Questionnaire Under a Glass

 Quite a few years back I sent out a questionnaire to my congregation.  I wanted to learn more about them.  The needs of the people are paramount and how best to serve them than ask their needs?  I have wondered many times, before and since, “What do people want?”  Why do so many come week after week?  Why do others remain invisible unless there is a major life event?  And perhaps more grandiose, what is the secret of Jewish survival in America?  Most nagging of all, what do members expect of me, their rabbi?  What do I represent to those who flock to the synagogue and those who remain strangers apart of religious life?

So the questionnaire was designed to ask questions that I would never dare ask people individually because I would not want to shame them.  For example, asking someone if they keep a kosher home may be interpreted as a chastisement.  Or inquiring what they expect of the synagogue may invite painful admissions.  But asking what we are, as a community, a congregation, missing might bring about some revelatory responses.

Candidly I had no right to assume that I would get more than a few responses trickle in…but they flooded back.

The answers that came back were in some way uniform.  Wherever people individual observance or attendance lay, they wanted more.  All wanted something more than what was.  Some desired a larger sanctuary.  Others wanted to enlarge their scope of Jewish knowledge.  Some wanted professional licensed counselors available at the synagogue.  Others voiced a desire for full time educators on staff.

One of the respondents was irritated.  Anonymously, they scribbled on their returned document, “Is any of this reality?”  I took it to mean that they were wondering if the questions were a tease and of no value since no change would happen as a result of the responses.

That which I asked in the questionnaire were akin to a wish list.  The vast majority of the congregation I learned were anything but apathetic.  They all wanted change.  I suppose there was some legitimacy to the irate response I received.  After all, were I to present the aggregate wishes of the congregation to the Board of Directors there is no way they could afford what the people wanted.  There was no money for an executive director or cantor, executive secretory and more.  And yet.

If ten more families joined the synagogue we could expand the library.  With another ten we could consider a basketball court.  With another ten a full-time educator could be hired.  Another group and there might be a mikveh, a pool, a gym, chapel, psychologist….  No dream would beyond the scope of realization.

 

I think of all the bitter young Jews who harbor deep grudges against Jewish institutions, many of whom I have met.  Some feel they should not have to pay for membership.  Some were insulted by a teacher long ago and to date accuse synagogues of collective guilt for some wrongdoing decades ago.

“I want my money to go some real good,” some commented.  If I had a dollar for every time I heard that line…

Many times I have had to put up Jewish folks in motels for a few days until they sorted out their finances or terrible personal situation.  Or other times when a needy member confided their life was falling apparat and they needed a life preserver.  Truth be told, when my private funds were running low some saint from the congregation would step in.  I would call someone up and say, “I have an awful problem…”  They interrupt me midsentence (they all do this) and say, “Rabbi, I don’t need to know the situation.  Just tell me what you need.”  And most of these dependable folks have served on the Board at some time.  They are givers.

Some people just throw up their hands and confess they have no need for the synagogue.  “I have nothing against it.  It just does nothing for me.”  I have little to offer these people.  When the time comes, they or their loved ones will call me as a hired hand to eulogize them.  But they are missing two points.  One is that the shul offers more than religion.  It brings with it a concerned community.  When there is an illness, visitors come with chicken soup, kind words or flowers, and get-well cards. There are special programs, memorials and social events.  

Secondly, there are opportunities one is never aware of until they are placed before you.

Worse still, is the future. Dissociation from the synagogue weakens the whole body and less opportunities for those who affiliate.  It is odd that we are eager to give to charities that help the needy but reluctant to support the one institution that broadly supports your neighbors and relatives.  It also means fewer resources for the needy as the synagogue does not discriminate between hose that choose to affiliate and those who do not and great burden for those who remain in the congregation.  In short, we do with less.

There are no guarantees that being a member will ensure that your children will remain Jews but it does strengthen the odds.  Lack of interest in the affairs of community – you vote with your wallet and feet – the fate of the large part of the Jewish family hangs in the balance.  Our children learn by what we do, not by what we say.

What about those who are beyond the age of child-rearing?  Some seniors believe that once they are beyond their prime, they have paid their dues.  Now is the time to withdraw. 

To those who hold this opinion I urge, remember back to those who most influenced us – people who commitment to ideals and faith that they were towering influence whose hand guides us well beyond the grave.  What legacy do you leave behind?  Make no mistake, deeds are profoundly louder and more dramatic than anything else in the physical world.  Seniors can have a more powerful impact than even the peers or parents!

We will always be here for you.  If it’s counselling the Jewish Family Service will be here.  Years ago, we settled hundreds of Soviet immigrants.  In the past we actively fought threats from missionary groups and today against the tsunami of hatred against Jews.

We use our combined energies to support Israel, especially during times of crises, which are all too many.

We are small in number.  There are no huge endowments that undergird our congregational and communal organizations.  The needs are many, the demands are at times overwhelming.  To serve our people faithfully whenever they need requires us all.

One of the greatest teachers ever, Hillel, concisely stated, “Do not separate yourself from the community,” (Avot 2:4). That is an ethical imperative.  A student of his commented on his Master’s teaching, ‘One who sever his connections to the Jewish community will be twice cursed.  That person will share in all the tragedies that befall the Jewish people (this 2,000 years before Hitler) and will not share in its triumphs.’  The former curse has been proven correct.  However, I am not so sure about the latter comment as we are seriously weakened without every member.

Our synagogues and institutions are open to all without reservation.  While we are filled to capacity on the Days of Awe, no one is turned away when they seek God.  The safety net is ready to catch anyone when they need help.  It is here but could use bolstering that only you can provide.

Consider.  Be here for us.  We are here for you. 

 

 

Anyway

  

People are illogical, unreasonable, and self-centered.
Love them anyway.

 

If you do good, people will accuse you of selfish ulterior motives.
Do good anyway.

 

If you are successful, you will win false friends and true enemies.
Succeed anyway.

 

The good you do today will be forgotten tomorrow.
Do good anyway.

 

Honesty makes you vulnerable.
Be honest anyway.

  

People favor underdogs but follow only top dogs.
Fight for the underdogs anyway.

 

What you spend years building may be destroyed overnight.
Build anyway.

 

People really need help but may attack you if you help them.
Help people anyway.

 

Give the world the best and you’ll get kicked in the teeth.
Give the world the best you have anyway.

 

 

Slaves

Good news and bad news. 

The bad news is that you are a slave.  

The good news is that you are free to choose your master.  

You can be enslaved to technology.  The trouble with that is that every now and again the “god” goes on the blink.  That can be infuriating.  When you are in the middle of a project and the internet or computer goes on the “fritz” it can cause palpitations.  Or can be a slave to purchasing new things or eating beyond satiation but these too are momentary highs which leave us feeling more empty than before.

Even surrounding ourselves with people, the buzz of never being alone is an enslavement.  They will eventually let us down.  People are often troublesome, stubborn, egotistical and unforgiving.  Believe it or not, education and learning can become a false god.  One wit wrote that Aunt Sadie thought that the eighth day of creation, rivaling God’s crafting of the universe, was when her son Marvin became a doctor!

When we become compulsive about any thing it will inevitably leave us feeling blank and hollow. Few of us control our lives opting instead to choose a master.

Choose God.  Continue your learning. Walk out of doors.  Eat good food.  Practice mitzvot.  Love people. Love the world. Love yourself.  Embrace your soul.  It is all of the above and more.

Nozek

First published  1994

At the far end of the Nozek synagogue in Warsaw, Poland (the last standing shul in the city after the Shoah) stood a slight man with a thin beard.  He shifted uneasily from foot to foot.  Slight wisps of hair rose upon his head like strand of cotton.  His eyes betrayed a nervousness that made him stand out, rather than shrink into invisibly as he seemed to want.  Half trying to hide behind one of the shul’s columns he seems almost tempted to push his way into the group of visitors but too frighted to take that step.  So, there he remained shyly gazing at the visitors into his home.

“Shalom,” I said offering my hand.  He returned the greeting and his Hebrew sounded good so I continued, “I don’t understand.  All the other synagogues in Warsaw, some thirty-five, were razed by the Nazis.  Why did they save this one?  Why is Nozek still standing?“ He looked confused.

“Do you speak French,” he asked.

I was more than two decades since I last uttered any semblance of French.  About all I remembered was “Where is Jean-Pierre?”

I tried to dredge up memories but came up empty.

So I tried again.  Finally, he understood and conveyed through our minimal language that the shul was preserved to be used as a stable for the horses of the invaders.  The synagogue structure still had use for the Nazis after they desecrated it.  Nothing else remained of the once magnificent synagogue.  It was stripped bare.  Where the sacred Torahs once graced the Holy Ark in regal splendor with the finest silver and gold ornaments, there stood an empty cove.  Shreds of prayer books littered the floor.

“I am a rabbi.”

He looked puzzled so I repeated, “I am a rabbi.”

“Ah.”

My thin companion brightened.  He leaned over and whispered, “My name is Christopher. But,” he glanced around to seek out teacher standing by the door,” my name is now Israel.  Shh.”

He was studying to become a Jew.  One of the last ones.

“Are your parents Jewish?”

“Well, yes and no…,” he answered.  “My parents were communists.” I could barely hear his words.

“I understand.”  I gazed at him for a few moments and wondered, what words of encouragement could I give this young man on his journey to reclaim his lost heritage?  It was a long road ahead and I wondered where he was on this pathway.

“Good,” I said.  “Very good.”

He smiled.  “Thank you.”

I held him another moment. “Do you know what teshuvah means?  Yes? You understand that it means you are here.” I pointed.  “And then you go over there.  When you come back here it is called teshuvah.  Return. Welcome home, Israel.”

His eyes grew moist.

“Shalom,” we bade one another.

Amping the dead and dying of Warsaw there are a few lives reaching out from the depths of annihilation.  

Survivors all.  Our obligation is to revitalize our most precious possession.  Be Jewish.  Do Jewish.

 

 

Accentuate the Positive

 “The science of psychology has been far more successful on the negative than on the positive side; it has revealed to us much about man’s shortcomings, his illness, his sins, but little about his potentialities…”, observed psychologist Abraham Maslow.

 

It is far easier to focus on what is wrong than what is right.  It is what Dennis Prager calls, “the missing tile syndrome.”  You can visit a museum, study great works of art and become enraptured by the beauty that you see.  But, if you happen across a mosaic, fantastic and magnificent in its artisanship and a single tile - out of thousands - is missing, our natural inclination is to focus on the imperfection, the one missing tile, and miss the grander picture.  We are prone to look for flaws and focus on them instead of centering on what is right.  All we see is the broken picture.  

 

If this propensity was limited to artwork, it would not be so inditing, but we tend to do this with people as well.  We see their warts, personality flaws, and limitations while ignoring the whole human being.   What would life be like if we only saw what was best and admirable in people instead of looking for their shortcomings?  Certainly, we would be less critical of others, and accentuate their assets rather than their deficits.  Interestingly, most people would then live up to our positive observations about them: they would rise to our expectations and not live down to negative opinion.  There is an additional incentive to this novel modality; we would be happier people.

 

Most of the world lives with the belief that through economic prosperity, buying and owning more stuff, they are happier.  Wealth is generally measured by how much you have versus your neighbors.  Yet, polls have consistently found that wealth does not correlate with happiness.  Constant pitting oneself against others causes much heartache and dissatisfaction and the tendency to compare wealth feeds the propensity in us to undermine others, i.e., detailing their flaws, through defamation, character assassination or something more insidious.  

 

Bhutan is a tiny country of about one million in the foothills of the Himalayas.  In 1972 the government moved away from the rush to embrace the highest GNP to the GNH, Gross National Happiness.  The populace of Bhutan is not rich, but the general sense of wellbeing and contentment outstrips other countries.  They are happier people.

 

Robert Kennedy incisively said in 1968, “But even if we act to erase material poverty, there is another greater task.  It is to confront the poverty of satisfaction...that afflicts us all."  Unhappy people seek to validate their life by comparing themselves to others.  That does not make for a happier life.  The opposite.  To note what is missing from another person's life, or absent in your own, promotes a sense of dissatisfaction.

 

Think about this the next time you compare yourself to another person or hear someone complain about how so-and-so is not a good person because....  This is "the missing tile syndrome."  Life is greater than what we perceive as absent.  The mosaic of life is colorful, grand, and each piece utterly unique.  Everyone is broken.  And everyone is as perfect as they need to be.

 

Connection

  Long ago when my son wanted to play with me, he would use this argument, “Abba, if you won’t play with me, I will not be your best friend.”  Always a good attention-grabber.  Turning toward him, I responded, “I do not have to be your best friend. I am your father.  I love you but I don’t have to be your best friend.”

 

What happens behind the scenes takes place somewhere deep in the psyche – unspoken but ever-present – is love.  My son threatens me that unless I do what he wants he will no longer love me.  Love lies at the heart of this and all relationships.

 

Love is tenacious; it defies all logic and reason.  That much I have learned from the instances of betrayal I have dealt with through the years – where the one who was betrayed refuses to give up.  The adultery for them is like an apparition or nightmare.  Soon they will wake up and it will all be gone, they believe.  Love is also tentative; it is never sure that it really exists and it is impossible to test.  How do you know you re loved?  Because they say so?  Or because you feel that way?  What if that love is challenged?  How do we cope with the assault on our feelings?

 

A woman came to me with a complaint.  Her husband had left her and now in the wake of her abandonment she had problems with giving and receiving love.  There were several relationships sin the intervening years and each was a dismal failure.  She whispered in barely audible voice that she believed life had harden her to the point where she was no longer capable of love.

 

We have all been abandoned at various points in our life.  Doesn’t society tell us to seek out new and separate lives from our families, not in avoidance of love but in self-interest, to develop our abilities.  Families do not eat together.  Time is fragmented.  There are plays, ballet and sports.  Mom works.  Dad complains of overwork,  Even vacations are spent being entertained with specific interest and not as a whole unit.  Travel packages cater to programs for all ages.  The result?  More time spent apart.  Family gathering are infrequent, if at all.  Once grandparents and grandchildren lived together.  Now we are on polite and distant terms.  And love suffers.

 

The word “religion” comes from the Latin root meaning “to bind.”  It is little surprise then that as families have drifted apart so has modernity lost its moorings to faith.  

 

Now and then we encounter moments when loneliness and separation dissipate and we converge, as one.  One such time are the Days of Awe.  We come together as a fragmented, broken family to renew our bonds as distant relations and to God as equals.

 

During the Holy Days we recite a litany of sins:

>For the sin of spitefulness

>For the sin of corruption

>For the sin of xenophobia

>For the sin of lying

>For the sin of evading taxed

>For the sin of lust

>For the sin of stealing

All these are presented before the Master of thew universe, pitiful creatures all, seeking the same thing.  Forgiveness.  Absolution.  Healing the brokenness of our hearts and families.

 

In the midrash God quotes Jeremiah: “I have loved you with an eternal love.” (31:3)  “Note that the phrase does not say “endless love” but an eternal love.  Otherwise, you might think that God loves us for two or three year or maybe one hundred years.  But H=s love is everlasting, to all eternity.”

 

Coming together at synagogue on the Holy Days is the great leveler of humanity.  We come seeking love and acceptance and are given it.  We laugh, cry, shudder and touch one another.  The unspoken question: What has happened to us?  And whereto from here?  How can we turn ourselves into a whole one, not fragmented torn and lonely?

 

It is our tradition that a Jew be buried in their own tallit.  We would do well to remember that life is short.  Give up the ego. Check it at the door or in the cloakroom.  Find yourself with those who also want to find themselves and their lost connection.

Hanukkah O Hannuka! Come Light the Menorah!

Hanukkah and Purim have a number of similarities.  They are both minor holidays that are outsize in the way we celebrate them.  Another is they are both about anti-Semitism.  On Purim the villain, Haman, wants to destroy the Jews.  On Hanukkah the enemy are the Greeks.  Both stories have great drama with the aim of eliminating the Jews almost succeeds but, in the end, after much pain and near failure, the enemy is vanquished and we are free.

 

In Dara Horns’ People Love Dead Jews, there is a chapter on the anti-Semitism where she distinguishes between what she calls “the Hanukkah version of anti-Semitism” and “the Purim version of anti-Semitism.” Hanukkah anti-Semitism is that which destroys Jewish civilization from the inside by pressuring Jews to gradually become non-Jews, while Purim anti-Semitism is a little bit more direct: kill all the Jews.

 

In the twentieth and twenty-first centuries we have witnessed both forms of anti-Semitism.  They are each insidious and seek to eradicate us from the earth.  It is a lesson we would rather avoid confronting which is why we go to such great lengths to change the import and practices of the holidays.  Purim has become a time of revelry and drinking (without recalling that the reason for getting intoxicated is to forget the pain of those who tried to murder us).  Hanukkah has morphed into a mimicry of Christmas with gifts being exchanged and eight “crazy nights” preferring to put aside the whole idea of assimilation to the point of our disappearance.

 

There is nothing wrong with either practice so long as we do not forget the primary reason we observe these holidays.  And so that these words are not misunderstood, the lesson is not “they tried to kill us, let’s eat”; it is listening to the “still small voice” of G-d and acknowledging our place in the great chain of tradition that spans the epochs.  We are not Jews because of anti-Semitism: there is anti-Semitism because we are Jews.  It is tragic if we forget this.

 

I have learned from survivors that there were two reactions to the Nazi assault on our people.  One was utter bewilderment.  “Why is this happening to me?  I am a proud German (or other nationality) and have served my country patriotically.”  That they were Jewish was incidental to their lives, hence their confusion why they were being slated for death.   The other was an understanding.  “I know why they hate me.”  Both types were filled with horror but the latter understood that living Jewishly was why they were being afflicted.  They grasped and accepted the meaning and import of Hanukkah and Purim.

 

Traditionally, on Hanukkah we read psalm 30.  One line reads, “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.”  Hanukkah’s epic tale contains deeply emotional aspects of assimilation and hatred.  The psalm undergirds the meaning and hope that we express on the festival of lights.  The twin hopes we aspire to integrate on the upcoming holiday are to live an authentic Jewish life in consonance with what G-d has given and to know that doing so will infuse those tiny wicks with new meaning; flames, sparks and embers that can lift our spirits and elevate our souls.

 

After the Holy Days

 We have passed through a bubbling cauldron of contradictory and complex thoughts.  First, we anticipated the New Year, Rosh Hashanah, by preparing ourselves for meeting G-d and being fully aware and grateful of another year of life granted.  Then we fasted and afflicted out minds and souls with an unfiltered look at the detritus accumulated through this past year.  All out wrongdoings were views through a realistic prism of tarnished thoughts, actions, and inactions.  We atoned, weeping for ourselves and our loss of life's path.  Then came Sukkot with its heavily grounding in the earth - waving palms and etrogs, sitting in our Sukkot, reading the challenging ideas of Ecclesiastes…  Then came Yizkor on Shmini Atzeret, and finally dancing and celebrating our gift form G-d on Simchat Torah.  Joy, sadness, celebration, contemplation, remembrance….so many varied thoughts and practices as the summer recedes blending into Fall.

And now.

What is life about?  

Perspective.  Viewing life’s events through the lens of growth and hope.  Here is a story to illustrate.

A writer sat in his study. He picked up his pen and began to write:

** Last year, my gall bladder was removed. I was stuck in bed due to this surgery for a long time.

** The same year I reached the age of 60 and had to give up my favorite job. I had spent 30 years of my life with this publishing company.

** The same year I experienced the death of my father.

** In the same year my son failed in his medical exam because he had a car accident. He had to stay in the hospital with a cast on his leg for several days. 

** And the destruction of the car was a second loss.

At the end he wrote: Alas! It was such bad year!!

 

When the writer's wife entered the room, she found her husband looking sad and lost in his thoughts. From behind his back she read what was written on his paper. She left the room silently and came back shortly with another paper on which she had written her summery of the year and placed it beside her husband's writing.

 

When the writer saw her paper, he read:

** Last year I finally got rid of my gall bladder which had given me many years of pain.

** I turned 60 with sound health and retired from my job. Now I can utilize my time to write better and with more focus and peace.

** The same year my father, at the age of 95 without depending on anyone and without any critical conditions, met his Creator.

** The same year, God blessed my son with life. My car was destroyed, but my son was alive and without permanent disability.

At the end she wrote: This year was an immense blessing and it passed well!

 

The purpose of all our holy days is to make us reframe our lives, refocusing our emotional and cognitive energies on a life that is meaningful.  That is why there are so many wild swings in practice and import.  The sum total of our days will be judged by how we interpret it.  Let us use this time in the aftermath of such a powerful series of prompts to consider how we can alter the pattern of our days.

Life's Path

 What is most important in being a Jew?

If you asked each person you know they would come up with a different response.  We look, study, and integrate what is most important to us and that will differ from person to person. Answers would probably wildly range from being guardians of the earth and protecting the environment, to social justice, to loving people, forgiving those who harmed you, getting close to G-d, showing kindness to strangers, repairing the world and on and on.

 

The ancient rabbis also reflected deeply on what is most critical in being a Jew.  One said, “Love your neighbor as you love yourself:” another stated “If it hateful to you do not do it to others.”  And then there is the old argument about whether if one had to choose one over the other - study or practice- which is preferable?  (Study won that discussion.)  Even “Google” weighs in on the question and determined pikuach nefesh, saving a life, was most important.

 

This is the season when we contemplate the course of our lives.  Inevitably what will come to mind are the places where we veered from our elected path.  It is our judgment call how we assess ourselves and what intend on changing, based on what we think is most important.

 

One question that we should also consider during this auspicious time of year is, “What makes me happy?”  Now do not be deceived into thinking, “Oh, that is an easy question.”  It is not.  It may be the most difficult question you ever ask.  

One writer answered this way; “I want to believe there’s some reason for living….”   This is a wise response.

 

When the day ends, and you lay down to sleep what determines whether it was a good day or one that was wasted?  I suspect we make that determination based on doing what makes us happy.  Can you answer that?  If you can, you hold the key that unlocks the door marked “a contented life.”  Not every day will be contended or happy but if we know that drives us, our reason for being alive, we can then be a whole body and soul, not one that is distracted and unfocused.

 

No two people are alike.  Everyone will come up with a different answer to their life's pathway, one that touches them soulfully.  Of course, there will be similarities, but one core Jewish belief is that we all have something vital and unique to contribute to the world.  Acting on that innate gift not only allows us a genuine sense of contentment but also provides a necessary ingredient to the world’s brokenness that only we can provide.

 

Answering the question of your life’s pathway is exhilarating and liberating as you no longer need be enslaved by what your neighbors, community or world thinks.  You are your own universe capable of greatness and joy. No wonder the psalmist informs, “You have made us little less than angels.” (ps. 8) 

 

Viktor Frankl challenged, “Being human means being conscious and being responsible.”  What Frankl means is that we must work to find our life’s passage, the reason for our being, why we exist and then mete it out.  In its wake, will come contentment.

 

Holy Days

I remember a story told of Baron de Rothschild’s wife going into labor.  She cried out, “Mon dieu, mon dieu!”  Her husband rushed to the doctor and told him to come quickly.

“What is happening?” the doctor asked.  She cried, “Mon dieu, mon dieu!”

“Just wait a bit longer,” the doctor soothed.

Again she cried, My God!”  And again the doctor counseled patience, “She is not ready.”

Finally she moaned, “Oy vey!”  Then the doctor rushed in.

 

The words we say over this next month of Ellul leading to the High Holy Days, the Yamim Noraim, are powerful.  But when they are infused with meaning they become something that transcends the words on the page or anything that can be uttered.  When we cry out in anguish over our internal pain, the ones we have suffered and the ones we have caused, it rises to the highest heights of heaven.

 

The shofar cries.  Shevarim are like the gasps of breath we take between our choked tears.  The teruah discharges throaty cries that consume us. The shofar does not simply blast, it weeps.  One hundred times the shofar cries.  According to tradition, these are the number of tears shed by a mother whose son was killed in battle.  A parent who will never again see their child.  Each shriek from the shofar is a tear.  

 

One tear for the estrangement between you and your relative.

One tear for the friend lost because of intransigence, the inability to forgive.

One tear for the lies told, even the “white” ones.

One tear for the homeless child who waits for his mother to return home from begging or selling herself.  In Columbia.

One tear for the victim of cancer.

One tear for refusing to take five minutes to help someone in distress.

One tear for not rising to our potential.

One tear for love lost.

One tear for saying, “I have no time to help” when what we really meant was, “not interested.”

One tear when we promised to be present but were too preoccupied to be there.

One tear from the promise we made to live Jewishly.

 

Words are insufficient when the shofar cries its staccato sounds.  And words no longer matter when we weep our losses for each tear wends its way to God.  Ribbono shel Olam said through the blinding passion of wet tears of regret and sorrow, is enough to penetrate any space between our Maker and us.  And more.  It is enough to make the Holy One weep alongside us -- just as we once wept on the shoulder of our parent and their heart was ready to burst in compassion.

 

It takes courage to weep for our insufficiencies, our wrongs, and losses.  The shofar and ech meaningful word we shout out to God urges us to take one more step and allow our cheeks to become wet with our pain.  It takes empathy to cry for the wounded world we have made, for the hungry eyes that stare at us from Finley Park, for the Israelis that live in constant fear of a state of war, for the Ukrainians that have needlessly suffered and for the neighbor down the street that returns to an empty, silent home at the end of the day.

 

These yamim noraim are aimed at stopping us from blaming.  We hold ourselves responsible.  Can we be courageous enough to face ourselves?  Are we courageous enough to cry for our pain?

 

During the year we pray for one another.  Now, we pray for us.  We pray for the strength and courage to take a long look at what and who we have become.  And God?  God holds us tightly, enveloping us in celestial arms and weeps at our return.

Knowing, Unknowing and Change

What would we change if we knew what existed beyond space and time?

Have you ever wondered how different your life would be if you knew what you now know?  

 

 

Jacob, father of our people, lived a life of paradoxes.  He and his descendants brought and spread monotheism and morality; they produced marvelous inventions, creations that changed the way the world thinks and imagine, and became the fixed point of the attention for humanity.  Yet, Father Jacob was both a hero and a deceiver. While his story is the foundational point for the world and his life was often adrift in an almost unfathomable series of choices, most of his own making, each one full of adventure, promise, redemption, and terror.

 

“O human race! Born to ascend on wings,

Why do ye fall at such a little wind?” -Dante

 

Jacob’s majestic dream mirrors his life.  He climbs a ladder to unimaginable heights and plummets to earth faster than his ascent.  On Pesach, we say “My father [Jacob] was a wandering Aramean…”  What if those words were exchanged for “My father was a deceiver?”  Choices.  With the whisp of a single breeze he/we are compelled inwardly to choose one way over another, and life is diverted and never be as it once was or could have been had we elected a different track.

 

Life is full, brimming with endless possibilities.  We make decisions, never knowing what might happen if we choose another course.  Endless are the possibilities of what might have been at another college, making another career choice, a different mate, an uttered the word from our heart instead of withholding it before death intervened and took away that opportunity; and far too quickly we become so absorbed in the life we elected that we forget what else might have been.  We sometimes imagine alternate realities in our dreams and thoughtfully reflect on those choices as the years pass come back to us in moments of deep introspection.

 

In Kabbalah it is called the “shattering of the vessels.”  This is the brokenness we experience when we consider the wrongness of the path taken and the harm and pain we feel and relive over and again.  Interestingly though, Kabbalah does not view the cracked vessels we have become as mistakes but as opportunities.

 

If we knew then what we know now how would we change the trajectory of our lives?  What choices would we tell ourselves to avoid?  And which would we opt to take?

 

Jacob made some awful decisions; his tale is one of flight, fall and acceptance.  His life is our own.  It is no coincidence that we are called Israel, which ultimately became Jacob’s name after he realized that life was not about self-doubt but listening to the gentle breeze and accepting what G-d brings to us.

 

Jews are master storytellers.  At Passover we not only share the story of the Exodus but the seders of our youth, yarns about our grandfather, the long nights of the past, the aroma of soup boiling in the kitchen...  Each year we retell the victory of the Maccabees with their inspiring narratives.  We read stories each week at Shabbat services. And we are actors, comedians, and chapters of our lives each telling the story of a different adventure.  Sure, we know the outcome and when telling the story, we cannot help but wonder and imagine what might have been a different outcome had we been wiser.

 

But we are not.  

 

The saga of our lives is like Jacob/Israel.  We are lost and found.  We despair and are galvanized by hope.  Each step taken has been replete with meaning, both intended and unimaginable but not without meaning.

 

Like Jacob/Israel we have travelled to distant places with different outcomes, most of them in our mind’s eye as the stories grow and morph as we learn to view them through the lens of our newfound maturity.  We can see our footprints in the many stories we tell about ourselves.  They have been full, meaningful, and even if some have been missteps we are buoyed by the words of the Kabbalah, the breaking of the vessels has presented us with new opportunities.

 

At any given moment we exist in the summer of our lives, full of expectation and dreams and choices yet to come.  We are the story and each day we write a new chapter.

Time

When we were young a day was an enormous passage of time.  A few hours at the beach would stretch out toward infinity.  It lasted forever.    Thirty minutes at the playground felt like an entire day.  Clocks used to run slower then.  And one moment, frozen in our memory, sometimes informs the rest of our lives.  Who does not have a lasting memory of being told you were thick-headed or stupid?  Or being chosen last at the game?  Or being told how intelligent/beautiful/clever/incompetent you were?  This moment stands out in our thoughts and comes back time and again reminding us of that powerful event that stays with us the rest of our lives. A split second comment we heard at six years old resonates eighty years later.

 

With age, time speeds up significantly as days blur into weeks.  We are still impacted by what happens to us but those moments do not become as calcified in our mind’s eye as earlier, youthful events…and everything happens so much more quickly!

 

Years pass, weeks quicken to months, and ultimately years spin into decades as memories tend to gel and blend into a giant mosaic sometimes resembling more Jackson Pollack than a Rembrandt.  No longer individual pictures, we begin to remember our life’s events as a narrative with large panels depicting the flow of time.

 

Certain ideas become the sole focus that we pursue at specific segments at moments in story of our life.  When were young it was usually mastering some art like running, swimming, gymnastics, creative projects...  School became our primary focus as we grew to understand that much of this learning would eventually develop into an amorphous idea called a “profession” which would yield virtually everything that we needed for the rest of our life.  

 

Responsibilities mounted.  Whether children, relations, dogs, home, car or possessions the amount of energy required to simply stay still is enormous.  We yearn to slow down for time to creep forward the way it used to when we were young.

 

And then one day we are beyond the exigencies of crafting a career, amassing wealth and possessions.  Adrift, what are our priorities as we settle into the winter of our lives?  Have we missed opportunities?    Can we reclaim what was lost?

 

Norman Vincent Peale remarked that when he was young the ticking of his grandfather’s clock was ponderous.  “It seemed to say, “There—is--plenty – of –time.   There—is--plenty – of –time.  There—is--plenty – of –time.   There—is--plenty – of –time.”  But modern clocks, having a shorter pendulum with a swifter stroke, seem to say, “Time to get busy!   Time to get busy!    Time to get busy!    Time to get busy! ” 

Maybe it's time to get a new internal clock, one that covets and savors each precious moment, as when we were young.

The Greatness of Pain

There are many things that we share in common that could unite humanity.  There are far more similarities than differences.  In fact, we have to work hard to find differences.  Often prejudice arises out of that search to define how we differ.  In one sense when we proudly state that we are from South Carolina and people from other places, say New Hampshire, have habits and attitudes that are grossly different we are engaged in that process of differentiation which is a mild form of prejudice.  On a more obvious scale, when we declare that Americans are better than the French, men are superior to women, Europeans are nicer than Africans or Christians are better than Buddhists, Jews are better than Muslims…

 

It takes consideration and serious thought to develop these specialized prejudices and often we do them at convenient times (football games) and unacceptable times like the Holocaust.  The salient point is that we are more alike than different and when we take time to point out differences between people we are putting energy, work, into trying to define someone, a political party, a religion or nationality.  It takes little or no effort to try to find how we are similar.  One of the many ways in which we are much alike is our woundedness.

 

We are all broken.  Some suffer from disease, some from addiction.  Others bear the scars of physical or mental abuse.  All are wounded by ignorance, indifference and the spoken word.  That is the great commonality that humanity shares - we have all been hurt.

 

What do we do with our scars?

 

1.     Forgive yourself. When you have been on the “giving end” apologize and then issue a formal apology and follow with an acceptance of that apology to self.  To continually carry that suffering we have caused others is to be burdened by a weight that will affect our future relationships and impede our progress to growth.

2.     Forgive those who have harmed you.  Some will apologize, others will not.  For your sake, not theirs, let it go. It does them no harm for you to carry this grudge.  You are only harming yourself.

3.     Ask G-d.  Tell G-d what you need and ask to be relieved of those past shortcomings, wrongdoings.  Find a quiet place where you can speak openly and freely.  Many like to find themselves alone in the Sanctuary to open their hearts.  Any place will do.  Just make it real and speak from your heart.

4.     Learn. Camus wrote, “In the midst of winter, I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer.”  Remember that scars are stronger than the original skin they have healed.   You are stronger than you think. 

Viktor Frankl experienced the worst side of humanity’s brutality.  Here is what he learned:

“But pain is a great teacher. Just as physical pain can mobilize our defenses and alert us to deeper problems, so can emotional pain. It has the function of awakening us to the realization that there is something wrong in our lives, something that needs attention. If we ignore inner pain, it will surely grow out of control.”  

 Allow the lessons of pain to make you a better person, more apt to really listen to the broken   hearts around you, be empathetic just as you would want for your self.

5. Embrace your gifts.  You are not an accident.  The life you were born into is not incidental.  The    faith you were born into yields fine fruits but they must be plucked, learned and practiced.  It is not too late: in fact it is right on time.

6.  Accept that you and everyone is imperfect.  Or as Joe Torre phrased it, “How to catch a knuckleball: ‘Wait ‘til it stops rolling, then pick it up’.”  When life throws at you the unexpected, wait.  The ball will eventfully stop rolling.  Or as Solomon the Wise put it, “This too shall pass.”

 

Pain has its purpose and should never be used as a tool against others.  Instead, it presents itself as a grand opportunity for growth and change.