Rosh Hashana, First Day, Sermon

ROSH HASHANA FIRST DAY—2009/5770

 

                                    A YEAR WITHOUT MUSIC

 

I haven't said one word yet and I already know what you are thinking—what Country Music song is the Rabbi going to talk about this year??!!  In fact, it has been quite amazing to me these past  few years, since I first revealed my affection for Country Music, how many of you have also been fans and have pretty much kept it quiet all these years, as if it were somehow, something to be kept secret, a cause of embarrassment.  I have unleashed the lion in many of you and it is actually pretty funny.  So why no song this year?  Well, it is a fairly simple matter, and a personal one.  It is the result of the fact that since my father, zichrono livracha, passed from this world this past February, I have been observing the laws and traditions of mourning, among which is avoiding music.  So while I could pull out some golden oldies to talk about, it has been my practice to refer to newer, recent hits as a way of trying to stay current.  And, it has been quite challenging and difficult for me to endure this length of time without listening to the Country Music radio stations while driving from meeting to meeting, or back and forth from hospitals or cemeteries, or various people's homes.  Frankly, I have no idea what the newest songs are, which ones have risen to the top of the charts, which lyrics I can lean on for a sermonic analysis.  And I thought that, instead of sharing my usual review of a particular song, this year I want to share with you what it has meant to me to live an entire year without music.

 

I want to share with you a personal account of what music means to me—of the role it has played in my life—of how important it has been at so many significant points in my life, as well as in between them—and how difficult it has been to follow the tradition of abstaining from music these past 8 months, with three more to go.

 

Music was always important to my family.  I grew up in a home in which Shabbat meant sitting together at the dining room table for dinner Friday Night and lunch Saturday afternoon.  No one left the table before it was really over, and that meant great food, lengthy conversation, and a lot of singing.  My Dad was the ringleader, and he conditioned all of us to sing with enthusiasm, and every one of us learned how to harmonize with the rest, whether we were singing traditional Shabbat songs, or chanting the Birkat Hamazon, the Grace After Meals. As each of us was joined by a spouse, they were expected to join in as well, and quickly became part of the Kieffer choir.

 

When I was in the 6^th grade, I was exposed to piano lessons for the first time, and, of course, I hated it.  The teacher was nice enough, sweet and pleasant, which, of course, was the kiss of death—he was nice.  Translation—not cool, at all.  He taught me to play arpeggios and scales, and then handed me the music to learn—naturally, music of Beethoven, Shubert, Bach, etc.  In other words, music that was totally irrelevant to the life of a 12 year old.  As a pre-adolescent I only cared about rock and roll.  Who cared about Beethoven??!!  Meanwhile, my brother Bert, who is almost 3 years older than I am, took some of his Bar-Mitzvah money and bought himself an inexpensive guitar with a book that showed you how to play all the chords.  He thought he would teach himself, and after learning three chords, he was pretty much finished.  When he wasn't around I would sneak into his room, take his guitar and the chord book and teach myself every chord in the book.  After about three months of piano lessons that were going nowhere, my piano teacher talked to my parents and said to them, as nicely and diplomatically as he could,  maybe Sammy needs a break from the piano.  In other words this is a waste of your money. 

 

So I continued on my own with the guitar and quickly learned to play by ear, and before you knew it the Beatles were in the headlines, about to come to America, and I figured out how to play I Want To Hold Your Hand, and All My Lovin.  That made me an instant  hero, even though I didn't really have a clue what I was doing.  I just knew I enjoyed it.  Later that year I got up the chutzpa to write my first song.  It was inspired by two of my classmates—Steven Schachter and Susan Adler.  Now let me  explain that the school I went to was a coed Yeshiva—a relatively small school where everyone knew everyone else, and it became the buzz of the entire school when Steven and Susan, who had been "going together" since Kindergarten, announced to the rest of us that they were now "going steady."  None of us knew what that meant, but at the very least, it was clear to all of us that Steven had given Susan his ID bracelet—that's just like giving a diamond ring!!  Anyway that event inspired me to write my first song ever, which is called, "Won't You Be My Steady."  Since I know you are all dying to hear it, I'll share a few lines:

 

            Won't you be my steady, all the kids are doing it now

            I want to show that I love you, please show me how—I can.

            I've given you charms and bracelets,

            And I've given you everything else, too.

            But all I want to show is—that I love you.

 

            I've given you all my time, and I've given you hugs and kisses,

            But I can't wait forever, until you're my---Mrs.

 

 

What can I tell you—for the next 2-3 years I wrote more and more songs like that one, that no one has ever heard, and probably never will.  In the meantime, when no one was looking I found myself on occasion going back to the piano and re-discovered it—I started playing by ear, and trying to apply what I knew about guitar chords to the playing of the piano, and I found that I really enjoyed playing my own kind of music in my own unpolished, unprofessional style.  That has continued to today.

 

Once I got to be about 15, and I am now in high school, and getting involved in USY, I was gradually exposed to a new genre of Jewish music.  It's  the 60's. Vietnam, Civil Rights, and Soviet Jewry are all big issues, and in the midst of all that, a Chasidic Rabbi, named Shlomo Carlebach, is appearing all over the place performing his music.  What made his work unique was that he never wrote the words—only the music.  For words, he depended upon the Jewish tradition—he took sentences from the Prayerbook, from the Bible, from the Talmud, and composed his own new music to these ancient words.  He was bringing our ancient traditions to life, renewing old words with his new music—it was an unbelievable experience to be exposed to his concerts, and what made him really unique is the fact that he appeared before all kinds of audiences—he appeared in Orthodox shuls, as well as in Conservative and Reform ones.  He appeared on college campuses and in Night Clubs in Greenwich Village.  Over the course of his lifetime, he  composed something like 3000 pieces—just amazing!  He would intersperse his songs with Chasidic stories, which would resonate with every audience, religious or secular, and he would have a way of touching every single person sitting there with his spirit, and with his spirituality.  His music had a huge impact on my life, and influenced me to develop my Jewish soul as well as my general, human soul through music.

 

The Six Day War of June, 1967, was a turning point in my personal and religious life, as it was for so many of my contemporaries.  I had been brought up to care about and love Israel, but hadn't really thought about it all that much until that war, when the Jewish world faced the real possibility, and it seemed like a likelihood, that we would lose Israel forever.  When the war ended with Israel not only victorious, but now holding on to all of Jerusalem, with the ability to go and visit the Kotel, the Western Wall, our generation knew it was experiencing a once-in-a-lifetime event. 

 

So now I am still writing some rock and roll songs, and I am beginning to write some Carlebach-type songs in which I would find a prayer in the Siddur and make up my own melody for it, and now I am also writing songs about Israel and what it means to me—this is a rather unusual combination of topics and themes  that had become part of my musical life.  Something very intense happened in April of 1968.  I am a senior in high school; I have tickets to see a special show from Israel at the Westbury Music Fair that night, an eclectic performance by various singers, dancers, jugglers, comedians, etc—all representing the best entertainers from Israel, and, of course, this is the one and only performance.  I am really excited about going with a group of my friends.  And just as we are about to leave for the theater, I put the news on and the bulletin came announcing that Martin Luther King was just shot in Memphis, Tennessee.  I was stunned and didn't know what to do.  Should I go; should I not go?  If I go how could I possibly enjoy it with such a tragedy on everyone's mind?  On the other hand, if I didn't go, I would never be able to see that show again, and maybe it's especially important to show our Jewish pride?  I ended up going, and it was a great show, but, of course I didn't really enjoy it that much, but, hey, I'm a teenager.  How can a teenager know the right thing to do?  But now I am dealing with an intense mixture of feelings and emotions—a sense, on one hand, of the terrible loss to this country of a true giant of a man, wondering what his death would mean for the Civil Rights Movement in America, which was of great importance to me then, as it continues to be today, and, on the other hand, wanting to share my pride with all that Israel represents and all that it has accomplished with so few resources at its disposal in such a short time. 

 

With all of those emotions stirring inside me, I went back to the piano and found that the only way I could express myself was though music and it was almost as if my fingers had a life of their own—they started playing something that came from deep within me to express the rage over Martin Luther King's death and the admiration I had for him.  A day or two later, when the funeral was over, I went back to that piece of music and started writing some words to go with the melody.  I don't quite know how to explain this, but it was as if I had written two different songs in one.  The melody was, at least in my mind, about King; the words were all about Israel and how it has faced up to severe challenges and managed to keep our faith and hope alive.  I don't mind telling you that, in my opinion, it was the most meaningful music I had ever composed before or since, and unfortunately, I lost the words at some point in time, and try as I have, I have never been able to reconstruct the lyrics I wrote to go with that music.  But somehow, when I play the music today, I still get emotional on both fronts.  It moves me to think that through one composition, I managed to bring together two major themes of my life, two major principles and ideals to which I have devoted my life—that of the centrality of Israel and that of the dignity we owe to every human being on this Earth.

 

The years have flown by.  Life brings with it all kinds of milestones and occasions.  And for me, music again became an outlet for my ability to express the meaningfulness of such events.  So, for example, when Melinda was pregnant with our first-born, Aryeh, and we were down to the home-stretch, I started writing a song in anticipation of his birth.  But you remember what you are like in those last few weeks and days –it's hard to concentrate; you don't know what to expect; you are pre-occupied with so many things, and before I knew it he was here, and I didn't finish my song!!  So about a week or two afterwards I found the first verse and managed to complete the song in the middle  of the night.

 

Here are a few lines:

 

To our unborn child, we're just waiting for you

Don't know what you will be, should we buy pink or blue?

To our unborn child, nine months is so long

But the wait will be worthwhile, if you're healthy and strong.

 

Your room is ready, it's just waiting for you

The furniture, the clothes, yet there's still so much to do

We feel as if we know you, we already love you so much

The expectation is driving us crazy to look at you and to touch.

 

To our newborn child, you're better than we thought

The joy you bring us could never be bought

To our newborn child, just want you to know

We'll always be behind you. no matter where you go.

 

 

 

Well, the problem of writing a song for a child is you have now created an expectation for the future.  So as we prepared for our middle child, Aviva, life, as usual, got in the way, and no song was forthcoming.  Then, ready or not, she arrived, and not quite so smoothly.  Within minutes of her birth, the doctor comes over and whispers in my ear that they need our permission to take her by special helicopter to another hospital that had a neo-natal emergency room.  I had no idea what neo-natal meant but I was able to guess that this not a good thing!  Turns out, she ingested some amniotic fluids and in their attempt to suction it out of her lungs, they made a little tear in her esophagus.  We didn't know if we were looking at surgery or if she would ever be able to speak.  We really had no idea how serious this might be or if it was all just as a precaution, but, clearly, we were scared out of our minds.  There is a funny part of this story.  Two of the head doctors in the unit disagreed on how to proceed-one pushing for immediate surgery to repair the tear, and the other convinced that we can wait and see if it would heal itself.  Both agreed she was not in a life or death moment, so we chose to hold off as long as possible, and in the end, it did heal itself, and she certainly has no problem with speech.  So, thank God, everything ended up fine.  A few days into her stay at this other hospital, a stay which lasted over a month, we are sitting in the office of the chief doctor of this incredible neo-natal unit.  Obviously, our nerves were shot; we are extremely emotional, and still, at the time, uncertain, whether we had made the right choice or not.  As we are talking to this wonderful doctor, we happen to notice his diplomas on the wall, which indicated he graduated from the University of Baghdad.  And, of course, right on his desk is that day's newspaper, and the headline read, "Israel destroys Iraqi nuclear reactor."  So I'm thinking about running out of there to pick up my newborn baby and get out of there as fast as I can, as far as I can, but instead, this wonderful doctor, gets up from his chair, puts his arms around both of us and calmly says, "Rabbi Kieffer, Mrs. Kieffer—don't worry about the headlines--in the neo-natal unit there are no religions, and no nations—in here we are all one family."  That was a very special moment for all of us, which we have never forgotten.

 

All of that explains some of the words that ended up in her song:

 

 

 

They say all beginnings are difficult

And it certainly has been true with you.

We prayed and we hoped and we loved you all we could,

Everything to pull you through.

 

In your short time on this Earth, you've taught us a lot.

You have given us a strong reminder.

That so many of us look at the blessings of life

As if we were wearing a blinder.

 

You our little girl will grow up and be strong

With your own individual style.

Spread your cheer and your love to the whole human race

And be an ayshet chayil.

 

 

A few years later, Elana joined us—her birth was as smooth as silk.  While Melinda was in the Recovery Room and after being assured that she and Elana were both absolutely fine, I went into the waiting room and began writing her song on the spot, which includes the following:

For so many people life presents,

Moments that anguish and make them tense,

But you just arrive with a smile on your face

And with it our troubles seem to erase,

 

 

If only we adults would learn from the infants

That here we have a perfect instance

Of living and loving with no conditions

Relying on each other for our soul's nutritions,

 

 

We know you'll develop and make us proud

As you mature step by step and shine through the cloud

And as we place our hopes in you

We respond by saying, "She'heh'chee'anu"

 

And that little girl now lives on her own in Israel and in the next month or so will be inducted into the Israeli army to serve her country and her people.

 

So I have shared with you a taste of what role music has played in my life.  It has provided me a means of expression, of capturing emotions and feelings that I might otherwise have buried and kept inside.  It has been extremely therapeutic for me to come home after a long, hard day and just bang on the piano, whether songs of well-known artists and composers, or those of some of the Jewish superstars we have been privileged to bring to B'nai Aviv over the years, like Craig Taubman, Sam Glaser,  Safam, or Debbie Friedman, or even my own compositions, music has been, for me, a haven and a refuge.

 

You might, therefore, be tempted to ask, why then, would you be willing to deprive yourself of such an outlet?  Why would our tradition, impose upon us the expectation that such a haven and refuge would be closed off to us for almost an entire year?

 

Good question, and here is what I think our tradition's answer might be.  The prohibitions during the year of mourning are not impositions upon us.  They are, in fact, reflections of what is already inside us.  When you lose a family member, you lose part of yourself.  You know that part of you will never be the same.  In fact, you might be tempted, as an expression of your sorrow, to give up forever some things that you used to enjoy.  Our tradition helps us through the sorrow by mandating that certain activities be curtailed or avoided, but for a specific period of time, precisely so that we DON'T give them up forever.  The genius of our heritage is in the step by step gradual return to normalcy through the stages of funeral, shiva, shloshim, and yahrzeit.  When we first experience our loss we do not want to hear from anyone that we'll get over it, that time will heal, that our emotions are on temporary hold.  All of that is true, but none of us wants to hear it or is willing to believe it when the loss is fresh and unfolding.  So instead of hitting us over the head with all sorts of philosophical arguments about how when and why we will heal, we are given these stages to follow, which, help us by reflecting our reality rather than by preaching something we are not yet ready to hear or to accept.

 

I do miss my music—listening, playing, composing, but I know I'll get back to it.  I've already thought about the first song I might write when my Kaddish-saying is over—I'm thinking about what it will be like as the year comes to a close and I will have the chance to reflect on all the memories that have accumulated since my father died, all of the details of the life he lived, some of the dreams he left unfulfilled, the concern about the extent to which  I lived up to his expectations or failed to, the ways in which I can carry on his memory, and, hopefully, continue to be a source of pride to him. I'm thinking of calling it One More Kaddish, and it will allow me to anticipate, or reflect back upon, the night before the year of mourning is over, with just a few hours of it left.  We know we can't and shouldn't keep saying Kaddish forever, but it has been a blessing to have it as part of my daily routine for these past 8 months, for it has allowed me to say good bye to him and yet keep him with me, symbolically, through the words of this special prayer.

 

What I have learned from my year without music, is that we all have to make our own music; we have to find it within ourselves, within our souls, within our hearts.  Music is not only that which comes from instruments or from sheet music, or from recordings.  It is a reflection of our own sense of harmony—with the world, with nature, with those we love, and with those we remember this day and every day.

 

Hamakom yenachem etchem b'toch sh'ar availay Tziyon Vee'rushalayim.

May God bless us all with comfort and healing for all who have suffered loss, for all who have experienced any kind of brokenness and are  seeking wholeness, peace, and harmony.