Category Archives: Holidays

The Season of Our Service: Sermon for Erev Rosh Hashanah 5772

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As my Torah study students will attest, the book of Deuteronomy can be pretty tough stuff. Deuteronomy, of course, is the final book of the Torah, and most of it is a monologue delivered by Moses to the Israelites before they cross into the Promised Land. As Moses is about to die, he engages in a kind of review lesson for the people, relating their history, describing their journey and reminding them of the laws they have agreed to as part of their covenant with God.

This last part – the theological emphasis on the covenant – is a major theme in Deuteronomy. Over and over, God tells the Israelites through Moses: “You’re about to enter the Land. Just follow my laws and you’ll be fine. But break them and you’ll be very, very, sorry.”

It’s really not to hard to discern these theological threats throughout Deuteronomy– in fact we read them over and over and over again. God tells the Israelites that a deal’s a deal – and they had better hold up their end or else. And of course the “or else” is spelled out repeatedly – often in gruesomely vivid detail.

Now, of all the laws contained in this covenant, there is one in particular that God seems particularly uptight about: that is, namely, the law against worshiping other gods. That’s not to say God isn’t concerned about laws such as murder, theft, providing for the poor, caring for the stranger… While these kinds of laws are certainly mentioned, the stakes always seem to be the highest when it comes to the commandment against idolatry – against serving gods of foreign nations.

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A Song of Ascents for Rosh Hashanah

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My new take on Psalm 126 – it feels just right for Rosh Hashanah.

Shanah Tovah U’Metukah – May you and may we all be blessed with a sweet and renewing New Year!

Psalm 126
My song of assent
I will return from this exile
wake up
from this bad dream
my crazy laughter’s busting out
I’m learning to sing
all over and over and over
again
only now do I know
you were there all along
coaxing me along to this
place of my return oh yes
you’ll bring me home
like water
roaring down dry river beds
I’ll be coming home
those who sowed with tears
will reap with joy
those who bury their pain deep
will soon gather
their bountiful harvest

More Poetry for Elul

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From the great Canadian-Jewish poet, Shulamis Yelin (1913-2002):

In your image,
in your image, God,
You made me in your image,
and I reach upward, seeking –
to be like You, God.

Just? Like You I’m vengeful.
Merciful? Like You I seek an understanding heart.
Jealous? Yes, I’m jealous
and iniquitous
and long suffering –
and like You
I dream to make a world,
(in miniature, God),
to do my bidding.

And loving I can be, yes, loving,
to a penitent, punished child.

Yet clearly, God, most clearly,
do I see in me your oneness,
your all-oneness,
your aloneness –
in my heart.

For Elul: All Things Must Pass

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[youtube:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g-ATb5FNci8%5D

For your Elul viewing/listening pleasure:

Here is a clip from the “Concert for George,” which was held in November 2002 on the first anniversary of George Harrison’s death. It was a star-studded affair organized by his family and arranged as a benefit for Harrison’s charitable foundation.

Among the many memorable moments in the concert was this performance of Harrison’s solo classic, “All Things Must Pass” sung by Paul McCartney. I find it quite moving to listen to the spiritual message of the song, doubly meaningful on this particular occasion. (Not to mention watching Harrison’s son Dhani – the spitting image of his father – playing backup guitar.)

All things must pass
All things must pass away
All things must pass
None of life’s strings can last
So, I must be on my way
And face another day

Now the darkness only stays the night-time
In the morning it will fade away
Daylight is good at arriving at the right time
It’s not always going to be this grey

My Father, the Wandering Aramean…

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In this week’s Torah portion, Ki Tavo, God instructs the Israelites, upon entering the Promised Land, to offer up the first fruits of their harvest. They are then to recite a short narrative of their history, beginning with their earliest ancestors and ending with their own arrival at the land.

This narrative, made famous by its central place in the Passover Haggadah, begins thus:

My father was a wandering Aramean. He went down to Egypt with meager numbers and sojourned there; but there he became a great and very populous nation…” (Deuteronomy 26:5)

The opening words of this passage have been the subject of considerable controversy for centuries. According to most commentators, the “wandering father” is identified as Jacob. This would certainly fit neatly into the Biblical narrative, as Jacob did indeed go down to Egypt with his sons during a period of famine.

In the traditional Passover Haggadah, however, the Rabbis translate the Hebrew “My father was a wandering Aramean” (“arami oved avi“) very differently.  By changing the vocalization of the Hebrew “oved” (“wandering”) to “ibed” (“destroyed”), they render the text to mean: “An Aramean sought to destroy my father.” (The Haggadah identifies this would-be murderer as Laban who, by threatening Jacob, “sought to uproot us all.”)

So which is it?

In true Jewish fashion, the debate rages on. Among the classical commentators, Rashi supports the Haggadah’s reading, while others, including Ibn Ezra adhere to the conventional interpretation. Rashbam accepts the “wandering Aramean” interpretation as well, but identifies the wanderer as Abraham rather than Jacob.

Beyond the fancy hermeneutics, however, I’m struck by the two spiritual models suggested by these respective translations. One highlights our wanderings, identifying our peoplehood with our collective seeeking – our desire to journey toward a better and more blessed future. The second model suggests we are essentially a hunted and hated people, forever on the run from those who would seek our destruction.

These two readings illuminate a critical question that inform our collective Jewish self-understanding to this very day.  Centuries later, the question remains: with which narrative will we identify?  The narrative in which we are the perpetual victim or the spiritual seeker? Does our story forever pit us against an eternal enemy – or does it ultimately celebrate our sacred purpose and the promise of blessing?

For Elul: Robi’s Letter

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Some more Elul reading material for you:

In March 2002 Robi Damelin’s 28 year old son, David, was shot and killed by a Palestinian while serving in the Israeli army. Robi has since become a leader in The Parents’ Circle, a group of Israeli and Palestinian families whose lives have been torn apart by violence and now work together for reconciliation and peace.

As part of her own work, Robi decided to take the courageous step of writing a letter to the mother of the man who killed her son.  I can think of nothing more appropriate to this season of our reconciliation than Robi’s profound words.

An excerpt:

After your son was captured, I spent many sleepless nights thinking about what to do, should I ignore the whole thing, or will I be true to my integrity and to the work that I am doing and try to find a way for closure and reconciliation. This is not easy for anyone and I am just an ordinary person not a saint I have now come to the conclusion that I would like to try to find a way to reconcile. Maybe this is difficult for you to understand or believe, but I know that in my heart it is the only path that I can chose, for if what I say is what I mean it is the only way.

Click below for the entire text:

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A Radio Story for Elul

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Your next homework assignment for the month of Elul is to listen to this recent piece from NPR’s “This American Life.”  I chose it because so much of our spiritual preparation during this season focuses on our struggle with change. Is it truly possible to turn our lives around?  How do we hold on to our faith in our ability to change – and the potential of others as well?

The hero of this story is an amazing woman named Ton’Nea Williams who, while working at a juvenile detention facility, befriended a boy named Kenneth and attempted to set his life on the right path. As you will hear, the story takes some unexpected twists and turns. I particularly admire it because it asks the most essential questions, but refuses to provide us with easy answers.

The program lasts approximately a 1/2 hour, but trust me, this story is well worth your time – and is utterly appropriate to our Elul preparations.

A Meditation for Elul: Yes, God Loves You

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As I mentioned in a previous post, during the month of Elul, I’ll be offering occasional “Elul Meditations” that I hope will help with your spiritual preparation for the Days of Awe. This one is an excerpt from a Rosh Hashanah sermon I gave ten years ago entitled “The Season of Our Loving.”

If we don’t relate to a personal, supernatural God on High, what could it possibly mean to pray prayers that say “God loves us?”  Maybe – just maybe – it means that our love for one another is but a hint of something much greater: an infinite place of unconditional love that pervades the universe. Perhaps the simplest way we experience God’s love is when we look into the eyes of our own loved ones. I am reminded of Jacob’s unbearably touching words, the words that come when he finally reconciles with his beloved brother Esau: “to see your face is to see the face of God.” Could it be possible that when we love another, we are tapping into a well that connects us with a transcendent love greater than anything we can possibly imagine?

Ahavat Olam – “with an unending love you love us, Adonai, our God.” I understand this prayer as much more than simply a tribal statement of faith about God’s exclusive gift of Torah to the people Israel. At its most profound level, this prayer expresses our sense that there is a source of unconditional love that surrounds all peoples always – an “Ahavat Olam.” It is reflected in our love for one another, but it is not ultimately dependant upon it. For if love is only a transient feeling or sensation, then it is not truly eternal. Perhaps when we say “God loves us,” we are simply saying that this life force – this love force – is an elemental part of our lives and our world. Like the love we share with true loved ones, it has a transformative power. It connects us in a profound way. It protects and validates us. It helps us to overcome our solitariness. It keeps us safe.

A Poem for Tisha B’Av

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At our Tisha B’Av service last night, we read several contemporary poems alongside the traditional chanting of Lamentations.  Here is one:

Try To Praise The Mutilated World

Try to praise the mutilated world.
Remember June’s long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of wine, the dew.
The nettles that methodically overgrow
the abandoned homesteads of exiles.
You must praise the mutilated world.
You watched the stylish yachts and ships;
one of them had a long trip ahead of it,
while salty oblivion awaited others.
You’ve seen the refugees heading nowhere,
you’ve heard the executioners sing joyfully.
You should praise the mutilated world.
Remember the moments when we were together
in a white room and the curtain fluttered.
Return in thought to the concert where music flared.
You gathered acorns in the park in autumn
and leaves eddied over the earth’s scars.
Praise the mutilated world
and the grey feather a thrush lost,
and the gentle light that strays and vanishes
and returns.

– Adam Zagajewski (translation: Renata Gorczynski )

The Path to Healing is Justice

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Your country is desolate; your cities are burned with fire; your land, strangers devour it in your presence, and it is desolate, as overthrown by floods.      (Isaiah 1:6)

These opening verses from Isaiah, are part of the Haftarah portion for this Shabbat.  It is the final of the so-called “Haftarot of Affliction” that precede Tisha B’Av – the most grief-stricken of Jewish festivals.

Like the Biblical book of Lamentations, our Haftarah is filled to overflowing with fierce divine judgement and and overwhelming sense of communal self-pity and shame:

Ah sinful nation! People laden with iniquity! Brood of evildoers! Depraved children! They have forsaken the Lord, Spurned the Holy One of Israel, Turned their backs (on God). (1:4)

Beginning next week, however, our Haftarah portions will offer messages not of affliction, but of healing and consolation. From this point on, these portions will guide us all the way into the High Holiday season itself. In a sense, the Jewish calendar is currently in a spiritual rhythm that moves us on a journey from pain to healing.

I particularly struck that unlike the book of Lamentations, which is essentially a litany of pain and shame, this week’s Haftarah actually offers a quintessentially prophetic call to justice:

Wash yourselves clean; put away your evil from before My eyes; cease to do wrong.

Learn to do good, seek justice; relieve the oppressed. Uphold the orphan’s rights; take up the widow’s cause.   (Isaiah 1:16-17)

In other words, our present woes can be directly traced to our own acts of injustice. As I read these verses, I’m reminded of the oft-made observation that the strength of a society can only be judged by the extent to which it protects its weakest citizens.  In much the same way, this week’s Haftarah teaches that our own vulnerability is irrevocably bound up with the most vulnerable members of our community.

As it turns out, the Haftarah for Yom Kippur comes from the book of Isaiah as well. I like to think of these two prophetic portions as “spiritual bookends” to this season. At the end of the Days of Awe, we will end with the same essential message with which we began – the way to healing and redemption is really quite simple:

No, this is the fast that I desire: to unlock fetters of wickedness and untie the cords of lawlessness; to let the oppressed go free and break off every yoke. It is to share your bread with the hungry, and to take the wretched poor into your home; to clothe when you see the naked, and never forget your own flesh (Isaiah 58:6-7).