rabbi ari lev: The Courage to Link Our Lives
Rosh Hoshannah 5777
October 3, 2016
A long, long time ago, in a place far away, there was a group of Jews that would gather every Shabbat morning to pray. It was a small community, in a small town, and there was one person in particular who just loved to pray. She would go on and on for hours. When she finally finished, the whole community would gather in a side room for delicious treats.
Each week however, it happened that everyone else finished their prayers long before she did. In fact, she would continue on and on. She would pray with her tallit, her prayer shawl, draped over her head, swaying back and forth and back and forth. Her peers would wait until she finished. But each week, they got more and more distracted by the sweet aroma wafting in from the adjoining room.
Their stomachs would rumble and they’d get impatient.
One shabbat morning before they had begun to pray, one of them whispered to the others, “You know, if we just got up and tiptoed into the next room, we could grab a quick bite and come right back. We wouldn’t make a sound. She’d never even know. She is so focused anyways. What would be the harm?”
The others weren’t so sure. “I don’t know, I don’t think it’s right.”
But later that morning, having long finished their prayers, they watched their friend deep in prayer beneath her tallit, swaying back and forth, back and forth. The vegan donuts and cold brew coffee called to them, and their stomachs won out.
Without making a sound one of them motioned for everyone to get up. And just when they rose from their seats, she lifted her head, threw her tallis from her shoulders, and cried out, “What happened!? Where are you going?”
Embarrassed, everyone averted their eyes. They hemmed and hawed and stammered. And then one person finally spoke up. “Um well, um…But we hardly even moved. How did you even know? We didn’t make a sound!”
This woman turned to her friends.
“When I pray, it is as though there is a ladder stretching from earth to heaven, and as I pray, I ascend the rungs of that ladder. But you, you each hold up that ladder. And when you stood up to leave, I fell.” [1]
Who among us has not grown restless during services?
Who among us has not at least considered heading downstairs to be first in line for food?
Who among us has not questioned whether their presence during services actually matters?
This story powerfully begs the question - what does it mean to be here in community?
And of course, the answer is different for everyone. Some of us are new to Kol Tzedek, some of us are new to Judaism, some of us have traveled from out of town to be here with family, some of us are founders and leaders of this sacred community.
Some of us come with a deep familiarity with Hebrew prayers and Jewish melodies. Some of us feel lost in a sea of sound and symbol.
And yet, says the the woman in this story, each and every one of us, our presence, our prayers, our doubts, our wandering minds, are all together building this sacred vessel, this community. We are all holding the ladder up for each other.
What then defines a community?
One text from the Talmud, a 6th century piece of Jewish literature, offers a working definition of the concept of community in Jewish life:
“A Torah scholar” - which for me includes every one of us -- “is not allowed to live in a city that does not have these 10 things: a court of law; a tzedakah fund that is collected by two people and distributed by three; a synagogue; a bath house; a bathroom; a doctor; a craftsperson; a blood-letter; some say a butcher; and a teacher of children”. [2]
In other words, in order to be a suitable place to live, a community must provide for the needs of all its members. Some needs are physical such as a bathhouse and a doctor. Some needs are spiritual, such as a synagogue. Some are structural, such as a court of law and a tzedakah fund. Judaism has always recognized the diversity of our needs and our skills.
And so has Kol Tzedek. I was drawn to this community, to Kol Tzedek and West Philadelphia because of community. We are value artists, musicians and committee chairs.
We also need people to move chairs and organize potlucks, to design flyers, and greet people at the door. We need people to work the new and awesome accessible entry lift so that our programs are truly for everyone.
But what about our spiritual needs. What are the qualities that make a kehillah kedosha, a sacred community?
There is an image that comes from a midrash on the commandment “Lo titgodedu - do not cut yourselves.” In its original context in the Book of Deuteronomy, the commandment refers to prohibited mourning practices: “You are children of the Lord your God, do not cut yourselves.” But the midrash interprets it to mean: “Do not cut – or divide – yourselves as a community into separate factions.”
Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai brings the following metaphor to make the point: “This is like a person who brought two ships and anchored them together and placed them in the middle of the sea, and built on them a palace. As long as the ships are tied to each other, the palace exists. Once the ships separate from each other the palace cannot exist.”
The midrash offers what I would describe as a kind of covenantal vision of sacred community. It recognizes that we are not one ship but many, yet also asserts that we can create something beautiful when we are willing to turn toward, rather than away from each other, when we are willing to link our lives together.
And surely this is not easy. Our Torah portion this morning includes the story of Sarah banishing Hagar and Ishmael to die in the desert. It is a story of what happens when we are led by our wounds and not our spirits, when we react to our fears and allow them to distance us from each other and from God.
We are immersed in a culture that encourages individualism and a discourse of polarization that pushes every scarcity button and plays to every fear. We, as a society, are in choppy waters. At work, with our families, within ourselves, here at Kol Tzedek. This midrash calls to us, “Lo titgodedu - Do not sail away, stay connected.” Introduce yourself to new faces, invite folks to your house for Shabbat, join a committee, take a class. Consider attending our newly forming weekday prayer service on Thursday mornings. And perhaps most importantly, struggle with us.
Help us Get out the Vote for this epically important election year. Support our work with POWER as we work to end mass incarceration and fight for education inequality. Come struggle to understand our role in the Movement for Black Lives, as a racially, economically and politically diverse Jewish community with divergent views on Israel and Palestine.
Because the moments that define me as a human being, as a rabbi, as a trans person; as an anti-racist activist, as a parent, partner, sibling and child, and the moments that will continue to define this community, are born of sacred struggle. Because Jewish traditions are born of sacred struggle. Because vulnerability is born of struggle. Because on the other side of our shared vulnerability, is creativity. Because letting go of our need to be perfect, our need to be certain, our need to be right - will set us free. In the words of activist Raquel Willis, “Authenticity and vulnerability are the power tools of liberation.”
In Jewish tradition, we call productive arguments, “machlochet l’shem shammayim - literally, disagreement for the sake of heaven.”
This value of sacred tension is vital to community life. And the liturgy of Rosh Hashanah is situated squarely in such a tension; that of Rachamim/Compassion and Din/Judgement.
We refer to Rosh Hashanah as Yom HaDin, the day of judgement. We sing of God as a judge with the book of life open before her, and we pass through as sheep in a flock.
And while we do so, we plead, El Rachum V’Hanun - God of Compassion and Mercy - be gentle with us. Avinu Malkeinu - Rachem Aleinu, Our Father our King, Our Source, Our Sovereignty, Have compassion for us.
For those of us, which is likely most of us, who do not connect to the image of God as the One True Judge, who may not even believe in God, this radical tension exists essentially within us.
We arrive at Rosh Hashanah full of self-judgement, begging for our own mercy.
We arrive at Rosh Hashanah fearful of the judgements of others, creating stories to defend our tender hearts.
We each hold judgement differently - some of us express it as sarcasm, others criticism, we feel alienated or isolated, we feel we know it all. In each of us, this quality of Din, of judgement, limits our capacity for empathy and compassion. It is a defense mechanism and it holds us back from what we truly want in our lives: connection and community;
to feel that we belong, to know in our bones that we are loved.
This is where it matters that we each show up, fully. That we have the courage to withstand the discomfort of new beginnings, of not knowing, of insecurity and inadequacy; the courage to be vulnerable with one another, to invite people into our homes, to our grief, to our fear. The courage to ask for help, to push through our loneliness.
Now don’t get me wrong. There is a place and a purpose for the clarity of judgement that allows us to take a stand for what we believe. To be an ally, to critique injustice.
But what will allow us to struggle and stay connected, to have the courage to link our lives together, is our capacity for kindness and compassion. Rabbi Shai Held recently posted on Facebook,
“After years, decades, really of studying and teaching Torah; after decades of studying and teaching philosophy and theology; after decades of being privileged to have students share their questions and their struggles with me; after years living a life filled with both horrific suffering and immense blessing, I have come to the conclusion that the most important question you can ask yourself while doing teshuvah is this: Am I kind? Am I committed to growing kinder?”
This year is a beginning of beginnings for all of us at Kol Tzedek. And beginnings are both exciting and risky.
In his poem Aristotle, Billy Collins writes:
“This is the beginning.
Almost anything can happen.
This is where you find
the creation of light, a fish wriggling onto land,
the first word of Paradise Lost on an empty page…”
We each in our own ways face the empty page of possibility. We are personally and collectively in the awesome place of knowing that everything is possible. These are the Yamim Noraim - the Days of Awe. Days that call us to transcendence, to imagination. Days that also hold the potential of writer’s block, paralyzed by the fear of failure.
And that is when it is most important to remember, we are not in it alone. That is precisely why those people in a time and place far far away, gathered to pray in community. And it is precisely why we are here together. To hold each other up. To encourage each other to reach towards kindness. To support each other as we dismantle both structural and internalized oppression. And to have the courage to link our lives together.
I invite you today to take a risk with me. To believe that your presence here is essential. To go deep inside and climb up out of a your guarded places. To share of yourself, knowing it may be uncomfortable.
Pema Chodron writes, “This moving away from comfort and security, this stepping out into what is unknown, uncharted and shaky -- that’s called liberation.”
I invite you to add yourself as a rung on the ladder that leads us as a community towards something sacred and transcendent. Reach with us into this new beginning -- and allow us all, this morning, to hold the ladder for you, as you too reach for your new beginning.
We sing in psalm 27, Achat Sha'alti me'et Adonai,
One thing I ask, to experience in your presence all the days of my life
To know goodness and to wake up in your palace, ulvakeir b'heichalo.
This community, whether you are here for a morning or a lifetime, is that palace, if only we have the courage to link our lives together.
Ezra sings…
shivti b'veit Adonai kol y'mei chayai,
lachazot b'noam Adonai ulvakeir b'heichalo.
[1] "The Long Prayer," excerpted from Three Times Chai, by Rabbi Elyse Frishman.
[2] B.T. Sanhedrin 17b.
October 3, 2016
A long, long time ago, in a place far away, there was a group of Jews that would gather every Shabbat morning to pray. It was a small community, in a small town, and there was one person in particular who just loved to pray. She would go on and on for hours. When she finally finished, the whole community would gather in a side room for delicious treats.
Each week however, it happened that everyone else finished their prayers long before she did. In fact, she would continue on and on. She would pray with her tallit, her prayer shawl, draped over her head, swaying back and forth and back and forth. Her peers would wait until she finished. But each week, they got more and more distracted by the sweet aroma wafting in from the adjoining room.
Their stomachs would rumble and they’d get impatient.
One shabbat morning before they had begun to pray, one of them whispered to the others, “You know, if we just got up and tiptoed into the next room, we could grab a quick bite and come right back. We wouldn’t make a sound. She’d never even know. She is so focused anyways. What would be the harm?”
The others weren’t so sure. “I don’t know, I don’t think it’s right.”
But later that morning, having long finished their prayers, they watched their friend deep in prayer beneath her tallit, swaying back and forth, back and forth. The vegan donuts and cold brew coffee called to them, and their stomachs won out.
Without making a sound one of them motioned for everyone to get up. And just when they rose from their seats, she lifted her head, threw her tallis from her shoulders, and cried out, “What happened!? Where are you going?”
Embarrassed, everyone averted their eyes. They hemmed and hawed and stammered. And then one person finally spoke up. “Um well, um…But we hardly even moved. How did you even know? We didn’t make a sound!”
This woman turned to her friends.
“When I pray, it is as though there is a ladder stretching from earth to heaven, and as I pray, I ascend the rungs of that ladder. But you, you each hold up that ladder. And when you stood up to leave, I fell.” [1]
Who among us has not grown restless during services?
Who among us has not at least considered heading downstairs to be first in line for food?
Who among us has not questioned whether their presence during services actually matters?
This story powerfully begs the question - what does it mean to be here in community?
And of course, the answer is different for everyone. Some of us are new to Kol Tzedek, some of us are new to Judaism, some of us have traveled from out of town to be here with family, some of us are founders and leaders of this sacred community.
Some of us come with a deep familiarity with Hebrew prayers and Jewish melodies. Some of us feel lost in a sea of sound and symbol.
And yet, says the the woman in this story, each and every one of us, our presence, our prayers, our doubts, our wandering minds, are all together building this sacred vessel, this community. We are all holding the ladder up for each other.
What then defines a community?
One text from the Talmud, a 6th century piece of Jewish literature, offers a working definition of the concept of community in Jewish life:
“A Torah scholar” - which for me includes every one of us -- “is not allowed to live in a city that does not have these 10 things: a court of law; a tzedakah fund that is collected by two people and distributed by three; a synagogue; a bath house; a bathroom; a doctor; a craftsperson; a blood-letter; some say a butcher; and a teacher of children”. [2]
In other words, in order to be a suitable place to live, a community must provide for the needs of all its members. Some needs are physical such as a bathhouse and a doctor. Some needs are spiritual, such as a synagogue. Some are structural, such as a court of law and a tzedakah fund. Judaism has always recognized the diversity of our needs and our skills.
And so has Kol Tzedek. I was drawn to this community, to Kol Tzedek and West Philadelphia because of community. We are value artists, musicians and committee chairs.
We also need people to move chairs and organize potlucks, to design flyers, and greet people at the door. We need people to work the new and awesome accessible entry lift so that our programs are truly for everyone.
But what about our spiritual needs. What are the qualities that make a kehillah kedosha, a sacred community?
There is an image that comes from a midrash on the commandment “Lo titgodedu - do not cut yourselves.” In its original context in the Book of Deuteronomy, the commandment refers to prohibited mourning practices: “You are children of the Lord your God, do not cut yourselves.” But the midrash interprets it to mean: “Do not cut – or divide – yourselves as a community into separate factions.”
Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai brings the following metaphor to make the point: “This is like a person who brought two ships and anchored them together and placed them in the middle of the sea, and built on them a palace. As long as the ships are tied to each other, the palace exists. Once the ships separate from each other the palace cannot exist.”
The midrash offers what I would describe as a kind of covenantal vision of sacred community. It recognizes that we are not one ship but many, yet also asserts that we can create something beautiful when we are willing to turn toward, rather than away from each other, when we are willing to link our lives together.
And surely this is not easy. Our Torah portion this morning includes the story of Sarah banishing Hagar and Ishmael to die in the desert. It is a story of what happens when we are led by our wounds and not our spirits, when we react to our fears and allow them to distance us from each other and from God.
We are immersed in a culture that encourages individualism and a discourse of polarization that pushes every scarcity button and plays to every fear. We, as a society, are in choppy waters. At work, with our families, within ourselves, here at Kol Tzedek. This midrash calls to us, “Lo titgodedu - Do not sail away, stay connected.” Introduce yourself to new faces, invite folks to your house for Shabbat, join a committee, take a class. Consider attending our newly forming weekday prayer service on Thursday mornings. And perhaps most importantly, struggle with us.
Help us Get out the Vote for this epically important election year. Support our work with POWER as we work to end mass incarceration and fight for education inequality. Come struggle to understand our role in the Movement for Black Lives, as a racially, economically and politically diverse Jewish community with divergent views on Israel and Palestine.
Because the moments that define me as a human being, as a rabbi, as a trans person; as an anti-racist activist, as a parent, partner, sibling and child, and the moments that will continue to define this community, are born of sacred struggle. Because Jewish traditions are born of sacred struggle. Because vulnerability is born of struggle. Because on the other side of our shared vulnerability, is creativity. Because letting go of our need to be perfect, our need to be certain, our need to be right - will set us free. In the words of activist Raquel Willis, “Authenticity and vulnerability are the power tools of liberation.”
In Jewish tradition, we call productive arguments, “machlochet l’shem shammayim - literally, disagreement for the sake of heaven.”
This value of sacred tension is vital to community life. And the liturgy of Rosh Hashanah is situated squarely in such a tension; that of Rachamim/Compassion and Din/Judgement.
We refer to Rosh Hashanah as Yom HaDin, the day of judgement. We sing of God as a judge with the book of life open before her, and we pass through as sheep in a flock.
And while we do so, we plead, El Rachum V’Hanun - God of Compassion and Mercy - be gentle with us. Avinu Malkeinu - Rachem Aleinu, Our Father our King, Our Source, Our Sovereignty, Have compassion for us.
For those of us, which is likely most of us, who do not connect to the image of God as the One True Judge, who may not even believe in God, this radical tension exists essentially within us.
We arrive at Rosh Hashanah full of self-judgement, begging for our own mercy.
We arrive at Rosh Hashanah fearful of the judgements of others, creating stories to defend our tender hearts.
We each hold judgement differently - some of us express it as sarcasm, others criticism, we feel alienated or isolated, we feel we know it all. In each of us, this quality of Din, of judgement, limits our capacity for empathy and compassion. It is a defense mechanism and it holds us back from what we truly want in our lives: connection and community;
to feel that we belong, to know in our bones that we are loved.
This is where it matters that we each show up, fully. That we have the courage to withstand the discomfort of new beginnings, of not knowing, of insecurity and inadequacy; the courage to be vulnerable with one another, to invite people into our homes, to our grief, to our fear. The courage to ask for help, to push through our loneliness.
Now don’t get me wrong. There is a place and a purpose for the clarity of judgement that allows us to take a stand for what we believe. To be an ally, to critique injustice.
But what will allow us to struggle and stay connected, to have the courage to link our lives together, is our capacity for kindness and compassion. Rabbi Shai Held recently posted on Facebook,
“After years, decades, really of studying and teaching Torah; after decades of studying and teaching philosophy and theology; after decades of being privileged to have students share their questions and their struggles with me; after years living a life filled with both horrific suffering and immense blessing, I have come to the conclusion that the most important question you can ask yourself while doing teshuvah is this: Am I kind? Am I committed to growing kinder?”
This year is a beginning of beginnings for all of us at Kol Tzedek. And beginnings are both exciting and risky.
In his poem Aristotle, Billy Collins writes:
“This is the beginning.
Almost anything can happen.
This is where you find
the creation of light, a fish wriggling onto land,
the first word of Paradise Lost on an empty page…”
We each in our own ways face the empty page of possibility. We are personally and collectively in the awesome place of knowing that everything is possible. These are the Yamim Noraim - the Days of Awe. Days that call us to transcendence, to imagination. Days that also hold the potential of writer’s block, paralyzed by the fear of failure.
And that is when it is most important to remember, we are not in it alone. That is precisely why those people in a time and place far far away, gathered to pray in community. And it is precisely why we are here together. To hold each other up. To encourage each other to reach towards kindness. To support each other as we dismantle both structural and internalized oppression. And to have the courage to link our lives together.
I invite you today to take a risk with me. To believe that your presence here is essential. To go deep inside and climb up out of a your guarded places. To share of yourself, knowing it may be uncomfortable.
Pema Chodron writes, “This moving away from comfort and security, this stepping out into what is unknown, uncharted and shaky -- that’s called liberation.”
I invite you to add yourself as a rung on the ladder that leads us as a community towards something sacred and transcendent. Reach with us into this new beginning -- and allow us all, this morning, to hold the ladder for you, as you too reach for your new beginning.
We sing in psalm 27, Achat Sha'alti me'et Adonai,
One thing I ask, to experience in your presence all the days of my life
To know goodness and to wake up in your palace, ulvakeir b'heichalo.
This community, whether you are here for a morning or a lifetime, is that palace, if only we have the courage to link our lives together.
Ezra sings…
shivti b'veit Adonai kol y'mei chayai,
lachazot b'noam Adonai ulvakeir b'heichalo.
[1] "The Long Prayer," excerpted from Three Times Chai, by Rabbi Elyse Frishman.
[2] B.T. Sanhedrin 17b.