To Be a Blessing
Erev Rosh Ha-Shanah Sermon
Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman
September 2, 2024
At a certain rehab facility, two men were assigned to the same room, and they soon became friends. After all, when your eyes are bandaged or your heart works erratically at best, when life’s distractions are kept far outside your door, when the TV only gives you football and world news and the only visitors you get are doctors and nurses who check on you periodically, poke you, sponge bathe you and administer your meds, there’s not a whole lot else to do but get to know your neighbor better.
Every morning the man whose eyes were bandaged would ask his neighbor what he saw outside the window at his bedside. “It’s raining,” the other would answer, or “the mountains are particularly clear today.” He would describe the traffic outside the facility, and even what the campus across the highway looked like on any particular day. “Must be homecoming,” he said one day as he related the crowded presence of students and parents in the main quad. The sound of the band practicing on the football field wafted in, and they both agreed that it would be so good to be out there, mingling with the crowd, enjoying the cool fall temps after the long, hot summer.
But one day, the description from the man who lay across the room stopped. The man with the bandaged eyes called out his name, but there was no answer. When the nurse came in, he asked about the man and why he didn’t answer. “Oh,” came the answer, “he passed away.”
“Oh!” the bandaged man cried out in obvious pain. “That is so sad! We became friends. He would tell me every morning what he saw outside his window—the weather, the traffic, everything!”
“He did??” asked the nurse incredulously.
“I can’t see anymore, and he was my connection to the outside.”
“But…” the nurse stammered, “he couldn’t have!”
“Why not?”
“Because there is no window at his bedside. Just a wall.”
Taking this information in, the blind man lay there in silence for a few minutes. Not long after, the family of the man who had died came in to collect his belongings. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said to them. “But why did he lie to me?”
“He didn’t lie,” they responded. “You see, he was blind too, just like you. He was blinded in a work accident years ago. But he never let that stop him from imagining. In his mind he saw everything that he remembered from his past, and he made it live again. And then he would relate it to anyone who would listen. He rebuilt his own beautiful past from memory, and kept all of it alive in his mind. And that way, he gave all of us, too, hope and purpose. He inspired us, and often asked us to help him in his efforts to rebuild. And so we did. We donated to the city’s parks and recreation department. We helped build a playground in the park across from us and planted trees around it. We supported the college he went to, and always took him to the homecoming game. It was his way of telling us never to give up hope, to continue making the world better.”
The blind man lay quietly. “He turned his memories into blessings,” he said after a few moments. “He did,” the family agreed. Then they collected their father’s belongings and left, promising to come visit soon and often again.
I’ve always been struck with this story (and I am sorry--I cannot find its source, I hope they will forgive my using it in this sermon). No matter how many times I read it, it has never failed to move me.
And through the years, it has helped me chart and understand the many ways we use the word blessing. Sometimes we fall into the trap of using it almost casually, as when life, a coincidence or some random event works in our favor. In a more secular setting, when we say of a particular project that it had “the blessing of the authorities,” what we are actually saying is that it got the approval of the individual or committee in charge.
In Hebrew, the word b’racha always carries religious overtones. Judaism teaches that blessings are the bridge that connects us with God. In fact, the ancient Rabbis instruct that we should say a minimum of 100 blessings every day, reminding us that we should take nothing for granted. And so we say a blessing when we rise in the morning and when we go to bed at night, and at every moment in between. It isn’t only God Who sanctifies us—we sanctify God in return through the blessings we say and the gratitude we express.
With some blessings we actually participate, and in a small way even become partners with God. While fruit can be easily plucked from a tree, and the blessing is therefore simple and direct, the prayer we say when we break bread, Ha-motzi lechem min ha-aretz, (“who brings bread forth from the ground”) is much more complex. Ha-motzi, as we know it, comprises not only our gratitude for the wheat, that does grow from the ground (no small miracle in itself), but additionally this b’racha also recognizes our role in this process—the work involved in sowing and harvesting, milling, grinding and finally baking the flour into bread.
Blessings bring holiness—and a measure of eternity—into our lives. They are like a river, with a source and a goal. The mightiest river may start as a trickle, but along its path it gathers power and strength. We can cross or navigate it. But we’ve also learned to control a river’s force and channel its course. And we can use it for any number of purposes—to provide water for ourselves or our animals; to irrigate fields and crops; to produce electricity; or even just to refresh and restore ourselves physically, emotionally or spiritually. Without water, nothing would live, and the earth would shrink into nothingness. So too with blessings.
The Torah gives us an example of the highest form that a blessing can take. In parashat Lech L’cha (“Go forth”), one of the early portions in the first book of the Torah, Genesis, God commands Abram to leave his homeland and go to a new land, which God will show him. There, God promises, “I will make you a great nation and you shall be a blessing.” Rashi, the great Jewish-French commentator of the 11th century, explains this verse as follows: “You shall be a blessing: Blessings are entrusted to you; until now they were in My power—I blessed Adam and Noah—but from now on you shall bless whomsoever you wish.”
God empowers Abram—and us, Abraham’s followers—to become, if not a source, then at least conduits of blessings.
When we take upon ourselves the mitzvot—the commandments—of pursuing justice; of teaching our children or students ethics and morality; when we say a kind word or extend a helping hand, we follow Abraham’s lead. There’s even a blessing we say when we comfort the bereaved, “May the memory of your loved one be a blessing,” by which we share our faith and hope that grief at some point will turn to gratitude. In time we learn to draw inspiration from our loved one’s victories and even from their failures. Through the memories left to us, we become better people, and we inspire others to follow us. The memories indeed become a blessing.
An Israeli sculptor who recently posted pictures of his work online evoked this reaction from one of his followers: “The soul of an artist never ceases to amaze me—to see what some would call junk and, through your artist eyes, to see what it can and must be: that moves me more than anything else.”
To see what is, and then imagine and create what it can and must be, that is the real message of Rosh Ha-Shanah.
A greeting for the New Year, found in a piyyut—a religious poem—that is recited in many congregations on Rosh Ha-Shanah Eve is, “May this year and its curses end soon, may the new year bring us blessings instead.” This saying is particularly relevant tonight. The past year presented us, individually and collectively, with tremendous challenges. What we must find now, in the year that begins tonight, is the strength to turn these challenges into successes. The curses into blessings.
We do so by following the teaching and law that we took upon ourselves thousands of years ago: to be a blessing. If not a source of blessing, recognition reserved to only a handful of the most righteous among us every few generations, then at least a participant in its course, something each of us is capable of being. Blessings and mitzvot—the sacred commandments—are more than a way of connecting with God. They help make the world better, especially during dark times. Each kind word or good deed brings light in, no matter how small and insignificant it seems to us at the moment. Like a river, the blessings grow and flourish.
In this new year, may recognition of the many gifts in our lives stir us to speak words of gratitude. May the world’s brokenness inspire us to participate in tikkun olam—repair and redemption. May we continue our sacred work of making the dreams and visions of our prophets come real. And may we, like Abraham, be a blessing for all that was, is, and that can yet be.
L’shanah tova tikatevu—may our deeds and words be inscribed in the Book of Life, and may we be remembered and blessed for a sweet, happy and healthy New Year. Amen.
© 2024 by Boaz D. Heilman
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