Accepting War, Pursuing Peace

Kol Nidrei, 5775

Rabbi Jason Rosenberg

Tonight, I want to talk about Israel. Actually, that isn’t completely true. Tonight I feel compelled to talk about Israel. After a devastatingly difficult summer for our Homeland, after the tragic, unthinkable kidnapping of 3 Israeli teens, the quickly escalating military conflict which ensued, the accusations, the destruction, the misinformation, and the immeasurable fear, pain and suffering felt by all those caught in this conflict, it would feel, for me, personally, unimaginable not to talk about Israel. As a Rabbi, it would seem to be a near dereliction of responsibility.

But, at the same time, I can't say that I actually want to talk about Israel. In part, that's because of how depressing, and how fearful it can be to think about, and talk about Israel, right now. I wish that, on this holiest of nights, I could again talk about our inner, spiritual lives, or about the hopefulness implicit in our annual process of teshuvah. And, I also worry about talking about Israel because it's not always clear how I should talk about Israel. As one commentator recently put it, when rabbis talk about Israel we often become B-level pundits. You don't need or want me to talk about Israel's strategic security situation, or anything like that.

But, I do feel qualified to speak about Israel's morality, and I think that it's vitally important that we do so. Because I find myself distressed and bewildered by the treatment which Israel receives on the world stage. I'm not surprised that Israel's enemies accuse her of the most heinous of war crimes. I'm not surprised that their allies support those claims while blaming Israel for the entire ongoing conflict. But, I'll admit to being continually, deeply surprised by the willingness of intelligent, well-meaning people, here in our own country and elsewhere, to buy into that narrative.

This conflict is not a result of some imperialist desire of Israel's to suppress, dominate and eventually displace the Palestinian people. This conflict was not created, and is not primarily perpetuated, by settlements, checkpoints, security fences or anything of the sort. Although some of those surely have been contributors to the impossibility of finding a resolution, ultimately this is and always has been a battle between a country and a people on one side, and a group openly and actively dedicated to their total annihilation on the other. Hamas has always called, explicitly, not for the freedom to create their own country, but for the eradication of the State of Israel. You will never hear me claim that Israel is blameless, but you most certainly never hear me claim that Israel is even remotely close to equally culpable in this terrible, ongoing war.

I am baffled when people accuse Israel of genocide, and condemn them for targeting civilians when they so clearly exert so much energy to try to avoid civilian casualties, while their enemy brazenly seeks to maximize them, friend and foe alike. I am utterly confounded when a group of academics join together to sign a letter criticizing Israel for, among other supposed sins, notifying civilians before an attack when Hamas literally encourages its own civilians to act as human shields.

To misunderstand the basic morality of the situation is, to my mind, to turn our backs on what is possibly the most significant component of being a human being — our capacity for moral judgment. That's one of the most important but most commonly overlooked lessons from the story of Adam and Eve. When trying to tempt her to eat of the fruit of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, the serpent tells Eve that, if she eats, she will not die. Rather, he says, "you will be like God, knowing good from evil." You will be like God, knowing good from evil. The Torah is telling us that we are closest to imitating God when we embrace and use our moral facilities. That we are truly living up to our birthright of having been created betzelem Elohim, in the image of God, when we are able to distinguish good from bad, right from wrong.

Yes, as I said, Israel has certainly done things along the way which have increased enmity and made peace less likely. And, yes, during the conflict — as is tragically the case during any military conflict — some individuals have committed atrocities and crimes. But, that in no way changes the basic moral calculus of this war. I honestly don't understand how generally decent people don't see what seems so morally obvious to me. It's overused, and probably overly simplistic, but Golda Meir's quote still rings essentially true, even today. If the Palestinians put down their guns today, tomorrow there will be a Palestine. If Israel puts down its guns today, tomorrow there will be no Israel.

And so, I am personally and, more importantly, religiously committed to defending Israel's essential morality, and quite frankly, I don't even think it's very difficult case to make. I'm absolutely, unquestionably committed to defending Israel's right to self-defense which is, you should know, a deeply held Jewish value. Offering our other cheek to the one who attacks us is not a commandment found in any Jewish text. We have the right — actually, we have the obligation — of self-defense and self-preservation.

But while all that is true, and while I hold to it fervently, it is at least as important that we remember that there's a difference between a willingness to fight, and an eagerness to fight. There is an essential, religious, moral distinction between rightly assigning blame to an enemy bent on our destruction, and losing our own sense of moral direction through widespread, unyielding, vitriolic hatred. Judaism may not be pacifist — we don't believe that violence is always unquestionably wrong. But, we are peaceloving, because we believe that while sometimes necessary, violence is never good. And that is, I deeply believe, a fundamentally important distinction.

I think of it most clearly when I remember a midrash — an ancient rabbinic story about the Torah — taught to me by my teacher, Rabbi Jerome Malino of blessed memory. Jacob and Esau, as you might remember, were the bitterest of enemies. After many years in hiding, Jacob returns to try to reconcile with his brother. Esau rushes to him, embraces him, kisses him, falls on his neck, and they both cry. But the word “vayeshkehu—he kissed him”  has some strange dots above it in the Torah scroll. The rabbinic midrash explains that the word “vayashkehu” can actually be read to mean not, "he kissed him," but, "he bit him." In this version, Esau didn't hug and kiss his brother; he grabbed him, and tried to bite his neck in order to kill him. But, a miracle happened and Jacob's neck turned to marble. Those dots above the word are pieces of Esau's broken teeth. And the midrash goes on to explain that they did indeed both cry. Esau cried for his teeth. Jacob cried for his neck. He cried not because he had been harmed, but because he had been hardened.

Jacob cried for his neck. It is, to me, among most powerful phrases in all of rabbinic literature. Because it captures an essential truth about violence. Violence always damages us. Irrevocably. Jacob cried because, even though he won this fight, even though he survived, he had been left hardened. He was no longer fully the man he had grown up being. No longer precisely the man he wanted to be. Violence, even when directed at a deadly foe, scars us. Always. We never come out better for it.

The truth is, there are many texts which I could have used in place of that Jacob and Esau midrash. King David wasn't allowed to build the Temple of which he dreamt because he had fought many wars. The fact that those wars were fought for righteous reasons didn't matter at all to God. A righteous war still leaves bloodstains on the hands of the fighters, and no one so stained can possibly build something as sacred as the Temple, God says. When the Israelites saw the Red Sea slam shut on the Egyptian Army, they celebrated with a victory song. But another ancient midrash tells us that, when they were finished, the angels gathered to sing the same song. But, God wouldn't let them. "How dare you sing songs of glory while my people are drowning?" He chastised them. Even the Egyptians were human beings, created in the image of God, and their deaths, while necessary, were not good. It was nothing to be celebrated. That same sentiment is echoed in our yearly ritual at our Seder tables when we remove one drop of wine — each one a symbol of our lessened joy — from our glasses in remembrance of those who suffered through the 10 plagues which set us free. How can our joy be complete, when any of God’s creatures are suffering?

As Jews, we are allowed to fight. We are allowed to defend ourselves. But Jews do not dance in the streets at the deaths of our enemies. To do so is an affront to God. We may engage in violence, when necessary. We do not revel in it, we do not seek it out, and we do not want it. Jewish law forbids the carrying of weapons in a synagogue; violence and holiness cannot exist in the same space.

When I hear of the deaths of innocent Palestinians, my first reaction is not that those deaths are the moral responsibility of the terrorists who hide among them, although I do believe that to be the case. My first reaction, at least on my better days, is that their deaths are a tragedy. I am distraught every time an Israeli has no choice better than one which leads to the death of an innocent. And even the death of the terrorists themselves, as hard as this is for me to believe at times, are not a good. They are not a cause for celebration. I'm saddened by the loss of a life which could have meant so much more than it did, and I am saddened for our necks, which just became a little bit harder.

I care desperately about Israel's survival but I care equally deeply for the souls of those of us who love and support Israel. What I say about Israel here, tonight, or anywhere at anytime, will have an immeasurably small effect on the actual situation in Israel. But, what I say about it, and what I say about our enemies and their deaths, and what I say about civilian deaths, and what I say about hatred and hope, will have an enormous effect on me. To be a Jew is not only to dream of a day when war will be no more, is to actively and aggressively pursue that day, never giving up, never yielding an inch until we make it real. It is to know that our true goal is not the death of our enemies but rather the arrival of the day, ushered in by our own hands, when we can instead embrace them as friends. It is to be, as Rabbi Donniel Hartman identifies himself, a peaceaholic, someone who is addicted to the idea of peace. Someone who, regardless of what happened last time, will constantly and continually look for the next opportunity to make peace, instead of war. To not just prefer peace, to not just love peace, but to seek peace, and pursue it.

I stand by our right to defend ourselves. I stand by our right to defend our families. I stand by our right to defend our nation, both this one, and our homeland in the East. I stand by those rights unequivocally. But, I stand on my love for peace. I stand on my love for all of humanity. I stand on my adamant refusal to let hatred or fear run my life or ruin my soul. I will protect who I am, as fervently as I protect my life.

Rabbi Shalom Noach Berezovsky taught that all blessings are grounded in love. Only one who feels love, only one who embodies love, can truly be or create or give a blessing. May this year be one of blessing for us all. One in which we finally find ourselves at peace, rather than winning at war. May our love for humanity only grow, and our pursuit of peace never falter.

And may we all be sealed in the Book of Life.

Practicing Spirituality

Rosh Hashana, 5775

Rabbi Jason Rosenberg

May you be safe.

May you be happy.

May your body be strong.

May your life unfold with ease.

May you be safe.

May you be happy.

May your body be strong.

May your life unfold with ease.

In late July, I found myself sitting in a makeshift retreat center, carved out of the Westchester Hilton hotel, repeating those words, over and over.

May you be safe.

May you be happy.

May your body be strong.

May your life unfold with ease.

Sometimes, under the instruction of our leader, I would be saying those words while picturing someone who loved me, endlessly and unconditionally. Someone who, when I thought of them, it would be sure to evoke an equal response of love from me.

May you be safe.

May you be happy.

May your body be strong.

May your life unfold with ease.

Sometimes, I would instead be picturing someone whom I didn’t know very well. Perhaps the regular clerk at a store that I frequent. Maybe a congregant who I haven’t had a chance to get to know deeply, yet. Could I find in my heart a spark of that larger, closer love for those people?

May you be safe.

May you be happy.

May your body be strong.

May your life unfold with ease.

Sometimes, I’d be picturing myself. May I be safe. And then, once or twice, we were told to instead picture someone who we did not love, at all. Quite the opposite — someone who evoked feelings of anger, resentment. Maybe even, if we were up to it, hatred. Could we find it within our hearts, could I find it within my heart, to picture them and, with at least a fragment of honesty say,

May you be safe.

May you be happy.

May your body be strong.

May your life unfold with ease.

Why was I doing this? Why was I joined together with a few dozen other rabbis and cantors, repeating this like a mantra, over and over? I was doing it as part of the Clergy Leadership Program, run by the Institute for Jewish Spirituality. It’s a program intended to help clergy deepen our own spiritual lives under the assumption that only then — only if we have rich, meaningful spiritual lives of our own — can we possibly hope to be decent spiritual leaders for others. And so, for the second time so far, I spent four days, mostly in silence, working on my own inner life. I meditated. I chanted and prayed. I studied spiritual texts. And, like probably all of us on that retreat, and here today, I struggled with understanding precisely what spirituality is.

“Spirituality” is one of those words. One of those words which we often use so easily, without thinking about what it really means. We refer to our synagogue as “our spiritual home” and talk about making it a “spiritual community.” We seek spiritual moments. But what is all of that, exactly? What does it mean to be spiritual?

For a long time, my preferred definition of spirituality has been, “an awareness of standing in the presence of God.” But, I also know what a fraught, ambiguous, confusing, resistance-inducing word “God” can be. So, I often substitute “something greater than yourself.” Spirituality is “an awareness of standing in the presence of something greater than yourself.”

It’s not a bad definition. Most of us, maybe all of us, have had at least a moment or two in our lives like this. Not necessarily a moment when the heavens opened up and the light of God shined down on us. Just a moment when suddenly, something ordinary unexpectedly seems to be infused with meaning. Something which has always been beautiful is now something more — something we can’t quite define, but feel deep down in that place that we call our kishkes — our guts — or maybe we call it our soul. A moment when we sense… something.

Try this with me. Close your eyes and try to remember one of those times. It might be something fairly obvious, like the birth of a child or an extraordinary sunset at the beach. It might have been less expected, something which happened on a walk you’ve taken 100 times before, but never quite like this. A poem or song lyric which struck you with greater force than anytime before, or since. The simple, gratitude-filled pleasure of being alive on a beautiful day. Think of one. Remember how it felt. Remember how powerful it was and, this is important, remember how real it was. Remember how, at that moment, there were no questions and no answers, only the presence of the moment itself. And, perhaps, a hint or an echo of something Other.

And now, ask yourself a simple question: would you like to have that feeling, again? Would you like to have that feeling, or feelings like it, or perhaps even feelings greater than that, more often? Because that hints at the problem with my favored definition of “spirituality.”  Spirituality isn’t just an awareness. Spirituality is a practice. It’s a discipline. It’s something at which we can get better.

Everyone here has a natural, baseline athletic ability. Some of us were gifted with quite a bit of it; some not so much. But, whatever our natural capacity for hitting a ball or running a mile might be, one thing is universal — we can get better at it. With practice, I can hit the ball further and run that mile faster. It’s totally irrelevant whether I am or ever will be better or faster than you. What’s relevant is that if I want to be better or faster than me, the path is fairly clear. I have to practice.

The same rules apply to spirituality. We all have a natural capacity for spiritual moments. I honestly believe that we are not all equal in this respect; some of us are more naturally spiritual than others. But, we all have some sense for the spiritual. We all have times, maybe one you just thought of a few moments ago, when a spiritual moment forces its way into our life. It’s what my friend, Rabbi Ethan Franzel, calls “accidental spirituality.” But, far greater he would argue, and I would agree, is “intentional spirituality.” Finding something — and, really, there is an endless array of possibilities — which helps us access the corner of ourselves which naturally connects to the spiritual, and then helps to build it, like we build a muscle in the gym.

Some of you know that that’s my favorite metaphor for spiritual practice — the gym. Because here are a couple things I’ve come to believe, quite strongly, about spirituality and spiritual practice. First of all, you don’t need to do it. By which I mean, I’m not trying to tell you that you have to be more spiritual, or to make you feel guilty if you’re not. If someone truly, honestly doesn’t want to be able to run further, or faster, or doesn’t want or need to lower their blood pressure or get any of the myriad other benefits which come with regular exercise, then they don’t have to work out. Not going to the gym does not, in any way, shape or form, make you a bad person. But, if you want to be physically healthy, you’re almost certainly going to have to do something about it. I’m as sad as anyone here to tell you that sitting on the couch isn’t going to get you there. And that’s the second thing I’ve come to believe about spirituality — if you do want more of it, then it’s going to take some work. Just sitting on that chair isn’t going to get you there.

So, what does it look like? What is spiritual practice. Well, of course, it isn’t just one thing. There are lots of ways to engage in spirituality. Probably every religion in history has come up with its own forms, and Judaism is no exception. Rabbi Levi Yitzhak of Berditchev, a spiritual master, believed that focusing on the breath was often all of the practice that we needed. Quietly breathing, while repeating the line from Psalms (150), “Let all that breathes praise Adonai,” and with each breath imagining that God is giving us new life. Rabbi Nahman of Bratzlav recommended what he called hitbodedut—alone time with God. Basically, going to a private place and talking non-stop to God—just letting the thoughts and feelings pour out. I was pretty uncertain, and not a little resistant, the first time I tried this one. But, I can tell you that there’s a power in hearing yourself say something that, until that very moment, you didn’t know you were thinking. Many sages have taken one favored line from sacred text—”There is nothing but God,” “Adonai is our God, Adonai is One,” or “God was in this place and I, I did not know it,” to name just a few examples—and meditated on those words, very much like a mantra, and just waited to see what thoughts and feelings the repetition can evoke. Here on Shabbat mornings, especially when we have our Making Prayer Real workshop, we repeatedly chant a simple line or a niggun—a wordless melody—and try to experience the sense of flow when we stop thinking, and simply do. One of my personal favorites is spiritual study—using the insights of other Rabbis, particularly the great, early Hassidic masters, to give us spiritual reinterpretations of well known passages of the Torah. Studying in a way which moves our hearts, not just engages our minds. And, of course, these are just a sampling of possible practices.

So, let’s try one. Together, right now. I promise — it won’t take very long, and it won’t hurt at all. [Here’s the practice I led everyone through. First, pick that person that you love, and that loves you back, unconditionally. Take a few slow, deep breaths, concentrating very hard on your breath—how does it feel? Does does your stomach or your chest feel as you breath? Put all of your concentration on your breath. Now…picture that person again, and slowly say, “May you be safe, may you be happy, may your body be strong, may your life unfold with ease” 3 times. Breath a few more times, with just as much concentration on your breath. Let the final silence stretch out.]

It’s that moment, just after I’ve done some spiritual practice, that I’ve come to cherish. Because it’s in those moments of silently fading echoes that I come closest to understanding. Understanding what I just experienced, and what I didn’t, and what I want, and what I need. Spirituality, to me, anyway, isn’t about giving up my rational facilities and God-given sense of discernment. It’s about learning to appreciate and understand the parts of my mind, and the parts of my soul, which speak to something larger than logic and rationality.

It’s that false dichotomy and created conflict between spirituality and rationality which engendered so much resistance in me, for so long. I’m sure at least a few of you felt more than a twinge of that same resistance a few minutes ago, when we tried out that practice. “This is weird. This is flaky. This isn’t my thing.” It seems so darn unsophisticated, in a world filled with easy cynicism and enormous, tragic horror, to sit, breathe, and just think loving thoughts. Who does that? It’s so easy to write it off as some flighty thing that other, less serious people do. Trust me — I understand. I’ve said those things myself. And, at times, I guess I still do. But, I’m here to tell you, in no uncertain terms, that this stuff works. And, I’m not just talking about anecdotal evidence, although there’s plenty of that, obviously. Even good old science backs this up.

We now have decades worth of serious research about meditation, mindfulness and other spiritual practices. And, that research is as conclusive as can be — this stuff really does work. Ongoing practice results in measurable increases in our ability to handle stress. In our ability to handle pain. In our energy, focus and creativity. It can improve our sleep patterns. It can lower our heart rate, our respiratory rate, and our blood pressure. There’s even strong evidence that, perhaps tied to its stress-reducing ability, these practices can reduce cardiovascular disease and the rate and severity of heart attacks. And, the only side effects you have to worry about are increased happiness and a general sense of well-being. Those may even last longer than four hours.

People love to pit science against religion but they’re going to have a hard time of it when it comes to spiritual practice. The more scientists look at it, the more they confirm what religious practitioners have known for literally thousands of years. Spiritual practice works. It makes our lives better. It makes us happier, and it makes us more content. It makes us more caring, and it makes us more open. All we have to do, is do it.

And, as I mentioned before, there isn’t only one way to do it. Part of the joy of the spiritual world is finding the form and the practice which works best for each of us. For some it might be meditation, although even that isn’t only one thing; there are many types of meditation. For others, regular prayer, although probably with more focus and kavannah that most of us are used to, can work. Yoga and other “embodied practices” speak to many. There is spiritual study. Spiritual eating. Spiritual walking. There’s an endless menu of spiritual practices. You can find one which speaks to you, and which you can fit into your life. All you need to do is to decide to start.

Some of these are already happening here. These kinds of practices are precisely what we explore in our twice-a-month Making Prayer Real workshops and services on Saturday mornings. It’s the basis of our new, occasional Kavannah Shabbat services on Friday nights. More and more, it’s influenced how I teach, especially during Torah study on Shabbat. And, for those who want to try something right away, we’re having a 2^nd day Rosh Hashana meditation service, tomorrow morning at 9:00. And, if nothing that we’re doing here resonates with you, but you still want to find something that does, we can sit and talk, and find something that does sound like it will work. There are no single paths, but there are more and more people who are looking to take this journey. You should really think about being one of them.

Rabbi Yehudah Aryeh Leib Alter, the Sefat Emet, teaches that each and every person has within them a divine spark. A small piece of God, buried down, deep inside of us. And, every moment of every day that spark is struggling, striving to rise up and reconnect with its source. To reconnect with God. That spark, he teaches, is our soul, which was given to us only so that it could reconnect with holiness. All that we have to do it let it. Give that spark a chance to rise, and it will bring you with it.

May you be safe.

May you be happy.

May your body be strong.

May your life unfold with ease.

What Do You Want To Be When You Grow Up?

Try this—answer a question in your head. “What do you want to be when you grow up?” Obviously, most people reading this are already grown up, but play along anyway. If you could be something else, what would you be? Got an answer? Good.

This is a little exercise I love to do with groups of kids, especially teenagers. I ask them that simple question, "What do you want to be when you grow up?” And then I take a bunch of their responses. “Veterinarian.” “Teacher.” “Scientist.” “Professional Baseball player.”

Then I point out that, like always, all of the answers I got were careers. They were all nouns. I’ll be your answer was, too. No one, with very, very few exceptions, has ever answered the question with an adjective. Try it that way—what do you want to be when you group up?

“Kind.” “Generous.” “Loving.”

Here's the thing about careers – we have limited control over which ones we’re going to have. When I was a kid, I desperately wanted to be a veterinarian. But, my first time observing a bloody medical procedure on an animal pretty much put the kibosh on that. Advanced chemistry, which I encountered later, probably would have ended it, if that had still been my dream! I also dreamt of being a baseball player. It's pretty clear that wasn't going to happen.

But the adjectives? There's almost nothing standing in the way of my becoming whichever adjective I really want to be. If I want to be kind, all I have to do is start being kind. If I want to be more generous, all I have to do is start giving more. It's not always easy, obviously. There’s psychology, tendencies, personal histories and lots more with which to contend. But, ultimately, it's very simple. All we have to do in order to be the people we want to be, is to start being them.

I think that's the point of the High Holy Days, and of teshuvah — repentance. It's not really about sitting in synagogue, beating our breasts for all the things we've done wrong, praying that we’ll be spared from God's wrath. Really, it's about thinking about the times when we weren't acting like the people we want to be. And, it’s about committing to doing so, starting right now.

If you're going to Yom Kippur services tomorrow night or Saturday, or even if you're not, try taking a little bit of time and asking yourself what you want to be when you grow up. Ask yourself what traits, which adjectives, you wish you had more of. And then, just do it. Just start being the person you want to be, starting right now. The only thing standing between you and a better version of you, is you.

At least, that's the only thing that's been standing in the way up until now. Maybe tomorrow, there won’t be anything standing in the way, at all.

G'mar Chatima Tova – may we all be sealed in the Book of Life.

Religions Are What We Say They Are

Just a quick thought.

I just saw another article with a title like, "Is ISIS Really Islamic?" I didn't bother to click through, because I've seen enough of these, and not only about ISIS. Every time some radical group claims to be religious, it starts the same debate--is this really what that religion is about? What is the core nature of Islam/Christianity/Judaism/whatever?

I'm kind of sick of it. Because, I'm pretty sure it's a meaningless question. Islam is precisely what Muslims say it is. For some, it's a religion of peace. For some, it's a religion of extreme hatred and violence. Christianity is precisely what Christians say it is. For some, it's a religion of love. For some, it's a religion of violent proselytization. Judaism? It's either thoughtfulness, or narrow-mindedness. Peace-loving, or kill-all-the-arabs-ness.

The idea that a religion has a true, core identity, independent of the actual people who live it daily, simply makes no sense to me. Religions are human constructs, and they exist within our human lives. They are precisely what we say they are. They are precisely what we live them as.

If someone sees it differently, I'd love to hear them explain how and why. But, absent that, can we please stop with this simplistic, inane and fundamentally divisive conversation?

Trite

It's hard for me not to notice how little I've been blogging for a while now. Part of the reason probably has to do with busyness and priorities. But, like everyone else, I've always been busy, and I used to find more time for blogging, so that can't be all of it. I think the biggest reason that I've had trouble motivating myself to blog more is a change in where my interests and focus lie these days. As I've gotten more involved and engaged in the world of spirituality and spiritual practice, it's been harder to talk about these things in the context of a blog post.

Truth is, it's hard to talk about spiritual matters in any context, and it's harder to write about them. But, the short form is, for me anyway, especially frustrating. Because, when talking about spiritual stuff in a few hundred words it's awfully easy to come across as either completely vapid or kind of crazy and extreme. Either stupid or fanatical (or, if I'm really lucky, both). Without the nuance of voice and interaction, or at least of pages and pages to explain myself, it often feels like everything comes across except for what I'm actually trying to say. And so, rather than put something out there which seems kind of empty and trite, I put it back on the "to do when I have more time" list and move on.

This morning, I came across a post by a blogger by the name of Charlotte Kitely (thanks, SEC, for the FB link).  It's just a beautiful piece. I can't encourage you enough to take a quiet moment and ready it. Kitely knew she was dying, imminently, and so she wrote this piece to be published just after she died, which she did on Tuesday. It's heartbreaking in its honesty and sweetness.

As you read this, I will no longer be here. Rich will be trying to put one foot in front of the other, to get by, a day at a time, knowing I will no longer awake next to him. He will see me in the luxury of a dream, but in the harsh morning sun, the bed will be empty. He will get two cups from the cupboard, but realise there is only one coffee to make. Lucy will need someone to reach for her hairband box, but there won't be anyone to plait her hair. Danny will have lost one of his Lego policeman, but no one will know exactly which one it is or where to look. You will look for the latest update on the blog. There won't be one, this is the final chapter.

But, she isn't writing from a place of self-pity or depression. She's quite clear and honest about what saddens and angers her, mind you, but her real point is the lesson she's leaving behind. And, it's an unbelievably trite, common message: savor your life. Every moment of it.

But, they are not to be denied of you. So, in my absence, please, please, enjoy life. Take it by both hands, grab it, shake it and believe in every second of it. Adore your children. You have literally no idea how blessed you are to shout at them in the morning to hurry up and clean their teeth.

I can't imagine how many posts there must be on Huff Post alone with the same theme. I can't begin to conceive how many similar posts there are on the entire Internet, to say nothing of magazine articles, books, poems, tattoos and movie scenes. It is probably one of the most common themes and lessons in the entire world. I'm pretty sure that, quite literally, every single person reading this, and every single person who might read this, already knows, believes in, and tries to appreciate this message. We hear it so often that we barely pay attention when it crosses our path. It is, in a word, trite.

But, it's no less true for being so.

Most clichés have more than a grain of truth in them — that's how they became clichés in the first place. Most truisms are, not to put too fine a point on it, true. Most things which are trite are, if we stop and pay attention to them, quite profound.

We're coming up on the High Holy Days. And this message of embracing life is one of the core messages of this time. Yom Kippur especially is a reminder of our inevitably onrushing deaths, and the imperative that they bring with them to take our lives seriously, and to start doing so immediately. You may not have tomorrow to repent, and you may not have next year to live your life as you truly want, and as you are truly meant to, so you had better start right now, rather than later.

We know this. We all know this. And yet, we forget it, over and over again. One of my absolute favorite moments in rabbinic writing comes from Moshe Chaim Luzzatto in his Messilat Yesharim. It's one of the classics of Mussar, which is a Jewish program of self evaluation and personal/spiritual improvement. And, at the very beginning, he says that every single thing within this book is already known to everyone reading it. There is absolutely nothing new inside. Instead, the book contains truths which we all know, constantly forget, and therefore are in constant need of reminders of them.

The reality is, that might just be true of all of the great truths in life.

Speaking as someone who has always enjoyed complicated ideas, it's becoming more apparent that the really important ideas are pretty damn simple. Trite, even. Appreciate every thing and every moment you're given. Be as kind as possible. Breathe.

We can talk about these things in complicated ways, either to understand them better, or to make ourselves feel better about our own intellectual depth. We can talk about them in order to remind ourselves of their often forgotten but eternal truth. But, the deeper truth is obvious, and known.

5774 was a wonderful year for me, personally. But it was a difficult year for so many whom I know. And for a couple, it was devastatingly tragic. I hope and pray with every fiber of my being that 5775 brings all of them (but, obviously and especially for Phyllis and Mike, and Sabrina and John, and their families) at least a portion of the peace and happiness they so richly deserve.

And, I hope that the rest of us remember to truly and fully appreciate the lives that we have. I hope that we remember to embrace those around us, and tell them that we love them. I hope that all of us learn to remember what we already know. Our deepest truths are found there.

Facebook and Easy Teshuvah

This was my column in Congregation Beth Am's Digest this month. I thought others might find it interesting or useful, so here it is...

It’s that time of year again—the time when I’ll see something on Facebook, repeatedly, which is done with a good heart and the best of intentions, but bothers me, nonetheless.

I’m talking about Facebook status updates and messages such as, “If I have offended any of you this past year, please forgive me.” They don’t happen only on Facebook, of course, but they do seem pretty common there. As I said, these are offered with great sincerity, I’m sure, but I think they’re terribly misguided.

Our sages tell us that teshuvah, repentance, is a multistep process.  As part of it, we have to confess what we did wrong, and we have to do it in detail. No just saying, “I was greedy.” Instead, we have to say, “I was asked by so-and-so to give to such-and-such cause, and I didn’t because I wanted to go out for dinner that night,” or something like that. And then, if we harmed someone with our misstep, we have to apologize to them, openly and explicitly. We have to repair any damage, if possible, and only then do we have the right to ask for forgiveness from them, or from God.

Teshuvah is more than an apology. Teshuvah is a serious, deep process which is meant, ultimately, to lead to self improvement. That's why our sages teach that a person knows that his or her teshuvah only when he or she doesn't commit the same sin again. The ultimate goal of teshuvah is not to obtain forgiveness from someone else, or to wipe away our sense of guilt. The ultimate goal of teshuvah is to become a better person — the kind of person who would never do such a thing in the first place.

I have a hard time believing that, however good the intentions behind it might be, typing "Please forgive me if I hurt you" into our browsers has any chance of creating that kind of change. In fact, I suspect that, if anything, it might make it less likely to happen, because we will have given ourselves the illusion of having done teshuvah, and so we won't feel the need to do anything else. Why go through the truly difficult, painful work of true teshuvah when we can so easily accomplish it with our keyboards?

The truth is that although Facebook might be quite new, this conversation isn't. The ancient version of easy Facebook teshuvah is actually Yom Kippur services, themselves. There have always been people who think that the words that we say on Yom Kippur are teshuvah. But, the sages of old were clear that just isn't the case. The Day of Atonement does not atone unless we have first made peace with our fellow human beings.

Teshuvah is powerful. Teshuvah is transformative. Teshuvah is beautiful. But, teshuvah is never, ever easy. If it is, then it wasn't teshuvah.

May your Yamim Noraim, your Days of Awe be filled with meaning. And, may they be so because you made the effort to bring meaning to them.

L’Shana Tova u’Metukah – a good and a sweet year to you.