Erev Rosh Hashana Sermon--2009

A LESSON FROM THE GATES OF JERUSALEM

Moishe is driving around in downtown Jerusalem. He's late for a meeting, the sweat is pouring out of his head. He's looking for a parking space and can't find one. In desperation he turns towards the heavens and says, "Dear God—if you find me a parking place I promise I will be a better Jew—I will eat only Kosher. I will observe the Shabbat carefully, and all the holidays. " And just as he finishes that sentence, miraculously, right in front of him, someone pulls out of a spot and Moishe pulls in. And as he does so, he turns back up to the Heavens and says, "Never mind, I just found one!!"

Well, it looks like everyone tonight found a spot. We have enough seats for everyone. No one has to make a special deal, offer a special promise, commit yourself to something you really do not want to do. Instead you can be honest—with yourself, which is what these High Holidays are all about. What's clear to me is that every single person finds his or her own way into the synagogue, or out of it. Every single person has his or her own unique story, is wallowing in his or her own joy or sorrow, triumph or defeat, happiness or regret. Along those lines there is a new understanding of how the ancient Temple in Jerusalem functioned that has come to us only recently as a result of some of the ongoing archaeological work at the Southern and Western Walls of the Old City. An old passage in the Talmud stated this reality but only recently did the digs reveal the context of this Talmudic passage. It indicates that there were two separate lines to go in or out of the Temple. People coming to pray at the Temple would enter through a gate on the right, bring their offerings, and then leave through a gate on the left. In other words, they went in counter-clockwise. However, mourners, those who were seriously ill, and people seeking a lost object would do the opposite. They would enter through the LEFT gate, travel clockwise, and exit through the right gate. Now I think I can understand why there might be a separate procedure for mourners and for the sick. I can understand that such people might feel out of sync with the worshippers coming into the Temple to celebrate something. But why include a person who has lost something in that category?

One possible explanation is based on something with which I think we can all relate. When you are trying to find something and you can't remember where you left it—the car keys, your cell phone, that piece of paper with a phone number on it—what happens when you can't find it? You go crazy trying to remember where you put it, and if you are going crazy trying to find it, you are unfit company for anyone around you. Maybe that's why such people are in the separate category.

The second possibility is that the lost object mentioned in this passage isn't just any object, like your glasses or your keys. Maybe it refers to a person who has lost his or her faith and comes to the Temple trying to find it. Most of us come to synagogue in a festive mood—we wear our nicest clothes, we have family and friends around us, we look forward to the melodies, the sounds of the shofar, re-connecting with our fellow congregants. There is an air of celebration as we begin the Jewish New Year together.

But every year, there are always some people among us coming from a totally different direction. Some may have come from a doctor's office and when the rest of the congregation is chanting—"B'Rosh Hashana yikatayvoon—It is decided on Rosh Hashana and confirmed on Yom Kippur, who shall live and who shall die, who shall prosper and who shall suffer,"—they hear those words differently than the rest of us.

For some members of the congregation, rather than looking at how many extra seats are filled on these Holidays, they might be looking at the empty seats, the ones that used to be occupied by individuals who are no longer here. They may see their neighbors arriving as couples, as families, and like the mourners in Temple times, they feel out of step with the worshippers around them. There are parents whose children are away at college and it feels strange and sad without them. There are college students here who are glad to be on their own, but who also miss home. There are couples no longer together, who feel challenged in terms of their self-confidence and self-worth because of a separation or a divorce. They may be dealing with jealousy and rage while still facing the tasks and responsibilities of parenting to their confused children. There are older folks whose lost object may be physical activities they were once able to do for themselves and can no longer do so, or whose diminished memory compromises their sense of well-being and of control.

Some in this room are searching for their lost faith, something they may have had as children, but now find themselves overtaken by doubt. The answers they were given in their younger years no longer work for them. They see others here who seem more comfortable with the Hebrew, with the melodies, with the ebb and flow of the services, yet they feel alienated and distant. Either as a result of intellectual speculation, or from life's unpredictable and mysterious ups and downs, many individuals sitting with us throughout these Holidays are uncomfortable, disappointed, and sad that being Jewish and doing Jewish things does not resonate, does not click, does not provide them with joy. They may have had those feelings once, but are hard-pressed to find them or feel them now—their faith is their lost object.

In ancient Jerusalem, such people had their own special entrance to the Temple. They entered by the door through which everyone else was coming out. I suspect this was done, not to embarrass them or to isolate them, and not to keep them away from the other worshippers. I suspect it was done to heal them, so that somehow they would see the other worshippers emerging with smiles on their faces, which would challenge them to devote some time and energy to considering, "how can I organize my life so that I can feel what they feel, so that I can feel whole again, so that I can find myself on a better path, in a better direction, that will help make me feel at home?" Maybe the searchers for lost objects would see the other folks coming out offering hope and comfort to the mourners and the sick, and in the very act of such help and comfort, they might begin to feel it as well and come to the realization that the first step towards healing themselves might be to offer help and love to others.

There was a man crawling on his hands and knees around a lamppost, looking for something. A policeman happened to walk by and asks him what he's looking for. The man says, "I dropped my keys and I can't find them." The policeman says, "Did you drop them here under the lamppost?" "No," the man says, "but it's too dark down the block where I dropped them."

If you are looking for a lost object, you won't find it unless you look where you lost it. But if you are looking for something spiritual, it probably does make sense to look where there is more light. In the days of the Temple, in Jerusalem, many individuals came there to find their lost faith even if that wasn't where they had lost it.

To those of you in pain, wracked by doubt and confusion, I hope that our association with each other, as fellow congregants of B'nai Aviv, will provide the soothing powers of friendship and compassion. I hope that we can all direct the healing powers of togetherness that reside within our hearts and souls towards each other so that we will all feel a new spirit, a new energy, a new commitment to being there with and for each other. May this be a year of healing and renewal for all of us.