Beginning Again: Genesis 2018

Beginning Again: Genesis

D’var Torah for Parashat Bereishit

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Is there ever a beginning? Or is it no more than a random mark left along the river of infinity? These words as you read them, this reflection on the opening passage of the Hebrew Bible, Genesis 1:1, denote a new beginning; but are they not also preceded by a long process of interpretation, going back thousands of years? 

And if so, was there ever a moment in time that we call The Beginning?

Humans have been pondering these questions since the dawn of awareness. Along the way, several answers were offered. There were stories of battles between gods and demons;  myths about good, spiritual gods and lower-grade, materialistic gods. In the western world,  some two and a half thousand years ago, three philosophies emerged: Platonism, Aristotelianism and Judaism. 

Plato dealt with the issue most simply.  He theorized that there never was a beginning.  IT—everything—was simply always there, ad infinitum. No beginning; no end; only one, infinite, now.

Aristotle, on the other hand, said there had to be a beginning, simply because things are, and everything that is comes from something else. Logically, therefore, all existence must have originated at some point, put in place and motion by a unique source, which he called the Prime Mover.

Judaism is famous for its own understanding of The Beginning. There was A Beginning, Judaism proposes, and along with it, purpose and plan; and the Prime Mover, whom the Jews called God.  

Judaism clearly sides with Aristotle. Human logic cannot entertain the concept of infinity. 

Yet, the text we Jews use as proof is not at all so clear.  The first word in the book of Genesis, b’reishit, is usually translated as “In the beginning.” Yet, both grammatically and figuratively the word could be understood in several ways. The familiar King James version is only one of these.  Multiple interpretations of the word were necessary to defend Judaism from its many detractors. As early as the first century, arguments were raised to counter and deny the Jewish understanding that the world was created ex nihilo(from nothing), conceived as an idea and actualized by a most powerful God. In the Midrash—rabbinic stories and commentaries on the Scriptures—we find a number of explanations.  Among these is an interesting suggestion that creation as we know it—the one described in the first two chapters of Genesis—may not have been the very first one. According to the midrash, there were earlier versions, none of which ultimately pleased God. The world as we know it today is the one that God finally decided wasgood enough (though, as we remember from the story of Noah’s Flood, God came awfully close to destroying this one as well).

Fluctuating between the two possibilities—ex nihilo and infinite—Judaism found a compromise. Each new beginning follows a previous ending. 

We see this in the Jewish Torah rituals. At this season of the year, as one year ends and a new one begins, so does the cycle of the weekly-portion readings. The last verses of Deuteronomy are read, followed immediately by the story of Creation in Genesis.  Moses dies, leadership of the Israelites passes on to Joshua, and God says, “Let there be light.”

Year after year, like nature itself, the cycle ends only to begin again.

Yes, it’s an intellectual exercise, but there is more to it than that. There’s a lesson to be learned from this custom.

The autumnal High Holy Days, Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur, celebrate the beginning of a new calendar year. But what the accompanying Torah reading accomplishes is to remind us not to get too caught up in the everyday process, but rather to stop and admire the gifts that surround us at this moment.

How easy it is, at this busy season of the year, when we gear up for the oncoming of winter, to forget to enjoy the beauty of the seasons, the gift of time itself! Yes, we can explain the turning of the leaves: The production of chlorophyll stops and the green disappears, replaced by vibrant hues of orange, yellow and crimson. But none of that scientific logic can replace the visual beauty of the afternoon light reflected from my neighbor’s tree into my house, for a few moments every day daubing the walls with a layer of unexpected deep golden tones.

Like animals that store up food for the winter, we humans get so caught up with work at this season! Vacation over, we feel as though we must catch up after all the time we spent relaxing on the beach or gently swinging in a hammock. We plunge furiously into the new year, as though facing an eternal winter. The days are getting shorter! Colder! Let’s hurry, so little time left!

But as we start reading the book of Genesis, we are reminded to look around with wonder. As Creation unfolds one day at a time, we get a chance to think about the fact that all these atoms and elements somehow were attracted to each other, combined and recombined, formed and evolved, creating objects on earth and in the heavens, each in its proper place, each in its proper time.

How totally amazing that every creature on this earth has its specific food, created expressly for it! Could day six of Creation have come at any other time? Why, it’s as though someone or something had planned it all out, making sure that the setting was all in place before the characters were called forth! 

The generations of humanity listed in the Torah make for lengthy, boring readings, unless we stop and remember that each individual was special, unique, imbued with talents and qualities as no other. The patterns are similar—they follow, after all, the order established at the very Beginning. But what each person brings into the world is something original, something that was never there before. Each of us represents a new Creation, a new Beginning.

Our life and our history are the result of what came before us. It’s easy to lose oneself in the infinite span of time. The Torah, however, enables us to stop time and renew ourselves. We learn to appreciate the uniqueness of the here-and-now. Each moment is new. Each day is a new world of limitless opportunities. 

Today is the doorway to a better tomorrow.

Let it begin. With you, with me, with each human being, picking up the broken pieces, beginning again.

© 2018 by Boaz D. Heilman

Lions Of The Jordan: Yom Kippur 5779

Lions Of The Jordan

Sermon for Yom Kippur 5779

September 19, 2018

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

When I was in Israel this summer, I got hooked on a television series, a ten-episode documentary about a group of young men and women serving in a special Israel Defense Force combat battalion.

What makes it special is that it is a co-ed unit, among the first to be deployed by Israel.  The unit is called Arayot Ha-Yarden, Hebrew for “Lions of the Jordan,” and its assignment is to patrol the Jordan Valley, which forms the frontier between Israel and Jordan.  Though the two countries are ostensibly at peace, the region is never quiet. The area is infested with drug and weapons smugglers, as well as Islamic extremists whose loyalty is to the Hamas terrorist organization.

Co-ed battalions are a relatively new phenomenon in the IDF, first set up about 15 years ago. To be sure, women have always served in the Israel Defense Force. Today there are even some who serve as pilots and navigators in the highly esteemed Air Force. But an integrated combat unit is something quite different. The men and women spend all their time together, training and carrying out missions 24/7, for the duration of their service.

The idea isn’t without its critics. There are some—particularly men—who claim that the women’s weaker physical strength gets in the way of the highest goals that are expected of the units. On the other hand, one of the women who appears in the show expresses a different concern: “Every extra minute I spend a with the boys, I feel like my IQ just falls and falls.”

Some Orthodox rabbis have also come out against the idea, and at least two former generals expressed concern that co-ed units would harm the IDF’s fighting abilities.  In each episode of the show, we see the soldiers themselves grappling with the issue; while some come to terms with the situation, others find it impossible to do so.

But that’s not the only issue the young men and women struggle with. At all-of 18 years of age, facing responsibility isn’t easy. As we follow them from the day they enlist to the end of their four-month-long basic training, we watch them grow and change.  We learn much about them: where they come from, what kinds of home and family they grew up in, and what their expectations were prior to enlisting. Invariably, the army provides them all with a new education. Some were spoiled as kids; their parents refused them nothing. “No” was not a concept they had to deal with. One young man, Moshe, from Kiryat Arba, a Jewish enclave in the center of the Arab-majority city of Hebron, describes himself as a problem child who could never follow instructions. Never comfortable with any structure or framework, at age 14 he “borrowed” his father’s car and went for a joy-ride. Chased by the police, he is caught and sentenced to one-year house arrest. Now at basic training, Moshe is asked by one of his buddies, “So did you have trouble enlisting in the army?” “I fought for three years to get in,” Moshe answers. “Why?” his buddy persists. “Why? For 18 years, people protected me, my home, from all directions. When my turn came, I wouldn’t pay them back? Bottom line.”

Others had different issues. One young woman says, “There’s something not right about a girl of 18 carrying a weapon.” And she continues, “It’s four pounds of metal, but 4 tons of responsibility.” At group discussions on the ethics of search-and-arrest missions in Palestinian villages, it is she who is the most vocal about the great need to restrain yourself despite the anger, fear, the adrenalin. “Your duty is to arrest them, not kill them,” she argues. Despite her initial impulse to leave the unit, she decides to stay. “I feel it’s best that I am there, instead of someone else. This way I have some control over the situation; I know it’s probably not going to get worse.”

In these ten weekly episodes, you not only got to know these young men and women; you also caught a glimpse of the challenges that their homeland, the State of Israel, faces every day. 

There are social tensions, religious tensions, gender issues, even racial issues.  While 18- year-olds in other countries pack and leave home for 4 years of college, at the same age Israeli youths learn how to follow orders; how to deal with discipline, physical hardship and responsibility; with shooting to kill on command; with thinking about others at least as much as they think about themselves. With the real possibility that you might get killed, wounded, or captured by a brutal enemy. With the fact that you are protecting your country and your people, in “real time,” not in theory.

Lions of the Jordan is a microcosm of modern Israel.

At 70 years of independence, Israel is a young country. It’s composed of any number of cultures and ways of life. In the last 200 years, trickles and then waves of immigrants came from different countries. Established largely by Russian Jews with socialist ideals, the emerging country was mostly funded by American Jews. In Israel, Ashkenazi Jews met Sephardi Jews and argued non-stop about who’s a better Jew. Machismo men met heroic women who had done battle with Nazis, and who now challenged the men to realize they were living in a new world and a new century. 

Over the years, Israel has had to define and redefine itself several times over.

At first, Israel served as a haven for millions of Jewish refugees.  As prophesied by the prophet Isaiah, they came from the four corners of the earth. From Iraq, Morocco and Yemen; from war-torn Europe and the United States; from India and Afghanistan, from China and Indonesia, as well as a host of other nations and countries.

In the 1970’s, a million and a half Russian Jews came to Israel. Aside from the word “Jew” that was stamped on their Russian passports, most of them knew little or nothing about what that meant. But they knew that in Israel they would be safe. On the night of July 4^th, 1976, the bicentennial of the United States, a special unit from the IDF flew 2000 miles to Entebbe, Uganda, and rescued 100 Jewish hostages, as well as a dozen non-Jews, crew members on a plane that was hijacked by Arab terrorists.  In May 1991, in a period of 36 hours, 14½ thousand Ethiopian Jews were flown to Israel, plucked from an area racked by famine, revolution and violent tribal warfare. 

Each group came with its own customs and costumes, spoke its own language, cooked its own food.

But what they all had in common was their heritage. They came from Judah.  They were Jews. Now they came back.

It wasn’t going to be easy, but nobody cared. The need to survive overrode all obstacles. 

Over the decades, Israel turned its attention from building homes to nation-building. Television, a budding movie industry, even the famous Tzahal (IDF) music and entertainment troupes, all helped in creating a new national identity. Overcoming prejudice and ignorance among the various groups became Israel’s top priorities. Hospitals were built and outfitted with the most modern equipment. Kindergartens and schools were supplied with a unified curriculum. Universities were founded where the very best in higher education was made available to all. Little by little the new state became a leading world power both in terms of its military and technology, as well as in medicine, trade, culture and education. Over the years, I watched with wonder and amazement as a new generation arose in our old/new homeland, a generation that was confident, happy and secure in their identity as Jews and Israelis.

Overcoming international prejudice and anti-Semitism, however, was not so easy or simple. For thousands of years, Jews were ostracized and persecuted. Expulsions, pogroms, and the Holocaust of our own day and time were seen and tried as solutions to the eternal problem that apparently the Jews posed. For thousands of years the world was content to leave the Land of Israel as a swamp and a collection of ruins, as a reminder of Judaism’s failure, rather than see it rebuilt as the nation-state of the Jewish People.  Overcoming thatobstacle became Israel’s next goal, making it necessary yet again to redefine its purpose: Israel would become vital, indispensable to the free world.

During the years of the Cold War, Israel became the West’s chief and most reliable ally in the Middle East. Gathering and sharing intelligence, developing and testing new weapons, Israel saw and presented itself as a bastion of modernity, an island of democracy in an ocean of tyranny and totalitarianism. 

But that wasn’t enough. 

In 1961, driven by a sense of solidarity with other oppressed peoples, Israel’s Foreign Ministry established the Golda Meir International Training Center, with the goals of providing training to women and men from developing countries, giving them the necessary tools for modernization and advancement. Teaching innovative agricultural techniques, eradicating hunger, ignorance and disease in Third World countries—these became Israel’s stated mission. Bringing solar power to countries that have no other energy resources is one of Israel’s most recent outreach projects.

High-tech developments thrust Israel into the 21^stcentury as an economicworld power.

Humanitarianaid sent to regions overcome by natural disaster or by warfare and violence has put Israel on the map as a beacon of compassion and volunteerism, unmatched by any other country in the world.

Nor is this aid limited to Israel’s friends only.  Five years ago, in response to the savage civil war in Syria, Israel established an army unit for the purpose of implementing a “Good Neighbor” policy.  In the last two years alone, 350 tons of clothing made their way through the border fence and delivered to Syrian refugees; 2000 tons of food; and 40 thousand cans of baby food. Doctors and nurses, working day and night in field hospitals, treated 4,500 wounded Syrians and 1,400 children in need of medical attention. 

Israelis see this kind of work as their duty and privilege. Even for those who are not religious, volunteerism helps them define their Judaism.  This, as they and I see it, is the purpose of the Jewish People, set out for us thousands of years ago. This is what Israel was created for; this is what it stands for today, the most recent incarnation of how Israelis define their role on the world stage.

But evidently even this is not enough. 

The violent attacks on Israel continue.  The threats to destroy her keep coming—from Iran as well as from Syria; from Hezbollah in Lebanon, and Hamas in the Gaza Strip. On top of this, the BDS—Boycott, Divest and Sanction—movement keeps rasping out hate. Anti-Zionism is responsible for an alarmingly growing number of incidents of verbal and physical assault on Jews in almost every country around the world—even in places where there isn’t one Jew to be found. In the open, at least.  Anti-Semitism, always a potent force among White Supremacists, has now also gone mainstream among liberal, left-leaning politicians and their supporters.

After the Holocaust, we deluded ourselves. We began thinking that we were witnessing the dawning of some Messianic Age; that humanity, horrified by images it saw of the Holocaust, was genuinely sorry for what it had done to us for 2,000 years.  In Israel we came to believe that everyone loved us for our strength and our chutzpa; and that the world would continue loving us, because we are good.

It’s time, however, that we all recognize the fallacy of these myths. Jews—and Israel—are not judged by how good we are.  We are judged for our existence.  

It’s time to stop deluding ourselves.  Israel will survive: not because it helps the West; nor because it sends humanitarian aid to developing countries. Israel will survive only because it is strong. 

That’s not to say that we have to stop our cultural and humanitarian work. That isour mission, set for us thousands of years ago. But neither are we free to lay down our weapons, no matter how tired and weary our arms.  What was true during the rebuilding of Jerusalem in the sixth century BCE is still true today [Nehemiah 4:17, NKJV]: “Those who carried the burden, with one hand they worked at the building, and with the other they held a weapon.”

In the television documentary I watched this summer, “Lions of the Jordan,” there were many scenes that moved me, both to laughter and to tears. But one stood out over all the rest. It was the moment when the soldiers took their oath of loyalty to the IDF. Each, in turn, received a Bible from the base commander.  With one hand, they clutched their weapon; with the other, they held their Bible tightly to it, forming an unbreakable bond between themselves, their weapon and their Bible. אני נשבע, “I swear,” each called out, while their families and friends watched, with many of them crying.

In truth, however, it wasn’t only their families and friends. It was the entire Jewish People, throughout our history, that was watching, with pride and disbelief. Who would have guessed? 

Three and a half millennia after Moses charged us to follow God’s law, we are still here; with one hand still fulfilling our mission, with the other holding our weapons.  

And that’s OK. If that’s what it takes, then so be it.

May we all be inscribed and sealed in the Book of Life for a year of love and joy; a year of strength and health; a year of rest and renewal; a year of security and peace.  

© 2018 by Boaz D. Heilman

Renewing Our Vows, Renewing Our Selves

Renewing Our Vows, Renewing Our Selves

Sermon for Kol Nidrei 5779

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Sept. 18, 2018

Years ago, when I was yet a school child in Israel, we read in class a short story by David Frishman, one of the pre-eminent Hebrew Revival authors.  I still remember this story.  It was called “Three Who Ate,” and it was set at a city in Eastern Europe, when the narrator, now much older, was yet a child himself.  Cholera was ravaging the countryside and taking its terrible toll indiscriminately.  Rich and poor, Jew and Gentile alike, all were affected by the dreadful disease. Every household suffered, and some even many times over.  The story of the “Three who Ate” takes place on the eve of Yom Kippur.  The synagogue is full of men wearing tallitotand white kittels—the traditional white robes meant to remind us of burial shrouds. The prayers are punctuated by sobbing and crying, both over those who have already died and over those who are yet to die… . Some already look like ghosts, and the narrator comments on how it seemed that the very dead came back and mingled with the living on this Yom Kippur. Kol Nidrei was chanted, the prayers were said, but as the service ends, no one wants to leave the synagogue, no one wants to go home and learn of yet more deaths, perhaps even among his own family. 

Finally, after a long and dreadful night, the next day, Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, arrives. Around noon, the rabbi is standing on the bimah, talking about the need for the soul to find strength this day, for the body to awaken from its stupor. His voice rises as he reminds his flock, “You shall live by Torah, not die by it,” words that somehow strike terror into everyone’s heart.  Then, in his most formal tone, the rabbi declares, “By the authority of God’s Presence and by the authority of this holy congregation, I decree that you must eat today!”  No one moves, no one stirs.  Eat? On Yom Kippur? No one can believe their ears! The rabbi begs, he cajoles, he commands. Still no one moves.  The rabbi looks around the room.  He calls for the shamash, his assistant, to come near, and he whispers some words in his ears. The shamashgoes out, and after a moment returns with wine, some wafers and a challah.  The entire congregation watches, terrified and dumbfounded, as the rabbi tears a piece of challah, says a blessing, and, with tears streaming down his face, chews and swallows it.  And after him, the cantor, and the president of the congregation, all break off a piece of the challah and chew, their salty tears mingling with the sweetness of the bread, the three who ate on Yom Kippur.

It’s a powerful story. It moved me when I first read it, years ago, and it still moves me today. I have thought about it often through the years, always wondering about its persistent hold on me.  The question that I kept coming back to was, why did everyone cry.  There’s the obvious reason, of course:  by breaking the fast, the three men, and the rest of the community after them, broke one of the most solemn of all the commandments. In a sense, by eating, they annulled and disavowed the sanctity of the day.  Still, this answer never satisfied me completely; I felt that there was more to it than that; there had be some other reason for their tears, one that kept eluding me, evading my grasp. 

So I thought about why people cry.  We cry, of course, when we feel pain, or are overcome by sorrow.  But we also cry for joy and pride. Invariably, we cry at life’s important events. As rabbi, I can never get through a baby naming without tearing up, and when my children were born, I wept like a baby. I have seen men of steel turn into puddles as they embrace and bless their bar or bat mitzvah son or daughter on the bimah. On a few occasions, even the child loses it, and then it becomes a good family cry, with not a dry eye in the entire sanctuary.

Empathy and compassion, two deeply human emotions, are also often marked by tears. Try watching—without tearing up—a good Hallmark spot, or that “Friends Are Waiting” Budweiser commercial with the yellow lab waiting for his master to come home.

We cry for deep loss, and we cry out of frustration and anger.  And sometimes, we also cry when we feel relief, when tension has us all racked up and we suddenly feel released from its burden.  

Yom Kippur has me tearing up on several occasions.  There’s the Mourner’s Kaddish during Yizkor prayers; and of course the Martyrology—the stories of the ten rabbis who, during the Roman occupation of Judaea, chose torture and death rather than to stop teaching Torah to their students.

But the very first time that has me choked up is at the very beginning, as Kol Nidrei is chanted.

Something about this prayer stirs up the deepest feelings within me.  It might be my accumulated memories, of all the times that, as a child, I accompanied my father, of blessed memory, to Yom Kippur services, and of the many services that I went to or led since then. So much has come and gone between then and now! Only memories remain, and as these well up, inevitably they bring with them waves of emotions.

Then there’s the history of Kol Nidrei itself. Its famous melody emerged in Western Europe seven or eight hundred years ago, during the terrifying times of the Crusades. As one Jewish community after another was extinguished, survivors left their homes and set out for more promising frontiers in the east—Poland, Lithuania, Ukraine and Russia.  They didn’t take much with them; little was left of their former life. But what they did take included their most precious possessions: their Torahs, Talmuds, prayer books, and their sacred music. Kol Nidrei became one of the enduring elements of this heritage, witness to the truth that, despite the devastation and destruction, our people’s faith remained intact.

The text of Kol Nidrei, on the other hand, is much older, going back at least twice farther, to the third or fourth century. Its origins are unknown, and some have proposed that it must have come about at a time of great persecution, when Jews were forced to convert at sword’s point. Kol Nidrei thus absolved them of the false vows they were forced to make and enabled them to go on practicing their Jewish faith, whether secretly or out in the open. The prayer was certainly often repeated among the Marranos, the hidden Jews of Spain, Portugal and their colonies around the world. 

Whatever the circumstance of its birth, a sacred prayer that allows us to invalidate all our vows and promises is certain to raise some eyebrows, both among ourselves but especially among the narrow minded and bigoted. That Jews are untrustworthy has always been an anti-Semitic trop, and Kol Nidrei more than once served as proof of that canard. The text thus underwent several changes, and in some communities it was eliminated altogether.  In earlier times, Kol Nidrei referred to vows and oaths taken in the past year.  In its current version, however, we speak only of vows made between this Yom Kippur and the next one, a year from now. This form of the text is a compromise that was enacted nearly 1000 years ago by Rabbi Meir ben Samuel, son-in-law of the great rabbi, teacher and commentator, Rashi.

Thus, despite the changes and controversies surrounding it, Kol Nidrei remains sanctified by the ages and today is one of the most essential and moving prayers in our entire liturgy.

I have often wondered at this prayer’s power. It holds sway over our souls, often moving us to trembling and tears. Some of Kol Nidrei’s strength lies in its history. We feel its awesome power, like a massive tide that raises memories both recent and distant. It transports us to places we’ve never been to. We see tall spires in cobblestone cities we’ve never visited; sunny landscapes where spacious fields of grain sway in harmony with wavelets dancing on wide, sparkling rivers. We sense the ghosts of thousands of generations, huddled inside dark and narrow synagogues. We almost feel the bodies pressing close to each other, each vying with another for a place to sit or stand, a place where they would always feel at home. For the living, Kol Nidrei serves as a window to times long gone yet that are somehow still very familiar to us. 

Kol Nidrei testifies to our turbulent past; it serves as a pillar, a monument to our history and tenacity.  

But there is more than just history there.  Kol Nidrei plays an important role in the way Yom Kippur works.  It’s a crucial first step along the path of atonement and forgiveness that we undergo on this day.

Kol Nidrei gives us permission us to fail.

That’s not to say that we are released from our obligation to try to be our best, that we stop reaching for the highest aspirations.  But Kol Nidrei does allow us, just now and again, to fall short of the goal. 

Like the horizon, perfection exists only in our minds.  We imagine it.  We read about it in stories and fables. But we human beings are, by definition, fallible and imperfect, and so is our world.  Life has a way of tripping us up, of setting up greater and greater challenges. Circumstances, as well as our own limitations and shortcomings, determine how close to our goal each of us actually gets.

Along the way, some of us rebel.  We reject expectations laid on us even before we are born. We seek an easier way. Others, driven from the get-go, refuse to admit what they see as defeat. We try even harder, and when inevitably we fall, we shake our fist and then set out and try again, and again and again.  

Some of us see ourselves as a sort of Atlas, the mythical giant whose fate it was to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. Afraid to relax for even a moment, unwilling to lay down the burden or even to share it, we put our own safety, as well as the wellbeing of those in our care, at risk. With sorrow and guilt tearing at our soul, we allow anger to replace compassion, frustration to take the place of kindness.

It’s tough to admit our human frailty. Yet that’s exactly what Yom Kippur wants us to do.  By releasing us of all our oaths and bonds, Kol Nidrei enables us to have an objective look at ourselves.  It lets us to take a break from it all, even if only for one day, so that, like some Prometheus unbound, we might be able to take stock of our failures as well as our accomplishments, and to be more realistic about what we can and cannot do.

As the day progresses, the list of our failures lengthens.  We are troubled by what we find; we become nervous and anxious about what we see.  Maybe we didn’t try hard enough. Maybe we tried too hard. Maybe we became too focused on our goal, and not on the way we went about reaching it. Maybe we promised too much and found ourselves unable to fulfill. Maybe we let our weakness, or perhaps exhaustion, distract us. Maybe we let ourselves be tempted to take a shortcut, meandered from our path, got lost along the way. 

Our failures are hard to take. We are ashamed of our mistakes, mortified by how we may have let others down. 

We beseech God for forgiveness; we ask our family and friends to forgive us as we forgive them. We hope and we pray.  Yet Yom Kippur could easily become an exercise in futility and self-defeat if we didn’t also manage somehow to forgive ourselves.

And that’s the real purpose of Kol Nidrei, and why it is recited at the beginning of the Day of Atonement.  Even as we set out on our journey of reflection and introspection, Kol Nidrei states that it’s OK to fail. By forgiving us מלכתחילה (mi-l’chat’chila)—from the outset—this amazing prayer gives us permission to forgive ourselves. Throughout the many lengthy recitations of our sins and transgressions, Kol Nidrei is there, a constant, gentle, ancient reminder that we are only human: We are weak; we are frail; we are prone to failure.

Maybe that’s why I am so moved by this prayer. For me, Kol Nidrei has redeeming powers. Even as I sense my own shortcomings, I feel that I am given a great gift: a second chance. 

And maybe that’s why, in the story of the “Three Who Ate,” the entire congregation, led by its teachers and leaders, weeps.  For, at that moment, they all recognize that even as they were breaking the commandment, God was responding with understanding, with compassion, with forgiveness. 

So, along with all the other reasons for crying—tears of sadness and tears of joy, tears of pain and tears of pride—we discover that there is yet one more cause.  There are, I believe, tears of holiness.  Those are the tears that come when you know that God, the source of strength and renewal, is there even at a moment of anguish and despair; when we come to truly comprehend that, at the darkest points in our life, God is still there, reaching out to us with light and hope. Holy tears flow freely at those moments when we recognize that, up to the very last breath we take, we are free to try and try again.

During the next 24 hours, as we look into the darkest recesses of our soul and reflect upon our various failures, let us also keep in mind that Yom Kippur gives us an unexpected gift, one that we don’t often give ourselves or others—a second chance, an opportunity not only to renew our vows, but to renew our selves. As we weep for the sins we have committed, let us also rejoice for the opportunity to do things right the next time around.  We may not reach all, or even most, of our goals, but we can certainly try to, and see how much farther we get with each successive try.  We may even surprise ourselves. 

G’mar chatima tova, may we be inscribed and sealed in the Book of Life for a good year of health, joy, love and peace.   

© 2018 by Boaz D. Heilman

Strength And Frailty In The Service Of God: Rosh Ha-Shanah 2019

Strength And Frailty In The Service Of God

Rosh Hashana Sermon 5779

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

September 10, 2018

Of all the great mysteries of Creation, the one we still know least about is the one we’ve pompously labeled the Crown of Creation: us, human beings.  Yes, we know about evolution; we understand at least someof the forces that drive this process forward.  Yet the mystery remains. 

For one thing, there’s no explaining the reason or purpose of our existence. Nor, despite Sigmund Freud and all his theories, and for all the psychological and scientific studies that have broadened our understanding since then, can we account for all those traits and features that come together to create the individual that each of us is. Chemistry and biology only go so far in giving us answers. Genes carry within them much of the story, but still, even identical twins have distinct characteristics that define them as unique individuals, with differences that only they, and perhaps their parents, are able to recognize.  

Perhaps that’s why there’s such an abundance of stories and myths that try to explain humanity and how it came to be. Even the Bible has two explanations. There’s the version we read in the first chapter of Genesis, in which God forms Adam and Eve together. In the very next chapter, however we find details that only serve to complicate the issue. It is here that we learn how God creates the first man out of earth (adama) and names him Adam, perhaps as a pun, or perhaps to remind him of his lowly origin. The story then continues to tell how God separates Adam into two different beings, each with its own distinct sex, male and female.  

In this respect, Greek mythology differs from the Bible. The Greek playwright Aristophanes, by way of Plato, assigns nospecific gender to the separated bodies. They can be male and female, as the Bible has it, but they can also be male and male, or female and female. Nor is there agreement about other details of the uncoupling.  Some myths relate that original Man was created as one being, but with two frontal panels, glued, as it were, back to back. With the speed and accuracy of lightning then, God parts the one being straight down the middle, creating two complete, entire beings out of the one original form.

An ancient rabbinic story, a midrash, tells that Adam was first created as large as the entire world. Recognizing the power and danger inherent in such a huge being, God divides this original humanoid, fashioning a somewhat more manageable version. Yet another midrash explains that, in forming Adam from earth, God gathered dust from all corners of the world, perhaps so that no one individual or nation could claim exclusive ancestry in God’s original handiwork. We are all God’s children, is the lesson of this story.

However it is that we came to be, there’s no doubt that we embody many qualities and traits; some coexist in harmony, while others clash and conflict, causing harm and mischief both within us and in the outside world.

Of all these many traits, I have always marveled at two qualities that seem contradictory, and yet are both found within us: Strength and frailty.  

Though seemingly incongruous, the two traits actually go hand in hand. We would be incomplete without one or the other. Our strength enables us to withstand tremendous pressure; it helps us fight off danger; it enables us bear heavy burden and overcome affliction. Without strength, we would not be able to walk upright or survive the many challenges that beset us every day.

Just as essential to our wellbeing, however, is frailty. Without frailty we would never bend with the harsh wind, but rather break at the very first frost.  Frailty let us know our limits. Otherwise, all too certain of our power, we would never experience hardship or want; we would never know need, nor suffer deprivation. We would never feel pity or compassion, experience the pleasure of friendship, the sweetness of love, or the sorrow of parting and loss. 

Strength and frailty, confidence and doubt, are both indispensable in defining our humanity. They work together within us.  

Our need for fellowship and community unite us.  But lines of identity and definition also turn into limits and boundaries, and borders in turn become fences and walls. 

And so it happens that, whereas love, humbleness and need unite us, fear, arrogance and hate divide us. 

The writer, philosopher and historian Henry Adams, great-grandson of John Adams and grandson of John Quincy Adams, proposed that perhaps the greatest epoch in human history was around the 12^thcentury, long before divisions between east and west, north and south became unbridgeable rifts. I’m not sure I totally agree with his assessment. Throughout history, huge empires have risen and fallen; the strongest unions were tested—and often found wanting.

Even the Jews, a people whose history among all peoples is unique and exceptional, weren’t always unified (surprise, right?). Before the Exodus from Egypt, we were twelve separate and distinct tribes. It was only under King David’s rule, for the dual purposes of self-defense and cultural preservation, that the tribes joined and became one kingdom. Yet today, though we still call ourselves one people, the great diversity of traditions and customs among us have caused some of us to question and even deny the validity of the Judaism of others. 

Similar divisions appear in our own country, the United States.  For all the noble ideals that unify us, our Nation still comprises fifty individual and unique states, each with its own government, cultural and political identity; each with its own needs, and each with its own avowed state rights. 

There were times when our country declared itself unified behind common objectives and purposes, yet dissent was never far behind. The Civil War was possibly the greatest test that the Union faced and withstood, but wide gaps still exist to this day. Today, cultural differences between North and South; between rich and poor; between the educated and the unlearned, between the two coasts and the interior of our country, are threatening to tear us apart.  

Even within the strongest union, there is friction. Perhaps that’s a good thing. Unity does not mean conformity. Diversity of thought and opinion enriches us. Then too, there are groups within our society that have long been ostracized, marginalized and even victimized. The Boston Globe’s Spotlight investigations shed necessary light on events that transpired in darkness and secrecy for decades, if not forever. The #MeToo phenomenon has revealed in lurid detail predatory behavior that for much, much too long was considered standard and even acceptable. Black Lives Matter gives voice to the prejudice and harassment that still exist in many places around our country.  Inversely, the movement to “Boycott, Divest and Sanction” the Jewish State, Israel, BDS, with all its self-righteous indignation, highlights the ongoing anti-Semitism that still designates Jews not only as a separate people, but also as not-equal, perhaps even undesirable, members of society. 

At the same time, however, tension between the groups has also grown.

National politics, always a dividing line among us, has become a wide rift, more so than at any other time I can recall since the 1960’s.  The recent passing of Senator John McCain and the widespread reflection on his lifelong contributions to our country made many of us realize that the two major parties have for quite some time now stopped working together for the sake of all Americans and are instead focused on blocking any progress at all.

We live not in an age of “Me-Two,” but rather in one of “Me-One.” Societal norms have turned many Americans into self-absorbed, self-centered individuals. The lofty ideals expressed by the Founding Fathers have become a vulgar reality of grab-as-grab-can. We witness today not love and acceptance of our diversity, but rather the emergence of separate and not-so-equal groups that pride themselves on denying essential rights and freedoms to others, all in the name of democracy.

The divisions among us today are real, present and dangerous.

Today more than ever there is need to relearn how to compromise for the sake of peace, for the sake of those bonds that still exist between us.  Instead, what we are seeing is the complete opposite. We see walls coming up. We see hatreds emerging from shadowy depths and turning into behemoths that threaten to tear us apart.

Calling for ever-greater strength, corrupt leaders have learned to manipulate the frailty within us and turn it into fear, and that, as I see it, is a dangerous trend.

What I fear today is that the violence that we witnessed a year ago in Charlottesville will become as commonplace as the mass shootings that have lately been punctuating our once-peaceful life.  Our President matter-of-factly speaks of violence that will break out if his party loses in the mid-term elections. In demonstrations across the country, right-wing extremists have been not-at-all shy about their hateful intentions, while counter demonstrators, the Antifa as they call themselves, have proven just as eager, in the words of the Anti-Defamation League, “To engage in confrontational tactics, including violence.”

In his 1907 autobiography, Henry Adams wrote, “Politics, as a practice, whatever its professions, had always been the systematic organization of hatreds.”  Yet today, rather than organizing and containing the hatreds, our politicians have instead been fueling the fires. 

What I fear today is that the delicate balance of strength and frailty within us is quickly breaking down into chaotic displays of brute force, as divergent groups fight for, and claim, victory and superiority.

I fear not only for the innocent victims whose lives will be cut short because of violence. I fear also for our entire society and people. I fear that the hatreds and fears that are emerging will tear asunder the bonds that make us “one nation, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.”  

It is more than ideals that are at stake here. We face real global issues today, real dangers that threaten the existence of all humanity and possibly the very planet we call home. 

On this day, the day we have set aside to recall the Creation of the World, I fear that we are seeing the beginning of its Destruction. We have once again become too big and powerful for the purposes for which God created us. I fear the consequences.

On the other hand, this Sacred Day also fills me with hope and optimism.  The Midrash teaches that before God created Adam, God first consulted with the angels. Some—most, actually—voiced doubts about the outcome. Yet, despite their misgivings, God proceeded with His plans. As I see it, if God could choose to be hopeful and optimistic, certainly I can follow God’s example and look forward with hope and a prayer!

My prayer today is that people all over the world will see the folly of disrupting the balance between the elements that Humanity is made of. Hopefully, as in the days of King David and Thomas Paine, Common Sense will prevail.  Recognizing the fragility of the planet that was given to our care, I pray that we will once again awaken to the call of the Shofar and re-engage with greater strength in the sacred and ongoing task of protecting and maintaining all Creation, in all its unity and diversity.

I look forward to a time in which the ideals of equality, acceptance and love will once again be the yardstick with which we measure Progress, a time when Strength and Frailty will once again coexist at peace within us, with no one claiming superiority over another.

Oseh shalom bi-m’romav, hu ya'aseh shalom aleinu: May the One who caused peace to reign in the heights, cause peace and harmony also to dwell among us.

May we all be inscribed for a year of joy, sweetness, health and peace.  L’shana tova tikatevu.

Faith, The Sacred Bridge

Faith, The Sacred Bridge

Rosh Hashana Eve, 5779

September 9, 2018

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

One of the most important aspects of humanity—and one of the least understood—is the phenomenon we call Faith.  Faith has many forms and definitions.  It means trust and confidence, usually reserved for matters between people; it also stands for belief in God; and it could simply be a religious doctrine: a faith. 

Faith is not tangible, yet people swear by it. It comes handed down to us by the generations, and by-and-large, we mostly accept and live by it.

Volumes and volumes have been written about Faith.  Yet, for all that, Faith remains elusive, defying form or structure.  Try and describe your own faith, and you find yourself hard-pressed to find the right words.  For one thing, no one definition fits all. Faith adapts to the times and needs of the individual and community that adhere to it.

Much of Faith stems from—and unfortunately is still entrapped in—ignorance. From time immemorial, Faith has held that the earth was flat, that it was at the center of a singular and purposeful Creation, Willed and brought forth by a God whose will is unquestionable. 

Faith came like manna in the desert, to quench our thirst for understanding “why;” to sate our hunger for love; to erase our fears and doubts, and give us comfort and reassure us instead. 

Faith is at the foundation of how we see ourselves, and what our place and role in this universe might be. 

OurFaith teaches us to be better, to trust one another, to fill the world with acts of charity and goodness. But Faith has other faces too. It can also be the driving force behind some of the greatest evils that human beings are capable of.  Auto-da-fé, “an act of faith,” is ironically what the Inquisition called the penance it imposed upon those it found “unfaithful” to the Church. Most often, what auto-da-féreally meant was burning at the stake.

Extremist faith has always been responsible for horrific acts of abuse and exploitation. In the hands of corrupt and greedy leaders, Faith becomes a useful slogan, a banner waved to incite the masses. Hollowed out and replaced with fear and hatred, such Faith becomes a false faith. Intolerance and bigotry are some of its standards.  Violence is one of the means that it sanctions.

We have learned that Faith can strengthen us and give us hope, but also that blind faith is dangerous to our health. 

And yet, without faith we wouldn’t survive, either; not as individuals nor as a people. For to live without faith means to rely only on yourself. It means to live a lonely existence, bereft of trust and companionship. It means to live as an outcast, not bound—or supported—by the same social bonds of love and loyalty that unite us with other members of our society and culture. 

Faith can be a powerful motivator. It was the power of faith that compelled Abraham to leave his old homeland in search of God and a more righteous way of life. Generations later, it was the same faith that led Moses and the Israelites for forty long years, down dangerous desert paths, to a distant Promised Land. Still later, after the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem by the Romans in the year 70 CE, it was faith that stirred the early rabbis, that inspired them to take the smoldering embers of our religion and turn them into a way of life that somehow, miraculously, still exists today.  The rabbis’ restructuring of Judaism succeeded in uniting countless, diverse communities, spread over a wide diaspora, into one single people that still lives today. 

And for the next two millennia, we can still see our people, expelled from one country after another, take this faith with them and replant it in new worlds, there to make it blossom and flourish again.

In our own day, however, new challenges present themselves. When I was a child growing up in Israel, practically all the adults I knew were Holocaust survivors.  Somehow, by sheer willpower, most of them managed to rise from their traumatic experiences. Leaving the past behind, they started new families and rebuilt their lives. Along the way, however, many of them abandoned any remnant of religion or faith.  Life had taught them that from now on they could only rely on themselves. They knew that they could no longer depend on divine redemption, that for food, water and safety they could only count on themselves.  They would survive—but only by the strength of their own hands. 

Facing evil changes you, putting your faith to the test.   

But it wasn’t always evil. Sometimes tests and trials sneak up on you, by stealth, under cover.  

You can’t stop progress, and the times weren’t always bad. All in all, the Enlightenment was good to us. Freed from ancient ghettos, America became our new refuge.  On another shore, the Land of Israel beckoned.  Modernity brought changes into our homes and lives, challenging us to adapt. Science expanded our knowledge and opened our eyes to infinite possibilities. With our broader perspective we were able to see and comprehendexactly where Earth lies in time and space. Step by step we took our rightful place in modern society.  We integrated, and more and more, the Biblical stories of Creation were replaced by the laws of physics and astronomy.

Once again, our ancient faith was being tested. 

Perhaps that’s the way it always is. Perhaps history does repeat itself.  With each expulsion and resettlement, with each catastrophe and renewal, we asked ourselves why we were still clinging on to a faith that only seemed to hold us back. It’s one of those eternal questions that never seem to have a good answer, except, perhaps for the one that always worked for Tevya the Milkman: “Tradition!”

Maybe that’s why we gather year after year; why, at the beginning of each new year, we return to our people and spiritual homes: To ask the questions yet again, hopefully this time to get some answers.  And if not that, then at least to stay for a taste of our old traditions; to surround ourselves with those old feelings and emotions; to feel again the warmth of family; the sweet and savory fragrances of traditional foods; the closeness of friends; to listen to melodies made sacred by the past; to speak the words that our parents and grandparents said before us, going back thousands of generations. Our memories give us strength to go on.

Faith lives within our memories. But faith is not restricted to the past.

There are things in life that can never be explained. The birth of a child; the rebirth of life at every spring. We know the mechanics behind these miracles, but we can’t explain the tears, the upswell of joy, the new purpose and meaning we sense within ourselves. When, after a drenching rainstorm we see a rainbow suspended between heaven and earth, we understand the physics; we can explain the colors and even measure the light waves that cause them.  And yet there is something about a rainbow that cannot be explained, that produces within us feelings of wonder and awe, that leaves us speechless.

That’s when the old story comes back to us, the one from the Bible:  the story of Noah’s Flood. Not so much the flood itself anymore, but rather, the rainbow. The rainbow, you may remember, is the symbol of God’s promise to Noah, the covenant that states that God will never again condemn the entire earth, never again destroy all life. It’s a promise we take on faith. The rainbow reminds us of this covenant made long ago. From here on, things will be better. 

And thatis faith. Faith has the power to make us understand that we are not merely specks of magical dust, but rather that we are part of something greater; that, far from meaningless, our lives mean so much more than the total number of atoms and particles that form our bodies; that we are all interconnected.  Faith gives us meaning.

Like a rainbow that extends from one end of the spectrum to the other, Faith forms an invisible, sacred bridge that links us one to another.  Connecting us with the past as well as with the future, Faith is a pathway to the Eternal God who fashioned us, to the Creator who gave us life and purpose, and who promises to be there for us when we need Him.

Yes, Faith is tested regularly. Maybe it has to be. Maybe faith is like a machine that, in order to function smoothly, must be constantly oiled and maintained. By itself, Faith may not protect us from hardship and adversity. It can’t do the work we must do ourselves to make things better.  But it CAN give us hope.  It CAN brace our purpose, and strengthen our resolve. And THAT’S why we hold on to it.  Because faith can, and does, restore us.  It keeps us going.

Rosh Ha-Shana isn’t only about the past, or only about Tradition. It’s about the path ahead of us. Year after year at this season we return to our spiritual home, the Synagogue, to draw on the strength that our Faith holds out for us. Like the olive branch brought back by Noah’s dove, our faith reminds us of God’s promise, made in ancient days and repeated throughout the ages: that as long as we hold on to our Faith, God will be there for us, to give us hope, strength, and the courage to face whatever tests may yet come our way.

As we go through the next Ten Days of Awe, may we find our love for our people and tradition deepened. May our prayers and meditations travel the entire span of the Sacred Bridge that exists between God and us. And may God’s presence, like a rainbow, always be there between you and me, linking us with unbreakable, eternal bonds.

L’shana tova tikatveu—may we all be inscribed in the Book of Life for a good year, a year of health, joy, love and peace.

© 2018 by Boaz D. Heilman