to himself: "Perhaps beneath that tree there is water." When he approached the tree he found that it stood by a living spring, and when he saw that it was a beautiful tree, with ripe fruit upon it, and beautiful leafage, he rested, cooling himself beneath its shade and ate of its fruits. He drank from the water of the spring, and it was very pleasant to him. His soul was refreshed. And when he arose to go on his way, he said: "Oh tree, how can I bless thee, and what can I say unto thee? If I say, may thy wood be finely grown, it is so already; if I pray that thy shade be pleasant, it is so already; that thy foliage may be beautiful, it is already beautiful; that thy fruit may be sweet, behold it is already sweet; if I would pray for thee that a spring may bubble up beneath thy roots, behold the spring is already there, beneath thy roots. If I would say, may thy stand in a lovely place, thy already stand in a good position. What blessing, then, is there left for me to wish for thee? Only that every tree that is planted from thee may be like thee."(Bamidbar Rabbah, Chap. II).
A different story: One evening in the beginning of August, my wife and I drove into Manhattan to meet a friend for dinner. I was fortunate to find a spot (this was of course late enough that alternate side parking was no longer in affect) directly across from the restaurant. A modern-day miracle; maybe. As I maneuvered into the space, I noticed another driver trying to get into the space behind me. She was not jockeying for the same space, rather she only wanted to park close enough so that she could run into a restaurant to use a restroom. I signaled to her asking for her patience and, before I completely finished my parallel parking, I quickly exited my car, approached the car in front of me (an Uber), and requested that the driver move up a few feet so that there would be ample room for the pit-stop lady and me. The Uber driver kindly obliged, and we all parked and went about our business. The end of the evening approached and, following a fun evening of catching up and tasty vegan food (surprisingly those words can go together) Michele, I, and one of our friends who we were giving a ride back to her home in Riverdale walked to our car. At this point, Michele discovered a napkin placed beneath a windshield wiper on our car. On the napkin was written a very small and significant message: “Thank you!” We concluded that the woman who parked for the restroom left the napkin. I didn’t expect this gesture and was genuinely stirred by the moment. I admit while I am no pessimist, living in NYC long enough has impacted my attitude in a way that I just don’t expect these niceties. The New York Times Metro Diary proves me wrong from time to time.
The incident reminds me about the children’s book “What’s so Nice about Being Nice?”, a book we once had in our possession. What does it mean to be nice and, moreover, what’s the difference between being nice and kind? We have all probably heard someone say, "So-and-so is a nice person.” Being a parent and having worked in schools has prompted me to think about what it means to be nice. I want to offer some distinctions between being nice and genuinely kind.
Psychologists and others more expert than myself propose that “a kind person is loving and giving out of the goodness of their heart.” Genuinely kind people give because it is in their nature to care. They have no ulterior motives and they are not concerned with whether or not other people like them. Behavioral psychologists also point out that kind people are assertive and are able to set limits. Nice people, on the other hand, bend over backwards to be obliging. The latter types approach conflicts by placating the other person because they cannot bear to disappoint others and have someone upset with them. Kind people have good self-esteem and, because they love themselves as much as they care about others, they expect to be treated with respect. Nice people can be desperate for approval and, therefore, are often mistreated or taken advantage of by others. Nice people have a tendency to act on others’ behalf – especially those who may be undeserving – and are easy prey for others. Kind people are attentive to their own self-care and, while they may be altruistic, they’re generous without getting caught up in a user-pleaser type of relationship. Kind people are content, if not happy, to begin with, and increase their happiness through acts of generosity and altruism.
Are you a kind person or a nice person? Are you both? Would you leave a note on a car of someone who helped you out and you just wanted to let them know you appreciate them? The woman’s brief and simple nod to my kindness – or call it thoughtfulness – gave me a good feeling and was far more powerful a moment than my hour-long dinner that we finished moments earlier. Whether intentional or accidental, the parking space and the hand-written note are more powerful and memorable than the hour-long dinner I enjoyed in between. As Chip and Dan Heath wrote, “certain experiences have extraordinary impact.”
According to legend, a desert wanderer discovered a spring of cool, crystal-clear water. It tasted so good that he filled a leather container with the precious liquid so he could bring it to the king. After a long journey, he presented his gift to the king, who drank it with great pleasure and lavishly thanked the wanderer, who went away with a happy heart. The king’s son tasted the water and spit it out. It had picked up the smell of the old leather canteen and had become foul. The boy asked his father why he pretended to like the awful-tasting water. The king said, “Son, that man gave me a gift from his heart. It wasn’t the water I enjoyed; it was the sweet taste of his generosity. When someone gives you something with genuine love, the thing given is simply the container. The real gift is the thought inside.”
The wisdom of the king’s insight is best experienced when we get a gift from a child who loves us. Whether it’s a ceramic tray, a macaroni pin, or a crayon drawing, the purity of the child’s sweet intentions generates a form of joy we call gratitude.
Yet in most other settings we receive gifts without experiencing genuine appreciation. Consequently, our “thank yous” are simply ritualistic courtesies. One reason is we’re conditioned to value gifts based on their cost. Another is that gifts are often given to meet an obligation or as a form of investment rather than as expressions of generous affection. Abraham Joshua Heschel once said, “When I was young, I admired clever people. Now that I am old, I admire kind people.” Henry James was more emphatic when he said, “Three things in human life are important: The first is to be kind. The second is to be kind. And the third is to be kind.”
Wouldn’t the yamim noraim be so more joyous if we gave and received gifts as if they really were the thoughts that counts? Whether you write a note on a napkin or share verbal gratitude with another, giving the gift of genuine kindness to someone will last more than we may ever know.
When a man gave his seven-year-old son a ball, bat, and a glove, the boy wanted to play immediately.
The dad said, “Show me what you can do.”
The boy threw the ball into the air, took a mighty swing and missed. “Strike one,” he said enthusiastically. He tossed the ball again and missed again. “Strike two,” the kid yelled.
The dad tried to hide his concern when he said, “Concentrate, son. Remember, three strikes and you’re out.” The boy threw the ball again and swung so hard he fell to the ground after whiffling completely. The dad winced, but the boy had a triumphant grin.
“You struck out. What are you so happy?” asked the father.
“Because this means I’m really good at pitching,” said the boy.
The boy may not turn out to be a great hitter (or pitcher) but he’s likely to lead a happy life. He will bring warmth and cheer into the lives of others because an attitude like his is contagious. It’s not always so easy to remain optimistic, but it is possible. If we develop the wisdom to treat frustrations and failures as empowering experiences – if we generate the strength to let go of self-destructive resentments and hurt, our lives will be filled with joy, with bliss, with happiness.
A school psychologist shared the story that psychologists once rigged a phone booth so that some participants, when they finished their call and hung up the phone, got their dime back. Other participants did not get their dime back. One way or the other, as the participants left the phone booth, an actor walked by and just happened to drop all his books and papers directly in front of the people. For the participants who got their dime back, 87% of them stopped to help this stranger pick up his books and papers. For those who didn’t get their dime back, only four percent stopped. What does this mean? The money a more indirect form of tzedakah; it was an opportunity for the participants to help or give a gift to someone else. After all, when something good happens to us, we are more inclined to pay it forward. We can all be instruments of good or as my colleague at school said, “We can all be the dime.” Harold Kushner writes, “Our souls are not hungry for fame, comfort, wealth or power. Our souls are hungry for meaning, for the sense that we have figured out how to live so that our lives matter, so that the world will be at least a little bit different for our having passed through it.” This is where happiness lies.
Yom Kippur 5780
Forgiveness is more than Cheap Grace
Rabbi Rafi M. Cohen ©
I love Kol Nidre. I love the pomp and circumstance of it and the fact that it is intended to have some legal ramification, though it probably does not. I like the quiet and stillness of the room, just before the cantor begins. I like seeing past presidents of this community standing together on the bimah, leading us in the sacred task of holding the sifrei Torah and giving hope and aspiration to others in the community to be leaders and perhaps stand up here or in other congregations in leadership roles. I’ve liked Kol Nidre since I saw “The Jazz Singer” – the 1980’s release with Neil Diamond. The film was classified as a “critical flop”, but the music was wildly successful and I loved it! I liked the way Diamond performed Kol Nidre [cantor, you sang it beautifully as well.] I liked the symbolism that he was somehow returning to his family and where he somehow belonged. And I appreciate the way in which the film, set in the early 80’s, tried to portray the religious community and issues that were and maybe still are important. It is difficult, sometimes dangerous, and even gut-wrenching, watching the missteps of our people when they are placed on a pedestal.
If you are less familiar with the film, it probably does not need to be at the top of your bucket list. It took Neil Diamond’s character a while to find his way home where his father, the great Cantor Rabinovitch and others thought he belonged. Diamond’s character crossed the country from the East coast to the West experiencing success in a music career, and when he returns home on erev Yom Kippur, he ascends to the bimah and belts out a memorable Kol Nidre.
Prior to hearing the words of Kol Kidre this evening – words that if my memory is correct are not included in the movie kol nidre scene – there was this not so minor little paragraph that concluded with the words “we hereby declare that it is permitted to pray with those who have transgressed.” “אָֽנוּ מַתִּירִין לְהִתְפַּלֵּל עִם הָעֲבַרְיָנִים”
One can understand this to mean that there may be people in our midst, or the greater community that we have in mind as we say or hear the words of “kol nidre”, and we have more than rabbinic dispensation to pray with them. We must pay attention to them and them to us. It’s okay for me to pray with you.
Reciting these opening words to Kol Nidre is a set induction to realizing that there are many we may want to question or not include in our prayers.
We don’t have to look far for missteps or wrongdoings by Jews this year: Rabbi Rachel Timoner, senior rabbi of Congregation Beth Elohim in Brooklyn, said that “If someone was looking for Jewish villains, this was the year: Netanyahu for annexation; Epstein for exploitation, Sackler for addiction, Weinstein for intimidation, Miller for family separation…” Hardly the exemplars of perfect behavior, these individuals are ivrim – they are Jews – and they are עֲבַרְיָנִים. Though they are in a category unto themselves, we are all ivrim and עֲבַרְיָנִים.
I once heard a story from my chaplain internship supervisor that I want to share: Rabbi Levi was a Hassidic master who led a congregation, and he invited Yossi the shoemaker to deliver the formal remarks on Yom Kippur before the entire community. Yossi ascended the bimah and stood before the ark. Those gathered were stunned. “What was the rabbi thinking?” They've never heard Yossi speak; rumors were that he might possibly be illiterate. What could he have to say on the evening of the most sacred day on the Jewish calendar?
Gathering his thoughts while community members sat on the edge of their seats, Yossi proceeded: “God, we didn’t have such a great year, and we may have missed the mark here and there. But our actions were of little consequence. Occasionally, I might have kept some leftover material for myself, or perhaps I forgot to recite a prayer at the appropriate time. Some of us spoke leshon hara (we gossiped) or missed a birthday or wedding anniversary. “But in truth, God, You, did not have such a great year either, and You committed much graver sins. You removed parents from their children, wives from husbands and husbands from wives. In some cases, children were taken from their families. You know, Mr. Goldberg lost his car, Mrs. Klein fell ill, and Wasserman lost his business… “Let us reach some type of agreement. God, If You will forgive us, then we will forgive You.”
As Yossi stepped back from the lectern and turned to descend the bimah, Rabbi Levi rebuked him saying, “You know, Yossi, I think you let God off too easy.” Rabbi Levi admonished the poor shoemaker for not demanding God to repent and ask our forgiveness for the tragedies that have befallen those innocent and good people of the world.
Can it be that we pray only for God to be lenient and forgive us? Rabbi Levi Yitzchak presents us with the possibility that we ought to question God, Dayyan ha’Emet, the Almighty and Judge of the universe? But I think that if we are going to question God, then we must be ready to question each other as well. If we let God off easy, then we are over on self-inflicting harm and hurting others. Rabbi Levi Yitzhak felt that it was fundamental, for the future redemption of the world, to imagine God coming before us for our forgiveness.
More than two hundred years following the great Hasidic master, we remain a long way from redeeming ourselves. We are in danger of seeing many people and parts of the world engulfed in flames of destruction. Is this really a year to let God and ourselves off the hook? We have suffered a great deal, and we need to take a serious look at what we have done, what others have done, and how we can do things differently.
We are not the only ones making terrible mistakes. We too suffer at the hands of others’ missteps. General hatred and intolerance are on the rise as people of color, migrants, homosexuals and many others are being threatened almost daily. Each time there was a shooting in a house of worship, on a college campus, or in a department store, our hearts ached for the victims and their families.
In each shooting incident, my mind returned to Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Charleston, South Carolina because of my nine years of upbringing just five miles from the spot of the horror and heartbreak. Each article written about the victims, their family members, and community members or visitors to Charleston added a detail to my memory and picture of my birthplace.
I am drawn to the way in which survivors find forgiveness. One article in the New York Times depicted the survivors looking "to the screen in a corner of the courtroom into the expressionless face of the young man charged with making them motherless...” And they "answered him with forgiveness." Nadine Collier, daughter of 70-year old Ethel Lance (one of the victims) stated, "I will never talk to her ever again. But I forgive you."
In Dallas, former police officer Amber Guyger was found guilty in the 2018 shooting death of her upstairs neighbor Botham Jean and, following the sentence delivered by the jury, the victim’s brother told Ms. Guyger that he forgives her and loves her.
Our humanity, as hurt and anguished as it may be following each tragedy, seeks a higher ground that leads us to talk of forgiveness. These God loving, Bible studying congregants are the paragon of holding together their faith and anger. They have found a way to elicit forgiveness for a man who murdered their friends and relatives, and they did so all the while quoting passages from the Bible. I will stand before you and admit my shock at how easily they find forgiveness.
Op-ed writer and editor for The New York Times Bari Weiss writes that “today we face a rising tide of anti-Semitism around the world that American Jewry has not escaped. But the right response is the same now as it has been for Jews of so many other times and places. The only sustainable way we can fight anti-Semitism is by waging an affirmative battle for who we are.” She quotes “da lifnei mi atah omed.” “Know before whom you stand,” a phrase inscribed over the ark in many synagogues around the world. What I know is that we stand together with many who need our help. While we may follow the instructions of Pirkei Avot and seek to distance ourselves from evil, we must also be mindful of the Pirkei Avot’s statement to stand where others are unwilling to stand. “B’makom sh’eyn ish, hishtadel lihyot ish.”
We stand before the Heavenly Court – the yeshiva shel ma’alah – in whom we place our faith, our trust, and the moral outcome of ourselves and all perpetrators. While we place moral guilt in the hands of the Heavenly Court, we can hold criminal guilt in the grasp of our own humanity.
With all of the possible outcomes that are enumerated in “U’netaneh Tokef” one might feel anger, fear, or sadness. We are, therefore, instructed to repent, act justly, and pray so that we might temper the “severe decree.” Or as we say at camp: “You get what you get, and when you get upset, learn how to deal with it.”
Anger at God, dissatisfaction with the state of the world or the shape of our lives is not only compatible with faith; it is an act of faith. It is important to examine our emotional well-being and give space for the anger. My CPE supervisor was fond of saying that denying others the opportunity to examine their emotional well-being would be giving them “cheap grace.” And yet, instead of allowing our anger and pain to govern who we are and how we act, we can at those times emphasize reaching out to others, helping them, and receiving their kindness when we need it the most. Sometimes, we are the best judges we have.
As we pray among one another – among all עֲבַרְיָנִים and עברים – I hope that God will guide. I pray that we will not give anyone “cheap grace” – neither letting God off easy or one another. Rabbi Levi Yitzhak of Berdichev wanted us to challenge God. We can stand as Yossi stood before God and the ark. May we be comforted by the familiar and beautiful sounds of Kol Nidre and the rest of our time together. May we discover the ability to hold ourselves and God accountable together and be inscribed in the book of life for the year ahead.
Rabbi Rafi M. Cohen ©
I love Kol Nidre. I love the pomp and circumstance of it and the fact that it is intended to have some legal ramification, though it probably does not. I like the quiet and stillness of the room, just before the cantor begins. I like seeing past presidents of this community standing together on the bimah, leading us in the sacred task of holding the sifrei Torah and giving hope and aspiration to others in the community to be leaders and perhaps stand up here or in other congregations in leadership roles. I’ve liked Kol Nidre since I saw “The Jazz Singer” – the 1980’s release with Neil Diamond. The film was classified as a “critical flop”, but the music was wildly successful and I loved it! I liked the way Diamond performed Kol Nidre [cantor, you sang it beautifully as well.] I liked the symbolism that he was somehow returning to his family and where he somehow belonged. And I appreciate the way in which the film, set in the early 80’s, tried to portray the religious community and issues that were and maybe still are important. It is difficult, sometimes dangerous, and even gut-wrenching, watching the missteps of our people when they are placed on a pedestal.
If you are less familiar with the film, it probably does not need to be at the top of your bucket list. It took Neil Diamond’s character a while to find his way home where his father, the great Cantor Rabinovitch and others thought he belonged. Diamond’s character crossed the country from the East coast to the West experiencing success in a music career, and when he returns home on erev Yom Kippur, he ascends to the bimah and belts out a memorable Kol Nidre.
Prior to hearing the words of Kol Kidre this evening – words that if my memory is correct are not included in the movie kol nidre scene – there was this not so minor little paragraph that concluded with the words “we hereby declare that it is permitted to pray with those who have transgressed.” “אָֽנוּ מַתִּירִין לְהִתְפַּלֵּל עִם הָעֲבַרְיָנִים”
One can understand this to mean that there may be people in our midst, or the greater community that we have in mind as we say or hear the words of “kol nidre”, and we have more than rabbinic dispensation to pray with them. We must pay attention to them and them to us. It’s okay for me to pray with you.
Reciting these opening words to Kol Nidre is a set induction to realizing that there are many we may want to question or not include in our prayers.
We don’t have to look far for missteps or wrongdoings by Jews this year: Rabbi Rachel Timoner, senior rabbi of Congregation Beth Elohim in Brooklyn, said that “If someone was looking for Jewish villains, this was the year: Netanyahu for annexation; Epstein for exploitation, Sackler for addiction, Weinstein for intimidation, Miller for family separation…” Hardly the exemplars of perfect behavior, these individuals are ivrim – they are Jews – and they are עֲבַרְיָנִים. Though they are in a category unto themselves, we are all ivrim and עֲבַרְיָנִים.
I once heard a story from my chaplain internship supervisor that I want to share: Rabbi Levi was a Hassidic master who led a congregation, and he invited Yossi the shoemaker to deliver the formal remarks on Yom Kippur before the entire community. Yossi ascended the bimah and stood before the ark. Those gathered were stunned. “What was the rabbi thinking?” They've never heard Yossi speak; rumors were that he might possibly be illiterate. What could he have to say on the evening of the most sacred day on the Jewish calendar?
Gathering his thoughts while community members sat on the edge of their seats, Yossi proceeded: “God, we didn’t have such a great year, and we may have missed the mark here and there. But our actions were of little consequence. Occasionally, I might have kept some leftover material for myself, or perhaps I forgot to recite a prayer at the appropriate time. Some of us spoke leshon hara (we gossiped) or missed a birthday or wedding anniversary. “But in truth, God, You, did not have such a great year either, and You committed much graver sins. You removed parents from their children, wives from husbands and husbands from wives. In some cases, children were taken from their families. You know, Mr. Goldberg lost his car, Mrs. Klein fell ill, and Wasserman lost his business… “Let us reach some type of agreement. God, If You will forgive us, then we will forgive You.”
As Yossi stepped back from the lectern and turned to descend the bimah, Rabbi Levi rebuked him saying, “You know, Yossi, I think you let God off too easy.” Rabbi Levi admonished the poor shoemaker for not demanding God to repent and ask our forgiveness for the tragedies that have befallen those innocent and good people of the world.
Can it be that we pray only for God to be lenient and forgive us? Rabbi Levi Yitzchak presents us with the possibility that we ought to question God, Dayyan ha’Emet, the Almighty and Judge of the universe? But I think that if we are going to question God, then we must be ready to question each other as well. If we let God off easy, then we are over on self-inflicting harm and hurting others. Rabbi Levi Yitzhak felt that it was fundamental, for the future redemption of the world, to imagine God coming before us for our forgiveness.
More than two hundred years following the great Hasidic master, we remain a long way from redeeming ourselves. We are in danger of seeing many people and parts of the world engulfed in flames of destruction. Is this really a year to let God and ourselves off the hook? We have suffered a great deal, and we need to take a serious look at what we have done, what others have done, and how we can do things differently.
We are not the only ones making terrible mistakes. We too suffer at the hands of others’ missteps. General hatred and intolerance are on the rise as people of color, migrants, homosexuals and many others are being threatened almost daily. Each time there was a shooting in a house of worship, on a college campus, or in a department store, our hearts ached for the victims and their families.
In each shooting incident, my mind returned to Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Charleston, South Carolina because of my nine years of upbringing just five miles from the spot of the horror and heartbreak. Each article written about the victims, their family members, and community members or visitors to Charleston added a detail to my memory and picture of my birthplace.
I am drawn to the way in which survivors find forgiveness. One article in the New York Times depicted the survivors looking "to the screen in a corner of the courtroom into the expressionless face of the young man charged with making them motherless...” And they "answered him with forgiveness." Nadine Collier, daughter of 70-year old Ethel Lance (one of the victims) stated, "I will never talk to her ever again. But I forgive you."
In Dallas, former police officer Amber Guyger was found guilty in the 2018 shooting death of her upstairs neighbor Botham Jean and, following the sentence delivered by the jury, the victim’s brother told Ms. Guyger that he forgives her and loves her.
Our humanity, as hurt and anguished as it may be following each tragedy, seeks a higher ground that leads us to talk of forgiveness. These God loving, Bible studying congregants are the paragon of holding together their faith and anger. They have found a way to elicit forgiveness for a man who murdered their friends and relatives, and they did so all the while quoting passages from the Bible. I will stand before you and admit my shock at how easily they find forgiveness.
Op-ed writer and editor for The New York Times Bari Weiss writes that “today we face a rising tide of anti-Semitism around the world that American Jewry has not escaped. But the right response is the same now as it has been for Jews of so many other times and places. The only sustainable way we can fight anti-Semitism is by waging an affirmative battle for who we are.” She quotes “da lifnei mi atah omed.” “Know before whom you stand,” a phrase inscribed over the ark in many synagogues around the world. What I know is that we stand together with many who need our help. While we may follow the instructions of Pirkei Avot and seek to distance ourselves from evil, we must also be mindful of the Pirkei Avot’s statement to stand where others are unwilling to stand. “B’makom sh’eyn ish, hishtadel lihyot ish.”
We stand before the Heavenly Court – the yeshiva shel ma’alah – in whom we place our faith, our trust, and the moral outcome of ourselves and all perpetrators. While we place moral guilt in the hands of the Heavenly Court, we can hold criminal guilt in the grasp of our own humanity.
With all of the possible outcomes that are enumerated in “U’netaneh Tokef” one might feel anger, fear, or sadness. We are, therefore, instructed to repent, act justly, and pray so that we might temper the “severe decree.” Or as we say at camp: “You get what you get, and when you get upset, learn how to deal with it.”
Anger at God, dissatisfaction with the state of the world or the shape of our lives is not only compatible with faith; it is an act of faith. It is important to examine our emotional well-being and give space for the anger. My CPE supervisor was fond of saying that denying others the opportunity to examine their emotional well-being would be giving them “cheap grace.” And yet, instead of allowing our anger and pain to govern who we are and how we act, we can at those times emphasize reaching out to others, helping them, and receiving their kindness when we need it the most. Sometimes, we are the best judges we have.
As we pray among one another – among all עֲבַרְיָנִים and עברים – I hope that God will guide. I pray that we will not give anyone “cheap grace” – neither letting God off easy or one another. Rabbi Levi Yitzhak of Berdichev wanted us to challenge God. We can stand as Yossi stood before God and the ark. May we be comforted by the familiar and beautiful sounds of Kol Nidre and the rest of our time together. May we discover the ability to hold ourselves and God accountable together and be inscribed in the book of life for the year ahead.
“Seeing God in Life’s Broken Places” Yom Kippur 5780
Rabbi Rafi M. Cohen ©
Elie Wiesel once said, “All roads lead back to Auschwitz. If there is violence today, suicide, mental illness, it may well be because seventy years ago, the world did nothing while six million innocent people were slaughtered. Confronting those events is essential in ensuring that our fate is not a malediction.” (Burger, 113)
In 2018, a little more than one year ago, I binge-watched “13 Reasons Why” (thank you Netflix). At the center of the show’s orbit is Clay Jensen, a seventeen-year-old high school student, and his deceased female friend, Hannah, who took her own life. In 13 Reasons (as it is referred to by its followers) one bears witness to the students, parents, and school administrators who face the aftermath of a life that is broken and the way some try to pick up the pieces and understand what precipitated the tragic loss. Inevitably, some are more apt to address their respective issues than others, placing their individual morality and mental health front and center.
The show first drew attention and criticism because it placed directly in front of its viewers these difficult issues: bullying, depression, and sexual assault and the second season did not pull any punches either. Sadly, we cannot escape these issues by turning the television off or canceling our Netflix subscription. We read or hear all too often in our schools and other institutions about sexual and verbal assault. In some cases, the flashpoint is fatal. Nearly every time we hear of a mass-shooting event, we learn that the suspect likely had a history of mental trauma or illness.
These real-life events often occur without any warning and the offer for help and intervention seems too little, too late. After viewing the devastation on the small screen and repeatedly in real life, what are we to do? How do we pick up the pieces?
The third season was recently released and again promises to portray difficult issues; each episode is framed with a warning at the start that the show may contain scenes of language, drugs and sexual material and the conclusion provides a link “for help finding crisis resources.” We’re fortunate to have those warnings.
This year I read Witness: Lessons from Elie Wiesel’s Classroom, by Rabbi Ariel Burger. Burger, a life-long student of Wiesel’s starting from when he was an undergraduate at Boston University and eventually became one of Wiesel’s teaching assistants after completing his yeshiva studies in Israel. The book is as much a collection of vignettes and teachings from Wiesel as it is Burger’s own wisdom and life experience. There is one part where Wiesel discusses his survival of the Shoah and the madness that he discovered. He pointed to his own experience of the Holocaust that “cemented his sense that the world was prone to madness” and later wrote, “we study madness in order to learn how to resist.” I look at the madness of Charleston, Pittsburgh, Poway, Palm Springs, Dayton, Georgia, El Paso and all other losses of human life that occur all too frequently and wonder, as Wiesel asked, “How can we protect ourselves against this kind of madness.” “This is not just an abstract historical question.”
How do we deal with the madness of the world in which we live? Rabbi Rachel Ain of Sutton Place Synagogue wrote, “first we need to show our vulnerability. Sometimes, we need to be broken in order to become whole; we might be scared of what is inside and it takes incredible bravery and strength to open it up.”
One of my favorite and, I think, the most powerful parts of the book is when, recalling a former student’s question the narrative turns a story part of Wiesel’s Night. “Night begins with Moshe the Beadle, a man who has been deported and returned, the only surviving witness to a mass killing of Jews. [His] reports of the shootings are disbelieved by the townsfolk of Sighet. Young Elie is fascinated by Moshe; however much Moshe cries out, however often he bears witness, it is not enough. His testimony is ignored. By the standards of the sane townspeople, he is mad, but the reader knows that he is the sane one - it is the world that has gone mad. It is illegal to shout ‘fire’ in a crowded theater. But if there is a fire, it is immoral to remain silent. And in that time, there was a fire, so Moshe shouted. ...One must raise an alarm in such a moment...even though it makes people uncomfortable. That is often the reaction to a witness.”
Wiesel intended for us to be more than witnesses. We must raise alarms at the madness and find empathy for others who are broken or suffering. Wiesel once told his students, “When God sees His creatures in pain, He is in pain. Imo anochi b’tzarah, says God. ‘I am with him’ – the person who is suffering or humiliated, in his pain. In addition to being all powerful, God suffers every blow, every ache, of every child in the world.” (Burger, 102)
The virtuoso cellist Matt Haimovitz was once giving a lesson to a promising student when he dropped his rare multimillion-dollar cello. The cello’s neck snapped and Haimovitz, hoping that his prized and perfect instrument could be fixed, brought it to a team of luthiers in NYC. The mishap led to the discovery of other problems and during the repair process, the instrument began to resemble its old self. Anna Russell of The New Yorker wrote, “the relationship between cellist and cello is unusually tight.” “It’s probably the instrument closest to the human voice in range.” Re-assembling the broken pieces is a process and, even when something is put back together, it may not be the same as we remember. We can hope to return to those good vibrations, but we may also remain circumspect as we move forward aware of life’s fragility.
Being open to the possibility that “the sound [may be] off” or never return is no doubt difficult, but I daresay it is a necessary part of finding happiness in the broken places. It is how we move toward eventual happiness and, as Rabbi Ain said, “there is tremendous power in showing our vulnerability.” Another colleague once shared, “pain and disappointment are inevitable, but suffering is optional and tough times are hopefully always temporary.” It is our responsibility to see the brokenness, as moments of Godliness and comfort that we can bring to others. Filling the voids in other human beings with hugs, tears, and often silence is the glue that holds us together. When we make space for the tears, that is where we might find more tikkun - perfection - and shlemut or shalom - peace.
A colleague shared the story about a prince who had everything. The finest clothing made by the finest tailors. The most resplendent jewels that sparkled in the light. The tastiest delicacies from chefs in every cuisine. He had traveled to distant lands, seen carnivals and circuses and spectacles of every kind. He’d met grand-dukes and sultans, padishahs and tribal chiefs.
The prince’s servants prided themselves on seeing to his every wish. Until one day the prince made a request that no one knew how to fulfill. He asked to see God. First, they brought the most rugged mountain climbers to take him to the top of the tallest mountain. The view was breathtaking, but he didn’t see God. Next, they brought the trustiest sailors to take him to the center of the largest ocean. He was awestruck by the vastness of the seas. There was nothing but horizon in all directions. But he didn’t see God. They brought the greatest astronomers to accompany him in the darkest night, and he wondered at the cosmos as they showed him the stars, but he didn’t see God. They brought the most revered bishop, caliph, lama, rabbi, each took him to their most magnificent houses of worship — to the nave and the dome and the ark and the altar. He was inspired. But he didn’t see God.
Failing in their mission, they consulted with every wise scholar, seer, soothsayer, prophet, until an old woman presented herself with a simple suggestion. The prince didn’t need to travel far, she advised. He could find God anywhere, starting in his own village. She took him to a small house near his palace. There, inside the house, was a girl. The girl had lost her parents in a terrible journey and was injured and bereft. She told the prince her story as she cried.
The prince, hearing the girl’s story, seeing her tears, cried too. At that moment, the wise woman pulled out a small mirror and held it so that the prince could see his own tears.
She asked, “What do you see?”
And he replied, “I see myself crying.”
She answered, “Now you have seen God.”
[Yizkor segue]
When I think of Yizkor, I think about how that sound may be a little off. My zayde had a sweet voice that many of us in the family looked forward to hearing when we were together for joyous occasions. Some of his melodies are remembered and used when we’re together for a holiday, or his outline of davening Shaharit is something that I hold onto in one of my siddurim. However, it’s obviously not the same as hearing it directly from him. Yizkor is a time for us to think about the sounds that we were at one time accustomed to sharing with others and moving forward more aware of life’s beauty and fragility.
Rabbi Rafi M. Cohen ©
Elie Wiesel once said, “All roads lead back to Auschwitz. If there is violence today, suicide, mental illness, it may well be because seventy years ago, the world did nothing while six million innocent people were slaughtered. Confronting those events is essential in ensuring that our fate is not a malediction.” (Burger, 113)
In 2018, a little more than one year ago, I binge-watched “13 Reasons Why” (thank you Netflix). At the center of the show’s orbit is Clay Jensen, a seventeen-year-old high school student, and his deceased female friend, Hannah, who took her own life. In 13 Reasons (as it is referred to by its followers) one bears witness to the students, parents, and school administrators who face the aftermath of a life that is broken and the way some try to pick up the pieces and understand what precipitated the tragic loss. Inevitably, some are more apt to address their respective issues than others, placing their individual morality and mental health front and center.
The show first drew attention and criticism because it placed directly in front of its viewers these difficult issues: bullying, depression, and sexual assault and the second season did not pull any punches either. Sadly, we cannot escape these issues by turning the television off or canceling our Netflix subscription. We read or hear all too often in our schools and other institutions about sexual and verbal assault. In some cases, the flashpoint is fatal. Nearly every time we hear of a mass-shooting event, we learn that the suspect likely had a history of mental trauma or illness.
These real-life events often occur without any warning and the offer for help and intervention seems too little, too late. After viewing the devastation on the small screen and repeatedly in real life, what are we to do? How do we pick up the pieces?
The third season was recently released and again promises to portray difficult issues; each episode is framed with a warning at the start that the show may contain scenes of language, drugs and sexual material and the conclusion provides a link “for help finding crisis resources.” We’re fortunate to have those warnings.
This year I read Witness: Lessons from Elie Wiesel’s Classroom, by Rabbi Ariel Burger. Burger, a life-long student of Wiesel’s starting from when he was an undergraduate at Boston University and eventually became one of Wiesel’s teaching assistants after completing his yeshiva studies in Israel. The book is as much a collection of vignettes and teachings from Wiesel as it is Burger’s own wisdom and life experience. There is one part where Wiesel discusses his survival of the Shoah and the madness that he discovered. He pointed to his own experience of the Holocaust that “cemented his sense that the world was prone to madness” and later wrote, “we study madness in order to learn how to resist.” I look at the madness of Charleston, Pittsburgh, Poway, Palm Springs, Dayton, Georgia, El Paso and all other losses of human life that occur all too frequently and wonder, as Wiesel asked, “How can we protect ourselves against this kind of madness.” “This is not just an abstract historical question.”
How do we deal with the madness of the world in which we live? Rabbi Rachel Ain of Sutton Place Synagogue wrote, “first we need to show our vulnerability. Sometimes, we need to be broken in order to become whole; we might be scared of what is inside and it takes incredible bravery and strength to open it up.”
One of my favorite and, I think, the most powerful parts of the book is when, recalling a former student’s question the narrative turns a story part of Wiesel’s Night. “Night begins with Moshe the Beadle, a man who has been deported and returned, the only surviving witness to a mass killing of Jews. [His] reports of the shootings are disbelieved by the townsfolk of Sighet. Young Elie is fascinated by Moshe; however much Moshe cries out, however often he bears witness, it is not enough. His testimony is ignored. By the standards of the sane townspeople, he is mad, but the reader knows that he is the sane one - it is the world that has gone mad. It is illegal to shout ‘fire’ in a crowded theater. But if there is a fire, it is immoral to remain silent. And in that time, there was a fire, so Moshe shouted. ...One must raise an alarm in such a moment...even though it makes people uncomfortable. That is often the reaction to a witness.”
Wiesel intended for us to be more than witnesses. We must raise alarms at the madness and find empathy for others who are broken or suffering. Wiesel once told his students, “When God sees His creatures in pain, He is in pain. Imo anochi b’tzarah, says God. ‘I am with him’ – the person who is suffering or humiliated, in his pain. In addition to being all powerful, God suffers every blow, every ache, of every child in the world.” (Burger, 102)
The virtuoso cellist Matt Haimovitz was once giving a lesson to a promising student when he dropped his rare multimillion-dollar cello. The cello’s neck snapped and Haimovitz, hoping that his prized and perfect instrument could be fixed, brought it to a team of luthiers in NYC. The mishap led to the discovery of other problems and during the repair process, the instrument began to resemble its old self. Anna Russell of The New Yorker wrote, “the relationship between cellist and cello is unusually tight.” “It’s probably the instrument closest to the human voice in range.” Re-assembling the broken pieces is a process and, even when something is put back together, it may not be the same as we remember. We can hope to return to those good vibrations, but we may also remain circumspect as we move forward aware of life’s fragility.
Being open to the possibility that “the sound [may be] off” or never return is no doubt difficult, but I daresay it is a necessary part of finding happiness in the broken places. It is how we move toward eventual happiness and, as Rabbi Ain said, “there is tremendous power in showing our vulnerability.” Another colleague once shared, “pain and disappointment are inevitable, but suffering is optional and tough times are hopefully always temporary.” It is our responsibility to see the brokenness, as moments of Godliness and comfort that we can bring to others. Filling the voids in other human beings with hugs, tears, and often silence is the glue that holds us together. When we make space for the tears, that is where we might find more tikkun - perfection - and shlemut or shalom - peace.
A colleague shared the story about a prince who had everything. The finest clothing made by the finest tailors. The most resplendent jewels that sparkled in the light. The tastiest delicacies from chefs in every cuisine. He had traveled to distant lands, seen carnivals and circuses and spectacles of every kind. He’d met grand-dukes and sultans, padishahs and tribal chiefs.
The prince’s servants prided themselves on seeing to his every wish. Until one day the prince made a request that no one knew how to fulfill. He asked to see God. First, they brought the most rugged mountain climbers to take him to the top of the tallest mountain. The view was breathtaking, but he didn’t see God. Next, they brought the trustiest sailors to take him to the center of the largest ocean. He was awestruck by the vastness of the seas. There was nothing but horizon in all directions. But he didn’t see God. They brought the greatest astronomers to accompany him in the darkest night, and he wondered at the cosmos as they showed him the stars, but he didn’t see God. They brought the most revered bishop, caliph, lama, rabbi, each took him to their most magnificent houses of worship — to the nave and the dome and the ark and the altar. He was inspired. But he didn’t see God.
Failing in their mission, they consulted with every wise scholar, seer, soothsayer, prophet, until an old woman presented herself with a simple suggestion. The prince didn’t need to travel far, she advised. He could find God anywhere, starting in his own village. She took him to a small house near his palace. There, inside the house, was a girl. The girl had lost her parents in a terrible journey and was injured and bereft. She told the prince her story as she cried.
The prince, hearing the girl’s story, seeing her tears, cried too. At that moment, the wise woman pulled out a small mirror and held it so that the prince could see his own tears.
She asked, “What do you see?”
And he replied, “I see myself crying.”
She answered, “Now you have seen God.”
[Yizkor segue]
When I think of Yizkor, I think about how that sound may be a little off. My zayde had a sweet voice that many of us in the family looked forward to hearing when we were together for joyous occasions. Some of his melodies are remembered and used when we’re together for a holiday, or his outline of davening Shaharit is something that I hold onto in one of my siddurim. However, it’s obviously not the same as hearing it directly from him. Yizkor is a time for us to think about the sounds that we were at one time accustomed to sharing with others and moving forward more aware of life’s beauty and fragility.
5779 Rosh Hashanah
Returning to Israel – Teshuva and Transformation
Soon after Michele and I got married a little more than 12 years ago we lived in Israel for the academic year as part of my rabbinical school studies. The year was fantastic! Living in an apartment that we rented brought us ample opportunities to be part of Israeli society and find moments to engage as tourists. We grew closer to one another, and to some of my classmates. We experienced Israel unlike ever before; we traveled and immersed ourselves in Israel. The year presented the chance to be both residents and tourists – toshavim and tayarim.
For all of the wonder and experiences my family had this summer – planned or unforeseen – our Israel trip was among the best. More than 12 years after my first trip with Michele, we returned to Israel with our boys on a trip that was long overdue and planned with their interests at heart. The trip was championed by our two boys – ages 10 and 6 (at the time) – who are learning about Israel in school, both of them studying and practicing to read and speak Hebrew. They learn about the people and places in Israel, so naturally it was a trip that we thought about in great detail. We wanted to have fun, be exposed to some different areas in Israel, and not have too much history. Our synagogue at home also organized a trip to Israel this summer and Rabbi Barry Dov Katz – our rabbi in Riverdale – referred to that trip as a “trip of anticipation”. I think of our trip to Israel also as a “trip of anticipation.”
We left New York on a Sunday, arrived on Monday afternoon and hit the ground running. And when we arrived, we were ready, and while we did not run too fast, we moved with a sense of zerizut – purpose. We embarked on day trips and we stayed in our neighborhood. We left out some “traditional” tourist sites like Masada because you can’t do it all, but we packed in enough walking that if you asked either of our boys how many steps we did in a day they could tell you without missing a beat – thank you Health App!
When I was in rabbinical school, I participated in an educators’ trip to Israel during which time we examined the overarching question what does a trip to Israel have to have? Do you know need to go to the kotel right away or even at all? I know for certain that for my family, every day included a requisite visit to a convenience store (makolet) for popsicles.
We gained immeasurable perspective and joy from planning for the boys and watching them engage their surroundings that they have up to this point been exposed to through Israeli teachers and school based materials at the day school they attend. Not to mention the myriad of stories and songs they hear from us and during their Jewish camping experiences. Together we ate falafel and shwarma, and the boys were as happy as one might expect at that age with the chance to eat “Happy Meals” at a kosher McDonalds. We could anticipate some of the journey, planning for the Happy Meals. And other times there were surprises around the corner, like Burgers’ Bar where Michele and I ate good burgers. The beauty of Israel was everything that we saw and more. I uploaded 350 pictures from our camera after the trip.
I see the story of Akedat Yitzhak (read on Rosh Hashana) also as a journey of anticipation. “Some time afterward, God put Abraham to the test. He said to him, ‘Abraham,’ and he answered, “Here I am.” (22:1) And He said, “Take your son, your favored one, Isaac, whom you love, and go to the land of Moriah, and offer him there as a burnt offering on one of the heights which I will point out to you.” (22:2) How did this founding father already know about his journey when God, without explanation, ordered him to sacrifice his beloved son? Without questioning, Abraham hastens to the task and Isaac, aware or unaware of the mission before them, participates in the preparations. Abraham anticipates most of the journey up until the moment of the ram being caught in the bushes near the place upon which he was ready to sacrifice his own son. What does it look like to prepare for something that you know is coming yet you have to go through it in its entirety to learn from the experience?
For Abraham, for my family on our trip to Israel, and I think many of us, there is a sense of piety and polite protest that can emerge from these moments. In Abraham’s scenario, perhaps not immediately but in the culminating instant when he intends to sacrifice Isaac, that type of resistance presents itself when Isaac asks, “Where is the lamb?” His question demonstrates either complete naiveté or subtle suspicion. The earliest midrashim show Isaac crying out, torn between faith and fear, imploring his father to bind him well lest his instinctive resistance stain the sacrifice. How do we respond when we know what our response should be but we also want to see a moment run its course?
Shimon Peres completed a book a few weeks prior to his death titled, “No Room For Small Dreams” in which he offered poignant reflections about “courage, imagination, and the making of modern Israel.” I was fortunate to read the book before our trip because it helped me appreciate the changes Israel has undergone not only in Peres’ lifetime but in the many years since I was last there. As the country continues to mature, it is a continuation of a dream that Peres had and, in the absence of perfect peace, hopefully continues to unfold.
I also get the sense from much of his writing, that Peres experienced a journey like Abrahams’ time and again. Both figures embody a level of faith and purpose, knowing the battles – physical and emotional – that they would have to fight. At one moment, Peres wrote, “We have yet to fully comprehend the opportunities that will continue to grow from this transformational interconnectivity. Yet transformations, however worthy, do not follow a clear path. One cannot forge connections without the prior existence of gaps, but one also cannot forge connections if those gaps are too wide.” (Peres 223) The chasms may not be existential but they are essential.
In another juncture, as he explores the pursuit of peace, Peres wrote, “I chose to be myself…a cause greater than myself. I decided that accomplishment mattered more than credit, more than popularity, more than title. Having them in the absence of action and risk and courage would have been empty.” (Peres 78) The moments of Rosh Hashana and the asseret yimei teshuvah are the opportunity to anticipate what is coming our way. We are involved in causes greater than our individual selves and the accomplishments that we seek or help others to realize are far greater than any amount of individual credit we can achieve. I think this is something Abraham tried to understand and successfully impart to Isaac. And it was part and parcel of our summer trip to Israel. We reached for something that was not for us, rather for our kids and their future. Like the journey of so many before us, our trip to Israel was transformative. It closed a gap that existed for all of us. We created some memories and laid the foundation for their anticipated return and what I hope is a loving and faithful relationship with the existence of a Jewish homeland in Israel.
Since our return, my older son who began fifth grade this year is already anticipating his future trips. He has stated his expectation to go in 8th grade and again for almost two months as a high school senior. I’d say one thing at a time, but if he knows where he wants to go, and is willing to work hard to get there, then why not? He is dreaming big. There is “no room for small dreams” and, like Peres wrote, the transformations we undergo are for the purposes of forging something for the future. May the coming days of repentance bring and be a taste of something sweet for the present and future. My blessing for the New Year is that we find ways to close the gaps that exist in our lives. May we be able to do more than visit where we long to be and find ways to dwell a little longer in the days of awe, readying us for a year of teshuvah and transformation.
Soon after Michele and I got married a little more than 12 years ago we lived in Israel for the academic year as part of my rabbinical school studies. The year was fantastic! Living in an apartment that we rented brought us ample opportunities to be part of Israeli society and find moments to engage as tourists. We grew closer to one another, and to some of my classmates. We experienced Israel unlike ever before; we traveled and immersed ourselves in Israel. The year presented the chance to be both residents and tourists – toshavim and tayarim.
For all of the wonder and experiences my family had this summer – planned or unforeseen – our Israel trip was among the best. More than 12 years after my first trip with Michele, we returned to Israel with our boys on a trip that was long overdue and planned with their interests at heart. The trip was championed by our two boys – ages 10 and 6 (at the time) – who are learning about Israel in school, both of them studying and practicing to read and speak Hebrew. They learn about the people and places in Israel, so naturally it was a trip that we thought about in great detail. We wanted to have fun, be exposed to some different areas in Israel, and not have too much history. Our synagogue at home also organized a trip to Israel this summer and Rabbi Barry Dov Katz – our rabbi in Riverdale – referred to that trip as a “trip of anticipation”. I think of our trip to Israel also as a “trip of anticipation.”
We left New York on a Sunday, arrived on Monday afternoon and hit the ground running. And when we arrived, we were ready, and while we did not run too fast, we moved with a sense of zerizut – purpose. We embarked on day trips and we stayed in our neighborhood. We left out some “traditional” tourist sites like Masada because you can’t do it all, but we packed in enough walking that if you asked either of our boys how many steps we did in a day they could tell you without missing a beat – thank you Health App!
When I was in rabbinical school, I participated in an educators’ trip to Israel during which time we examined the overarching question what does a trip to Israel have to have? Do you know need to go to the kotel right away or even at all? I know for certain that for my family, every day included a requisite visit to a convenience store (makolet) for popsicles.
We gained immeasurable perspective and joy from planning for the boys and watching them engage their surroundings that they have up to this point been exposed to through Israeli teachers and school based materials at the day school they attend. Not to mention the myriad of stories and songs they hear from us and during their Jewish camping experiences. Together we ate falafel and shwarma, and the boys were as happy as one might expect at that age with the chance to eat “Happy Meals” at a kosher McDonalds. We could anticipate some of the journey, planning for the Happy Meals. And other times there were surprises around the corner, like Burgers’ Bar where Michele and I ate good burgers. The beauty of Israel was everything that we saw and more. I uploaded 350 pictures from our camera after the trip.
I see the story of Akedat Yitzhak (read on Rosh Hashana) also as a journey of anticipation. “Some time afterward, God put Abraham to the test. He said to him, ‘Abraham,’ and he answered, “Here I am.” (22:1) And He said, “Take your son, your favored one, Isaac, whom you love, and go to the land of Moriah, and offer him there as a burnt offering on one of the heights which I will point out to you.” (22:2) How did this founding father already know about his journey when God, without explanation, ordered him to sacrifice his beloved son? Without questioning, Abraham hastens to the task and Isaac, aware or unaware of the mission before them, participates in the preparations. Abraham anticipates most of the journey up until the moment of the ram being caught in the bushes near the place upon which he was ready to sacrifice his own son. What does it look like to prepare for something that you know is coming yet you have to go through it in its entirety to learn from the experience?
For Abraham, for my family on our trip to Israel, and I think many of us, there is a sense of piety and polite protest that can emerge from these moments. In Abraham’s scenario, perhaps not immediately but in the culminating instant when he intends to sacrifice Isaac, that type of resistance presents itself when Isaac asks, “Where is the lamb?” His question demonstrates either complete naiveté or subtle suspicion. The earliest midrashim show Isaac crying out, torn between faith and fear, imploring his father to bind him well lest his instinctive resistance stain the sacrifice. How do we respond when we know what our response should be but we also want to see a moment run its course?
Shimon Peres completed a book a few weeks prior to his death titled, “No Room For Small Dreams” in which he offered poignant reflections about “courage, imagination, and the making of modern Israel.” I was fortunate to read the book before our trip because it helped me appreciate the changes Israel has undergone not only in Peres’ lifetime but in the many years since I was last there. As the country continues to mature, it is a continuation of a dream that Peres had and, in the absence of perfect peace, hopefully continues to unfold.
I also get the sense from much of his writing, that Peres experienced a journey like Abrahams’ time and again. Both figures embody a level of faith and purpose, knowing the battles – physical and emotional – that they would have to fight. At one moment, Peres wrote, “We have yet to fully comprehend the opportunities that will continue to grow from this transformational interconnectivity. Yet transformations, however worthy, do not follow a clear path. One cannot forge connections without the prior existence of gaps, but one also cannot forge connections if those gaps are too wide.” (Peres 223) The chasms may not be existential but they are essential.
In another juncture, as he explores the pursuit of peace, Peres wrote, “I chose to be myself…a cause greater than myself. I decided that accomplishment mattered more than credit, more than popularity, more than title. Having them in the absence of action and risk and courage would have been empty.” (Peres 78) The moments of Rosh Hashana and the asseret yimei teshuvah are the opportunity to anticipate what is coming our way. We are involved in causes greater than our individual selves and the accomplishments that we seek or help others to realize are far greater than any amount of individual credit we can achieve. I think this is something Abraham tried to understand and successfully impart to Isaac. And it was part and parcel of our summer trip to Israel. We reached for something that was not for us, rather for our kids and their future. Like the journey of so many before us, our trip to Israel was transformative. It closed a gap that existed for all of us. We created some memories and laid the foundation for their anticipated return and what I hope is a loving and faithful relationship with the existence of a Jewish homeland in Israel.
Since our return, my older son who began fifth grade this year is already anticipating his future trips. He has stated his expectation to go in 8th grade and again for almost two months as a high school senior. I’d say one thing at a time, but if he knows where he wants to go, and is willing to work hard to get there, then why not? He is dreaming big. There is “no room for small dreams” and, like Peres wrote, the transformations we undergo are for the purposes of forging something for the future. May the coming days of repentance bring and be a taste of something sweet for the present and future. My blessing for the New Year is that we find ways to close the gaps that exist in our lives. May we be able to do more than visit where we long to be and find ways to dwell a little longer in the days of awe, readying us for a year of teshuvah and transformation.
5778 Thoughts for Elul
The Hebrew month of Elul – the final month of the year – leading up to RH and Yom Kippur is also when I celebrate my wedding anniversary. There are some unique similarities between how a couple might prepare for their wedding and the ways in which we can prepare ourselves for the yamim noraim. Many synagogues use Selichot when people are gathered together as an opportunity to change the Torah covers, in some places the ark curtain, from the regular weekly covering to a white covering. At a Jewish wedding, couples might dress in white as a sign of purity and re-birth. Just as we affix the synagogue or Torah dressings in white, wedding couples act as though they are seeing their partner for the first time; white is therefore appropriate.
We make additions to the weekly matbeah tefilah (service or liturgy) during the month of Elul that get us in the awe inspiring and God-fearing or God-loving mentality for Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur. In similar fashion, a bride or groom add prayers to the moments leading up to their wedding ceremony. Some Jewish adults have the custom of immersing in a mikveh (a ritual bath) before the onset of a chag, especially Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur. There is a custom among many to go to the mikveh the day of their wedding symbolizing the purification or re-birth that we might feel before seeing our future spouse as if for the first time.
The last similarity on my mind, that which is my favorite, is that Elul can be seen as a written acrostic for Ani L’dodi V’dodi Li - I am to my beloved and my beloved is to me. I like to believe that these words from Shir HaShirim serve as a metaphor of the relationship between God and the Jewish people. Similarly, the words can be recited by the partners who stand beneath a chuppah (wedding canopy) to speak to one another as part of their vows.
The time of Elul is a time for love, closeness, and sweet preparation. There is an anticipated change in the seasons (in New York we hope the heat will break). May we see the present moment and those moments of the asseret yimei teshuvah as a chance to hit refresh and adorn ourselves in pleasantries and purity in preparation for a sweet and healthy year ahead.
We make additions to the weekly matbeah tefilah (service or liturgy) during the month of Elul that get us in the awe inspiring and God-fearing or God-loving mentality for Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur. In similar fashion, a bride or groom add prayers to the moments leading up to their wedding ceremony. Some Jewish adults have the custom of immersing in a mikveh (a ritual bath) before the onset of a chag, especially Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur. There is a custom among many to go to the mikveh the day of their wedding symbolizing the purification or re-birth that we might feel before seeing our future spouse as if for the first time.
The last similarity on my mind, that which is my favorite, is that Elul can be seen as a written acrostic for Ani L’dodi V’dodi Li - I am to my beloved and my beloved is to me. I like to believe that these words from Shir HaShirim serve as a metaphor of the relationship between God and the Jewish people. Similarly, the words can be recited by the partners who stand beneath a chuppah (wedding canopy) to speak to one another as part of their vows.
The time of Elul is a time for love, closeness, and sweet preparation. There is an anticipated change in the seasons (in New York we hope the heat will break). May we see the present moment and those moments of the asseret yimei teshuvah as a chance to hit refresh and adorn ourselves in pleasantries and purity in preparation for a sweet and healthy year ahead.