Gather Ye Rosebuds While Ye May[1]
Rabbi Alan Cook
Sinai Temple, Champaign, IL
Rosh Hashanah Morning
September 25/26, 2014
When actor and
comedian Robin Williams passed away last month, the news hit me pretty
hard. It’s not that I can claim any
personal connection to him—I never met him, and I never attended any of his
shows in person. But still, his death
had an impact on me in a way that most other celebrity deaths do not. Mr. Williams had been a significant part of
my childhood; I felt as though I had lost a friend.
Like many of my
generation, I first encountered Robin Williams’ zany quick-wittedness on the TV
show Happy Days and its eventual
spin-off, Mork and Mindy. I was enough of a fan to suffer through his
first major film, Popeye (which was a
waste of his talent, in my nine-year-old opinion). I watched some of his work with Whoopi
Goldberg and Billy Crystal on the Comic
Relief telethons, though much of the political humor went over my head at
the time. In later years, I came to
appreciate his skill as a dramatic actor as he broke free from the comedic
pigeonhole in films such as Good Will
Hunting and Dead Poets Society.
Offscreen, Mr.
Williams earned a reputation as a warm and compassionate individual; after his
death, many in the entertainment industry reported on various kindnesses that
he had shown them in the early stages of their careers. Many Jewish organizations claimed him as an
“honorary Jew,” not only because of his use of “Yiddishisms” and his
understanding of classic Jewish comedy tropes, but because of the genuine menschlikeit he exhibited throughout his
life. There was near-universal
acknowledgment that his passing represented a loss not only to his fans and to
the entertainment industry, but also for the many people who had benefitted
from his generosity of spirit.
Given all the
plaudits that Robin Williams received, both in life and after his death, the
circumstances of his passing were particularly shocking to many. As has been widely reported, Mr. Williams
took his own life after a lengthy battle with anxiety and depression. When this information was released to the
public, many expressed surprise. How,
they asked, could someone who was such a clown, so skilled at bringing joy to
others, have such difficulty finding joy for himself? How could he not have recognized how beloved
he was to so many? How could he not see
the light at the end of the dark tunnel?
Such questions
are perhaps inevitable, a natural part of the grief process. But they are also a bit unfair and
unkind. I am no psychologist, but I have
seen enough people struggle with depression to know how cruel and deceptive it
can be. Depression can lie and make you
believe that your situation will never improve; it can rob you of any sense of
self-worth. Within our own congregation,
there have been those who have suffered with this affliction, and some who have
sadly succumbed to its cruelty. It is
not for us to play “armchair therapist” and question the realities that
depressed individuals are facing. I will
say, however, that my door is always open to anyone who is feeling sad or hurt
or alone; if you hear or read about depression and it resonates with your
personal experience, please try to understand this: you are loved, you matter,
and there are people who want to help you weather this storm. Call me, call a friend, call one of the many
national hotlines, but please make an effort to seek some help.
I say this not
just because it’s my job; I say this because I honestly do care. I would hope that when we each look into our
hearts, we all can identify ourselves as caring people who feel compassion
toward one another. That is part of what
unites us as a kehillah kedosha, a
holy congregation.
In a few
moments, we will join in the Avinu
Malkeinu, one of the most identifiable liturgical motifs of these High Holy
Days. It has been described as “the
oldest and most moving of all the litanies of the Jewish Year.”[2] In the final verse of the prayer, the one so
familiar as a folk melody that it’s been covered by everyone from operatic
tenor Jan Peerce to Barbra Streisand to Phish, we make the ultimate
supplication to God. “Avinu Malkeinu,” we pray, “have
compassion upon us and answer us, though we have little merit. Treat us with kindness and mercy, and be our
help.”
But if we take the time to think
about the phrasing of this formula, we may ask ourselves whether this is a
request that we really are qualified to make.
Is it right for us to ask God to show compassion to us, to deal
charitably with us, if we have failed to show such regard for others? Rabban
Gamliel, a first century leader of the Jewish community, recognized this
tension when he taught, “[Those who have] compassion for other human
beings will merit compassion from above.”[3]
Don’t get me wrong—it’s not that I
think that any of us are deliberately unkind or misanthropic. Quite the contrary—my family and I have been
blessed by graciousness, kindness, and generous hospitality from this
congregation from the moment that we first arrived in C-U. But as we go through the routine of our
lives, and become wrapped up in our myriad activities and responsibilities, do
we take the time to notice others? Do we
know how to recognize when a friend, a family member, or even a stranger on the
street is hurting? Do we pause to see
the pain in another’s eyes, to hear it in his or her voice? And if we do, are we comfortable taking steps
to assuage that aching feeling, to reassure those who are suffering and help
them to appreciate that they are not alone?
I do not ask these questions in order to create survivor’s guilt if a
loved one has succumbed to depression; in many such instances the grip of
anxiety and self-doubt is so strong that an afflicted individual cannot
rationally process our offers of love and support, as heartfelt as they may
be. But if, universally, all of humankind
would redirect our tendency to gave at our navels (or our electronic devices)
and really look into the hearts, minds, and souls of others, we might build a
more compassionate world on a foundation of love and truth.
On Yom Kippur afternoon, we will read
as our Haftarah the book of Jonah. The
story is well known; Jonah initially resists God’s call to go to the city of
Nineveh and call upon its citizens to make teshuvah. After his detour in the belly of the fish, Jonah
does finally heed God’s command, but his demeanor still betrays some reluctance. So God teaches Jonah a lesson: first, God
creates a gourd for shade, upon which Jonah becomes fairly reliant. Then, when God subsequently causes the plant
to wither, Jonah is very upset. When Jonah
protests the destruction of his shelter, God responds, “Are you indeed greatly
pained?”[4]
To me, this query sums up a major
theme of these holidays, the ultimate question that we should be asking
ourselves as we stand before God and ask to be absolved of our wrongdoings from
the past year: are we greatly pained?
Have we adequately recognized the hurt that our actions and words- or
lack thereof- might have inflicted upon others, and have we taken appropriate steps
to seek forgiveness or make restitution?
Have we opened our eyes, our ears, our hearts, our minds to the problems
of the world, and made some contribution of time, money, or energy to change
the situation for the better? Or is the
“pain” we perceive merely skin deep, a response to minor nuisances, to
so-called “first world problems”? How
can we turn a blind eye to the kidnapping of girls in Nigeria, the rampant
terrorism in the Middle East, the rise of anti-Semitism worldwide, the rape
culture that has become pervasive on our college campuses, the sadness and
suffering that our friends and neighbors may be facing in silence, and the host
of other issues plaguing humanity—and claim to be aggrieved by our own
troubles?
I believe that if we are to expect
God to heed the request we make in Avinu
Malkeinu—if we are going to ask that we be treated with compassion and
kindness, that we may be deemed worthy of inscription in the Book of Life and
Blessing—then we must direct ourselves to be greatly pained. We must recognize that the pain of our
brothers or our sisters is our pain as well, and when we can, we must embrace
any means at our disposal to try to assuage that pain.
The ancient rabbis taught, “Ahava m’kalelet et ha-shura,
overwhelming love disrupts the typical way of behaving.”[5] When we find within ourselves the strength
and love to reach out to another human being, we can change the world. To offer but one example: Cameron Lyle, a
21-year-old track star at the University of New Hampshire, participated in a
“Be the Match” campaign for the National Bone Marrow Donor Registry when he was
a college sophomore. Statistically,
there is a one in five million chance that he would match a patient in
need. But Lyle did match, to a
28-year-old male patient. Lyle
immediately agreed to participate in the transplant procedure.
Most donors recover pretty
quickly. But most donors do not
regularly participate in shot-put events that require quick lifting and
throwing of heavy objects. Lyle’s
recuperation would coincide with conference championships. Donating would mean ending his shot-put career,
or at least putting it on hold for quite awhile.[6] Ahava
m’kalelet et ha-shura, overwhelming love for someone that Cameron Lyle had
never met and likely will never meet, had convinced him to disrupt his typical
way of behaving.
One of Robin
Williams’ most memorable roles was as John Keating in 1989’s Dead Poet’s Society. Williams was nominated for an Oscar for
his portrayal of this unorthodox English teacher. As he instructs his young charges, students
at a 1950s New England prep school, he shares a selection from Walt Whitman’s
collection Leaves of Grass, which
seeks to remind the reader of the purpose that we may fulfill in this world:
Oh me! Oh life! of the
questions of these recurring,
Of the endless trains of
the faithless, of cities fill’d with the foolish,
Of myself forever
reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave
the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renew’d,
Of the poor results of
all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me,
Of the empty and useless
years of the rest, with the rest me intertwined,
The question, O me! so
sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?
Answer.
That you are here—that
life exists and identity,
That the
powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.[7]
If
indeed Whitman (and Keating) are correct, and the answer to life’s conundrums
is “that [we] are here…that the powerful play goes on, and [we] may contribute
a verse,” then the question arises: what will our verse be? What will be our contribution? How will we make our mark in this world? How will our empathy for the pain of others
inspire us to act?
The
shofar cries out to us, urging us to
prepare for a New Year and all the possibility that it brings. How will we respond to its plaintive
call? Will we leave the service today
and return to our same routine, or will we be inspired to take action, to make
meaningful and lasting changes?
Throughout
Dead Poets Society, John Keating
repeatedly urges his students “Carpe diem,
seize the day.” Whether we hear it in
Keating’s call or in the call of the shofar,
it’s a reminder that we all may need, an exhortation against
passivity. My colleague, Rabbi Michael Latz, refers to
this philosophy as “Empathy Activism.”
He describes it as, “The radical Jewish ideal that our connectedness to
other people inspires us -- demands us -- to respond to their suffering with
courageous action. When we can, we must.”[8]
As we
enter 5775, may we be inspired to act, not only to better ourselves, but also
to better the world around us. “Carpe
diem, seize the day. Make your lives
extraordinary.”
[1]
“To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time,” by Robert Herrick. A reference to the citation of this poem in Dead Poets Society.
[2]
Hertz, Joseph H. The Authorized
Daily Prayer Book with commentary, introductions and notes (New York: rev. American ed. 1948,
Bloch Publishing) page 161.
[3]
Babylonian Talmud, Shabbat 151b
[4] An
alternate translation of a phrase in Jonah 4:4, often rendered as “Is it right
that you are angry?”
[6] My
colleague Rabbi Michael Adam Latz brought this story to my attention in his
Rosh Hashanah sermon, “Touching
Strangers: Chutzpah, Radical Hospitality, & “My Best Friend Has Wheels!” The full story is at http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/05/02/cameron-lyle-bone-marrow_n_3202068.html
[7]
Poem number 166 (“Oh Me! Oh Life”) in Leaves
of Grass by Walt Whitman
[8] http://www.huffingtonpost.com/rabbi-michael-adam-latz/empathy-activism_b_5069482.html
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