Danny’s Song: A Sermon for Rosh Hashana 5777

Danny’s Song: A Sermon for Rosh Hashana 5777

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Dedicated to the memory of Daniel Pearl, z”l

A week from today, on October 10^th, a family with branches in Israel, France, the United States and Portugal will be celebrating a sad birthday.  On that day, journalist Daniel Pearl would have turned 53, had he not been kidnapped and murdered by terrorists 13 ½ years ago.

In the last 50 years, terrorists have carried out over 100,000 attacks all over the world.  Thousands of people have been killed.  Yet this one murder, the killing of Daniel Pearl, stands apart from all the others, not only for the gruesome method used by the executioners, but also for the fact that Danny—as he was always known—was permitted to speak a few last words.  “My name is Daniel Pearl,” he said then.  “My father is Jewish.  My mother is Jewish.  I am a Jew.”

The excuse his murderers used to justify kidnapping and killing Pearl was that he was an American spy.  And in fact he was in Pakistan to collect information on the connection between a particular terrorist, the infamous “Shoe Bomber,” and Al Qaeda.  But at that moment, Daniel Pearl’s last, his defiant statement, identifying himself as a Jew, brushed aside any other aspect of his existence.  He was born a Jew; he lived as a Jew; he died a Jew.

I was always intrigued by this. 

There is no doubt that Daniel Pearl’s Jewishness was a large part of who he was.  His parents had roots in Israel—his great-grandfather was one of the founders of the modern city of B’nai Brak and has a street named after him there.  Daniel lived in Israel for a year and celebrated his bar mitzvah in Jerusalem. But Daniel Pearl was also a journalist for the Wall Street Journal.  He graduated from Stanford University and married a Dutch woman he met in Paris, France.  He studied the violin from a young age, and his interests included music, technology and communications.  He wrote about a wide range of topics, including about a lost and-later-found Stradivarius violin, and about Iranian pop music. Later, he wrote investigative reports focusing on international affairs, including the ethnic wars in Kosovo and the US bombing of a pharmaceutical factory in Khartoum, Sudan.  A collection of his writings, At Home In The World, was published after his death. 

Daniel Pearl was a man of the world.  And yet the words he chose to sum up his life were, “I am a Jew.”

What is it about being Jewish that was so important to him?

For that matter, why did so many other Jews, throughout our long history, endure torture and death rather than simply convert? Why did the defenders of Masada choose to take their own lives rather than be taken alive by the Roman Legion? In the Middle Ages, in Spain, in Portugal and many other countries in Europe, why did so many resort to living a double life in secret, as crypto Jews, Marranos, rather than simply abandon their faith?  And over the centuries, when given the option to leave, why did millions of Jews choose to cross continents, deserts and oceans, with only the clothes on their backs, in the hope of living freely as Jews?

Something about our faith compels us to live on as Jews. One could say that the Covenant between God and Israel is the important factor.  Or perhaps it’s the example in the Torah portion that we read this morning, the Akeida, the story of Abraham’s near-sacrifice of his beloved son, Isaac? We rebel against this kind of faith, yet we keep coming back to it year after year, to measure our own beliefs against an act that we see as both barbaric and the ultimate test of man’s faith in his God. 

Certainly the hope, the belief, in Ha‘olam ha-ba, The World To Come, the Prophetic vision of a glorious time in which untold rewards will come to the constant and faithful, is yet another reason why, through the centuries, so many chose to live and die as Jews.

But belief, no matter how fervent, still needs to be rational. Hope needs a reason, a purpose, if it is to make suffering bearable.  And miracles make for a fine story, but they are too few and far between to suspend our disbelief.  Human beings need more tangible results, and if we Jews have kept our faith alive for so long, there has to be a good reason.

And if we look at who we are as a people, perhaps we can find even more than one reason.

By number, we are a tiny people, less than one-quarter of one percent, 0.2% to be precise, of the world’s population. Yet our history is the third longest in human civilization, after China and India (which, by the way, together account for about half of the world’s entire population).

Ours is a history that still endures and lives. Egypt’s Sphinx and ancient pyramids, the Greek and Roman ruins and artifacts, for all their beauty and grandeur, are all evidence of a past that is long gone.  But the Hebrew language, the Talmud, the Bible—these are all still enduring, all living testament to our ongoing survival. 

We are the people who gave the world three of its greatest religions.  We gave the world Moses and King David.  Our ancient literature still lives in monumental art and sculpture, in stories that are told and retold.

Common stereotypes notwithstanding, we are a people of legendary physical strength.  Samson, King Saul and his son Jonathan, King David, Judah the Maccabee and the Hasmonean lineage that followed him—these are only some of the mighty heroes who fought and defeated ancient enemies.  While in modern times we have the defenders of the Ghettoes, the partisans, and all the Jewish soldiers who fought alongside the Allies, holding off the Nazis and contributing to their defeat. And of course there is Zahal—the IDF, Israel’s Defense Force—the most moral army in the world, which, against all odds and numbers, has defeated Arab armies numerous times for nearly seventy years now.

Jews helped establish and maintain kingdoms and empires.  Our business acumen kept us busy along ancient as well as modern trade routes, including the Silk Road, the Spice Routes, routes to the New World and beyond, and now, in space itself.

Charlemagne brought us to the Rhinelands, and King Casimir, to Poland and Russia.

On his voyage to the New World, Christopher Columbus, if not Jewish himself, included in his crew several crypto Jews, among them a Jewish cartographer and two surgeons.  Columbus also took with him an interpreter, a man named Luis de Torres, who was also known as Yosef ben Levi ha-Ivri (Joseph the Hebrew), who could speak Hebrew as well as several other languages. 

And—oh yes—the entire trip was financed with money raised from Jewish contributors.  

And among the conquistadors who helped explore and settle the Americas as well as the East Indies colonies were Jews who were looking not only for opportunity and adventure, but also for a safe haven, a place where they could escape from the Inquisition and practice their faith openly.

In more recent years, Jewish contributions have been invaluable in every field.  Jews have excelled in sports (yes, sports!  Check out Mark Spitz, Sandy Kofax, Julian Edelman, Kevin Youkilis and of course Aly Raisman, to name just a few).  Before the French Chef there was Katz’s Delicatessen, and we all know how beloved TBI’s Jewish Food Festival is!  Jews excel in law and medicine, in business and finance, in literature, art and philosophy, in media and entertainment, in music and in hi tech.  The list goes on and on and is nothing short of astounding. 

But above all, the greatest of all Jewish contributions to humanity has been—from day one and still continues to be—a sense of morality, of right and wrong, of good and evil.  Jews have always looked at the world and envisioned ways to better it. History itself was construed as part of a grand and moral universe.  It’s no wonder that America’s Founding Fathers chose words from the Bible to express their highest goal:  “Proclaim liberty throughout the land unto all the inhabitants thereof,” a verse that comes from the section of the Torah we Jews call “The Holiness Code.”  The idea that all human beings are equal in God’s eyes has inspired visionaries from Moses to Martin Luther King, and has breathed life into civil rights movements for people of color, for women, for LGBTQ communities and many other persecuted minorities.

From the Golden Rule—Love your neighbor as yourself—to the pursuit of justice, truth and peace; from loving-kindness and compassion to charity; from concern for the ecology to ethics in medicine, business and government; from capital punishment to ethics in warfare, the Jewish contribution has been more than fundamental—it is a major driving force.

A Jewish joke tells of a bus full of Jewish women, all members of Hadassah, which crashes and, tragically, everybody dies.  It so happens, however, that due to various circumstances Heaven has no room for them.  So God calls Satan on the special hotline they have and says, “Oy, nu, do me a favor, would you?  I just need you to take them in for one day.  Twenty-four hours, that’s all.  The backlog should clear by then and I’ll take them right back.”  Satan agrees, and he takes the ladies in.  Not two hours pass before Satan calls God on his speed dial. “For Heaven’s sake,” Satan cries out, “You’ve got to take them back!  Now, this minute!”  “Why?” God asks, curious. “What could have happened in such a short time?”  And Satan answers, “They’ve only been here for a couple of hours and already they’ve raised $500,000 for new air conditioning!”

Like I said, a driving force.  An unstoppable, unflappable, unsinkable dynamo in pursuit of knowledge, freedom and Life itself.

To be a Jew today means to be linked to a rich past.  It means connecting to a magnificent heritage of humanism and drawing strength from it.  It means to restore a people to its land, and a land to its former glory.  It means to infuse life with meaning; to support one’s community; and to give all humanity a goal, as well as a sense of purpose and direction.

And being a Jew today also means understanding that this legacy, so filled with extraordinary achievements, carries with it a tremendous responsibility:  To pay it forward; to pass its teachings on.  It isn’t enough to merely enjoy the fruit of past labors; as Jews, we must also plant the seeds for the future, to see to it that this heritage will be there for future generations as well.

Perhaps that’s why Danny Pearl chose the words he did to sum up his life.  “I am a Jew,” he said, and by that he must have meant that just as his life had meaning, so does his death. For Daniel Pearl, being Jewish was a framework that he filled with every breath he took, with every word he wrote.  Seeking knowledge and justice, he chronicled his journeys, hoping to leave a mark on the world, a map of his quest for goodwill, understanding and peace.  With his last words he then bequeathed to us a charge, to carry on, to never lose hope, to never lose faith.

Today is the first day of a new year.  Today, when we lift up our eyes, we see new opportunities and new paths.  Keeping the example of Daniel Pearl in our minds and hearts, let us draw inspiration from his courage and from the strong belief that he had in his work and his faith.  Like Danny, we can delve into the treasures inherent in our Jewish heritage; we can live a Jewish life in pursuit of justice and compassion.  And like Danny, we can pass it on to future generations, confident that they would greatly benefit from it, as have we and all our ancestors, and indeed the entire world, for over 3,600 years now.

I think that would be a fine way to celebrate Daniel Pearl’s birthday.  I am sure it would be a fine way to celebrate the beginning of a New Year, to start it off right.

May we see dreams fulfilled this year, and visions coming true.  May this New Year bring us security, happiness and health. May it be a year of prosperity, love and peace, for us and our families; for our community and nation; for the State of Israel and all countries of the Middle East, and for the whole world.

L’shana tova tikatveivu—may we all be inscribed for a good New Year. 

Amen. 

© 2016 by Boaz D. Heilman