“Alone, Together” (Yom Kippur 5776/2015)
© Rabbi Menachem Creditor
We will build this
world from love.
(Ps. 99:3)
Tonight we stand humbled. We
sway. We touch our own hearts and reach for each other’s. We sing. We cry. We
reunite. Tonight, we heal by allowing in the pain and vulnerability and the
hope – all of it.
On the one hand, Yom Kippur leads
us to look within: How have I failed during the year gone by?
On the other, we speak in the
collective: AshamNU, BagadNU. WE
have been guilty, WE have done wrong.
And so, tonight, we are here and we
are there, spanning the globe as the Gathered Jewish People, more of us
together for Kol Nidrei than on any other night. We are individuals and we are
community and we are a People. Tonight, we are alone together, the kind of
soulful group Billy Joel once pointed to when he sang, “Yes, they’re sharing a drink
they call loneliness, but it’s better than drinking alone.”
In the end, we are all here.
Thank God.
Yom Kippur always finds us. Each
and all, it finds us. Even if we feel lost, Yom Kippur reminds us we are not.
Every note of Kol Nidrei knows how and where to find us, as we inhabit our
different emotional places, gathered in one sacred physical space. The Jewish
People stands alone, together, tonight. Some call that togetherness God. Some
call that togetherness family. Some think the difference is an illusion.
Regardless of what any one of us
does or doesn’t believe, we are here, thank God.
_____________________
What a year it has been. Ups and
downs too many to count. What should a rabbi talk about tonight? The torrent of
Racial Injustice revealing untended wounds in our body politic? Antisemitism
rearing its ugly head time and time again in Europe, in America, and elsewhere?
(Our memories might be too full of recent heartache to immediately recall the
terrorist attacks and murders of Jews at the Hyper Cacher in Paris and in the main synagogue in Copenhagen, but
these were just last January and February.) Perhaps we should focus tonight on
the assault on women’s reproductive rights being waged in the halls of the
United States congress right now? Or, perhaps we should name the tension
surrounding the nuclear deal with Iran, about whose outcome no one – not in our
Homeland nor here at home – can truly yet speak authoritatively, advocates on
both sides still coming from places of unwavering vision and existential fear?
It’s a list too long to even generate.
But. This is our world. And we are Jews
in it. We are living our story as we always have: Vulnerably. Alone.
Together.
So: What should we talk about
tonight? I’ve been wrestling with topics ranging from the most intimate to the
most global, knowing that the prioritization of any topic overshadows so many
others.
But then I saw an image that made
my choice for me. That, in the end, pulled it all together. That image demanded
and challenged. You and I and the entire world saw that image. The one of the 3
year old boy, face down in the sand on a beach.
The name of that boy was Aylan
Kurdi z”l. He was in one of two boats, carrying a total of 23 people that set
off separately from the Akyarlar area of Turkey, headed to Greece, where they
could have attempted to enter the European Union. But their overcrowded boat
capsized, and Aylan washed up a few miles to the northeast in Turkey, not far
from a beach resort. The dead included five children — among them Aylan’s 5-year-old
brother — and one woman, their mother.
We looked in horror at this
image. The whole world did. And then most of us looked away. How could we not?
How can we endure the horror of what that image represents?
But we keep hearing numbers. We
succeeded in increasing the number of Syrian refugees the United States will
accept from only 10,000 to a new figure of 175,000. These are refugees seeking
asylum from war ravaged Syria and Eritrea. 175,000 Images of God who are and
were 3 year old children. I stood this past summer, on the border of Israel and
Syria, and saw and heard bombs go off in the near distance, part of the ongoing
civil war in Syria. From that vantage point in the Golan Heights, I was also
able to see in Jordan a large city, Jordan’s third largest, entirely populated
by Syrian refugees.
We hear other numbers. Germany announces
they will accept 875,000 refugees. Germany! How intense, how impossible, to
hear this with Jewish ears. This, after
the unforgivable sin of murdering 6 million Jewish souls? No act will ever achieve
atonement, but for a Jew today to hear of Germany taking responsibility for a
homeless, persecuted people…
But then we hear more numbers.
Bigger numbers. 4 million. 4 million.
4 million refugees from war-torn Syria. 4 million.
Friends, open your hearts.
Please. Please. I know this kind of
talk shuts us down. But don’t shut down tonight. Keep your eyes and your hearts
open. That image of one child is not of one child – it is God’s Image abandoned
by us all. It is your child. Our child. And our tears, comingling with the tide
that came and went around that poor boy’s body, won’t accomplish anything. It
is not about what we feel, it is about what we will do. It is not about what
any one of us claims to believe; it is about what we will do.
No detached theology will save
this world. Prayers that remain locked in books and sanctuaries do not help. As
we read in the Midrash:
“[The Prophet
Isaiah prophesized:] ‘You are My witnesses, says God, and I am God (Isaiah
43:12).’
The rabbis took this to mean that
God is saying:
“If you are my witnesses, I am God; if
you cease to be My witnesses, I am not
God.”
The prophet Rabbi Abraham Joshua
Heschel z”l wrote on this:
“This is one of
the boldest utterances in Jewish literature and is full of meaning. If there
are no witnesses, there is no God to be met… For God to be present we have to
be witnesses. Without the people Israel, the Bible is mere literature. Through
Israel, the Bible is a voice, a demand, a challenge. (A Declaration of
Conscience, 1964)”
Yom Kippur demands your open
eyes. Today is not the birthday of the world. Today’s job is a lot harder.
Today we look at our post-creation world, and it can be hard to keep our eyes
open. Even harder to keep our hearts open. It’s going to hurt. So that’s how
we’ll start: by not pretending it doesn’t hurt to actually see the world the
way it is.
And looking won’t be enough. You
can cry your eyes out, and nothing will change. The way we’ll stay strong enough
long enough to do something about it will be by remembering the words of the
ancient sage Ben Hei Hei, who taught us “Lefum
Tzara Agra, according to the pain is the reward.” If that is the case, then there is an immense
reward waiting for the whole world somewhere in the future. May it be so.
You might think that the
responses to these problems are in heaven, too distant to reach. But I say to
us all tonight that they are not in the heavens. They are so very near to each
of us. So very close. The answers are in our hearts and through our hands, if
only we could be brave enough to be witnesses, to let God’s pain in and fix our
broken world, piece by piece.
Let’s let some of that pain in.
Don’t try to comprehend 4,000,000 refugees. Just call to mind the image of Aylan.
And ask yourself this one question: Who’s child is Aylan?
__________
Follow my thoughts into what
might sound, at first, like a different topic.
I share the following personal story
from this past summer with my daughter’s permission:
We were waiting, with our shul
group, to ascend the Temple Mount. It was my second time, having been hesitant
for political, emotional, and religious reasons to ever visit that site. When
planning a recent shul trip to Israel and considering a visit to the Temple
Mount, Ariel Sharon’s provocative actions there were in my eyes, my recognition
that the site is holy to more than only Jews was in my heart, my discomfort from
being prohibited from praying on a site that is also holy to Jews seared my soul. But, when I voiced my reluctance
to lead a group to the Temple Mount, my dear friend and teacher, Jared
Goldfarb, who served as our guide and educator, challenged me, saying:
“Menachem, you
can’t claim that this is a trip with diverse voices if you only go where you’re
comfortable and where people agree with you.”
He was right. So we went.
That first visit, a few years
ago, was magnificent. I remember being very apprehensive about what we’d
encounter. And yes, the Waqf guards of the Islamic Trust charged with
protection and maintenance of The Temple Mount, eyed my Kippah with suspicion,
checked my pockets for prohibited items, like a siddur (prayerbook), all this as
I carried one of my children on my back. Once we crossed the security
threshold, I looked around in shock. It was peaceful and quiet, soccer balls
and picnics, families and small learning circles. So very different from the
tense air at the Kotel! I was confronted by a vision more beautiful than I
expected, and felt blessed to just be there in admiration.
So, when organizing this last summer’s
Israel trip, I felt more comfortable making that same decision. And my daughter
Ariel, recently Bat Mitzvah’ed, joined us, this time not on my back. I was so
excited to share with her and with our group the peace of that space, the
grandeur of the architecture, the power of encountering another sacred
narrative just inches from our own more-familiar one.
We neared the security
checkpoint. But the rules had changed: No Jewish symbols allowed. Ariel’s Magen
David (Jewish Star) necklace had to be tucked into her shirt. Now Jews were
also not allowed to wear a kippah, so I took mine off and wore a hat instead.
And now Jews weren’t allowed to sit down anywhere on the Temple Mount. Given
the tensions at the site, sometimes exacerbated by a small group of extremist
Jewish activists, I swallowed my own discomfort and led the group forward. We
found a spot to stand in the shade, and I shared with them my pride that back
at Netivot Shalom, that very night, we were hosting our Turkish Muslim sisters
and brothers as they have sounded the call to prayer for the holy month of
Ramadan in our sanctuary these last 8 years. I was proud to remind us of our
commitment as a shul to also being a sacred home for our Christian sisters and
brothers from the church across the street to hold Easter services these last 8
years, and that it was actually a lesson we could learn from Islam’s
construction of the Temple Mount itself, since the Dome of the Rock was
intentionally not created as a mosque, as a Muslim prayer space, out of respect
for Judaism’s and Christianity’s religious roots in that space. That’s why the
Al Aqsa Mosque is also built atop the Temple Mount, so that the new Muslim
prayer space would not erase other faith’s connections to the place.
As I shared these teachings, my
daughter was leaning her head on my shoulder. I felt that warmth and was proud
to be sharing this holy space and a vision of inter-religious respect with her.
Suddenly, a Waqf guard ran toward us, shouting “NO touching! No touching!” I
looked, in shock, and explained “this is my daughter.” “No touching!” I wasn’t
going to let go of her. I looked at the guard, and said quietly and firmly,
“This is my daughter.” He eventually walked away, and Ariel and I broke into
tears, holding each other, our group standing in shock. A moment later, as we tried
to regain our emotional momentum and work our way to the path leading away from
the Temple Mount, another Waqf guard ran at our group, shouting “No Touching!”
My daughter’s tears on me, I looked at him, and said “This is my daughter.
You’re making her cry.” As her body shook, the Magen David necklace came out
from under her shirt, and the guard’s eyes widened, and he shouted, “How did
you get that Jewish symbol up here?!” I looked at Jared, and we began to leave
more quickly. We left that space, which didn’t feel so holy any more, followed
by a growing, angry group of Waqf guards. We were shaken to our core, to say
the least.
I ask you, and wish I could ask
those guards in some safe way: Who’s child is Ariel?
______________________
One last experience, an
inadequate attempt to weave together these ideas and perhaps also the suggest ion
for the beginning of a response:
We are blessed, as Netivot
Shalom, to have many members wielding beauty in the world. One person who grew
up in this community, Rebecca Bardach, made Aliyah with her family years ago, and
now serves as Director of Resource Development & Strategy for Hand in Hand,
Yad b’Yad, the Center for Jewish-Arab Education in Israel. Hand in Hand is a
system of bilingual Jewish-Arab schools in Israel and, through this, is
building a shared society.
Less than a year ago, Jewish
arsonists burned the first grade classroom at Yad b’Yad in Jerusalem. On that floor,
children's books were burned. A first grade classroom for Jewish and Arab
children. So, this summer, Netivot Shalom members joined Rebecca in that room,
whose fire scars are now invisible, covered instead with delightful finger-paint
in Arabic and Hebrew. But we know those scars are there. We sat in that classroom,
on the children’s seats, as witnesses, and we committed as a shul to raising
one scholarship for one Arab student and one scholarship for one Jewish student
every year. There is no room for hate. This is a place of great hope. Of heart.
Of blessing. If you’d like to help us with that commitment, please contact me very
soon through the shul office.
Who’s children are these first graders?
We know the answers to these
questions: they are our children. 3
year old Aylan, 13 year old Ariel and first grade Arab and Jewish children and
each of us, just slightly older children, one teeming mass of vulnerable
children – we are all here, we are all children, we are all each other’s.
This world is meant to be a place
of great hope. Of heart. Of blessing.
From the intense urgency of every
screaming headline,
it would seem like there isn't
enough of anything to go around:
Water.
Land.
Food.
Love.
But we know that isn't true.
There is enough.
We have enough.
We just haven't decided to share
well,
to truly expect goodness of each
other.
This world and every beating
heart on its blessed face
ache to be reborn, to be loved,
to be shared.
We have enough.
We have more than enough.
Water.
Land.
Food.
Love.
________________
What is it to be a human being?
We are our stories. As Oliver Sacks z”l taught us:
“If we wish to
know about a man, we ask 'what is his story--his real, inmost story?'--for each
of us is a biography, a story. Each of us is a singular narrative, which is
constructed, continually, unconsciously, by, through, and in us--through our
perceptions, our feelings, our thoughts, our actions; and, not least, our
discourse, our spoken narrations. Biologically, physiologically, we are not so
different from each other; historically, as narratives--we are each of us
unique.” (The Man Who Mistook His Wife
for a Hat and Other Clinical Tales)
We can’t respond to the number 4
million, each of which is a unique story. But we know what it is to be a
stranger, to have our narrative be treated as alien by others. The Torah
includes the exhortation to do right by strangers, to care for the vulnerable –
because we were strangers in a strange land. To quote the complicated Science
Fiction author Robert Heinlein, we “grok.”
We know. We intuit. We’ve been there.
The problem is, it’s been a
while. And we forget what it is to have our own children’s futures unsure.
That’s not completely true. We American Jews can sometimes forget. Just spend
one 10 minute period in a bomb shelter in Ashkelon, Sderot, Tel Aviv, Haifa, and
you’ll remember. But woe to us if we let Jewish vulnerability, here or in
Israel, erase Torah’s demand to bear witness to God’s Image in every person.
The Torah’s commend to be fair to the stranger because we were strangers in
Egypt is actually another way of saying: if everyone is a stranger, there is no
such thing.
Which is why it’s so hard to look
at Aylan. Because he’s your son. He was worthy of dignity. He was worthy of
life. Every person is.
Friends, what am I asking you to
do? The hardest thing there is to do: open your eyes and don’t hide from the
pain. See it. Then do something about it. Get involved. Support groups like
HIAS (HIAS.org) who are leading the Jewish effort to respond to the Global
Refugee crisis. Support Hand in Hand’s work to remind us – not just our
children – that we belong to each other. Choose a corner of the world where
your soul can make a difference, and go there even and especially if it hurts –
lean yourself into that, because that’s where your work awaits.
Hear the voices of those who call
out for help, and remember that ours is not to complete the work, as long as we
take it on. Our collective power to do good in this fragile world is nothing
less than Godly.
But hear this not as affirmation.
We’ll have enough time to rest once we fix this world. These next 25 hours of
Yom Kippur will be meaningless if we let their message stay in this room.
Bear witness to your sisters and
brothers, Muslim, Jewish, Israeli, Syrian, Black, White, Christian, old and
young this Yom Kippur. If we don't, we have no right to expect forgiveness. We
don’t have to agree about ANYTHING to be kind to each other. Being kind,
sharing love in this world is not dependent upon anything.
So we pray, with hearts that are
full and open and wounded and strong and pulsing and ready:
May this be a year in which
we demonstrate moral courage through our deeds.
May we take seriously our
own power and cultivate our own faith – and the faith of others – in this world.
May it be the
kind of year that cracks us all wide open, so that we can build this world
better than before, lifting as much of the blessed burden as we're able.
Gmar Chatimah
Tovah – May you be written and sealed for life this year.
Amen.