Kol Nidre 5772/2011

Several weeks ago, my mother looked at me, and with a sense of intensity and urgency asked: “In your High Holiday sermon, can you talk about how to cope in such tough times?  About how to find hope and perspective when things feel so hopeless?” 

Something about my mom’s question-and her earnestness, the worry I could hear in her voice—stopped me and gave me pause to think.

Now, my mom doesn’t usually lobby me for sermon topics. In fact, I’m not sure she has even once, in ten years, offered a specific suggestion or idea.  So I knew that I needed to pay attention. 

Even more striking than my mother’s special request for the holidays was my immediate sense that she was not alone in her feelings of frustration, helplessness and hopelessness.  With unemployment remaining steadily at 9.8% nationally and 10.8% for Philadelphia and many more who are jobless; with federal, state, and local cuts to social and educational programs; with the gap between those who have and those who don’t have widening with each year; with the number of uninsured people (close to 50 million) on the rise and approaching its all time-high, with a global debt crisis which experts just this week warned were going to throw the U.S. back into recession, it understandable that we enter this High Holiday season with feelings of insecurity and worry.  It is easy to understand why people are Occupying Wall Street.  

Perhaps even worse than our troubled economy is the vitriol and gridlock in Washington, where ideology trumps service, where acrimony and political posturing dominate; where politicians seek to balance the budget on the backs of working and middle class.  As someone I spoke to the other day said, “It seems as if the corrupting influences of money and power are more intense than they have ever been before.”  In light of these global concerns, combined with our own personal struggles, I imagine that many of us may be wondering, as my mother is, how to cope in these times? How to find meaning and hope?

 Kol Nidre is the time when we pause from our daily lives, reflect on this past year and the year going forward, and seek meaning through our shared tradition.  How might the wisdom of our ancestors come to bear on our lives and help us shape a better future for us and our society?  What might our tradition have to teach us about where to find the strength, courage, and faith to move forward with our lives in a positive direction?  Kol Nidre is also the time we seek personal transformation.  Can we transform our anxiety and fear into perseverance; our hopelessness into hopefulness; our anger and frustration into determination?

 So I would like to answer my mom’s question—which is likely a question many of us share – by highlighting three aspects of Jewish tradition that help me find solace, strength, and courage when facing difficult times.   I share these because I believe these teachings can serve as spiritual resources for us, to help us find perspective, lift us up, and restore hope and inspiration as we enter the New Year. 

The First Teaching: Looking to Jewish History

There is a great Yiddish folktale that goes like this:

A poor man lives with his large family in a small hut. The noise and fighting is driving him crazy so he goes to the rabbi to help him solve his problem.  The rabbi asks if he has any animals and the man says, "Yes, some chickens, geese and ducks." "Bring them into the hut with you." The man is confused, but trusts in the wise rabbi and does what he says. With the chickens, geese and ducks in the small hut the noise only gets worse until the man has to go back to the rabbi. "Rabbi, I can't stand the noise! It's too much." "Do you have any other animals?" asked the rabbi.  "I have a goat." Says the man. "Bring the goat into your home." Again the man is confused, but does as the rabbi says.  Again the noise gets worse and the man returns to the rabbi and complains. "Rabbi, why did you tell me to bring the goat into my house? The noise is even worse than before!" "Do you have a cow?" the rabbi asks. Exhausted and frustrated, the man replies yes. Again the rabbi tells him to bring the animal into his home and again the poor man complies.

Time passes and the small hut is even more crowded and noisy than ever and finally the man goes back to the rabbi.  "Rabbi, I'm going crazy. There's no room and the noise is out of control!"  "Put the animals back outside."  Relieved, the man rushes home and puts the animals back into the yard. That night the man and his family have the most perfect night of rest. The next day he rushes to tell the rabbi.  "Rabbi," the man says, "I slept so well last night. I finally had some peace and quiet."  "Just remember," the rabbi replied, "When you think things are bad, remember: it could always be worse."

I love telling this story not only because of it is an entertaining way to teach a life lesson, but because it is a quintessionally/such a “Jewish” message.  Things can always be worse! Things have been worse!  When I look around at the circumstances around me that seem so dire, so disappointing, it is helpful to hear this lesson, (it could always be worse!) straight out of the mouths of Jews a century ago who in many ways had a much tougher time than we do today.  This kind of perspective helps me put my personal struggles and our societal ones into perspective, which in turn enables me to relax and breathe and have faith that “this too shall pass.”    

Being a part of Jewish history is not only a teaching that “things have been worse,” it is a reminder that over and over again, against all odds, Jews have survived incredibly dark and challenging times.  As Rabbi Robert Levin says, “The continued survival of the Jews alone is an argument against despair, a warrant for human hope.”  If the Jewish people have endured so much throughout our history and survived, so can we survive these challenges and come out stronger as individuals and as a people. This sense of perspective and hopefulness is articulated by Rabbi Toba Spitzer when she says, “It is helpful to me to place myself in the millennia-old course of Jewish history and ritual.  There have been such great highs and such devastating lows for our people, for the world, during the past few thousand years- and yet, our traditions have endured, our people as endured, as has the hope that perhaps this year will be the year when, finally, we human beings get it right.  This is the great gift of being part of such an ancient tradition. We have the long view, the understanding that the momentary highs and lows of history are not all that there is.”

Drawing on the strength of our ancestors does not make the problems of our world go away and may not even diminish them.  But, seeing the “long view” can help give us perspective, relieve some of our anxiety and worry, and strengthen us to face what needs to be faced. 

 

Teaching 2: The Theology of Perpetual Renewal

At their core, the High Holy Days are about the possibility of renewal.  That with the blank slate of the New Year and teshuvah, repentance, all things are possible.  That no matter how intractable something might seem, they can change.  That no matter how stuck we are in our lives, we can get un-stuck, we can find a new way. 

This concept, that the world renews itself every year, is part of a larger Jewish theology about the perpetual and ever-present possibility for change and redirection.  Not only every year, but every day.  In the morning service in our liturgy, we say “B’Tuvo M’chadesh B’chol Yom Tamid Ma’aseh v’reishit”: Every day the work of Creation is renewed.  Our ancestors saw creation not as a singular act, rather as an ongoing process.  If each day is entirely different than the next, therefore, each day, we have an opportunity to start all over again.

Further, our tradition expands, not only is every day new, but each moment is full of unknown possibilities.  Rabbi Levi Yitzhak, a Hasidic master, teaches [on the verse “Kol HaNeshama T’Hallel Yah: Every Soul or Breath Praises God”] that we are renewed, with each and every breath.  According to Levi Yitzhak’s interpretation, each moment we breathe is an opportunity to experience teshuvah, change or redirection and therefore, at each moment, we can become new creatures.  Can we imagine if we truly took this teaching to heart and saw every breath, every moment full of possibility and newness?!  That things can change at any minute, that those problems in our lives and those problems in our society that we think are intractable, impervious to change are simply not so. 

For me, this theology of change is an inspiration for radical hope. Why can’t this be the year where wars cease, where people act toward each other as if they are btselem elohim, made in the divine image? Why NOT? Why can’t this be the year that human beings get it together and begin to express their divine purpose, to love and to build, to cherish and to care for the stranger and one another?  Why is 5772 not the year when things shift and change?  

The concept of “Why not” is not simplistic or far-fetched.  I invite you to consider the incredibly dramatic changes that have taken place in our world in this past year.  Would anyone sitting in these seats last year have thought to themselves that this would be the year in which peaceful, non-violent, courageous protests would come to the Middle East, ousting oppressive regimes and paving the way for a new society affords dignity and freedom to its people? 

Would anyone have dreamt that these revolutions would have inspired Israelis to camp out in tents, on the wealthiest street in Tel Aviv, demanding economic justice and fairness in their country, leading to a mass protest that would involve close to half-a-million Israeli citizens, including Sephardi and Ashkenzi, Arab and Jewish, young and old to come together and demand change?  And could we have imagined that these acts would inspire a nascent movement being born in the United States right now?  (As we sit here, several Kol Tzedek members and other Jews and allies are observing Kol Nidre Services at Occupy Philadelphia and we wish them also a Shana Tova and G’mar Tov!)  

While we know the march toward sustainable and substantive change will be long and will involve some steps backwards as we move forwards, we can have hope, faith and trust that the road is leading toward greater freedom and equality for all.  As Martin Luther King so beautifully said, “The moral arc of the universe is long, but it bends toward justice.

On this Kol Nidre evening, when we seek to be transformed and to be uplifted, I invite us to consider taking this teaching into our hearts, that no matter how challenging things may seem, no matter how intractable, there is always the possibility for change, there is always a reason to hope. 

Teaching 3: The Power of our Individual and Communal Actions

One of the most inspiring parts of Judaism for me is the very fact that our people, our religion, three thousand years of history starts with one person.  One individual had a hunch, an intuition, a “calling” that things could be different. That people God could be accessed anywhere and everywhere, that people could be a blessing to others.  And from there, life as we knew it changed.  Whether Abraham was a “historic figure” is irrelevant; the idea that one person could change the world is a story worth teaching from generation to generation. 

 Further, what’s even better than one person changing the world?  People changing the world, together.  After all, the central narrative of the Jewish people is the story of the Exodus from Egypt.  Though Moses is a central organizer, the Exodus cannot happen without people who, though scared and afraid, find the courage to leave the narrow places and forge a new path. 

 This central Jewish narrative, which has been a source of inspiration for many liberation movements, has come to signify the power of people to rewrite their fate, to topple structures of power, and to change the course of things.  As Michael Walzer so beautifully says (a quote that I have taught from time to time): “We still believe, or many of us do, what the Exodus first taught, or what it has commonly been taken to teach, about the meaning and possibilities of politics and about is proper form: -first, that wherever you live, it is probably Egypt; second, that there is a better place, a world more attractive, a promised land; and third, that ‘the way to the land is through the wilderness.’ There is no way to get from here to there except by joining together and marching.”

I want to share with you a story about people in our city coming together to make a difference.  It is the story of POWER, P. O. W. E. R., Philadelphians Organized to Witness Empower and Rebuild, a new grassroots, faith-based organization, of which Kol Tzedek is a founding member.  Eighteen months ago, an organizer [from the national network of PICO/faith-based community organizations] came to Philadelphia and began talking to some religious leaders about the possibility of an organization in which people could lift up their faith and their values for the purposes of addressing and correcting the disparities and injustices in our city.  Thirty-five clergy decided to take a leap of faith and began identifying leaders in their congregations to be involved in this effort.  Soon, two-hundred and fifty leaders (which included several KT members!) received training in community organizing skills and were invited to have one-to-one conversations with members of their congregation about issues of concern to them.  By the fall of 2010, those efforts resulted in over 1,000 conversations with people about their fears and hopes for our city.  Through these conversations and meetings with experts, POWER leaders decided to narrow its initial focus to addressing joblessness, setting its ambitious goal for the promotion and creation of 10,000 new jobs in the next five years. 

Just two weeks ago, I, along with about 20 other Kol Tzedek members, attended the organization’s Founding Convention.  All my dreams and hopes for this event were surpassed.  As I approached Tindley Temple on Broad Street that evening, I saw bus after bus pulled up, dropping off dozens of passengers at a time. Entering the building, navigating my way through crowds of people, I saw people that truly represent the diversity of this city— of all religious, economic, racial, geographic lines.  As the crowds came pouring in, a gospel choir sang, people clapped their hands and reached out to each other in friendship. The night was filled with beautiful prayers, inspiring reflections, personal testimonials, and fiery speeches.  Every speaker, even Mayor Nutter (who was kept to a strict time limit and asked to make commitments to the organization) drew upon the sources of their tradition that point them to seek justice and righteousness.  It was, for me, a holy experience.  

In total, about two thousand people were gathered in that church that night.  Two thousand!  That just doesn’t happen in Philly, right?!  Two thousand people acknowledging the problems our city is facing and lift up solutions that we can accomplish together.   Two-thousand people recognizing that we cannot accomplish anything unless we join together toward common goals.  P.O.W.E.R. is now poised to make positive changes in our city.  But just as our tradition instructs, power lies in people coming together to make a difference.  Our actions matter.  P.O.W.E.R will only be successful if those people in all 40 member congregations participate in bringing the organization’s agenda forward.  Kol Tzedek is part of this effort.  On this night, when we contemplate the direction of our lives in the coming year, I want to challenge each of us to get involved with this effort —attend or plan an action, do one-on-one relationship building for example.  Regardless of our time and resources, we can all find ways – big or small—to get involved.  By doing so, we can live up to our name, “Kol Tzedek: Voice of Justice.”  By doing so, we can help make Philadelphia, as the P.O.W.E.R. slogan says, “a city that works for everyone.”

Conclusion:

I want to conclude with a prayer from Rebbe Nachman of Bretzlov and a wish for all of us for the New Year:

 Architect of the world, author of her story,

Grant me the courage to participate in the world’s design,

To join in the unfolding of her story.

How I want to share in the responsibility of this world—

To pray for her welfare, to care for her needs, to safeguard her treasures,

To work for her rectification.

            --Rebbe Nachman of Bretzlov

 May this year be filled with courage and hope.  May we be granted the ability to see the long-view, the understanding that renewal and change are always available to us and the world, the confidence to see that our actions matter, the courage to join with others to an unknown promised land and the perseverance to keep doing what needs to be done, day in and day out, to heal ourselves and our world.

 

7 Things I learned about Teshuvah/High Holidays from a Pre-Schooler

            Rabbi Lauren Grabelle Herrmann, Rosh HaShanah 5772

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Shana Tova!  It is wonderful to see so many new and returning faces here at Kol Tzedek.  This year, the holidays feel especially like a time of reconnection and reunion.  As many of you know, Jon and I welcomed our second child, Nadiv, on June 30 who joined big sister Aviel, who turned four in September.   

 Every year, as we move toward a new year and a new High Holiday season, I am amazed and awed by the majesty and power of these sacred days.  Tradition asks us, every year, to dig deep inside our souls so that we can return to being the best and most authentic versions of ourselves.  We are asked to forgive and to be forgiven, to turn ourselves into new directions.  We are reminded that anything is possible for ourselves and our communities in the New Year.

In the course of my rabbinate and my life, I have studied many beautiful and inspiring texts and prayers about the meaning of the Yamim Nora’im, the Days of Awe, and about teshuva, the process or reflection, renewal and change that is at the heart of these days.  Yet, I always find that I learn the most about teshuvah and the power of the High Holidays from experiences in my life.  Three years ago after the first year of my daughter’s life, I shared some of the “torah” that I learned about the Days of Awe from my first year of parenting. This year too-- perhaps because I spent the months leading up the holidays focused on family – I found myself coming back to lessons I learned about Teshuvah from parenting-- this time, from parenting a curious, intelligent, and willful pre-schooler.     

I share these stories and lessons because I believe that in the particular, we can sense the universal; because I believe these stories can help illuminate different aspects of the High Holidays and invite us to imagine what is possible for us in the New Year. Here are 7 lessons I have learned about Teshuvah & the High Holidays from a pre-schooler:

1.      Live with Awe

 One of the great joys, I find, about parenting a pre-schooler is going to fun places like the zoo, the science museum, the aquarium.  One of the less joyful aspects of parenting is going to these places over and over and over again.      

Recently, my daughter and I went to the Camden Aquarium to see, among other things, the giant hippos.  She was very excited.  I was less so, in part because we have seen those hippos probably at least 20 times and let’s be honest: they don’t do all that much but sit there.  When we entered into the hippo area and she caught sight of one of those ginormous creatures, she shouted with joy, as if it were the first time she ever saw them: “YAY! The hippos are out! Look!  Look! They are so cool!”  I took a breath, looked at those hippos, and remembered how awesome they are indeed.

 Rosh HaShanah is also called HaYom HaRat Olam, the day the world was birthed into being.  On this day, today, we celebrate the grandeur of creation, the beauty of our earth, and the awesomeness of every living being on this planet.  Rosh HaShanah is an invitation into seeing the world with “radical amazement,” to offer a phrase by Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel.     

Children seem to naturally intuit an awareness of the greatness of Creation, the wonder of the tiniest bug and the majesty of the largest creatures.  We grown-ups may have moments of such awareness, but often are distracted with the busy-ness of our lives to notice or we allow things we see regularly to become “ordinary.”  Today, our ancestors taught, is the anniversary of the world’s birth.  But just as our tradition teaches that creation was not a onetime event, rather an ongoing act, we have the opportunity on this New Year to experience awe and wonder, not only today but every day. 

 2.      Know when to say “no.”

About a year ago, I took Aviel and her first cousin to Dutch Wonderland, an amusement park. Now let me explain: Alexa, Aviel’s only first cousin, is 18 months older than her, and in Aviel’s eyes, can do no wrong.  Everything that Alexa does, Aviel wants to do.  Everything that Alexa says, Aviel repeats. You get the idea!  Now, at Dutch Wonderland, Alexa, the older, adventurous cousin went on every roller coaster in the park!  Any ride she saw, she was willing to try.  Interestingly, Aviel, who would normally follow her cousin’s every move, was very clear: No roller coasters for me.  No matter how much pushing or prodding from her older cousin, she would not budge.  Not only did Aviel know her limits, she made no excuses or apologies.  She simply said “No.”

 Over the High Holidays, we examine where we have missed the mark. One of the ways we often “miss the mark” in life is in regards to our own boundaries.  I hear over and over again in my conversations with friends and Kol Tzedek members that saying “no” for many of us is exceedingly challenging.  Without negative intentions, we say “yes” when we mean “no” – often in order to make others happy, often because we really want to do something, yet we are not aware in the moment that our doing so will stretch us beyond what we can take on at a particular moment.  At this time of year, when we think about turning and moving in the right directions, can we be more in touch with our needs and our own limits?  Can we get back to or cultivate the honesty and self-acceptance of a three year old who knows how and when to say “no”?

3.      Face the Monsters.

 About six months ago, Aviel, who was normally quite easy to put to bed, suddenly became frightened and paralyzed at bedtime.  She cried and cried and would not let Jon or I leave the room.  “Aviel, what’s going on?”  “I’m scared.” she said.  I asked, “What are you scared of?”  She responded, “Monsters.” 

 Jon and I looked at each other, not quite sure how to respond.  After a second pause, I blurted out what I thought might comfort her (and what made sense to me as a rational adult), “Sweetie, there aren’t any monsters! There is nothing to be afraid of!”  

 Well, not surprisingly, that didn’t help!  In fact, it made things worse that night. After some more time and cuddling, we got her to sleep finally that night.  I then did what every thoughtful parent would do: I did a Google search! One site I trust read, “Never tell your children that there aren’t really monsters.”  Woops! I guess I missed the mark on that one!  It went on to explain that monsters are very real for young children.  When someone tells a child that there are no monsters, this only invalidates the child’s fear, rather than giving her resources to cope with them. 

 The next night, Aviel and I worked together to make a big, very clear sign on her door: “No Monsters allowed.”  We hung the sign on her door and talked to the monsters before she went to sleep. “Monsters! You are not allowed in Aviel’s room so please go away!”  We repeated this process every night for many weeks, adding other tricks that helped her sure up her courage.  While she is still afraid from time to time, she is learning to face her fears and becoming stronger because of it.

 We call these days in Hebrew “Yamim Nora’im,” “Nora’im” comes from the word “yirah,” which means fear.  These are fear-inspiring days in many ways.  Through the internal process of teshuvah, we are invited to look each for him or herself at what is holding us back from being who we are, from doing what needs to be done—what are we afraid of? Failure? Intimacy?  Lonlineness?  Can we face those fears for the sake of our growth and happiness?   

And on a very tangible level, the holidays are about facing the ultimate fear: the fear of death.  We see this in the imagery of the Book of Life and Death and when we wear a kittel on Yom Kippur, but perhaps this is most keenly felt when we recite the Untane Tokef prayer [we recited earlier]: which reads, “On Rosh HaShanah it is written and on Yom Kippur it is sealed, who shall live and who shall die…”  Boom! There it is in front of us—the fear we often ignore or dismiss or deny-- the reality of our mortality and that of our loved ones.  It is truly scary to face the unknown, to come to terms with our vulnerability.  It is extremely hard to face the fears that get in our way.  But we have clear choice: We can choose to say “No monsters here!”  “Everything’s ok!”  Or we can look right at our fears, we can own them, and we can find the courage to face them.  And God willing, doing so will inspire us live our lives more fully and more intentionally.

 

4.      Use Your Words.

Aviel recently fell down a set of our steps and was both shocked and hurt.  After an initial few minutes of comforting and kissing boo-boos, I walked her over to the steps so she could tell the steps exactly how she felt about that. “I didn’t like that, steps!” she said emphatically.  When I first saw one of Aviel’s teachers doing this a few years ago, I thought this tactic – of communicating one’s feelings to inanimate objects-- was a bit funny and strange, yet I also saw it as an effective tool.  After all, we want our children to acknowledge and express their feelings.  We want to give them the tools to deal with hurts and injuries, physical or emotional, so that they can thrive in a world in which they will inevitably fall down, over and over again.

As I have coached Aviel to express her feelings, I have also become aware of how much I myself could benefit from this coaching.  I am sure I am not alone in this: how many times do we use our words wisely, do we speak our needs and feelings to the person who needs to hear them?  There are many situations in which instead of expressing our thoughts and feelings, we withhold.  Other times, instead of expressing to the one who has wronged us we might turn to others and engage in LaShon HaRah, gossip.     

When we engage in teshuvah, we are asked to think about what we have done wrong, not only with our actions but also with our tongues.  On Yom Kippur, when we recite the Al Heyt prayer, a litany of our wrongdoings, there is a striking number that have to do with sins of speech.  All of these sins of speech can be contrasted with positive and direct speech that helps us express our feelings and experience connection.  This process of self-reflection and of confessional invites us to see what is possible if we were to use our words wisely.

5.      Forgive quickly.

A few weeks ago, Aviel was having a play date with her best friend Henry.  Aviel and Henry are very close and typically play very well together.  But this time, things were not going so well.  Henry took Aviel’s toy car; then he pulled her hair.  Aviel was livid.  I mean you should have seen her!  She put one hand over the other, stamped her feet, and screamed, “I’m mad!”  She then proceeded to walk away and tell me Henry wasn’t her friend anymore.  In about 10 seconds, Henry came up to Aviel and offered a simple apology.  Arms still crossed, enjoying her own drama, I wasn’t sure what she would do.  But she took a breath and said, “Ok.”  They held hands and continued with their play date. 

The heart of teshuvah is forgiveness: asking for forgiveness from others and oneself.  And while it is not a requirement to forgive others, it is encouraged to do so.  Not only for their sake, but for the sake of one’s own healing and wholeness.

Of course, the fights and arguments between three year olds are much more simple and straightforward than the fights and disagreements between adults.  Having someone take your toys is not the moral equivalent of someone lying to you or hurting you, for example.  Yet, I wonder: can we learn from young children who forgive as easily as they anger?  Who really can give someone who asks for it a blank slate, a new beginning?  Can we free ourselves by forgiving others?  

 

6.      Embracing the Passing of the Years

Aviel spent about 11 months counting down to her fourth birthday.  She would say “I’m three and a 1/4!”  Then, “I am three and a half!”  Then, “three and ¾!”  And my favorite, for the month of August, Aviel would tell friends and strangers alike, “I am three and eleven-twelfths!”  Now, she goes up to people randomly on the street and says, “Guess what? I am FOUR!” in the most excited voice, so that even the most disinterested stranger smiles. 

As Aviel was growing more and more excited to turn four, I noticed my own internal resistance.  To quote the great Fiddler on the Roof, “Sunrise, Sunset: Where is this little girl I carried?”  If these four years have passed this quickly, in the blink of an eye, pretty soon, she will be in college!  I am not ready!  Can we please press the PAUSE button?  Or at least slow motion?  And, if I am being completely honest, I was resistant not just for her but for myself.  If Aviel is four, that means I am getting up there too!       

Every year, without fail, Rosh Hashanah arrives and invites us to celebrate another year of the earth turning.  The holiday teaches us:  We cannot stop the clock, nor should we.  We can look to the past but what’s even better, we can make the most of our present and we can determine our future.  And further, why should we resist the passage of time when this year is full of possibilities that we cannot yet imagine?!  There is no going backwards, only forwards.  Embrace it with joy!       

7.      The Freedom to Choose.

As a parent of a pre-schooler, I am always providing choices.  Aviel, do you want a purple or pink shirt today? Do you want a banana or an apple for breakfast? Noodles or a hot dog for dinner?  Sometimes though, Aviel gets a different kind of choice.  For example, a few nights ago, at 7:30pm, Aviel wanted to play outside for an hour. I knew she needed to start bedtime soon. I made my offer: “Aviel, you can choose to play outside for 15 minutes or not play outside at all.”  With a sigh—and a grin—“Ok, I choose 15 minutes.”

Teshuva, in the aspect of turning and changing directions in our lives is a true affirmation of our free will as human beings.  We are not forever stuck in a particular pattern or habit; in a problematic relationship or work situation.  We are not victims of our situations.  We have the capacity to choose.   

Inevitably, there are many situations in which we do not exercise as much or maybe even any control over and sometimes the circumstances of our lives limit our choices, yet the message remains: we still have choices.  We can choose to be angry or resentful or we can choose to embrace and grow with our challenges.  We can choose to stay too long in the mode of self-pity or we can recognize that things just happen and it’s ok.  As Sylvia Boorstein, a Jewish teacher of mindfulness, writes, “The moment in which my mind acknowledges ‘This isn’t what I wanted, but it’s what I got’ is the point in which suffering disappears….Having given up the fight for another reality, it is free to allow space for new possibilities to come into view.”[i]  We have the power to choose. 

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Over Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur, we repeat and sing these words from the Book of Lamentations: “HaShivenu Elecha V’Nashuva, Hadesh yameninu k’kedem. Return us, O Holy One, and we will return; renew our days as before.” 

K’kedem -- "as before," can also be interpreted as “like when we were young.”  Return us, Holy One, to the spirit of our youth.   This High Holiday season, may we be able to turn and return, to change and to choose, to grow and to learn, to accept and to love, to forgive and be forgiven, to bless and be a blessing, and let us say Amen.

Two Pockets, Erev Rosh HaShanah 5772

                                                                        Rabbi Lauren Grabelle Herrmann

 Tonight, we begin the Aseret Y’mei Teshuva, the 10 Days of Repentance.  The mission of these 10 days is to enact change: to apologize and reconcile; to reflect and redirect; to renew ourselves and renew our commitments to others and to tikkun olam (healing our broken world).  The promise of these days is equally powerful.  In the words of the midrash:

“The Holy One said to Israel: Remake yourselves through teshuvah (turning or repentance) during the Aseret Y’mei Teshuvah, the 10 days between Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur, and I will regard you as a newly made creature.”   

 When I think about the challenge and the possibility of these 10 days and of the promise of a New Year, I feel excited and hopeful.  At the same time, when I consider all that needs to be changed in myself and in the world, I also feel overwhelmed and intimidated.  I imagine that many of us approach these holidays with a similar mix of emotions.  On the one hand, we may say to ourselves, “This is it. This is the year that I am finally going to -- FILL IN THE BLANK: Exercise more, take better care of myself, spend more time with my loved ones, become more involved with a cause I am passionate about.  On the other hand, we may say to ourselves, “I have been coming to services on Rosh HaShanah services every year for 5, 10, 20, 50 years and I have never --FILL IN THE BLANK: Exercised more, taken up that hobby, reconciled with that family member, made that change in my life that I really wanted to.  So why bother trying? 

Most likely, we find ourselves somewhere in the middle.  We earnestly want to make change, but we know it is not easy and that we have not always been successful.  We genuinely seek to make a difference in our communities and the world, yet we recognize our time and energy is limited.  Given all of this, how do we make the most of these 10 days?   

Tonight, I want to offer a teaching that has helped me gain a sense of perspective and purpose through this season, that I hope will be meaningful to you.  It is the teaching of Rabbi Simcha Bunem of Pershycha, a hassidic leader and teacher of the 18^th century. He taught: "Every person should have two pockets. In one, [there should be a note that says] bishvili nivra ha'olam, 'for my sake was the world created.' In the second, [there should be a note that says] anokhi k’afar va'efer, 'I am dust and ashes.' One must know how to use them, each one in its proper place and right time.”  It is said that Rabbi Bunem would take out each note as he needed, to help build his sense of worth or quiet his ego.  I want to invite us to consider what it might be like to try on this practice, at this most sacred time of year.

 “V’anochi K’afar v’efer: I am but dust and ashes.” 

 Written on one pocket are the sobering words from the Torah, “I am but dust and ashes.”  These words remind us of truths we might always want to face—that we human beings are mortal and that our days on this earth are short; that we are small in the face of the cosmos, that our actions are not as significant as we might hope them to be.  A stark reality. 

 Yet, in my mind, the affirmation of our lowliness and insignificance need not lead us to depression or self-negation, rather toward a stance of profound humility.  Martin Buber tells the story about a disciple who confessed to the Sage, “I try so hard to atone. I try to wrestle with temptation. I try but I do not succeed.  I remain mired in the mud of transgression.  Help me extricate myself from sin and to truly repent.”  The sage answered, “Perhaps, my dear friend, you are thinking only of yourself.  How about forgetting yourself and thinking of the world?”[i] 

 As Buber wisely communicates, this work of teshuvah is not all about you!  Stop beating your chest for your own wrongdoings, as if you were responsible for the world’s faults.  Remember, there is a greater universe out there to tap into and to work to heal. Recognizing our limitations can also help us put our lofty goals to change the world in some perspective.  Many of us, me included, take on the worries and the burdens of the world on our shoulders.  We want as Rebbe Nachman said so beautifully, “to participate in the world’s redemption.” 

Our desire to feed the hungry and fight injustice comes from a place of deep caring and concern. Yet, when our desire to heal our broken world comes into conflict with the limitations of our time and the intractability of society’s ills, we risk fatigue, frustration, and burn-out.  For me, looking into this pocket enables me to breathe again, to remember that I am just one person, doing the very best I can.  It helps me lift Herculean –like expectations off myself and others so that I can set realistic goals to make a difference in the best way that I can.   This slip of paper reminds us that we human beings are merely mortal, that we can only do so much.

Lest we end up feeling disparaged or despondent about the impact of our actions or the significance of our teshuvah, we turn to the other pocket, on which is written:

“Bishvili Nivra Ha’olam.”  For MY sake, the world was created.

Especially at this season the year, when we examine our deeds and try to turn toward the good, it is so affirming to hear these words: For my sake, the world was created. 

There is a midrash that I think demonstrates this message well:

Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi taught: “An entourage of angels always walks in front of people, and messengers call out.”  And what do they say?” “They say, ‘Make way for the image of the Holy Blessed One.’”[ii]

Let’s consider this image: that the lofty, otherworldly angels have the distinct pleasure and honor of walking in front of us in order to announce our  God-like presence to others.  The angels, in this passage, serve us—and they announce our very worth, saying that each human beings is significant because each one is a manifestation of the Divine.  This story demonstrates, in my mind, the message of this second pocket.  Each one of us is created b’tzelem elohim, in the image of the Divine; each one of us is utterly unique and as such has something distinct and unique to contribute to the world. 

 The phrase on this pocket can give us confidence to recognize and utilize our unique talents and gifts toward tikkun, healing of self and healing of the world.  Moreover, it can remind us that we are capable of making the changes we need to make.  It doesn’t matter if we have made a mess of our entire life, we can turn it around.  It doesn’t make a difference if we have said we will change over and over yet haven’t, because this could be the year.  We have the resources within ourselves to do what needs to be done.  This is the teaching that invites us to dream big for ourselves and for this world for 5772 and beyond.  Who says we cannot profoundly make a difference?  If the first pocket instills in us the quality of “humility,” then this is the pocket of hutzpah!      

 Rabbi Simcha Bunem’s teaching ends with the instruction: “One should know how to use [the two pockets], each one in its proper place and right time.” When we are feeling down-hearted, down-trodden or insecure, Rabbi Bunem teaches, dig into this pocket and find these words: For My Sake the world was created!  When we feel like too much depends on us or notice our ego seeking gratification or assurance, we can dig into the other pocket and remind ourselves: I/we are but dust and ashes.   

 The ultimate goal of course is that we find a balance between these two extremes.  In this way, I can see the two pockets as two measures on either end of a scale.  When we have an excessive amount of humility so that it leads to self-negation or low-self esteem, we need to tip the scales to get back into balance. And when we have an excessive amount of ego and self-worth so that we lose sight of others or of God, we remind ourselves of the other truth, so we can restore that balance.  Ultimately, we seek a place of integration and wholeness so that we can walk in the world, full of a sense of self-worth, but also aware of our limitations, inspired with courage and hutzpah to take on what seems impossible while also filled with compassion for our own brokenness.   

 In honor of Rabbi Simcha Bunem and in honor of the work we are here to do over these holy days, I want to invite you to take home this practice.  And so, we will momentarily be handing out slips of paper with the words written on it: “For my sake the world was created” and “I am but dust and ashes.”  During these ten days—and maybe beyond—place these two slips of paper in your clothes or pants pocket and use them in the moments you need them.  Look into those pockets to inspire you to be bold and audacious and humble and aware.

 May we be blessed during these holy days and beyond to be able to examine our lives, to turn and return with honesty and with integrity, with humility and with hutzpah.  Shana Tova!         

 

 

D’var Torah Parshat Behukotai 5771, May 21, 2011, Rabbi Lauren Grabelle Herrmann

At the end of a long series of laws and instructions in which the Israelite people are instructed to be an “am kedusha,” “ a holy nation,”Moses gathers the people around and impresses upon them the seriousness of instructions that God has given them. 

“Im B’hukotai telechu, v’et mitzvotai tishm’ru va’asitem otam…”

“If you walk in God’s ways and observe these mitzvot and do them…” then things will go well with you: you will be granted blessing and sustenance, satisfaction, security and tranquility, peace and strength, and a sense of God’s presence. 

If you do not, well, let’s just say: things will not go well for you.  You will be spurned, cast down; you will suffer! 

Many people over the centuries have taken issue with this torah portion, with its conception of Divine reward and punishment and its chastisements.  I certainly agree believe there are theological assumptions in this text that we do not share and I recognize that the descriptions of the curses for non-compliance feels weighty and harsh. 

At the same time, this torah portion seems to be sounding an alarm—maybe a sort of shofar blast— with a message that we as a society need to hear, especially at this moment in time.  It is a message about the way we are to create and structure our society, about the way we are to treat one another-- and the blessings or curses that flow forth from our choices in this regard.

I read this passage as God calling forth the people, exasperated, with one more chance to get the message across, saying:

“YO!  Hey you!  Since you have left Egypt, I have been telling you over and over again how to live together, righteously.  Remember when I told you in no uncertain terms that ‘you should not oppress the stranger, the orphan or the widow?’  Remember all those times I told you to create dignified means by which people that have less can take care of themselves, like being able to go into the vineyards of those who are prospering and take what they need to survive and thrive, without fear?  Remember all those things that I have been telling you—if you do them, you are going to create a kind, compassionate society in which even those with less can experience some abundance.  But if you don’t, you are going to suffer and cause suffering.  I have given you the tools, now you choose.”

This message cannot be timelier than it is right now.  In the past few months, as the country has begun its efforts to rein in spending and states are trying to balance their budgets, we have seen an alarming trend of proposed and real cuts that affect the middle and lower classes, especially those who are most vulnerable: seniors, children, and the poor.  This situation has hit home especially in the past month, as threats to our public school system in Philadelphia become more and more real.  This affects those of us who are line for those schools with resources but even more those who are already underserved. 

I want to be clear that I understand in a difficult economy that sacrifices need to be made.  And I understand that it not healthy or responsible for us to amass deficits that future generations will have to contend with.  That said, the fact that the balancing of those budgets and the “tightening of the belt” seems to automatically fall on the working class and on those who are most vulnerable is deeply troubling and unacceptable— AND it is against the values and instructions that our Torah outlines.

“Im Buhukotai telechu, v’et mitzvotai tishm’ru va’asitem otam…”  If you follow my paths, my instructions, they will lead to blessing. What are those paths, those mitzvot that are outlined by our discerning ancestors in the torah?  What are some of those ways in which we are instructed to create a flourishing society?

“You must not ill-treat any widow or orphan.  If you mistreat them, I will heed their outcry.” (Exodus 22:21-22)

“You shall not subvert the rights of your needy in their disputes.”(Exodus 23:6)

“When you reap the harvest of your land, you shall not reap all the way to the edges of your field, or gather the gleanings of your harvest. You shall not pick your vineyard bare, or gather the fallen fruit of your vineyard; you shall leave them for the poor and the stranger: I am the Lord your God.”(Leviticus 19:9-10 & 23:22)

“When a stranger resides with you in your land, you shall not wrong him.  The stranger who resides with you shall be to you as one of your citizens; you shall love him as yourself, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” (Leviticus 19:33-34)

“You shall hallow the fiftieth year.  Proclaim release throughout the land for all its inhabitants.  It shall be a jubilee for you: each shall return to his holding and each shall return to his family.” (Leviticus 25:10)

“Do not wrong one another, but fear your God; for I the Lord am your God.”        (Leviticus 25:17)

The Torah is unequivocal when it speaks about the vision for society.  Parshat Behukotai becomes an alarm or a shofar blast, reminding us of the power of our choices.  We can choose to continue to move down the path we are on, of balancing our budgets on the backs of those who need the most, but if we do, we should be warned: people will suffer, and because we are connected to everyone else, we all suffer. 

Or we can choose to move in a new direction, where our concerns for fiscal responsibility are balanced with an ethos of compassion and caring, especially for those who are most vulnerable.  We we can try to lessen the disparities between the most wealthy and the most needy.  We can try to address the system causes of hunger and poverty and set up some basic security measures for all people.  And if we do, then people will thrive and then, we as a society can truly be an am kedusha, a holy people.

In 1910, the Industrial Ladies Garment Union launched a 14-week strike on business owners who were profiting off the backs of immigrant women and girls with low wages and dangerous conditions.  The strikers eventually won some concessions from most of the business owners.  The Triangle Shirtwaist Factory was among the (Jewish) business owners who did not concede to workers’ demands.  One year later, almost exactly 100 years ago today, tragedy ensued with the infamous Triangle Shirtwaist Fire of 1911.  On the eighth floor of a high rise building, a fire ignited and spread to the ninth and tenth floor.  Workers who were literally locked inside (as it was the practice of the factory owners to keep doors locked and openings inaccessible) fought to escape in elevators.  Many jumped out of windows, as the tallest ladder of the NY Fire company reached only to the 6^th floor.  In the end, the fire claimed the lives of 146 people—most of whom were young, Jewish immigrant women. 

 

This tragedy became a wake-up call.  The fire inspired a series of regulations about worker safety and eventually laws guaranteeing worker rights, including regulations about time-off and work-week structure.  The tragedy was and is also a reminder of the centrality of unions as a vehicle for workers to fight for their rights.  If the strike of the year before had been successful and the factory owners had been held accountable for their unholy working environment, then conditions such as open doors and better fire escapes would have been met and the story of the Triangle fire would not have had such a tragic ending.  As Melvyn Dubofsky points out, since the national regulations have been in place, unions have been a vehicle ensuring that businesses are implementing those regulations and empowering working class people and public sector employees[1].  Though like anything, unions are not perfect, they have been and remain one of the ways to establish and ensure the dignity of workers and of the workplace environment.

 

One hundred years later, the centennial anniversary of the Shirtwaist Factory Fire – which is March 25—is an opportunity to celebrate the courageous immigrant women and girls who fought for their rights and died because they were not guaranteed them and to acknowledge the historical connection between Jews and the labor movement. 

 

One hundred years later, remembering and memorializing this tragedy has become especially important as we witness the attack by public officials on unions, the effort to curtail or take away altogether the collective bargaining rights of unions, and the assault on public sector employees, especially on teachers.  We have seen this, of course, most dramatically in Wisconsin, where public sector employees and allies of all kinds have banded together to fight back against this vicious attack.   But the undermining of unions is a national concern, and we are beginning to see similar threats in Ohio, Indiana, and New Jersey. 

 

The Jewish connection to labor and worker rights if of course not limited to the historic connection of Jewish involvement in the labor movement.  The belief that employees have rights and should be conferred basic dignity finds expression in our Torah.  In Leviticus, we read: “You shall not defraud your fellow…Do not hold back the wages of a hired worker overnight.”  In Deuteronomy, the torah is clear: “Do not take advantage of a hired worker who is poor and needy…Pay them their wages each day before sunset, for he is poor and sets his heart on it.” 

 

The Talmud goes further in exploring rights for workers and Jewish law expands from there, affirming such principles that wages must be sufficient and bring dignity to the worker and that workers may band together for various purposes, and there must be “Shabbat” – days of rest for workers.[2]  Jewish values such as the kavod/honor or dignity of all people, the centrality of education and educators urge us to support public sector employees in their fight to keep unions strong and central in the face of such attacks.

 

It is imperative that we in the Jewish community draw upon our Jewish values to stand up against the attack on unions.  When we do, we will ensure that the memories of those who perished one hundred years ago in the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire will be for a blessing.

 

By Kol Tzedek Member, Karen Lefkowitz, Reflection on Involvement with new community organizing effort, POWER

Told 2/11/11 at Kol Tzedek

 

About a month and a half ago I was driving my daughter home from dance class along 52^nd St. when she noticed a line of people standing outside a building. It was evening and already very dark out. She asked me if I thought they were waiting for a soup kitchen. I said that seemed quite likely.

 

The following week we were driving back again, and this week the weather had turned really bitter cold, the wind was whipping and she saw the line of people again. She asked again if I thought they were waiting for a soup kitchen. The idea that these folks were out in the terrible weather, waiting, hungry enough to need to stand in line on this very cold evening made me so upset that I was nearly speechless. I guess I sputtered about how wrong this was, that people in our city, so close to our neighborhood didn’t have enough food so that they could stay home and eat. Then I realized I could say more to her.

 

For the past several months I have been taking time, always time away from my daughter, asking friends to watch her while I attend POWER meetings. I’m a single working mom, and I don’t like to spend the time away from her, and she really resents the time I give to this group. Also, it is a little odd for me, since I do not think of myself as a person of great faith, and I really don’t talk the “faith” language. But Rabbi Lauren had faith that this was the beginning of an important political group and that our synagogue could benefit in various ways (which other folks will describe) from our being involved, so I made a commitment.

 

That cold dark night in the car with my daughter, I was overwhelmingly grateful that I had gotten involved with POWER.  I could validate my daughter’s observation that there were hungry people standing in line, and that she was right to be concerned about it. And I was able to tell her, “You know those meetings I go to? Well this is what we are working on. We all think it is wrong that people in our city are hungry, and we are doing something about it!”

 

It is very important for me as a mom to show my daughter that I can take care of problems, and that her natural concern for others is appropriate and does demand action. But it takes a broad swath of society to make significant changes in entrenched social problems. An awful lot of people from other faith organizations have joined with POWER, and more come to each meeting. I wish you could see how many different regions of the city are represented, and with that, different social classes, ages and traditions.  I also invite you to see how quickly working groups are formed and concerns get solidified and transformed into plans.

 

I hope for your own reasons that you will investigate this movement and help Kol Tzedek to use its voice for justice.

“Listening as Teshuvah (Turning, Repentance)”

Rabbi Lauren Grabelle Herrmann, Kol Nidre 5771

 

 

G’mar Tov/Shana Tova. 

I begin tonight with a short questionnaire.

 1. Have you ever been in a class where you are so focused on what you want to say that you realize you are no longer listening and have no idea where the conversation is?  

2. Have you interrupted someone in the middle of their speaking? How about, in the last 48 hours?

3. Have you ever been in a situation in which a friend reaches out for comfort and even when she doesn’t ask for it, you insist on giving her your good advice? 

4. Have you ever turned off a radio or TV news story mid-way because you couldn’t tolerate the views being expressed by the person interviewed?

5. Have you ever been in synagogue and realized half-way through the rabbi’s sermon that you have no idea what the rabbi is saying? (Hands up for this one!)

I am guessing that I am not the only one in the room who got a perfect or near-perfect score on this quiz!  And while I admit that I have slept through my fair share of sermons (other rabbis’ of course!), I want to humbly suggest that this is a sermon you may want to listen to.  Because, if you haven’t guessed already from the questions I posed, this is a sermon about listening—about listening as (a form of) teshuvah (repentance, turning)—a way of turning towards others and returning to the best versions of ourselves.

We come here on this Day of Atonement, with a desire to change.  Though each of us brings our own personal struggles, disappointments, and hopes, we all share a common desire to be the best versions of ourselves, to be great parents, responsive friends, caring lovers, partners, and children.  Yet, despite that aspiration, we find ourselves, at times, disconnected and alone.  Even those of us who have cultivated intimacy in our relationships recognize that there are ways we can grow and deepen those connections. 

I have found that one way we can grow our own souls and strengthen our relationships is through improving the quality of our listening. 

Bringing more awareness and intentionality to listening may seem like a small thing, but it is actually incredibly powerful.  Listening is about much more than processing words on the physical plane—listening can be an offering of one’s presence, an opportunity for learning and connecting deeply with another.  In this way, listening transcends one’s physical ability to hear. 

Improving the quality of our listening may seem like a simple thing, yet it is really challenging.  To become better listeners -- and by extension more responsive children, parents, friends, siblings-- we have to learn and practice new ways of communicating, expressing concern, and being in relationship. 

Tonight, I want to suggest three instructions/practices that have been especially helpful for me in improving my listening and by extension, strengthening my relationships.  I bring them to you tonight as an offering – as practices, ideas, inspirations that might help you in turning toward others and toward who you hope to be. 

1.      Listen without an agenda.  Listen without fixing, advising, or setting straight.

As many of you know, I have spent the last eighteen months in a program called the Institute for Jewish Spirituality, in which a group of rabbis explored mindfulness practices and Jewish learning between and during four retreats together.  Each retreat was structured with a heavy does of silence and set times for davenning (prayer), yoga, meditation, and torah study.  Toward the end of each day, we gathered in what were called “Core Groups,” small groupings of participants who came together to create a “safe space” in which people can express any thoughts, feelings, or reflections on their minds.

For Core Group, we were given three instructions:

No fixing, No Advising, No setting straight. 

 As you might imagine, these simple rules were very hard to abide by!  Some people talked about ill and dying parents, lovers, or friends; others about personal relationships in jeopardy; others about troubled work environments.  On the last retreat of our program, I was in a Core Group with a woman who on the first day of the retreat found herself in tremendous pain.  A triggering event had unleashed what seemed like a lifetime of stored-up sadness.  After crying a full day in silence, she came to core group and opened herself to us, sharing the pain, the hurt, the hopelessness.  It was incredibly hard to watch this lovely person in so much pain.  It took great effort on our part not to morph into cheerleaders or personal coaches, but we remembered: no fixing, no advising, no setting straight. 

 As the week went on, I observed this person gaining renewed strength.  On the last day of the retreat, she told us that our listening had helped her move through the pain into a more expansive, even joyous space.  In the space of feeling held and heard, healing occurred. 

 The experience of “core groups”—intentionally structured groups with the sole purpose of listening– is not something most of us have access to on a regular basis.  At the same time, we do regularly encounter people who are struggling, who are grieving, or who are just having a hard day.  While our natural instinct to comfort, to say “everything is going to be alright” comes from a good place, there is a shadow side to it.  For when “fix” the troubles of another, it means that we don’t have to deal with pain – another person’s or our own.  Personally speaking, I have found that the more I can hold the pain of others, the more I can also heal myself. 

The practice of refraining from fixing or setting straight does not have to be limited to those in our lives who are in dire straights.  How many times do we offer people our wise counsel without knowing if that is what they need or want?  The truth is that we don’t always need feedback; sometimes we just need to be heard and understood.

This rule of not fixing, advising, or setting straight teaches that the ikar, the essence of listening, is presence.  People don’t necessarily need our words, they need us.  It is an incredible gesture of love and compassion to offer another the simple gift of our listening.     

2.      Listen without Judgments.  Listen for understanding, not for agreement.

In Pirke Avot, the Ethics of our Fathers, we learn: “Aizeh hu hacham, hu lomed mi kol Adam.  Who is wise? The one who learns from every person.”

Many of us would agree, at least in theory, with this sagely advice.  Yet the truth of the matter is that we don’t always put this advice into practice!  We carefully select our radio stations and news commentators; we choose those with whom we do or do not engage in dialogue.

 Our listening is deeply affected by our judgments, biases, and prejudices.  Rabbi Sheila Peltz Weinberg, tells a story that demonstrates this well.  Describing a time when she was being on a silent retreat, she says:[1]  

“The first night on retreat I notice one of the participants, a man in his early 60s, tall, slender, gray-haired, restless, full of energy.  He reminds me of President Bush the first.  This guy looks like…an entitled, rich while Christian male.  I take an immediately dislike to this man. I can’t figure out why on earth he is on this retreat.  Whenever Mr. X comes into view I notice that feelings of aversion arise in me, followed by unpleasant judging thoughts.  I have never spoken a word to this man, but this does not prevent me from disliking him and everything I decide he represents—especially power and arrogance…. 

Ultimately, Rabbi Weinberg recognized that her own judgments were clouding her ability to be with this person whom she had not even met.  Later, she discovers that the two have more in common than she would have ever guessed.  She recounts:

On the last day of retreat there is a sharing. There about a hundred people on retreat, all sitting in a circle. For the first time we can see each other’s faces.  Each person has a chance to say a few sentences.  This is our first speaking after 10 days of silence. I am nervous. I am thinking of what I am going to say. When it is my turn, I say: “this has been great. I am the rabbi of a synagogue. I feel that coming on this retreat makes me a better rabbi. I am very grateful.”  A few people after it is Mr. X.  He says, [in a very thick Southern accent,] “My name is Barton Poole. I am from northern Mississippi and I have a lot in common with the rabbi.”  Now I am listening.  “I am a Methodist minister and I feel that this practice gives me the chance to truly walk my faith.  I am very grateful."

I imagine that each of us can think for a second about our own Barton Poole: a person or persons in our lives for whom our aversions toward have us at bay.  Sometimes, we distance ourselves based on appearance, dress.  Sometimes, we shut down when we hear a person saying something that we don’t agree with.  Maybe we are lucky enough to be like Rabbi Weinberg and have an opportunity to listen to another person, moving past our judgments and assumptions.  Much of the time, I suspect we are not so blessed.

As I have learned from Kay Lindahl[2], founder of The Listening Center (from whom I learned this listening principle), our culture seems to hold the notion that listening means or necessitates agreement.  Think for a second about the ways we listen to speakers, teachers, or even friends.  Our brains are so occupied, evaluating, assessing, naming “I agree,” “I don’t agree,” “That’s wrong,” “That’s right.”  And beyond assessment, we often feel a need to prove or defend our point of view.  I know that when I perceive one of my core values or principles to be at odds with another, I immediately rush to either attack the other position or defend my own.  But the truth is, these responses may help us win political arguments but they do not help us build communities or transcend the differences that are threatening to tear our society apart.

Instead, Lindahl suggests another paradigm.  She says: “Listen for understanding, not to agree with or believe.”  What might happen, I wonder, if when encountering another whom we perceive is “not like us,” or who holds a view that is contrary to our own, instead of reacting or responding, we asked questions or sought to learn more?

Listening past our judgments invites us to bring a spirit of curiosity and wonder to our conversations.  Listening for understanding allows us to “lomed mikol adam,” to learn from every person. 

 

3. Listen Beyond the words. 

A few months ago, Aviel refused to go down the stairs in our house without being carried.  Trying to teach her independence, I politely refused.  She proceeded to throw a tantrum.  Tired, frustrated, I could feel my whole body tensing up.  I coached, “Aviel, you are big girl now, you can do this.”  By this time, her tears were becoming uncontrollable.  Against my better judgment, I carried her down the stairs and comforted her for a few minutes.  Whereas most days I might chalk this up to the terrible 2s, I decided to inquire.  “Aviel, why don’t you want to go down the stairs?” I asked.  After a few questions, trying to discern her motives, I discovered that there was in fact something else going on.  “Are you afraid,” she nodded her hand and said, “Yes I am afraid.”  In a second, my frustration was replaced by empathy, my anger replaced by love.  I held her and comforted her.  The next few days, I carried her down the stairs.  Some weeks later, she began walking down them all by herself.

Sometimes, when we stop and dig deeper, we are able to listen beyond the words and tune in to what is going in another person’s heart and soul.  When we do this, we are granted precious opportunities into connection and knowing.

In the Bible, there is a very peculiar phrase that is used only one time[3].  God appears to Solomon in a dream and asks him what Solomon needs to step into his new role as King.  Solomon says: “Grant me a Lev Shomea.”  Lev shomea technically means “listening heart.” This is what I understand “Listening beyond the words” to mean: that we cultivate an ability to listen not only with our ears, not only with our minds, but also with our hearts. 

Listening beyond the words means that we take the time to pause and consider the person, the soul that we are engaging.  Listening beyond the words asks us that we bring a spirit of inquiry to our interactions, a digging beneath the surface than can bring about new possibilities of understanding and trust. 

On Yom Kippur, when we consider the ways in which we can turn towards others and grow into the best version of ourselves, I want to invite us to consider how we might bring greater attention and intention to our listening, how we can develop and grow our listening skills.

Perhaps we could take 10 minutes each day to do nothing else but listen.  Or to put on a CD to just hear or feel the music, with no other distractions.  We could engage that co-worker who we normally tune out for one reason or another.  We might resolve to engage in formal or informal dialogue with people of others faiths or views divergent than our own.  We could set aside a few minutes a day to listen to our friend or spouse share about their day, with no other agenda than offering our presence.

Rewards lie in the power of listening.  Through listening, we can hold and be held. Through listening we have the opportunity to learn and grow, to expand our ways of thinking.  Through listening we can tune in to others, build meaningful and trusting relationships.  Through listening, we may be blessed to improve our lives and impact the lives of our friends, community members, and beyond.

 G’mar Hatima Tova.

                                                                                    Rosh HaShanah Sermon 5771, Rabbi Lauren Grabelle Herrmann

 

Shana Tova.  I would like to begin with a story and a verse:

 One: A group of people would like to build a place of worship.  A prominent politician objects to their desires, calling them “repugnant” and naming them as “blasphemers.”  They are denied the right to build a place to worship in public.

 Two: “Btselem Elohim Barah oto.” “In the Divine image, God created humankind.

 The first is a story of Jewish immigrants in America, in the mid-1600s.  The politician was Peter Stuyvesant, Mayor of New Amsterdam – what is now New York City. Under his governance and for many decades after, Jews were not allowed to build synagogues.  In fact, Stuyvesant not only tried to block Jews from worshiping, but from entering the city altogether.

 The second, “Btselem Elohim Barah oto” is a verse from the torah that informs Jewish ethics and values about the treatment of the other.  It is a principle that reminds us of our obligation to honor and respect those with whom we inhabit the earth.

 I bring these two pieces – one, a story from Jewish history and the second, a sacred text-- to shed light on the controversy that has emerged in recent weeks regarding a proposed Islamic Cultural Center (of which a mosque and interfaith center would be a part) a few blocks from Ground Zero.

 Initially a conversation about religious freedom, the discourse has shifted sharply, revealing a disheartening and worrisome current of ignorance, fear, and distrust of Muslims.  While I continue to believe that most people are not hateful and do not mean harm, I am sadly aware that many people in this country are at best, confused and ambivalent about Muslims and at worst, hostile toward them.  As the conversation and rhetoric turns more suspicious and distancing, American Muslims have begun articulating feelings of insecurity, doubting their place in the country they have called home. 

 On this Rosh HaShanah – a time when people threaten the freedoms that make this country great, a time when people are turning away from their neighbors out of ignorance and fear -- the work of [these Days of Awe] is especially critical.  This is the season of heshbon hanefesh – soul searching and teshuvah --returning, repairing, healing.  Jewish tradition teaches: we are to engage in these spiritual tasks not for our sake alone, but also for the sake of our society, and the world at large. 

 This is the challenge and the invitation of this Season of Awe: to consider what we can do to facilitate the teshuvah, the returning of ourselves, our communities, and our nation to our highest ideals and values.  Admittedly, this task is daunting and certainly more difficult than the alternative of standing by and complaining about others’ behavior. 

 But this is, in my understanding, what it means to be a Jew (in this season and all year round): to engage, to take responsibility, to respond.  And as a Jewish community, we can look to the Jewish experience as a minority group in America and to the rich sources of tradition to find the strength and the courage to speak out and respond to this current controversy.  God willing, an understanding of this history and this sense of values can inspire us and others in the direction of achava, brotherhood/sisterhood and shivyon, equality.

 First, let us understand what the debate over the mosque’s location is and is not. In the current controversy over The Cordoba House, there are some who argue that they have no problems with Muslims—they just do not understand why they have to build there.  I have great empathy and compassion for those whose loved ones perished on 9-11 and tremendous respect and admiration for those heroes who risked their lives to save others.  But as my teacher, Rabbi Nancy Fuchs-Kreimer, pointed out to me—this is not a controversy about what constitutes “hallowed ground,” this is about the constitutional guarantee of freedom of religion and whether America is going to extend its promise of religious liberty to American Muslims.

 Looking to history, we understand that the same question was being asked not too long ago about us.  Jonathan Sarna, scholar of American Judaism, recently wrote an op-ed in the Jewish paper The Forward aptly titled “When Shuls Were Banned in America”[1] in which he recounts the days—and many were not so long ago—in which Jewish communities were barred from creating their own houses of worship. I already mentioned one of these stories at the start.  In other places, Sarna says, Jews fared equally poorly, being denied the rights to worship in public “long after the Bill of Rights mandated religious liberty for all on the federal level.” 

 State by state, Jews struggled and waited for courts determine their fate. When Jews wanted to open the first synagogue in the District of Columbia, as Sarna recounts, the opposition was so strong that it literally “took an act of Congress to resolve the question” – in 1856, a congressional legislation extended the rights Christians were guaranteed to Jews.

 Problems with Jews building places of worship and community centers, Sarna says, persisted even until the 1950s, when new suburban synagogues “had to face down angry neighbors and change-averse zoning boards.  Sarna chillingly reminds us: “If today’s target is the mosque, yesterday’s target was most assuredly the synagogue.”  As a minority group who has been denied and also benefitted from the fundamental right to practice our religion, I believe it is incumbent upon us to support the right of any group of any religion to worship anywhere.

To those who argue that Muslims should be subject to greater scrutiny because of the terrorist ambitions of some of their faith, I respond with the words of Mayor Michael Bloomberg who said in a recent interview, “There is no middle ground when it comes to issues of religious liberty.”  There are many churches and yes, synagogues too, in this country, whose leaders preach hatred based on race, sexual orientation, and political outlook. These religious institutions are not subject to financial inspection or obscure zoning laws.  Jews know from our own experience that this is about much more than honoring or dishonoring hallowed ground. 

 As Rabbi Fuchs-Kreimer wrote in a recent article on Park51[2], “We Jews have too much at stake to risk siding with those who prefer some and despise others.  Our history tells us such people are not our allies.  Our hope tells us that they will ultimately not prevail.”  (pause)

 As Jews, of course, we are more than just the history of our persecution.  We are a people whose values, whose sacred texts command us to treat others with respect and dignity and to stand up against those who dishonor and disrespect any person. 

The fundamental principle of respect and honor for God’s creatures derives from the principle of Btselem Elohim, which I began with today.  This is an especially fitting verse and concept for Rosh HaShanah—because according to the midrash, (or: textual interpretation), humanity was created on the 1^st day of Tishrei— which is today, Rosh HaShanah! 

According to the story, after a few days and other created luminaries and beings, God turns the Divine attention toward the creation of humanity.  After the first human, adam, who at this moment an embodiment of both male and female, is created, the torah says:  “Vayivrah elohim et ha’adam b’tsalmo -- btselem elohim Barah oto.” “And God created adam in his image, in the image of the Divine, God created him.”  

Understanding that God does not have a physical image, rabbis and scholars have always interpreted this verse metaphorically rather than literally.  They explain that btselem elohim is an indication that each person has a Divine spark -- that each life is of infinite value. 

The idea that humanity is created btselem elohim is not simply a proclamation; it is a core Jewish value which informs a worldview bent on equality and dignity for all people.  It is the basis for several ethical commands, including the mandate of giving kavod la briyot, honor to all creatures; of pikuach nefesh, the duty to save a life even if one needs to break religious law to do so; the command not to embarrass another, because if you do “it is as if you have shed blood.”  It is the inspiration for “Ve’ahavta L’re’acha Kamocha” “Loving our neighbors as ourselves.”  Btselem Elohim teaches: the denigration and devaluing of any human being is a threat and an affront to all of us.

The concept of “Btselem Elohim” stands in sharp contrast to the sentiments being expressed by the most vocal anti-Mosque activists, many of whom conflate all segments of Islam -- a religion practiced by 1.5 billion people-- with radical Islam, scapegoat Muslims for American’s problems at home and abroad, and use fear of Muslims as a wedge issue for political gain. 

As we have seen in recent weeks, hateful rhetoric can inspire hateful action.  Several crimes have been committed out of hate.  Mosques in various parts of the country are reporting incidents and threats. Just over a week ago, a brick was thrown at the window of a California Islamic Center.  Outside was the warning, “No Temple for the God of Terrorism at Ground Zero.”[3]

As Jews, we are obligated, even commanded, to speak out against the tide of bigotry and discrimination that we are seeing in America today.  Granted, this is not an easy task: the media privileges the most provocative and polarizing voices and currently, the most extreme in our society have the floor and the megaphone.  At the same time, there are things we can do. 

This past week, in the midst of all the discouraging news reports, I took heart from one story of how a small group of people came together to make a difference.  Last week in Queens, New York, a man entered a mosque and urinated on the prayer rugs.  Feeling enraged by this news—and the overall anti-Islamic rhetoric and discrimination going on around the country— Rachel Barenblatt, a blogger and rabbi, used her blog and twitter account to raise money for the cleaning of the rugs.  She initially set out to raise a few hundred dollars as a “gesture of interfaith good will.”[4]  Over the course of just two days, $1175 was donated, from sixty five people of all different faiths (Jewish, Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, Pagan) from all across the United States.  Many people left notes saying, “Please tell the mosque that this man does not represent me” and “Thank you for giving me something I could do.”      

Like this group of ordinary individuals, we can find small and big ways to make a difference, to build interfaith bridges, and to let Muslims in this country know that those who speak out against them or stand apart from them from fear do not represent us.  To name a few examples of things we can do: writing op-eds, joining together in rallies supporting the building of the mosque, getting involved with interfaith initiatives including the Philadelphia Interfaith Peace Walk, which formed as a response to the anti-Muslim sentiment that arose in the wake of 9-11 and has been building bridges between people of all faiths since. 

As for our own Kol Tzedek community, I have begun reaching out to local Imams, in the hopes that we can find ways to support our Muslim neighbors and build relationships between our faith communities.  And this Saturday, on the ninth anniversary of September 11, when extreme activists gather at Ground Zero to protest the Mosque in particularly and seemingly, Islam in general and when, God forbid, Korans are being burned in Florida, Kol Tzedek will hold a “Havdallah of Hope, Not Hate.”  While it may not bring hateful rhetoric to a halt, gathering in community on that night can help alleviate our despair and strengthen us for the work ahead. 

Every time we dispel a myth, build a bridge, support organizations working toward justice and equality, share our spiritually-motivated vision of tolerance, we bring our society and our world that much closer to recognizing that every person is created “bstelem elohim.” 

I began with the story of the new immigrant Jews trying to build a place of worship to illuminate our connection to this controversy and the incredible stakes we have in it as minority group in America.  Having been in this situation, it is upon us to stand up for the rights that have made this country great, that have ultimately enabled us to thrive. 

I began also with the verse “bstelem elohim bara oto,” “in the Divine image God created humanity.”  This core Jewish value is a cornerstone of our spiritual tradition and a reminder of our religious obligation to honor all life.  In the words of the late Marshall T. Myer, an activist and rabbi, “For the religious Jew, the holiness of life is the sum of the Torah…I, as a Jew, must fight for human rights, decency, and human sanctity because God commanded me to do so regardless of whether or not society commands it.”[5]  Recognizing God’s diverse creation as “very good,” understanding the infinite value of human life helps us to craft an alternative vision for society, to steer our country back (shuv, turn) toward its highest ideals and aspirations. 

This is, as I articulated at the beginning, the challenge of this New Year, of this season of Awe: to seek teshuvah for ourselves, for our society, and for our world.  In this New Year, I hope and pray that we can allow the light of our tradition and the perspective our history to lead us into a brighter future – a future filled with the possibilities of tolerance, equality, and justice.  Let us be inspired to do our part to further that vision.  And b’ezrat hashem, with God’s help, our earnest turning will inspire a turning of our community, and our society, and our world, so that one day, all will be free to pray -- so that one day, all will be treated as the Divine Likeness of which they were made. 

Ken Yehi Ratzon, May this be God’s will. Shana Tova.

D’var Torah, Parshat M’tzora, 5770, Rabbi Lauren Grabelle Herrmann

 

 A story:

After I graduated from college, I was working a non-profit job that I liked but didn’t love, I was just coming out of a relationship, I was generally feeling a little hapless and uncentered.  After taking a few days to step outside of my environment, a loved one asked me a simple question, “What do you want to be doing right now?” Without blinking an eye, I said words that I didn’t even know I had been thinking “Go to Israel to learn.”  The next day, I began researching flights, programs, housing and a few months later I entered the yeshiva, a few months later I applied to rabbinical school and the rest is history.

 Another story:

Several years ago, I had a period where I was feeling especially jittery and on edge.  In a conversation, a friend suggested that I perhaps consider curbing my caffeine addiction.  The next day, I ordered a decaf and I have been happily caffeine-less for the last seven years.  While this solution has not erased anxiety from my life, it has made a hugely positive impact on my body and soul. 

 

These are two stories of change, of decisions that transformed my life in positive directions.  In both cases, I had to get out of the drama of my own situation, enlist the help of another and make a choice about the change that was necessary at that moment in time. 

 

I tell these stories to help us think about times we have made changes in our lives or are struggling to make right now – changes, whether big & life-changing or small & subtle – that help us move forward in new and unexpected ways. 

 

Whether or not this is who the authors of the torah intended it, I find the portion of the torah we just read, from Parshat Metzora, to be talking about this very idea of personal transformation. 

 

Now, you may be wondering: Did I read the same torah portion that you read?  Yes! I have learned from many teachers and especially from Rabbi Shefa Gold that the torah is not simply a text or a historical document but that it is also a map of our inner lives.  This Levitcal section of Parshat Metzora describes the procedures that a person and the priest would go through if a plague, like the leprous infections that are described in people earlier in the text, erupts in a house.  In some cases, the plague can be addressed simply by changing out the bricks and re-plastering the house.  Other times, the plague has spread too far and more drastic action is required—all the bricks need to be dismantled and the house rebuilt.

 

As I read the story, I kept thinking about this section of the torah as a metaphor – and the plague on our house are the afflictions, the struggles, the personal dilemmas we all face in life – for example, challenges in relationships where we want to get close but come up against so much for our own resistance; relationships where the baggage of the past prevents us from being in the present;; challenges in work, trying to decide at every stage of life what is the best use of our time and talent and what’s available to us.

 

And in this metaphor, the possible remedies are the ways in which we can address those issues for the better—sometimes, we simply need to take out a few bricks – make a subtle change, like eliminating caffeine or giving someone we struggle with the benefit of the doubt—when we make this subtle change, healing and transformation take place.

 

But there are also times when we need to throw out those bricks and start over. We need to take a step in a totally new direction. 

 

Of course, coming to these realizations, again whether big or small, is not always easy. In fact, mostly not easy.  Often we have to feel uncomfortable for awhile before we can make a change. Sometimes we know something needs to change, but we just feel unable to do it.  And for this reality, I think the text offers some wisdom. 

 

Here is what I learn about how to create a context for transformation from the torah of the plagued house:

 

Ask for outside help: if you are a person and you notice your house has an infection, you are to immediately call the priest. The priest, having an outside perspective, will know what to do.  Whether we talk to therapists or friends or co-counselors doesn’t matter, but reaching out to others will surely help us gain perspective.

 

Clear some space: The priest has the house evacuated; while we cannot necessarily avoid our daily lives, we can carve out some time for ourselves, for quiet reflection or meditation, we can take a walk or do something that will clear our head and enable us to gain perspective on the situation.

 

Try to make a small change first: Just as the priest takes out only those stones which are inflicted, perhaps we can entertain making a smaller change that will positively impact our situation.  If we are struggling with our partner, perhaps we make the difficult but subtle change of ceasing criticism of the other.  Or not giving ourselves permission to complain about a certain co-worker.  Often, it is only a small change that needs to happen in order for us to feel liberated and re-engaged.  

 

Recognize when something is not working: The priest who comes back and sees that the house is broken out in a plague yet again is able to see that the problem is too far gone.  At that point, there is no other choice: the house needs to be taken down and rebuilt. 

 

There are other times when a small shift will not do enough.  Maybe we need to end a romantic relationship that is no longer healthy or we need to change directions and focus in our careers or in volunteer work.  Or we need to make a really hard change in our relationship to our health.  Sometimes, we need to say “I am going to start something and I have no idea if it will work!” or “I need to give up on this dream because it is not working and find another dream.”  And doing that is scary and daunting but it is what has to be done.

 

This is the way that I understand the torah of the leprous house—as guidance for us in the difficult work of transforming our struggles and hardships into new directions.

In this light, the torah provides us guidance that can encourage us to examine our truths as we see those challenges and problems arise – and help us to assess how we can face them with integrity and courage.   May we be blessed with the ability to see what is not working and to make the changes necessary to enable healing and growth.  Shabbat Shalom.

In light of the recent events with the New Israel Fund in Israel-- in which an organization dedicated to promoting human rights of all occupants of Israel, was recently subject to intense attack from factions of the government and was threatened to lose funding from the government-- I felt inspired to write the following prayer: