OC Our Rabbi

Blind Drawing and Messy Living
Yom Kippur 2015 – 5776
September 22, 2015
Rabbi Joseph M. Forman
Kol Nidrei
Or Chadash

Life is messy. It’s not neat and systematically filed like the cavernous corridors of Loews or The Home Depot where a friendly employee will tell you where you can find all of the obscure widgets you need. Life is not neat and ordered like the shelves of a grocery store before it opens to the public who, once they arrive, immediately begin moving things out of place.

Real life is messy. We hardly need leave our own yard to know that. The straight rows of vegetables in our summer gardens are hardly perfectly lined up. And our desktops – whether virtual or real – could certainly use some organizing.

But the messy nature of things should not surprise us.

Let me share with you a story of Sam Anderson. [“Blind Contour Drawing”, NYTimes Magazine 5/17/15]

Not only a writer, Sam is an artist. Not one who sells paintings at galleries, Sam is the kind of artist who draws on the open spaces of the newspaper when he is on the phone with you – likely the New York Times which he writes for – and sometimes he actually draws things that he wishes to save or give to friends and family.

Sam calls himself “an enthusiastic doodler”. But when he began to get frustrated with his drawings, finding them boring, he almost stopped drawing. He mentioned this to a friend of his who happens to be what he called “a real artist”. His “real artist” friend suggested he try drawing without looking at the paper. Instantly his drawings came to life!

“Finally, my drawing had life in it, just like the art I had always admired. It was ugly,” he said, “but it had a powerfully direct relationship to the world.”

“…a powerfully direct relationship to the world.” Wow!

Described by Betty Edwards in 1979 in “Drawing On the Right Side of the Brain”, the technique Sam used is known as “blind contour drawing”. “The goal of blind drawing is to really see the thing you’re looking at, rather than retreat into your idealized vision of it,” Sam explained.

“Blind drawing,” he went on to say, “trains us to stare at the chaos, to honor it. It is an act of meditation, as much as it is an artistic practice — a gateway to pure being.

It forces us to study the world as it actually is.”

“[And] It turns out that the world, on close examination, is gloriously strange.”

“Things are lumpier and hairier than we have been led to believe,” he says. “Planes are never flat; colors are never solid. Matthew McConaughey’s hairline is not the Platonic ideal you might imagine: It is jagged and wandering, like a map of the coastline of a distant mysterious continent. Your father-in-law’s head is squatter than you ever knew. Sleeve wrinkles can be as beautiful as the most exotic flower. Every object (book, pencil, glove, banana) is in fact a bewildering universe of lines.”

The reality is that this “really seeing the thing that you are looking at” can be true not just for objects, but for all kinds of things, as well – things like ideas, people, relationships, love and war and everything that we think we know. Life. It is all — all of it — subject to our putting away our preconceptions and really looking at what is there.

Just as blind drawing forces us to stop imagining that flowers and faces and sunsets and boxes are symmetrical and even and easily captured, blind drawing also helps us see the irregularities and imperfections of nature in all aspects of life. Blind drawing helps us better see our own lives, too. It can help us get away from our idealized version of what we might think our lives are supposed to be. It can help us honor our true nature and discover that life is in fact ‘gloriously strange; a bewildering universe of lines; and a bit hairier and lumpy than we might have been led to believe’.

Looking to plan a perfect day, but somehow it goes a bit wrong? This – we can learn from blind drawing and paying attention to what is real, rather than hoped for – is not such an aberration. When was the last time you ever had a perfect day that had no bumps or wrinkles in it?

Allowing ourselves to get away from our preconceived notions of how life should be, blind drawing prepares us to understand that our relationships, our values and religion, our behaviors and our hopes and dreams are all a bit messy. Lots of things we wish were plain and simple and clean and neat and uncomplicated simply are not. Theologly. God. Religion. The conflict in the Middle East. Politics. Parenting. Health. Not one of these topics upon close examination is simple or easy. They’re all bewildering and contain far more nuance than a quick gloss could ever provide.

Real life – every bit of it — is uneven, and wavy, and irregular and confusing – at times immensely rewarding and sublime, at times incredible aggravating; there are days when we see readily the beauty of life, and there are days when we painfully discover that life is less than perfect – if we can even understand it at And so it goes. Life is messy. And not only are all those wrinkles OK, but actually, it’s better to see the world that way. It is an embrace of life; it honors what’s really there. It honors the full complexity of human thought and emotion, and it honors the humanity of those we love.

On Yom Kippur, our Jewish tradition calls us to seek forgiveness for a litany of failures we have committed during the past year. We are reminded that despite the somewhat pristine image we wish to cast of ourselves, upon close examination, we, too, are “a bewildering universe of lines.” And as beautiful as wrinkles can be, we too need to iron out some of them.

We can be jagged in our thoughts, irregular in how our logic sometimes fails to direct our behaviors. We have complex emotions that can push us away from our friends and family and colleagues and pull us toward them all at the same time. We don’t always say what we want to share, or react how we know we really want to. We mess up. Everyone does. It’s part of our essence. But rather than deny it, we ought to get closer to it.

And that is where forgiveness comes in. We are not perfect. We really don’t aim to be.

Blind drawing makes us look at ourselves rather than the self we imagine us to be. Our goal, then, is to appreciate the very real undulating irregularities of our lives and those who share our world with us. And then we need to open our hearts’ closets, do a bit of straightening up, acknowledge we all have wrinkles, and then forgive others their failings.

Sometimes, though, blind drawing and seeing the madness is not so easy. When the only thing that meets our vision when we look away from the idealized fantasy is intolerable ugliness, such an encounter is not pretty at all.

The 19th century German poet and essayist Heinrich Heine once wrote, “All I ask is [for] a simple cottage, a decent bed, good food, some flowers in front of my window and a few trees beside my door. Then if God wanted to make me wholly happy, He would let me enjoy the spectacle of those trees with six or seven of my enemies dangling from them. I would forgive them all wrongs they have done me – forgive them from the bottom of my heart, for we must forgive our enemies. But not until they are hanged!” (As quoted in Edge-Tools of Speech,1899, Maturin Ballou, p. 169.)

Not quite offering a full embrace of forgiveness, Heinrich Heine, who might have benefitted from letting go of the wrongs done to him, certainly encountered some of the less flattering aspects of this world.

About the ones we resent, Reb Nachman of Bratzlav, the great-grandson of the Baal Shem Tov who founded Chassidism, taught: when we push ourselves to look for the goodness that resides somewhere inside those who touch our lives, when we succeed in finding those redeeming qualities, then redemption can begin. Our redemption.

Let me share with you a short story – not from the Talmud, but from Japanese Zen traditions.

(A Heavy Load – from Zen Stories)

Two traveling monks reached a town where there was a young woman waiting to step out of her carriage. The rain had made deep puddles, and she couldn’t step across without spoiling her silken robes. She stood there, looking very cross and impatient. She was scolding her attendants. They had nowhere to place the packages they held for her, so they couldn’t help her across the puddle.  

The younger monk noticed the woman, said nothing, and walked by. The older monk quickly picked her up and put her on his back, transported her across the water, and put her down on the other side.

She didn’t thank the older monk, she just shoved him out of the way and departed. 

As they continued on their way, the young monk was brooding and preoccupied. After several hours, unable to hold his silence, he spoke out. “That woman back there was very selfish and rude, but you picked her up on your back and carried her! Then she didn’t even thank you!”



“I set the woman down hours ago,” the older monk replied. “Why are you still carrying her?”

The well-known Jewish composer and musician Shlomo Carlebach understood this story. Carlbach was able to look at life and its imperfections with a clarity that was sure.

He had fled the Nazis as a young man. Now a famous rabbi and singer, he was once asked how could he go back to Austria and Germany to perform. “Don’t you hate them?” he was asked.

Carlebach responded: “If I had two souls, I’d devote one to hating them. But since I have only one, I don’t want to waste it on hating.”

Tonight, on this Kol Nidrei, this eve of Yom Kippur, we are reminded that we must look at our lives as they really are. Surely, we are not to waste our souls hating. Tonight is a time for letting go of such emotions; tonight is a time for putting down what we need to stop carrying. Real life is messy. People are not as perfect as we might wish them to be. No surprise.

On this Sam Anderson, the enthusiastic doodler, remarked:

“Part of the magic of blind drawing is the impossibility of doing it wrong. This makes it the perfect antidote to perfectionism, because its first and only step is to abandon any hope of perfection…. [I]nevitably, almost by accident, your hand will produce little slivers of excellence….”

On this eve of Yom Kippur, I encourage all of us to engage in a bit of blind drawing. Such an act of faith in our ability to embrace the true nature of others just might produce in us little slivers of forgiveness.

And that, perhaps, is the true artistry – not of drawing, but of living.

AMEN

Or Chadash Al Tzion Ta’ir
Yom Kippur Morning 2015 – 5776
Rabbi Joseph M. Forman
Or Chadash

Shana Tova. Happy New Year to everyone.

In the Talmud (Brachot 34b) we learn that a synagogue must have windows. Because if we are to sit within the walls of our congregation and pray for the redemption of ourselves and of the world, then we need not only to be able to look within our own souls, but we also need to be able to look out and see the world.

Centuries ago, when so many people were illiterate, stained glass windows were one medium through which the stories and lessons of the Bible could be taught to individuals who neither read nor wrote.  

Within the Jewish community, being able to read was essential. And so stained glass windows depicting Bible stories were not only not necessary, but also their iconography – their images of people – were typically prohibited within the synagogue.

In the modern period, synagogues began incorporating stained glass windows with ornate abstract designs to enhance the beauty of those sacred spaces. 

At the Abbell Synagogue of the Hadassah Medical Center at Hebrew University in Jerusalem, the Stained Glass windows created by Marc Chagall in 1962 depict the 12 tribes of Israel in what are perhaps the most famous of Jewish stained-glass windows.

In our sanctuary we have 16 small stained glass windows which were created by Jim Schettino from Out of Hand from 2003 until 2008. They celebrate the circle of life. The ones on the top depict the nine Jewish holidays and the ones on the bottom are the seven days of creation and Shabbat.  They were started when Rabbi Siroka was here, and Jim and I worked on the last few together.

Or Chadash has a tradition of our Bar and Bat Mitzvah classes donating a gift to the congregation rather than exchanging gifts with one another. Our benches out front, the basketball hoop, the shed and the patio are all gifts from our students and their families.

With two empty windows on either side of the Bima still needing adornment, creating stained-glass windows was an obvious gift for our next Bar and Bat Mitzvah class – or the next six classes!

Jim and I collaborated again, and over the course of a year and a half, we worked on the design of the window to the right of the ark. As the work progressed, Jim brought glass samples to the Board and the final sketches for approval. It was a labor of love for him.

Just about the time that he began to assemble the window, Jim suddenly passed away. It was a terrible loss of a friend to so many of us. Jim was a brilliant artist, and his wife, Eileen, had helped him with the construction of other windows here. She had hoped to finish the window for us. The task proved to be more than monumental.

Over time, she helped us find Sunflower Glass Studios in Stockton, and Karen and Geoff Caldwell helped us complete the window this spring. And they will be helping us design and create the window to the left of the ark which will, coincidentally, be based on the Haftarah reading for Yom Kippur from Isaiah.

This morning, if you’ll pardon the pun, I’d like to shed some light on our new window and the theology behind its design. 

For those of you who are seated close to the window and can see it well, I encourage you to look at the actual stained glass window. Everyone in the sanctuary, however, has received a postcard of our window. Thank you to Glenn Wasserman for his beautiful and meticulous photography skills to help create this postcard.

There are two Hebrew sections. At the very top it says: Or Chadash –  a new light; and on the left it says: Al Tzion Ta’ir – may it shine on Zion. 

It should not go unnoticed that the name of our congregation can be found at the top of the window, and indeed this phrase which comes from the prayerbook is the source of the name of our synagogue.

Turning for a moment to the liturgy for the morning service, the first prayer before the Shema is called the Yotzeir. The Yotzeir – meaning Creator – refers to God as the Creator of light.

When we study the prayers here at Or Chadash, our students learn the Yotzeir. It begins with the words, Baruch Ata Adonai, Eloheinu Melech haOlam, Yotzeir or u-vo’rey choshech – Blessed are You, Adonai our God, creator of light and darkness.

The traditional Yotzeir prayer concludes: Or Chadash Al Tzion Ta’ir v’Nizkeh choolanu m’hayra l’oro – May a new light shine upon Zion and may we all soon merit its radiance. But not all of our students know that. And the reasons why go back over 1000 years!

You don’t need to, but if you want to look on page 305 of our Machzor – where the Yotzeir appears, you will not find that phrase. That’s right. It’s not there! The Reform rabbis who created our High Holy Day prayerbook in 1978 left it out. And so did every Reform prayerbook going back two centuries. I will come back to why they did that in a little bit.

We are not the first Jewish community to have some issues with this seemingly innocuous phrase. In the 9th century, Saadia Gaon, a prominent rabbi and Jewish philosopher from Egypt and later Bagdad, compiled one of the earliest prayerbooks.

He wrote: “It is forbidden to recite the words: Or Chadash Al Tzion Ta’ir.”

Why? Because, Saadia reasoned, the type of light that was the basis of the Yotzeir prayer was the celestial light; lights like the sun that the ancient Egyptians prayed to. Saadia declared that the only light which Jews should be offering prayers about should be the future light of the Messiah. A prayer like Or Chadash Al Tzion Ta’ir, he suggested, referring to the sun or the stars, was tantamount to idolatry. And so, Saadia prohibited its inclusion in his prayerbook. For generations, all prayerbooks from the Sephardic world omitted that line.

Two centuries later, in France, the great Biblical and Talmudic commentator Rashi had a slightly different take on Or Chadash Al Tzion Ta’ir. Rashi agreed with Saadia that the theme of the Yotzeir prayer is, indeed, about celestial light – the sun and its creator. But, according to Rashi, the phrase Or Chadash Al Tzion Ta’ir has no business being included in the Yotzeir. The Yotzeir, he wrote, clearly speaks of a source of light that is renewed every day.

Or Chadash Al Tzion Ta’ir, he says, refers to a light that will emanate in the future, when the Messiah arrives. Rashi felt that because the phrase Or Chadash is about Messianic light and not a celestial one, we should not include it in the Yotzeir prayer. And so prayerbooks compiled in Rashi’s day also omitted that line.

By the 19th and 20th century, the phrase Or Chadash Al Tzion Ta’ir was returned to most prayerbooks in America. But not in the Reform Movement. Reform prayerbook authors consistently omitted this line not because of a debate about the Light (a topic that hardly interested them), but this time it was excluded because it mentioned Zion. Early Reform Jews removed all references in the Prayerbook to the land of Zion because of their opposition to Jewish nationalism. They had no interest in returning to the historic homeland of Israel. And they didn’t want any prayers talking about Zion. For the early Reform Jews, Zion was wherever Jews lived.

The phrase Or Chadash Al Tzion Ta’ir finally did make its reappearance, but it would not be until 2007 with the publication of Mishkan T’filah, our movement’s new prayerbook that we use here on Shabbat. In the words of Rabbi David Ellenson, the past-president of the Hebrew Union College: “With the return of these words to our liturgy, the Reform Movement consciously affirms its devotion to the modern State of Israel and signals its recognition of the religious significance of the reborn Jewish commonwealth.”

For over 1000 years Jews have argued over the phrase Or Chadash Al Tzion Ta’ir. Now, we are not only able to recite it, but here at our Or Chadash, we can sing it, as well. Our former Student Cantor Ross Wolman composed a setting of it for my Installation in 2006. And now, we are able to look as those words, as well, with light streaming through them.

And now a bit of explanation of the images in our window.

If everybody will take a look at the top of the window you will see that there are seven pomegranates – one for each day of the week. The pomegranate is the historic symbol of the people of Israel.  In Jerusalem, archaeologists often dig up small clay pomegranates.

According to the Torah, the priests of the ancient Temple wore bells in the shape of pomegranates on the hems of their robes. And in many synagogues today the silver crowns on top of the Torah have bells in the shape of pomegranates.

The debates between the rabbis about the phrase Or Chadash focused on the source of the light – whether it was the light from the sun or the light from the Messiah.

In our window the rays of light emanate from the pomegranate itself – the light comes not from the heavens or from some future redemption, but from the people of Israel – from us. 36 pomegranate seeds coming from one of the pomegranates symbolize these rays. Why 36?

There is a Midrash, a story written by the Rabbis, which tells that at any given moment there are 36 Tzaddikim, 36 righteous people in the world. In our window, rather than our righteous deeds meriting a light from above, our righteous deeds are themselves the light. We are the source of enlightenment, and the radiance from our behavior enables the flourishing of the olive tree.

There are 18 olives in our window. They symbolize the Hebrew word Chai, a word which means Life and whose numerical value is 18. The olive branch is the symbol of peace. And so now our window reveals that through the righteous deeds of every one of us we are able to bring peace.

And where does that peace come to? According to the phrase Or Chadash Al Tzion Ta’ir, it shines on Zion. If you look at the bottom of the window you will see the reds and golds of an autumn scene. They don’t have trees like that in Israel, much less in the desert climate of Jerusalem.

Our window is in a Reform congregation, here in Hunterdon County. And still true to our Reform heritage, Zion need not be the mountain-top in Jerusalem, but is wherever Jews reside. And for us, that means the Jersey side of the Delaware River Valley – right here in Hunterdon. The light, the righteous deeds, the peace are all centered on our home, here at Or Chadash.

On this Yom Kippur morning, my prayer for all of us is this ancient phrase:
Or chadash al Tzion ta’ir v’nizkeh kulanu meheirah le-oro.
May a new light shine upon Zion, and may we each soon merit its radiance.

It is my hope and wish for all of us in this new year that we become sources of light, beacons of righteousness, to enlighten our community with courage and the capacity to realize a vision of the future that will bring peace to us all – here in Hunterdon and throughout the world.

AMEN

Abraham, Isaac and the Legacy Circle
Rosh HaShana Morning – 2015 – 5776
Or Chadash
Rabbi Joseph M. Forman

Shana Tova. Happy New Year.

The Torah portion for this Rosh HaShanah morning comes from chapter 22 in the book of Genesis. Each year we read this Torah portion, and, as often as we read it, there continues to be a myriad of interpretations, questions, and challenges brought about by the story of Abraham bringing his son Isaac to Mount Moriah to sacrifice him there.

Following the command of God to offer him as a burnt offering, Abraham does not hesitate to fulfill this obligation.

Without mentioning a word of this to his wife, Sarah, Abraham gets up at the crack of dawn, takes his son, Isaac and a few servants, gathers some essential items for your typical multi-day-hike and sacrifice: a knife, some campfire wood, a rope – because you never know if you might need it – and off they all go …headed to a place of which our Torah portion says: God will show them.

What makes the story so challenging is that God has promised that Abraham will have descendants, and yet here in the story we find God asking him to sacrifice his beloved son Isaac. There seems to be an irreconcilable conflict in Abraham fulfilling the command to take the life of his son and God making good on the promise that Abraham will have numerous generations carrying on his faith.

And yet it is the interruption of the sacrifice, the call from an angel, which enables the promise to come true. The angel acknowledges that Abraham has passed the test, that he has shown his commitment to his faith through his willingness to make the most personal of sacrifices. It is because of his willingness to give up what is so precious to him that he is blessed with future generations.

Genesis says:

By myself do I swear, says the Eternal, that because you have done this, and did not withhold your son, your precious one, from me, I will bless you greatly, and make your descendants as numerous as the stars of heaven and the sands of the seashore; and your descendants shall come to possess the gates of your enemies. All the nations of the earth shall be blessed through your descendants, because you obeyed My command. (Genesis 22).

The story of Abraham and Isaac continues through the generations of Jacob and Joseph and Moses and the people of Israel. It is a story that continues
because of the willingness of generations of people to make sacrifices. The legacy of Abraham endures to this day.

There are people whom we know in our own lives who have made sacrifices of all kinds that we might be here today, that we might continue to participate in Jewish living. They have built for us a foundation upon which to build a Legacy of Jewish continuity.

There are people in our community who made sacrifices a generation ago so that Or Chadash, the Reform Congregation of Hunterdon County could exist.
 And there are people in our congregation who are making sacrifices today so that Or Chadash will continue to thrive and continue to exist. 

This past year I encouraged our leadership to create a formal Legacy Program at Or Chadash in order for our congregation to begin planning for its long-range future. It was a project that I felt was critical to sustain the remarkable treasure that I believe Or Chadash is. With the tremendous enthusiasm of Harvey Gold and his committee, we now have such a program.

At this time I would like to thank our Legacy Committee for the tremendous work they have done to establish this program here – the chair of the committee, Harvey Gold, and his wonderful team of Adam Belkin, Rick Rosenthal and Debbie Weiss.

On this morning of Rosh HaShanah, a time when we read of our ancestor Abraham and the sacrifices that he made so that the blessing of future generations might carry-on the mantle of his faith, it is my pleasure to have Harvey and then Debbie share with you stories of their lives and how they have been blessed to continue the legacy of our faith. 

Harvey Gold…

Debbie Weiss…

Narrowing the Gap + The Art of Stillness
Erev Rosh HaShana 2015–5776
Or Chadash
Rabbi Joseph M. Forman

Shana Tova. Happy New Year. It is wonderful to see all of you tonight, and I hope that this New Year brings the blessings of health, of prosperity, and of purposeful living to us all.

As you probably know, the past few months at Or Chadash have been relatively quiet, as the summer season usually is. That gentler pace gives Cantor Kathy, Betsy, our leadership and me time to recharge ourselves and begin planning for the New Year.

What you might not realize is that as much as we appreciate the quieter days, we also miss the excitement of having you here, and so we look forward to having you back for the High Holy Days and our many fall programs. Welcome home. And welcome to all of you joining us for the first time.

As summer can provide an opportunity for us to relax and enjoy the outdoors, as I do, or spend time traveling, seeing new places or perhaps old friends, catching up on our bucket list, or our To-Do list, the High Holy Days are a time for something quite different.  The words in our Machzor, our High Holy Day prayerbook, urge us to declare: 

“Chadesh Aleinu Shana Tova – Renew us for a year of goodness.”

And indeed renewal is a vital goal for the New Year.  And perhaps, for many of us, that is why we return to Or Chadash, to renew our spiritual life and to re-engage with our Jewish community and reconnect with the highest of our Jewish values.

But the New Year and these high holy days are meant to to be something more.  

They are meant to jar us out of our normal way of going about living. The Book of Leviticus calls Rosh Hashanah Yom Teruah, a Day of Loud Blasts – not just to blow the shofar for the sake of ritual, but to be called to action by its sound.  

The purpose of Rosh Hashanah is not to be restorative, but to be transformative. Rather then us seeing the New Year as a time to renew our spirits or imagine that the return to synagogue involvement is a chance to reacquaint ourselves with our sacred past, we are to mark these days that we might change; that we might better ourselves. 

How often in the course of our lives do any of us harbor thoughts of what we might do had we the time, the strength, the freedom, the will, the opportunity?  

Our tradition calls this self-reflection Cheshbon HaNefesh, taking an inventory or accounting of our very being.  And when we look closely at ourselves, we might find that in some arena we are nowhere near the person we hope to be.  We are not quite the parent or friend we wish we could be.  We have not invested the time in doing the things we really want to do, being with the people who matter most to us, exerting the self-control we know a better us might have done.  When we look critically at ourselves, we see all too readily that there is, for every one of us, a gap between who and what and how we are, and who and what and how we would like to be.

And what we need is not more time to achieve our goals, but time better spent focusing on where we ought to be headed.  Like the suggestion on the hand-made scratch-off we sent to all of you: List the things that make you happy.  List the things you do.  Compare and adjust accordingly.  

The Jewish New Year, then, offers us a gift. A challenge – yes; but a gift!

These days of awe – no longer meant to frighten us with divine judgment, are meant to inspire us to adjust our lives for the better.  These days of awe can be a blessing that our tradition gives to us, really a blessing we give to ourselves to confront the reality of our lives, examine the places we know we have come up short, and then, with strength and purpose, narrow the gap between who we are now and who in the New Year we wish to be.

In his most recent book, the Road to Character, New York Times op Ed columnist and author David Brooks writes of this very task.  He speaks of narrowing the gap between our ideal self and our actual self. 

Brooks, poking a bit of fun at himself as a pundit and columnist, writes: “I’m paid to be a narcissistic blowhard, to volley my opinions, to appear more confident about them than I really am, to appear smarter than I really am, to appear better and more authoritative than I really am.” (RTC, p. xiv). 

And other than the getting paid for it part, he could be describing anyone of us who wishes to see ourselves as smarter, better, more confidant and authoritative than in truth we are.  But he goes on to address the nature of human character in all its forms – sharing beautiful stories of the lives of others that at times reveal deficiencies of kindness, patience, love, and tolerance.

Our task, he reminds us, is to move the needle.

“Character is not innate nor automatic,” Brooks states. “You have to build it with effort and artistry. You can’t be the good person you want to be unless you wage this campaign [to better yourself].”  (RTC, p. 12.) 

But Brooks was not the first well-known Jewish writer to contemplate the nature of Character.  In the 12th Century, Rabbi Moses Maimonides, born in Spain and then living in North Africa, wrote: “Do not imagine that character is determined at birth. We have been given free will. Any person can be as righteous as Moses or as wicked as Jeroboam. We ourselves decide whether to make ourselves learned or ignorant, compassionate or cruel, generous or miserly. No one forces us, no one decides for us, no one drags us along one path or the other; we ourselves, by our own volition, choose our own way.”

The scratch-off calendar everyone received for the New Year offered several activities to move us a bit closer to a better version of ourselves.  One scratch-off suggested that we sorely lack the time to contemplate our own lives. These high holy days give us a fantastic excuse to be a little bit self-centered and encourage us to focus on ourselves – not just doing more of what we do, but examining what we do with the time we have.  

So what prevents us from doing this on a regular basis? The British-born essayist and novelist, and now a TED-Talk speaker, Pico Iyer, gives one answer. 

“The more ways we have to connect, the more we seem desperate to unplug. In our madly accelerating world, our lives are crowded, chaotic and noisy. We need permission to be still!”

In his book The Art of Stillness Pico Iyer goes on to say: “In an age of speed, I began to think, nothing could be more invigorating than going slow. In an age of distraction, nothing can feel more luxurious than paying attention. And in an age of constant movement, nothing is more urgent than sitting still. You can go on vacation to Paris or Hawaii or New Orleans three months from now, and you’ll have a tremendous time, I’m sure. But if you want to come back feeling new – alive and full of fresh hope and in love with the world – I think the place to visit may be nowhere.”  (TAOS p66).

Stillness, he writes, is what we need to transform ourselves.

I can share my own experience with this, highlighted during my Bikram yoga practice.  Over the course of 90 minutes in 105° heat, we engage in 26 poses. In-between each pose we rest, ideally, motionless. Savasana, literally “dead man’s pose”, is considered the most difficult posture to master. It’s less than a minute, and we are all hot and exhausted. 

You would think it would be easy to not move. You would think after exercising in that heat and getting your heart racing, every one of us would lie still as a stone. 

But no. Somehow, stillness is the most challenging of the poses. We cannot stop moving.  Every tick, every need to wipe sweat from our brows, is indulged. And some cannot even be silent. They need to groan and whisper. Stillness, in far too many of us, is a lost art. 

In the Book of Kings (I Kings 19:11-13) the prophet Elijah sought to experience the reality of God.  The text tells us: Elijah stood on the mountain and felt the wind blow the rocks. He saw that God was not in the wind.  And then the mountain shook, an earthquake; yet God was not in the earthquake; and after the earthquake, a fire. But God was not in the fire. And after the fire, a still, small voice.

That quiet voice is the voice within each of us. We need to be still in order to hear it! We need to turn off the blowing of the wind, the shaking earth, the rattling noises, the burning desire to do every activity that work and school and friends and family and community propose to us. 

We need – for our own sake – to hear the still small voice that can help us reach toward the divine that resides within ourselves. 

And that is perhaps where the spiritual New Year, this Rosh Hashanah, finds purpose. Yes we sing and pray and stand and sit and listen to melodies historic and new. And yes, we declare tonight that the world is now 5776 years old, despite our awareness that in truth it is 4.5 billion years old and its origins are far more dramatic than the authors of Genesis could have conceived.

But tonight, as a sacred Kehillah, a holy congregation, united in our desire to give meaning to our time on this tiny planet, tonight we come together to be reminded that our sacred calling for the New Year is to transform ourselves. 

How we go about this — that is ours to determine. 

Whether we will succeed, is now our challenge. 

And who shall join us in our struggle, those decisions remain our private ones. 

But together, as a Jewish community, tonight we begin this journey to narrow the gap between the person we are and the one we hope to be, between the life we have today and the one we can imagine in our dreams. May this New Year find each of us, in stillness, moving closer to that ideal. 

Shana Tova. 

Amen.

All We Have is Now

RH PM 5774 2013

Rabbi Joseph M. Forman

Shana Tova – again, its wonderful to see all of you as we usher in this New Year together.  Tonight, our Jewish tradition asks of us to reflect on our past – a task not easy in today’s world.

Our liturgy, the words in our Machzor, our High Holy Day prayerbook, offer us guidance.  They ask:

At what did we aim?

How did we stumble?

What did we take?

What did we give?

To what were we blind?

This year, every one of us has seen both the blessings and the difficulties of our day.  We might ask ourselves on this sacred night:

What will be different for us in the New Year – different not because the year will change, but because we will?

That is the question for this holy day.  It is perhaps the question for all days.

So often our days are spent waiting.  We wait for the right moment to act, to change, to improve ourselves.  When we graduate or retire, we say.  When we lose some weight or have more money set aside.  Perhaps we’re waiting for the right time or a better time, or the perfect time, even.  But still, we wait.

Commenting on this all too human behavior,

the great poet and philosopher Dr. Seuss wrote: 

The Waiting Place…for people just waiting.
Waiting for a train to go
or a bus to come, or a plane to go…
or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow
or waiting around for a Yes or a No
or waiting for their hair to grow.
Everyone is just waiting.

Waiting for the fish to bite…
or waiting around for Friday night
or waiting, perhaps, for their Uncle Jake
or a pot to boil, or a Better Break
or a string of pearls, or a pair of pants
or a wig with curls, or Another Chance.
Everyone is just waiting.

This year has been a year filled with waiting.  In the aftermath of Sandy, so many of us were sitting in the dark or cold waiting for the power to return.  And then we waited for our beaches and businesses and even homes to be rebuilt.  Many are still waiting for that.  As we reeled at the tragedy of Sandy Hook Elementary School, we waited to see if Congress would pass gun-safety legislation to protect us.  We are still waiting for that.  After the bombings in Boston at the Marathon, we waited to learn who had been injured and, with rapt attention to the media, we waited to find out who had committed that atrocity.

There have been hurricanes and other natural disasters that made us wait.  And there are military coups and untold instances of political unrest that make so many wait for better days.

And while standing in lines for a train or our food, or waiting on hold on our phones, waiting to hear some good news from a school, an expectant mother or even our doctor, we are aware – even as our minds are focused on the challenges right around us or within our sphere of interest – we are aware, especially on this night of Rosh Hashanah, that life is precious. 

And fragile. 

And finite. 

And tomorrow is uncertain. 

But with all that we need to accomplish in the short time we are given, I would suggest that The Waiting Place is no place to be in this New Year.

Instead of simply waiting, we might be better off getting on with the business of living.

The Latin poet Horace, in the first century before the common era, admonishes us: Carpe Diem, seize the day.  Enough with waiting, he says. “…Be wise, be truthful, … and scale back your long hopes to a short period. While we speak, envious time will have already fled. Seize the day, trusting as little as possible in the future.”

Horace lived during the same period that the great rabbi Hillel did.  Hillel’s words also reflect the urgency of living for today rather than waiting until some better time.  “If I am not for myself,” he asked, “who will be for me?  If I am only for myself, what am I?  And if not now, when?” 

Hillel also lived in uncertain times.  Uncertain about the future not only for himself, but for all of Judaism.  His message was one of urgency: Today is the day to act.  No more waiting. 

“Do not say you will study when you have time,” he cautioned. “Perhaps you will not have that time.”   His admonition rings true not only for study, but for any endeavor we might hope one day to achieve.

Some of you might be familiar with the music group The Flaming Lips.  Songwriters Wayne Coyne and Steven Drozd set these ideas to song in recent years.

All we have is now /
All we’ve ever had was now /
All we have is now /
All we’ll ever have is now.

And so, now, on this night of Rosh Hashanah, as we enter a new year and consider what awaits us in the year ahead, I want to share with you a story: 

When the Chassidic master, Yitzhak Yaakov, the Seer of Lublin died, his disciples divided his worldly goods—one took his books, another his notes, still another his study desk, one his tallit, one his kiddush cup. When all his possessions were divided among his disciples, one devotee had neither asked for nor received anything. He was given the rebbe’s clock. But on the way home, he stopped at an inn but did not have sufficient funds to pay for his meal and lodging; he offered the clock in payment and the inn keeper placed the rebbe’s clock in one of the rooms.

A year later, another of the rebbe’s disciples stayed at the same inn but had great difficulty sleeping. All night long he paced back and forth and, when asked by the innkeeper the next morning why he had been unable to sleep, the disciple asked, “Where did you get that clock?”  The innkeeper related the story of the other follower who gave it to him in return for lodging and food.

The disciple’s eyes widened and with great excitement he explained to the innkeeper that the clock had belonged to the Seer of Lublin, a learned and compassionate man. 

“His clock,” he said, “was a holy clock.  All other clocks in the world mark time from the past—from where we’ve come. This clock ticks toward the future—towards redemption. Every time I tried to go to sleep, the clock reminded me how much more there is to do before the future can arrive and redemption be realized.”

There is much to do before redemption will come, before we can say we have borne our part in the incremental betterment of our world and before we can say we are acting now to make our own lives an those of our loved ones better.

The ticking of the clock pushes us to re-consecrate our lives to tasks unfulfilled and mitzvot neglected.  

We mean to live up to our resolve; we mean to correct our failings; we mean to recommit to the righteous deeds that are our sacred obligations: sh’lom bayit— domestic tranquility, nurturing a peaceful home; kehilah—connectedness to a caring community; hach’nasat orchim—hospitality to strangers; tzedakah—righteous giving; Talmud Torah—Jewish learning; bikur holim—visiting the sick; g’milut hasidim—acts of kindness; chesed—benevolent goodness; tikkun olam—perfecting a broken world.

And perhaps we plan to do all those things and more.  But time works against us; it is not on our side.

And though we cannot hold back time, we can examine our deeds, we can stop delaying the changes we need to make for the New Year, and we can begin by making them now.

The psalmist provides us with the maxim that can guide our path into this New Year: “Teach us to number our days that we may gain a heart of wisdom” (Psalm 90:12).

So lets get busy. No more waiting.  We each have a lot of work to do. 

And all we have is now.

AMEN

Teaching Kindness
Erev Rosh Hashanah 2014 – 5775
Or Chadash- Rabbi Joseph M. Forman

Shana Tova. A good and healthy and sweet New Year to all of you. It is wonderful to see faces familiar and faces new, as well. And I want to thank all of you for being here tonight to celebrate the New Year together.

We continue to live in challenging times, and many of us face difficult realities. Some of us have aging parents or we ourselves feel the effects of yet another year; perhaps we are still struggling with the economy or looking for work; our kids are tremendously busy, impacting our already full schedule, or they are off at school or living away from family; or perhaps we are on our on, managing. Life is not so easy for many of us.

Or Chadash has always been a place to turn and return to when life challenges us and when we need a haven from its storms. Our Hesed – our Caring Committee is a reflection of the values that Or Chadash stands for. It is very much a significant reason we are here. 

Indeed, the synagogue as an institution has been called a Beit Midrash, a house of study. It is here that our students are learning from a book called: A Kid’s Mentch Handbook.

And we are a Beit Tefillah, a house of worship and service – a place where we engage in acts of Tikkun Olam, repairing our world –comforting members whose family and friends are ill or, sadly, gone from life; and taking care of those outside our community, offering support to organizations like IHN, the Food Pantry and Baker’s Treat.

And we are a Beit Kenesset, a house of gathering. Most of all, Or Chadash is a house…a home for us to share the journey of life. Your other home. It is good to see you all here. I wish all of you a Shana Tova, a good, healthy and prosperous year.

This night, this New Year, hopefully, gives us a respite, a needed pause from our many demands, from our frenetic and perhaps sometimes even aimless wanderings. Tonight, with this New Year, our Jewish tradition grants us an opportunity to claim for ourselves a new direction. Perhaps we are satisfied with the old one, you say. Perhaps we are too set in our ways to ever really change. No matter. Rosh Hashana offers to those able and willing a grand excuse, if you will, to say: now is the time for changing.

So where to go? What to do? How does this grand transformation occur
– if we are game?

There is a story told of Rav Baer, an 18th century rabbi. The Rav once said to his teacher, the seer of Lublin: “Show me the way to the service of God.”

The Tzaddik from Lublin replied: “It is impossible to tell a person what way to take. For one way to serve God is through learning, another through prayer, another through fasting and another through eating. We should carefully observe what way our heart draws us to, and then we should choose this way with all our strength.”

Each of us, at times, struggles with knowing what way is right for us. We can turn to friends, family, rabbis and counselors, but ultimately it remains impossible to tell another person what is best for them. 

That inability to direct others in their choices, however, need not limit us in our resolve to ask from them and from ourselves that they and we live in such a way that the dignity and sanctity of all life is preserved to the best of our abilities.

It is not an easy task. But that is what the New Year can be for us – an opportunity to better ourselves and the world we live in. Not unlike those resolutions we might make as the secular year ticks over to January 1st, we can, tonight, resolve to change. Even a little.

For those of you who have ever actually stood in Times Square to watch the ball drop for the beginning of the secular New Year, I hardly need relate to you how different our celebration is. One of my sisters attended once. Once. I got a pretty full report – only some of which I can share publicly. She has no desire to be there LIVE again.

Surprisingly there are a few similarities. Yes, they have the horns that are many times louder than a shofar. Some folks are carrying what might be called “Shofar in a can.” And you can buy apples — or rather Big Apple paraphernalia — in every conceivable form. There are NYC’s finest, ushering folks in every direction. And they, too, have reserved seats for late-comers; I believe they call
that VIP seating. And finally, as the New Year begins, they do all sing together.

But those similarities aside (and it is funny how many there are), our New Year turns our attention away from mere celebration and asks us to mark what is called in Hebrew: Chesbon HaNefesh, an accounting of our spirit, of our soul.

Our rabbinic sages have encouraged us to make Rosh Hashanah and the High Holy Day season not just a celebration of the new, but to realize that even as the leaves are turning colors, as they are beginning to die, we should remember that we, too, shall not be here forever. Rabbi Bachya Ibn Pekuda, the author of the first Jewish system of ethics, written in Arabic in the 11thcentury, said: “Our days are like scrolls: Write on them only how you want to be remembered.”

With those words of wisdom to guide us, the New Year is an opportunity to thoughtfully consider the past, what deeds we wish to be recorded and what deeds are perhaps best forgotten, or in need of repair.

As we welcome our Jewish New year, we do so not with drunken revelry and chaos, but with somber reflection and humility – considering how we might wish to be remembered.

As a rabbi, I have studied the wisdom of our sages. There is a lot of wisdom in our 3500 year history. But as a student of philosophy at Brandeis many years ago, there was one man whose words have echoed in my mind. His words, in fact, were taught to me by my father when I was very young.

Marcus Aurelius was the Emperor of Rome in the 2nd century of the Common Era. Considered the last of the Five Good Emperors, Aurelius kept the Roman empire safe from the Parthians and Germans, but he is best known for his intellectual pursuits as a philosopher of Stoicism and for wisdom he learned from his teacher Epictetus. Some of his best writings are gathered in a collection known as The Meditations. There Aurelius wrote: The true worth of a man is measured by that which he pursues. And what did he consider the highest pursuit? Do not act as if thou were going to live ten thousand years. Death hangs over you. While you live, while it is in your power, be good.

Only a century before Aurelius, Shimon the Righteous, a rabbi whose words are found in the Talmud (Pirke Avot) taught that same message. He was one of the last survivors of the Great Assembly, and he used to say: On three things the world is sustained: on Torah and learning, on the (Temple) service and acts of reverence, and on deeds of loving kindness.

Marcus Aurelius’s words and those of Shimon the Righteous have always rung true to me. But on this night of the new year, they take on an added meaning. Allow me to explain.

At the close of the secular year, as December draws to a close, we hear from our friends and families and perhaps the checkout person at our local grocery store wishes for a Happy New Year. But our Rosh Hashana greeting to one another stands in contrast to this. At the season of our Jewish New Year we hear the greeting Shana Tova u’ Mituka, literally: a Good and Sweet Year. Nowhere does this greeting suggest 

hope for a year of unbridled joy, a year of immense happiness and grand success. Rather, it is goodness and sweetness that are wished for in the days ahead.

And what is goodness if not being kind and receiving kindness. What is a good year without compassion and care? Our Jewish New Year does not hope that we will accomplish our greatest ambitions, but rather that we contribute a measure of goodness to the world and to the people whose lives we touch.

That is to be the measure of our year; and goodness and kindness are what Judaism demands that we pursue.

We are all well acquainted with our “…unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.” But for the past few years, a research group at the Harvard Graduate School of Education has dedicated itself to examining our ultimate values, and has determined that in far too many instances the pursuit of happiness has exceeded our pursuit of caring about one another.

There is a project now going on at the Harvard Graduate School of Education: Making Caring Common. This project has shown that the pursuit of happiness is winning out over the abilities of parents and caretakers, schools, and community members to develop caring, ethical children. 

Here in America – especially in affluent homes — we are pushing for success at the cost of being kind. According to the study, a large majority of youth in our nation now value achievement and personal happiness above a concern for others. This prioritizing of success over kindness and compassion is found on the ball field, in the classroom and playground. And it is found in the workplace and the home, as well. There is nothing wrong with success, mind you. But when we instill in others the sense that winning at all costs is more important than acts of kindness, we have failed to live up to the values we hold most dear.

At the root of this problem may be the unintentional messages we adults are sending. Our words say one thing but our actions convey another. As the psychologist Karl Weick is fond of asking, “How can I know who I am until I see what I do? How can I know what I value until I see where I walk?” Perhaps our words say that we value kindness. But that is not what others are hearing or
seeing or learning.

As though they had penned the words for the Jewish New Year, a time of reflection and desire to improve ourselves, the Harvard study noted that: 
“Being a role model doesn’t mean that we need to be perfect or have all the answers. It means grappling with our flaws, acknowledging our mistakes, listening to our children and students, and connecting our values to their ways of understanding the world. It means that we, too, need to continually practice …, cultivating our capacities for care, widening our circles of concern, and
deepening our understanding of fairness and justice.”
[https://isites.harvard.edu/fs/docs/icb.topic1430903.files//Executive%20Summary.pdf]

Those words ring true for us whether we are parents or teachers, colleagues or friends. So how might we restore a measure of goodness and kindness to our lives?
– By not merely empathizing with those who hurt, but by asking how we might actually lessen their burden – and then making an effort to do so.
– By remembering that words can heal, even as they can hurt, and to use our words carefully.
– By remembering the feelings of being a Stranger in Egypt – or a stranger at school or at work or on the field. And going out of our way to welcome the newcomers. 
– By praising our children not only for their grades, but for their deeds of thoughtfulness.
– By showing appreciation for our spouses and loved ones – and telling them the same.
– By living in the world with others and fulfilling our sacred responsibility to act toward them with compassion, with kindness.

It was the poet Ralph Waldo Emerson who admonished: You cannot do a kindness too soon, for you never know how soon it will be too late.

But the words of contemporary author George Saunders in his convocation speech at Syracuse University say it best.

“What I regret most in my life are failures of kindness.
Those moments when another human being was there, in front of me, suffering,
and I responded . . . sensibly. Reservedly. Mildly….
Who, in your life, do you remember most fondly, with the most undeniable feelings of warmth?
Those who were kindest to you, I bet. 

It’s a little facile, maybe, and certainly hard to implement, but I’d say, as a goal in life, you could do worse than: Try to be kinder.”

This past year has already drawn to a close. Now we begin a New Year together. May it be for all of us a year of creating goodness for others, a year filled with sweetness for those with whom we share our days, and a year of kindness for all.

SHANA TOVA

AMEN

Before We Die

Rosh Hashanah Morning 5774 — September 5, 2013

Rabbi Joseph M. Forman — Or Chadash

         “With every new silver hair sprouting from my scalp, I can’t help but think of the shortening arc ahead of me.” Steven Petrow is in his mid-50s.  “For the first time I’m no longer looking up, over and beyond,” he writes.  “Rather, my trajectory points downward at the approaching horizon.  In this frame of mind, I recently found myself at DeathClock.com, the “Internet’s friendly” — if not scientific — “reminder that life is slipping away … second by second.” After [he completed] the short questionnaire, the Death Clock’s algorithm quickly did the math, concluding: “Your personal day of death is Wednesday, April 23, 2031.”

Steven Petrow quickly calculated that it was a scant 18 years away — although the clock gave it to [him] “in seconds left to live.” At the time, it was 563,037,386 … and counting down.

His story continues.

“Old enough not to believe everything I read on the Web, I queried my doctor about my expected longevity. He quickly e-mailed back: “All things being equal, I believe your estimated survival time would be around 72 to 75. Good luck.”

“Good luck? I spent a few moments processing the possible meanings behind “good luck” (none of them particularly appealing), realizing my good doctor had pretty much corroborated the Death Clock’s calculation, then sat there feeling sorry for myself, imagining the hourglass emptying.

“Then, not allowing myself to wallow one grain of sand longer, I decided to quit my day job.”

Steven Petrow isn’t Jewish, but his behavior would have been lauded by our rabbinic sages.

Nearly 2000 years ago, in the Talmud, in Pirkei Avot, the Teachings of our Ancestors, Rabbi Eliezer was quoted as saying:

“Repent one day before your death. (Pirkei Avot 2:10)

In the days before Deathclock.com could offer such a calculation, he asked his disciples: Is it possible for a person to know on which day he will die?

Rabbi Eliezer continued: Since he cannot, he should continually engage in Teshuva, a turning of his ways; he should repent today, for perhaps tomorrow he will die.  And so each day he might live with a heightened awareness of his actions and behavior.  [TB Shabbat 153a – Translation JMF].

This Rosh Hashanah morning, we enter into our annual engagement with Teshuvah, a turning of our ways, an examining of our lives, a consideration of what new direction we wish to turn toward. Hopefully, with greater awareness of our actions.  The words of Rabbi Eliezar encourage us that through Teshuva, we can make those much needed changes. 

Teshuvah is often translated as repentence.  In fact, our High Holy Day prayerbook  — our Machzor – is called Sha’arey Teshuvah, Gates of Repentance.  But Teshuvah really means turning, it is changing, it is looking at our lives as they are and deciding that now, right now, we are going to change our future – even if it means quitting our day jobs.

Last night I spoke about the importance of Now and making important changes now rather than waiting for some better time.  Steve Petrow understood that when he quit his job to become a writer. He realized his half-billion seconds were ticking by and there were major changes he wanted to make in his life – now.

Most of us, though, need a bit more encouragement, a bit of prodding.  And perhaps a bit of help.  More on that a little later.

___

This morning we read and chanted from the Book of Genesis – with the wonderful and beautiful help of some of our Religious School students.  The Torah reading for Rosh HaShanah morning is the Akedah, the binding of Isaac.  But perhaps more important than the near-sacrifice of Isaac, it is the back-story of Abraham preparing to take his son and the son his wife, Sarah, on a three day journey to prove his faith.

We know how it turns out: Isaac is not sacrificed, and Abraham returns to his home in Beer-Sheva, having secured blessings from God for his future generations.

But what we don’t know are the words Abraham and Sarah and even Isaac shared before that journey began.  And ordinarily it might not matter so much, but in this instance it does.  Why?

Because what happened next — just five verses later — and those five contain only a listing of a few births in Abraham’s family – just five verses later we read that Abraham’s beloved wife Sarah has died.  And this shocking news begs the question: What – if anything — was said between Abraham and Isaac and Sarah before the two of them left?

Sarah – 127 years old. A robust 4-Billion seconds.  A beloved wife and caring mother, gone. 

Midrash is the creative writings of the Rabbis, used to fill in significant words or ideas they felt were missing in our text.  The Rabbis of the past have created numerous Midrash to explain the story of Isaac, to justify his near sacrifice, to give details of the journey and the conversations Sarah and Abraham might have had about their son.  But despite all this creativity, there is not one Midrash that gives us insight into the feelings of a woman who is at the end of her life.  There are no words revealing what her final wishes might have been. There, the Torah and the Rabbis of old are silent.

And so, as we read the story in Genesis, we learn that decisions were made.  A grave for her in Machpelah.  None of her family present, only Abraham.  Her eternal resting place was secured, and no one ever engaged Sarah to determine her wishes, no one ever involved her in the discussion.  And no one but her husband to say a kind word about her.

What might she have wanted?  Perhaps to return home to her ancestral land of Haran?  What was the cause of her death, could it have been delayed?  Her life prolonged? Or did she suffer in those final days?  What might her family have done differently had they known her wishes?

These are but some of the questions our Midrash might ask and answer.  They are the same questions we might ask of our own family members, as well.

___

Dr. Haider Javed Warraich is a resident in internal medicine at the Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center in Boston.  When a patient of his approached him about his dying mother, unsure what her wishes might be about her course of treatment, and perhaps her final days, he asked Dr. Warraich: if it were your mother, doctor, what would you do?

Dr. Warraich thought for a moment before giving his reply: “My mother is the sort of person who spends two hours each day on the treadmill, even during vacations, so that she can eat to her heart’s content. Often described as a “fighter,” any additional moment she can spend with her children or future grandchildren would be worth the extra mile. My father, on the other hand, is someone who avoids getting his blood sugar level tested to evade medications and dreams of spending his last days in the quiet serenity of the village he grew up in. Thus my answer to the question would be very different, as it would be for anyone, depending on which parent you asked me about.

So he has come to believe that the right answer to the question, “If this were your mother, doctor…” is: “Tell me more about your mother.”

Thinking about our matriarch Sarah and what she might have wanted during her final days, can help us prepare for the conversations we should have with our loved ones on that same topic.

This is not easy.  But this New Year is a time for making changes, even very difficult ones.

On Rosh Hashanah, on the Jewish New Year, we invoke the words of Avinu Malkeinu, expressing our hopes

– for a good life,
– for a life of blessing,
– a life filled with abundance,
– that our days are contented,
– that our deeds are righteous
– and our flaws forgiven. 

And then we are asked to make a Cheshbon ha Nefesh, an inventory and inquiry of the soul.  We often see this as a question intended to encourage us to reflect on our behavior during the past year that we might change whatever we can in order to make real our hopes and prayers. 

I would suggest that this New Year our Cheshbon ha Nefesh, our inquiry into our souls help us discover the answers to the challenging questions of how we and our loved ones wish to live, and not just for today, but how we and they wish to live during our final hours of life. 

We are all subject to the same end.  We all need to talk about these matters, whether it is with our parents, our spouses, our children or our friends.

One friend of mine is an attorney who helped me create a will when I lived in Pennsylvania.  He reminded me that I needed a new one.  That was seven years ago.  I have been guilty of avoiding this important matter.  And so, this summer, as I began to think about it, I also began talking with my parents about their wishes.  As my parents approach their 80s they too know that these are important conversations to have.  It was not easy for me to broach the subject.  What was amazing to me, however, was how eager they were to talk about it.  The conversations are ongoing.  But I want to share with you that Or Chadash is joining in a new effort to help all of us  — myself included — get these conversations going strong. We are addressing this important topic not just in my sermon to you this morning, but at two programs this Fall.

First:

On Sunday, September 29, Wall Street Journal reporter Katherine Rosman, author of the book “Do You Know Suzy: A Mother, a Daughter, a Reporter’s Notebook,” will be with us as she tells us about the mother she lost to cancer at age sixty.  There is a brief YouTube video that beautifully captures the essence of this story, and her book is available in our lobby.

Her frank depictions of her dying mother’s last weeks contrast sharply with the obvious absence of any profound conversation they might have had – not at home, not in the doctors’ offices and not even in the hospital.  The personal challenges she confronted after the death of her mother to discover what she might have learned about her mom when she was still living serve as a clarion reminder that we need to have these talks today. 

Second:

Ellen Goodman is the co-founder and director of The Conversation Project. The Conversation Project’s goal is to transform our culture of avoidance and silence when it comes to these discussions.  Their workshops help people begin and continue these difficult conversations.  For Ellen Goodman, these conversations are not for the hospital room; they are not even for the doctor’s office, but, as she says, they are conversations to be had at the kitchen table.

In the Fall we will be offering workshops using The Conversation Project Starter Kit, a series of programs which Jewish Family Services will be leading with me. 

I know that these conversations are not easy. They require that we imagine a time when our loved ones are no longer with us. 

They evoke the emotions of fear and anxiety  – brought to the surface when we consider that illness or suffering might be in store for our family members.  Each one of us will ultimately face that challenge.  There is no escape from the limits of our being human.  But we can shape the final days of our loved ones’ lives to be in accord with their wishes.  We only need to ask them.  I hope you will join us.

On this morning of the New Year, we intone the words of our tradition:

Avinu Malkeinu, asey imanu Tzeddaka v’chesed, v’hoshieinu; Avinu Malkeinu, may our deeds be deeds of righteousness, may we find comfort and compassion and may our days  — even to the last – be filled with blessing.

AMEN

We’re Not Dead Yet: Asking and Arguing is Religious Living
Rosh Hashana Morning 5775 – 2014
Or Chadash
Rabbi Joseph M. Forman

Reading the words of the Akedah – the passage from Genesis that depicts the Binding of Isaac – is a tradition that dates back more than a 1000 years!! 1000 years of Jews reading the same passage over and over again.
One wonders how it can continue to have meaning. And yet, surely there is something to be said of a brief section of Torah that continues to inspire generations of Jews – not to mention rabbis who are called upon to remark on this passage.

This Rosh Hashana, this New Year, I want to speak not of the actions that occur in this dramatic encounter with Abraham and Isaac, but I want to redirect our focus this morning to the character of Abraham and share several stories — some from our tradition and some a bit more contemporary – that will give us insight into why he is such an important model for us today and everyday.

So what can we learn from the ancients who created his persona? Why is Abraham held up not only as the person who will be the father of our people, but, also and more significantly, that Abraham is to the archetype, the individual who personifies what the essence of Jewish living should be.

Let me begin with a story that is not quite as old as our dear friend Abraham.

Rabbi Lawrence Kushner, who some of you may know from his numerous books and teachings on God, Kabbalah and Jewish mysticism, loves to tell this story. In the 1960s he was a rabbinical student at the Hebrew Union College, studying in New York.

Having come from a classical Reform background in Detroit, he was less familiar with Talmud than some of his more traditional classmates.

One afternoon he ensconced himself in a little hole-in-the-wall Kosher restaurant near the school in the Lower East Side of NYC to study.
Parked at one of those large Formica tables and working his way through a big tome of Talmud, he noticed an older man with a just-off-the-boat accent, wearing a beard, a black hat and coat, sitting a few tables away. There was practically no one else in the place.

“Nu, young man,” said the onlooker, noticing Kushner’s papers and large volume of the Talmud, “I see you are a student.”

Startled by the interruption in his train of thought, the future Rabbi Kushner looked up and managed a quiet “…Yes.”

“So,” said the older man, “if you are a student, let’s have an argument.”

The ‘startle’ Kushner felt suddenly turned into ‘confusion.’ “But I’m Jewish, too,” he quickly said. And added: “And I believe in God.”

“Okay,” said the older Jewish man, “so then I don’t.”

Kushner was now thrown entirely off balance. It was as if he had invited him to a game of chess. “You want the white pieces? OK. Then I’ll take the black.”

Remarkably, in some religions – far too many of them, actually – the pieces of the game only come in one color. Everyone plays one side of the board, or they can’t play at all.

In Judaism, there is simply no other way to understand religion without a back-and-forth discussion; without an argument or a dialogue between two people who care deeply about the important questions at hand.

Today, there are many important ideas and questions we grapple with. Politics, here and abroad; economics for the good of the nation and the good of its citizens; the ethical actions of our sports heroes and the franchises they play for; our military presence across the globe and our police departments here at home; the rights of immigrants and women and gays and those who wish to legalize marijuana; and those who wish to outlaw abortion. The list is endless.

Those many years ago in that small restaurant, my colleague simply didn’t understand the point his would-be chess partner at the time was making. Only later, he shares, was it that he came to understand that religious dialogue – what some call arguing — was how Judaism endures.
It was and remains for Rabbi Kushner — as it should for all of us — the most sacred of religious acts. And it begins in our tradition with our friend Abraham.

I am fond of saying that Judaism speaks with many voices, and that we are not just inheritors of a sacred tradition, but shapers of it, as well, with the voices we contribute to the ever-unfolding history of Jewish ideas. Sometimes our voices are among the chorus of others. And sometimes ours is a lone voice that speaks out against what others have said before us. Such was true when the Reform movement began. It was true 2000 years ago when the rabbis first emerged, and it was true nearly 1000 years before that in the days of Abraham.

Abraham, as you probably know, was an idol breaker. Perhaps the most famous midrash, the most well known Biblical story that isn’t in the Bible, is the one of Abraham breaking his father’s idols.
It is a wonderful rabbinic story written nearly 1500 years ago that gives to Abraham the strength to give voice to his sense of what was true – even in the face of many voices saying otherwise – including his own father’s.

Abraham’s father, Terach was an idol-maker. Once he had to travel, so he left Abraham to manage the shop. People would come in and ask to buy idols. Abraham would ask, ” What kind of god do you wish to buy?” They would tell him and then he would ask: “How old are you?”
The person would say, “Fifty,” or “Sixty”. Abraham would reply, “Isn’t it sad that a man of your age wants to bow down to a one-day-old idol?” Each visitor to the shop would feel ashamed and leave.
One time a woman came with a basket of bread. She said to Abraham, “Take this and offer it to the gods”.

Abraham got up, took a hammer in his hand, broke all the idols to pieces, and then put the hammer in the hand of the biggest idol among them.
When his father came back and saw the broken idols, he was appalled. “Who did this?” he cried.
“How can I hide anything from you?” replied Abraham calmly. “A woman came with a basket of bread and told me to offer it to them. I brought it in front of them, and each one said, “I’m going to eat first.” Then the biggest one got up, took the hammer and broke all the others to pieces.”
“Are you making fun of me?” asked Terach, “These idols can’t do anything.”
Abraham replied: “You say they can do nothing. Your ears should hear what your own mouth is saying. Indeed, they have no power at all! “
(Midrash Bereishit 38:13)
Abraham’s shattering of his father’s idols becomes an imperative to each of us. And his sharp words to his father remind us that sometimes we do not act as we know we should.

When we are confronted with ideas that do not sit right with us, we must not remain silent. We, like Abraham, must stand up to those who would have us settle for worthless clay –whether it takes the shape of government policies on immigration that are outmoded or cultural norms that tolerate domestic violence against women or gun manufacturing practices that jeopardize the safety of those who seek to protect us.

Abraham is distinguished in Jewish tradition for being an “Ish Tzaddik” a righteous man.

What makes Abraham a Tzaddik, a truly righteous person, is his Chutzpah.
According to Rabbinic tradition, Abraham was 13 years old when he destroyed the idols of his father. Years later, when God was about to destroy the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah, Abraham argued with God.

“Will you sweep away the righteous with the wicked?” Abraham asks.
“What if there are fifty righteous people in the city? Will You sweep it away and not spare the place for the sake of them? Far be it from You to do such a thing—to bring death upon the righteous as well as the wicked, treating them all alike. Far be it from You! Will not the Judge of all the earth do justly?”
[from Genesis 18]

God relents and allows that for the sake of 50 righteous people, the city will be spared. Over and over again Abraham continues to challenge God – until, for the sake of ten righteous people, God agrees to spare the cities.

What makes Abraham a Tzaddik, an exemplary righteous man, is not that he is perfect, but that he is willing to argue his position; he is willing to take a stand and speak out for the sake of his convictions. Even against his God.

In Hebrew, the word HELEK means PART. A MAHLOKET, an argument, is, literally, a parting between two sides, one helek and another helek.

In Pirkei Avot in the Mishnah it says:
Kol mahloket shehi l’shem shamayim, sofah l’hitkayem;
Any argument that is for the sake of Heaven, in the end it will succeed;
Kol mahloket she-lo l’shem shamayim, ayn sofah l’hitkayem;
Any argument not for the sake of Heaven, will in the end not succeed.

Now, “succeed” is not exactly what the text says. It says l’hitkayem. That word carries the sense of “existing,” as in “the argument will continue to exist – it will endure.” What can this mean?

An argument fought for the sake of Heaven – that is, for ultimate Truth and Goodness – will in fact never end. It will never cease to exist.
As long as both sides push each other toward a truth that is greater and more profound than any small-minded agenda either side could bring to the table, then the argument itself –the mahloket–will keep producing new and authentic paths of living.

Among the most famous rabbis of the Talmud were Hillel and Shammai. Hillel and Shammai brought questioning to an even higher level than many of their peers. Their personalities are best understood from the Talmudic story of the man who came to them seeking to convert to Judaism.
In tractate Shabbat 31a we find the following story:

“On one occasion it happened that a man seeking to convert to Judaism came before Shammai and said to him, “I’d like to convert to Judaism, on the condition that you teach me the whole Torah while I stand on one foot.”
Shammai, insulted by this ridiculous request and who happened also to be an engineer, threw him out of the house, but not before chasing him away with the builder’s measuring stick that was in his hand.

The man, still determined, then came before Hillel. When he got to his place, he also asked Hillel to teach him the entire Torah while standing on one foot. Hillel replied, “What is hateful to you, do not do to your neighbor. That is the whole Torah; the rest is commentary. Now go and learn it.”

Hillel and Shammai disagreed on most matters of Jewish law. In fact, the Talmud records over 300 differences of opinion between Beit Hillel (the House of Hillel) and Beit Shammai (the House of Shammai). In almost every one of these disputes, Hillel’s view prevailed. Yet Shammai’s position is preserved in the text.

Despite the frequent differences of opinion between the inclusive interpreter of Torah and the strict literalist, one matter they both agreed upon was that argument, the back and forth struggle to grasp the essence of truth, was in itself the quintessential religious act. There could be no Judaism without questions, without arguing over the answers. To stop arguing would mean that Judaism had also ceased to be.

Rabbi Les Bronstein, the chair of the Rabbinic Cabinet of the Jewish Federations of North America, says: In serious Judaism, we don’t “resolve” good, important arguments. We keep them going. Without our arguments, without questions, we would cease to exist, not as human beings, of course, but certainly as Jews.

____

A final story:

The Hassidic rebbe Simcha Bunim once went on a walk with his disciples. Along the way, he and his entourage encountered a group of Jews engaged in casual conversation. Simcha Bunim said to his disciples, “Do you see those Jews over there? They’re dead.”

The disciples were confused. Finally, one of them spoke up: “What do you mean, dead? They look perfectly alive to me.”

“They are dead,” the rebbe said, “because they have stopped asking questions and searching for the right answers.” The Hassidim walked on, pondering his statement.

Finally, one of the bolder disciples approached the rebbe and asked, “Then how do I know that I am not dead?”

The rebbe turned to him and answered, “Because you asked.”

We who are here this morning are not yet dead. Asking questions, challenging and sometimes breaking from the old ways, is THE quintessential Jewish activity. Arguing is, for the living, a deeply religious activity!

Our community has endured for millennia despite brutal animosity, exile, homelessness and near destruction because we have asked questions and we have continued to search for meaningful and honest answers to all of life’s questions – great and small. Our community will continue to do so only if we are part of that conversation, that argument, that struggle to keep asking.

May the New Year inspire us to add our voices to this sacred task.

AMEN

The Yom Kippur War – 40 Years Later

Yom Kippur 5774 – September 14, 2013

Or Chadash – Rabbi Joseph M. Forman

40 years. It’s a long time. In dog years it’s an eternity. According to Jewish tradition, the number 40 represents something significant.  In Biblical parlance, 40  – whether it is 40 years and therefore an epoch: a span of time that crosses multiple generations or 40 days, a period of time when an individual is perhaps able to change within — 40 signifies that some sort of transformation has taken place.  

The flooding rains Noah endured lasted 40 days and 40 nights.

In the Book of Exodus, Moses went up to Mount Sinai and was there for 40 days before he was able to receive the 10 Commandments and return with them. 

The ancient Hebrews wandered in the wilderness for 40 years before they could fully embrace the change from slavery in Egypt to leadership of their own land in Israel.

In the Haftarah reading for the Yom Kippur Afternoon service, Jonah spent 40 days in the city of Nineveh, successfully encouraging its inhabitants to repent of their sinful ways.  

The Talmud teaches that the study of Kabbalah, Jewish mysticism, begins at age 40.

It’s an age, our sages taught, when we can begin to understand our world.

Whether we speak of 40 days or 40 years, it is a long time – long enough for something to change.

This morning, on this Day of Atonement, we mark the 40^th anniversary of the Yom Kippur War in 1973 in Israel.  

40 years ago, on Judaism’s holiest day, while many Israelis were in synagogues, fasting and praying for God’s forgiveness, or reflecting on their lives, Israel was attacked by surprise. Some of you here are too young to remember it. 

I myself was just starting third grade. 

So allow me to offer a bit of a reminder for many of us.

During the Six-Day War of 1967, Israel had captured Egypt’s Sinai Peninsula, nearly 24,000-square-miles, and the Gaza Strip.  Israel took control of Syria’s Golan Heights, and Jordan lost the West Bank and East Jerusalem.  Israel’s stunning victory in the Six-Day War left the Jewish nation in control of territory four times its previous size.  When Anwar Sadat became president of Egypt in 1970, he found himself leader of an economically troubled nation that could ill afford to continue its endless crusade against Israel. Sadat wanted to make peace with Israel – a goal that ultimately cost him his life.  He wanted to bring stability to his country and recover the Sinai.  But after Israel’s 1967 victory it was unlikely that Israel’s peace terms would be favorable to Egypt. So President Sadat conceived of a daring plan to attack Israel again.

On October 6, 1973, Egypt and Syria joined forces and, with the help of their neighboring Arab countries, they attacked Israel  — on Yom Kippur –40 years ago today.  Egyptian armored forces crossed the Suez Canal and entered the Sinai Peninsula in the south. Syrian tanks crossed the cease-fire lines along the Golan Heights in the north.  On the Golan Heights alone, 150 Israeli tanks faced 1,400 Syria tanks, and in the Suez region in the south, just 500 Israeli soldiers faced 80,000 Egyptian soldiers.  Very quickly, the thin Israeli defense lines were swamped by massive Arab forces.

 Unlike other armies, most of the Israeli Defense Forces are made up of reserve forces called milu’im. These reservists were and still are the everyday citizens of Israel, who work in the public and private sectors.

Many of us know one of them who served a bit more recently.  Writer and comedian Joel Chasnoff served in the Israeli military and was at Or Chadash a few summers ago.

Like Joel, many of these ordinary Israeli citizens were praying in their synagogues on Yom Kippur when they were suddenly called on to defend their country. 

After a few days of fierce fighting, Israeli forces managed to stop the invasion and found ways to infiltrate behind enemy lines. 

In a surprise move, the Israeli military, under the command of Ariel Sharon, ‫ crossed the Suez Canal into Egypt, effectively cutting off supply lines to the invading Egyptian army. Facing no opponents, the Israeli army stopped voluntarily, 65 miles from Cairo.  In the north, in Syria, the army stopped just 25 miles from Damascus.

The successful defense of Israel in just 19 days of battle, with tremendous assistance from the United States, was not without cost.  Over 2500 Israeli soldiers lost their lives.  7000 more were wounded. 

And, embarrassed by the failure of their government to have been prepared for this attack,

Prime Minister Golda Meir and Defense Minister Moshe Dayan both resigned in the months after the conflict.

The 1978 Camp David Accords that followed the cease-fire led to the return of the Sinai to Egypt and normalized Israel’s relations with that country—the first peaceful recognition of Israel by an Arab country. 

Syria, though, did not regain the strategic Golan Heights.  It still remains in Israeli hands as a defense against any future invasions from the north.  And the leadership of Syria has never made peace with Israel.  Syria has been a haven to terrorism of all kinds – the worst, perhaps, as we have learned in recent days, from its own government against its own people.

In the coming days and weeks we will all be watching as the US and other nations respond to the Syrian government’s gassing of Syrian citizens.  It is a painful reminder to Jews and to the world that the inhumanity of tyrants, that profound evil, must not be ignored by the world.

Of course every war brings painful memories for individuals and for society. Following the Yom Kippur War, during the decades of the 1970s, 80s and 90s, as Israel tended to the wounds of its deadliest war, American Jewry was energized by their devotion to rescue Israel from the threats of her near annihilation. Israel Bonds flourished.  UJA missions to Israel packed full planes.  And then peace broke out with Egypt and then with Jordan.  And then Israel, seemingly no longer needing American Jews to save her, faded from the forefront of our concerns.  Instead, we watched from afar, both physically and increasingly emotionally, as Israel settled into a kind of normalcy.

When terrorism (aimed at killing her people) and war (aimed at destroying the nation) were the major stories of Israel, we seemed more dedicated to her survival.  Now that the seemingly never-ending Palestinian conflict groans on and the image of Israel is confusing — at times one that appears to be an image of the aggressor, and at times still the target of senseless hatred – the American Jewish community has begun to grow weary from the conversations.

If I were to ask you to come up with five words to describe Israeli life, the first might be falafel, but the others on that list might include war, occupation, terrorism, conflict. 

Its no wonder that far too many of us have become tired and disinterested and even a bit put-off hearing about Israel’s turmoil. 

So what is there left to say about Israel?  Plenty.  And none of it has to do with war or politics or occupation.  Just ask anyone who has attended a Birthright trip, one of a handful of outstanding programs that is revitalizing the way we think of Israel.  Birthright trips are free 10-day excursions to Israel that have already transformed the lives of over 350,000 young adults.  This year I hope to transform your descriptions of Israel. 

For nearly 3,000 years the land of Israel has been the heart, the soul, and the foundation of the Jewish people—the homeland from where its ancient traditions, culture and values have emanated.

Since it was reestablished as a modern state in 1948, Israel has emerged as America’s most important strategic ally in the Middle East, a land of freedom and democracy, and a technological marvel that is one of the world leaders in science and innovation.

Israel’s Declaration of Independence proclaims many of the same democratic principles that the United States adheres to, including “complete equality of social and political rights to all its inhabitants irrespective of religion, race or sex…(and) freedom of religion, conscience, language, education and culture….”

Israel is an oasis of freedom in a desert of oppressors.  Perfection?  Hardly. But there is much to say about Israel that reveals she is a remarkable country that we can be proud of.

Yet, there is still so much misinformation bandied about.  

Sometimes we hear ignorant remarks claiming that Zionism is equivalent to racism.  Consider that Israel remains the only democracy in the Middle East with a robust free press with myriad publications representing all views within its society. Civil rights are guaranteed by law, and guarded by numerous groups that often openly challenge the government.

Perhaps we hear that Israel is oppressing the rights of its Arab citizens.  Consider for a moment that in most Middle East countries, minority religious groups suffer from persecution and discrimination. In Israel, each faith has its own religious council and courts, with jurisdiction over all religious affairs and matters of personal status.  You might be surprised to learn that Muslim and Christian Arabs have continuously served in the Knesset  — Israel’s parliament — since 1948.

Perhaps you have heard that the Jewish state is controlled by the Ultra Orthodox, subverting the rights of equality for women or gays.  Consider that unlike any other Middle Eastern nation, women are at the forefront of many aspects of Israeli society. Israel had a woman hold the highest elected office  — prime minister.  The U.S. still has yet to achieve that level of gender equality in government.   Israel has always had at least one woman on its Supreme Court, and, regardless of religion or ethnicity, all women in Israel enjoy equal rights —including serving alongside their male counterparts in the defense of the state.

Israel is a haven of tolerance for minorities of every faith, gender, sexual orientation and ethnic background — the most tolerant country in the Middle East protecting minority rights.

Consider that the only gay pride parade in the Middle East is in Israel. 

There is much to be said about Israel – words that have nothing to do with war or violence or occupation or conflict.

This year Or Chadash will be joining in the effort to refocus our conversations about Israel through the work of the Shalom Hartman Institute in Jerusalem and their program: iEngage.

Led by a team of internationally renowned scholars in the fields of Jewish studies, Middle East politics, and history, the iEngage Project is committed to addressing core questions pertaining to the necessity and significance of the Jewish national enterprise; how a Jewish state should exercise power; why a Jew who lives outside of Israel should care about Israel; and what the State of Israel can offer the world 

This year, beginning October 6^th, I will be leading an iEngage class one Sunday morning each month.  In the words of Donniel Hartman:

“Now is the time to invite the Jewish community … to engage in thinking about the meaning that Israel can have in their lives and how they can be enriched and positively influenced by the reality of a Jewish nation. Only a narrative that gives meaning to Jewish statehood and sovereignty and that articulates a vision of Israel that lives up to the highest standard of Jewish values, morality, and democracy can form the basis for a new covenant for Jews around the world.”

On this 40^th anniversary of the Yom Kippur War, it is important to remember our Jewish history.  It is important to reflect on lessons learned and find inspiration and hope for the future.

One of my goals – and it’s a big one, with apologies to President Kennedy —  my goal is that before the end of 24 months Or Chadash will bring members of our congregation to Jerusalem and return them safely to Hunterdon County.

I want to hear from you in the coming weeks and months how you would like to see Israel, what you want to experience there, and what kind of trip you would imagine.  I look forward to hearing from you in the New Year.

But an even more important goal, I believe, is generating a conversation with all of you that will celebrate Israel for what it is and, more importantly, for what it can become for each of us.

Shanah Tova.

Choose Life
Yom Kippur AM – 5775 – 2014
Rabbi Joseph M. Forman
Or Chadash

The story is told of a tourist who visited Jerusalem’s biblical zoo and saw that each enclosure bore a sign containing a pertinent biblical quotation. One quoted Isaiah, “on that day the wolf and the lamb will live together. “Across the moat separating the animals from visitors he saw that indeed a wolf and a lamb were lying peaceably together, side-by-side. Amazed, he sought out the zookeeper and asked how that was possible. “It’s simple,” the zookeeper replied. “Every day we put in a new lamb.”

This summer was a difficult one for Israelis. And a difficult one for anyone living in Gaza. For 50 days Israel and the terrorist organization Hamas — a word that means Violence – were engaged in a war. And while people living outside the region were not subjected to the constant shelling coming from Gaza or the sirens announcing the deployment of the defense system Iron Dome which protected the lives of Israelis, anyone paying attention to the situation there also had a difficult summer, as they debated and discussed what Israelis now call HaMatzav – the situation – a situation in which Israel was defending itself from rocket attacks and Hamas was seeking, as its charter states, the destruction of Israel.

To be clear: The right and need to defend oneself from attack is both a mandate of Rabbinic tradition as well as the primary responsibility of sovereign states toward its citizens. Israel did no less than that in Operation Protective Edge.

And also to be clear: Hamas is an offshoot of the Muslim Brotherhood and therefore shares the Muslim Brotherhood’s enthusiasm for “death for the sake of Allah,” stating in its charter:
“Allah is its target, the Prophet is its model, the Koran its constitution: Jihad is its path and death for the sake of Allah is the loftiest of its wishes.”

This summer, during the recent conflict, both sides tried to live up to their ideals as best as possible. And the not so surprising result was that they both succeeded.

There is much debate – at least in the Jewish world — about the Situation in Israel.
And while the Jewish world is not divided on our support of Israel’s right to exist, it is, however, very divided on where we stand on priorities that must be addressed that will ultimately resolve this festering conflict in Israel.

We are so divided, in fact, that many rabbis say they avoid speaking of Israel. They contend that Israel has become too polarizing within our community. The subject invariably fosters controversy and even outrage and contempt. Rabbi Eric Yoffie, past president of the Union for Reform Judaism, has stated: the debate is so divisive that “…North American Jews no longer know how to have a civil conversation about Israel.”
Some rabbis avoid the topic because they believe their congregants either are not that interested in the subject or that the issues are too complex and nuanced to tackle in a sermon.
Still other rabbis, according to a survey published by the Jewish Council for Public Affairs, say they haven’t shared their views on Israel for fear of endangering their professional reputation or careers.
But mostly, I suspect, the topic of Israel is taboo because of the tremendous split among us – or more accurately, within us – over our feelings about the legitimacy of Israel’s actions toward her neighbors, and what those actions mean for those of us – Jews who live in the diaspora, and who are not Israeli – and yet are affected by them as members of the Jewish world.

Leonard Fein, known to nearly all his friends as Leibel, has been described as a journalist, a writer, an academic and an activist, and the foremost liberal Zionist. He was above all, a learned and feeling Jew, steeped in the values and teachings of our tradition.
Leibel Fein died this past August at the age of 80. I was fortunate to have met him, and I learned from his wisdom, his humility and his wit and humor. Known as an impenitent dove and a proud Reform Jew, he founded Moment Magazine, as well as the charity Mazon: A Jewish Response to Hunger. Leibel beautifully described the ambivalence many American Jews feel about the situation in Israel.
He wrote:
“There are two kinds of Jews in the world. There is the kind of Jew who detests war and violence, who believes fighting is not the Jewish way, who willingly accepts that Jews have their own standards of behavior. And not just that we have them, but that those standards are our life blood.
“And there is the kind of Jew who thinks that we have been passive long enough, who is convinced that it is time for us to strike back at our enemies, to reject once and for all the role of victim, who willingly accepts that Jews cannot afford to depend on favors, but we must be tough and strong.
“And the trouble is,” he wrote, “most of us are both kinds of Jews.” (from Days of Awe. 1982).
Leibel Fein spoke to the internal conflicts that many of us struggle with. There are many points on which the Jewish world wrestles. But remarkably, there are a few we are united on.
This morning of Yom Kippur we will hear the words of Deuteronomy. Written nearly 3000 years ago, much of Deuteronomy conveys sentiments that no longer resonate with the modern world. But the words we are about to read still speak of a Jewish value that is echoed across the Jewish world – from the cloistered Ultra-Orthodox communities of Mea Shearim in Jerusalem and their near twins in Monsey, NY, to the Humanistic Jewish enclaves of Detroit, from the citadels of Classical Reform in Manhattan and Atlanta to the small shuls in Nebraska and the rural towns right here in Hunterdon County.

“See, I have set before you today life and good, death and evil .… the blessing and the curse; therefore choose life, that you and your children may live.” (Deut. 30: 15, 19)

Every year on Yom Kippur we read these words. And again this morning our students will beautifully chant them.
We hear them year after year. But do we really hear them? Do we realize how profoundly unique in the history of religion and across the landscape of our modern world is the idea that the preservation of life is of the highest value?
Over and over again we find this message in our tradition — not just in Deuteronomy, but in all our sacred texts.
Our sages taught that those who save but a single life – it is attributed to them as though they had saved the entire world.
Pikuach Nefesh — the saving of a life — takes precedence over every other religious obligation. In fact, our religious obligations are given to us that we should live by them. Live and not die!!

That may seem so self evident. And yet, let us look at our world today.
Suicide bombers from Hamas and Hezbolla blow-up themselves and others for their cause.
Hamas leaders prevent innocent civilians from leaving Israeli targeted buildings, shooting anyone who tries to run to safety.
Taliban mujihadeen in Afghanistan looking for Martyrdom, their highest value, not only fly planes into buildings, but kill political candidates at odds with their views.
Boko Haram militants in Africa kidnapping over 200 girls in Nigeria who still remain missing since April and slaughtering Christians, Jews and even Muslims who do not follow their faith in the manner they demand.
Al Qaeda murdering people in the name of Islam – a word that means peace.
And now the group called ISIS is beheading reporters and anyone who dares to challenge their reign of terror in Syria and Iraq.
Last Wednesday, President Barak Obama addressed the United Nations in New York. He spoke of the “…cancer of violent extremism that has ravaged so many parts of the Muslim world.”
“Mothers, sisters and daughters have been subjected to rape as a weapon of war. Innocent children have been gunned down. Bodies have been dumped in mass graves. Religious minorities have been starved to death. In the most horrific crimes imaginable, innocent human beings have been beheaded, with videos of the atrocity distributed to shock the conscience of the world. No God condones this terror. No grievance justifies these actions. There can be no reasoning – no negotiation – with this brand of evil. The only language understood by killers like this is the language of force. So the United States of America will work with a broad coalition to dismantle this network of death.”

Again, in the Jewish community, as pursuers of peace, debates emerge – within ourselves and between one another. Only now the subject is America and her enemies.
The words of the Prophet Zechariah declared: “Not by might and not by power, but by Spirit alone shall we all live in peace!” (Zechariah 4:6) But the reality is that the U.S. and Israel and increasingly more of the world must respond to these terrors not with the silence that leads to our own death, but with the might of a strong defense and a powerful force to end these atrocities.
How we shall do so — balancing our values of the preservation of human life and the need to protect ourselves — is the challenge that Israel endured all summer long. And in this endeavor, there will no doubt be disagreement over the choices America will make.
The dissonance between Israel’s need to defend her own children from Hamas’s missiles and that terrorist organization’s cynical calculation to defend their own missiles with their own children made for an incredibly painful set of choices for Israel… and put Israel, in the eyes of much of the world, in a nearly no-win situation.
And yet, “what would you do…?” asked Amos Oz, Israel’s pre-eminent public intellectual and most prominent advocate for a peaceful solution to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. “What would you do,” he asked, “if your neighbor across the street were to sit down on his balcony, put his child on his lap and start shooting machine gun fire into your nursery?”
“And what would you do if your across-the-street neighbor were to dig a tunnel from his nursery to yours in order to blow up your home or in order to kidnap your family?”
Let us not fall prey to the experience described by the head of the Yesh Atid Party and new Member of Knesset Yair Lapid, who, in commenting on his transition to governing, stated: “I used to have so many opinions before I learned the facts.” So here are some of them.

During those days, 1000’s of Hamas rockets were sent from and stored within residential areas — including mosques, hospitals and schools. They unscrupulously violated every norm in warfare. Their incredibly elaborate and expensive system of underground tunnels built between Gaza and Israel proper were intended to be used to kidnap and murder Israelis on Rosh Hashana. When discovered, it was clear that rather than choosing to invest in their own people’s infrastructure and future, Hamas chose death — for themselves and for others.
66 Israeli soldiers and 6 Israeli civilians died in that conflict. And by waging its war from within civilian centers, and by doing nothing to protect its own people, we may never know the precise number of innocent Palestinian civilians who died in Gaza this past summer.
Israeli munitions took the lives of the enemy. Yet, no one can reasonably claim Israel either wanted or deliberately chose to target Gaza’s civilian population for harm. On the contrary!
Heeding the words of Deuteronomy: “When you draw near to a city to wage war against it, you must first call out to it for peace.” (Deut. 20:10), the Israeli Defense Forces sent warning phone calls and leaflets and smoke bombs all in an effort to minimize the loss of innocent life. It is Hamas who is culpable for each and every one of these senseless deaths. Let the words of Deuteronomy reaffirm our stance: every life lost is a tragedy.

Reconciling ourselves to the reality of Israel’s dilemma is not simple when the leaders of Gaza wish only to destroy the Jewish State.
Each of us no doubt feels deeply the desire to end this conflict soon and with minimal loss of life, and for me, at least, with a homeland for both Israelis and Palestinians. There are many paths to peace. Many ways to get there if peace is the common goal. Our task is not to decry the tactics of one side or the other, but to move further along that road with those who would walk with us.

Israel is more than the sum of its conflicts, not because the Jewish state is perfect, but because its cause is fundamentally just and because it is ours. As we struggle with the tension between the real and the ideal, between the is and the ought, let us remember the sentiment embedded in Israel’s anthem: Hatikvah – the hope. May this year bring renewed hope for peace to Israel, to the people in her regions and to all the world.
Shabbat Shalom and Shana Tova.
AMEN

ANTHEM…

ANNOUNCEMENT:
This afternoon for our study session we will engage in what I trust will be a lively discussion on the situation in Israel. It is an opportunity to explore these issues in greater detail and hear the diverse opinions within our own community.
It begins at 3PM.

I look forward to seeing you there.