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
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