Trampled Rights: The Case For Israel’s Right To Self-Defense: Yom Kippur Sermon.21

 Trampled Rights: The Case For Israel’s Right To Self-Defense

Yom Kippur Sermon 5782

September 16, 2082

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

In 1916, half-way into World War 1, a treaty was signed between Great Britain and France, looking ahead to the time following the presumed collapse of the Turkish Empire. The Sykes-Picot Agreement, as it came to be known, sought to set up spheres of influence in the Near East—basically to divide the remains of the Turkish Ottoman Empire among the would-be victors.

Consequently, as planned, when the War ended and over the next few decades, the lands that the Turks had controlled for five hundred years were handed over by the League of Nations to Britain and France to administer, along with a series of mandates: The vast empire would be divided up among the peoples and tribes who lived there. Between the 1920’s and mid-1970’s, more than a dozen countries, emirates, kingdoms and states were created throughout the region, among them Saudi Arabia, Yemen, Iraq, Jordan, Lebanon, Syria and Israel. Thus was born the Modern Middle East.

Though all these entities became legally recognized members of the United Nations, one was singled out for different treatment. Of all the countries that were created in those years, of all the tribal, national and indigenous groups of the area that were recognized and granted independence, one has been continually attacked, maligned and delegitimized: Israel. Since gaining independence in 1948, Israel has fought a dozen wars, survived two intifadas (armed insurgencies), and has had to fend off a never-ending series of terror attacks indiscriminately claiming thousands of Jewish lives—men, women, children and infants.

Why Israel?

There are several reasons. To some, Israel seems excessively aggressive. Others, however, even avoid calling it by its name, referring instead to “The Occupying Force.” Some see Israel as an invasive plant, remnant of European colonialism. There are those who hold grudges going back to 1948. Others stop at “The Green Lines” of the 1967 Six Day War. And then there are those whose hatred goes much farther: they see all “Palestine” as a Muslim sacred land. To them, any Jewish presence at all desecrates and profanes its holiness. 

However, world geo-politics aside, there’s another issue at play here, an elephant in the room that has to be addressed. The hatred of Israel isn’t limited only to the State of Israel. Throughout history, there has never been a religious group—not one! —that has continuously faced so many attacks on its identity and authenticity as the Jewish People.  Already 2000 years ago, the early Rabbis, authors of the Talmud and Midrash, faced questions, allegations and innuendos regarding the legitimacy of Abraham and Sarah’s son, Isaac. In the Middle Ages, the Church enforced dogmas that canceled the validity of Judaism and stigmatized all Jews, setting us apart for ridicule, torture and death. In the 19th century, a theory was raised that Ashkenazi Jews are descended not from the Biblical tribe of Judah, but rather from the Khazars, a nomadic tribe that, sometime in the first millennium, roamed between Turkey and southwestern Russia. And more recently, an even more ridiculous claim was made, raising the obscene possibility that the Taliban—the Islamist tribal factions that now control Afghanistan—are somehow descended from the mythical Ten Lost Tribes of Israel.

These attempts to deny and refute Jewish history are all examples of anti-Semitism.

Embedded in Christian and Islamic scriptures, anti-Semitism takes many forms. At first, it was used against the Jewish faith and belief system—our religion. In the 19th century it became a racial theory. In its latest mutation, it has become political intolerance.

This isn’t to say that all criticism of Israel is anti-Semitic. It isn’t. Israel isn’t perfect. Like every other country in the world, Israel has had to face issues associated with multi-culturalism, overcrowding, and limited natural resources. It hasn’t always been successful. Israel’s democratic system is volatile, and often depends on unlikely coalitions. Unlike totalitarian regimes, where the state imposes one religion, one political philosophy and one party, in Israel the many different voices and opinions matter. Debate—vocal and often unrestrained—is a treasured characteristic of Jewish culture. But there is a downside. The political structure of Israel is such that disproportionate power sometimes falls to small parties, giving them outsized leverage. This is true in particular for the Ultra-Orthodox parties, whose views often contrast with the large segment of Israel’s population that considers itself secular. 

But that’s not what Israel’s critics focus on. It isn’t even Israel’s treatment of the Arab and/or Palestinians, though that often serves as the excuse. It’s Israel; Israel’s very existence; and the fact that it’s a Jewish state. 

The increase over the last few years of anti-Semitic attacks, both in the United States and over the rest of the world, is said to be related to the Arab-Israeli conflict. But it’s actually directed only against Jews—and not only Israeli Jews. In Europe, kosher restaurants and supermarkets are bombed. Jewish children on their way to school have to have police protection. Hassidic Jews, perhaps because they are so visibly Jewish, are viciously attacked in New York and other cities and states. On college campuses, Jewish students are discriminated against, silenced and shamed—because they are Jewish and therefore might be supporters of Israel. Even the dead find no rest, as cemeteries are desecrated and headstones defaced, a reminder that even after death the Jew has no validity, no right to live OR die anywhere in the world. 

The fact is that Zionism—the Jewish connection to Israel—is a valid and historic tenet of Judaism. Jews come from Judea—the name of our country of origin before the Romans destroyed it and renamed it “Palestine,” in an effort to erase our history and heritage. 

The Romans exiled thousands of Jews from Judea, but Jews have always lived in Israel, continuously throughout history—not only in the four holy cities of Jerusalem, Hebron, Safed and Tiberias, but also in smaller villages and towns, in the Galilee, the Negev Desert, and even in Gaza, nowadays the axis of the terror organization Hamas. To deny the Jewish historic and binding connection to the Land of Israel is anti-Semitism.

Anti-Semitism, with its many forms and mutations, seeks to deny Jews the rights and freedoms that are afforded to every other political, national or religious group. Foremost among these is the right to self-defense. Where modern Zionism sees the need for self-defense, anti-Zionism is its very antithesis. History has proven that as long as Jews cannot defend themselves, they are at the mercy of the population among whom they live. That isn’t true only of Europe during the Holocaust. Massacres, forced conversions and expulsions characterize Jewish history not only in Europe, but in Arab countries as well. And yes, it was the Nazis—along with their many supporters all over the world (including the Muslim world); and it was the vicious and brutal pogroms in Czarist Russia—and later, in its makeover as Communist Russia. To this day, there is only one country in the world where it is legal and permissible for Jews to defend themselves, with our own weapons, our own army, and our own intelligence system. And that is Israel.

To deny Israel’s basic human right of self-defense is anti-Semitism.

Some would like Israel’s boundaries to go back to the 1967, pre-Six Day War borders. Fact is, however, that the PLO—the Palestine Liberation Organization, a terror organization created with the aim of destroying ALL Israel, was founded in 1964, three years prior to the war. Returning to the indefensible Armistice Borders of 1948 is completely unrealistic. To give just one example, those borders barred any and all Jewish presence in Jerusalem—including the historic Jewish Quarter of the Old City. In total disregard of the UN Partition Plan, the Jordanians denied access to Jews (and ONLY Jews) from visiting and praying at the Western Wall, Judaism’s holiest site, remnant of our Temple that, for more than a thousand years, had stood in the heart of Judea’s capital city, Jerusalem. The ancient cemetery on Mount of Olives, where Jews have been buried for thousands of years, was likewise desecrated, its headstones used to line sidewalks and latrines. Israel will not tolerate a return to these conditions.

Though mistakes were made along the way, by both sides, Israel has made more offers of peace and reconciliation with its neighbors than any other country in the world: From the first division of the land in 1922, which created the Bedouin-Muslim Kingdom of Transjordan and allowed for the possibility of a future home for the Jews; to the 1947 United Nations Partition Plan; from Oslo to Camp David; from the withdrawal of Israeli forces from Lebanon and Gaza to the creation of the autonomous PA, the Palestinian National Authority. Secret and open negotiations have been held—and continue to take place—with the hope of someday achieving peace. 

The rejection of each and every one of these peace overtures is proof of one thing: the ultimate desire of radical Islam to eradicate the Jewish State.

I am certain, without a trace of doubt, that if true peace were offered to Israel, even at the price of evacuation of most, or even the entire West Bank, Israel would agree in a heartbeat.

But not if that means the takeover of the region by terror organizations such as Hamas or Hezbollah. 

This does not mean that we, American Jews, have to agree with the force or means that Israel uses to defend itself. America is a democracy, and American Jews are free to espouse their own political views and opinions, even with regard to Israel. What we cannot afford to do, however, is basically three things:

First: We cannot become detached from the issues. We have to be informed. We have to learn the full history of the region.  We need to learn to recognize and separate between fact and opinion—something the news media is often incapable of doing, and which the social media find completely impossible. Best yet, physically go there yourself. Visit Israel for yourself and see it from the ground up. 

Secondly: We must not disengage ourselves from the discussion over Israel’s safe existence. We cannot use the excuse that we live far away from the region, that it doesn’t pertain to us, that it just doesn’t matter. Because it does. Violent attacks against Israel do not stop at its borders. They are directed against Jews and Jewish institutions—tragically here in Colorado no less than anywhere else. On the streets of our cities, our synagogues and on college campuses, sooner or later, we or our children will have to face confrontation, discrimination and violence, not because we are Zionists, but simply because we are Jewish.

We need to be part of the discussion so we can claim and defend our rights.

Third: Regardless of our political affiliation, we need to be careful about the alliances we make. Along the entire political spectrum, from extreme right to extreme left, some of the groups that claim to be only anti-Israel are actually founded on anti-Semitic ideologies. Jews in America are indeed free to hold and express our own opinions, but if we find ourselves in a position where we lend moral or material support to hatred or violence directed against the Jewish People as a whole, then we are in danger of undermining our own identity, our heritage, and our safety.

On Yom Kippur, from the time 3000 years ago when we were refugees from Egyptian slavery and genocide to this very day, we stand united as one people. We are all here today to examine and evaluate our vows and commitments, both to ourselves and to our God, to our families, our community, and to our People. As Americans, as citizens of other lands or of the Jewish State of Israel: We owe our ideals and freedoms, our pride and even our lives, not only to our heritage, nor even only to the Constitution of the United States. We are here also because Israel is there for us. Israel isn’t just the one and only Jewish State in the world; it’s also our safeguard against persecution. How we support it is our own business; but when it does need our support, as it does today, we need to be there for her.

May this day see us grow in resolve to be the best we can, to be the most we can, as individuals and as a people. May all our prayers and wishes be fulfilled. G’mar chatima tova, may we all—American Jews, Israeli Jews, Jews all over the world, be inscribed and sealed for a year of health, joy, love, security and peace. 

© 2021 by Boaz D. Heilman

Better, Not Best; Improve, Not Perfect: Kol Nidrei Sermon 2021

 Better, Not Best; Improve, Not Perfect

Sermon for Kol Nidre Eve 5782

September 15, 2021

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

In the spirit of Kol Nidrei, I have to confess to a pet peeve. It isn’t anything really big, and in the scope of things I probably shouldn’t even react to it, but that’s what pet peeves do. They may be little, but they irritate.

So here goes: It’s the verb form of the word “perfect,” as in “to per-fect.”

Something about this word has always bothered me. I’ve heard piano students use it as they make progress on a piece they’re working on. And b’nai mitzvah kids working on their speeches or putting the finishing touches on their Torah reading. And here’s the thing: You don’t “perfect” a piece or a speech, or almost anything else you might be working on. I admit that The Gettysburg Address is about as perfect a speech as anyone can give, but I’m sure that when President Lincoln was writing it, onboard the train to the bloody battlefield in Pennsylvania, he wasn’t thinking about “perfecting” his speech. Putting down on paper what was weighing so heavily on his heart on that day was hard enough. And even the great Beethoven used to make corrections on his scores down to the very last minute, even as he was just about to deliver a new symphony or sonata to his publisher.

The best one can hope for is to achieve mastery of your technique. You can hope that your thoughts and emotions come across to your audience as you yourself feel them, from the heart. But from first to last, it’s all a struggle to make it better; to add another layer of paint; to polish over and over, or start from scratch if necessary, until you’re exhausted from simply trying.

Perfection is an awfully high bar to reach—or live up to—even if your gut tells you that it’s as good as it gets. The next morning you still wake up and realize you’ve left something undone, something that can be done better if you give it just one more try.

And that’s true for everything in life, from art and athletics to zoology and Zen. 

Speaking for myself, as someone who has absolutely no athletic ability, it seems to me that Olympian athletes are as close to perfect as possible. Yes, I see the tremors, the occasional fumble, and the heartbreaking fall. But there are still those breath-taking moments, when the seemingly impossible is accomplished, and I wonder how in the world such a routine can be judged as anything less than perfect. But I guess that’s because my eye is untrained, and I must have missed something that a more experienced observer caught. That’s why they’re the judges, after all, and I am only a spectator sitting on my living room couch.

Some of these athletes never stop amazing us. Maybe that’s why we were so shocked when the incredible Simone Biles withdrew from the Gymnastics Team Finals earlier this summer. Some of us took it almost personally, as though WE had invested the time and money, as though WE had endured the injuries, the abuse, or the bullying by small-minded individuals who fail to understand what makes a person reach for perfection or the price they pay for it.

I was dumbfounded by the attacks that were directed at Ms. Biles after she made her unexpected announcement. It couldn’t have been an easy decision. And yet, on one website, one wannabe expert heralded that her “breakdown was imminent.” Meanwhile, a New York City daily went so far as to list the breakdowns she had endured from her childhood on, including the number of therapy sessions she had to have for the many challenges she has had to face in her life. And keep in mind that she is only 24 years old. What was our claim to fame when we were 24? Why were so many so quick to judge her?

It seems that there is something implanted within us, a force both deep and powerful that propels us to reach ever higher. It’s a drive that, even when we fail, leads us to expect others to excel, to be the best, flawless, even perfect. And though we know that, at least for most of us, we are nowhere NEAR perfect, we get angry when someone in whom we put all our faith fails to reach this potential, as though they had failed us personally. 

Deep inside, we may know that perfection is impossible. Yet so many of us strive tirelessly to “perfect” ourselves, or at least what we do. And then we wonder when, inevitably, we break down. We see our imperfections as failures, something we can’t forgive ourselves for, baggage that we carry with us always, until we break.

One of the toughest lessons in life is realizing that we can only be better, not best. And this is actually one of the most important lessons that Yom Kippur has to teach us.

We ask for forgiveness, but finding forgiveness isn’t easy. Just look at our Prayerbook, see how thick it is! Through an entire night and day, we pray; we fast; we supplicate. In tears, we ask for mercy, for compassion, for atonement.

Even in ancient days, Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, was filled with complex rituals. There were many sacrifices, and of course the ceremony of the two goats. One, chosen by lot, was sacrificed, its blood used to cleanse the altar, symbol of the purification that the people were seeking. Then, the second goat—the scapegoat—was released into the wilderness, representing us being freed of our sins.

Over time, these practices were expanded even further. In its description of how Yom Kippur was observed at the Temple, the Talmud devotes an entire tractate to this day, and especially to the role of the High Priest.

We learn how, after preparing himself both physically and spiritually, after offering several sacrifices on his own behalf, on behalf of his family and then on behalf the entire People of Israel, it became the High Priest’s duty to enter the Holy of Holies, a room deep inside the Temple that only he could enter, on only one day during the year—Yom Kippur. He would do so in fear and trepidation, for that was as close as one could approach God’s Presence and—hopefully—not die. Moses could do it, and he did it almost daily. But he was Moses, and as Maimonides put it two thousand years later, “From Moses till Moses, there arose no one like Moses.” 

Ironically, this most mysterious room in the entire Temple, the Holy of Holies, was almost entirely empty. There was only one piece of furniture in it: the Holy Ark that Moses had built for the Tabernacle in the Wilderness. Covered by a beautiful tapestry, the Ark held in it two sets of the Tablets of the Law, a.k.a The Ten Commandments. Brought down by Moses from Mt. Sinai, one set was intact, complete. Perfect, if you will, if you discount the fact that it was really a copy—dictated by God but actually written by Moses. Right next to it however, were some fragments and pieces—all that remained of the original Ten Commandments, the tablets of stone inscribed by God’s own Hand, but smashed against the rock by Moses when he saw the Israelites worshipping the Golden Calf. 

That was what the High Priest saw when he entered the Holy of Holies. 

But at that moment, he understood something very profound: That forgiveness is possible. Just as God forgave Israel its greatest sin, so can our wrongdoings be put to rights. The only question was, how? By what process would the broken fragments be repaired and become whole again?

A famous story from the Midrash [Avot deRabbi Natan:4] tells how Rabbi Yehoshua and Rabban Yochanan ben Zakkai were walking in Jerusalem one day, when they came upon the spot where the Holy Temple had once stood. Seeing the ruins of the Temple, Rabbi Yehoshua began to weep. “Why are you crying,” asked Rabban Yochanan. “Woe is ours,” answered Rabbi Yehoshua, “for this is the place where (through the rituals of sacrifice) Israel’s sins are forgiven!” Rabban Yochanan said to him, “My son, do not be distressed, for we have a form of atonement just like it. And what is it? G’millut chasadim, acts of kindness. As the prophet says [Hosea 6:6], ‘For I desire chesed, kindness, not sacrifice.’”  

Rabban Yochanan’s great teaching enables us all to move forward, just as did the rituals of atonement performed by the High Priest in ancient days. 

On this holiest day in the year, we, like the High Priest, are asked to look at our errors, to confront our failures without flinching. We know that we can’t turn back the clock or pretend things never happened. But we can learn to face the fragments left behind by our mistakes, as long as we also keep before our eyes a vision of our goals and ideals. To expect us—or anyone else for that matter—to be perfect, is to miss the whole point of our existence. We aren’t here to perfect anything. We are here to improve; to fix the brokenness; to bridge the error with its tikkun—its repair.

Like the High Priest, we can bring atonement and wholeness into the world—one step at a time, one kind deed at a time. We may never see perfection—and in fact we shouldn’t expect to. All we can hope for is progress. We work to make things better, not best. We can improve, but never perfect. And then we move on, to the next project, and the one after that. That’s the meaning of the Sacred Service, the task set before us, and to which, again and again, we commit our efforts and intentions.

On this holiest of days, may we, like the High Priest of old, find the proper atonement for our brokenness. May we learn to forgive ourselves—and more forgiving of others—for  what we weren’t able to complete or achieve this past year. May we learn to live with our imperfections even as we try to better ourselves and the world around us.

May our prayers and meditations on this Yom Kippur be acceptable in the eyes of God and all Life. May our deeds in the year ahead overflow with goodness and kindness. And may we all be sealed in the Book of Life for a New Year of strength and resolve, of happiness and love, of peace and health. Amen.

© 2021 by Boaz D. Heilman

Legacy and Responsibility: The Jewish Covenant: RH.21

 Legacy and Responsibility: The Jewish Covenant
5782 Rosh Ha-Shana Sermon
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman
September 7, 2021

Somehow, with everything that was going on this summer, a small piece of news escaped my notice until only a few days ago: On July 20, Ruth Pearl died. Who was Ruth Pearl, you ask?

Ruth Pearl was a survivor of the Farhud, a pogrom carried out against the Jewish population of Baghdad. Over two days in June 1941, 180 Jews were murdered, hundreds were injured, and an undetermined number of women were raped. Thousands of Jewish homes and businesses were looted or destroyed. Ruth was 6 then, and she was witness to the terror, although she and her family were protected by their Muslim neighbors, who knew them well and respected the family well enough to fend off the looters and murderers.

That in itself, however, is not the reason why the story of Ruth Pearl’s death made the news. Rather, it was because she was the mother of Daniel Pearl, the journalist who was kidnapped and murdered by Islamist terrorists in Pakistan 20 years ago.

Slain in the gruesome method favored by his executioners, Daniel’s last words were, “My name is Daniel Pearl. My father is Jewish. My mother is Jewish. I am a Jew.”

To his killers, that probably wasn’t relevant. Their excuse was that he was an American spy.

And in fact, he was in Pakistan to gather information for an article he was writing for the Wall Street Journal on the connection between Al Qaeda and the terrorist known as the “Shoe Bomber.”  But at that extreme moment, Daniel Pearl 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 his identity.  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 an American journalist. He graduated from Stanford University and married a Dutch woman he met in Paris, France.  He played the violin, and besides music, his interests included 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. He also wrote investigative reports focusing on international affairs, including the ethnic wars in Kosovo and the US bombing of a pharmaceutical factory in 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 was it about being Jewish that was so important to him? 

For that matter, why did so many other Jews, throughout our long history, choose humiliation and torture rather than simply convert? Why did the defenders of Masada choose to take their own lives rather than be taken alive by the Romans? In the Middle Ages, in Spain and Portugal, why did so many Jews resort to living a double life, as crypto Jews, rather than abandon their faith? And over the centuries, when given the opportunity to leave, why did millions of Jews choose to cross continents 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 and die as Jews. One opinion is that the root of our devotion is found in the story of the Akeida, the deeply disturbing incident in the Torah where Abraham offers his beloved son, Isaac, as a sacrifice to God. In many synagogues, this is the Torah reading for this very day, Rosh Ha-Shanah, when the most number of Jews gather to hear it retold. We modern Jews rebel against this kind of blind faith, and yet we keep coming back to it year after year, to weigh our beliefs against an act that we see as barbaric and yet also the ultimate test of man’s faith in his God.  

Certainly yet another reason for our resolve to remain Jewish is the hope—the belief—in the Messiah and Olam ha-Ba, “The World To Come,” a vision of a glorious time when untold riches and rewards will come to those who remain faithful.

But belief, no matter how fervent, still needs to be at least somewhat rational. Hope needs purpose if it is to make suffering bearable. And Faith alone, in and of itself, isn’t enough for us anymore. Today we need more tangible reasons. And if we Jews have kept our faith alive for so long—and still do! —despite everything that we have endured, there must be something there that keeps it alive, burning passionately within us.

And if we look at who we are as a people and what we have accomplished during the 3600 years of our existence, perhaps we can find even more than one reason.

By numbers alone, we are a tiny people, less than one-quarter of one percent of the world’s population. Yet our history is the third longest—and one of the most successful—in human civilization, after China and India (which, by the way, together account for about half the world’s population).

Ours is a history that still lives and endures. Egypt’s Sphinx and the pyramids, the Parthenon in Greece and the Coliseum in Rome, for all their mystery and grandeur, are all evidence of a past that is long gone. But the Hebrew language, our texts and our traditions are all still living, growing and evolving, proof of our ongoing survival.  

We are the people who gave the world the Bible. We bequeathed to the world Abraham, Moses and King David, the pillars upon which three of the world’s greatest religions are founded. 

Current stereotypes notwithstanding, we are a people of legendary physical strength.  Samson, King Saul and his son Jonathan, King David, Judah the Maccabee—these are only some of the warriors who defeated enemies in ancient days. In modern times we’ve witnessed the heroic Ghetto fighters, the partisans, and all the Jewish soldiers who, during World War II, fought alongside the Allies. And of course there is Zahal—the IDF, Israel’s Defense Force—one of the most powerful and ethical armies in the world, which, against all odds and numbers, has held off numerous Arab armies and legions of terrorists for almost a hundred years now.

Throughout history, Jews helped establish and maintain kingdoms and empires. Our trading skills kept us busy on all coasts of the Mediterranean and Arabian Seas, along the Silk Road to China and the Spice Route to India.

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

On his voyage to the New World, Christopher Columbus made sure that among his crew were several Jews, including a Jewish cartographer and two surgeons.  Columbus also took with him a man named Luis de Torres, who was also known as Yosef ben Levi ha-Ivri (Joseph the Hebrew, a Levite), who could speak Hebrew as well as several other languages, to act as translator and interpreter.

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

Among the explorers who helped settle the New World and the East Indies were Jews who were looking not only for opportunity, but also for safe haven, a place where they could escape the clutches of the Spanish Inquisition and practice their faith openly.

In more recent years, Jewish contributions have been invaluable in every field. Jews excel in sports, and well before Julia Child and Guy Fieri there were Katz’s Delicatessen and Guss’s Pickles. Just as legendary are Jewish contributions to law and medicine; business and finance; literature, philosophy, music and art; entertainment; and of course science and hi tech. The list goes on and on and is nothing short of phenomenal.  

But above all, the greatest of all Jewish contributions has been—from day one to our own time—a sense of morality, of right and wrong, of holiness and evil. Jews have always looked at the world and envisioned ways to better it. Where others saw life and existence as random, subject to arbitrary forces they couldn’t understand and which they therefore called gods, Jews understood history itself as function of a moral universe, part of a grand plan put in motion by one Creator, one just and moral God. It’s not by accident 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,” words that comes from the section of the Torah that we Jews call “The Holiness Code,” verses that we read on the holiest day in our calendar, Yom Kippur. The idea that all human beings are equal before God, all equally deserving of freedom, justice and compassion, has inspired visionaries from Moses to Martin Luther King, and breathed life into civil rights movements for People of Color, for women, for the LGBTQ communities and many other subjugated minorities.

From the Golden Rule—Love your neighbor as yourself—to the pursuit of justice; from compassion to charity; from ecology to ethics; from knowledge to wisdom, the Jewish contribution to civilization has been fundamental, and continues to be a major force in humanity’s exploration of its purpose and meaning in the universe.

To be a Jew today means to be linked to the legacy of a rich past. It means connecting to a magnificent heritage and drawing strength from it. It means the restoration of a persecuted people to its land, and a forsaken land to its former glory. 

But being a Jew also carries with it a tremendous responsibility: To pay it forward; to support one’s family and community; to teach and pass Judaism’s principles on to future generations. From the most ancient days of our existence down to our very own time, this responsibility has been at the core of our mission as a people, as a Holy Nation.

Heritage and responsibility—these are the terms of the Covenant that unites us as a people, and we Jews feel bound by them. 

Maybe that’s why Daniel 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 particular meaning, so would his death. For Daniel Pearl, being Jewish was a framework, a work of art that he filled with every breath he took, with every word he wrote. With his last words he bequeathed to us a charge: to carry on, to never lose hope, to hold on to our belief and ideals despite all the obstacles that rise in our way. 

Ashrei!—happy are the parents who raise such a person. May the memory of Daniel Pearl, and the memory of his mother, Ruth Pearl, zichronam liv’racha, be an abiding blessing.

May we see our dreams fulfilled this year, and our visions come true. May this New Year bring us 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 the Middle East, and for the whole world.

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

Amen.  

© 2021 by Boaz D. Heilman

Steady In a Sea of Changes: Rosh HaShana Eve.21

 Steady In a Sea of Changes

Erev Rosh Ha-Shanah 5782 Sermon

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Sept. 6, 2021

Tonight is Rosh Ha-Shana Eve, and as the Season of Reflection gets going, we are urged to look at the year that has just ended, and to envision what the year ahead might be like. 

Thousands of years ago, this was a time of fiscal accounting. With the summer harvest winding down, it was time to pay the landlord—to bring a percentage of produce, livestock, or monetary compensation to the Temple in Jerusalem. In our own day, like our ancestors, we too offer an accounting—only it isn’t our financial books that we audit, but rather, our own, personal copy of The Book of Life. We look back and examine our entries—reviewing what we did in the past year—and what we failed to do. This isn’t about how much we gained or lost in the marketplace, but rather, how much we took and how much we contributed of ourselves, of our hearts, and of our souls. Our hope is that we don’t come out short on the good deeds column. 

Of course, everything must be set in the right context. And this has not been an easy year.

For all of us, this year has been one of many changes. Our entire culture suffered a shock, and fractures we previously didn’t pay much attention to became startlingly apparent. We’ve all had to readjust. Many had to restructure home and family situations. Online classrooms took getting used to—and didn’t always work for everyone. A lot of us reexamined our workplace situations and expectations, as we measured the time and effort we put in versus how much we got back in terms of a meaningful life. Even nature seems to have taken a turn to the extreme lately, from devastating earthquakes to historic hurricanes; from massive fires to unprecedented, deadly flooding. This year we’ve seen an uptick in ongoing global conflicts but the end of twenty years of American presence in Afghanistan. We saw missiles directed at Tel Aviv and Jerusalem, and deadly violence in the streets and squares of our own land. With shock and disbelief, we watched, live on television and our smartphone screens, the January 6 attack on the US Capitol. 

And all, of course, against the setting of the ongoing COVID virus that has learned to mutate, staying just a step ahead of our best efforts to control it. 

For me, this was a year of what even Henry Adams, the 19th century American philosopher and historian, would call “An Education,” and I learned many things I never thought I would have to know:

I learned to live with 24/7 tension and anxiety.

I learned to live with isolation and its byproducts—loneliness and depression.

Walking my dog, I learned to cross the street when I saw another person coming towards me, who wasn’t wearing a mask.

I learned that I couldn’t take anything for granted anymore. Not life, not health, nor even the ability to see family and friends.

But I also learned that I could overcome these obstacles. I learned how to find strength inside me. I learned how to teach, learn, and participate in a variety of forums over Zoom. Zoom isn’t perfect: Remembering not to rustle my notes right over my laptop mic was hard, and it took more than a few friendly reminders before I finally remembered to plug in an external mic. I often also forgot to unmute my mic, and I learned that, in fact, one of the most frequent lines spoken on Zoom was, “You’re muted.” But despite the drawbacks of this technology, it enabled me to remain part of a community. I could see, hear and talk with people who live as close as across the street, or as far away as across the continent, and even the ocean. Connections were made and maintained.

Isolation brought about with it a number of serious negative effects, both physical and psychological. But it also forced us to learn new things: to pick up new hobbies, or return to some that we had left behind. For me, that meant spending more time at my piano, reacquainting myself with music that once was literally at my fingertips, but which now required practice and repetition. It was often frustrating, but ultimately richly rewarding. Some of us read more, or we took online cooking lessons. We baked cookies and breads; we did yoga and Zumba online; and practically all of us participated in unending political discussions on the various social media. Simultaneously, however, within our own family pods, we rediscovered the pleasure of sharing meals and actually spending time together. 

I learned that I could do something to allay at least some of my fears and anxieties. The pandemic has overtaken our lives, causing immense misery and pain all over the entire world, not sparing our own community. But it also taught us not to take our health for granted. Additionally, we realized that for a community to be healthy, we need to take better care not only of ourselves, but also of one another. The COVID virus doesn’t stop at borderlines; it doesn’t recognize social or political divisions. It’s an equal opportunity aggressor. Yet it yields to the relatively simple precautions of testing and vaccinating, ventilation, masking and safe distancing.

Still, at times I found myself dragged into dark places of the soul and mind. The cure for that, however, was also not very far. Sally and I are fortunate enough to live close to some magnificent places—mountains whose peaks reach into the clouds; broad vistas that extend as far as the eye can see; and canyons whose colors and striations betray both age and mineral makeup. We made it a point, as often as possible, to take advantage of these wonders of nature, unlocking doors and windows, physically and figuratively, to a world of beauty, light and spaciousness. The effect for us has been both healing and transformative.

But this year has also seen other damage, not directly caused by the pandemic: Our civic community turned uncivil and dangerously divided. Hateful, even violent, expressions of bias and prejudice have become normative in our culture. Many of us have been carefully watching the alarming return and rise of anti-Semitism. Politicians, meanwhile, seem to care more about their own money and power than about the needs of the people they represent. But we also realized that what binds us together isn’t found only in bars or sports arenas. It’s in how we interact with one another, with those who are closest to us, as well as the anonymous person we meet on the street or the marketplace. How interesting that what we used to think of as small talk or pleasantries turned out to be powerful triggers in our psychological wellbeing, helpful in restoring some sense of harmony and welfare.

Big changes bring up existential questions. Amid chaos, it becomes too easy to judge others, to blame an individual or a group for a situation we don’t understand and can’t control. The sense of loss we’ve all been feeling, the need for a breather from the barrage of news and views that we’re constantly subjected to, cause some of us to feel discouraged, or even depressed. Some respond by shutting themselves off, withdrawing into a cocoon of isolation. Some feel that since there is nothing they can do about anything anyway, they might as well live as if there were no tomorrow. And yet still others even start believing that they are invincible, that their faith will somehow protect them from all harm. As we navigate through this time of change and uncertainty, what we need most of all is something that doesn’t change, a set of rules that is constant and trustworthy. Something that will cast light on the uncharted territory around us. Something that will help us find our way out of the morass, back to the normal life we’ve been accustomed to.

And that is why we are here tonight. 

For more than 3000 years, the Jewish People have been heeding the call of the shofar. But it’s more than only custom and tradition. It’s also a grave responsibility, one which we take seriously. During this season, we examine our behavior in the past year through a lens of morality, of justice, love and compassion. Measuring our deeds on a heavenly scale, we hope that we haven’t veered too far from the path that we call right. At the same time, however, we also look to the future, knowing that everything we do today will affect not only our children’s lives, but also all future generations. 

We know that this is an important obligation, especially in a world where the rules seem to change by the minute. The High Holy Days are like a Northern Star in what sometimes seems like a random and arbitrary universe. Here we find inspiration to focus on what really matters in life, to rededicate ourselves to a path that has proven trustworthy to thousands of generations before us. We pray that the lessons we learn, and the insights we gain during this Season of Reflection will guide us, as well as our children, for all eternity. 

May our prayers and meditations shine a light on our path forward, as we look towards a time when sickness and sorrow are gone; when our nation will unify and learn to accept the diversity of our community; when the world will learn to live in harmony and peace. 

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

© 2021 by Boaz D. Heilman