Letting Go of Grievances- Yom Kippur Morning 5785

 Letting Go of Grievances

Yom Kippur Morning 5785

October 10, 2024

 

My best friend in eighth grade, Rony, did not get along well with our English teacher, Ms. Rosen.  Time has fogged my memory of what their specific clashes were, but Rony would frequently be singled out to redo an assignment due to sloppiness, or to take an additional turn reading in class to prove that he was paying attention.  The fact that Ms. Rosen also served as the middle school administrator at our small day school only provided them with additional opportunities to antagonize one another.  And whenever Rony would protest against some unfair consequence, real or imagined, that Mrs. Rosen had imposed upon him or upon the class as a whole, Rony would whine, “That’s not fair.”  In turn, Ms. Rosen would memorably respond, “Nobody ever promised that life would be fair.”

The exchanges were memorable enough that they were immortalized in our eighth grade yearbook.  And neither party was permanently scarred by the verbal sparring; Rony has gone on to great successes as an innovator in the fields of medical robotics and virtual reality, and Ms. Rosen had a 49-year career as a teacher and administrator.  I won’t dwell on whether Ms. Rosen’s refrain was a pedagogically sound rejoinder to Rony’s 13-year-old complaints, but I think it is a notion that all of us would do well to reflect upon in regard to contemporary societal behavior.

Rabbi Sharon Brous, building on a teaching from her colleague, Reverend Ed Bacon, shares a story that serves as a counterpart to those who, like Rony, are dismayed by the world’s apparent injustice:

In every story of our lives, we can be the victim, the hero, or the learner. This is a choice.

Say I get the opportunity to travel somewhere beautiful for a few days, but when I get off the plane, I discover that my luggage has been lost. The victim asks, “Why does this always happen to me? My trip is ruined!”

The hero reports, “I stayed completely calm. I just gave my info to the baggage representative and made my way to the hotel. No way will this spoil my vacation!”

But the learner determines that she will, from that point forward, only fly with carry-on.

Amidst all the rage and sorrow of our time, we gravitate naturally toward the victim or the hero narrative. There is comfort in both.

But my dear pastor friend says: don’t be either. Be a learner. Ask yourself: How can I grow from this encounter?[1]

         In recent years, we have become a nation—perhaps one could argue, an entire world—steeped in grievances.  One can quibble about when exactly our culture shifted in this manner; sociologist and political scientist Alexis de Tocqueville, in the mid 19^th century, already identified that Americans were, “forever brooding over advantages they do not possess.”[2]

         New York Times columnist Frank Bruni published a book earlier this year called The Age of Grievance in which he explores the significant uptick in Americans’ desire to publicly air their grievances.  He observes that, “the American soundtrack has become a cacophony of competing complaints.”[3] Bruni notes that many of our interactions have devolved into “a contest of deeply felt grievances during a time when the aggrieved have lost—or lost interest in—the ability to see beyond their slights to a common good in which they don’t get all that they want.”[4]

On top of the tendency to amplify every personal slight—real or perceived—into outright attacks on our very existence, we also are fed a steady diet of political speeches and media reporting that, in Bruni’s words, “accentuates the idea that we…exist not as one big tribe with shared interests, but as dozens of little tribes with separate—and worse yet, competing—interests.[5] So how do we resist the urge to become mired in our grievances, whether individual or tribal?

The internal feedback mechanism that kicks in when we react to a grievance with righteous indignation is intense, and somewhat self-perpetuating.  Yale lecturer James Kimmel, Jr. writes that “your brain on grievance looks a lot like your brain on drugs.  In fact, brain imaging studies show that harboring a grievance…activates the same neural reward circuitry as narcotics.”[6]

Yom Kippur asks us to confront our grievances.  The act of teshuvahexercises our interpersonal skills such that we seek to make amends with those whom we may have aggrieved, and we strive to reconcile with those whom we feel have inflicted grievances upon us.  

The book of Jonah is a parable about grievance and its impact.  Jonah’s initial grievance with God comes at the outset of the text: he believes that it is pointless to make the journey to Nineveh to preach God’s call for repentance.  As the final chapter elucidates, he believes that God is so merciful that the destruction of the city will not be carried out, regardless of how sinful the Ninevites may remain.  But Jonah’s personal grievance is then more starkly exposed.  He sits pensively, reflecting on the events and awaiting his next divine commission.  God causes a gourd plant to grow and provide Jonah much-needed shade from the elements.  When a worm destroys the plant, Jonah is distraught and greatly aggrieved, “So deeply that I want to die.”[7]  The book then concludes with God scolding Jonah for playing his “grievance card.”  God is stunned by Jonah’s narcissism: he bemoans the demise of a single plant, because its disappearance has adversely impacted him, but he is unable to find compassion for the 120,000 citizens of Nineveh.

The Book of Jonah ultimately has little to do with whether or not the Ninevites learn to repent.  It’s about Jonah learning humility and overcoming his narcissism to understand that the world does not revolve around God needing to assuage his personal grievances.  The true teshuvah in the book is never explicitly expressed, but is implied by Jonah’s silence at the conclusion.  We can only hope that his eyes have been opened to the fact that he is not the main character in the universe, and that empathy for others is an important character trait.

Jonah is not unique in expressing the desire that his personal grievances be resolved ahead of any other issues the world may be facing.  Bruni refers to a sort of “oppression Olympics” that has seized contemporary thought, with many of us jockeying to have our own interests recognized as paramount.[8]  Yale sociologist Nicholas Christakis notes that “people have been led to believe that they are owed something, and it’s very difficult to accept that they might not be.”[9]

But we’re not owed anything; as Mrs. Rosen was fond of reminding Rony, “Nobody ever promised that life would be fair.”  The issue is that we haven’t developed the toolkit to take the steps to assuage our grievances—or we’re too lazy to haul it out and use it.  Wallowing in our grievances is much easier, and more satisfying.  As Bruni states, “Grievance simplifies and clarifies everything, providing a ready explanation for lingering frustrations, painful humiliations, [and] unmet goals.”[10]

This is not to say that all grievances are invalid; it would be unwise and unkind to suggest that in every case when one is upset, they should merely “suck it up” and “turn the other cheek.”  I don’t know about you, but I only have so many cheeks to offer.

But more seriously, I think a key issue in these “oppression Olympics” is that nuance has largely been lost.  When every situation that doesn’t break in your favor becomes a DEFCON-level grievance, that’s an unreasonable and self-defeating way of experiencing the world.  Bruni puts it this way:

“When you give people the message that their feelings are paramount, that they should be protected not only from harm but also from disappointment, and that the world is a morally simple place, how could they not react to unfulfilled desires and unpleasant developments with a sense of grievance?”[11]

We are seeing this happen not only in our social interactions with one another, we see it writ large in the American political arena as those aspiring to every level of political office seek to amplify our grievance about one issue or another in the hopes that we will be riled up enough to agree with them and mark their names on our ballot.  It’s not inappropriate to be passionate about a cause, but we can move beyond the “pervasive impulse to see malice and conspiracy behind every bush, burning or otherwise.”[12] Can we learn to channel our passions about key issues in meaningful and productive ways?

Over the summer, we experimented with a series we called “Conversations at Sinai.”  Lil made some reference to this program in her Rosh Hashanah address.  We were noticing that there was an increasing feeling of angst in our community—around the state of the world, the Israel-Hamas conflict, the rise of anti-Semitism, and a host of other topics.  Held on two separate evenings, Conversations at Sinai invited participants to come to a safe space and share their thoughts, their concerns, and perhaps even some of their grievances with one another in a gently moderated session.  Our first effort had about twenty five participants; the second had slightly less attendance.  That turnout may seem small, given that we are a congregation of about 250 households, but it was a start.  The only way we have any hope of understanding one another and moving beyond our grievances is if we learn to communicate with others.  That’s what being in community is all about.  Following the fall holidays, and continuing through the end of the secular year, we will offer an opportunity at least once a week to be present at Temple and connect with one another.  Some of the evenings will be dedicated to conversations like we had this summer; others may be less formal—a chance to play bridge or poker or mah jong, or an opportunity to discuss a favorite book or TV show.  The point is to provide a forum that allows us to bask in the holiness of relationships.  In this way, we’re following the advice of Secretary of Transportation Pete Buttigieg who says, “Anything that gives people the chance to work with other people who are different from them and get results matters, and it could help cut through pessimism or anger or division or polarization.”[13]  And by the way, if you’re inclined to discount Secretary Buttigieg’s comments because you disagree with his politics, I invite you to examine that grievance.  We needn’t dismiss a person out of hand just because their values or beliefs don’t align with our own.

         It’s my hope that these Conversations at Sinai will accomplish a number of things.  First, I hope that it will diminish some of the sense of isolation which some of you have expressed to me that you’ve been feeling.  If we aspire, as I do, for Sinai Temple to be a heimisheenvironment—a “family of families,” as some have called us—then we need to intermingle with one another more.  This will help us to support one another through all the seasons of our lives.  Many times during recent years I have heard—particularly during the High Holiday season—“Oh my goodness, I see so many unfamiliar faces, I feel as though I don’t know people at Temple anymore.”  Conversations at Sinai will provide low-pressure opportunities to meet people outside of your particular cohort and appreciate what others contribute to the makeup of our congregation.

         But a second goal is to help us assuage our angst, anxiety, sadness, and sense of grievance that we may be carrying with us.  The world can be a frightening and frustrating place, and carrying those heavy feelings around with us allows grievance to fester and turn into anger—Jonah is a key example of that.  Having a forum in which to express oneself, even if your conversation is with someone who disagrees with you, can begin to break down the silos that separate us, and encourage us to look at things from an alternate perspective.

         Bruni offers that the challenge that our grievances present to our socialization with others is that they make us “turn… inward, as we focus on our wounds and what we’re owed for them, rather than outward, where the possibility of some measure of the change we say we want exists.”[14]

         For if we really want to make change, then it falls to us to transform our grievances and kvetching into constructive actions.  Grievances left unchecked can devolve in dangerous ways into violence and other destructive behaviors.  But if we can channel our convictions that something is Just. Not. Right. into meaningful activism and advocacy. then our grievances can perhaps bear positive fruit.  Too often, however, we allow pundits and politicians to rile us up and make us indignant without suggesting alternative courses.  Bruni notes, “We [tend to] stay in a clutch of anger that’s never converted into action, because the means for that transformation is never specified.”[15]

         In the conclusion of his book, Frank Bruni opines that “Humility is the antidote to grievance.”[16]   He suggests that if more of us exhibited this quality—if we didn’t see ourselves as the pampered diva stars of our own movie in which all the others with whom we daily interact are merely insignificant supporting players—we might be able to move beyond our insistence that our individual grievances are of paramount importance.  Instead, we could focus on the broader ills plaguing our society, and work together to enact significant change for the good of all.

         Our efforts at teshuvah that we pledge to undertake today require an equal degree of humility.  If we admit that our choices and actions have not always been for the common good, if we have the humility to own up to our faults, our tradition tells us that we can look forward to being lovingly embraced by God, and to the generations that come after us benefitting from God’s blessings.  We undertake the actions related to repentance on this holiest of days not merely for our benefit, but because we recognize that in lifting ourselves up to be the best we can be, we also elevate out community.

         My teacher Mrs. Rosen was right, much as it might dismay my friend Rony; there are far too many aspects of human existence that are inherently unfair, and nobody ever promised us otherwise.  However, we have a choice in how we respond to the challenges and unfairness placed before us as stumbling-blocks.  By moving beyond our grievances to channel our energy into positive action, we can begin the work of making the world a little better and a little more fair.

 

G’mar Chatimah Tovah,

May we each merit to be inscribed and sealed in the Book of Life and Blessing.

 

 

 

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[1] Rabbi Sharon Brous, Jewels of Elul

[2] Alexis deTocqueville, Democracy in America, 1835

[3] Bruni, Frank The Age of Grievance, 2024, p. 5

[4] Bruni, p.29

[5] Bruni, p. 155

[6] Cited in Bruni, p. 63-64

[7] Jonah 4:9

[8] Bruni, p. 164

[9] Quoted in Bruni, p. 121

[10] Bruni, p. 24

[11] Bruni, p. 119

[12] Bruni, p. 35

[13] Quoted in Bruni, p. 229

[14] Bruni, p. 195

[15] Bruni, p. 143

[16] Bruni, p. 248

Our Hope Is Not Lost- Kol Nidre 5785

 Our Hope is Not Lost

Kol Nidre 5785

October 11, 2024

Rabbi Alan Cook

Sinai Temple, Champaign, Illinois

 

         Exactly one year ago, I stood on this bimah and shared a rubric for engagement with Israel.  The “four quadrants” model that I explored was based on a concept from Rabbi Dr. Donniel Hartman, who first fully articulated it in 2021.[1]  As a reminder, Hartman suggests plotting one’s connection to Israel on a graph in which one axis represents one’s level of commitment to the country and her ideals, and the other axis represents the degree to which one is troubled by current actions and policies.

         I don’t know that I significantly changed many hearts or minds with that sermon, or even moderately adjusted where each person plotted themselves along that spectrum.  Yet a number of congregants, whom I know to represent a wide swath of opinions about Israel and how American Jewry should interact with her, expressed appreciation for my sharing of this particular framing.  Our congregation is not monolithic; there is a diversity of feelings on a number of areas of Jewish engagement, including Israel. People are entitled to that diversity of positions; there is no litmus test for participation in our Jewish community. Importantly, each individual was able to find themselves somewhere within that map, and I understand that interesting conversations unfolded at many break-the-fast gatherings the next evening exploring how or whether or why one’s personal level of commitment or “troubledness” might plot itself in a particular place.  Conversations were happening.  We were being B’nai Yisrael, those who wrestle with challenging concepts, beginning to explore our feelings about Israel in a manner that perhaps had not been explicitly nurtured earlier in my tenure here.  I’m not going to pretend that we had found magical answers or achieved world peace, but it did feel that for our little corner of the Jewish world we were on the cusp of something new.

         And then October 7, 2023 arrived.  As I arrived at Temple that day to prepare for the ETM Shemini Atzeret service, disturbing news reports began to trickle in.  By the time the service concluded, we recognized that something unspeakably evil had occurred.  And in the ensuing days—now numbering 370—the conversation shifted again and again.

         I’ll reiterate—we are a diverse community, with ever-changing ideas and opinions, not a stagnant monolith.  October 7 surfaced a wide range of emotions, and there are differences of opinion as to how we, as American Jews, should be responding.  I hear and empathize with the fear, anxiety, anger, sadness, and multitude of other emotions that many of you have shared.

         How and when will the conflict end?  I do not know.  What price will we need to pay in order to achieve a conclusion? This, too, I do not know for certain.  I only know that there has been tremendous loss already, not only for Israelis, but also for the civilian citizens of Gaza—and, as the conflict expands to other fronts, residents of Lebanon as well.  I mourn for this daily, and I pray that peace may somehow still be achievable in our lifetime.

         When you drove into our lot tonight, you probably saw two signs.  One reads “We Stand With Israel,” which we placed on our lawn in the immediate aftermath of the horrific attacks last year on October 7.  The other, put up a few months later as a sort of commentary on the first, shares images of some of the 251 individuals kidnapped from Israel on that day, with the message “Remember the Hostages/ Bring Them Home Now.”  The signs have been there for a while now, and I know that some of you have developed strong feelings about them.  As the conflict has continues, I know that we all have struggled to parse it in our own way, to figure out what it means to each of us to “stand with Israel.”

         I am proud to be a Zionist.  That word means many things to many people, so let me tell you how I define it: I believe that the Jewish people have a right to life, freedom of religious practice, and security within the land of Israel; a land of cultural, religious, and historic significance to Jews, where we have had a continuous presence since biblical times.  I also am proud to be a liberal.  This is another word which is often misunderstood, and those who define themselves in this way are frequently maligned as of late.  For me, my liberalism means (among other things) that I seek opportunity and equity for all peoples of the earth, that I embrace social justice and social welfare programs that help to uplift historically marginalized groups and individuals, that I believe that people throughout the world should have access to the earth’s abundant resources regardless of their socioeconomic position, and that I oppose all forms of discrimination due to race, gender, religion, sexual orientation, or other categorizations that people like to impose upon each other.

         I don’t feel that my Zionism and my liberalism need be in conflict with one another.  I can hold love for the people and the ideals embodied by Israel and adamantly oppose the policies of Benjamin Netanyahu, Bezalel Smotrich, Itamar Ben Gvir and others who I feel are leading the country down an ominous and dangerous path.  I can also find room in my heart to feel empathy and deep pain for the residents of Gaza, who have suffered enormously due to callous disregard from the Hamas terrorist organization that purports to govern them, and continue to experience tremendous loss.  I agree with my colleague Rabbi Anat Hoffman, former Executive Director of the Israeli Religious Action Center, who has stated that “Zionism is not a spectator sport; it is participatory.”[2]  Ultimately, I feel that my Zionism and liberalism call me not to dwell on the past, nor even to worry so much about the present.  They inspire me to be an activist, and an optimist, as I hope for the future.

         Psalm 145, codified in our liturgy as the Ashrei prayer, contains the verse, “Einei Kol Eilecha Yisabeiru, V’AtahNotein Lahem Et Ochlam B’ito—the eyes of all turn hopefully to You, O God, and You provide sustenance and support at the appropriate time.”[3]  On this Yom Kippur, we pray: give us the strength and sustenance, O God, that will enable us to continue to choose the path of hopefulness.

         Rabbi David Wolpe tells a story about attending the international convention of the B’nai Brith Youth Organization (BBYO) held in February in Florida.  He was on a panel with three other presenters, and at the conclusion, the question was posed, “What gives you hope?”  Rabbi Wolpe remarks that his inclination was to say, “These 4,000 young Jewish people attending the conference give me hope.”  Unfortunately for him, that’s what the three people preceding him on the panel said!  Instead, he provided an alternate answer.  He began, “I’m in a conversation with my great great great great grandfather, and I say to him, ‘You know, there are anti-Semites causing problems for the Jews at Harvard.’ And he says to me, ‘There are Jews at Harvard?’”  Rabbi Wolpe continued his imaginary conversation, “I say to him, ‘Yeah, but they hate Israel.’  And he says, ‘There’s an Israel?’”

         Rabbi Wolpe concludes by explaining:

“We’re at the crossroads again.  But our ancestors would dream of having the problems we have.  And that doesn’t mean they’re not problems, and it doesn’t mean that we don’t have to address them and it doesn’t mean that it’s not crucial and it doesn’t mean that our future in different ways isn’t imperiled.  All that may be true.  But, boy.  Look at where we were and look at where we are.”[4]

Rabbi Wolpe is correct.  Viewed only within the scope of our lived experience, this is a tremendously challenging, and often frightening, time to be a Jew.  But on the broader scale of human existence, we’ve come quite a long way.  Philosopher Simon Rawidowicz wrote an essay in which he said, “the person who studies Jewish history will readily discover that there was hardly a generation in the Diaspora period that did not consider itself the final link in Israel’s chain… Each generation grieved not only for itself but also for the great past which was going to disappear forever, as well as for the future of unborn generations who would never see the light of day.”[5]  While it may yet take generations, if not millennia, to reach the ideal societal conditions to which we aspire, we can find comfort and pride in the fact that as a people we’ve accomplished many things over this relatively short scale of human history.

Our strength as Jews is that we come from a people who were visionaries and dreamers. Our ancestors did not accept the world as it was.  The Hebrew prophets saw the troubled world outside their windows and were inspired in their prophecy to describe the world as it should be. This "Is-Ought" construct guided those prophets to complain about the behavior of the people around them, their lack of faith in God, and their lack of concern for the welfare of their neighbors. They saw the world that "was,” and they described a world "ought" to be: that we should be a people driven by our sacred covenant with the Divine to be holier, to treat others with more respect, and to build a world of righteousness in partnership with God. We have a history of not accepting the world as it is. This attitude guides us still today.[6]

         Each year at our Passover seders, we recall and reaffirm the covenantal relationship between God and the Jewish people that has allowed us to endure across the centuries.  “She-lo echad bil’vad amad aleinu l’chaloteinu- for more than one adversary has risen against us,” we recite.  “Eileh she-b’chol dor va-dor omdim aleinu l’chaloteinu- rather, in every generation we encounter adversaries and adverse situations.”[7]  Historians and political analysts would likely say that Jewish resilience and endurance is due to a combination of luck, fighting prowess, reliance on allies, and similar causes.  The Talmud, perhaps providing a bit of contrast, proclaims that there are a number of questions that the heavenly court will ask us on our day of judgment.  Among these is, “Did you maintain hope for the future?”[8]  I believe a significant factor in Judaism’s continued existence is our people’s ongoing embrace of hope.  

         Political scientist Barbara F. Walter reminds us, “Citizens can absorb a lot of pain…What they can’t take is the loss of hope.”[9]  Od lo avda tikvateinu – our hope is not yet lost, wrote Naftali Herz Imber at the end of the 19^th century in his poem that would later become the national anthem for the modern state of Israel.[10]  Imber, and the early Zionists, refused to give up hope, even as the Jewish diaspora had dragged on for countless generations.  The early chalutzim, fighting through malarial swamps, channeling a pioneering enthusiasm as they made the desert bloom, would not abandon hope.  Survivors of the Shoah, resettling in a strange land and vowing that they would honor the memories of their dead by flourishing and thriving, were buoyed by hope.  And contemporary Israelis, beset by terrorist attacks, anti-Israeli sentiments in various arenas, and the elusiveness of peace, nonetheless cling to hope.  So must we.

         Rachel Goldberg-Polin and Jon Polin are the parents of Hersh Goldberg-Polin, zichrono livracha.  Hersh, a dual citizen of the United States and Israel, was captured by terrorists at the Nova music festival on October 7 of last year.  Grievously wounded, he was taken into Gaza, where he was held captive for more than 330 days.  In August of this year, as IDF forces undertook an operation to rescue Hersh and others, Hamas terrorists murdered him and five of his fellow hostages.

         Throughout the ordeal of advocating for their son’s release, Rachel and Jon were thrust into the public eye.  Rachel spoke at the United Nations shortly after Hersh’s abduction and noted, “We human beings have been blessed with the gifts of intellect, creativity, insight,and perception.  Why are we not using it to solve global conflicts all over the world?  Because doing this is hard, and it takes fortitude, imagination, grit, risk, and hope.”[11]  Rachel Goldberg-Polin understood that in order to ever make a change in our world, we must embrace hope.

         Similarly, Hersh’s father, Jon, eulogized his son, saying, “You’re a dreamer, an expansive thinker, so you would keep on pushing for a rethinking of this region. You would say, you have said, that we must take a chance on a path with potential to end the ongoing cycle of violence. You would ignore people’s public posturing, what people say for press conferences, and you would push every decision maker to truly look at themselves in the mirror and ask themselves, selflessly, every single day, will the decisions I make today lead to a better future for all of us? And you would tell any decision maker who cannot answer that question with an emphatic ‘yes’ to step aside.”  And Jon emphatically stated that even though Hersh is gone, we still need to maintain hope for the remaining hostages.  He reiterated the refrain, “Od lo avda tikvateinu”—our hope is not lost.

         What is it for which we hope?  I think each of us will define that differently.  For me, I seek to reconcile the idyllic images of the country I was first taught to love during my upbringing in Jewish day school and religious school with the realities and tensions of day-to-day life in a volatile region of the world.  I long to have the spiritual and emotional uplift that I feel when I travel to Israel be accessible to every individual who calls that region home.  I yearn for the calls of democracy and equity that have filled the streets nearly constantly since early 2023 to come to fruition and usher in important social and political reforms that will sustain the nation and create equity for generations to come.  I hope that a time will come when Israel’s neighbors live alongside her in peace, with their own longings for self-determination realized.  I wish for the day to come when the peoples of the world realize that the fulfilment of one individual’s or group’s aspirations need not come at the expense of the realization of another’s equally fervent desires.  I pray for Israel to live up to the promises enshrined in her Declaration of Independence, which included the promise that Israel:

“will foster the development of the country for the benefit of all its inhabitants; it will be based on freedom, justice and peace as envisaged by the prophets of Israel; it will ensure complete equality of social and political rights to all its inhabitants irrespective of religion, race or sex; it will guarantee freedom of religion, conscience, language, education and culture; [and] it will safeguard the Holy Places of all religions.”[12]

         I dare to hope because I believe that somewhere there is a glimmer of possibility that the vision of Israel posited within the Declaration of Independence, and the other reforms of which I dream can indeed become reality.  I hope because I don’t believe that we have the luxury or even the permission to despair; both the tenets of our faith and the core of our humanity call us to be aspirational and to believe that a better day is on the horizon, one that we can attain through hard work, and partnership with the Divine.  I hope, because I see modern Jews as the inheritors of that prophetic tradition that first railed against the “Is-Ought” conundrum.

         How and where do we find hope?  How do we have the chutzpah to imagine that what we do or say, that any small piece of prayer or action or advocacy that we may undertake in our small corner of Champaign-Urbana, Illinois will in any way be transformative enough to alter the status quo and move us any closer to the world of our dreams?  How do we cling to any shred of hope when all empirical evidence suggests that the outlook is bleak?  

         In her book, Hope in the Dark, author Rebecca Solnit writes:

“Hope locates itself in the premises that we don’t know what will happen and that in the spaciousness of uncertainty is room to act. When you recognize uncertainty, you recognize that you may be able to influence the outcomes – you alone or you in concert with a few dozen or several million others. Hope is an embrace of the unknown and knowable, an alternative to the certainty of both optimists and pessimists. Optimists think it will all be fine without our involvement; pessimists take the opposite position; both excuse themselves from acting. It’s the belief that what we do matters even though how and when it may matter, who and what it may impact, are not things we can know beforehand...Or perhaps studying the record more carefully leads us to expect miracles - not when and where we expect them, but to expect to be astonished, to expect that we don't know. And this is grounds to act…”[13]

         We don’t have crystal balls; there’s no way for us to foresee when and how our hope might bear fruit in the form of concrete steps toward viable solutions.  So, as Ms. Solnit points out, we must couple our hopeful optimism with active efforts to bring about the changes for which we are advocating.  Whether we join the protests in the streets of Israel, or support charities and non-governmental organizations that are promoting peace and change, or register to vote in the forthcoming World Zionist Organization elections to advocate for progressive ideologies in Israel, or continue to raise our voices until all the hostages have been brought home, there are meaningful and nonviolent steps that we can take that give clear definition to our hope.

         In 1970, Israeli songwriters Nurit Hirsch and Ehud Manor published the song BaShanah HaBa’ah, literally “In the Coming Year,” voicing hope for the future.  The chorus proclaims, “Od tir’eh, od tir’eh kamah tov yih’yeh bashanah bashanah hab’ah—You will see how good it will be in the coming year.”[14]  A few years earlier, in 1967, Naomi Shemer wrote in her chorus to the song Machar, “Tomorrow:”

         Kol zeh eino mashal v’lo chalom

         Zeh nachon, k’or ha-tzohorayim

         Kol zeh yavo machar im lo ha-yom

         V’im lo machar,

         az machartayim

         All this is not a fable and not a dream

         It’s as true as the afternoon light

         All this will come to pass tomorrow, if not today

         And if not tomorrow,

         Then the day after tomorrow.[15]

         Both of these songs are very Jewish, not merely because they were written by popular Israeli composers.  They capture the Jewish optimism that, though we may not see an imminent end to our tribulations, hope is waiting on the horizon.  They return us to the voice of the prophets, realizing what our current reality is, but refusing to accept the status quo, instead working to reframe the world as we believe it ought to be.

         Let us work with our brothers and sisters in Israel—and with like-minded partners throughout the world-- to continue to build a brighter future for Israel, to dream of safety and security for all, when every person may dwell in dignity and freedom, when we each shall rest beneath our own vine and our own fig tree, and none shall make us afraid.  That’s a future worth dreaming of; may we achieve it in our own lifetime.

         Od lo avda tikvateinu.  Our hope for a better tomorrow is not lost.

---

[1] Donniel Hartman, “Liberal Zionism and the Troubled Committed,” in Sources Journal, Fall 2021.  Retrieved from https://www.sourcesjournal.org/articles/liberal-zionism-and-the-troubled-committed?fbclid=IwAR3WF0aoA2q12j_8raWt2pY-Hvz498Z5e-hyoG1D4em-y5tTaSlojTgOtvw , August 28, 2023

 

[2] Hoffman has used this quote numerous times.  See, for instance, The Detroit Jewish News, March 25, 2020.  Retrieved from https://www.thejewishnews.com/opinion/zionism-is-not-a-spectator-sport/article_d33bf622-34ea-56a4-8695-6ca0cca757e8.html  September 17, 2024

[3] Psalm 145:15

[4] From a plenary session hosted by Re-CHARGING Reform Judaism, held May 30, 2024.  Archived at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ehWn0H8PuH0&t=2185s

[5] From an essay, “The Ever-Dying People,” by Simon Rawidowicz, ca. 1951.

[6] I am deeply grateful to Rabbi Neal Katz for suggesting the framing of this paragraph.

[7] From the Passover Haggadah, the passage known as “V’hi she’amda.”

[8] Babylonian Talmud, Shabbat 31a

[9] Quoted in Bruni, Frank. The Age Of Grievance, 2024.  p. 98

[10] Imber wrote the poem that would become the Israeli national anthem, Hatikvah 

[11] Rachel Polin, speech at the UN October 25, 2023.  Retrieved from https://media.bringthemhomenow.net/media/Rachel+Polin+in+a+moving+mother%27s+speech+at+the+UN+Assembly+in+New+York/1_ogjdzmqd/321222142 on September 13, 2024

[12] From the Declaration of Independence of Israel, adopted May 14, 1948, retrieved from https://embassies.gov.il/MFA/AboutIsrael/history/Pages/Declaration%20of%20Establishment%20of%20State%20of%20Israel.aspxSeptember 18, 2024.

[13] Solnit, Rebecca.  Hope in the Dark: Untold Histories, Wild Possibilities. 

[14] Nurit Hirsch and Ehud Manor, “Bashanah HaBa’ah,” published in 1970.  Translation mine.

[15] Naomi Shemer, “Machar.”  ca. 1967.  Translation mine.

Imagine That- Rosh Hashanah Morning 5785

 Imagine That

Rosh Hashanah Morning 5785

October 3-4, 2024

Rabbi Alan Cook

Sinai Temple, Champaign, Illinois

 

         When I was a child, I had a constant companion who accompanied me through pre-school and my early elementary career.  He was my imaginary friend, Meekel Steekel.  Nobody in my family is certain where I came up with his name, but he probably came into my life when I was about three.  To the best of my knowledge, and to the best of my parents’ recollection, I never ascribed a particular form or description to Meekel Steekel, nor did I ever draw a picture of him.  But he was a faithful friend, accompanying me everywhere.  Space had to be reserved for him everywhere I went, such as at the table, on the swingset, and in the car.

 

         I’d guess that when we moved houses, in the summer between my second and third grade years, I began to focus on other things.  It’s not that I ever consciously left Meekel Steekel behind, but he gradually went from being at the forefront of my attention to being a nostalgic element of my childhood.

 

         I thought of him again recently after watching the film IF, which was released this past spring.  Written and directed by John Krasinski, it explores what happens to our imaginary friends when we grow up and no longer find room for them in our lives.  While this is a sermon and not a movie review, I’ll briefly say that the movie presents a creative premise which, in my opinion, was not executed to its full potential.  Still, there are clever and cute moments in the interaction of live performers and computer-animated imaginary friends, and the underlying message-- that one is never too old to allow for creativity and whimsy in one’s life—is a significant one.  As Lewis, one of the retired imaginary friends, notes, “Nothing you love can ever be forgotten.  You can always go back.”[1]

 

         Though the film never explicitly states it, in referring to imaginary friends as “IF”, capitalizing on the acronym for “imaginary friends,” Krasinski seems to be emphasizing that these characters represent a world of possibility and an openness to the unknown that is often absent from the adult mindset.  

 

         Jewish scripture is not devoid of imagination.  The prophets speak of a brighter world that can be brought to fruition if all will hearken to God’s ways.  They speak of an era in which war and conflict will cease, when every individual shall live under their own vine and fig tree and none shall be afraid.[2]  And in the Haftarah for [today/ the first day of Rosh Hashanah), we read of the fervent imaginings of Hannah, who dares to dream that God will heed her prayers and give her a son.[3]  As we enter this new year 5785, a world of possibilities unfolds before us.  What future can we imagine?  How can we bring our hopes and aspirations to fruition in the year that lies ahead?

 

         A meme making its way around the internet over the past few years asks, “Do you believe that you could go back in time, change one small thing, and change the present?”  I imagine many of us have ruminated on that premise—what if we could alter the world to prevent some evil person from ever having been born, or stop an historic catastrophe from occurring, or change our personal fortunes.  It’s the premise behind many thought experiments and science fiction plots.  It’s perhaps easy and tantalizing to think in this manner because we already are familiar with this timeline—we know how history has played out, and so it’s not difficult to imagine what we’d like to change.

 

         But the meme then invites us to consider: if we’re so readily able to dream of altering the past to alter the present, “are you willing to change one small thing in the present, to transform the future?”[4]

 

         I appreciate the invitation inherent in this meme.  it speaks to the task that is presented to us during the High Holiday season.  We engage in cheshbon ha-nefesh, an account-taking for our souls, during which we are indeed challenged to determine what personal characteristics we can and should modify in an effort to map out a bright new year for ourselves.  

 

         Generally speaking, we do not completely reinvent ourselves out of whole cloth each time we come to Rosh Hashanah.  Much like the resolutions that some of us may make at the start of a secular new year, the changes most of envision at this season are usually small “course corrections” that we undertake to try to better be able to achieve our greatest potential.  As important as it is to make those incremental changes, though, we can occasionally think bigger, imagining a greater role for ourselves in the universe, and a greater opportunity to make an impact.

 

         Our imaginary friends used to stir us to be fearless, to test the limits of what we believed we could accomplish.  With our imaginary friends, we soared over the moon, or collected gold from long-forgotten treasures, or engaged in amazing feats of athleticism, or changed the world.  What if we continued to embrace such imagination?  What if each of us still believed ourselves capable of changing the world?  Photographer Duane Michals challenged us to do just that when he wrote that each of us should “Trust that little voice in your head that says, ‘Wouldn’t it be interesting if…’ and then do it.[5]

 

         So, following Mr. Michals’ lead, here are some of the things I’d suggest we, as a society, should imagine for ourselves in the coming year.  Wouldn’t it be interesting if we all listened more?  Wouldn’t it be soul-enriching if we all showed up more?  Wouldn’t it be beautiful if we all loved more?

 

         The need for active listening is at the center of Jewish identity.  The Shema, the watchword of our faith, exhorts us to listen and acknowledge God’s oneness in our world.  As someone who is hard of hearing, processing sounds and conversations sometimes is more challenging for me.  But true listening is achieved not just with one’s ears, but importantly must include one’s heart and mind, as well.

 

         Rabbi Jack Riemer underscores this in a poem that states, in part, 

 

The person who attends a concert
With a mind on business,
Hears — but does not really hear.
The person who walks amid the songs of birds
And thinks only of what will be served for dinner,
Hears — but does not really hear.
The one who listens to the words of a friend
Or a spouse or child,
And does not catch the note of urgency:
‘Notice me, help me, care about me,’
Hears — but does not really hear.
The person who listens to the news
And thinks only of how it will affect business,
Hears — but does not really hear,
The person who stifles the sound of conscience
And thinks ‘I have done enough already’
Hears — but does not really hear.[6]

 

Hearing can be a solitary experience, as one processes and internalizes what they have heard.  Listening calls us to interact with others, to pay attention. Sikh author Valerie Kaur writes, “Deep listening is an act of surrender. We risk being changed by what we hear…The most critical part of listening is asking what is at stake for the other person.”[7]

 

         Ms. Kaur, like Rabbi Riemer in his poem, emphasizes that true listening calls us to consider the desires and needs of the other party.  It demands that we imagine ourselves in the shoes of another, no matter how sharply their lives and worldviews may diverge from our own.  The Sikh faith and culture places a particular value on maintaining wonder in our lives, and Ms. Kaur challenges her readers:

 

Can you choose one person to practice wondering about? Can you listen to the story they have to tell? If your fists tighten, or your heart beats fast, or if shame rises to your face, it’s okay. Breathe through it. Trust that you can. The heart is a muscle: The more you use it, the stronger it becomes.[8]

 

We may not always agree with everyone whom we encounter, but we may be able to lower the temperature on volatile moment sin our society if we can do a better job of listening in the coming year.  Imagine that.

 

         As we move beyond developing our listening skills, we should strive to learn how to be present for one another.  As I mentioned last night [during my remarks on Erev Rosh Hashanah], true living calls us to strive to be fully in the moment.  If we’re always anticipating our next move, we’re not taking the time to adequately appreciate the world around us, nor are we truly engaging with those in our family and our community.

 

There is a word that is frequently repeated in the book of Genesis; it occurs three times in the Akedah story that we read this morning.  The word is Hineini.  Hineini means, “I am here.”  It serves not only as an acknowledgement of physical presence; it also signifies full readiness for and engagement in the moment that is unfolding.  Oscar Wilde wrote, “To live is the rarest thing in the world.  Most people just exist.”[9]  True living calls us to find those Hineini moments, to unlock our daring and our imagination and plunge fully into all of the opportunity that life has laid before us.

 

Some of you will recall that a few years ago, for our Selichot movie program, we showed the 1979 Hal Ashby/ Peter Sellers film, Being There.[10]  Chance the gardener, through a series of misunderstandings, is transformed into “Chauncey Gardner.”  Chance’s refrain, “I like to watch,” referring to his penchant for sitting in front of the television for hours on end, is coopted as a new political philosophy.  The circle of politicians and business moguls in whose midst he finds himself interpret “I like to watch,” as a suggestion of a laissez-faire approach to world affairs.  This new outlook reinvigorates the political and social landscape.

 

But as the Torah emphasizes in its Hineini moments, “I like to watch” is not a productive or meaningful way to operate.  If everyone operated in such a hands-off manner, nothing would ever be accomplished.  Our lives, our families, our communities, and the organizations we love and support—and I’ll play the proverbial “broken record” and emphasize this one in particular—require our active engagement.  Host an oneg, volunteer for an activity, attend a service or program, participate in a class.  The value you will reap will more than repay the effort you put in.

 

Learning to be truly present for one another is what makes community holy and sacred and wort participating in.  Because when we show up for others, we find, in turn, that they show up for us.  Imagine that.

 

In that space in which we learn to listen and we take the time and effort to show up, we find that love flourishes.  When we are willing to give of ourselves selflessly to show our caring for others, we bring love into this world.  

 

I think back to my relationship with Meekel Steekel.  He did not emerge in my life because I was in any way lacking in social encounters or devoid of loving relationships.  Rather, as with others who have vivid interactions with imaginary friends, the complexity of the world I built with Meekel Steekel enabled me to explore elements of socialization,  and depths of interpersonal connection, that I had not yet fully experienced in the real world.  Russian child psychologist Lev Vygotsky offered that, “Imaginary friends, perceived as real beings, could teach children how to interact with others along with many other social skills…Imaginary friends can aid children in learning things about the world that they could not learn without help.”[11]

 

 

The trick is to take these socialization skills cultivated in our youth and translate them to our daily interactions with others.  I believe this can bring us closer to fulfilling our divine task of tikkun olam, working in partnership with God to ensure that the world endures according to God’s plan.  A midrash reminds us that, according to a close reading of the Book of Genesis, humanity was not perfected during the original six days of creation— unlike the other elements of God’s handiwork, we are never called “good.”  In the rabbinic mind, ever since that moment it has been the task of human beings to show our full potential by animating and amplifying the spark of the divine within us in order to bring justice and fellowship—and most importantly, love—into this world.

 

We bring our species closer to goodness and perfection when we dare to open our hearts to others, when we dare to imagine that our own fortunes will be made greater through our embrace of others.  In the words of the late Senator Paul Wellstone, “we all do better, when we all do better.”[12]  Imagine that.

 

Whether we conjure an imaginary friend to help navigate life’s trials and tribulations, or we use our imagination to envision the world as we believe it should be, I pray that we will always be inspired to creatively conceive of ways that we can have a positive impact within our community and withing the broader world.  We are capable of soaring to incredible heights, but it requires that we have the courage to have confidence in our own abilities.  For, as Peter Pan has warned us, “The moment you doubt whether you can fly, you cease for ever to be able to do it.”[13]

 

5785 can be the year when each of us works in tandem to imagine a brighter future and actually bring it to fruition.  You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one.  I hope someday you’ll join us.  And the world will be as one.[14]

 

Imagine that.

 

 

---

[1] “If,” written and directed by John Krasinski, 2024

[2] Micah 4:4

[3] Samuel 1:1-2:10, the Haftarah for Rosh Hashanah, Day I

[4] The original source of this meme is unclear

[5] Michals, Duane (ed) More Joyof Photography by Eastman Kodak (New York: Addison-Wesley, 1981)

[6] From New Prayers for the High Holidays (New York: Media Judaica, Inc.: 1970)

[7] Kaur, Valarie.  See No Stanger: A Memoir and Manifesto of Revolutionary Love.  (New York: Random House, 2020)

[8] ibid

[9] From Wilde’s essay, The Soul of Man Under Socialism, 1891

[10] “Being There,” directed by Hal Ashby, released by United Artists, 1979.

[11] Vygotsky’s work is cited, for instance, in the Wikipedia article “Imaginary Friends,” at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Imaginary_friend  Retrieved September 8, 2024.

[12] From a 1999 speech by Senator Wellstone to the Sheet Metal Workers’ Union

[13] J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan, originally produced as a play in 1902

[14] “Imagine,” music and lyrics by John Lennon, released on Apple Records, 1971.