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.
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