Yom Kippur Yizkor Sermon, 2009

YOM KIPPUR—2009  Yizkor Sermon

 

 

PRAYER, REPENTENCE, AND CHARITY: THREE STORIES

 

 

By now most of us are familiar with the three part statement which indicates that prayer, repentance and charity avert the severity of the decree.  Today, I want to share with you three amazing stories to illustrate each of these three factors, and attempt to relate them to the meaning of the Yizkor Hour.

 

The first story was shared by a colleague of mine who found himself in the difficult and challenging situation of working closely with the Cantor in his synagogue, who in one particular year found himself facing a serious illness right before the High Holidays, such that the Cantor would not be able to conduct the Holiday services that year.   It was too late to find a substitute replacement and it became clear that the Rabbi would have to perform double-duty that year, both conducting as well as doing the chanting of all the prayers.  The Rabbi felt somewhat okay with it and confident in his own knowledge of most of the melodies primarily because of the excellent training he had received as a child by the Cantor he had growing up.  The Rabbi's only concern was whether he would be able to master the Hineni prayer, the one that Cantor's chant to introduce the Musaf.  As the Rabbi sat in his office trying to recapture the melody, his eyes glanced up at one of his bookshelves on which was a small wooden box with the name of his old Cantor on it. He went over to it, opened the box and lo and behold inside were cassette tapes that his old Cantor had recorded of all the High Holiday prayers.  He placed one into his tape recorder and heard his old Cantor's voice narrating: "This is the prayer for the Cantor to sing right before the Musaf," and that was followed by the Cantor's voice singing the Hineni.  When the prayer was over, the Cantor had finished his recording with the following message, "This is your Cantor, Ben—I know you are only 15 years old now, but I have a feeling that some day you will probably be a Rabbi, and you might need to learn these melodies.  Use them well, I know you will do a good job." 

 

The Rabbi who shared this story went on to say that he started crying when he heard this message.  He never discussed with his Cantor growing up that he thought about becoming a Rabbi some day.  Apparently that cantor could penetrate the soul of this young man and was caring enough and loving enough to leave such a message for him, knowing that some day, the teenager would discover the tapes and listen to them.  The Rabbi concluded his reporting of this story with the following words:  "I knew at that moment, that my teacher, who was gone already at least ten years when I listened to those tapes, was still teaching me.  All of a sudden my panic and concern were gone.  Everything will be all right, because he had the confidence in me.  I would not be alone this Rosh Hashana.  My old Cantor would be with me on the bima.  And after all, what does the word Hineni mean?  It means "Here I am."  And there he was."

 

Yizkor is a Hineni moment, when those special people who influenced us in so many ways are with us.  Their spirit, their soul, their personality, their impact is so real and so very much surrounding us in the here and now.  Just by saying the word, Yizkor, we think of them and summon those special memories.  For these few moments we might laugh and cry and re-live conversations, and experiences, and arguments, and make-ups, and suddenly feel their presence much more than we feel their absence.  It is painful and sad and yet it is also wonderful and joyous at the same time to imagine them being with us and continuing to influence us in some way.

 

Hineni is a prayer and that first story, therefore reflects the prayer part of our three-fold High Holiday statement.  Repentence is the next one, and it is a word that suggests the possibility to change our reality, certainly a small change, but even a drastic one.  This story illustrates that point.

 

When the Old and New Cities of Jerusalem were reunited as a result of the Six-Day War in June, 1967, a recently widowed Arab woman, who had been living in Old Jerusalem since 1948, wanted to visit the home she used to live in before 1948.  Now that the city was one, she searched for and found her old home.  She knocked on the door of the apartment and a Jewish widow came to the door and greeted her.  The Arab woman explained that she had lived there until 1948 and just wanted to look around.  The Jewish widow invited her in, gave her some coffee and they spent a very pleasant afternoon together sharing memories of earlier times.  As she was preparing to leave and return to her current home, the Arab woman said to the Jewish woman, "When I lived here I hid some valuables. If they are still here I will share them with you half and half."

 

The Jewish woman absolutely refused and said, "If they belonged to you and they are still here, then they are yours."  After a friendly debate back and forth the Arab woman led her new friend into one of the bathrooms, loosened some of the wooden boards on the floor and, sure enough, they found a hoard of gold coins.

 

The two widows visited each other again and again, and then the story really gets more and more amazing.  One day, the Arab woman recounted the day in 1948 when she left her home.  She said that she and her husband were so frightened from the fighting that they decided to run away to escape.  They grabbed their belongings, took the children, and each fled separately.  She said they had a three-month old son.  She thought the husband took him, the husband was sure that his wife had taken him, and it was only when they reunited in Old Jerusalem that they discovered that neither of them had taken the child.  At that very moment as she told this story, a 20-year-old Israeli soldier in uniform walked into the apartment, hugged the Jewish widow and said, "Hi, Ema."  She turned to her new friend, and with tears pouring out of her eyes, said, "This is you son."  What had happened was that the Jewish woman's husband was an Israeli soldier in the War of Independence.  He came into this very house and found the baby on the floor, and when the original family that lived there could not be found, the authorities gave the soldier permission to keep the baby, which they did.

 

As unlikely as this story is, it doesn't quite end there. The two women had grown close and found that they liked each other, leading the Jewish widow to eventually say to the Arab widow, "Look, we are both widows living alone.  Our children are grown up.  This house has brought you luck.  You have found you son, or our son.  Why don't we live together?"  And they did just that.

 

If repentance means change, than the two women in this story epitomize the reality that change is possible.  Is this story likely?  No.  Is it common?  No.  But whenever any of us find ourselves believing we are in situations that we cannot get out of, that we can't put into motion a complete change from what we are used to, remember this story and think again. 

 

The third category, charity, is reflected in this story. It is not about charity in the normal sense of the word—it does not talk about money or coins or pushkes or appeals or pledges.  It talks about the charity of the soul and of the spirit that all of us can reach in and pull out of ourselves to share with another person.  Here is the story:

 

 

I was sitting on a beach one summer day, watching two children, a boy and a girl, playing in the sand.  They were hard at work building an elaborate sandcastle by the water's edge, with gates and towers and moats and internal passages.  Just when they had nearly finished their project, a big wave came along and knocked it down, reducing it to a heap of wet sand.  I expected the children to burst into tears, devastated by what had happened to all their hard work.  But they surprised me.  Instead, they ran up the shore away from the water, laughing and holding hands, and sat down to build another castle.  I realized that they had taught me an important lesson.  All the things in our lives, all the complicated structures we spend so much time and energy creating, are built on sand.  Only our relationships to other people endure.  Sooner or later, the wave will come along and knock down what we have worked so hard to build up.  When that happens, only the person who has somebody's hand to hold will be able to laugh.

 

Three stories.  Three principles to guide our lives.  The Hineni Prayer—the Prayer that says, "Here I am."  The prayer that reminds us that even those who are no longer with us, are still with us, through the miracle of memory.  The story of the Jewish and Arab widows who found themselves able to drastically change their perceptions, their convictions, their reality and create a new reality upon which to rebuild their lives. And the third story of a girl and a boy holding hands to laugh away life's tragedies making them considerably less tragic reminds us that extending our hand in love and in order to laugh may very well be the most dramatic effective, and generous form of charity that we can give to another person.  Prayer, Repentence, Charity—can avert the severity of the decree.  Yizkor.  Remember the neshames, the souls of those who taught us about life.  Help us to remember our own neshames, to use the power, wisdom, and compassion contained within all of our souls to be good and to do good.  May memory be a tool we can use to recognize and appreciate the blessings that surround us.  And may our Yizkor prayers bring us comfort, strength, and peace now and always.

 

 

Kol Nidray Sermon

ROSH HASHANA-SECOND DAY—2009        

 

   ISAAC AND YISHMAEL

 

When you make it to both services of Rosh Hashana, you are treated to two stories from the Torah that parallel each other in some interesting ways.  On the first day, we read about Hagar, the concubine of Abraham and Sarah who is sent away with her young son, Yishmael, because Abraham and Sarah were afraid that the teenager was having a bad influence on Isaac.  Mother and child are sent into the wilderness, they are out of water and food and just as it seems the young boy will die of thirst an angel appears pointing to a well nearby from which they are both sustained and revived.  In gratitude, Hagar gives the well a name,  "BE'ER LACHAI RO'EE",  which literally means "the well of the living God who sees me."  A modern scholar, however, prefers to understand the name of the well as meaning, "at the bottom of the well, when I am at the lowest point of my life, when I feel helpless and abandoned, I met God and learned that God cares about me."

 

On the second day of Rosh Hashana, we read one of the most challenging stories in the entire Bible—the story of God's command to Abraham to take his son, Isaac, and offer him as a sacrifice on a nearby mountain.  Although the text of this story does not reveal anything about what Abraham may have been thinking, it does tell us that he prepared to fulfill that command, and was just about to sacrifice his beloved son, when at the very last minute another angel intervenes and stops him.  Abraham calls this particular place,

    "ADONAI YIR'EH",  literally meaning, "the mountain where God is seen."  But, again, that same modern scholar who re-translated Yishmael's well, chooses to re-translate Abraham's mountain into, "at the highest point of my life, the day when my child was returned to me safe and unharmed, I felt I had seen the face of God."

 

It is simply too difficult for me to pass up the  temptation to read in between the lines, to connect the dots, to ask the question—what do these two stories have to do with each other and why were these the ones selected to be read on these two days of Rosh Hashana?  Here is my interpretation.  In the first story Hagar claims to see God in the well.  In the second story Abraham claims to see God on the mountaintop.  What I think these two stories are telling us is this:  we see, feel, and experience God from  the lowest points of our lives, and we do so from  the highest points of our lives. 

 

There are many reasons that so many of us come to shul on Rosh Hashana but one of those reasons is that we are seeking God.  We are looking for connections, for a sense of belonging, for an experience of something beyond ourselves, and, many of us are doing so from our personal mountain tops and many others from the bottom of their pit.

 

This past year has been one of the most challenging ones in any of our memories.  The economic instability and uncertainty has wreaked havoc in many of our lives.  Some individuals in this room today saw their life savings or their retirement packages dwindle dangerously low.  Others suffered major losses in the stock market and for many, their  children's college funds were what took the hit and they do not know how they will cover college tuition.  Some of our fellow congregants have lost businesses that they spent their entire lives building up, only to see it collapse overnight.  Some are the undeserving victims of their employers' need to downsize in order to stay afloat, and their personal wages are either dramatically lowered or their particular position is eliminated. The empty pit that others are sitting in today, has nothing to do with money.  For some, they are in a deep pit because their husband or wife woke up one day and informed them that they wanted a divorce, and it may have come from left field.  Still others are reeling from a recent diagnosis for a family member or for themselves, and it often comes without warning.

 

Isn't it interesting that most folks find themselves questioning God's existence or God's reality when we are down in the pit, but rarely do we question God's existence when we are on the mountaintop.  That, I think is the message of the combination of these two texts to be read on Rosh Hashana.  It is as if our sages are telling us, as this new year is about to begin, know in advance that stuff happens—good stuff, bad stuff.  Know in advance that there is so much over which we have absolutely no control.  We may be forced to deal with all kinds of adversity, the likes of which we might deserve and we might not, but we will face those situations anyway.  We may be challenged with tragedies and sorrows and problems that we simply never anticipated, never saw coming, never had an opportunity to plan for, but we will face them, and we can and we will face them and overcome them and emerge whole and strong, because that is the call of Hagar to see God in the depths of the pit, that is the religious inclination to see God in the midst of darkness and despair.  But we also encounter God in our celebrations and triumphs.  The second story is summoning us to the mountaintop to recognize the mystery of God's work in this world when things go right, when life is wonderful, when we are experiencing absolute joy, that can be as mystifying as the deep pits of despair.  The same mystery that causes us to be in awe and in wonder about the Nature of God when things go wrong is equally perplexing when things go right!  That God that we encounter whether in the bottom of the pit or on the top of the mountain will probably NOT look like an old man in a white robe and with a white beard.  That God will more likely look like your neighbor, your friend, your fellow congregant who comes over to your house with food and with compassion and with friendship when you are down and when you are on top of the world.  The well that Hagar and Yishmael see in the wilderness is described in a very significant way.  The text does NOT say that God suddenly created a well in the middle of the desert.  What it says is that God opened her eyes and she saw a well of water.  Taken literally, God didn't make the well right there on the spot.  The well was already there.  It was God's presence with her, God's comforting, encouraging, loving presence that enabled her to see what was already there and that she has the power within her to face her crisis and overcome it and to defeat it.  That, I believe is what our Sages understood about these two stories and that is why they selected them for our Torah readings on these two days of Rosh Hashana—it is the power of friendship, the power of caring, the power of love that every one of us has within us to give—that is the work of God in our lives, and sometimes, we only get to see or experience that power as we find ourselves in the lowest part of the well and sometimes we see or experience it when we are on the top of the mountain.

 

Our synagogue has suffered from this economy just as each of our families have suffered.  If you are struggling to pay your bills, the likelihood is that your mortgage and electricity bills will be paid before your synagogue dues. In this past year  more and more of our families have not been able to pay their dues or tuitions or  fees, all of which is what keeps our synagogue afloat.  There are, at least, two different ways that we have to deal with that reality.  The first one is that for some of you, and I do not know who you are, or to what extent this is true for you—there are some of our families who, thankfully, have not suffered too much economically.  And frankly, we need your help.  We need you to help us out by making significant donations to our shul this coming year and by making a commitment to consider a multi-year obligation.  What if, for example,  3-5 families got together and asked themselves, what does it cost us to run and operate our Youth Groups—all the salaries, all the supplies, all the costs of running the incredible programs that Chalutzim and Kadima and USY have over the course of a year, the programs that attract dozens and dozens of our kids to come here and enjoy being here, making lifelong friends in a wonderful Jewish atmosphere and environment, and ask the questions—what does all that cost—how much does that take up of our synagogue budget and what if those 3-5 families decided—we will donate that amount collectively to the synagogue so that the youth group piece of the budget is covered.  And what if 10-15 families who are all friends and who care about B'nai Aviv got together and found out what it costs to run the Religious School and they committed themselves to donate that amount of money for the next few years.  And if another group did that for ECEC, and another group really cared about our religious services and took upon themselves the responsibility to cover the costs of the Ritual line of our budget.  You get the idea.  It was just a few years ago that we were seriously considering expanding our physical plant.  And just as we were about to launch the fund-raising campaign, the economy tanked, and the demographics of our community began to change with fewer young families moving in to Weston, and more and more families deciding to move out.  This is the reality we must face.  So rather than the usual fundraising program where you get to pay for a room or a wing of the building, I would hope that some of you might be willing to put your names on a program rather than on a brick, and maybe that's how we can re-build our fiscal strength.  It can't and won't happen without your help.  Please think about these ideas as you go through the next few days and as you prepare to come back here next week, on Yom Kippur, when your synagogue president will be making his appeal to you for funds. 

 

Our shul is facing a difficult time—thankfully, we are not quite at the point that Hagar was at—we have not reached the bottom.  We are challenged but not desperate.  We are nervous but not about to close up.  We are concerned, but we are also a community of accomplishment and of hope.  As Hagar felt the presence of God at a low point in her life, we too can feel God's presence in our lives as we climb out from the depths of this challenge and discover new sources of strength, resolve, uplift, and enthusiasm right here in this room, in the hearts and consciences of our own congregants who may be inspired to help us hope by hoping for your help.

 

Clearly what I have mentioned so far can only be done by those whose checkbooks are able to make a difference.  The second thing that we need and which can be done by every single person here is simply this.  Come into this building without the chips that sometimes sit on some of your shoulders.  I have heard raised voices making demands.  I have heard raised voices complaining about this or that policy, or about this or that requirement, or about this or that expectation.  I have heard people say, "You can't make me do this, I am not Orthodox", as if being Orthodox was such a sin.  I have heard people say, "You know I am really Reform," as if that somehow means they don't have to do anything Jewish in their lives.  I have heard people say, "if I don't get my child in the class I want I will quit this synagogue."  Do any of you really think that all we do here is try to figure out what things we can do to make you miserable?  Do any of you really believe that if there are so many square feet in a classroom, and it is completely filled already with bodies and desks and supplies in it, that we can simply stuff one more body in there?  Do you think we enjoy saying "no" to you? Do any of you whose voices are sometimes louder than they need to be think that by shouting at someone, you are more likely to get your way, or that because of your shouting, we will ignore the same request made by someone else who is not shouting?  Can we all try hard to agree that we are all on the same team, and that what all of us care about is making your family happy and satisfied and content, but that we also have an obligation to raise a generation of young Jews to be knowledgeable about their heritage, involved in their Jewish life, making commitments to keeping this enterprise called Judaism alive for another generation, that we want your children to love being Jewish, and that means, among other things, caring deeply and passionately about Israel, finding the study of Torah exciting and challenging, enjoying the cultural aspects of Judaism such as music and Israeli dance, finding the mysteries of the Hebrew language to be fun and entertaining, that learning our history, our past, is part of what assures us of a future, that we want to encourage all of our children to explore the nature of their own Jewish identities, and to learn about our religious traditions, such as Shabbat and keeping Kosher, not in a forceful or take-it-or-leave-it way, not to belittle what any of you choose to do or not do in your personal lives, but to simply know what these practices are about, simply because they are part of who we are as a People.

 

What it comes down to my dear friends, is this—we are all stressed out by the economy, by the politics of the day, by tensions within our homes, and from outside our homes. And it should not come as a surprise to anyone that this is part of the culture in which we live.  In just one week, three major incidents involving public outbreaks of shouting and of disrespect.  A major tennis champion yells and curses at the line judge during a world-class championship match.  Then on an awards show broadcast to the entire world, a very well-known entertainer walks on stage while the winner is giving her acceptance speech, and this other guy feels he has the right to interrupt her, grab the microphone and say to the whole world, "You are good, but this other singer should have won." And if those two incidents were not enough, the President of the United States is delivering a major speech to Congress and an individual Congressman feels he has the right to shout out loud, "You lie." I don't care if you are a Republican or a Democrat; I don't care if you love President Obama or hate him, the behavior of the Congressman was embarrassing!! Three examples in one week indicating how common, how acceptable it seems to raise our voices when we are not satisfied.  I can guarantee you this, without hesitation.  Anger will not help us solve any of the issues we face.  It will not make any of them go away.  If anything, the synagogue ought to be a place where we come in as an individual and walk out as a community, where we connect with the best that is within ourselves and share it willingly and lovingly with each other, a place where we enter, like Hagar, feeling that we are at the bottom of the well, but exit, like Abraham, feeling that we are on top of a mountain, seeing the world differently, with more clarity, more trust, more faith, and more confidence that God's presence is alive and well within each one of us and in these challenging times, we need to tap into that presence, and feel it and share it and create it with and for each other.  I can assure you of this—we do not want to hound you about what you owe to the shul.  We want to celebrate what you have to give.  In our 20-plus years, so many of you have given so much.  Who knows what we will accomplish in the next 20 years?  But whatever it is, let's do it with love, with kindness, with the spark of holiness that it demands and assure that this will always be a place of peace.

 

For those of you who are facing this New Year at the bottom of your well, let's hold hands and climb out from there together, and for those of you who feel you are at the top of the mountain, let's celebrate your good fortune together.  Wherever you happen to be, let's all remember that life is a journey, not a destination.  The future is unknown and can be scary or it can be an adventure.  By facing it together we share our strength, our skills, and our energy so that we can continue on the path ahead with confidence, with faith, and with hope.  I believe that every problem has a solution and that every challenge is an opportunity.  Let this year be one of seizing those opportunities for growth, accomplishment, and success for ourselves, for our congregation, and for the world.

Rosh Hashana, Second Day, Sermon

ROSH HASHANA-SECOND DAY—2009        

 

   ISAAC AND YISHMAEL

 

When you make it to both services of Rosh Hashana, you are treated to two stories from the Torah that parallel each other in some interesting ways.  On the first day, we read about Hagar, the concubine of Abraham and Sarah who is sent away with her young son, Yishmael, because Abraham and Sarah were afraid that the teenager was having a bad influence on Isaac.  Mother and child are sent into the wilderness, they are out of water and food and just as it seems the young boy will die of thirst an angel appears pointing to a well nearby from which they are both sustained and revived.  In gratitude, Hagar gives the well a name,  "BE'ER LACHAI RO'EE",  which literally means "the well of the living God who sees me."  A modern scholar, however, prefers to understand the name of the well as meaning, "at the bottom of the well, when I am at the lowest point of my life, when I feel helpless and abandoned, I met God and learned that God cares about me."

 

On the second day of Rosh Hashana, we read one of the most challenging stories in the entire Bible—the story of God's command to Abraham to take his son, Isaac, and offer him as a sacrifice on a nearby mountain.  Although the text of this story does not reveal anything about what Abraham may have been thinking, it does tell us that he prepared to fulfill that command, and was just about to sacrifice his beloved son, when at the very last minute another angel intervenes and stops him.  Abraham calls this particular place,

    "ADONAI YIR'EH",  literally meaning, "the mountain where God is seen."  But, again, that same modern scholar who re-translated Yishmael's well, chooses to re-translate Abraham's mountain into, "at the highest point of my life, the day when my child was returned to me safe and unharmed, I felt I had seen the face of God."

 

It is simply too difficult for me to pass up the  temptation to read in between the lines, to connect the dots, to ask the question—what do these two stories have to do with each other and why were these the ones selected to be read on these two days of Rosh Hashana?  Here is my interpretation.  In the first story Hagar claims to see God in the well.  In the second story Abraham claims to see God on the mountaintop.  What I think these two stories are telling us is this:  we see, feel, and experience God from  the lowest points of our lives, and we do so from  the highest points of our lives. 

 

There are many reasons that so many of us come to shul on Rosh Hashana but one of those reasons is that we are seeking God.  We are looking for connections, for a sense of belonging, for an experience of something beyond ourselves, and, many of us are doing so from our personal mountain tops and many others from the bottom of their pit.

 

This past year has been one of the most challenging ones in any of our memories.  The economic instability and uncertainty has wreaked havoc in many of our lives.  Some individuals in this room today saw their life savings or their retirement packages dwindle dangerously low.  Others suffered major losses in the stock market and for many, their  children's college funds were what took the hit and they do not know how they will cover college tuition.  Some of our fellow congregants have lost businesses that they spent their entire lives building up, only to see it collapse overnight.  Some are the undeserving victims of their employers' need to downsize in order to stay afloat, and their personal wages are either dramatically lowered or their particular position is eliminated. The empty pit that others are sitting in today, has nothing to do with money.  For some, they are in a deep pit because their husband or wife woke up one day and informed them that they wanted a divorce, and it may have come from left field.  Still others are reeling from a recent diagnosis for a family member or for themselves, and it often comes without warning.

 

Isn't it interesting that most folks find themselves questioning God's existence or God's reality when we are down in the pit, but rarely do we question God's existence when we are on the mountaintop.  That, I think is the message of the combination of these two texts to be read on Rosh Hashana.  It is as if our sages are telling us, as this new year is about to begin, know in advance that stuff happens—good stuff, bad stuff.  Know in advance that there is so much over which we have absolutely no control.  We may be forced to deal with all kinds of adversity, the likes of which we might deserve and we might not, but we will face those situations anyway.  We may be challenged with tragedies and sorrows and problems that we simply never anticipated, never saw coming, never had an opportunity to plan for, but we will face them, and we can and we will face them and overcome them and emerge whole and strong, because that is the call of Hagar to see God in the depths of the pit, that is the religious inclination to see God in the midst of darkness and despair.  But we also encounter God in our celebrations and triumphs.  The second story is summoning us to the mountaintop to recognize the mystery of God's work in this world when things go right, when life is wonderful, when we are experiencing absolute joy, that can be as mystifying as the deep pits of despair.  The same mystery that causes us to be in awe and in wonder about the Nature of God when things go wrong is equally perplexing when things go right!  That God that we encounter whether in the bottom of the pit or on the top of the mountain will probably NOT look like an old man in a white robe and with a white beard.  That God will more likely look like your neighbor, your friend, your fellow congregant who comes over to your house with food and with compassion and with friendship when you are down and when you are on top of the world.  The well that Hagar and Yishmael see in the wilderness is described in a very significant way.  The text does NOT say that God suddenly created a well in the middle of the desert.  What it says is that God opened her eyes and she saw a well of water.  Taken literally, God didn't make the well right there on the spot.  The well was already there.  It was God's presence with her, God's comforting, encouraging, loving presence that enabled her to see what was already there and that she has the power within her to face her crisis and overcome it and to defeat it.  That, I believe is what our Sages understood about these two stories and that is why they selected them for our Torah readings on these two days of Rosh Hashana—it is the power of friendship, the power of caring, the power of love that every one of us has within us to give—that is the work of God in our lives, and sometimes, we only get to see or experience that power as we find ourselves in the lowest part of the well and sometimes we see or experience it when we are on the top of the mountain.

 

Our synagogue has suffered from this economy just as each of our families have suffered.  If you are struggling to pay your bills, the likelihood is that your mortgage and electricity bills will be paid before your synagogue dues. In this past year  more and more of our families have not been able to pay their dues or tuitions or  fees, all of which is what keeps our synagogue afloat.  There are, at least, two different ways that we have to deal with that reality.  The first one is that for some of you, and I do not know who you are, or to what extent this is true for you—there are some of our families who, thankfully, have not suffered too much economically.  And frankly, we need your help.  We need you to help us out by making significant donations to our shul this coming year and by making a commitment to consider a multi-year obligation.  What if, for example,  3-5 families got together and asked themselves, what does it cost us to run and operate our Youth Groups—all the salaries, all the supplies, all the costs of running the incredible programs that Chalutzim and Kadima and USY have over the course of a year, the programs that attract dozens and dozens of our kids to come here and enjoy being here, making lifelong friends in a wonderful Jewish atmosphere and environment, and ask the questions—what does all that cost—how much does that take up of our synagogue budget and what if those 3-5 families decided—we will donate that amount collectively to the synagogue so that the youth group piece of the budget is covered.  And what if 10-15 families who are all friends and who care about B'nai Aviv got together and found out what it costs to run the Religious School and they committed themselves to donate that amount of money for the next few years.  And if another group did that for ECEC, and another group really cared about our religious services and took upon themselves the responsibility to cover the costs of the Ritual line of our budget.  You get the idea.  It was just a few years ago that we were seriously considering expanding our physical plant.  And just as we were about to launch the fund-raising campaign, the economy tanked, and the demographics of our community began to change with fewer young families moving in to Weston, and more and more families deciding to move out.  This is the reality we must face.  So rather than the usual fundraising program where you get to pay for a room or a wing of the building, I would hope that some of you might be willing to put your names on a program rather than on a brick, and maybe that's how we can re-build our fiscal strength.  It can't and won't happen without your help.  Please think about these ideas as you go through the next few days and as you prepare to come back here next week, on Yom Kippur, when your synagogue president will be making his appeal to you for funds. 

 

Our shul is facing a difficult time—thankfully, we are not quite at the point that Hagar was at—we have not reached the bottom.  We are challenged but not desperate.  We are nervous but not about to close up.  We are concerned, but we are also a community of accomplishment and of hope.  As Hagar felt the presence of God at a low point in her life, we too can feel God's presence in our lives as we climb out from the depths of this challenge and discover new sources of strength, resolve, uplift, and enthusiasm right here in this room, in the hearts and consciences of our own congregants who may be inspired to help us hope by hoping for your help.

 

Clearly what I have mentioned so far can only be done by those whose checkbooks are able to make a difference.  The second thing that we need and which can be done by every single person here is simply this.  Come into this building without the chips that sometimes sit on some of your shoulders.  I have heard raised voices making demands.  I have heard raised voices complaining about this or that policy, or about this or that requirement, or about this or that expectation.  I have heard people say, "You can't make me do this, I am not Orthodox", as if being Orthodox was such a sin.  I have heard people say, "You know I am really Reform," as if that somehow means they don't have to do anything Jewish in their lives.  I have heard people say, "if I don't get my child in the class I want I will quit this synagogue."  Do any of you really think that all we do here is try to figure out what things we can do to make you miserable?  Do any of you really believe that if there are so many square feet in a classroom, and it is completely filled already with bodies and desks and supplies in it, that we can simply stuff one more body in there?  Do you think we enjoy saying "no" to you? Do any of you whose voices are sometimes louder than they need to be think that by shouting at someone, you are more likely to get your way, or that because of your shouting, we will ignore the same request made by someone else who is not shouting?  Can we all try hard to agree that we are all on the same team, and that what all of us care about is making your family happy and satisfied and content, but that we also have an obligation to raise a generation of young Jews to be knowledgeable about their heritage, involved in their Jewish life, making commitments to keeping this enterprise called Judaism alive for another generation, that we want your children to love being Jewish, and that means, among other things, caring deeply and passionately about Israel, finding the study of Torah exciting and challenging, enjoying the cultural aspects of Judaism such as music and Israeli dance, finding the mysteries of the Hebrew language to be fun and entertaining, that learning our history, our past, is part of what assures us of a future, that we want to encourage all of our children to explore the nature of their own Jewish identities, and to learn about our religious traditions, such as Shabbat and keeping Kosher, not in a forceful or take-it-or-leave-it way, not to belittle what any of you choose to do or not do in your personal lives, but to simply know what these practices are about, simply because they are part of who we are as a People.

 

What it comes down to my dear friends, is this—we are all stressed out by the economy, by the politics of the day, by tensions within our homes, and from outside our homes. And it should not come as a surprise to anyone that this is part of the culture in which we live.  In just one week, three major incidents involving public outbreaks of shouting and of disrespect.  A major tennis champion yells and curses at the line judge during a world-class championship match.  Then on an awards show broadcast to the entire world, a very well-known entertainer walks on stage while the winner is giving her acceptance speech, and this other guy feels he has the right to interrupt her, grab the microphone and say to the whole world, "You are good, but this other singer should have won." And if those two incidents were not enough, the President of the United States is delivering a major speech to Congress and an individual Congressman feels he has the right to shout out loud, "You lie." I don't care if you are a Republican or a Democrat; I don't care if you love President Obama or hate him, the behavior of the Congressman was embarrassing!! Three examples in one week indicating how common, how acceptable it seems to raise our voices when we are not satisfied.  I can guarantee you this, without hesitation.  Anger will not help us solve any of the issues we face.  It will not make any of them go away.  If anything, the synagogue ought to be a place where we come in as an individual and walk out as a community, where we connect with the best that is within ourselves and share it willingly and lovingly with each other, a place where we enter, like Hagar, feeling that we are at the bottom of the well, but exit, like Abraham, feeling that we are on top of a mountain, seeing the world differently, with more clarity, more trust, more faith, and more confidence that God's presence is alive and well within each one of us and in these challenging times, we need to tap into that presence, and feel it and share it and create it with and for each other.  I can assure you of this—we do not want to hound you about what you owe to the shul.  We want to celebrate what you have to give.  In our 20-plus years, so many of you have given so much.  Who knows what we will accomplish in the next 20 years?  But whatever it is, let's do it with love, with kindness, with the spark of holiness that it demands and assure that this will always be a place of peace.

 

For those of you who are facing this New Year at the bottom of your well, let's hold hands and climb out from there together, and for those of you who feel you are at the top of the mountain, let's celebrate your good fortune together.  Wherever you happen to be, let's all remember that life is a journey, not a destination.  The future is unknown and can be scary or it can be an adventure.  By facing it together we share our strength, our skills, and our energy so that we can continue on the path ahead with confidence, with faith, and with hope.  I believe that every problem has a solution and that every challenge is an opportunity.  Let this year be one of seizing those opportunities for growth, accomplishment, and success for ourselves, for our congregation, and for the world.

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.