Lately, I have been giving a lot more thought to the subject of miracles. Considering what I so recently went through, I don’t think many of you will find that surprising. Having a stroke, and surviving it, and having all my faculties returned to me in a matter of hours rather than months or years, can certainly focus one’s thoughts toward the miraculous.
How much the more so with my being a rabbi – a member of the clergy who has spent many years serving congregations – and as such, has accompanied many a congregant along the long and arduous road of return that typically follows falling victim to a stroke. Indeed, providing comfort and solace to stroke victims has been one of the more difficult tasks in my rabbinate, and I expect that is just as true for other clergy, regardless of their faith identities. After all, when people have lost in an instant so many physical abilities that we tend to take for granted, and then are faced with the grueling task of recapturing those abilities, in the smallest of incremental achievements over the longest periods of time, it doesn’t take long for them to view a faith leader’s words of encouragement, and hope as sounding shallow as their own efforts to recover seem increasingly futile. And who can blame them? As clergy, we not only observe the growing frustration and the spiritual and emotional agony of congregants who have fallen victim to strokes, but we, in our own sense of powerlessness – in our inability to do much more than offer words of encouragement which seem empty in the face of their painfully slow and miniscule progress – feel their pain and frustration as well.
Having accompanied so many others along that excruciating journey, how could I not but recognize the miraculous when I found myself one morning in the grips of a stroke, yet a day and a half later I was able to leave the hospital with all, or most, of my abilities restored? I tell you, that morning, when the stroke hit, and I was holding myself up over the bathroom sink by my arms, for my legs had failed me, and I was waiting for my wife to come home and the ambulance to arrive, I truly felt that this was the end; that I would not see the light at the end of that tunnel. At that moment, I was the embodiment of the prayer from the morning service which states: “Praise to You, Adonai our God, who formed the human body with skill, creating the bodies many pathways and openings. It is well known before Your throne of glory that if one of them be wrongly opened or closed, it would be impossible to endure and stand before you.” Yet here, this Shabbat, I stand before you. I have not the slightest doubt but that it was a miracle.
Now one can easily argue that it wasn’t a miracle. That it was science; medical science. The drug that was responsible for my recovery – the tPA Drip – was first introduced in 1996. If it is administered within 3 hours after the onset of a stroke, it can quickly work to dissolve the blood clot which caused the stroke, eliminating it before there is permanent damage to the brain. But when you think about, if you are not already a patient in a hospital, 3 hours is not a lot of time to work with. A lot has to happen before the drug is administered. In my own case, the diagnosis was that the stroke hit the back of my brain. But if they were to administer the drug in time, they did not have the time to do the testing necessary to determine whether or not there was any bleeding in my brain. For if there was bleeding, the drug would only make the situation worse, perhaps kill me. My wife and I decided that in spite of the risks, they should administer the drug and leave the rest to God. Considering how dire the result could have been, that I not only survived but recovered was but another miracle. Going in, no doctor could guarantee that outcome. It wasn’t just science. It was a miracle.
But if any doubt of the miraculous still lingered. That doubt was about to be washed away. After my release from the hospital, though most of my faculties had been restored, there were some lingering effects. The top of my head always felt numb. I continually had 3 separate headaches, simultaneously; one in the back of my head, around where the clot had been, another along the carotid artery in my neck, where an ultrasound had been conducted to determine any blockage, and one in the front of head, in the area of my forehead. All hurting at the same time and never going away. It was strange, since from childhood I used to have headaches regularly, but sometime in the late 80’s they just stopped and never returned. Now I had 3 of them all at one time. It was Yom Kippur afternoon – 19 days since the onset of the stroke. I was worshipping at the synagogue in Davenport. It was time for silent prayer, and I silently prayed in earnest, thanking God for my salvation, and asking God for strength. For if the way I had been feeling, with the numbness and the headaches, was to be my new normal, considering what the outcome could have been, I was more than ready to accept it. I only wanted God to give me the strength to live with it. It was while I was deep into that prayer that my prayer was suddenly interrupted by what I can only describe as a strong pop that I felt in my head. It was as if I could actually hear it as well as feel it. No sooner did it occur than the numbness and the headaches started to quickly fade. By the end of the service, they were completely gone. Now there could be other explanations for what I experienced. In fact, I shared the experience with my doctor, who had nothing to say in explanation of it. Still there could be other explanations, but I am convinced that the pop I experienced, and the relief I felt, were in answer to my prayer. Miracle number 3.
One can ask: Were any of these experiences really miracles or are there rational explanations for each and every one of them? It’s a fair question. But there is a fundamental problem with the question itself. It operates under the premise that reason and miracles must exist on two separate plains. That they cannot exist side-by-side. And that is not necessarily true. Something can be both miraculous and rational at the very same time. Being able to explain how a miracle occurred does not make it any less of a miracle. For what makes a miracle a miracle is not that it defies explanation but rather that how it occurs, when it occurs, and the circumstances in which it occurs produces a sense of awe and wonder. For this one moment, the forces of the universe came together in such a way as to produce a result which was unexpected, surprising, and in its own way, a very special gift. The fact that we can parse it and explain how it happened is besides the point. The fact that it did happen, in the way that it happened is the essence of the miracle itself.
When I was a rabbi in Lincoln, Nebraska, there was this elderly couple who belonged to my congregation – Paula & George. One day George collapsed and was taken to the intensive care unit of the hospital. He lay there in a coma, with the monitors showing very little brain function. He lay in that bed in the fetal position. I sat with Paula as she met with the team of doctors who explained to her that he lay there in the fetal position because his brain was not getting enough oxygen to function, and that the monitor was showing that he was basically brain dead. Therefore they counseled her to allow him to pass away naturally by giving the order not to resuscitate him should he go into cardiac arrest. To my surprised, she refused. All of us in the room, with the exception of Paula, were convinced that he would linger until he died. We were wrong. Several days later, he awoke, eventually left the hospital, and lived for another two years. While his recovery can be explained medically, it was against all the odds. It was a miracle.
It was but a month or two after I arrived in Iowa that on one Summer Sunday afternoon, I received a call from one of the local hospitals, telling me that a congregant was very close to death and they thought I should come as soon as possible. So I did. I had been doing yard work but I didn’t take the time to change my clothes, lest she pass before I arrived. I walked into her room and there she was, laying still on the bed. Suddenly, to my surprise and the surprise of the nurse, she sat up, looked at me and said, “Hello Rabbi. I am so glad to see you.” She, too, recovered and left the hospital. A miracle.
In 1948, the United Nations passed its Partition Plan, dividing Palestine into 2 states; one Jewish and the other Arab. The entire Arab world rejected the plan and mustered its forces to invade the fledgling State of Israel, promising to drive all its Jews into the sea. The army of the newborn Jewish State was greatly outnumbered and outgunned by the combined armies of the Arab world. The rest of the world sat back, expecting to swoop up whatever Jews survived the Arab onslaught. But when the smoke cleared, the State of Israel not only survived but was victorious. A miracle. As did the Maccabees 2100 years earlier, they, too, evoked of us the proclamation, “Nes Gadol Haya Sham – A great miracle happened there!”
Miracles occur all the time, and they don’t need to be on as grand a scale as any of these. But we miss them. We miss them because our eyes and our ears and our minds are closed to them. There is a story about two old friends meeting on 5th Avenue in New York City, just as all the business offices were letting out. The sidewalks were filled with people and street was fill with cars, and the racket they produce was intense. Now these two friends hadn’t seen each other in many years. So they fought the crowd in order to embrace each other in the moment. Just as they were embracing, one friend said to the other, “Don’t you hear it?” “Hear what?” the other replied. “Don’t you hear that little bird caught in that bush in that window box over there?” Well, the other friend looked and that window box was a good 15 to 20 yards away. “How can you hear a little bird that far away in all this noise?” he asked. “I’ll show you,” his friend replied. They walked to the window box and the one friend pushed aside the branches and low and behold, a little bird flew out. In astonishment, the other friend exclaimed, “I can’t believe you heard that bird! You must have Superman hearing.” “Not really,” the first friend replied. “Let me show you.” With that, he stuck his hand into his pocket and pulled out a quarter. He then dropped it on the sidewalk and no sooner did it hit the ground then a whole group of people just stopped in their tracks, turned around and looked. “You see,” said the friend, “it all depends upon what you are listening for.”
It all depends upon what we are listening for and what we are looking for. As long as we close our minds to the possibility of the miraculous, we will never witness it. But once we open our minds to that possibility, our world will abound with miracles. And we will be the better for it. Our lives will be so enriched by the miracles we encounter, for with them comes hope rather than despair. For in them we will experience a God who cares and is actively involved in our lives. It is Jewish tradition, that immediately upon waking up in the morning, we say a prayer of thanksgiving to God for granting us the miracle of another day of life. We begin each day by acknowledging the many miracles that surround us. In so doing God becomes all the more real to us, and not just some three-letter theoretical word we invoke in ritual moments but ignore in the course of daily living.
We should not require a moment of dire crisis to encounter the miraculous in our lives, but rather we can actively seek it out.
Archive for the ‘Yom Kippur’ category
Miracles: A Reflection
November 9, 2019The Middah of Zechirah: A Yizkor Sermon
November 3, 2016Throughout these High Holy Days, we have been exploring the spiritually powerful world of Mussar as we have examined just a few of the Middot – the God desired attitudes or character traits – which have the ability to heal our souls and permit more divine light to shine into our lives, and through us, into the lives of others.
During these brief moments of Yizkor – memorial – when our thoughts and hearts turn to the loved ones we have lost over the years, I would like to introduce yet one last Middah, the Middah of Zechirah – Remembrance. For after all, that is what this particular service is all about.
As I stated in earlier sermons, and just this morning, Mussar views our attitudes as existing along a continuum, from one extreme to the other, with the Middot seeking to help us find the ideal spot along that continuum at which we can establish for ourselves the most effective and uplifting set point for our personal attitudes. When it comes to the Middah of Zechirah – Remembrance – that set point is to be found somewhere between the extreme of a purging from our memory of any thoughts of those who are no longer with us, and the extreme of a total and debilitating obsession with our memories of those who have departed this life; between the extreme of moving on with our lives as if those people never existed and the extreme of being so lost in our sense of loss that we find ourselves incapable of moving forward in our lives. As is the case with all such continuums, as explained by Mussar, both extremes are destructive to our character, yet elements of both extremes are necessary for our spiritual survival. The Middah of Zechirah seeks to help us discover the sweet spot along that continuum which combines that best of both perspectives in such a way that our memories of loved ones are neither lost to us nor seeking to drown us in an oceans of sorrow; in such a way that we can hold the memories of those we loved, and continue to love, near and dear to our hearts as they come to serve to brighten our lives rather than darken our days.
In our search for this Middah, we need to confront what might be for many a rather uncomfortable fact; that we fear extinction. The nightmare we never speak about with others is the one in which we not only no longer exist in this world, but it is as if we never existed at all. All the evidence of our having been here is erased. If someone were to mention our names, the common response would be, “Who? Never heard of him. Never heard of her.” That our life would have been the realization of Shakespeare’s words: “Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more: it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”[1]
If that is what awaits us at the end of our days, then what is the purpose of the struggle? Why do we grasp so tightly onto life? Why do we invest so much energy into it? Physical energy. Emotional energy. Why do we care? Care about ideals. Care about others. Care about ourselves. If it all comes down to nothingness, non-existence, why not just give up the ghost and end it now?
We all want our lives to mean more than nothing. We all want to leave our mark before we are gone. We all want to make some sort of difference; leave some sort of legacy. We all want to be remembered. Zechirah. And just as we want to be remembered, those who came before us wanted to be remembered as well.
But how can we expect to be remembered unless we remember? Why should we, in good conscience, expect those who follow after us to do more for us then we, ourselves, did for those who came before us? We can’t, and we shouldn’t.
There are those who claim, “Memory is a very personal thing. I keep it in my head and in my heart and that is all I need to do.” But remembrance is more than mere memories locked away in our brains, hidden from the world at large; hidden even from those closest to us. Remembrance isn’t something that is exclusively passive. It needs to be active as well. We need to act upon our memories as well as harbor them. We need to bring them into our lives and not just keep them locked away in our hearts.
One way that we can engage in such active remembrance is, of course, through ritual. That is precisely what we are doing right now by attending this service. But this is only one such ritual, and it is a once-a-year commitment, and we can do it for all our loved ones together at once – mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, husbands, wives, and God forbid, children. We all know that there are other rituals as well which we can be observing, such as lighting Yarhzeit candles and saying Kaddish on the Shabbat nearest the Yahrzeit, attending such services as festival Yizkor services and Kever Avot. Visiting the graves of our loved ones and saying a prayer. Giving tzedakah in their memory on their special days, such as birthdays. Now there are those who believe that by our observing each of these rituals, we enable the souls of our loved ones who have returned to God to experience feelings of joy and love not unlike how they felt when physically alive, we celebrated with them their special times, such as birthdays and anniversaries. It would be kind of like sending them a spiritual greeting card. Maybe that is so. We cannot know for sure. However, what we can know, and what we can experience, is whether or not it impacts their heavenly existence, it can impact our earthly existence. Taking the time and the energy to observe such rituals in their memory can touch our lives in much the same positive and loving way that we experienced in celebrating their days with them when they were with us. There is a tangible spiritual uplift we can feel when we take the time to light a Yahrzeit candle for them, say Kaddish for them, go to visit their graves. Such deeds bring out our memories and draw us closer to them. They have the power to heighten the feeling of their continuing presence in our lives.
While those special days with their special observances are very important, when it comes to our actively engaging in Zechirah, there are other opportunities as well – daily opportunities. At the hands of those who are gone, we received manifold gifts; gifts that far exceed any material inheritance they may have passed on to us. These are the gifts of the spirit. These are the gifts which may not have added to our estate but they have added greatly to our character. The wonder of these gifts is that we can keep them the rest of our lives yet freely share them with others and they would not diminish one iota. Indeed, with every act of sharing, they grow. And they grow all the more wondrously if, when we share them with others, we also share something about the people who gave us those gifts in the first place; introducing to those whose lives we bless, to those who blessed our lives. Introducing them as if they are standing right alongside of us; a chain of tradition, if you will, of blessings. You may have heard of “paying it forward”. Well, we can pay it forward and backward at the same time. In so doing, we can keep both the legacy and the memory of our departed loved ones alive and vital in this world.
Not every one of us is destined to have our names inscribed in the history books and remembered for time immemorial but that does not mean that we are destined to fade into nothingness. Each and every one of us leaves a legacy; a legacy of our choosing. And each and every one of us carries upon our shoulders the responsibility to transmit to others the legacies that have been left to us by those we loved. We are the keepers of each other’s legacies. In so doing, we are the ones who determine whether or not the fate of others is destined for extinction in this world or for an unbroken chain of memory and gift giving stretching far into the unforeseeable future. The power of Zechirah – Remembrance – is in our hands and may we always make the most of it.
[1] Shakespeare, William, “Macbeth”, act 5, scene 5.
The Middah of Shalom Bayit
October 14, 2016Without question or doubt, the most famous figure in the Mussar Movement was the Chofetz Chaim. Indeed he is considered by many to be the most famous rabbi of the latter half of the 19th and the first part of the 20th centuries. To this day, no rabbi of the modern era is held in as high an esteem as is he.
Actually, Chofetz Chaim, which means “Desirer of Life”, was not his name but rather it was Rabbi Israel Meir HaKohen Kagan. Chofetz Chaim happens to be the title of his first book on living an ethical life. However, the impact of this book was so great that he and the book became synonymous, not unlike Kleenex and facial tissues, to make a rather poor analogy. He established a yeshiva in Radin, Poland to which students from around the world flocked. His was the greatest spiritual and ethical voice of his time and his legacy remains vital today. In fact, in his day, there were many who believed that he was one of the 36 righteous people of his generation, for whose sake, as our tradition teaches, God preserved the world from destruction. It is a sad irony of history that he, who lived such a sacred life, to the ripe old age of 95, shedding so much spiritual light on the world, died in September of 1933, just as the shadow of Nazism was beginning to darken the future of Europe.
There is a story about the Chofetz Chaim which I would like to share. At one time, he was asked how he was able to have such a great impact on the Jewish world. This is how he answered: “I set out to change the world, but I failed. So I decided to scale back my efforts and only influence the Jewish community of Poland, but I failed there, too. So I targeted the community of my hometown of Radin, but I achieved no greater success. Then I gave all my effort to changing my own family and I failed at that as well. Finally, I decided to change myself and that’s how I had such an impact on the Jewish world.”[1]
This story cuts straight to the heart and beauty of Mussar and is an essential message as to what Yom Kippur is all about. For Mussar and Yom Kippur both teach us that if we wish to make the world a better place, we have to start with ourselves. For the first step to making the world better is to be found in making ourselves better.
While it true that we certainly are able to impact the world and the people around us, we cannot control them. But what we can control is ourselves. We choose our behaviors and the attitudes which drive them. As Mussar tries to teach us, if we can adjust our attitudes for the better, then we can change our behaviors for the better, and that will bring us closer to God and our fellow human beings. Not only that, but those changes can be contagious. When we think about the people in our lives who have truly inspired us, more often than not, we think about the people who have been of exceptional character. They have been loving and sensitive, generous of their time and attention, always helpful, caring for the wellbeing of others, and rarely, if ever, appearing selfish or self-involved. These are the people, more often than not, we identify as the ones we wish to emulate. By being the type of people who they are, they have, by example, helped us to make of ourselves better people. The more we become like them, the more we can inspire others as well. That is one of the most important ways that we can help to change the world, by starting with changing ourselves.
The Middot of Mussar guide us in the various ways that we can affect those changes if we but choose to take on the values and perspectives they offer. One such Middah is that of Shalom Bayit.
Shalom Bayit literally means, “Peace in the Home,” and very often the phrase is used to refer to its basic meaning, that of promoting “domestic tranquility”; principles like “don’t go to bed angry”. But it also possesses a far more complex meaning. In order to attain a fuller understanding of this Middah, we need to explore in greater depth what is meant by both “Shalom” and “Bayit”.
When most people think of the word “Shalom”, for it is a word that is not only familiar to Jews but to non-Jews as well, we tend to simply think of the word “Peace” but its inner meaning is far more than “peace” as “peace” is all too often understood; as being the opposite of war, a cessation of hostilities. “Shalom” is far more than that.
To better understand how this is so, a little Hebrew grammar lesson is in order. Unlike English, all the letters in the Hebrew alphabet are consonants. Originally, in Hebrew, vowel sounds were understood but not written. Only later, in the 6th century c.e., when Jews were less familiar with the Hebrew language, were the vowel symbols we have today introduced by a group of scholars called Masoretes. Most Hebrew verbs have 3-letter roots which capture the essence of the meaning of the verb. However, by changing the interplay between the root letters and the vowel, you can adjust the nuance of the meaning of the word to the point where it can actually become a noun or an adjective.
Now we can return to the word “Shalom”. The root of “Shalom” is the verb “Shalem” which means “to complete” or “to make whole”. “Shalom” means more than just a cessation of hostilities. It requires a sense of “completeness” and “wholeness.” Therefore, for true “Shalom” to exist, there needs to be a healing of whatever was broken in the relationship so that the relationship returns to wholeness; to a sense of harmony and a state of unity. So, for example, it is not “Shalom” if the Israelis and the Palestinians just agree to stop shooting at each other, even if they agree upon mutually acceptable borders between them. It only can become “Shalom” if they find a way to live cooperatively with one another, as neighbors and friends as well as simply neighboring nations.
Another important aspect of “Shalom” is that it is not a passive principle. It just doesn’t happen in and of itself. We must actively create it. We must pursue it. We cannot merely sit by idly and wait for others to come and make peace with us. No matter how hurt or offended we are, we must take the peacemaking initiative. That rule not only applies when we are among those engaged in the conflict but also when we are witnesses to conflicts between others. Hillel said: “Be of the disciples of Aaron, loving peace and pursuing it.”[2] There is a Midrash which tells of how whenever Aaron learned of a conflict between two people, he would go to one of them and tell that person that he had just met with the other person who deeply regretted their falling out and was eager to heal the relationship. Then Aaron would go to the other person and tell that person the same thing. When next the two adversaries met, they would forgive each other and embrace.[3] In so doing, Aaron was following the example of no one less than God, for as we say about God at the end of the Mourner’s Kaddish, “Oseh Shalom bimromav, hu ya’a’seh shalom aleinu v’al kawl Yisraeil. Veimru: Amen” – “May the One who makes peace in the High Places, make peace among us and among all Israel. And let us say: Amen.” As Aaron was a peacemaker, and God is a peacemaker, so must we become peacemakers as well.
Now, what about the meaning of “Bayit”? Literally, it means “house”. So, on its most literal level, seeking “Shalom Bayit” means establishing an environment of “Shalom” in our homes – under our roofs – with whoever lives in our houses, whether they be family or roommates. It is not enough to merely share living space with these people. We need to share our lives with them. We need to have a real sense of connection to them. We need to respect each other. We need to care about each other. We need to support each other. In the Talmud it says, “If your wife is short, bend over to hear her whisper.”[4] When it comes to the members of our household, we should be willing to bend over backwards, so to speak, for them, so great should be our desire to feel the harmony of our relationship. So great should be our desire that, for the sake of that harmony we can find the strength to exercise restraint. In any close family situation, there can be found many sources of potential disagreement. But part of the art of Shalom Bayit is knowing how to pick our battles; which issues are worth fighting over and which ones we just need to let them pass. As a friend once put it, asking ourselves, “Is this the ditch I wish to die in?” Sometimes Shalom Bayit calls upon us to just hold back and swallow our emotions, for the sake of the harmony. Still, if there are those issues that need to be grappled with, we need to do so with moderation and sanity. As my blessed mother used to say, “You can disagree without being disagreeable.”
Yet “Bayit” can carry with it a broader meaning as well.
Just as we can consider “Bayit” to mean our family who lives under the same roof as do we, it also can be expanded, and should be expanded, to our extended family, no matter how great the physical distance is between us. Our lives today can become so busy that we find ourselves giving little thought, nevertheless attention, to our family members who live far away. Out of sight, out of mind. Maybe we get together with them once or twice a year; more often when there is a simcha like a wedding or a Bar or Bat Mitzvah, or, God forbid, some tzures, such as a funeral or a life threatening hospitalization. But other than that, we may allow the physical distance between us to create an emotional distance as well. It may not be because of some actual conflict, but still we may have allowed the “Shalom” between us to erode merely out of benign neglect. When it comes to family, it is so important for us to break down the geographic walls that can so narrowly define our sense of “Bayit.” We cannot let go of the fact that when it comes to family, the boundaries of our “Bayit” extend far beyond those of state or even national borders. It is up to us to actively pursue the “Shalom” of this “Bayit” as well, and we do so by making the efforts to remain personally connected; making the efforts to reach out in such ways so that we can continue to share in their lives and they in ours.
In Hebrew the plural of “Bayit” is “Beitim”. Aside from our “Bayit” of family, wherever they may reside, in our hectic world, we find ourselves living in many different “Beitim”, and it each of them, our lives should likewise be governed by the Middah of Shalom Bayit. The workplace is such a “Bayit”. So is the school. So are our neighborhoods and the sports teams to which our children belong. Indeed in our ever shrinking world, our cities, our states, our country, the world itself are all our “Beitim” and if we want life to be good or better in any of them, then we have to do our part to create a sense of Shalom Bayit within them. We have to be their Aarons; their lovers and pursuers of peace.
Tonight we are gathered in this synagogue. This, too, is one of our “Beitim”. We even call it a “House of Prayer”. And like the “Bayit” in which we reside, we, too, are a family; a Temple family. As important as the pursuit of the Middah of Shalom Bayit is to each of our households, it is just as important for us here in this “Bayit”. We are many people, which of course means that we are going to have many different opinions. You know what they say about us Jews – where you find 2 Jews you will find 3 opinions, at least 3. Of course there are many things about which we are going to disagree. That is only natural. We’ll disagree about politics. We’ll disagree about current events. And when it comes to the Temple, there will be even more about which we will disagree, from the cost of dues, to the amount of Hebrew in the service, to the topics of the rabbi’s sermons, to the way the budget is structured, to the nature of the religious school, even to the menu for the onegs. Yet there are some things we should agree upon, such as this is our “Bayit” and we are a family. Even with all the things over which we disagree, we still not only value, and not only hunger for, but are also willing to work for an ever growing sense of Shalom Bayit, in this, our house. We must never forget that we need each other; that there is still far, far more which binds us together than drives us apart; that we are better together than we are apart. For in the end, we are a family and as such, our primary mission should be to care for and support each other; to be there for each other in times of joy and in times of sorrow; to work hand-in-hand with each other in the building of a true and wholesome Jewish community – a better Jewish community. Disagreements can be resolved and differences can be overcome, as long as we hold before our eyes the vision of a congregation governed by the Middah of Shalom Bayit; a place where we can value each other, respect each other, support each other, and nourish each other as we join together to strive for the achievable ideals that God and our Judaism have placed before us.
AMEN
[1] This story is found in EVERYDAY HOLINESS by Alan Morinis.
[2] PIRKE AVOT 1:12.
[3] From MIDDOT: A STAIRWAY OF VIRTUES by Ron Isaacs, p. 59.
[4] Babylonian Talmud, Baba Metzia 59a.
It All Begins With God: An Erev Rosh Hashanah Sermon
October 4, 2016Every year we join our fellow Jews around the world in making our annual pilgrimage to the synagogue in observance of the High Holy Days. But what is it that draws us to this place on this night? On any given Shabbat, with the exception of special events, there are far, far more empty seats in this sanctuary than there are those that are occupied. But tonight, the seats that are filled clearly outnumber the seats that are empty. It is not that we are alone in this experience. The same could be said of most houses of worship – Jewish and otherwise – across our land. The non-Jews too have their special days on which their people flock to their sanctuaries in numbers far exceeding their Sabbath worship attendance.
But why is that? I know that if I were to go around this sanctuary right now and ask each and every one of you individually, “Why did you come here tonight? What is it about the High Holy Days that draws you to the synagogue” that I would receive an extensive and varied collection of responses. While as diverse as those responses would be, I suspect that the majority of them would have something to do with connecting with one’s fellow Jews or somehow affirming one’s personal Jewish identity. “I do it because I am a Jew and this is what Jews do. They go to services on the High Holy Days.”
Now I am sure that there are those of you who feel that way; that there are those of you who feel truly, in your heart of hearts, that “I’m a Jew and this is what Jews do on the High Holy Days” is reason enough to be here tonight. But is it really? At one time, maybe it was, but is it now?
I can tell you, not only as a rabbi whose rabbinic career is drawing to a close, but more importantly, as a Jew who has spent his life in the synagogue – and not just any synagogue, but in the Reform synagogue – no longer is that answer enough. At one time, observing the High Holy Days if, for no other reason than “I am a Jew and this is what Jews do,” meant truly observing them. It meant, not just going to a service here or a service there and feeling satisfied that we have done our duty to our Jewish identity, but it meant truly setting aside these days for us and our families as Jewish days; as days on which we withdraw from our engagement with the rest of the world and maintain our focus on who we are as Jews.
As a child growing up in New York City in the ‘50‘s and the ‘60’s, it was utterly unthinkable for my Classical Reform Jewish father to attend the Rosh Hashanah Evening service and then go to work on Rosh Hashanah Day, or to go to work after the Rosh Hashanah Morning service, and you could count on the fact that on Yom Kippur my parents spent the entire day in our synagogue, and they were far from alone in that. And so it was with us children as well. There was no question in my house as to whether or not I was going to school on Rosh Hashanah or Yom Kippur, even for part of the day, for I was not. If I had even broached the question with my parents – a highly unlikely scenario – they would have had none of it. Like my parents, I was not alone in this. For all of my religious school friends, it was the same. We were in the synagogue for all of the services, sitting beside our parents.
Yet if my parents and most of their contemporaries were asked back then the question I asked you this evening – “What is it about the High Holy Days that draws you to the synagogue?” – many of them, including my parents – or at least my father – would have given the same answer “Because I am a Jew and this is what Jews do.” But that was then and this is now. For many of my parents’ generation grew up as Orthodox Jews who later discovered Reform Judaism. My father’s grandfather had been a noted Orthodox educator back in Europe. Theirs was the generation that experienced both the agony of the Holocaust and the ecstasy of the birth of Israel. Their Jewish identity was indelibly impressed upon them by the forces of history and family tradition. Therefore a more active observance of the High Holy Days was a natural expression of their Jewish identity and a product of their experiences and upbringing.
But we are not them, for our experiences and our upbringing are not theirs. Today, the number of Jews who set these days aside and make it clear to the rest of the world that “You are just going to have to do without me on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur” is dwindling. And it will continue to dwindle, especially as so many of our children are raised in households which choose to send then to school rather than to services on the High Holy Days.
It is not that we are bad people, or even bad Jews. It is just that with the passage of time, the world has changed and for many Jews, being Jewish and going to the synagogue on the High Holy Days simply because that is what Jews do, is no longer enough of a reason to seriously dedicate more than perhaps a portion of these days to that part of us which is Jewish.
Of course I am certainly prejudiced on this matter, but I believe that the High Holy Days, and indeed Judaism and Jewish life itself, are too important, too precious, not only to us as Jews but to the world, to be allowed to dwindle away into nothingness. There is a good reason why we have survived for 4,000 years in spite of the efforts of all those who have tried to destroy us. There is a good reason why we – who have always been so few in numbers – have made such a significant impact upon not only the history of humanity but upon the culture of humanity. And that reason is to be found enfolded into the very fabric of the Judaism we have come to this synagogue tonight to observe. It is inherent in Judaism itself and it is both expressed and promoted in our observances and our values. It is the Jewish perspective on what it means to be a part of humanity. It is the Jewish call for building a better world on the foundations of compassion and right behavior. It is the Jewish expectation that we constantly strive to make of ourselves better people.
It is vital for Jewish survival that we come to acknowledge that in the 21st century, doing Jewish things because this is what Jews do is no longer a compelling argument for us to continue to pursue a Jewish life. There are just too many distractions and to be quite frank, many of them are simply more appealing. They touch us in ways that are deeper than blindly following some traditions because our parents and grandparents did so. So if we are to keep our Judaism alive, we need to seek out a deeper meaning in doing so. Something that moves us. Something that inspires us. Something that touches our hearts and our souls, and fills us with a higher sense of purpose.
But where can that be found? Where should our search begin? Perhaps we need to go back in time, to a time before the reason Jews did Jewish things like observing the High Holy Days was just “because I’m a Jew and this is what Jews do?” When the reason Jews lived a Jewish life was more substantive than just keeping certain traditions alive for the sake of tradition; when Jews were bound to their Jewish identity by more than just a thin thread stretching back into their past but rather they were bound by golden cords that not only stretched back into their past but also wove intimately through their present and then travelled forward into their future.
So maybe we need to go back in time and ask those Jews “What is it, not just about the High Holy Days, but about Judaism itself that drew them to the synagogue and inspired them to live Jewish lives?” While some of them still might say, “Because I’m a Jew and this is what Jews do”, most of them would say something different. Most of them would talk about something that we today don’t spend enough time talking about, or even thinking about, for that matter. They would talk about God and their relationship with God. For them, God was a real player in their lives. They felt connected to God in ways that we have somehow lost.
Of course one of the reasons that they felt more connected to God was because they felt more dependent on God. There was so much in their world that they did not understand. Why some people were struck down by dread diseases. Why, at a moment’s notice, a storm could utterly destroy the livelihood and even the life of a family or an entire village. So much seemed out of their control and therefore must be in the control of another, and that other was, in their minds, God. So they feared God, or more precisely, they feared offending God. They even called these High Holy Days the Yamim HaNora’im – the “Days of Awe” with the Hebrew word for “Awe” being the very same word as the Hebrew for “Fear.” So prayer was very real to them. It was a desperate attempt to communicate with a Divinity that was present in their daily lives, and by so doing hopefully change their future for the better.
We are most certainly not that people and the God whom they feared has little if any place in our lives. Yet we would be sorely mistaken if we were to convince ourselves that the only God they believed in was the God to be feared. Quite the contrary, for their God was anything but one dimensional. From the very beginning of Judaism, God was, and remains, a colorful and complex character. As the High Holy Day prayer describes God, Avinu Malkeinu – “Our Parent, Our Sovereign.” Powerful enough to be feared, like a king or a queen, but also loving and compassionate, like a caring mother or father. Yes, these Jews feared God but they also loved God. For God was not just the deliverer of punishments but also the giver of gifts. The gifts of life, of health, of food, of love, of beauty, of wisdom, of truth, of understanding, of knowledge, and of the abilities to learn and to create. Indeed, they clearly understood that when it came to Judaism, it all begins with God. From the moment of our people’s birth, when God first called to Abraham, Judaism was primarily about establishing a positive, healthy, and mutual relationship with God. Without God, Judaism must fade away, for God is the foundation stone of everything that Judaism stands for. Without God, Judaism becomes a meaningless and empty exercise, as empty and meaningless as the words in the prayer book when read by someone who chooses to watch the clock rather than search for a personal connection to God in the prayers. For our Judaism – and for these High Holy Days – to have real meaning, we have to accept that it all begins with God.
Most Jews would agree that there is no more important a text in the Torah than the Ten Commandments. The power of the Ten Commandments has not only touched the soul of the Jewish world but of the Christian world as well. Our two faiths share the Ten Commandments, or so we think. But believe it or not there are differences between the way the Christians read them and the way we Jews read them. For the Christians, the first commandment states “I am the Eternal your God who led you out of the land of Egypt to be your God. You shall have no other gods before Me,” while for us Jews, the first commandment is “I am the Eternal your God who led you out of the land of Egypt to be your God”, period. For us, it is the second commandment that reads “You shall have no other gods before Me.” The Christian version is obviously a commandment. It instructs to action – “Have no other gods before Me.” But what about the Jewish version? It appears to be a declarative statement – “I am the Eternal your God…” rather than a commandment. Where is its call to action? Well its call to action is implied and it is essential for everything else which follows; for all the other commandments to have any meaning. The implied commandment is simply this: Take this statement to heart and accept it as the foundation for all that follows. Accept that God exists and that we as Jews live in a sacred relationship with God, and that all the other commandments, all the other expectations of actions and values that are found in the Torah and grow out of it across the ages, are but functions of that relationship between us and God. They are there to define our role in that relationship. They feed that relationship and in so doing draw us personally closer to God.
Over the past several years, I have found it odd indeed that people are interested in talking about and seeking spirituality but not so interested in talking about and seeking God, as if the two were completely separate experiences. But they are not. Spirituality is far more than just a good feeling about ourselves. It is about our reaching out for God and God touching our lives. How so? Our tradition teaches us that we human beings are not like any other creature living on the earth for we possess something very special; a soul. The soul was implanted within us by God in order to enable us to connect with God. It is our divine umbilical cord, if you will, for it enables spiritual energy to flow between us and God. But that spiritual energy does not flow freely. It flows at our choosing. We control how much or how little we receive; how wide or how narrow that umbilical cord is. If it were solely up to God, the flow would be constant and vast, but God gave us the gift of free will so that we could choose how much or how little we would let God into our lives. There is a Hasidic saying that “there is no room for God in those who are too full of themselves.”[1] Sadly, for too many, that is exactly what has happened. They have turned their control valve and limited the spiritual flow to a trickle, if not closed it off completely, and in so doing, abandoned themselves to being guided primarily or solely by their base animal instincts. They have starved their souls from the spiritual nutrients they need.
But this need not remain the case. We can open that value, reach out to God, and feel God’s presence in our lives. We can feed our souls and in so doing grow as more spiritual and better human beings. How do we accomplish such a feat? That is what a better part of our Judaism is about. It is about how we can connect with God and let God into our lives in beautiful and meaningful ways. Through the Torah and our sacred teachings, we have been given the owner’s manual to the soul. We have been instructed on how to awaken and strengthen our souls so that we can come to live our lives in an ongoing relationship with God. Not just on the High Holy Days and not even just on Shabbat, but rather on a day-to-day basis. For whether we realize it or not, our day-to-day lives are lived in a relationship with God. However it is up to us what the nature of that relationship will be. We can choose to live our lives through behaviors and attitudes which strengthen the bonds between us and God or we can choose to live our lives through behaviors and attitudes which weaken those bonds. It is up to us.
This past year, here at Temple Emanuel, I taught a series of mini-courses on what our tradition calls Mussar. Mussar is the companion to Halachah. As Halachah constitutes a body of Jewish laws which lead us to right actions, Mussar constitutes a body of Jewish virtues or ethical perspectives which liberate our souls and enable us to adopt sacred and healthy life attitudes. While Halachah instructs us about what we should do while living in a sacred relationship with God, Mussar instructs us about how we can better mold our attitudes so that they ultimately instinctually guide us into right behaviors and therefore transform our lives into an active partnership with God.
While the building blocks of Halachah are mitzvot – sacred actions – the building blocks of Mussar are middot – sacred values, sacred attitudes. I am dedicating the remainder of my High Holy Day sermons to exploring various middot in the hopes that we will begin to understand that if we choose to strengthen our souls by taking on sacred attitudes, then that can lead us to living lives filled with sacred actions, which in turn will connect us more strongly to God and help us to grow into the type of people we aspire to become.
Once we perceive of our lives as being lived in a sacred partnership with God, then we will find that there are far more inspiring reasons to come to the synagogue on the High Holy Days than merely because we are Jews and this is what Jews do.
[1] Buber, Martin, TEN RUNGS: HASIDIC SAYINGS, p. 102.
Three Striving to be One
November 3, 2014The liturgy of the Yom Kippur service continually calls upon us to take stock of our lives. It implores us to look into our souls and measure our deeds, to consider our lives in the year that has passed, cutting through our self delusions, and honestly confronting our weaknesses, our fault, and our misdeeds. It demands of us that we take a hard look at ourselves and, having done so, make the commitment to strive to be better in the year to come, starting right here and now as we sincerely seek to heal whatever wounds we might have inflicted, either intentionally or unintentionally, on others.
When you strip away all the florid language of the High Holy Day prayer book, what are our prayers really asking of us – aside from vowing to become better people – what do they want from us? They want us to ask ourselves what might appear to be a simple question, “Who am I?” While that might appear to be a simple question, in truth, it isn’t.
When confronted with such a question, it is easy for us to rattle off a list of adjectives and proclaim “This is who I am!” Man. Woman. Parent. Child. Sibling. Young. Old. Tall. Short. Thin. Fat. Married. Single. Heterosexual. Homosexual. Transsexual. Jew. Christian. Muslim. Hindu. Buddhist. Atheist. Agnostic. Merchant. Professional. Employer. Employee. Unemployed. Student. Housewife. House husband. Retired. Social. Reserved. Kind. Generous. Loving. Loyal. Liberal. Conservative. The list goes on. “This is who I am” we readily proclaim.
But perhaps the answer is not so simple. Perhaps it is more complex than we are willing to imagine. Perhaps finding the answer to that question “Who am I?” does demand that we take a harder look – a more intense self-examination – than most, if any, of us are comfortable taking.
Many years ago I came across an article that said that while people tend to think of themselves as one person, in actuality each and every one of us is made up of three distinct individuals – the person we think we are, the person other people perceive us to be, and the person we aspire to be. That definitely should supply us with food for thought, especially on Yom Kippur.
There is so much truth to that analysis. We tend to see ourselves in certain ways and the ways in which we see ourselves are definitely colored by our own egos. While we may be too humble to inflate our perceptions of our strengths and our finer qualities, most of us are prone to playing down our weaknesses and our shortcomings. We can be very forgiving of ourselves. After all, as we so readily profess, “I’m only human!” How peculiar it is that we are so far more forgiving of our own weaknesses and shortcoming than we are of the weaknesses and shortcomings of others, even when those weaknesses and shortcomings may be some of the very same as our own. We are always ready to give ourselves the benefit of the doubt and truly believe that we deserve the benefit of the doubt, but when it comes to others, granting them the benefit of the doubt we find to be far more difficult. So often, while we think the best of ourselves, and expect others to think of us in that way as well, we tend to be all too ready to attribute to others the worst of intentions. So chances are, the way that we see ourselves may not be how others see us.
If we are to grow as people, as Yom Kippur calls upon us to grow as people, one of the challenging tasks which lies before us is to try to discover how others see us as compared to how we see ourselves. Of course we could go around and ask everyone, “What is your opinion of me? How would you describe me as a person?” but to say the least, that would be a bit awkward. I suspect that if we were to ask people such questions, whatever their opinion was of us before, it will have gone down afterwards, as they add to their list of descriptive adjectives of us such terms as “egotistical” and “self-centered.” So the direct approach probably won’t work.
If we are going to be able to make any self-assessment like this, we are going to have to do it the hard way. We are going to have to start paying closer attention to the way that other people relate to us, for the way they relate to us will definitely be influenced by what they think of us. When they encounter us, are they happy to see us? Is there a smile on their face? Is there energy in their greeting? Is there enthusiasm in their voice? Or is it more or less a dull “Hello. How are you?” Do they want to spend time with us? Go to a restaurant. Go to a movie. Come over to the house for an evening. Take a trip together. What do they talk about with us? Do they restrict the conversations to small talk? Do they ask about our family? Do they share what is happening in their lives? Do they confide in us or are they guarded when talking with us? Do they converse with us comfortably or are they hesitant and uneasy? Do we sense that they consider us or they want us to be their friend, an acquaintance, or someone they just know in passing? It is not just what they say. It is also what they do. Their body language. For example, do they look us in the eye or stare away? There are multiple, subtle tell tale signs that people exhibit which communicate both on a conscious and an subconscious level how they feel about others.
We need to attune ourselves to become more aware of those signs. Now understand that once we start with this, we may find ourselves facing some unpleasant surprises. We may discover that some people don’t think as highly of us as we think of ourselves. But as painful as that might be, that is a good thing. It is a good thing because it helps us to focus on the tasks that lie before us. It helps us to begin to understand what we are going to need to do in order to close that gap; to present ourselves to others in a manner which helps them to think of us more in the way that we tend to think of ourselves. For when people think of us in much the same way that we think of ourselves, that is when we begin to truly understand the people that we actually are.
Yet the gap between the way in which we think of ourselves and the way in which others think of us is not the only gap we need to close. There is another gap as well. A very important gap. That gap is the one that exists between the that person we are today and the person we aspire to be.
Who among us has little or no desire to be a better person? Who does not wish to be kinder, gentler, wiser, more sensitive, more caring of others, more attentive to their loved ones, more dependable, more trusted, more respected, more admired, more loved? If there is such a person in this room today then I have to be frank and say to them, “You are wasting your time sitting in the synagogue and observing Yom Kippur, for Yom Kippur, and Judaism in general – indeed, religion in general – is all about helping us to become better people than we are today. It is all about guiding us to become richer people, not in material possessions but in spiritual possessions. If you think that you have gone as far as you can go – that you have reached perfection as a human being – then I am sorry for you, for you are deluded, since no person is perfect. Every single one of us has the potential to become better. The uncomfortable question before us is whether or not we have the desire to become better.
If we possess that desire then the goal before us is deciding upon what it will take to move us closer from the person we are today to that person we aspire to be. It is not something that is going to happen as a matter of fact but it is going to take a concerted effort on our parts. We have to want it and we have to be willing to work for it. For only then can we draw near to achieving it.
As that article so wisely stated, every person is in fact three distinct individuals – the person we think we are, the person others perceive us to be, and the person we aspire to become. On Yom Kippur, we need to dedicate our lives to the task of reuniting those three into one, so that the person we think we are is not only the same as the person others perceive us to be, but that person is also the person who draws ever closer to the person we aspire to be.
One Jew Reflecting on Christmas: A Postscript
February 3, 2014I write this on the morning after the Superbowl.
Yesterday evening – not having a Superbowl Party to attend and not being very interested in sitting at home, watching the game (though we do love the commercials) – my wife and I went out for a bite of dinner, followed by an exciting evening of grocery shopping and a visit to Starbucks. As we drove the streets of Davenport, Iowa, I could not help but be struck by how empty they were. At the restaurant, we were 2 out of their 3 diners. Most of the staff were gathered round the wall mounted TVs, watching the game. While there were some people in the grocery store, relatively speaking it, too, was empty. Then, at Starbucks, we were the only customers.
As we left Starbucks, heading for home, my thoughts traveled to two places:
The first was to Jerusalem, back in 1970, when I was a first year student at the Hebrew Union College. It was Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the Jewish holiday calendar (except for Shabbat). I do not know about how it is today but in those days, on Yom Kippur, the usually crowded streets of Jerusalem were eerily empty and quiet. The only moving vehicles were the occasional military jeep. The silence and stillness seemed to emphasize the sanctity of the day.
The second was not so much a place but a document – the last posting I placed on this blog: “One Jew Reflecting on Christmas.” In that posting, I bemoaned the changes I have been witnessing as to the very nature of Christmas Day in our society. As I stated in that posting, it was not that long ago that out on the streets, Christmas Day, you might say, belonged to the Jews. We would go to the movies and, except for the Jews, they were empty. The same was true for the Chinese restaurants; the only restaurants that were open on Christmas Day. Everyone else were gathered in their churches and homes, with their families, celebrating their sacred holiday. However, this has become less and less the case, as with each passing year the movie theaters have become more and more crowded, as have the Chinese restaurants. Indeed, this year, the movie theater was more crowded than I ever remember seeing it.
Driving home last night, on Superbowl Sunday – revisiting in my mind one Yom Kippur in Jerusalem 43 years ago and Christmas in the Quad Cities just a month and a half ago – I came to the realization, with a bit of a shock and sadness, that it is not that the American people have lost their sense of sacred occasions. Rather it is that they have changed their views on what they hold sacred. The place in their hearts once held by Yom Kippur and Christmas now is held by the Superbowl. The church and the synagogue have been replaced by the stadium and the sports arena while the Christmas family dinner and, to a lesser extent, even the Passover Seder, have been replaced by the Superbowl and tailgate parties. The streets of Jerusalem on Yom Kippur are now the streets of America on Superbowl Sunday night.
Penetrating the Inpenetrable Veil
September 19, 2013While other faiths have their own concepts of the afterlife ‑ some of them quite elaborate ‑ Judaism has always held that all we can say about the afterlife ‑ that is with any conviction ‑ is that there is an afterlife and that the soul is eternal. For the soul comes from God and at the time of death returns to God. To say anything else is to engage in pure speculation, for there is an impenetrable veil which separates the Olam HaZeh ‑ This World ‑ from the Olam HaBa ‑ The World to Come. Even as we make this minimalist affirmation, we do so with the understanding that what we are saying is a matter of faith, not knowledge, for no one has ever penetrated that impenetrable veil and returned to our realm of existence, the Olam HaZeh, to bring us an accurate description of the other side.
It might interest you to know that we Jews not only do not have a detailed vision of the afterlife, we even did not always believe in the existence of an afterlife or in the immortality of the soul. In fact, 2,000 years ago, these doctrines fueled fierce debates between the Sadducees and the Pharisees. While the Sadducees held that there is no afterlife; that our existence ended with death, for nowhere is an afterlife mentioned in the Torah, the Pharisees held that since the soul comes from God, it, like God, must be eternal. Besides, how else could we explain God’s justice in light of the suffering of the righteous in this life if there was no afterlife in which their books would balance out? The fact the Judaism today professes beliefs in the afterlife and in the immortality of the soul is as much a byproduct of the victory of the Pharisees over the Sadducees in their struggle to determine who would shape the future of the Jewish people, as it is a committed doctrine of our faith.
Personally, I am glad that the Pharisees won that battle. I would hate to believe that death is the end; that nothing of us remains in this universe once our bodies cease to function; that our lives are nothing more than a flash of light in the dark realm of oblivion.
Yet it is not only my fear of eventual non‑existence which fuels my beliefs in the immortality of the soul and in the afterlife. It also is, in its own odd way, my sense of logic. For when I consider the human condition, I find myself confronting two undeniable, yet contradictory, facts. The first is that all human beings are essentially the same. We may differ in size, shape, gender, skin color, blood type, etc., but at the end of the day, biologically we are all fundamentally identical. Indeed, as medical science continues to refine the art of organ transplantation, we see that we are so alike that our body parts are becoming increasingly interchangeable.
Yet with this in mind, the second fact seems nothing less than miraculous; that every single human being is a unique individual. No two of us are exactly alike, even if physically we are identical twins. Still, we each possess our own unique personality and disposition. That uniqueness is truly the essence of who we are; far more than any aspect of our physical appearance. It is not as much visible to the eyes as it is to the heart. So what is the source of our uniqueness? How can it be found in the body if all bodies are essentially the same while all people are fundamentally unique?
According to our tradition, our uniqueness comes from God. In the Talmud, God is compared to a human minter of coins. When a human mints coins, the minter stamps each coin with one mold and every coin comes out exactly alike. However when God mints human beings, God stamps each of us with the mold of Adam, yet not one person is like another. We are each of us unique[1]. If that uniqueness comes from God, then the essence of our character does not reside in our body but rather in our soul. If it comes from God, then like God, it must be indestructible. Though our body can cease to function, our soul cannot. With the death of the body, the soul must return to God, and reside with God eternally. And with it, all that makes us unique; our personality, our character. The people who we are continue to exist – our consciousness continues to exist – eternally behind the impenetrable veil – in the Olam HaBa, the World to Come.
But is that impenetrable veil separating the Olam HaZeh from the Olam HaBa – our realm of physical existence from our loved ones’ realm of pure spiritual existence – truly, completely, impenetrable? Perhaps not. Not that it can be torn and we can traverse freely between the two realms, But perhaps, just perhaps, it can be pierced; from either side, pierced.
We are all mourners. There have been times, and this Yizkor service might be one of them, when we have passionately yearned for those we have loved but lost. We ache for their presence and the ache is palpable. It comes from deep within us. It does not come from our body; not from our stomach, not from our lungs, not from our heart, not from our head. Rather our ache is born of our soul, for our soul is the true seat of all our feelings. In its own way, our yearning is our soul reaching out and grabbing at that impenetrable veil, seeking somehow to break through.
As we yearn for those we loved and lost, is it so hard for us to perceive of their yearning for us as well? Perhaps, just perhaps, these disembodied souls, which remain the very essence of everything that they were, ache for us as we ache for them. Perhaps, just perhaps, just as our souls reach out in search of a way to break through that veil, their souls are reaching out in much the same way. We grab the veil from our side as they grab it from theirs. While even together we cannot rend it asunder, perhaps, just perhaps, we can stretch it enough for the smallest of pin holes to appear, allowing our souls, even if for just a brief moment, to touch once again.
Perhaps that is what is happening when we find ourselves wanting so much to be in their company once more, to hear their voices and to feel their touch, and then somehow or other we sense that they are with us. We hear them speaking to us, not out loud, but their voices seeming to come from within. We feel their comfort. We sense their love. And somehow, if just for the moment, we feel less alone. We are filled with the sense that they are still there for us as they always were there for us.
Let us not be afraid to ache on their behalf. Let us not run and hide from what we fear will be the pain of memory. Rather, let us embrace that pain and allow to take us to whatever place it chooses. For there is a very good chance that it is taking us to the impenetrable veil so as to prick that veil with a tiny but sufficient hole for us to meet and touch once more those who we believe to be beyond our reach. For we must never forget that our pain is but a function of our love, and that love can be the strongest force in the universe. So when you combine our love for them with their love for us, can even the impenetrable veil resist such power?
[1]BABYLONIAN TALMUD, Tractate Sanhedrin 38a