The Final Question: Sermon for Rosh Hashanah 5781
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman
September 19, 2020
Of all the images associated with Rosh Hashanah—apples and honey, round challahs, shofars of all sizes and shapes—the one that I personally find most meaningful is that of gates. The gates of prayer, the gates of repentance; gates opening and gates closing—these images fill our prayerbooks and strike both fear and awe in our hearts. In ancient days, the gates of the Temple in Jerusalem must have been formidable and awe-inspiring; how much more so, the gates of heaven!
But this grand image has a double, a thumbnail reflection, of a gate meant not for hundreds or thousands of pilgrims, nor for millions of prayers clamoring to find their way in, but rather is custom sized for just one person at a time. Not ornate or in any other way ostentatious, this simple and narrow gate opens not at dawn, but instead, at the darkest hours. This is, of course, the gateway to our souls, the one that lets us see ourselves as we truly are—not the public face we show to the outside world, but rather the self we face when we are alone, when we can’t sleep, when our most secretive thoughts and fears come calling, unannounced and unmasked.
Having to go through that gate can be daunting. We judge ourselves, and mostly we tend to see our faults and failings. And so we find ways that skirt it. Anything to avoid going there, to have to face this gate or go through it. Still, sometimes, in the dark of night, when even cowering under the blankets doesn’t help, the doubts rise to trouble us. But eventually we manage to fall asleep again, and the next morning everything seems so much brighter! And that’s the way it is for most of the year.
But during one season, in the fall, the High Holy Days arrive, and with them the specter of the dreaded gates of judgment, and fear and trepidation are there with us all day long. There’s nowhere to run or hide. For well we know, on these days, each of us is called by name and made to walk through this gateway to our souls. One by one, we are summoned before a Heavenly Court where our lives and deeds are measured by standards that, left to our own devices, we sometimes overlook or disregard.
Normally, this experience would be dayenu—enough already—if it only came once a year. This year, however, has been anything BUT normal. For months now we have been spiraling from one unending crisis to the next, from one disaster to the next, watching history unfold before our eyes. All of us have been affected, no one has been spared. And along the way we have had to answer some pretty tough questions. What we’ve learned about ourselves has at times been both shocking and painful.
5780—known in the general world as 2020—will always be remembered as the year when several huge forces converged, like a perfect storm. COVID; extreme weather with monstrous hurricanes, unprecedented heat waves and historic wildfires; a rollercoaster economy and unemployment numbers unmatched since the Great Depression; social, political and racial reckoning; all came together, forcing us to look at ourselves in ways we never had to before. And what we saw wasn’t always pretty.
Having to face such enormous forces led many of us to see ourselves from a different and perhaps less egocentric perspective. Yes, some people showed greed. Frustration and anger often erupted into ugly behavior and at times, violence. Runs on supermarkets in search of toilet-paper and hand-sanitizer, and the unaccustomed sight of empty shelves, shocked us into thinking of this year as not merely unusual, but actually apocalyptic.
On the other hand, who can forget serenades sung from balconies in Italy and Spain? Or orchestras and choirs managing to pull off entire concerts not from symphony halls but from individual living rooms? Communities, neighbors and friends reaching out to help one another? Or those touching and shining moments of humanity—people helping people: first responders and healthcare workers stretching themselves to the limit in caring for the sick; or the newspaper delivery person who realized how many elderly people on his route all of a sudden found themselves desperate and hungry, so he decided to deliver groceries to their doorstep, and enlisted others—teenagers, workers laid off from their jobs—to help in similar ways?
In our own individual microcosms, being quarantined alone or with our nuclear family has taught us to redefine our roles, and to share time and space in a totally different way than we had been accustomed to. Yes, it was hard, but we found ways to cope; we found moments and corners that we could retreat to when we needed some time for ourselves. Many of us actually adopted pets this year, feeling the need to show love and care to creatures who were in the same boat as us, but without the ability to understand the whys or wherefores.
These situations may or may not have prepared us for what came next, but seeing the horrific brutality with which some police officers treated fellow Americans whose skin color happened to be black or brown made us ask different questions, requiring that we appraise not only our nation and society to see whether racism in America is systemic, but also ourselves, to examine whether we unknowingly might be harboring racism and prejudice. We learned that there was a difference between being not-racist and anti-racist. We realized that seeking what was best for us and our families wasn’t always in line with what we had learned about justice and equality, about loving our neighbor as ourselves.
Like the movie Groundhog Day, 2020 has been one long, interminable Rosh Hashanah, only without the apples and honey. In the past, it was enough that we reflected on ourselves, on our own behavior. In the year 5780, we found ourselves needing to look at a much larger canvas, forced to redefine our place, role and function in the world at large; to refocus and see ourselves not merely as insignificant particles in an infinite universe, but also as unique individuals with unique gifts and talents who can—and must—make a difference in the world in which we live.
And now, today, once again we find ourselves standing before that terrifying gate, the one that opens to our souls on one side, and to the Heavenly Court on the other. A long line of souls stretches ahead, and an even longer one behind us. One by one, as names are called, we approach the bench, our caps—or our kippahs—clenched tightly in our sweaty palms. And then we are there, standing before the Heavenly Tribunal. The Judges peruse through a thick book lying open before them, and we feel our hearts beating faster and louder than could possibly be healthy for them. A nod here, a “tsk-tsk” accompanied by a head shake there, and finally a voice: “We have some questions for you.” Nervously, we nod. What could these questions be? What could the Supreme Judge of all beings NOT know about us already? And what could we answer to save our souls?
“In the past year, did you offer to help anyone less fortunate than you?”
We stop breathing. Surely we must have!
And the Judge continues, the voice as deep as the ocean, as resonant as the sky itself, “Did you say ‘thank you’ often enough?”
Quickly, we try to remember—did we?
But before we can answer, the voice resumes, “Did you say ‘I love you’ enough?”
“And one final question.” The Judge’s eyes are raised from the book, looking deeply into ours, and our hearts nearly faint.
“And what exactly are you going to do about that in 5781?”
May we all be prepared this year to give the right answers. And may we all be inscribed in the Book of Life for a good and sweet New Year, L’shana tova tikateivu.
© 2020 by Boaz D. Heilman
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