Behaving Like a Jew -- Yom Kippur, 5780

Behaving Like a Jew

Yom Kippur, 5790

Rabbi Jason Rosenberg

Behaving Like a Jew, By Gerald Stern

When I got there the dead opossum looked like

an enormous baby sleeping on the road.

It took me only a few seconds—just

seeing him there—with the hole in his back

and the wind blowing through his hair

to get back again into my animal sorrow.

I am sick of the country, the bloodstained

bumpers, the stiff hairs sticking out of grilles,

the slimy highways, the heavy birds

refusing to move;

I am sick of the spirit of Lindbergh over everything,

that joy in death, that philosophical

understanding of carnage, that

concentration on the species.

--I am going to be unappeased at the opossum’s death.

I am going to behave like a Jew

and touch his face, and stare into his eyes,

and pull him off the road.

I am not going to stand in a wet ditch

with the Toyotas and the Chevies passing over me

at sixty miles an hour

and praise the beauty and balance

and lose myself in the immortal lifestream

when my hands are still a little shaky

from his stiffness and his bulk

and my eyes are still weak and misty

from his round belly and his curved fingers

and his black whiskers and his little dancing feet.

           

“Behave like a Jew.” What does it mean to “behave like a Jew?” It means, at least in part, to be open to all of the pain in the world. It means to be maladjusted to the world as it is — it means to refuse to be complacent, to refuse to acquiesce to the reality that there is agony in this world. It means to never look at suffering, wherever we might encounter it, and accept it with “that’s just the way it is.” To behave like a Jew means to realize that every animal that dies should, in theory, be a heartbreak for me. And that, all the more so, every person who dies, every person who suffers, anywhere in the world, should be, too. That’s what it means to behave like a Jew.

            I have to say, although I hope it would go without saying, that when Stern talks about “behaving like a Jew,” I don’t think he means as opposed to how a non-Jew would act. I don’t think he’s saying, and I most certainly don’t believe, that Jews are kinder or more moral, or have a greater responsibility to be so, than people of other religions, or of no religion at all. I think what he’s saying, and what I most certainly am, is that behaving in this way is a fulfillment of the highest ideals and aspirations of our tradition, as I’m sure it is in many other traditions, as well.

            Of course, it’s an impossible aspiration. None of us live this way, really. We couldn’t possibly. Refusing to accept any pain or suffering, of any living creature, anywhere in the world? Letting ourselves, demanding of ourselves, that we share in all of the pain? Impossible. It would be paralyzing. It would destroy our souls. Our ability to compartmentalize, to put on blinders, to look away from the worst parts of the world, is essential for those of us who want to actually live in this world. Can you imagine what it would be like if we truly responded to every tragedy in the news as if it had happened to our own family? The world would stop as each and every one of us fell to our knees, crying in endless despair at the sheer weight of the horror in the world. Thank God we have the ability to turn away from this, when we have to.

            But, we have to occasionally be willing to open ourselves up to the fullness of the world’s pain. If we don’t, we may swing too far in the other direction. We may accept our indifference as normal, as right. We might become satisfied with a world which is good enough, at least from our safe, comfortable spaces. If we don’t, at least on occasion, look with clear, wide open eyes at the fullness of the world’s pain, we will allow ourselves to become numb, and to become unconcerned.

            Religion’s job is, in part, to comfort the afflicted, and afflict the comfortable. A religious life should give us the impetus, and should give us the courage, to be fully openhearted, without limit or condition. To feel all of the pain. All of it. To, at least for a moment, at least for this moment, on this holiest day of the year, to see it all. To feel it all.

            We don’t, because it would be awful beyond imagining. But, I suspect that we also resist doing this because we understand, maybe not consciously, but on some level, what it would demand of us if we were to do so. What would my life look like if, every time I saw someone suffering on the news, it struck me as if it were a close member of my own family that I was looking at? How much would I have to give of my time, of my energy, how much would I have to give of my money if that was what I really felt? If a dear friend of mine, if a family member, was truly in desperate need, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do, nothing I wouldn’t give, to ease their pain. We say that, if we go back far enough, we’re all related, one to the other. We say that all of humanity is one family. But, we don’t act like it. Not ever, and certainly not when tragedy strikes. We react and we respond. Of course we do. But, not enough. Not as much as we could, not as much as we should. I know I don’t. I’m sure none of us do.

            But, as I stand here today, on this sacred day, don’t I have to confess to you, don’t I have to admit to myself, that when I turn away, when I file away someone else’s pain in the box labeled “not my problem,” that I am ashamed. I’m ashamed because part of me, maybe the best part of me, knows that it is my problem. Precisely because I have seen it. How could the suffering of a human being, any human being, not be my problem? I’m ashamed because I know that turning away from anyone’s pain, that being indifferent to the suffering of any single human being, anywhere in the world, no matter who they are, is a sacrilege. Torah teaches us that to be a Jew is, at its best, to be responsible for it all. To refuse, adamantly and passionately, to be indifferent. It is to open my heart as wide as I can. Wider still. To be a Jew is to acknowledge that your pain is my pain. Your suffering is my suffering. Your plight is my concern. Wherever and whoever you are. To be a Jew is to refuse to accept indifference or callousness. It’s what we should expect of ourselves, and what we should expect of each other. We should be horrified when we realize that we were, in fact, indifferent to someone else’s suffering. We should be appalled when someone around us closes their eyes and hearts to another’s pain. When we drive past the beggar, when we pretend not to see the person crying, when we turn on the news and flip past another story about another group being oppressed by one set of leaders while being ignored by another. We can’t be content. We can’t say that this is good enough. We have to cling to our belief that our world needs better.

            When thinking about our responsibility, about our need to respond to the pain of others, it’s impossible for my mind not to turn to politics. And, it should. This is a deeply political thought, for a deeply political moment. Not politics in the sense of any particular policy, party, or candidate. But, politics in the sense of understanding that each and every decision that we make, as individuals, as a society, as a nation, has untold impacts on those around us. We are obligated to never be satisfied with the suffering of anyone, never to be silent in its face. All the more so, when the politics and policies which I support are the cause of that suffering.

            I passionately support Israel and Israel’s right to defend itself. That must never make me anything less than heartbroken to see the suffering of a single Palestinian. You might be in favor of strong immigration enforcement. We must never be anything less than horrified, devastated at the site of a person suffering because of that policy. If you believe in strong borders, I can respect that. If you are unmoved by the sight of families being pulled apart, of children in cages, if you are undisturbed by innocents being denied medical care, of people sleeping on cold, wet concrete, if you are indifferent to a parent burying a child, in an inner-city, at our border, in Gaza, then you are lost.

            To choose a policy which leads to suffering is, probably, in the end, unavoidable. To be comfortable with that? To be satisfied in a world in which people suffer? To be satisfied in a world in which our decisions, justifiable as they may be, lead to that suffering? That’s inhuman. That’s profoundly, deeply, fundamentally, un-Jewish.

            Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik (Leviticus 19:34) teaches that the Jewish people was formed in exile, that our Torah was given to us outside of the holy land, specifically so that we would develop a sensitivity to others. And he also teaches (Deuteronomy 1:13) that establishing a system of perfect justice was a prerequisite for entering the holy land thousands of years ago, and it remains so, today. Being sensitive to others, being open to the pain of others, is literally the foundational trait of Judaism. Being satisfied with less than perfect justice will always keep us from full redemption. 1000 years ago, Maimonides taught that not being kind to others is enough to allow us to be suspicious about whether someone is truly a Jew. This is who we are. This is who we’ve always been. We care for others. All of them.

            Today is Yom Kippur. Today is the day in which we open ourselves up to all of the ways in which we have failed, all of the ways in which we have fallen short. And, each one of us is surely guilty, at some point this past year, at some point in each and every year of our lives, of a failure of compassion. We have cared, but we have not cared enough. We have allowed ourselves to be appeased, we have allowed ourselves to accept the presence of suffering in our world. I know it’s not realistic, and I know it’s not possible. But, today I have to look at myself as if I am responsible to give, and to work, and to speak out, without limit, without pause, until the last tear is shed in our world. Today I accept that I am responsible for it all, because if I accept that today, then I might be more moved to act tomorrow.

            I will never fully live this. I know that. I will never be able to be this caring, this open, this good. But, if I let myself, for at least today, believe that I should be so, maybe I’ll push myself more this year. If I allow myself to understand what my best self is capable of, and what my best self is responsible for, maybe I’ll be a bit more like him than I otherwise would. Today, I do not accept my acceptance of pain. Not one bit.

            I talked last night about the idea of chet, a word which we usually translate as “sin,” as really being about missing the mark. I said that maybe, in our generation, we can best understand this not as “transgression,” but as “falling short.” Not being bad, so much as not being enough. Have we actively sinned? Have those of us sitting here today gone out and done terrible things to others? Probably not. Not most of us. But, have we responded to as many needs as possible? Have we been as caring, as openhearted as we should be? No, surely we haven’t. In that way, we’ve fallen short. Today, we don’t accept that. Today, we open ourselves up to that pain, and to those failures, and we use that as a goad to drive us forward. To drive us to be better. Today, we can’t care enough.

            Al chet shechatanu l’fanecha—for the ways we have fallen short abusing our power. For the ways we have fallen short through cynicism and scorn. For the ways we have fallen short by hardening our hearts. For all these, God of forgiveness, forgive us, pardon us, lead us to atonement.

The Practice of Prayer--Rosh Hashana, 5780

The Practice of Prayer

Rosh Hashana, 5780

Rabbi Jason Rosenberg

Shana Tova.

            Let me ask you something. Why are you here today? I mean that as a serious question. Why did you decide to come here today? Some of you just answered in your heads something along the lines of, “Well, it’s Rosh Hashanah. I have to be here.” But, unless you’re a kid, you didn’t have to be here, at all. The truth is that you had plenty of choices of how to spend your morning. And, we know that in part because so many people are making choices different from this one. More and more people are not joining synagogues, and many who are members of synagogues choose not to attend services, opting for work or school, instead. I’m not saying this to shame them, at all, just to point out that you really did have other options about what to do with these few hours. So, why are you spending them here, doing this?

            It’s especially worth asking because this is a pretty difficult day, and Yom Kippur is even more so. High Holy Day services are long. And, more importantly, they are philosophically and theologically difficult. The prayers of the season talk about God literally deciding who is going to live and who is going to die during this next year. Writing down in a book what our fate will be, but giving us one last chance to change that decree, if we just pray hard enough. It’s incredibly difficult for many of us, maybe most of us, to take this idea literally. It’s pretty hard to even take it seriously. Do I really think that God is making a list? Do I really believe that, based on how fervently I pray today, I might be able to get God to change the column in which I find my name scribbled down? No. I don’t believe that we’re here to change God’s mind. I don’t believe that we’re here to change God, at all. Through our prayers, we’re here to change ourselves.

            A 17th century sage, Rabbi Leona Medina, taught that we should understand prayer as if it were a boat. Imagine a person standing in a boat, holding onto a rope. The other end of that rope is anchored to the shore, and that person is pulling on the rope, pulling herself in. If I am standing some distance away, and if I completely misunderstand how physics works, I might mistakenly believe that that person is actually pulling the shore towards herself, not herself toward the shore. They look pretty much the same. Of course, they are not the same. When we pray, it sometimes looks like we’re trying to pull God towards us. Really, we’re always trying to pull ourselves closer to God.

            It’s what we might call a “devotional practice.” It’s a practice which is meant to increase our love of, our closeness to, God. If the God language is confusing or off-putting to you, as it is to many of us, then it’s a practice which is intended to make us more aware of holiness in this world, and in ourselves.

            That language of holiness, rather than of God, is important. Some of us believe in God, and some of us don’t. Many of us have questions. That’s all a good and important discussion for another day. But, for right now, if you don’t believe in God, or if you aren’t sure, just ask yourself if you believe in holiness. Do you believe in the possibility of transcendence? Have you ever had the vague, unnerving, unnamable sense that something larger than yourself, larger than the simplest reality that we see around us, was happening? I’m not talking about some mystical, astral plane. I’m just talking about a way to see this world, but to see it suffused with meaning.

            That’s one of the great insights of Judaism. We don’t actually need to believe in God, per se, to pray, and to pray honestly, and deeply. In fact, people who think that we do might have it exactly backwards. We don’t pray because we believe. We pray because doing so helps us to believe. And, when I say “believe,” I don’t mean that we are trying to accept a reality that we don’t think we really agree with. I don’t mean that were trying to trick ourselves into thinking that there’s actually some Being who once created the world, and who is deciding our fate today, if that’s not what we really already believe. I’m using “believe” in the sense which the Hebrew conveys, which is the sense of being aware of, and connected to, a holiness which seems to suffuse reality, and transcend our selves, and our sense of the ordinariness which dominates most of our waking hours.

            That’s the key. Our awareness of the sacred. Rabbi Art Green defines the sacred as, “an inward, mysterious sense of awesome presence, a reality deeper than the kind we ordinarily experience.” This world can either be “just this world.” Or, it can be a place of astounding beauty, and power, and meaning. A sunset can simply be the result of the rotation of the planet, which it is. Or, it can be beautiful. Or, it can be more than even that. It can move us in our deepest places, the places which, for lack of a better word, we’ve always called “our soul.”

            Who here doesn’t want to be moved like that? Who here doesn’t need to be moved like that? The world around us is so broken, so damaged and so damaging. We read the news and we see story after story of human cruelty and indifference. We see environmental disasters and hear ominous reports of more to come. Disease, hatred, evil, anywhere we look. It sometimes feels as if the world is on fire, and many of us suspect that, when it doesn’t look like that, it’s only because we’re not paying attention. If we have any awareness, and the least bit of sensitivity, we will see so much pain.

            Sometimes, we need to see the world that way, because that’s real. We can’t hide from it. But, sometimes we need to be able to see the world not just as it is, but as it could be, as well. Sometimes we need to see ourselves not just with our myriad flaws and failings, but with our endless, holy potential. Sometimes, we need to search for the hidden sparks of holiness, buried in the ashes which too often fall around us.

            Last night, I told the story of some artists trying to paint a picture of true peace. The best of them wasn’t a perfect, idyllic scene, but rather a picture of a mother and her baby, huddled against and protected from a raging storm. In a storm tossed world, each one of us needs to find a sanctuary from the storm. We need some space for peace. Not permanently — I am not suggesting that we hide away from the world, and that we pretend that everything is all right. This isn’t about being a Pollyanna; it’s not about hiding from our obligation to engage with the world, to make the world better. But, we do need a sanctuary to which we can retreat, from time to time.

            We need that sanctuary in part because we need to restore ourselves. We need to restore our strength, and we need to restore our hope. This world is so terrible that it can lead to despair. We need to recharge, and just feel good again, if we want to keep doing the hard work that the world is calling us to do.

            But, we also need this sanctuary from the storm in part because we deserve it. As human beings, beings created betzelem Elohim, in the image of God, beings created to be just a little bit less than divine, we deserve to lead lives of meaning, to lead lives of blessing, of happiness. Lives of dignity. The world is set up in a way which makes this just so difficult, and so unlikely. If we just go about our way, let life and the world unfold as they will, we’ll almost never have the opportunity to explore the transcendent. To search for, to encounter, the sacred. Days will turn to months will turn to years will turn into a lifetime, and we’ll have lived it without ever having fully lived a single day of it.

            We deserve, and we need, a space in which we can ask ourselves the deepest questions. What really matters in this life? What was I put here to do? What kind of impact am I having on this world, and what kind of imprint in my leaving with my life? That’s how I want to go through this world, asking myself those most essential of questions. Usually, I don’t. I’m pretty sure I’m not in the minority with this. Life is so busy and overwhelming. Even in a job like mine, ostensibly focused on holiness, I can go days, weeks, without ever asking myself those sacred questions. I can live a life unconcerned with holiness. It would be quite easy to do so. But I don’t want to. So, how do I do that? How do I get myself to focus on those questions, and that holiness?

            In a word, prayer. Prayer is a way — not the way, but a way — to move ourselves. To change ourselves. To pull ourselves closer to that shore. Prayer and religion mean something different to each of us, but whatever it means to you, it got you here today. Something in you is calling you toward religion, or you’d be somewhere else right now. You may not be able to fully identify or name it. But, it’s there, inside of you. Why are we here if not to make ourselves somehow better? “Better” doesn’t only mean “more moral.” It can also mean better functioning. More fulfilled, more fully realized. That’s what we’re here to do. That’s what prayer is supposed to help us do.

            It’s not easy. It’s not always clear exactly how prayer can actually accomplish this. Especially if you read the translations — what they’re saying can sometimes feel very remote from anything meaningful. Just coming into the room, sitting down, and singing along isn’t going to do much for most of us. This isn’t magic, and it’s not even medicine — it doesn’t work just because you take it in. It takes work.

            So, how to do it? How do we pray in a way which might actually move us, inspire us, change us? There isn’t a single way, of course. But, think about taking time during services some Shabbat, or some holy day, picking one prayer from the prayerbook, and approaching it like a poem. Read it, slowly and closely. Ask yourself what it means, and then ask yourself what it stirs inside of you. If you can’t find a prayer which resonates that day, look at the alternative readings. In our weekly siddur, and especially in our High Holy Day mahzor, there are some truly stunning pieces of spiritual writing. Read them. Use them.

            Try sitting down, closing your eyes, and listening to the music as deeply as possible. Feel what happens when you let yourself sing along without worrying about what anyone else is thinking. Or, just take a few moments to breathe — use this time as a meditation practice. There isn’t one right way to do this, and what works for me might not necessarily work for you. Which means that we have to be willing to try a few different things to see what clicks. Try coming by some Shabbat morning when there isn’t a bar or bat mitzvah, and our services are small, friendly, and more personal. Drop in for our monthly Making Prayer Real sessions before services. It’s just a group of us willing to take an hour to think about and talk about what’s going on inside of us when we try to pray.

            I’ve come to realize that physical exercise is an almost perfect metaphor for spiritual exercise. In part, that’s a reminder that none of this “religion stuff” is required. Nothing is mandated, and nothing is forced. If you don’t want to get physically stronger, then you don’t have to go to the gym and lift weights. Not working out most certainly does not make you a bad person. There’s no penalty for staying home, other than not getting the potential benefits. If you don’t want to come and pray, then you really don’t have to come and pray. It doesn’t make you a bad person, and you’re not going to miss out on a place in the afterlife because your Shabbat attendance wasn’t sufficient.

            But, if you’re looking at the brokenness around you, and asking how you can deal with the overwhelm that you feel, this could help. That’s what we’re here for, or, at least, it’s what we’re supposed to be here for. And, you’ve got nothing to lose by trying — there are no negative side effects to prayer. It’s no guaranteed magic bullet, either, but then again, nothing is. The only way to know if it will work is to try it. Tsemah HaShalem Li-Tzevi teaches that God is like a source of water, and prayer is a pump. When we first start to use it, nothing happens.

Then, we might get a tiny trickle. It’s going to take at least a little while to really get things moving. God is always there. Holiness is always on tap. But, if we want to draw anything from it, we’re going to have to try. Don’t be surprised when it doesn’t work at first. Giving up when our first attempts at prayer don’t give us the results that were looking for is a bit like someone going out for their first run and saying, “Well, that felt terrible. I’m never going to do that again!” This is a discipline which, if we’re willing to stick with it for a little bit, truly can transform our lives.

            And, don’t forget that there are ways to do this outside of the synagogue, as well. Some of us need the gym, some prefer to work out on our own. If you’re not sure which is right for you, come talk to me — I’m happy to help you create your own spiritual workout plan.

            But, get started, because this is the perfect time to start. Today, Rosh Hashanah, is the birthday of the world. The anniversary of the world’s creation. Our sages, and our prayers, tell us that God did not create the world once, 5780, or 6 billion, years ago. God creates the world anew every day, every moment. We, too, have the ability to re-create the world, at least our own world, the world that starts within. Every day. Every moment. Today is the first day of your life. As it always is. Let’s make this first day, and every day which follows, a holy one.