Sermon – Rosh Hashanah 5772 The Hope of the Year by Rabbi Joe Blair

Posted on October 13, 2011 by Rabbi Joe

Rosh Hashanah 5772
Rabbi Joe Blair
The Hope of the Year

Shalom, and Gut Yontif. I am pleased to be here with all of you tonight/today, gathered as a community to welcome the new year together.
We have lived through another full year, a year complete with both good and bad, happy and sad, successe and failures, and I am both pleased and comforted to be able to say that we have been there for each other as a community. In some ways 5771 was a difficult year, though there were good things that took place. Nonetheless, that year is now over, used up, and done.
Tonight/Today we are gathered to look forward, bidding that spent year farewell, turning our thoughts and attention to the year that is now before us – a fresh, clean year, and an opportunity to begin anew to write the story of our lives.
Just as, when we were children, we began each new school year with a new empty notebook, ready, waiting, and calling for us to write in it, today/tonight we are poised with our pencils sharpened, looking at the first page which is still blank, clean and gleaming white, and waiting for us to lower the pencil to the page and to begin.
This is seen as a time of hope, of promise, and opportunity. A time for renewal, and for new beginnings, a shining moment, unsullied and fresh – brand new start! What a gift it seems!
Like a child with a new toy we have longed for, we sit and look at it in wonder and joy, just taking it in. But soon, all too soon, we will succumb to the urgent desire to play with that toy, or we will be pushed into opening it by someone well-meaning…. And then we will open the packaging and take it out with anticipation and pleasure, and perhaps, some of us, even with great care. It is new and shiny and perfect – we don’t want to mar it, or dirty it, or (G-d forbid!) break it!
So we handle it gingerly, not wanting to spoil it…. And yet….. no matter what we may want to do, we cannot leave it in the wrapper unopened, untouched. We will open it, and handle it, and even as we use it, grow close to it and love it.
Inevitably, it will become dirty and scuffed, and perhaps a little damaged, or even broken. And then at one moment on a day soon enough we will see that it is no longer new and shiny and clean and perfect – and we may feel a bit sad that the perfection has been marred, and feel that we failed to protect and preserve it.
But that is not something to regret, nor a failure! Instead, those are the marks of living – showing that we engage with and use that ‘toy’, and in our using it, it becomes marked and scratched and dented and dirty – because it has become our favorite toy, one we cannot live without. Those marks are the sign that we are alive and engaged. They are a sign of the efforts, the failures and successes, and the hope for the future in our lives. An unsullied toy bespeaks a denial of life – of leaving it in the wrapper and not engaging with it.
But the secret is that this holiday season is not about getting a shiny new toy. The real message of the holiday is not that we become someone else or are magically transformed into someone else, someone who has never made a mistake or who has only made good decisions and acted justly; not that we are made over and as if just born, nor that our lives begin anew. Unlike the idea of receiving a new toy, our lives are not replaced by something else that has just come from the factory or the store. Our lives continue, accumulating more dents, and scratches, and scuffs, and marks as we go forward.
No, instead it is a time that we are given an even greater gift than a shiny new toy; we are given hope.
Rosh Hashanah, the Yamim Nora’im, and Yom Kippur are collectively a time when we can pause and take stock, evaluate our ‘old toy’, and decide how to use it going forward. It is a time to pause, consider and reflect, and to redirect ourselves for the future – to appreciate our ‘toy’ and to determine how we will use it from here on.
The hope we are given is not in a fresh clean start, but in our ability to choose going forward. The gift of choice is what frees us. By exercising our free will, we can ‘play with our toys’ in ways that will bring out the best in them (and in us).
These holidays bring with them a call to conciousness, as we say in the Shofar service, to ‘awake, you sleepers!’ We must be awake, aware, and conscious to be able to see that we are confronted by a choice. When we know that we have a choice, we can also know that how we choose will shape not only that moment and the immediate events, but potentially, all of our coming year; our relationships, our sense of who we are – now and who we can become – and therefore, our future and our entire life.
How do we know that this is what we are to do? We read it just last week, in Parashat Nitzavim, Dev. 30:11-14, 19-20.
“Surely, this Instruction which I enjoin upon you this day is not too difficult/baffling for you, nor is it beyond reach. It is not in the heavens, that you should say, ‘Who among us can go up to the heavens and get it for us and impart it to us, that we may observe it?’ Neither is it beyond the sea, that you should say, ‘Who among us can cross to the other side of the sea and get it for us and impart it to us that we may observe it?’ No, the thing is very close to you, in your mouth and in your heart, to observe it.”
“I call heaven and earth to witness against you this day: I have put before you life and death, blessing and curse. Choose life – if you and your offspring would live – by loving the Eternal your God, heeding God’s commands, and holding fast to [God]. For thereby you shall have life and shall long endure upon the soil that the Eternal swore to your fathers Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, to give to them.”
“Choose Life!” It couldn’t be any clearer.
MAKE A CHOICE. CHOOSE.
So we see that we are not only given the option, we are commanded to choose, stated in an imperative form!
What that says to me is that G-d wants us to choose. It is up to us to do so, and we determine what we choose. If we choose well, we choose for life and blessing. And the holidays are given us to call us to make a choice.
But make no mistake: we don’t get to make one choice and all is determined forever. No, instead, it is a constant process, a series of choices, one after the other, cascading out through the year. Lots of choices, small and large. And one of the things that gives me great hope, and the courage to make choices, is that in most cases, no single choice is likely to determine everything that follows. Even if I blow it at one moment, it is likely that I can recover and continue to move forward in future choices. It is not ‘all or nothing’. As a fallible human being, that is among the most comforting things I can imagine. I know that I have made many errors in my life, and it is likely that I will make many more. However, so long as I can learn from them, and choose to avoid the same mistakes again, I am moving forward, although it may be by fits and starts. That is the hope that is renewed at this time of year, the promise of the holiday season.
May we each have the ability to look at ourselves and see what needs to be improved in our life, find the courage to make choices that will lead to those improvements, and have the strength to carry out the choices that we make. May this process bring each of us renewed hope and many blessings in the year to come.
Ken Yehi Ratzon – may it be so. And let us say, Amen.

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Sermon – Yom Kippur 5772 by Rabbi Joe Blair

Posted on October 13, 2011 by Rabbi Joe

Yom Kippur 5772
October 7/8, 2011
Our Balancing Act

Shabbat shalom and Gut yontif.
Good things don’t just happen. I want to recognize that, and start my remarks by acknowledging all those persons who have helped us to celebrate this holiday and this holiday season. As much as it may seem so from the sidelines, these holidays do not simply ‘happen’ on their own. It takes much effort and time by many, work and the generosity of many to bring us the music, to do the many background preparations, to provide the beautiful flowers, to prepare and set up for the food we will enjoy, and for the myriad other details that go into making this holiday time special. Without the gifts and offerings of those who have labored to bring this about, it would not be such a special time for all of us. I cannot name you all now, but please, each of you, know that your contributions towards our holiday have been noted and are deeply appreciated by me, and by many others.
We sit here now, on this Yom Kippur, filled with memories and thoughts of the year (or even years) passed, and filled too with hopes for the year that is ahead of us. We hope and pray that our Teshuvah – repentance and reparative acts – has been sufficient, that our heartfelt contrition and efforts to repair the damage we have done are adequate, that our resolve to do better in the coming days is sincere and strong enough, and that we will be sealed for good in the book of life for this year.
I mentioned on Rosh Hashanah that the imagery of the book of life had spoken to me this year. I think you all know of it. The book of life is spoken of as a ledger in which we each have a page, and on that page is written our fate, what is to become of us or befall us, in the coming year. In keeping with that imagery, on Rosh Hashanah, we asked to be written, for good, in the book of life. Now, on Yom Kippur we ask to be sealed, also for good, in that book.
Why the delay between writing and sealing? Rabbinic teachings tell us that there are understood to be three categories of person.
First is the Ra’ah – the wholly evil or bad person; for them the outcome is a foregone conclusion, and there need be no delay between writing and sealing.
Second is the Tzedek – the wholly righteous person; and for them the outcome is also a foregone conclusion, and no delay is needed.
In terms of college admissions, we might think of these as the early decision applicants – either accepted or rejected on the spot and informed immediately.
The third category, the Benoni – those in between – are the vast majority of us. For us, there is some question, and the announcement of the decision will wait.
In the college admission example, this is the group for whom the admissions committee waits for the posting of the current semester grades before making a decision.
For us as Jews, it is similar. In perhaps a more apt analogy, we are told that G-d gives us a chance, like the sentencing judge, to bring forward ‘character witnesses’ and to show community service and good works we have done – but in this case, rather than people to testify for us, this references our deeds and our heart, what we do and how we feel (this is, after all, G-d we are describing – and G-d can know both). This goes to the essence of Teshuvah. Thus, the period of the Yamim Nora’im is the time when we can bring forth our ‘witnesses’, and seek to affect the decree that was written (penciled in) on Rosh Hashanah, but is not yet (inked and) sealed. Our last chance to soften that decree towards us before the sentence is sealed and to be carried out, we understand in our guts, is Yom Kippur. That makes Yom Kippur, for most of us, a time of awe, dread, and fear. Our posture on this day with regard to G-d is similar to the defendant standing before the judge presiding over his case; we have come to the moment of truth, when both the prosecution and defense have presented all the evidence, all the witnesses, all the testimony, and all the arguments, both have ‘rested’, and now we are awaiting the pronouncement of the judgment. This is a heavy moment, freighted with much import, emotion, and meaning.
I am not G-d, and I cannot know either the transgressions each of us has committed, nor the depth or sincerity of each of our processes of Teshuvah, but I do have the sense that those who are here today have come, at least in part, because they do have hope for a good year to come. I have faith that G-d is merciful, compassionate, full of grace and loving kindness, as the prayer concerning the thirteen attributes of G-d states, and that these attributes will temper the severe decree of strict justice for each of us. So, without any cause other than that faith, I feel comfortable saying to you that I hope and expect that each of us here will be sealed for good in the year to come. Of course, I could be wrong – but I don’t expect anyone to wish for that outcome in this instance. ?
I spoke of choice and hope at Rosh Hashanah; we have talked before about what Yom Kippur means. Today I want to spend a short time with you thinking about what the entire holiday season means to us, and what it teaches.
At this moment, we are all aware that we entered the new year ten days ago on Rosh Hashanah, and we have had the period of the Yamim Nora’im, the days of awe, during which (ideally) we did all we could to repent and make amends with and to others. Now, today, we have arrived at Yom Kippur, the single most solemn day in the Jewish calendar. This should by all rights bring a sense of approaching the completion of this cycle of beginning the new year, of the culmination of this holiday season; yet, today we are somehow still in an ‘in-between’ place. We know it from the liturgy, and we feel it in our guts. Why? What does this mean?
I propose to you that this season, this time of year, is for us, as Jews, one of cognitive dissonance. As we traverse the ten days from Rosh Hashanah to Yom Kippur, and go on to Sukkot in just five days, there is a feeling of almost being in an emotionally schizophrenic mindset, on an emotional roller coaster.
On the one hand Rosh Hashanah is the ‘birthday of the world’, a time of great joy and celebration of creation, with a sense of renewal and hope, and a strong focus on enthroning G-d as king, sovereign of creation, the one who deals mercifully, having love and compassion for his children and creations. We speak extensively of the image of a father who sees and understands us, who feels for and with us. We talk about a god who seeks our Teshuvah, repentance and return, waiting patiently with open arms until the last day for even the worst among us to come back to G-d and G-d’s ways.
At the same time, this is a period also of dread and awe, of facing questions of great matter, regarding life and death, and the meaning of our existence. It is a time of examining ourselves and seeing just how much we are lacking, how we have failed and fallen short, sensing how we are being judged – whether we think of that as by ourself, by others, or by G-d.
So we see that on the one hand, it is a massive celebration – the coronation (of G-d), a birthday celebration (of creation), and a holiday day, a time of thanksgiving (for creation and its’ bounty, and for life), all rolled into one! Rosh Hashanah! Yippee!
But on the other hand, it is a time to stand in fear, with awe and dread at the majesty that judges and sentences us, to feel the full weight of the difference between G-d and ourself, and to know our limits.
Even more, in between, it is a time of self-evaluation and introspection; a time of recognizing our failures, faults and flaws, and making efforts to repair hurts we have done, right wrongs we have committed, and repair relationships we have damaged; a period of seeking to better ourselves and set our sights higher. It is also a time to pray and reflect, to speak of ourselves as of little worth, just dust and ashes, sinners, and persons who have failed to live according to their potential.
These are completely different, seemingly irreconcilable approaches, but all are part of this holiday cycle. Even more – we move from Yom Kippur almost immediately, in just five days, to Sukkot – the celebration of Creation, rejoicing in the harvest, living out the past by our deeds in building and occupying booths or huts and shaking the lulav and etrog; this is the biblical holiday upon which the common celebration of Thanksgiving is based. An emotional and liturgical movement from rejoicing, to self-abasement and acts of repair, to awe, fear, and dread, to celebration of creation and nature’s bounty. Whew – what a range! What are we to make of all this? What can we learn from this juxtaposition?
First, I would say that I don’t see it as arbitrary. It is not just happenstance that these events fall out on the calendar this way.
One thing that I would say is that Judaism is a realistic religion. It does not see us as anything less than fully human beings, with all the capacities and capabilities and flaws that we inherently encompass. It does not talk down to us. It does not assume we are incapable of comprehending complex concepts. I would propose that this very juxtaposition of seemingly incompatible events on the liturgical calendar is precisely an example of the realistic approach of Judaism, and a call to us to be fully human.
According to one famous writer, one of the traits of human beings is the ability to hold conflicting ideas simultaneously.
Before I go on with this short history, let me make a general observation — the test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in the mind at the same time, and still retain the ability to function. One should, for example, be able to see that things are hopeless and yet be determined to make them otherwise.
? F. Scott Fitzgerald, “The Crack Up”, Esquire Magazine, February/March/April 1936

By this juxatoposition, we are being called, then, to be ‘first-rate intelligences’ – and perhaps more, to be fully human. We are asked to hold the varying concepts and feelings that are evoked by this holiday season. We are asked not only to hold them, but to balance and relate to all of these concepts at once; to see them and accept them as related and connected.
This is not a concept that is new: it dates back at least to the early 1800’s, where we have a profound teaching of Rabbi Simcha Bunam (Bonhart) of P’sisch’cha (Przysucha, Poland) (1765-1827).
Everyone must have two pockets, with a note in each pocket, so that he or she can reach into the one or the other, depending on the need. When feeling lowly and depressed, discouraged or disconsolate, one should reach into the right pocket, and, there, find the words: “For my sake was the world created. But when feeling high and mighty one should reach into the left pocket, and find the words: “I am but dust and ashes.”
These notes are not charms or amulets or magic formulas. They have no power of their own. Their only power comes from the meaning you give to them by using them in your life. The secret of living comes from knowing when to reach into each pocket. The goal is to create a balance between humility and joy as you go through life.
In our context, I would argue that it is not one or the other, but both at once that we must maintain. Perhaps, as human beings, we cannot have one without the other – it takes humility to find joy, and without joy one cannot achieve humility.
Perhaps, so too, for the holiday season. Our task is to find balance in life.
We are given the gift of Rosh Hashanah, and the sense of joy, of hope, of renewal that comes with it. It must come first, for without the sustaining hope and joy that Rosh Hashanah embodies, we would not engage in the hard work of introspection, looking ourself in the face in that mirror and truly seeing who and what we are, and then acting, working, to make ourselves better during the Yamim Nora’im.
Without the hope and joy that Rosh Hashanah gives us, after that period of self-reflection and effort to improve, how could we otherwise find the strength or the will to stand ‘in the dock’ and be judged by G-d?
Beyond that, continuing through the year, how else could we turn from that solemn moment of judgment and exposure, and plunge into the celebration of Creation for Sukkot, if we did not have hope and joy to sustain us?
At the same time, would we experience hope and joy at the start of a new year if we did not know that this would be a time that we could take our measure, and re-set our sights, aiming a little higher, doing a little better? That we would not just go on as we had been, but that there would be an accounting, giving meaning to our efforts to improve ourself? That there would be a moment when we would stand, exposed and vulnerable, before G-d, awaiting a judgement? Without the weight of that moment of truth hovering, would we have a need for the hope and joy that Rosh Hashanah brings? Would we experience it? I don’t think we would find it to be the same at all – for example, I love Thanksgiving and all it brings, but I don’t feel changed or purified or renewed by it, the way I do by this holiday season. It is only complex of feelings and concepts that brings me to that point.
I posit that it is specifically the combination of themes and emotional calls that speaks to us at this time of year. It is only by holding all of these complex concepts and emotions simultaneously that we can experience the full range and power of this holiday season. The meaning and import is enhanced by the complexities; we are called to reach deeper and to stretch farther, to be more fully human and more completely present and aware by this very challenge. It is only in the delicate dance that we as humans can do that it is possible to maintain the interrelationships between, and hold the competing concepts in relation to each other, and so bring our lives and our sense of meaning into balance. This very dance is what calls us to be fully human, to strive to be alive and aware and to exercise our free will, to make choices, to have hope – but to be realistic, that hope must be balanced with a sense of our responsibilities, and our weaknesses, as measured by our failures. The goal is not perfection; as a human being, the goal is to find a way to maintain the balance. Like a circus performer, we must walk the tightrope, ride bareback on the galloping stallion, or swing from trapeze to trapeze, all the while staying balanced and focused. And this holiday season is a gift to us, a way to show us that we can accomplish our human task, and live in balance, even as we careen from one precarious moment to the next dangerous perch. We have the tools, we have the ability, and the audience (G-d) wants us to succeed, or, at least, to keep trying. What more could we need or want?
Leshana tovah umetukah tichatemu. May each of us find balance, and be sealed for a year of health, prosperity, joy, and wellbeing, full of love and laughter. Ken yehi ratzon.

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Yom Kippur 5772 by Rabbi Sue Levi Elwell

Posted on October 11, 2011 by Rabbi Joe

Practicing for Death; Renewing our hunger for life

Yom Kippur 5772
7/8 October 2011
Beth El Congregation, Harrisonburg, VA
Temple House of Israel, Staunton, VA
Sue Levi Elwell

Shabbat shalom and shana tova. This year, Yom Kippur arrives on Shabbat. What does this mean for us? Shabbat, which literally means “stop,” is our day of rest, our day of unplugging, our day of remembering that just as God took a break from the work of creating the world, so do we need to stop, each week, and rest from our sometimes frantic activities in the world. In the Torah, Yom Kippur is called “Shabbat Shabbaton.” We speak of the expert of experts, the professor’s professor, the physician’s physician: Yom Kippur is the Sabbath’s Sabbath.

So what does that mean for us, we who may struggle with slowing down on a weekly basis? For many of us, that slowing down comes with immersing ourselves in pleasurable, life-affirming activities: eating, drinking, spending time in nature, enjoying our beloveds. So what happens when Shabbat meets the big Shabbat, the gantze Shabbat?

S.Y. Agnon’s classic book The Days of Awe teaches, referring to the liturgical changes when special days fall on the Sabbath:
When the holy Sabbath has a worthy guest like the New Moon, it surrenders one prayer…When the Sabbath has a guest who is even greater than the New Moon, it surrenders all its prayers, but it does not surrender any of its feasts. But when the Sabbath has a guest who is very great, than whom is none greater, that is the holy day, Yom Kippur,–lo, it surrenders all its prayers and all its feasts too.
Well, not all–the tradition of withholding petitions on Shabbat, resisting the desire to ask the Creator for one more favor, is observed on Yom Kippur. That is why we do not repeat Avinu Malkenu tonight or tomorrow, except during our final Neilah service.)

Rabbi Nancy Fuchs Kreimer writes that on Yom Kippur we are challenged not only to refrain from work and commerce, but “in addition to the rules against working, driving, and the like we add prohibitions against bathing, anointing, sexual relations, wearing leather, and eating or drinking. Some of us wear a kittel, a shroud. …Yom Kippur is a stop on steroids, the mother of all stops. Now we have stopped doing the very things living people do… We are not only unplugging from our computer. Now we are the computer and we are shutting down the system.”

Yom Kippur is the day on which we Jews practice death.

Let’s sit with that idea for a moment.
We practice death. Rabbi David Wolpe calls it a “death rehearsal.” What does that mean for each of us?

The Talmud teaches that sleep is a taste of death, and that babies, who are closer than most of us to the boundary of life and death, know this. That is why they cry before sleep, resisting returning to the place before birth. Traditional bedtime prayers ask God to bless us with peace, both as we lie down, and as we rise up. The first prayer of the morning, known to many by its opening words, Modeh/ Modah Ani, thanks God for returning our soul to us, as if our souls are been kept safe by God while we sleep.

During Yom Kippur, however, we do not sleep. We rehearse for our deaths while awake. For most of us, that is a frightening thought. And we know that fear can paralyze. When we are afraid, we flee—or we fight.

Yom Kippur stops us in our tracks because it demands that we confront two issues that most of us avoid: death and God. For many of us, the two are intertwined. On this day, we cannot escape either. God is at the center of our prayers, and death seems to be all around us. Yet Yom Kippur is about facing, not avoiding, essential issues, central challenges for each of us. Let’s examine how this day welcomes us to rehearse for death without frightening us into paralysis. And we’ll explore, too, how we may be able to discover openings to God that do not cause us to run away.

Our rehearsal for death begins, for some of us, by intentionally donning specific clothing. Just as many in America and Europe wear black for funerals, the color white plays a large part in our preparation for death today. White is the absence of color, and in many cultures, reflects purity, asceticism, renewal; the 16th century R. Moses Isserles of Cracow taught that white garments help us resemble the ministering angels. We prepare the synagogue, our shared home, by putting white covers on the Torah. Some of us wear white clothing. Some of us wear a kittle like this one. This garment will, when I die, serve as my shroud.

We also rehearse for death by fasting. Those of us who are able intentionally deprive our bodies by abstaining from food and drink. And we may spread a white cloth on our dining tables, and set the table with books, not utensils or dishes. On this day, we’ll be nourished by Torah and text. Our attention will not on the body but on the spirit.

How else do we practice death? We may acknowledge our connection with all life as we refrain from wearing leather and animal skins. Vegetable and plant fibers are, by definition, biodegradable. Consciously nor not, we may dress ourselves in clothing that, like our own bodies, will, one day, return to dust.

And what of the music and the words and the silences of this day? The Kol Nidre chant that invites us into Yom Kippur is a mysterious and haunting combination of words and music that create a powerful, and for some, irresistible web of contemplation. The minor/major strains, the throbbing repetition, and the drama of the presentation all encourage introspection. And then, we repeat the challenging U’Netaneh Tokef, with its frightening questions, “Who will live and who will die…” These words bring us face to face with the inescapable fact that we will all die. This powerful, mythical poem burns into our resistant hearts and says: your life will end. The only questions are how and when.

The cadences of the day invite contemplation and reflection, taking us into corners of our souls and our memories that force us to look at the inevitability of death. But sometimes, the words of the liturgy fall like stones at our feet; we cannot hear them. They seem inert, devoid of meaning. They become symbols frozen on the page, repeated by a leader who does not connect to us at all. The simple weight of words on this day may feel like a death sentence. The words become a barrier to feeling, to engagement, to being present. And the prayerbook seems an empty vessel without meaning, purpose, or direction.

Yet for some of us, the prayers, the songs, the poetry “works,” as the words and music invite us to see with greater clarity. The masses of words crafted by our sages help us to consider how we have missed the mark during the past year, and help us to grant forgiveness to ourselves for our inability or unwillingness to care for ourselves and for others, both those close at hand and those farther away. Some of us find a life-force in the words that help us to imagine and rehearse death..

And then there is silence. There are many invitations to silence in the course of Yom Kippur Day. For some of us, silence is initially a relief, a balm, a gift. For others, silence is a fearful experience, a place devoid of care or support. When we enter silence, deeply, intentionally, we may discover that there are silences within silence. Silence can offer discovery, insight, welcome. How is silence, for you? A taste of death or a promise of possible insight and calm?

Yom Kippur is not a day of death. Rather, this day enables us to practice for death in a safe context. Yom Kippur is a day of immersion in time-tested rituals that invite us to acknowledge the fear and trembling that we all feel when we think about death. Yom Kippur invites us to experience one day when we interrupt our routines and “shut down our system.” But our system is not asleep. Rather, this day enables us to awaken to the deep possibilities of being in the world with all of our faculties, unencumbered by concerns about what to wear, what to eat, what to say and do. This day is fully proscribed. The Torah teaches: “it shall be a sacred occasion for you: you shall practice self-denial…you shall do no work throughout that day…” Today, by rehearsing death, we may, in some small way, face our fears. And, when we conclude this day with the sound of the shofar, when we end our fast, when we return to our homes and the pleasures that bring us comfort, we may feel renewed, refreshed, and ready to face and engage in the New Year that opens before us.

I would like to suggest that this process of moving from death to life happens as a result of context and content. The context for our process is of course, our communal observance of this Day of Awe. We are here together, each of us with our own stories, our own troubles, our own successes and our own losses. Our prayers, our sighs, our songs are shared in community. We repeat our sins in the first person plural so that none of us needs to distinguish ourselves as one who has lied, or cheated, or slandered another. We take responsibility for our collective humanity, and ask the Holy One to forgive us. We are present for one another as a shiva minyan, gathering together to reassure the bereaved that they are not alone in their grief. What is unique about this day is that we are experiencing our own shiva minyan. Look around. Some of us are looking into the faces of those who have comforted us when we have mourned a beloved. Some of us are looking into the faces of those who will gather when we are mourned by our beloveds. This is the Jewish way: even in the loneliness of death, we try to serve one another, we try to represent God by sitting with, and weeping with, and praying and singing and laughing with those who mourn. Today we practice death, and reclaim the power of showing up for one another, yesterday, today, and tomorrow.

And, I suggest, Yom Kippur offers us specific content, words that also help us on this journey from fear. This early Medieval poem, or piyyut, is beloved by many; it is part of the Yom Kippur morning service. The version that is in our Gates of Prayer reads:
Ki anu amecha v’ata Malkenu
Ki anu vanecha v’ata Avinu
Here is one English interpretation:
We are your people, you are our Sovereign;
We are your children, you are our parent;
We are your heritage, You are our destiny
We are your flock, You are our shepherd
We are your vineyard, You are our keeper
We are your beloved, You are our friend.

On this day, we confront both death and the Source of life and death. On this day, each of us meets, and confronts, God.
This poem tells us: there are many ways to image and imagine God.
God can be imaged as a king, a queen, a royal presence: unapproachable, all powerful, perhaps kind and generous, perhaps callous and capricious. Perhaps inscrutable.
God can be thought of as a parent, loving yet setting boundaries, indulgent or cautious, comforting, protective, celebrating our uniqueness.
God may seen as be our destiny, our portion, beyond our understanding yet waiting, always for us.
God may envisioned as be a shepherd, gathering us when we stray and guiding us home.
God may be imaged as the vineyard keeper, pruning our extraneous branches, helping us to grow.
And finally, this poem invites us to consider our relationship with God as beloved, as friend.

This single poem, recited and sung on this day, reminds us that we Jews have always imagined God in many ways. Every time we repeat the Amidah, we speak of Elohai Avraham, Elohai Yitzahak, Elohai Ya’akov; Elohai Sarah, Elohai Rivka, Elohai Leah v’Elohai Rachel. Each time we repeat this prayer, we are reminded that each of the patriarchs and matriarchs had a unique relationship with the Holy One. And so do we. And as Reform Jews, following in the dynamic tradition of our ancestors, each of us is not only invited but encouraged to discover and develop a relationship with God that works for us. And as we grow and change and live our lives, our images for and understanding of and relationship with God will grow and change. We’ll find new language, and old, to imagine and re-image this dynamic, ever-changing, amazing and confounding connection.

So as we go forth on this Shabbat of Shabbats, this Shabbat Shabbaton, this Yom Kippur Day, let us open ourselves to this death rehearsal with open eyes and hearts. We are not alone as we practice death. We are here with others. And we are here with God, even if we are not ready to claim or name or embrace the Holy One of many names. One of the deep messages of this day, and of every day, is that God is always present, always waiting for us. When we are ready to open ourselves to God’s presence, we may be surprised that God has been here, holding us, guiding us, loving us, all along.

I conclude with these lines from Rabbi Nachman of Bratzlav: Kol haOlam kulo, gesher za’ar m’od: All of the world is a but a narrow bridge. V’ha ikkar lo l’fached klal. And the important thing, the essential thing is not to fear.

On this Yom Kippur Day, may we practice for death with attentive hearts, with gratitude for the presence of others, and without fear. Thus, may we open ourselves to life in this New Year, a life luminous with self-care, a life shimmering with God’s love, a life rich in joy.

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Rosh Hashanah 5772 by Rabbi Sue Levi Elwell

Posted on October 11, 2011 by Rabbi Joe

Rosh HaShana 5772
Temple House of Israel, Staunton, VA
Temple Beth El, Harrisonburg, VA
29/30 September 2011

To everything there is a season
And a time to every purpose under heaven
Ecclesiastes 3:1

Sue Levi Elwell

I am so very happy to be here with you once again, celebrating my seventeenth Rosh HaShana with you in the Shenandoah Valley. As many of you know, I am here because of Rabbi Lynne Landsberg’s invitation, so many years ago. I feel deeply blessed to have returned to this bima to begin another year with you.

As we began our service tonight, I asked each of you to return to the events of the past year, to recall where you have been, what you have done, how you have fared over the past twelve months. Those days are gone forever. We are now in a new moment, a new day, a new year.

This week, I was challenged to think about time in new ways. A dear friend and I spent an hour experiencing a newly acquired art piece by Christian Marclay entitled The Clock that is currently on view at the Israel Museum in Jerusalem. This ingenious, engaging and compelling installation addresses the question of our relationship to time, how we measure it, how we number and mark our minutes and our hours. This 24 hour long, masterfully constructed cinematic collage is coordinated to the local time in every venue in which it is shown. We walked into a dark room and sat down on couches and literally watched time pass, viewing snippets of film showing men and women from across the world checking their watches, reading clocks, and exclaiming about time left, time spent, time lost.

Tonight, each of us made time to mark the beginning of this new year. How did we manage that? How do each of us relate to time? How do we begin our days, and then meet our appointments as the day stretches out? Some of us are blessed with reliable biological clocks that rouse us from sleep and shake us into each new day. But most of us rely on alarm clocks or preset cell phones or coffee makers whose bells and whistles, music and aroma interrupt and demand the end of our deep or fitful sleep. Throughout the day, most of us are checking our watches or clocks on the wall or on our computers, consulting a wide range of devices to help us order our days, meet our commitments, begin and end projects, and take care of bodily needs. How often have we looked at the time and exclaimed, “I need to eat!” Or “look what time it is! I need to go to sleep!”

How different was our ancestors’ relationship to time! Every day, they measured their days by the sun’s journey across the sky, and every evening, they watched the moon rise. They enumerated each month by the moon’s predictable and marvelous phases, watching as this far away light expanded and contracted, waxing and waning, month after month, season after season. Too many of us have lost our connection to the natural cycle of time. With electricity and stimulants, we turn night into day. Streetlights and florescent bulbs flood artificial light into both outside and inside spaces that would naturally be dark and mysterious or menacing. And during the day, when the sun is bright or perhaps filters through clouds, we turn day into night by pulling down shades or blocking out the light with heavy curtains and sedatives.

On Rosh HaShana, we Jews reclaim our relationship to time. We intentionally gather together to hear the sound of the shofar, to be woken up to the possibilities of presence and service in the year that lies ahead.

Our ancestors called this day the birthday of the world. For children, and for many of us who are no longer children, birthdays are magical dates on the calendars. We count down towards our birthdays, consciously or unconsciously measuring and evaluating the activities of our days. We adults often use our birthdays as targets for achieving particular goals. By the time I turn 30 or 40 or 50 or 60 or 70 or 80, I want to …

The psalmist teaches, “limnot yamenu: teach us to number our days,” (Psalm 90:12), also translated as “Make known to us the best way to count our days.” The verse concludes, “ so that we may develop hearts of wisdom.” We count in order to use our time wisely. And we count today to set forth priorities for the year that opens us before us.

Today, we are here to celebrate a shared birthday, a birthday of the earth, the planet, the cosmos. This is the uber-birthday, the birthday of time and consciousness. This is a birthday of every creature who ever lived. This is a birthday that has been celebrated throughout time by everyone who has, at any time during their lives, connected with Judaism.

On this day, we step not away from but into our lives, and into a greater consciousness. On this day when we celebrate the mystery and the glory of Creation, we wonder anew at God’s wisdom and power. And as we reclaim wonder and awe, we also reconsider our own place in creation.

We have come together tonight in this sanctuary to share in what is called “avodah,” or sacred service. The Hebrew word avodah has several meanings. We often think immediately of sacred service, as in, “I’m going to services.” But there are many layers to this seemingly simple Hebrew word. The noun avodah, ayin, vet, vav, daled, hey, means work, labor, toil, action. It also means service, employment, occupation, profession; it also means creation, piece of work. Finally, avodah means worship, divine service, liturgy.

So if we ask ourselves, what is our avodah, we are asking, “what is our work in the world?” And we are also asking deeper questions: “how do we serve in the world? How do we express our appreciation for the gift of being alive?”

This is, I believe, a perfect time for us to consider this question. I began with thoughts on time. How do we pass time? How do we number our days? Do we get up in the morning with dread, or with excitement and anticipation about the opportunities that will unfold in the day ahead? Today is a day to re-evaluate our lives and our choices and to reclaim that regardless of the complexities of our lives, each of us chooses, each day, how to approach the time that we are given. Will we begin our day with a sense of service, of giving, of opening ourselves to possibility? Or will we shut our eyes and ears and hearts against the cries of the world?

Opportunities for service begin with the most basic tasks: cooking and cleaning. In the last week, I have been moved by the power of the simple provision of meals to family members. One longtime friend, an excellent cook, lovingly provides beautiful, nutritious meals to her large family, day after day. Another friend, Karen, has suddenly become the guardian for twin teenagers, a brother and sister who were orphaned when their single mother died of cancer several months ago. Karen is learning how to cook so that she can provide hot meals for these kids when they return home from school each evening. This is sacred service, not simply the act of shopping for and preparing and serving each meal, but the clarity of doing so with intention that fuels the act. Sacred service is fulfilling the commitment to care for and nurture those we love.

And then there are those who cook for strangers: the cooks in schools and hospitals, in diners and restaurants and factories. How often do we acknowledge their service, their care, their work that literally sustains us?

Sacred service: from cooking to cleaning

Perhaps you are familiar with the tale of the rabbi who cannot be found when it is time for the Rosh HaShana prayers to begin. His followers spread out through the town to look for him, and finally find him, sweeping the dirt floor of the tumble-down shack of a poor, ill, elderly widow. “Rabbi,” they say, “we require your presence at the synagogue!” The rabbi straightens up and looks his followers in the eye. “The Holy One requires my presence here. I will join you in time.”

Cleaning. How often do we consider the holiness of creating and maintaining domestic order?

Years ago, I read a theological reflection on drying dishes that deeply affected me. The anthropologist Barbara Meyerhoff interviewed an elderly Jewish woman, Rachel, asking her about her European childhood. “Now I did not like to wipe the dishes because the towel was so rough, it didn’t feel good, and I did not know how to explain this to Grandmother. The towel was thick, tough, because everthing had to be sturdy, not refined like if it would be in a rich house where they got everything soft. So I rebelled against that. The job was not well done. I’ll never forget that, how my grandmother, she took me aside one day. She did not reprimand me in front of everybody. She began first all around with praises. “Ruchele,” she says, “you know you are a beautiful girl” (and maybe I was), “Ruchele, you know you are carrying a holy name. And according to your name, you have to be perfect.” Well, she gave me all that until when I looked at her, my spirit was rising and rising, higher and faster until I forgot all about that sturdy towel and my hatred for it. The towel, it was straight from the peasants, you could make rugs from it. But after that speech, I was transformed into a different person. The towel became soft as fine linen and I loved to wipe the dishes. And always before me, when I was wiping the dishes was the name of the holy mother Rachel, and I thought, “She’s right. I am that woman.’ That, that is what I call domestic religion. It makes the adrenaline flow. It changes your entire view on things.”

Each of us, like Ruchele, is named after a holy ancestor. Some of bear names that make it clear. Some of us spend our lives looking for that name, and that ancestor. Others of us understand that our very presence here, on this day, connects us with a people and a tradition that, in some mysterious way, names us and claims us. Our presence here today reminds us that we are connected with a large and diverse and ever-growing family of those who are given the gift, every year, of beginning again. Our presence here today reminds us that we, like Rachel, can be ennobled and empowered by changing the way we engage in the dailiness of our lives. Whether wiping dishes or preparing meals, or sweeping the floor for someone who cannot care for him or herself, we are engaging in holy work, sacred service, avodat kodesh.

As I wrote this sermon, these words, by the poet Marge Piercy, echoed in my mind. I share with you this excerpt from her wonderful poem, “To Be of Use”:

The people I love the best
Jump into work head first
Without dallying in the shallows
And swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.
…
I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
Who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,
Who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,
Who do what has to be done, again and again.
…
The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
Has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.

Do we take up the work of the word, as “common as mud”, and respond when we, like those who prepare food, like Ruchele, like the rabbi in the tale, are called to be present? Do we “harness” ourselves, “an ox to a heavy cart”/ pulling “like water buffalo,” doing “what has to be done, again and again”?

Ecclesiastes teaches, “L’col zman v’et l’col hafetz tachat hashamayim: for everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.”

May the sound of the shofar on this Rosh HaShana awaken each of us to the preciousness of each moment, each hour, each day.

On this birthday of the world, may each of us consider how we can serve in this new year.

May 5772 be a year in which we reclaim the power and the holiness of caring for others with simple gifts that ease others’ burdens.

May this new year be a year in which we harness ourselves to hope.

1 I continue to search for a source of this story. If you are reading this and can help me, please let me know: slelwell@urj.org
2 Barbara Meyerhoff, Number Our Days (NY: A Touchstone Book/Simon and Schuster, 1978), 235.
3 From Circles On the Water: Selected Poems of Marge Piercy, NY: Alfred A. Knopf, 1982, 106.

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