Failure is not an Option- Yom Kippur Morning 5782

“Failure is not an Option”

Rabbi Alan Cook

Sinai Temple, Champaign, IL

September 16, 2021

 

A few months ago I came across a quote on the Internet. It so stood out for me that I had to go back and reread it several times. A recently graduated college student reported that she had learned from her mentor, “Anything worth doing is worth doing poorly.”  “Anything worth doing is worth doing poorly.”

 

This logic goes against the common thread of motivational thinking. The version of the quote with which most of us are familiar reads, “Anything worth doing is worth doing well.” This professor has taken that conventional wisdom and turned it on its ear.  In thinking further about this quote, I have come to agree with the professor’s take, however.  He teaches anything that is worth doing is worth doing poorly, because the alternative he identifies is that people might not even make the initial effort at all, if they feel they can’t succeed. 

 

Many of us have become a slave to an ideal of perfection. We only want to undertake a project if we feel we have a guarantee of absolute success, of perfection. But more often than not, we will not find perfection; we will find ourselves part of a work in progress.  Some may believe that since we cannot see a project to its full conclusion, since we cannot reach a perfected final product, we shouldn’t even make the effort in the first place. We have to be more accepting of the possibility of failure, or at least be willing to begin an endeavor whose ultimate outcome is uncertain.  As Rabbi Tarfon teaches—in a statement I find so personally significant that I use it in my signature on emails—"Lo alecha ha-m’lacha ligmor, v’lo ata ben chorin l’hibateil mimena—you are not required to complete the task, but you are not free to abstain from it altogether.”  We may not be able to solve a problem single-handedly, but it is still incumbent upon us to make an effort, even if we fear we will not succeed.

 

‏The country of Finland has instituted a national day of failure. By learning to acknowledge that it is part of the human condition to make mistakes—not to always be perfect in every task we undertake, we begin to better understand our place in the world, our role to do good in the world.  The holiday, which is observed on October 13 in case you want to start planning your guest list, originated in 2010 among Finnish college students.  Failure has traditionally been frowned upon in Finnish culture, perhaps even more so than in the United States.  Those who founded the observance noted that for Finland to become and remain a major player in global development and technology, the country would need to establish hundreds, if not thousands of new businesses.  But those with the creativity and capital to create these new industries were perceived to be holding back from doing so because of a fear of failure.  

 

Nowadays, events are held on university campuses across Finland.  Significant figures in Finnish culture are invited to give keynote addresses and share posts on an official website to illustrate how making mistakes is a natural and healthy part of life that can build toward success, rather than detracting from it.[1]

 

Interesting concept, right?  It might even make you wish you could travel to Finland and check it out for yourself.  Well, certainly if you have the desire to make such a journey, I’m not one to stop you.  But I’m not sure a trip is really called for.  After all, Yom Kippur is, in its own manner, our own day of failure.

 

As the Finns have identified, the word “failure” is quite heavy, and carries a very negative cultural connotation.  But if we can set aside our pre-conceived notions about the weight of failure, I think we may come to see that Yom Kippur’s blessing to us is that it encourages us to shed daylight on our failings and missteps of the past year, but not to allow them to dominate us.

 

Chatanu.  Avinu.  Pashanu.  We have sinned, we have transgressed, we have gone astray.  

 

The story is told of a traveling salesman driving through a rural part of his route.  He pulled up beside a barn to make his next pitch, and noticed that on the side of the barn were about a dozen or so bullseye targets.  At the center of every single bullseye was an arrow.  The salesman noticed that standing about twenty feet away, preparing to shoot another arrow,  was a child, about eight years old.

 

“Did you shoot all these?” the salesman asked, incredulously.

 

“Sure did, Mister,” the child replied.

 

“That’s some talent!  How did you manage to land on the bullseye every single time?”

 

“It was easy,” the child answered.  “First I shot the arrows.  Then, I drew the bullseye around them.”

 

None of us is perfect.  None of us hits the bullseye every single time.  In fact, one of the Hebrew words for “sin,” chet, literally means “to miss the mark.”  When we cease to look upon mistakes and failures as character flaws, and begin to understand them as part of the reality of our existence, we may be surprised to find that acknowledging and learning from our mistakes ultimately gives us the tools to succeed.  The fact that we have been given the opportunity to make teshuvah, to come to grips with our human foibles and failings, underscores the point: no person is a failure.  Perhaps some of you out there need to hear those words again—no person is a failure.  Our deeds may fail; our words may not have their intended impact; ideas that we have or projects that we undertake may not come to fruition.  But no person is a failure.  We are all beloved creations of the Holy One, given our moment on this planet in order that we might each fulfill a sacred purpose.

 

A few months ago, an intern for the HBO Max streaming service accidentally sent out a confusing email to a large portion of its subscriber list.  The email’s subject line read “Integration Test Email Number One,” and the message simply said, “This template is used by integration tests only.”

 

In the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t as terrible an error as it could have been.  There was nothing profane or untoward about the text of the message; it didn’t spoil the finale of one of HBO’s shows, or grant free access to the paid service, and it didn’t spill any industry secrets.  Still, it was an error that was frustrating to many of the higher-ups in the company, and the confusing wording of the email caused the company to find itself the butt of many jokes. Interns have been fired for lesser offenses.

 

But HBO took a different approach.  A few hours after the email mix-up, the company posted on its Twitter account: “We mistakenly sent out an empty test email to a portion of our HBO Max mailing list this evening.  We apologize for the inconvenience, and as the jokes pile in, yes, it was the intern.  No, really.  And we’re helping them through it.”  The tweet concluded with a heart emoji.

 

This changed the narrative.  Teasing tweets were soon replaced by tweets from individuals sending messages of support to the anonymous intern.  The “Dear Intern” hashtag began to trend on Twitter as people recounted mistakes that they had made—and recovered from—when they had been interns or worked in entry-level positions.  Perhaps we would all benefit if we shifted to this sort of “learn-from-your-mistakes” mentality.

 

Eddie Herbert, a platform engineer, wrote in one of the response tweets, “An engineering manager once told me, ‘Experience is what you gain from wins. Wisdom is what you learn from losses.’  Congratulations, you just earned some wisdom!  Don’t be afraid to fail.  Be afraid of not growing.”[2]

 

We return each year to the act of teshuvah on Yom Kippur because we are not static creatures.  We have had triumphs and we have had losses over the past year, and hopefully we have recognized growth within ourselves as a result.  We pray that as God musters and numbers and considers each of us and our deeds on this Day of Judgment, that God recognizes the efforts we have made to walk in paths of truth and righteousness.

 

Several generations ago, as the leaders of Reform Judaism were compiling a machzor for the movement, a decision was made to abandon the traditional Torah reading for the morning of Yom Kippur.  The reading comes from the book of Leviticus and details the sacrificial service.  In particular, it underscores the ritual undertaken by Aaron and his fellow priests on Yom Kippur on behalf of the people.  To briefly summarize, two goats would be brought forward.  One would be offered as a sin offering, the other would undergo a ceremony whereby the priests would lay hands upon it and symbolically transfer the sins of the people to the animal.  This was the climax of the Yom Kippur service in the days when the Temple stood.

 

One can imagine a number of reasons why the leaders of our movement discarded this text from our version of the Yom Kippur service.  For one, we no longer engage in animal sacrifice and so the text may fail to resonate with contemporary Jews.  But perhaps more significantly, the passage describes a fairly passive event.  The act of teshuvah, and our overall understanding of this day, are far more meaningful when we are actively engaged.  When we feel empowered and impelled to search deep within ourselves to find ways to atone for any misdeeds, and to repair any broken elements of our relationship with others and with God, the work takes on greater significance.

 

So instead of the narrative from Leviticus, the rabbis selected a passage that takes a wildly different approach toward our individual relationships with God.  The passage, which we will read shortly, comes from the end of the book of Deuteronomy.  Moses, knowing that he himself is ineligible to enter the Promised Land, is laying out important reminders for the Israelite community about the behavior that God expects of them when they do enter the land.

 

Moses begins this section of his speech by acknowledging the diversity of his audience.  “You stand here this day,” he says, “tribal heads and chieftains; men, women and children; strangers residing among the community; water-drawers and woodchoppers…”. Moreover, Moses notes that the words he will share apply not only to the multitude that is physically present with him at that moment, but to anyone throughout history who would ever attach themselves to the community of Israel—those who lived long before Moses and those who were yet to be born.  Then, Moses continues with one of the most revolutionary statements in the Torah.  “This instruction,” Moses says, referring to the Torah, and to the body of Jewish thought and expression that would derive from it,” is not too baffling for you or far from you.  It is not in the heavens…it is in your mouth and in your heart to observe it.”[3]

 

I’m not the first to note that this passage helps to develop Judaism as an egalitarian notion, in which each individual has both the opportunity and the obligation to bring their own understanding of their relationship with God.  But I think this text has particular resonance for this day of Yom Kippur, because it reminds us that so long as we make some effort, God deems our life a success.  So long as we engage in some manner with the Divine and with our traditions—even if the manner of that engagement is to challenge and question and struggle and kick and scream at every stage of our journey—we have been told we will receive God’s blessing.  We each set our own parameters for that level of engagement.  And none of us is a failure in the eyes of God.

 

Remember: Play-Doh was intended to help clean soot off of wallpaper.  Listerine mouthwash was originally marketed as a surgical antiseptic.  Alexander Fleming nearly discarded the penicillin mold in his lab as a failed experiment.  Each of these products, now well-known to the western world, were nearly abandoned by their inventors as failures.  But because they took a moment to look at them from a different perspective, they were able to pivot and find success.  Yom Kippur gives each of us the ability to do so with our own lives.  And so, in this New Year 5782, may we each strive to pivot away from those behaviors and actions that have not brought meaning and happiness to our lives, in order that we may examine ourselves from within and permit our true colors to shine through.

 

Shana tova; g’mar chatimah tova.

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[1] Information about the Finnish holiday was gleaned from “Why Finland Has a National Day of Failure,” on Culture Trip.  Retrieved from https://theculturetrip.com/europe/finland/articles/why-finland-has-a-national-day-of-failure/, September 9, 2021.

[2] The HBO incident and Herbert’s response are drawn from a LinkedIn article.  Retrieved from https://www.linkedin.com/business/talent/blog/talent-acquisition/viral-response-to-hbo-interns-mistake?fbclid=IwAR3E_W_FacTV1pA-N_T2vYgbahOIEyljIhio2jQS3qakmKIVARb1BjBQBGk on September 12, 2021

[3] cf. Deuteronomy 29 and 30

Hallelujah Anyhow!- Kol Nidre 5782

Kol Nidre 5782

“Hallelujah Anyhow!”

Rabbi Alan Cook

Sinai Temple, Champaign, IL

September 15, 2021

 

Some of you may know that back in March of this year, we slightly reimagined the Interfaith Seder that Sinai Temple has hosted for a number of years.  Due to COVID-19, instead of holding an in-person event with a Passover-inspired meal, we took the entire program online.  This allowed us to include a wide number of faith communities in the seder; even had we been able to host in our building, capacity issues would have dictated a much smaller crowd.  

 

To allow more than twenty community faith leaders to participate, I divided the sections of the Passover haggadah into the traditional fourteen rubrics.  I then invited the clergy to speak from their own faith traditions about what that section of the seder, and the broader themes of freedom celebrated during the festival, meant to them.  In my opinion, this contributed to a very meaningful service, full of significant and creative insights.  If you’d like to watch any of the seder, we’ll share the link again in next Monday’s email blast.

 

One of the reflections that really resonated with me was from Rev. James Fielder, a United Methodist pastor who is preparing to start a new church here in town.  He spoke on the penultimate section of the Haggadah, known as “Hallel,” psalms of praise.  Traditionally, this is the section of the seder in which psalms that recount the wonders that God has performed for us, including the Exodus from Mitzrayim, are read or chanted.  For his piece, Rev. Fielder chose to zero in on the word “Hallelujah!”  It’s a word that literally means “Praise be to God.”  It’s prevalent throughout the 150 psalms collected in the bible and also found frequently in Christian liturgy.  The word is said to have been coined by King David, who is traditionally credited as the author of most of the psalms.

 

Rev. Fielder noted that in the African-American churchgoing experience, oftentimes the congregation will punctuate worship, or sermons, or scriptural readings with shouts of “Hallelujah!”  But, he added, even when we don’t feel like rejoicing, even when we are not witnessing signs of the blessings God has bestowed upon us, it is still incumbent upon us as people of faith to declare, “Hallelujah, anyhow.”[1]

 

I do not wish to engage in cultural appropriation of the traditions of African-American worship.  But the juxtaposition of those two words does seem to hint at a truth of human existence.  We find that our lives are a mixture of sweetness and of disappointment, and pray that we will be privileged to know more of the former than the latter.  But even when sad or frustrating moments arise, we are called to take those lemons that we have been handed, and strive to turn them into lemonade.

 

Judaism embraces this concept through a blessing that acknowledges that life will have its ups and downs.  The Talmud teaches that we are to bless God for both the good and bad that we encounter in our lives.[2]  The blessing, Baruch Ata Adoani, ha-tov v’ha-meitiv—blessed are you, God Who is good and bestows goodness—only speaks explicitly of positive things, but the rabbis ordained that we should recite it over any potentially life-altering news, good or bad.

 

You don’t need me to remind you that the COVID pandemic has brought with it a number of upheavals to the sense of normalcy we once took for granted.  It is appropriate and important to grieve what we have lost—not only the people whose lives were cut short because of the virus, but also the missed experiences and opportunities, and the plans that had to shift as we adopted mitigation measures.  I do not mean in any way to rush or dismiss the mourning process, but I believe that we can mitigate some degree of our sadness with resiliency.  For instance, we may lament the fact that we no longer feel as comfortable lingering and schmoozing after services.  But the “Hallelujah, anyhow!” attitude might allow us to recognize that the shift to Zoom has allowed us to welcome a number of Sinai Temple “alumni” who no longer reside in C-U and would not otherwise have been able to easily participate in our community.

 

Life has its disappointments; this was true before we knew about this iteration of the coronavirus, and it will continue to be true well into the future.  In some ways, Yom Kippur gives us space for a recognition of these disappointments.  It testifies that though we are imperfect humans with our foibles and failings, recovery from our mistakes can be achieved.  We can engage in a course correction.  We can make teshuvah and rebound from past errors.

 

Kol Nidre can be seen to speak specifically to the Yiddish expression, “Mann tracht, unt Gott lacht—people plan, and God laughs.”  Originally, the Kol Nidre formula came about to absolve members of the Jewish community of any oaths they had made under duress to oppressive regimes.  But over time, it came to cover situations wherein, despite our best intentions, we just couldn’t keep our word.  This is not to say that Kol Nidre, or any of the other liturgy of Yom Kippur, absolves us of ever making good on a promise.  To the contrary, the Mishnah teaches that those who get caught up in a cycle of sinning, repenting, and then willfully returning to the same sin, with the expectation that Yom Kippur will absolve them each year, are trying to game the system.  They will not be forgiven, because their efforts at teshuvah are recognized as not fully genuine.[3]  Similarly, one who makes a vow, fails to fulfill it, uses Kol Nidre to negate it, and then enters into the same agreement and starts the cycle over, is grossly misunderstanding the intent of the Kol Nidre ritual.  

 

Many Jews qualify any commitment that they make over the course of the year with the phrase, “b’li neder,” meaning “without a promise,” or “don’t hold me to it.”  So I might say, “I’ll get you that document by Thursday, b’li neder,” by which I mean, “I’ll do my best to get it to you by then, but I can’t make a full guarantee.”  This is not saying that we are not true to our word; this is saying that best laid plans can, and do, go awry.

 

We know that there will be moments when we don’t do what’s expected of us, when we fail to make good on a pledge.  When this happens, we let down others.  When this happens in a faith-based context, such as when we fail to conform to standards of morality and lovingkindness, we let down God.  And sometimes, we are the aggrieved party, feeling that our friends and neighbors, or even God, have let us down.  But we are called to look for the positive side of such situations—how can we grow and learn from such disappointment?  

 

Bryan Stevenson, founder and executive director of the Equal Justice Initiative, writes in his book Just Mercy, “Each of us is more than the worst thing we’ve ever done.”  Stevenson’s assertion was initially made in relation to the criminal justice system, but I believe it is applicable in the context of Yom Kippur, as well.  We will experience disappointments in our lifetime, some predicated on our own words, behaviors, or lapses in judgment.  The regrets may weigh heavily upon us, yet the very act of teshuvah reminds us to see that better days lie ahead.  

 

I should pause here to note that not every problem we face can be classified as a mere disappointment; not every issue can be resolved by plastering a smile on our face and keeping a “stiff upper lip”.  A number of us are managing significant trauma and grief in our lives, and it is important to process that pain in an appropriate way.  If you are hurting in such a manner, please know that you are not alone, and please reach out to me or to a counseling professional if you need to talk with someone.

 

But for more fleeting disappointments, perhaps we can learn to adopt a different outlook.  Perhaps we can reframe that which we initially see as a negative and find a way to declare, “Hallelujah, anyhow!”

 

Dr. Erica Brown, Director of the Mayberg Center for Jewish Education and Leadership at George Washington University, shares a story of Pastor Nadia Bolz-Weber, the founder of the House for All Sinners and Saints in Denver, Colorado.  Pastor Nadia writes, “It’s my practice to welcome new people to the church by making sure they know that House for All Sinners and Saints will, at some point disappoint, let them down. That I will say or do something stupid and disappoint them. And then I encourage them to decide before that happens if they will stick around after that happens. If they leave, I tell them, they will miss the way that God’s grace comes in and fills the cracks left behind by our brokenness. And that’s too beautiful to miss.”

 

Dr. Brown recounts that Pastor Nadia once let down two of her congregants.  They had met in the church and after years together, decided to get married. Of course, they wanted Pastor Nadia to officiate.  So they booked her eighteen months in advance.  Two weeks after making this arrangement, Pastor Nadia accidentally double-booked herself to speak in Australia. When she realized the conflict, she felt awful and tried hard to get out of the travel, even at personal expense. When that effort failed, she volunteered to find the couple another colleague to perform their ceremony. They were upset and really wanted her. 

 

She felt absolutely terrible…until the couple sent her a text which read, “This is that time, isn’t it?” Pastor Nadia had no idea what they meant until she received the next text message: “When you do or say something stupid and disappoint us.” She woke up the next day to an email from them absolving her from doing the wedding.  The message concluded, “We love you. And we forgive you.” Pastor Nadia read it and cried. She calls moments such as this “the sting of grace,” when you get love and forgiveness you don’t totally deserve but really, really need.[4]

 

There will be times…I certainly pray they are few and far between…when Sinai Temple will let you down as an institution, and/or when I will disappoint you as your rabbi.  Perhaps it’s already happened; if so, I am truly, deeply, sorry.  But I do pray that the sacred covenant that we have implicitly forged by virtue of being part of this holy community we call Sinai Temple can help us to weather any such difficult moments, and work collaboratively to move beyond them.

 

We are blessed to have this holy day of Yom Kippur—not because we should perceive it as our only opportunity to make amends, but because it focuses our attention on the important task of teshuvah.  Thus, when we have let someone down, or feel that we have been let down, we are able to make and effort to offer restitution in words or deeds, repair the relationship, and move forward.

 

The Book of Hosea, like many of the other books of prophecy found in the Hebrew Bible, minces few words as Hosea—giving voice to what he believes to be the word of God—expresses severe disappointment in the people of Israel having strayed from the path of truth and righteousness.  But in the midst of the scolding is a beautiful passage in which God reassures the people that though they have drifted from accepted practices, there is still an opportunity to repair the relationship.  “I will betroth you to Me forever; I will betroth you to Me with righteousness and justice and goodness and mercy.  I will betroth you to Me with faithfulness.”[5]  Even as God feels disappointment because of our errant ways, the Holy One provides us with the chance to rekindle a loving relationship.  As Dr. Brown notes, “That kind of commitment only happens over a lifetime of failing and loving.”  God recognizes humanity’s continual striving to fulfill the purpose for which we were created, and God has decided to look beyond the disappointment and focus on love.  “Hallelujah, anyhow.”

 

When I began my first full-time rabbinic job and moved into my office at Temple Sinai in Denver, my predecessor had left one decoration on the wall: a paper banner with three Hebrew words.  These words come from a story told about King Solomon.

 

God had blessed Solomon with great wisdom, but he made sure to cultivate this gift and expand his knowledge however he could.  He was a particularly voracious reader.

 

One day, however, his royal librarian came to him with a problem: the library was running out of space.  As the known world was growing larger and more and more people were writing down their ideas, books were being written at a rate that would outpace the ability to expand the library, even if they were to undertake new construction.

 

Solomon considered the problem for a moment, and then tasked the librarian and his staff with devising a solution by consolidating all of the collected wisdom of the books into a more manageable form.

 

The library staff worked for months, and returned to the king with a three-volume compendium.  “Not small enough!” the king replied.  After more work, they managed to reduce it to a single volume.  Still Solomon was not satisfied.  They further refined the text until it fit onto a single page.  But Solomon dismissed this effort, saying, “You can do better.”

 

At last, the royal librarian came into the king’s chamber.  “Your majesty,” he said, “After great effort, we have consolidated the wisdom of the world into three words.”

 

Those three words are the same that were hung in that office; I left the same banner for my successor.  The words are “Gam Zeh Ya’avor,” which means, “This too shall pass.”  Like Solomon, we can read these words when our sense of self becomes inflated, and they can serve to remind us that one can fall from good fortune in the blink of an eye.  Or we can read them in a moment of tribulation, and be reminded that even disheartening situations can eventually give way to goodness.

 

In this new year 5782, may each we find our joys and celebrations heightened, and our moments of disappointment diminished.  And in those trying moments that do arise, may we have the patience and grace to be able to recognize Gam Zeh Ya’avor, these challenges shall eventually pass.  May we find room in our hearts to declare, “Hallelujah, anyhow.”

 

 

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[1] It has been brought to my attention that a number of Christian authors have written on this theme, and there is at least one popular Gospel hymn that uses the words as a refrain, but I first heard the phrase from Rev. Fielder.

[2] Babylonian Talmud, Berachot 60b.

[3] cf Mishnah Yoma 8:9

[4] I read this in a sermon of Dr. Brown’s retrieved from www.sefaria.org on September 2, 2021.  Dr. Brown cites Bolz-Weber, Nadia Accidental Saints: Finding God in All the Wrong People as her source.

[5] Hosea, 2:21-22

Revolutionary Love- Rosh Hashanah Morning 5782

 Revolutionary Love

Rabbi Alan Cook

Sinai Temple, Champaign, IL

RH AM 5782

September 7/8, 2021

 

How did you first hear the call to love? This is a question asked by Sikh author and activist Valerie Kaur. We recognize love as an essential ingredient in our interpersonal lives; we seek out connections with those who are like-minded and form families and communities around them. Science has shown that there are physiological benefits to knowing and feeling love.[1]

 

The story of the Akedah, the binding of Isaac, to which we so famously return each Rosh Hashanah morning, is often seen as an exhortation to the Israelite community to refrain from the child sacrifice that was so prevalent in other ancient near Eastern societies. Certainly it can be seen as an imprecation against such practices, but it can also be seen as a passionate defense of the importance of love. 

 

A Midrash teaches that when God initially called Abraham and beckoned him to Mount Moriah, Abraham was confused by the command and challenged God.

 

“Take your son,” God said.

 

“I have two sons; which one do you mean?” Abraham replied. 

 

“Your only son.”

 

“But God, both are only sons.  Isaac is the only son from his mother, and Ishmael is the only son from his mother.”

 

“The one whom you love,” God said.

Abraham again protested, “Creator of the universe, are there separate compartments in one’s inmost self for love?  I love both of them.”[2]

 

This conversation that the rabbis imagined only underscores the difficult position in which Abraham finds himself.  There is no question—particularly if we accept the midrashic account as part of the overall unfolding of the narrative—that Abraham feels intense love for his offspring.  The call that Abraham hears that sets the Akedah narrative in motion is terrible and troubling on its face.  But underscoring it is a meditation on the complexities of love.  During the events of the Akedah, Abraham must navigate the tension between his love of God, his love of himself and his personal values and integrity, and his love of the others around whom he has constructed his life.  Arguably, a similar tension exists in all of our lives, and these High Holy Days call upon us to work through these tensions and heed and hear the call to love.

 

Abraham’s decision to embrace monotheism was revolutionary and disjunctive from all other expressions of faith known during his lifetime.  In the pantheistic traditions practiced by his neighbors, there was perhaps a bit of an insurance policy:  if you displeased the god of grain, perhaps the god of fruit would still grant you an abundant harvest, so that you and your family would not starve.  Turning to monotheism, on the other hand, meant putting all of one’s eggs in a single basket, becoming solely reliant on staying in God’s good graces in order to secure blessing and prosperity.  Thus we can imagine that the desire for self-preservation was a motivating factor in Abraham’s consideration of the challenge of the Akedah.

 

The God Whom Abraham worships, the God Whom we, as his spiritual descendants, worship to this day, is described in the Torah as a jealous God.[3]  We are commanded to love God with all of our hearts, soul, and being, a love that we affirm each time we recite this phrase in the prayer we have come to know as the V’ahavta.  But is that love meant to be so all-encompassing that we are required sacrifice our own well being, or that of others around us, to prove our fealty?

 

Some early Jewish leaders did believe that the only way to fulfill this commandment and love God was through asceticsm—denying oneself personal comfort and enjoyment in order to focus all attention upon God.[4]  Others, however, recognize that true love is mutual, even if the parties are otherwise mis-matched in what they have to offer one another, as is the case with humanity and God.  We don’t imagine that God has needs in the same way that humans do; God doesn’t, for instance, require food and shelter, or assurances of safety and security.[5]  But the understanding of God as the Jewish textual traditions have refined it over the centuries asserts that God does rely on humanity to maintain relationships and to build God’s esteem.  

 

Thankfully, as our faith expression has evolved, we no longer face challenges to affirm our faith in the same terrible manner as Abraham did during the Akedah.  It is enough for us to show our love by proclaiming God’s unity through the words of Shema, and by drawing close to God in the fulfillment of mitzvot.

 

As important as it is for us to find a way to feel and show love to God, it is also important for us to love and honor our true selves.  For many of us, our personal theologies are built upon lifting up and emphasizing those attributes of God that are most meaningful and comforting to us at a given stage in our lives, so that love of God and love of self truly go hand-in-hand.  

 

Judaism values the fact that each human being is created b’tzelem Elohim, in the image of God.  God designed each of us to be unique and endowed us with a specific purpose.  Part of our life’s work is to uncover and fulfill that purpose.  

 

Tradition recounts that Reb Zusya, a Polish rabbi of the 18^th century, lay ill on his deathbed and burst into tears.  His students attempted to comfort him, telling him what a wonderful teacher he had been—a strong leader like Moses; wise like Solomon, and so forth.  But Zusya could not be consoled.  “The Holy One,” he replied, “will not ask me why I was not more like Moses or Solomon or any other individual from our storied past.  Instead, I will be asked, ‘Why were you not more like Zusya?’”[6]

 

Each time we enter a Jewish New Year, we confront the question: have we been the best possible “us” that we can be.  We need not, and should not, measure ourselves against the deeds of others; we should, however, explore whether our own words and actions have established for us a name and a legacy of which we can be proud.  

 

Such is Abraham’s challenge at the moment of the Akedah.  He is anxious to follow through on the task which he believes has been imposed upon him by God.  But he is also eager to live a life of which he can be proud, and to secure a lasting legacy.  When dutiful obedience to God seems to stand in conflict with Abraham’s own sense of self, he must determine how to reconcile those two competing interests.  Similarly, during these Days of Awe, we are called to ensure that we are walking on a path that is good and pleasing in God’s eyes, while also fulfilling our own sense of who we wish to be and the mark we wish to make upon the world.

 

It’s sometimes a precarious balancing act.  God willing, we are never tested with as terrible and ominous a conundrum as that which Abraham faces during the Akedah episode.  Yet because we live in relationship with others, we often find ourselves impelled to balance personal interests and needs with those of the others who inhabit and enrich our lives.  And this is, perhaps, the most difficult challenge that we navigate as we express love.

 

There are many ways in which our lives are connected to others.  We are connected by biology, for instance, to our family members, and God-willing we are able to forge loving bonds with them that are reciprocated.  We are connected by choice to friends and loved ones with whom we enter relationships because we find something fulfilling and soul-enriching in their company.  And, unless we purposely detach ourselves from society, we are connected through our very human existence to an intricate network of others who move in and out of our lives.  Our every action, whether grandiose or imperceptible, has the potential to impact those who inhabit the community in which we reside, if not the broader global community.  

 

This is part of what our worship on these Yamim Noraim, these Days of Awe, calls us to consider: how do we behave in ways that fulfill not only our needs, but serve the good of the entire community?  Similarly, Abraham must undergo similar considerations at the time of the Akedah: if he responds to what God has asked of him, what impact would it have on his wife, Sarah?  On Isaac?  On others in his family?  On his future legacy?

 

Valarie Kaur, whom I mentioned at the outset of these remarks, is the founder of the Revolutionary Love Project.  While it draws from her Sikh faith, it embraces tenets that are at home in every culture and religious tradition.  She teaches that we must learn, first and foremost, to “see no stranger.”[7]  

 

When we commit ourselves to understanding and appreciating the beauty and humanity of any individual whom we encounter, whether we pass them for a split second on the street, or they are a regular part of our lives, we build a culture of caring and compassion that I believe is crucial to the flourishing of peace in our lifetime.  Kaur notes that one way to ensure that we “see no stranger” when we examine our interactions with one another is to maintain a sense of wonder.  She writes,

 

 “Wonder is where love begins, but the failure to wonder is the beginning of violence.  Once people stop wondering about others, once they no longer see others as part of them, they disable their instinct for empathy.  And once they lose empathy, they can do anything to them, or allow anything to be done to them.”[8]

 

God has called us to maintain that wonder, to maintain that empathy, to maintain that love for one another.  This sort of love is incredibly sacred, whether expressed as romantic love, or as compassion for a fellow traveler on this journey we call life.  As Victor Hugo wrote, “To love another person is to see the face of God.”[9]

 

The Akedah reminds us starkly that our actions have implications beyond ourselves, and if we truly claim to love others, then it behooves us to consider how our deeds will reverberate beyond any repercussions that we may personally experience.  This notion of interconnected interests inspiring us toward love is expressed in the African concept of Ubuntu, which is often translated as “I am because you are.”[10]  Whether all parties know it or not, it is the spirit of Ubuntu that has enabled Sinai Temple to make tremendous progress in building positive interfaith relationships throughout our community.  It is the spirit of Ubuntu at work in the generous hospitality that Faith United Methodist Church is showing us during this High Holiday season while our sanctuary renovation is underway.  It is the spirit of Ubuntuthat has inspired Matt Difanis and his team to give of their time and talents for the second year in a row to ensure that our worship services can reach those attending in person, and those worshipping at home on Zoom.  When we come to appreciate that we are all nourished and strengthened in so many ways by those whose paths intersect with ours, we learn how to turn love from an inward-facing emotion directed at a select few to an outward-facing emotion embracing the entire world.

 

Rabbi Isaac Luria, an early kabbalist, spoke of the sacred partnership between God and humanity.  Rabbi Luria taught that before the creation of the universe, God’s presence filled all of time and space.  In order for there to be room for the world, therefore, God engaged in tzimtzum, a reduction of God’s being—sort of like sucking in one’s stomach, but in a Godly fashion.  God created a series of clay vessels in which to store this excess of God’s presence temporarily while the world was being made.  But the vessels, though strong, were insufficient to contain the holy light and being that is God’s nature.  They shattered, scattering sparks of God’s light throughout the world.  And we, as humans created in the Divine Image, contain some of those sparks within our very being.[11]  It is our calling l’takein olam b’malchut Shaddai, to work to repair the world in partnership with God to restore it to that which God had initially planned.  We do so through acts of caring and compassion for others.  We do so by focusing on love.

 

The Akedah on its surface is deeply troubling tale.  Yet we may begin to transform our understanding of this narrative if we perhaps examine it not as a true call to sacrifice, but as a call to love—to love God, to love oneself, and to deeply and wholeheartedly love others.  In this New Year 5782, may we each seek, and find, the love we so richly deserve.

 

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[1] See, for instance, “10 Surprising Health Benefits of Love,” retrieved from https://www.webmd.com/sex-relationships/features/health-benefits , July 15, 2021

[2] Midrash Tanchuma, Vayera, paragraphs 22-23.

[3] See, for instance, Exodus 20:5

[4] See, for instance, Rabbi Louis Jacobs, “Loving and Fearing God,” on MyJewishLearning.com.  Retrieved from https://www.myjewishlearning.com/article/loving-and-fearing-god/ , August 9, 2021.

[5] The two most fundamental categories of needs in Abraham Maslow’s hierarchy of needs.

[6] Buber, Martin Tales of the Hasidim

[7] Kaur, Valarie.  See No Stanger: A Memoir and Manifesto of Revolutionary Love.  (New Rork: Random House, 2020) p.9

[8] Kaur, p. 11-12

[9] Hugo, Victor.  Les Miserables

[10] See, for instance, “What is the Spirit of Ubuntu?  How Can We Have It in Our Lives?” at Globalcitizen.org.  Retrieved from https://www.globalcitizen.org/en/content/ubuntu-south-africa-together-nelson-mandela/ August 19, 2021.

[11] See “Tikkun in Lurianic Kabbalah,” on myjewishlearning.com for one illustration of this concept.  Retrieved from https://www.myjewishlearning.com/article/tikkun-in-lurianic-kabbalah/ August 19, 2021

The Ocean- Erev Rosh Hashanah 5782

 Erev Rosh Hashanah 5782

September 6, 2021

The Ocean

 

Toward the end of the recent Pixar movie, “Soul,” there’s a moment in which Joe Gardner, thinking he’s finally achieved his life’s purpose and had his wildest dreams come true, feels a strong pang of disappointment because he doesn’t feel emotionally and psychologically transformed in the manner he believed he would be.  A fellow musician, Dorothea Williams, tells him a story:

 

“I heard this story about a fish,” she says.  “He swims up to this older fish and says, ‘I’m trying to find this thing they call the ocean.’  ‘The ocean?’ says the older fish.  ‘That’s what you’re in right now.’  ‘This?’ says the young fish.  ‘This is water.  What I want is the ocean.’”[1]

 

The moral—for the young fish, for Joe Gardner, and certainly for us as a viewer of the film—is that we can often lose sight of the truths right before our eyes because we are trying to be one step ahead, looking for something that we imagine will be bigger, better, brighter, or more appealing.  As author David Foster Wallace put it in a variation on this fish story, “Our obvious, important realities are often the ones that are hardest to see and talk about.”[2]

 

For a number of us in this room, this is the largest gathering we’ve been in in about eighteen months.  Certainly it’s the largest in-person gathering that Sinai Temple has convened since our Purim shpiel and celebration in March of 2020.  It still may not feel quite like we’ve fully returned to the “normal” of what we knew pre-pandemic; indeed, recent developments unfortunately indicate that we still have a long road before us in managing COVID.  Yet it is fitting that we give thanks for having returned, in some small way, to the familiarity of our “ocean,” among the people for whom we care, working together to sustain our sacred community.

 

As David Foster Wallace noted, however, sometimes, even as happy and comfortable as we are to be in our own ocean, to swim in familiar waters, we are so accustomed and attuned to this setting that we cannot fully comprehend our place within that environment.  As we return to our “ocean” that we know as Sinai Temple—and more broadly, as we return to the “ocean” of connectivity within our broader community, our challenge in this new year is to truly see the ocean in which we swim for all of its splendor.

 

When we truly see the ocean, we realize that we are not at the center.  A single fish in a vast ocean may not fully comprehend that there is more out there than the small cross-section of water in which it will spend its entire life.  But we can appreciate that our lives are intricately networked to family members, friends, service providers, and even strangers whose paths might cross with ours for but a millisecond.  We do not conduct our lives in isolation; we dare not imagine that the ocean in which we swim is occupied by us alone.  We are called to collaborate with and care for one another, to do our part to calm the fierce currents that batter those who share the ocean with us.

 

Our liturgy for these Days of Awe underscores this obligation.  It imagines God as a shepherd, making each sheep in the flock pass before the shepherd’s staff to ensure that all are present and accounted for.  “So, too,” we read, “does {God] muster and number and consider every soul.”[3]  God considers our deeds and our character as individuals, but also reflects on how we have conducted ourselves within our larger community.

 

When the Apollo 11 mission went to the moon, it was Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin who received the glory and accolades: they were the ones who actually walked on the moon’s surface, an accomplishment no other human had achieved.  But Aldrin and Armstrong had a third crewmate.  Though Michael Collins would be largely overlooked by the media and by the American public, his role was also quite significant.

 

Collins, who died earlier this year at the age of 90, spent his time in the orbiter wearing a lanyard around his neck with laminated cards describing eighteen possible scenarios for saving Armstrong and Aldrin should something go awry during the course of the mission.  And back on earth, William Safire, then a Nixon speechwriter, had crafted a statement to be read in the event of a disaster, writing “Others will follow, and surely find their way home. Man’s search will not be denied. But these men were the first, and they will remain foremost in our hearts.”  The words would have made reference to his crewmates’ sacrifice; Collins would have been expected to abort the mission and come home.[4]

 

Collins understood that his job was not to walk on the surface of the moon; it was to return home, even if his crewmates couldn’t.  He filled a very specific and necessary role on the flight—he found his comfortable place in the ocean and thus enabled others to flourish.  May we each, in turn, find our own ways to work in concert with the others who occupy our ocean.  Here at Sinai Temple, let that move us to continue supporting each other in times of challenge and sadness—though we pray such times may be few—and let us rejoice together in times of simcha.  Let us each seek our niche that will help us to forge a meaningful connection to the congregation.

 

The young fish in our story had spent so much time within the ocean that not only could he not fully comprehend where he was, he also very much took it for granted.  But when we truly see the ocean, we appreciate our reliance upon it.

 

A story is told of a rabbi who was in a supermarket with some of his students when they met a man who was known for being very wealthy.  The man had in his cart a small loaf of bread, a few vegetables, and a can of broth.  The rabbi remarked on the meager provisions the man was purchasing, insisting, “A person of your stature should eat like a king!”  He pulled rich meats, fine cheeses, and expensive wine from the shelves, singing the praises of the various items and insisting that the man purchase them.

 

Once the man left the store, the rabbi’s students turned to him in confusion. Why, they asked, had the rabbi chosen to override the man’s frugality?  Why had he insisted on the purchase of such lavish treats?

 

The rabbi answered, “So long as that man thought that he could make a tasty meal out of simple bread and vegetables and broth, he would think that the poor could subsist on rocks and dirt.  The only way to get him to appreciate the needs of the world is to encourage him to live more fully in it.”

 

Joni Mitchell famously reminded us that often we “don’t know what [we’ve] got ‘til it’s gone.”[5]  But perhaps a positive side effect of our life in isolation is that we’ve recognized our reliance on certain people, routines, and organizations that enrich our lives.  Many of us feel a renewed appreciation for our family, our relationships, and our community.  In my own reflection, I know that I have felt tremendously fortunate during these past several months to be a part of this sacred congregation—to work with all of you to find meaning and holiness and comfort and joy in the times we’ve spent together, even as that togetherness has been virtual rather than physical.

 

On the High Holy Days, we are called to engage in the act of cheshbon hanefesh, literally “an accounting of the soul.”  As we take stock of our lives and of our relationships and affiliations, we consider: from what persons or institutions to we derive joy, a sense of purpose, a sense of connection to something greater than ourselves?

 

I hope you’ll agree with me that we are so very fortunate to swim together in this beautiful ocean that we call Sinai Temple.  I hope that as you do your own cheshbon- your own accounting for the year, you will put Sinai at the forefront of your heart and mind.

 

And I hope that you’ll strive to find your niche whereby you can feel engaged and enriched at Sinai Temple.  The elephant in the room this evening, whether you are present in this room, or joining us via Zoom, is readily evident to us all: we are not welcoming the New Year in our own beloved spiritual home.  We are extraordinarily grateful to our hosts here at Faith United Methodist Church, and we recognize that by weathering the displacement that was necessary during this holiday season, we will reap the reward of a beautifully redesigned Temple, prepared to serve the needs of our community for generations to come.  We can be grateful for the efforts of the Sanctuary Renovation Committee and the Sinai Temple Board of Trustees who are steering this project.  But we also owe thanks to all who have generously contributed ideas; talents; and yes, money, to get us to this stage.  Since 1904, generations of Jewish individuals and families have believed in Sinai Temple and engaged in sustaining our sacred mission.  For we have all understood:

when we truly see the ocean, we work with the other creatures of the ocean to maintain its vitality.

 

Here on earth, many creatures reside in the ocean in a state of of symbiosis; the clownfish and sea anemone are but one example of such a relationship.  The sea anemone’s poisonous arms, to which the clownfish themselves are immune, provide the fish with shelter and protection.  The fish, in turn, help to rid the anemone of parasites, and ward off predators.[6]  Each party gives what it can, and takes what it needs.

 

The clownfish and the anemone are an apt metaphor for the manner in which we strive to connect with one another—be it at Sinai Temple, or in the broader society in which we live.  When we endeavor to contribute the best of our talents and resources, then, when we are in need, we may feel comfortable relying on the support of others who can help us solve a problem or overcome an obstacle.  By learning to identify and appreciate one another’s abilities and strengths, we continue to build a more robust community.

 

Even if you don’t speak Hebrew, you will likely recognize that much of our liturgy during these High Holidays includes the syllable “nu.”  It’s a suffix attached to verbs (and sometimes nouns) to create the first person plural tense.  So we say things like Ashamnu, “we are guilty,” or Chatanu Lifanecha, “we have sinned before You.”  This language was adopted by those who compiled the traditional machzor as an extension of the idea expressed in Talmud, “Kol Yisrael arevim zeh bazeh—all of the Jewish community bears responsibility for one another.”[7]  While we each bear individual culpability for our transgressions, we also recognize that we each must play a role in maintaining the integrity of our community and ensuring that we all live up to the highest ideals placed upon us by Torah and by tradition.  So if we are failing to love the stranger, for instance, or look out for the widow or orphan, it is incumbent on each of us to do our part to correct such shortcomings.  The personal responsibility and the corporate responsibility go hand-in-hand.  If we only focus inward and correct our own actions, but pay no heed to the behavior of the groups and institutions with which we interact, we have not fully understood the mission with which God has entrusted us.  

 

Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai told the following story: “A man in a boat took out a tool and began to bore a hole under his seat. 

 

“His fellow passengers became alarmed, and protested. 

 

“‘What concern is it of yours?’ he responded, ‘I am making a hole under my own seat, not under yours.’ 

 

“They replied, ‘That is true, but when the water enters and the boat sinks, we all will drown.’”[8]  

 

Part of residing in the same ocean with others, being connected to one another through the bonds of community, is recognizing that ultimately, we are all in the same boat, and we sink or float as one.

 

An ancient fisherman’s prayer states, “Dear Lord [sic], be good to me.  The sea is so wide and my boat is so small.”[9]  The fisherman are correct: there’s a frighteningly wide expanse of water in every direction we look.  But if we can recognize that no one of us alone is at the center, that we are reliant on the beauty and the bounty of the ocean, and if we heed the call to work together to support and sustain it (and to sustain one another), then we may begin to truly understand and appreciate that this isn’t just any body of water in which we swim.  We’ve found what we were looking for all along.  This is the ocean.

 

 

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[1] As heard in Pixar’s “Soul” (2020), written by Pete Docter, Mike Jones, and Kemp Powers.

[2] David Foster Wallace, “This is Water,” Commencement speech at Kenyon College, 2005.  Retrieved from https://fs.blog/2012/04/david-foster-wallace-this-is-water/ , July 8, 2021.

[3] Part of the Unetaneh Tokef liturgy.

[4] Michael Collins obituary in the New York Times, found at https://www.nytimes.com/2021/04/28/science/michael-collins-third-man-of-the-moon-landing-dies-at-90.html .  Retrieved July 12, 2021.  The story of Safire’s essay can be found at https://www.washingtonpost.com/outlook/2019/07/12/speech-richard-nixon-would-have-given-event-moon-disaster/ .  Retrieved July 12, 2021.

[5] Joni Mitchell, “Big Yellow Taxi,” from the album Ladies of the Canyon, Reprise Records, 1970. 

[6] This is described in “5 Symbiotic Relationships in the Ocean,” in Aquaviews Online Scuba Magazine, retrieved from https://www.leisurepro.com/blog/explore-the-blue/5-marine-symbiotic-relationships/ , July 15, 2021. 

[7] Babylonian Talmud, Shevuot 39a

[8] Leviticus Rabbah 4:6

[9] Now the slogan of the Children’s Defense Fund, who have incorporated it into their logo.