Bound By The Covenant Of Israel
A Sermon for the New Year—5778
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman
September 21, 2017
As you know, NASA has sent many shuttles to
orbit the earth. More and more, they
made an attempt to include passengers of all races, colors and creed. But not too long ago they realized they had
excluded one group: the clergy. So they
invited a priest, a minister and a rabbi to orbit the earth in a shuttle.
Upon their return, crowds of people formed to
hear their impressions. First the priest
emerged, beaming and happy. His
statement was full of joy. He said, "It was totally amazing, I saw
the sun rise and set, I saw the beautiful oceans. I am in awe of God’s
magnificence."
Then the minister emerged, also happy and at
peace. He said, "I saw the
magnificent earth, our home. I saw the
majestic sun, vast oceans, red deserts.
Praise the Lord!”
Then the rabbi came out.
He was completely disheveled, his
beard was tangled and in every direction.
His kipah was frayed,
his tallis was wrinkled like you
can't imagine. They asked him, “Rabbi, did you enjoy the flight?" He threw his hands in the air crazily
and replied, “ENJOY??? What was to enjoy??? Oy! Every 5 minutes the sun
was rising and setting! On with the tefillin,
off with the tefillin, mincha, maariv, shacharit, mincha, maariv! And on top of that, always having to face
Jerusalem. One minute I’m facing this
way, the next minute that way… Gevalt!!!!!!"
It isn’t easy to be a Jew. Even in space.
Of course, it never was easy. Not since Abraham
left his homeland, his father’s house, pursuing a vision only he could see,
obeying a God only he could hear. We’re
not sure exactly what happened right before
he left. The rabbis speculate that Abram
was being persecuted for his belief in one God. The Torah, however, leaves it up to our
imagination. All we know is that Abraham
obeyed God without question. Overnight,
he uproots himself and his family. They
become migrants, subject to unknown dangers and the hardships of life in a foreign
land.
It was this and that much worse when, years
later, Abraham once again heard God’s call. This time it had to do with his
son, Isaac, and what God was demanding was that Abraham offer Isaac as
sacrifice on some far-off mountain. Once again, Abraham obeys, though we can
only imagine his grief as the two set out together.
Throughout history, it’s always been hard to
be a Jew. Not only because of the number
of mitzvot we had to obey (ten would
have been dayenu!! Enough! But 613???) But more than that, we saw
ourselves as keepers of a special charge, a challenge that became a sacred
mission: To pursue knowledge and justice, to seek freedom and equality wherever
we saw falsehood, prejudice and discrimination.
This was God’s law, and at Sinai we accepted it as our law.
The Law defined us as Israel, chosen to be in
a unique relationship and bound by a Covenant—a Covenant with our God, with our
Land and with our People. And throughout our history we have been trying to
live up to its demands.
In ancient Israel, no one was above the Law. The
Prophets of Israel were quick to judge and rebuke anyone—including the king
himself—who transgressed against another, who stole from the poor, or otherwise
abused his power. In our many countries
of exile and Diaspora, we held on to the tenets of the Covenant even when our
life was at stake.
Our efforts often met with success. Wherever we were offered hospitality, we and
the community around us thrived. No
medieval court was ever without a Jewish doctor, accountant or scribe. Our business acumen and connections ensured
that we would always have an important role to play in international commerce
and trade. Our culture inspired and fostered literature, art and music in
places where these did not exist prior to our arrival.
But success often also bred jealousy and
hatred. Expelled from one country after
another, we were confined to crowded ghettos, our means and livelihood severely
restricted. We were heavily taxed,
humiliated and often unjustly imprisoned or murdered. Still, we clung to the Covenant.
Through the darkest ages, our faith was our
chief source of hope. Our sacred texts
provided a safe haven, a home to return to, for the glorious visions they provided
of a better and more just world. Our prayers
reached deeper into our souls, and soared higher into the heavens. We created even more music, art and
literature. We even played a vital role in
the Enlightenment that helped bring freedom to all Europe. And throughout it all we never forgot who we
were.
Recent times, however, brought with them new developments
and greater challenges, in whose wake our faith and commitment to the Covenant
found themselves profoundly shaken.
First, of course, is the Holocaust.
The second, ironically, is the freedom we found in the New World, in
America.
The Holocaust saw one-half of our people
killed. Two-thirds of the Jews of Europe,
a million and a half children—a whole generation—were annihilated. Entire cultures and communities that had
existed for hundreds and thousands of years disappeared. The vast scope of the destruction caused an
unparalleled crisis of faith. The
survivors who emerged from the Shoah—and I count all of us among them—have been
forever changed. Our faith can never
again be as firm and unwavering as it was in prior days and ages.
America has brought its own challenge to Jewish
continuity. Ironically, here, where Jews are finally able to be free, to mingle
without constraints and become integral members of society, the danger we face
today is byproduct of our own freedom.
Now our very sense of peoplehood is at risk.
Today we don’t need Brotherhoods or Sisterhoods to provide us with
opportunities for friendship and camaraderie.
Accepted just about anywhere, we don’t need Jewish country clubs or
summer resorts such as the Catskills. Ironically, we don’t need other Jews to be
Jewish.
Rather than the whole picture, for many of us,
our Judaism expresses itself in more specific aspects: Some of us may be more observant in our
rituals; but equally valid are those among us who see themselves as secular
Jews; or Jews who describe themselves as cultural Jews; Jews by food and
tradition; Jews for Israel; or Jews invested in social action and tikkun ‘olam.
In America, for all our freedoms, the danger
that we face today is losing sight of the forest for the trees. The bigger picture, the Covenant among
ourselves, between us and our God, and between us and our Land, is receding in
the blur of modern life and its demands.
And maybe that’s the real purpose of Rosh
Ha-Shana, and why it takes place annually, without fail. The Torah does not
refer to this day as the beginning of the year.
That designation came much later, in the age of the Talmudic Rabbis. In the Torah, it’s called Yom Zikaron—a Day of Remembrance. In the
storms and hardship of life, forgetfulness comes too easily. Between one thing and another, it’s too easy
to get lost. Rosh Ha-Shana serves to remind us, to call us back, to redirect us
onto the right path.
Because here we are, sitting together: rich
and poor alike; religious Jews and secular Jews; of Orthodox background, Conservative,
Reform, Reconstructionist, or of no Jewish background at all; educated Jews,
unschooled Jews; Jews by birth, Jews by choice.
Life gets complicated. It pulls
us apart, taking each of us on a journey we must make alone. Rosh Ha-Shana
brings us home again, not only to reminisce, but also to give us a chance to
re-orient ourselves, to see ourselves on a larger canvas. On this day—ba-yom ha-zeh—we gather, just as have our people year after year,
to recall, to remember, and to reaffirm the terms of the Covenant we chose to
accept at Sinai, three thousand six hundred years ago.
On Rosh Ha-Shana, against the infinite
backdrop of the Creation of the world, we examine the meaning and direction of
our lives. Measuring our faith against
the perfect model set by our first Patriarch, Abraham, each of us considers the
role we
play in in our people’s sacred mission.
And we recall that to be Israel is not only to be rooted in the historic
land that bears our name, but also to be God’s partner in the ongoing act of
Creation, to be a Holy People, a people dedicated to the ideals of knowledge,
freedom, justice and equality.
Being Jewish isn’t simple or easy. Pirkei
Avot—the Talmudic Tractate of the Fathers—sternly reminds us that it isn’t
a task we may desist from. However, taking a somewhat gentler stance, the verse
continues: But neither are we obligated to complete it. When each one of us, in
our own way, shape, or manner, does whatever we are capable of, when we
contribute whatever we can to the greater whole, then all are the better for
it.
And that is what it means to be Israel. We are a people united by an ancient Covenant
of love, remembrance and responsibility—towards ourselves and one another;
towards our God; towards our country and our homeland, for all eternity.
May this Day of Remembrance bring with it
sweet memories of past celebrations. May our prayers and meditations today nourish
our souls and strengthen our resolve. May this Rosh Ha-Shana show us the path to
even greater involvement with our people and tradition. And may we all be inscribed for a good New Year, a year of
health, love, joy and peace.
L’shanah tova tikatevu, Amen,
© 2017
by Boaz D. Heilman
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