Posted tagged ‘Confronting Our Flaws and Shortcomings’

The Middah of Anavah

October 20, 2016

As I stated on Erev Rosh Hashanah, I have dedicated this year’s High Holy Day sermons to an exploration of the teachings of the Mussar Movement.  For the sake of those who have not had the opportunity to hear or read my earlier sermons, I will offer you a very brief introduction to Mussar and why the lessons of Mussar have so much to offer us, especially during the High Holy Days.

The Mussar Movement was started in the latter part of the 19th century, in Lithuania, and primarily is an ethics based approach to Judaism.  While Halachah – Jewish Law – focuses on the behaviors which can draw us closer to God and make us better people, Mussar focuses on the attitudes which, if we incorporate them into our life perspective, will automatically, if not instinctually, drive us in the direction of performing proper, God-desired behaviors.  While Halachah presents us with a discipline of Mitzvot – sacred behaviors which result in sacred living, Mussar presents us with a collection of Middot – sacred character traits which lead us to sacred living.  If we can incorporate the Middot – these sacred attitudes – into the way we approach how we interact with the world, then we can grow as more decent human beings and the performance of the Mitzvot will become all the more natural to us.

As I explained in an earlier sermon, Mussar views our attitudes as existing along a continuum where both extreme ends are equally destructive to our character.  The example I gave then was of a continuum extending from extreme greed to extreme generosity.  In that case, one extreme would cut us off from any sort of healthy relationship with our fellow human beings while the other would make it impossible for us to physically survive.  The Middot guide us to finding a spiritual “sweet spot”, so to speak, somewhere along such a continuum; a place where both extremes meet in a very healthy and positive manner.  In the case of the continuum between greed and generosity, the Middah takes us to that place where we are greedy enough to retain sufficient means to support ourselves and our families, yet generous enough to make a real difference in the lives of those less fortunate than us.

This morning I wish to focus our attention on a very important Middah.  It is the Middah of Anavah; the Middah of Humility.  For Anavah – Humility is a foundational Middah for both Mussar and the High Holy Days.  Without a true sense of Anavah, all that we do here today is absolutely meaningless.  Without a true sense of Anavah, we can have no spiritual life.

It has been said that the two most difficult words for a human being to utter is “I’m sorry.”  We are so ready and willing to accuse others of having wronged us, yet we are so resistant to apologizing for our actions, accepting the possibility and the responsibility for having wronged others.  Why is that so?  Because we lack a sense of Anavah; we refuse to believe that there are times when we just might be less than we think we are.  So often, we can be like the man who is about to receive a high honor and is dressing for the presentation banquet.  Gazing into the mirror as he ties his tie, he says to his wife, “Honey, how many great men do you think there really are in the world?”  To which she immediately responds, “One less than you do, my dear.”  There is just something about us which, while all too ready to raise up our strengths, is all too eager to cover up our shortcomings, as if, if we were to admit to them, we would somehow shatter completely and be no more.

In an earlier sermon, I quoted the Hasidic saying, “There is no room for God in those who are too full of themselves.”[1]  But our tradition recognized that basic human flaw long before the Hasidim came on the scene.  The Torah itself warns us about it, for as it says in the book of DEUTERONOMY. “Take care lest you forget the Eternal your God…  When you have eaten your fill and built fine houses to live in, and your herds and flocks have multiplied and your silver and your gold have increased… then your heart will grow haughty and you will forget the Eternal your God…  And you will say in your heart, ‘My power and the might of my hand have won this wealth for me.’  Then you should remember the Eternal your God, for it is God who gives you the strength to amass wealth…”[2]

One of the basic principles of Mussar is Halachta BiDrachav – Walking in God’s Way.  In other words, living a life in imitation of God.  Trying to be more like God in our behaviors.  The mystics tell us that if it were not for God’s own sense of Anavah – God’s own humility – the universe itself would never have come into existence.  How so?  Because some of the basic, classical beliefs concerning God would have made it impossible.  First among them is the belief that God is Omnipresent; that God exists everywhere.  If God fills all existence, then there is no room left for us.  So, according to the mystics, what did God do?  They call it Tzimtzum.  God contracted God’s self in order to make room for Creation.

If we are going to live our lives in imitation of God, then we, too, have to be willing to contract ourselves.  We have to suck it in and draw ourselves back from thinking that we are everything and that the universe centers around us.  We have to make room in our lives for God and room in our lives to realize that we still have space to grow; that we are not all that we can be.  That is Anavah – humility.  As Susan Freeman puts it in her book, TEACHING JEWISH VALUES, “Being clear about what we are not is the first step in moving toward what we want to become.”[3]

When it come to the Middah of Anavah, humility, like the other Middot, it, too, seeks to find a spiritual “sweet spot” along a continuum; the continuum spanning from absolute arrogance to total self-denigration.  Somewhere between the two is true Anavah.  Unfortunately, all too often we resist seeking that sweet spot because we mistakenly confuse humility with humiliation, and nothing could be further from the truth.

Part of our resistance is a product of our modern culture.  We are constantly being told that we need the newest, the best, the biggest things if our lives are to be fulfilling.  People literally line up and wait for hours before the store opens in order to purchase the newest IPhone.  Go into a store like Best Buy and you will see bigger and bigger and bigger big screen TVs.  Somewhere along the line, we find ourselves identifying with all of that, and toxically so.  If we do not possess the newest, the biggest, the best, then we come to believe that we ourselves are not “the best.”  Enough never seems to be enough, as we find ourselves measuring ourselves by what items we own rather than by what type of people we are.  And when it comes to those possessions, the answer is always to be found on the extreme of the newest, the latest models.  To have less than that becomes humiliating.

Ironically, to attain a true sense of Anavah, is to realize that the answer is not to be found on the extreme, but rather somewhere toward the middle, and more importantly, it has absolutely nothing to do with what we own or where we live, but with who we are.  And if we can attain the Middah of Anavah, issues like what we own, where we live, what kind of car we drive, will neither humiliate us nor exalt us.  For they are no measure of the type of people we are, but only of what we have.

So when it comes to Anavah, we need to keep our eye on the ball.  Our embracing of humility should in no way disable our sense of self-esteem, bringing us to some lowly state of self-deprecation, but rather it should empower us to recognize that while we have much to be proud us, still we are not all that we could be.  There is yet some distance along the road of self-improvement which we have yet to travel.    That there is more that we can do.  More than we can be.  And we can make it, just as long as we keep trying.

Where is the Middah of Anavah to be found?  Perhaps the Hasidic Rabbi, Simcha Bunam, described it best.  He said, “Everyone must have two pockets, with a note in each pocket, so that he or she can reach into the one or the other, depending upon the need.  When feeling lowly and depressed, discouraged or disconsolate, one should reach into the right pocket, and, there, find the words:  ‘For my sake was the world created.’  But when feeling high and mighty, one should reach into the left pocket, and find the words:  ‘I am but dust and ashes.’”[4]

Far from humiliating us, Anavah can heal us.  It can empower us to shed the façade we present to the world of always being right, of always being perfect, of always being more than we actually are.  There is something truly uplifting in being able to admit to our shortcomings, as well as reveling in our strengths.  “I’m sorry” may be two of the most difficult words to say, but they can also be two of the most liberating words to say; two of the most healing words to say.  It can be wondrous to behold how the walls of anger and resentment can crumble before words of true repentance and an act of true atonement.  Weights can be lifted from the soul and the heart can be given wings when our Anavah leads us to resolving conflicts and rekindling love.

As embracing Anavah can clear the path to renewing and strengthening our relationship with others, it can also open the gates to Heaven.  For it is only through Anavah that we can make room for God in our lives.  It takes an attitude of Anavah to bring us to the point that we recognize that God is truly a part of our lives; that God is there for us, that God has always been there for us, but we, somewhere along the line, knowingly or unknowingly, have built a wall to keep God out, just like those people the Torah was talking about in that text from DUETERONOMY.  Yet, with Anavah, that wall, too can come down.  We can open ourselves up to the possibility of God being real, of God being present, and of God seeking us if we but seek God.  It is that spirit of Anavah which will bring life to our prayers.  It can transform them into more than meaningless utterances that may cross our lips as we wait for the clock to signal the end of this day.

There is a story of the Baal Shem Tov, the founder of Hasidism, who one day, with his disciples, entered a town and went to the synagogue to pray.  As he got to the door, he suddenly stopped, refusing to enter.  He disciples were incredulous, and they asked him to explain to them what was the problem.  He said:  “The room is full and there is no room for me.”  Looking through the door of the synagogue, of course they saw plenty of empty seats, and they told him so.  He responded:  “You don’t understand.  The room is full of empty words, for the words of the prayers that are offered here have been given no wings with which to rise to Heaven.  Therefore they fall out of the mouths of the worshippers; dropping to the floor.  And there they have remained, filling this room from wall to wall and from floor to ceiling, leaving no room for me.”[5]

If we can embrace the Middah of Anavah, and in true humility, open ourselves up to the possibility of our prayers this day reaching out to God, and God reaching in to us, then the words of our prayers can fly heavenward, and God’s loving presence can be brought into this sanctuary and into our hearts and souls.  If only we can shrink our sense of self and make room for God, then God will rush to be with us.

AMEN

[1] Buber, Martin, TEN RUNGS:  HASIDIC SAYINGS, p. 102.

[2] DEUTERONOMY 8:11-18.

[3] Freeman, Susan, TEACHING JEWISH VALUES:  SACRES SOURCES AND ARTS ACTIVITIES, p. 8.

[4] Buber, Martin, TALES OF THE HASIDIM:  LATER MASTERS, PP. 249-250.

[5] Buber, Martin, TALES OF THE HASIDIM:  EARLY MASTERS, P. 73

Three Striving to be One

November 3, 2014

The 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.

Fueled By Regret

September 16, 2013

I wish I was perfect.  Not so much “perfect” in that I would be the handsomest man alive or the most intelligent or a phenomenal athlete or a virtuoso musician or vocalist, or even the most eloquent speaker and writer.  Rather I wish I was a perfect person, personality and character-wise.

I wish I always was attuned to others and sensitive to their needs.  I wish I always knew the right thing to say and when to say it, and when to keep silent.

I wish that I could more appropriately express what is on my mind and in my heart, sharing what I think and how I feel in such a way that I don’t permit the emotions of the moment to take me where I really don’t want to go yet still be able to communicate effectively enough that my messages are not misread or misinterpreted by others.  I wish I was better at telling people how much I love them, how much I care for them, how much I appreciate their being in my life.

I wish I could better channel my anger; not extinguish or bury it but channel it toward productive ends rather than disruptive or destructive ends.  For anger is not necessarily a bad thing.  It can be a force for good if it inspires us to confront injustices – small or large – and work for constructive change.

I wish I could be truer to my values, doing a better job at “practicing what I preach” so to speak.  It is not that I don’t really believe what I say, but it is so easy to get distracted and re-directed, often misdirected, and then there is all that ego which so readily gets in the way.  Indeed, I wish I could do a better job at putting my ego aside, spending less time thinking about myself and my wants and my needs and more time thinking about the wants and needs of others.

I wish I was both more consistent and more flexible.  I know that seems like a contradiction in terms but it really isn’t.  Ideally, consistency should rule.  In every situation, we would know where we stand, and others who know us, would be able to anticipate it as well.  In our consistency they would come to trust us.  But life isn’t ideal.  Life can be messy.  The rules don’t always provide the best answer.  So at times we have to be able to bend and go with the flow.  We have to be able to adapt.  The trick is in knowing when to be consistent and when to bend.  The rabbis of the Midrash tell us that when God was considering creating humanity, there was a heated debate among the angels.  They were divided into two camps, those who opposed the creation of humanity and those who supported it.  Those who opposed humanity’s creation did so on the grounds of justice, in that they foresaw that often human beings would be unjust.  As for those who favored humanity’s creation, they did so on the grounds of mercy, in that they foresaw that many would be the times when human beings would demonstrate great compassion.  In the end, God decided to create humanity but to do so in a balance between justice and mercy.[1]  That is still my challenge.  How can I better balance justice and mercy in the decision making of my life?

Speaking of balance, I wish I could better balance my time.  Time management has never been one of my strong suits.  Days seem to fly by, yet when I consider how much time I have frittered away, one way or another – time which could have been used far more productively – I have no choice but to realize that I have no one to blame but myself.  Yet our time is such a precious commodity, all the more precious for the demands upon it far outweigh the supply.  Everyone wants a piece of our time and everyone deserves a piece of it; our family, our job, our friends, our community, our world, and of course, also ourselves.  Yes, we need to make time for others but we also need to make time for ourselves.  So how do we make the most of the little that we have?  How do I make the most of the little I have?

I wish I could be more organized.  One look at my desk provides ample testimony to what degree chaos rules my life.  I look at those whose desks are clear and neat, where you can actually see the wood of the desktop and I am filled with wonderment.  How can they do that?  Life can be a hectic and overwhelming enterprise.  In one way or another we are all jugglers and it seems that the number of balls we are ex­pected to keep in the air at any given time only increases.  Rarely, if ever, do they decrease.  Some people prove to be great jugglers.  Others not so much so.  Most of us fall somewhere in between. Oh, but to be one of life’s great jugglers!  What a pleasure that would be!

I have many regrets.  So many things I wish I could have done better.  So many ways I wish I had taken the opportunity to demonstrate myself to be a better person.

I have regrets.  We all have regrets.  I suspect that many of us have shared regrets; that some of my regrets are also some of yours and that some of your regrets are also some of mine.  And if there is anyone among us who thinks to him or herself, “I have no regrets!” then surely they are deluding themselves.  For we all are human beings, and part of our nature is that we are imperfect.  We make mistakes.  We do not always live up to our potential.  There are always ways in which we can do better.  We all have, or should have, regrets, and if we don’t that is not because we are so perfect but rather because we are so flawed that we have blinded ourselves to our own shortcomings.

This somber holy day of Yom Kippur offers us a very special gift; the gift of the possibility of a new beginning for our lives.  We can come to the synagogue and sit and pray, and maybe even fast, and suffer, and then leave, walking out of this building’s doors the same person who entered through them.  Un­changed.  Or, we can choose to take the message of Yom Kippur to heart and believe that we can change; and embrace the opportunity to change – change for the better.

But how do we begin that process of change?  We begin with regret.  Before we can change, we have to confront our lives, as we have lived them so far, and acknowledge that we have been less than we could have been.  We must acknowledge that we have regrets.  More than acknowledge them, we must number and catalog our regrets; creating our own personal laundry list of them.  For until we are ready to come face to face with our regrets, we can never change.  We can want to change.  We can hope to change, but we can never really change.

I know that it is hard to face the fact that we have been less than we could have been.  Believe you me, it was no easy task for me to lay out before you my regrets, and harder still knowing that the list I shared with you is incomplete; that there are those which are buried so deep, I could not even give them expression.  But nobody ever promised us that there is an easy path to change.  Change is hard, and it can be painful, but if we are willing to face the hardship and endure the pain, it also can be well worth it.  Anyone who has ever worked out at a gym or gone on a diet knows from whence I speak.  But truth be told, while strengthening our body is a good thing, strengthening our character is a wondrous thing of manifold greater significance.  For while all the efforts that we invest in diet and exercise may make us thinner, healthier, and stronger, they do not change the people are; only the bodies we inhabit.  Yet traveling the path laid out to us by Yom Kippur – the path that begins with regret and moves toward repentance, atone­ment, and hopeful forgiveness – can make of us better people.  When you think about it, if you had to make a choice, which would you prefer?  To be known as a thin person or a good person?  A strong person or a decent person?  A physically fit person or a person worthy of respect?  Of course we don’t have to choose between them.  We can, if we so choose, be both thin and good, strong and decent, physically fit and worthy of respect.  But even if we possessed both, of which would we be prouder?

So let us seriously take this Yom Kippur opportunity to consider those aspects of our lives which we sincerely regret.  Let our sense of regret fuel our energy for change.  Let us commit ourselves to the work of making ourselves, not perfect, but better in the coming year.  Let us commit ourselves to transforming today’s regrets into our building blocks with which we will build of ourselves better people as we march into our future.


[1] BERESHIT RABBA 8.

Life Is Too Short…

September 27, 2012

My wife and I moved to Lincoln, Nebraska in the Summer of 1977 where I assumed my first solo pulpit and my wife began serving the Reform congregation in Omaha as its cantor.  We were extremely fortunate in that in both congregations we quickly made many close friends.  In fact, today we still keep in regular contact with several of them.

One set of friends that we made in Lincoln were two wonderful people who, for the sake of this article, I will call Ann & Mark.  They were older than us, but then again in those days, who in the congregation wasn’t, other than the students in the religious school?  Ann always seemed to know the right thing to do.  She was always there for the temple, and there for us.  Mark was a successful professional who loved to read and who loved to engage in some of the most profound conversations.  During our 5 years in Lincoln we spent a lot of time with Ann & Mark talking, laughing, dreaming.  Each of us valued our friendship dearly.

Then it happened.  It was in November of our last year in Nebraska.  I was training their youngest daughter for her Bat Mitzvah.  One evening the four of us were out for dinner, and of course one of the main topics of our conversation was the family’s plans for the big event.  It was in the midst of that conversation that Ann asked my wife if during the cocktail hour, she would sit on a stool and perform folk music for the guests, coffee house style.  She told us how much she loved listening to my wife sing and that it would mean so much to them if she would sing during their party.

The request caught us flatfooted.  My wife has never been that type of entertainer.  While in high school and in camp she performed in some musicals and some operas, she never got involved in anything like cabaret singing.  And when it came to folk music, she has never been a big fan.  In fact, the only thing like a folk song that she knew how to play on the guitar was “Charlie on the MTA.”  And now, over 30 years later, I can tell you from recent experience that is still the case, for while we were in Anchorage this Summer, there was a folk singer performing at the bar in our hotel.  Somehow or other he got my wife to pick up his guitar and sing for the crowd.  After she played “Charlie on the MTA” she went straight into Debbie Friedman music.  The room which, as you can imagine, was full of non-Jews did not know what to make of it while the folk singer thought it was great.  In any event, with Ann & Mark’s request before her, feeling like a fish out of water, my wife told our friends that she wasn’t comfortable doing that, her repertoire of music being primarily Jewish liturgical music and not folk songs.

It was not long after that we learned that Ann & Mark were upset with us because my wife would not accede to their request and I did not prevail upon her to do so.  Her refusal hurt them.  We, in turn, became upset with them for placing an unrealistic expectation upon my wife and for allowing this matter to injure our relationship which had been such a strong and positive one.  Yet that was the way it was and sorry to say, we spent our last 6 months in Lincoln, Nebraska at a distance from these two people with whom we had shared such a lovely friendship.

But that was not the end of the story.  Both we and the Ann & Mark shared a very close relationship with another couple, who, for the sake of this article, I will call Joan & Ken.  Indeed, barely a weekend would pass when Joan & Ken and my wife & I wouldn’t be doing something together – usually eating, but sometimes going to a play or a concert.  Well, a little over a year after we left Lincoln, Ken was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and about 6 months later he died.  All of us in our group of friends were devastated by his passing.  For my wife and I, there was no question but that we were flying in from California for the funeral.  We arranged to stay at the home of another family with whom we were close.  As we discussed over the phone our plans with that family, they informed us that Ann & Mark were hosting a dinner for all of Ken’s friends.  We winced.  During our Lincoln-bound journey, my wife and I wondered what it would be like to walk into their home that evening.

So we found ourselves standing at their doorstep and we hesitantly rang the bell.  Ann answered it.  There were no words that were spoken.  There was only loving embraces.  I must tell you that even as I was entering these memories into my computer as I was composing this article, tears were welling up in my eyes and running down my cheeks.  Our dear mutual friend was dead and in the light of our shared loss how insignificant our former differences with Ann & Mark proved themselves to be for both couples.

It is Yom Kippur and I chose to share this story with you because I believe that it can speak to the meaning of this day.  For Yom Kippur is a day when we are supposed to confront ourselves with all of our flaws and shortcomings.  It is a day when we are supposed to take stock of our lives as we have lived them up until now and seriously ask ourselves, “Where did I go wrong and what could I have done better?”  And most important of all, “What am I going to do about it?”  For if we neglect to do these things, then Yom Kippur is really little more than one long, uncomfortable, perhaps even boring, day in a synagogue.  If we fail to confront our errors, both the small ones and the big ones; if we fail to admit to the pettiness which can so often drive our lives off course, then we will remain unchanged, and in this case unchanged means unhealed, while Yom Kippur is all about healing.

I chose to share this story with you because while this story is very personal to my wife and me, it also is all too universal.  There are so many other who have stories in their own lives that in their own way are quite similar to this one.  I suspect that there may be several reading this article who at one point or another had dear friends or family, with whom they suffered a falling out; a breach in the relationship which never healed.

I happen to be one of those people who loves movies.  Well, there is a movie which if you have never seen it, you should.  It is called “Avalon.”  It is about a Polish-Jewish family that comes to America in the early days of the twentieth century and strives to obtain the American dream.  In the beginning, the family was wonderfully extended with aunts and uncles and cousins, all caring for and taking care of each other.  Holidays were major family occasions.  But by the end of the film, we see one lone nuclear family on Thanksgiving, eating their Thanksgiving dinner on tray tables in front of the television.

Friends and family are so important in our lives, or they should be.  Yet somehow, all too often there are those of us who let them slip through our fingers for reasons not even worthy of recounting.  In the movie, the big family break occurred over a family Thanksgiving dinner.  Everyone was sitting around the table waiting for an uncle and aunt to arrive, but they were late; extremely late.  Finally the host said, “Listen the children have to eat.  We cannot wait any longer!” and he started to carve the turkey.  Of course it was then that the uncle and aunt arrived.  When the uncle saw that they were carving the turkey without him, he was furious and he stormed out.  Is the carving of a turkey worthy of the dissolution of a family?  I don’t think so.  Yet that scenario, with its own particular details and nuances is replayed time and again in the real world, with real people, family and friends.

Yom Kippur is here to warn us that life is too short for us to allow ourselves to get caught up and trapped by minor squabbles and differences; to grant to so many little things the power to dismantle that which is truly positive, meaningful, and important in our lives.

There are a thousand cliches that tell us the very same thing.  Cliches like “Don’t sweat the small stuff.”  But because they are cliches, we tend not to give them much credence.  But when all is said and done, their message is a vital one for us, for they warn us over and over again, “Don’t lose sight of your priorities.”  Learn to recognize that which is major and that which is minor, and don’t let the minor destroy the major.

Many of you are probably familiar with the story of a professor who brought a pickle jar to class one day.  He set it on his desk, in front of his students, and then took large rocks and proceeded to place them into the jar.  When the jar could hold no more, he asked his students whether or not the jar was full.  They responded that it was.  Then the professor proceeded to take pebbles and pour them into the mouth of the jar.  Once again, when no more would fit, he asked his students whether or not the jar was full and once again they said that it was.  Then he proceeded to pour in sand.  When the sand reached the top of the jar, he asked his question yet again, and his students replied that indeed it was full.  At this point, he poured in water right up to the brim.  He then asked his students what the jar has to teach us about life.  Several responded that from the jar they have learned that there is always room for more.  “No,” he said sadly, “that is not the point.  What the jar has to teach us is that you have to put the rocks in first, for if you don’t there will be no room for them afterward.  And the rocks, they are the biggest, most important things in our lives.  They are our priorities.”

Every day of our lives we are confronted with multiple situations, and unfortunately, sometimes conflicts.  At these times, we need to focus on the rocks; the important things in our lives.  We must let them guide our choices, our actions, our words, our thoughts, and, of course, our emotions.  If we do so, then our chances are greater that we will not fall victim to the petty.

Our loving relationships are far more important than many of our opinions, yet why do we so often choose to sacrifice our friendships because of this issue or that issue over which we find ourselves in disagreement with the people we care about?  Yes there are some opinions that are not just opinions but in actuality true basic life principles – principles for which it is worthy to endure sacrifice.  But let us be honest about it.  The differences of opinion that more often than not result in driving wedges in our relationships are not of that caliber.  They are merely differences of opinion concerning opinions about which we have chosen, often for reasons unknown even to us, to dig in our heals and not let go until we have won.  It becomes for us about victory and defeat rather than right and wrong.  Years ago, Barb Arland Fye, the publisher of the “Catholic Messenger” taught me that when we find ourselves embroiled in a conflict, we need to ask ourselves, “Is this the ditch I wish to die in?”  If the answer is “yes” then we are contending over rocks.  If the answer is “no” then we are squabbling over sand and water.

One of the goals of Yom Kippur is to help us learn how to distinguish between the rocks and the sand and the water.  For when we elect to sacrifice wonderful relationships for sand and water, we are committing a sin against those we are cutting off and against ourselves as well.

One of the goals of Yom Kippur is to push us along the path of healing broken relationships.  We all know that two of the most difficult words to say in any language are “I’m sorry.”  But it is precisely those words, sincerely spoken, which contain the healing balm we all so desperately need.

Ann & Mark, my wife, and I were most fortunate for we were able to heal our relationship.  But to do so, we had to pay an excruciating price; the tragic loss of our dear friend.  I suspect that when we embraced, in Heaven Ken was smiling, for at least some good came out of his suffering and his passing.  But to this very day, my wife and I miss him terribly.  While we are grateful for the healing his passing brought to our relationship with Ann & Mark, we will regret for the rest of our days that the four of us could not have brought about that healing on our own.  Yom Kippur attempts to teach us that healing need not be born of tragedy.  It can be born of choice.