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Erev Rosh Hashanah 5780 – Kindness in Thought

Our ancient rabbis taught: One who judges another favorably is himself or herself judged favorably. They said: Once there was an issue confronting the Torah scholars. They wanted to discuss it with a certain matron whose company was kept by all the prominent people of Rome. (This is a kind way of saying that she was a prostitute to the Roman leadership.) The Torah scholars needed to address the government on behalf of the Jewish people, and they sought the matron’s advice. They asked: Who will go to her? Rabbi Yehoshua said to them: I will go.

Rabbi Yehoshua and his students went to the matron. When they arrived, he removed his t’fillin, he entered, and he locked the door behind him. After he emerged from her home, he immersed in a mikveh, a ritual bath, to purify himself, and then he sat down and taught his students.

He said to them: When I removed my t’fillin, of what did you suspect me? They said to him, we said: The Rabbi must hold that sacred items may not enter a place of impurity. Therefore, it would have been inappropriate to enter the house with t’fillin.

He asked: When I locked the door, of what did you suspect me? They said to him, we said: Perhaps there is a discreet royal matter that must be discussed between the Rabbi and the matron and no one should overhear them.

Rabbi Yehoshua asked: When I immersed in the mikveh, of what did you suspect me? They said to him, we said: Perhaps a bit of spittle sprayed from her mouth onto the Rabbi’s clothes. (This is based on the notion that the legal status of the bodily fluids of a gentile transmit ritual impurity.)

Rabbi Yehoshua said to them: I swear by my service to God that it was exactly as you thought. And just as you judged me favorably, so may God judge you favorably.[1]

A conservative rabbi friend tells a similar, albeit, contemporary story: He was studying with a prominent Orthodox rabbi who was teaching about the need to restrain oneself before rebuking another. He posed the question:

“What do you say when you see an observant Jew walking out of McDonald’s with a bag labeled ‘cheeseburger’? You assume he was getting a sandwich for a colleague, secretary, or boss and you say ‘hello.’”

My friend went on with his story, noting that a few months later, he was eating a cold salad in a non-kosher restaurant (an acceptable exception to strict kashrut for Conservative, but usually not Orthodox, Jews) when that same prominent Orthodox rabbi entered. My friend assumed that his teacher came in for a glass of water or to use the restroom. The rabbi didn’t look at what my friend was eating, and my friend didn’t assume his teacher would break kashrut. Instead, they warmly greeted each other.[2]

In these two stories, assuming the best about the other wasn’t too difficult. Both were about prominent rabbis. Both had disciples observing them. And both were given the benefit of the doubt.

But what happens when the other isn’t a prominent member of the community or one’s teacher?

Once, a very poor man encountered a Rabbi and asked for ten gold coins to treat his sick wife. The Rabbi had no money on him, and instead gave the man a silver candlestick and told him to pawn it for ten gold coins. He also told the man not to worry, that he would redeem it from the pawnshop.

A few days later, the Rabbi entered the pawnshop and discovered that the poor man sold it for 25 gold pieces, not ten. The pawnshop owner cursed the poor man on the Rabbi’s behalf, feeling that the Rabbi had been taken advantage of. The Rabbi shook his head and said, “Nonsense. Think of how embarrassed the poor man must have been in needing 25 gold coins, not just ten.”

Recently, I was with my family at a local fair. While waiting on line to buy some corn-on-the-cob, I saw a young man wearing a t-shirt that expressed a political view the complete opposite of mine. What his shirt said and what my views are are completely irrelevant. What matters is my reaction to seeing him and his shirt. I first began to assume not nice things about the person. “How could he support …” went through my mind. “He probably hates me or worse, wants me dead,” I continued to think.

And then I stopped myself. How dare I assume these things? I was ashamed of myself then and am a bit ashamed to admit it here. I looked at him and his t-shirt once more. And then I thought, “I wonder what kind of life experiences he has had that have led him to hold the views he does? How did he grow up? Where? What did his parents teach him? What does he value in the world?”

Suddenly, I felt a rush of compassion run through me. Maybe his life was the opposite of mine – or maybe it was similar. But it didn’t matter. I searched to find what we shared – and at our core, it was our humanity. Our Rabbis teach us in Pirkei Avot, from the 3^rd century, “Never judge another until you put yourself in his or her position.”[3]

One cautionary tale on this subject comes from an unknown source. It concerns a man who was the supervisor (mashgiach) of kosher standards at a food processing plant.

He had been doing his job for quite some time without problem or incident, when one day the boss pulled him aside and told him that one of the employees had seen someone come into the kitchen to look into the pots and read the label ingredients. The mashgiach was a bit miffed. “If that person doubted my supervision,” he responded, “the correct thing to do was to come directly to me to ask his questions, not to poke around by himself, behind my back.”

Some time passed and once again the boss took the mashgiach aside to report that the employee had reported that the intruder had returned and was once again nosing around the kitchen. Now the mashgiach was indignant. “One time he comes snooping, okay. But he’s back again?” When he was told of the third visit, the mashgiach began to think some nasty thoughts. What kind of person sneaks around like that to check up on him? Why didn’t he come right out with his questions and concerns instead of ferreting around like a low-life? Why is he doing this? He’s no better than a thief! Or maybe worse! Maybe he is out to dig up something to ruin my reputation! A pox on him. And his family!

On his next visit to the factory, the boss once again took him aside and, before he could say a word, the mashgiach was fuming and spluttering about this no-good, sidewinding, less-than-a-worm of a human-being for whom rotting in Gehenom was too good a fate … “Hold on! said the boss. “We’ve solved the mystery. The person who keeps poking around the factory? He’s you! The employee who reported it is new on the job and he didn’t know you or what you do here, so he reported on this ‘suspicious’ individual.”

The boss was laughing, and he didn’t understand why the mashgiach wasn’t joining in. But what was going on in the mashgiach’s mind at that moment was a review of all the curses and nasty thoughts he had wished on this unknown person, his family, and his descendants. On himself.

Judging others favorably is a positive mitzvah. In part of the Torah known as the “Holiness Code,” which we will hear on Yom Kippur afternoon, we read: “Do not do injustice in judgment; do not favor the poor; do not honor the great. Judge your fellow human justly.”[4]

Unfortunately, our habit to judge others harshly tends to be so ingrained that we require help to overcome it. As I stated earlier, the Talmud’s instruction to judge everyone favorably means that if you see someone doing something questionable, you are not permitted to assume that the person is doing something negative, but rather you should interpret it positively. You are obligated to give everyone the benefit of the doubt and judge favorably.

Consider, for example, someone who arrives late for a meeting. Do you think: “It’s so disrespectful of her to come late just because she can’t organize herself to be on time”? Or do you think, “Maybe she was up all night with a sick child?” Which comes to your mind first?

The Mussar, the movement devoted to Jewish ethics, calls it dan l’kaf zechut, which is defined as “giving the benefit of the doubt.” But it demands more of us than that. It means that even if we see behavior that is clearly improper, we should still try to look for mitigating factors or positive aspects that might be present – like the students did when their teacher removed his t’fillin, entered a house of prostitution, and later immersed in the mikveh.

There are, of course, limits to how we think about others. I’m not suggesting that we turn to the neo-Nazi/white supremacist who has targeted both the TBJ community and me with kindness and favorable judgment. He is so filled with hate that it would be hard to find the positive in what he says or does. But we can try to not let ugly thoughts about him take over our minds. It’s not healthy for us and won’t change him. I’d suggest that mostly we ignore him.

When appropriate, a second way to limit our tendency to negatively judge is to practice the trait of likvod, which means “to honor.” The rabbis have stressed that kavod ha’briyot, “the honor of a person,” should be of enormous concern for us. What good can possibly come from looking at another person and seeing only the flawed, incomplete, earthy creature? How much more beneficial – though difficult sometimes – to see a radiant soul?

Honor, respect, and dignity are due to each and every human being, not because of the greatness of their achievements, nor how well they have behaved, but because they are a creature of the Divine.

Rabbi Chaim of Volozhin, who taught before the Mussar movement, explained that one should honor all people simply because they are the handiwork of God. When we so easily focused on the flaws, how much beauty we miss in the world, even the beauty of people with whom we so vehemently differ! When we develop the capacity to attune to the deeper level of the people, we accord them the honor that is their due. Yes, they are flawed. We all are. But the fact that their behavior is not perfect does not detract from the holiness that is inherent within them.

For some people, when honoring another, we encounter the root proposition of Judaism as taught by Rabbi Akiva: v’ahavta l’re’echa kamocha – Love your neighbor as yourself. Is it possible to develop love, not just honor or respect or dignity? The Mussar movement says yes, by cultivating honor, respect, and dignity. They say, turn to others with honor, respect, and dignity, and the fruit of it will be love.

The practice of honor, respect, and dignity means adopting a positive evaluation of others. Doing so is often a challenge, because most of us don’t find it natural or easy to view the positive in other people.

But the Mussar continues, have faith, because when you take on honor as a practice, then little by little, your perspective will shift. We can train ourselves to see other people as souls, beautiful and bright, no matter what condition the packaging.

In Mussar, practitioners are trained to repeat the phrase, “each one is a holy soul.” This reminds me of a story from many years ago when I still lived in San Francisco. The rainy season comes in late fall or early winter, after drivers have enjoyed a dry summer. It seems that many Bay Area residents forget how to drive in the rain when the weather first turns. One particular year on the day of the first rain, my friend Jhos was cut off by several drivers and nearly hit on the Oakland Bay Bridge. Initially, his inclination was to curse them all. But instead, he repeated the phrase, b’tzelem elohim, b’tzelem elohim, reminding himself that each and every bad driver was created in the image of God and was deserving of honor, respect, and dignity, even if they also could use a refresher driver’s ed class.

As we enter this new year of 5780, may our thoughts of others be kind, lacking judgment, filled with honor, and maybe even touched by love.

Shanah tovah.

[1]Shabbat 127b.

[2]Private correspondence with Rabbi Carl Perkins.

[3]Pirkei Avot 2:5.

[4]Leviticus 19:15.

Kindness in Words, Rosh Hashanah Morning 5780

Words matter. With words, God created the universe, as we will read in our Torah portion tomorrow morning. With words, Jonah the prophet was able to convince the inhabitants of the wicked city of Nineveh to repent their ways. This story we will read Yom Kippur afternoon. Is there something so special about words that two of our Biblical readings during the High Holy Days have to do with the transformation that comes through words?

Of course. This time of year is all about change. We take stock of who we have been and if we are lucky, we are able to take steps toward becoming who we want to be. I say “if we are lucky” because real change is so hard. We have deep scars and deep wounds – so deep in fact, that they too often keep us from making the changes we want or need to make. Because we do know the power of words – they can be used to create and repent and other positive things. But they can hurt and do long-lasting damage, too.

I have decided that this sermon will be very personal. I know that makes some of you uncomfortable, and for this I offer an apology in advance. But over the past nine months, I have been forced to confront the long-term impact of unkind words. I hope to offer some insights and considerations on what Judaism can teach us.

My first memory is from the time I was five and in kindergarten. I imagine it began sooner than that because unkind words don’t just pop up out of nowhere. But that day, when I was five, remains crystal clear for me. Our classroom had a bathroom in it, and we were lined up, probably after lunch or nap. I really had to go, and was politely waiting my turn. But in the end, I couldn’t wait, and ended up peeing in my pants. I wasn’t embarrassed and no one made fun of me. We were five. My teacher did say, “I will have call your mother for her to bring you clean clothes.”

A few minutes later – we lived very close to the school – my mother came in. She didn’t have a change of clothes with her. She grabbed me by the hand, wrist actually, and we walked quickly to the car. Once inside the vehicle, she began screaming at me for humiliating her. I felt tiny.

After that, I tried my best to play the goody two-shoes role. My mother screamed at my father and older brother so much, that one therapist I saw many years ago deemed her to be a “rage-aholic.” I hated the screams. I would do anything to keep her happy with me.

As good as I tried to be, the first area in which I failed miserably to make my mother happy had to do with my appearance. When I was in fifth grade, I traded my flute after maybe two or three weeks of lessons for a softball mitt. My mother said to me, “You’ll never get a husband if you keep playing sports.”

In seventh grade, a new unkindness in words emerged from her – to put me in my place. I believe she thought she was supporting me. She gave up trying to stop me from playing sports. Instead, when I tried out for a team and wasn’t chosen, she’d say, “Well, I knew you wouldn’t make the team. I mean you’re good, but you’re not that good.”

That same year, I wished that the earth had opened and swallowed me when she lambasted me at a softball game in front of my coaches, teammates, and the other team. I can’t even remember what, in her eyes, I had done wrong. Later in the season, I had no idea how to feel when the beach chair she was sitting on collapsed. She wasn’t hurt. I wonder if I would have cared if she had been.

Still, her obsession was with how I looked. She’d remind me that I’d get a husband if I wore makeup. She hated my clothes so much that she called me a slob. She filled my closet with clothes I refused to wear. But her primary concern was my weight. She regularly told me that I would be pretty if I wasn’t so fat.

That no man would look at me because I was too fat. She’d suggest diets. She called me fat so often that our enormously large house cleaner, someone far more overweight than I ever was, would greet me when I arrived home from school on the Fridays she was at our house with the words, “Miss Robin, you are too fat.” My mother would offer me “tips” on my weight, diets, and my appearance until sometime in my 40s when I told her that if she ever mentioned any of it again, I would cut off all contact.

I remember the time my usually kind brother called me Chunk. I must have looked so broken that he immediately apologized. He has never said another unkind thing to me in the nearly 60 years we have shared life on earth.

When my goody two-shoes strategy didn’t work with my mother, I tried staying out of the house as much as possible. I joined clubs. I played sports. I tutored other students. On weekends, I rode my bicycle to a county park and sat by the river writing overly dramatic, really awful poetry. I had no idea how to deal with my emotions and my pain.

I wish I could tell you that my dad was my savior. And for some things he was – he’d help get me out of the house. He’d ask me to run errands with him. He’d take me to the mall to buy me new music or a new book. But in truth, he was only my dad. He was her husband, so most of the time he defended her. If she got angry at me – because by the time I was in high school I would yell back – she’d say “Wait until your father comes home.” It wouldn’t scare me, but it took away from me the parent I thought was my ally. This left me with almost no adult to trust.

All this time, please understand, I was also coming to terms with my own sexual orientation. I became aware of my attraction to other girls at age nine. I had no role models, no positive images, and certainly no positive news stories to read. I didn’t dare let anyone know. I hid.

I have now come to realize that I felt that I deserved all the unkind words from my mother because I was “bad.” I was an object of scorn – someone to hate and ridicule and reject. Of course I should be yelled at and told how terrible I was.

When yelling at me and insulting me didn’t work at changing my appearance to resemble the model my mother had once been, she turned to the medical establishment. First she took me to an endocrinologist because she was convinced that my hor­mones would prove that I was either an abnormal girl or I was a boy. When the doctor reported that I had the normal hormones of a girl, she sent my to a psychologist. He, too, reported on my utter normalcy. My mother didn’t believe either of them.

By the time I started applying to college, I was so confused. I had no idea where to go. I said “yes” to the first college that accepted me.

Last year, my High Holy Day sermons, like this year, were on kindness. On Kol Nidrei, I told this story: A college freshman was out with her mother during spring break of her first year at school. Her mother asked her to share what classes she was taking and what she was learning. As the college student answered, her mother cut her off to change the topic. The daughter asked why she interrupted her. Her mother responded, “You bore me.”

When the mother first asked about school, the daughter was stunned, thinking her mother had developed a genuine interest in her daughter. She quickly realized that wasn’t the case.

At the time I told this story, I did not reveal that I was the college student. I thought becoming an adult, moving out of my childhood home, and becoming semi-independent would make things better. But it didn’t.

When I applied to law school, my reach school was Yale. I didn’t get in, but I was accepted at and attended Cornell. When I told my mother that Yale rejected me she said, “I knew you wouldn’t get in. I mean, you’re smart, but you’re not that smart.”

So as soon as I could, I moved out west. I had to get as far away as possible. I would return to the east once a year for Thanks­giving, staying out of the house as much as possible. When, at age 39 on one of those visits, I shared that I was going to study to be­come a rabbi, she said, “When will you grow up and pick a career?”

When my dad died in 2017, it got worse. For the next twenty-two months – until she died – I dreaded every phone call, every visit, and any other interaction. The last time we saw each other, about a month before she died, as Liba and I were leaving her home, she hurled a few insults at me. We spoke a few times after that. When she died, I felt one, and only one, emotion: relief.

Before I continue, let me assure you of something: I am a survivor. I am here and present. I am strong. I have learned about myself, my mother, mental illness, and parenting. While I can’t change the past, I am learning how to reframe it. Now, back to words.

The Psalms liken hateful words to arrows.[1] Like arrows, explains the Midrash, for a person stands in one place and his or her words wreak havoc on another’s life far away. We don’t have to be present for the full force of the words to hit our target; we don’t even have to follow through with the threat, because saying the words alone resonates in our ears and in our head for a very long time, and make us fearful in the midst of our families or elsewhere.

Hateful words can lead to hateful action, as this story shows – a story involving the Baal Shem Tov, the founder of the Chassidic movement in Poland.[2]

In Mezhibuzh, the hometown of the Baal Shem Tov, two local residents were involved in a bitter dispute. One day, they were angrily shouting at each other in the local synagogue, when one of them cried out: “I’ll rip you to pieces with my bare hands!”

The Baal Shem Tov, who was in the synagogue at the time, told his disciples to form a circle, each taking the hand of his neighbor, and to close their eyes. He closed the circle by placing his hands upon the shoulders of the two disciples who stood to his right and his left. Suddenly, the disciples cried out in fright: behind their closed eyelids, they saw the angry man actually tearing his fellow apart, just as he had threatened. Imagine if we could see how our harmful words affect others.

It doesn’t have to be this way. In our morning liturgy, we acknowledge the power of words to create when we pray, baruch she-amar v’haya ha-olam, “Blessed is the One who spoke and the world came into being.” Our ancient rabbis wrote this prayer to remind us daily about the power of words. God uses them for good. As we are created b’tzelem elohim, in God’s image, we, too, are obligated to use our words for good.

I pray that you were not or are not the victim of someone who used or uses unkind words – a parent, a boss, a co-worker, a teacher, a spouse – or anyone else in your life. If you are currently in the throes, please come see me; I can’t stop the other person from speaking, but I can remind you of your own worth.

Well beyond the unkind words from those we know are the unkind words that have become a part of our daily lives. Civil discourse has imploded. Hate speech is everywhere – and not just from those whom we consider to be our political opposites. Everyone, it seems, has something bad to say to or about others. Every one.

Change must begin with us. If we let those words linger in the air, we are complicit; if we allow that kind of talk to continue, it will eat away at our soul. Believe me, I know. So let’s change the way we speak to one another. Let’s begin with our children. Let’s raise them up. Let’s celebrate them and their gifts. Let no child ever feel so badly that she says, like I did, “My self-esteem is so low that I can play handball against the curb.”

When the rhetoric fills the newspapers and radio and TV, we need to take a stand – for civility, for fairness – not for political correct­ness, but for our very souls. We can’t make our politicians do what we want them to. But we can make changes in the way we choose our words.

I can be civil even when I think that a person is mis­guided. I can disagree with someone – respectfully. Let me argue policy, not the person. When I do this, I create a new reality – a new way that we speak to each other.

The Talmud tells the story of Tobi, the servant of the famous Rabbi Gamliel. The Rabbi told Tobi to go to the market and buy the best piece of meat he could find. Tobi brought back a piece of tongue. Then, the Rabbi told Tobi to bring back the worst piece of meat he could find. Tobi again brought back a piece of tongue. The great Rabbi was confused. “When I asked you to bring back the best meat, you brought back tongue. And when I asked you to bring back the worst meat, your brought back tongue. Please explain your logic.” “Very simple,” said Tobi. “There is nothing better than a good tongue, and nothing worse than a bad one.”

May this year bring about a new way to talk with one another, and may it start with us. May our words be for the good of our families and friends, our communities and by extension, the entire world.

Shanah tovah.

[1]Psalm 64:3

[2]As told by Reb Yanki Tauber

D’Var Torah – Rosh Hashanah Day 2
Jeff Selesnick

Good morning!

Before I begin, I would just like to take a moment to thank Stacey, Colleen, and Rabbi Robin for inviting me to deliver the D’Var torah this morning. It is an incredible honor and while I’m not viewing this as the culmination of my “re-association,” if you will, with TBJ these past few years, it is certainly a high point and one that I’m especially grateful for.

If I’m being honest, I struggled with this. I wanted to make sure I had something of substance to offer to the congregation, but also something that was authentic and heartfelt. Even though I know she would have helped, I didn’t want to bother the Rabbi with questions about what to speak about. I drew inspiration from lots of places; scripture, personal experience, one-off conversations… I even googled “how to write a compelling D’Var Torah,” though that ended up not being particularly helpful. I’m not sure if the request to speak in front of the congregation was some kind of new board member initiation or rite of passage, but as I grappled with topics and finally started putting words on the page, I realized how much I was enjoying the journey. It made me think about my relationship to my faith, and try to answer questions I wouldn’t have thought to ask. What I’ll share with you this morning is not necessarily a finished product, but perhaps that’s representative of what all our associations with our religion should be: an ongoing discussion, a sentence that ends with an ellipsis and not a period.

______

“I can’t stand that Torah portion,” said my mom, fumbling with a tuna fish sandwich. No family is without some kind of tradition surrounding the High Holy days, and the Selesnicks are no different. We try, and often fail, to show up on time for services on Rosh Hashanah, following services we debrief at In A Pinch over salads and sandwiches, and every year we hear the same trope from my mom. “I mean, how can God demand that Abraham slaughter his son?”

I don’t know that I ever put much thought into my mother’s loathing for this particular part of the Torah. It made sense that a story about a parent preparing to kill their child would be unsettling. I’m a parent now, and (Mom, you’re right!) the thought of taking one of my children and sacrificing them in the name of God is sickening.

We all know how the story ends; the angel of the Lord stops Abraham at the last second, God sees what lengths Abraham is willing to go to prove his loyalty, and blesses him with many descendants. So is that the message of this story? That if we aspire to be as great as Abraham, one of the patriarchs of Judaism, we too should follow the word of God no matter the decree? In the words of Rabbi Irwin Kula of the National Jewish Center for Learning and Leadership, “This story suggests that there is no alternative to the acceptance of God’s will and that the human role in the covenant is submission.”

But its not that simple. What kind of relationship dynamic is that? Abraham is a God-loving and God-fearing man who maintains a dialogue with the almighty. I want to know why in this instance, he doesn’t stop once to contest such an outrageous request.

The Torah juxtaposes the story of the Binding of Issac with the story of Sodom and Gomorrah just a few chapters before; a portion in which Abraham repeatedly challenges God on the decision to destroy the two cities. “The Torah’s inclusion of both stories teaches that the Jewish way cannot be reduced to either perspective,” concludes Kula. “By itself, the deeply autonomous thrust of the Sodom and Gomorrah story would lead to a Judaism in which the human conscience would eliminate anything that offended it. God, Torah, the tradition would become synonymous with whatever human beings want. Every person would decide what is right and wrong. But reducing the Jewish way to the deeply submissive thrust of the Binding of Isaac would lead to a fanaticism in which no act, no matter how repugnant, could be ruled out.”

So here’s Abraham; the same Abraham that went ten rounds with God just a few portions earlier, in an attempt to save Sodom and Gomorrah from destruction. The same man who was praised for standing up to God’s decree is equally lauded for his blind obedience. Why would he stand up to God to save the lives of thousands of complete strangers, but cower to God’s will with his own flesh and blood?

Rabbi Kula goes onto suggest that there was intent in the two stories being included in the Torah “…“ yoked together and held in creative tension. “Both challenging and submitting to God are authentic covenantal responses to the dilemmas of Jewish life. The covenantal question addressed to each generation and even each person is when to act in which way.”

So, if its my three-year old daughter trying to determine when she should challenge authority, my answer is “Never. Now brush your teeth and go to bed.” Outside of that particular scenario, however, my answer is much different. While WE collectively may not have the opportunity to challenge God on a regular basis, we all have the opportunity, and I believe the RESPONSIBILITY to challenge our relationship with God, or our relationship with our faith, frequently and purposefully. If the covenantal question is indeed put on humans to determine when to challenge and when to submit, as Kula suggests, I don’t know that I can think of a scenario where the latter should even be considered.

For a large portion of my life, I took the “binding of Issac” version of Abraham approach to my religion: finding some meaning in my involvement, but never asking why I was doing what I was doing. Even during my Bar Mitzvah training and in the years I spent afterwards tutoring students in Hebrew School, I don’t know that I ever seriously questioned or challenged my actions in regards to Judaism. As children, we are often taught to obey our teachers, listen to our elders, and respect authority figures. And then, sometime around high school or college, that turns into: challenge authority, don’t accept the status quo, and question EVERYTHING.

So which is it? Obedience or defiance? Blind faith or skepticism? I would argue that universal acceptance is easier; there’s less to consider and a clear path to follow. Challenging what you had previously held to be absolute is far more gratifying in the end.

For the past decade or so, I have enjoyed dialogues with my wife, my brother, and my mom about our relationships to our faith and challenging certain practices and traditions. My wife in particular has helped me to define my own Judaism, and shape our family’s relationship to Judaism as well. Raised in a Christian household, she loved the holiday traditions she grew up with, but never had a particularly strong tie to her faith. She saw me taking off work for Rosh Hashanah, not eating on Yom Kippur, and going to great lengths to keep the Passover fast and had two reactions: 1. I want to join you, and 2. Why are we doing this?

It was a fair question, and for years, I’m sure I answered it with “I’ve always done this,” or “this is what I grew up doing.” And for years, that was a good enough answer for her (probably because she had a thing for me).

As our relationship grew and we started discussing marriage and children, it became apparent that those responses weren’t going to cut it anymore. Not for either one of us. If we were going to raise our children in a Jewish household, we wanted to be intentional about it, and have a firm resolve when their questions about God and Judaism inevitably started coming. As leaders of the Pre-K program here at TBJ, we regularly look at our Jewish values at their most basic levels, infusing what we learn in that process into our own customs and traditions. I don’t practice Judaism the same way I did growing up, and I love it that way because it means my faith, while shaped by my family and community, is truly my own.

So in this season of reflection and repentance, I encourage all of us to take some time to evaluate our relationships with God and with our faith. When we are back here nine days from now, in the waning moments of Yom Kippur with dry mouths and aching stomachs, ask yourself why you’re fasting. Ask what it means to you. If your answer is “because I feel obligated” or “I don’t know,” push yourself to dig deeper.

My brother posed that same question to me a few years back. My response to him? “It’s when I feel the most Jewish. The most connected to my faith.” I know exactly why I abstain from food on the holiest day of the year, and it’s only because I’ve questioned why I do it. It’s what I wish for my fellow congregants, for everybody really, and for Abraham in the Binding of Issac; the strength and gumption to question the word of the almighty as well as the desire to do so. And by living our lives intentionally, with meaning and purpose, taking time to assess that which we hold dear, we can engage in our traditions, our pastimes and our new endeavors with clear heads and full hearts.

L’Shana Tova.

Kol Nidrei 5780 – Kindness in Action

In 1917, America had finally entered World War I. Troops poured into Europe to put an end to the war, which was in its final stages. Americans were dispatched through out Germany.

A lone Jewish soldier from Duluth, Minnesota, Alex Lurye, found himself in a small German town. It was Friday night. Being far away from home, he was lonely. The young Jewish soldier had some time on his hands. He decided to see what the local Jewish population was like. Entering the local village synagogue must have created a stir. An American soldier in uniform! The Americans fought the Germans in bitter combat. The lone soldier felt awkward. But a kind man named Herr Rosenau greeted him and made him feel welcome.

After services, Herr Rosenau invited the serviceman to his house for kiddush and a Friday night meal.

The warmth and kindness of this German-Jewish family made a deep impression on this young soldier. He was a stranger, a foreigner, even an enemy. Yet, he was invited to another Jew’s home and given a delicious home cooked meal. Herr Rosenau’s family gave the soldier the feeling that he was not alone, and certainly not an enemy, even in such a far and distant land.

The soldier was never able to come back again to see this kind family again. But the warmth and care he felt did not leave him. When he returned home to Duluth, he wrote a letter to Herr Rosenau. For some unknown reason, although Herr Rosenau received the letter, he never answered it. Instead, he placed it in a desk drawer where it rested for twenty-one years.

In 1938, Herr Rosenau’s daughter, Ruth, has grown up and is now married to a fellow German Jew named Eugene Wienberg.

They have three children, the oldest a boy of 11 named Sigbert. Herr Rosenau is worried about the dark and dismal future for the Jews in Germany. Sigbert, rummaging through his grand­father’s desk, sees something of interest. A foreign postage stamp catches his eye. He pulls out the envelope with the postage stamp from America and asks, “Grandfather, may I have this?”

“Yes, take it,” the grandfather replies. He takes it home to his mother. “Look, look what grandfather has given me!” His parents eye the envelope with curiosity. The letter is still inside. They remove the letter and read it. It is the thank you note from the American soldier, from twenty-one years earlier.

Ruth remembers the young man. “Let’s write to him,” she suggests. “Maybe he will remember us and sponsor us, letting us immigrate to America.” Looking on the envelope, they saw no return address, only the name, Alex Lurye, and the city and state, Duluth, Minnesota.

So they wrote a letter, addressed to Alex Lurye, Duluth, MN. They knew that they had only a remote chance of the former serviceman, Alex Lurye, receiving their letter. But what they did not know was that Alex Luyre had become a wealthy businessman who was well-known in Duluth, a city of close to hundred thousand people. The post office delivered the letter.

After Alex read the letter, he wrote back, promising to help bring the Wienberg family to Duluth. They arrived in May of 1938. Shortly there after, Alex brought the Rosenau family over.

The kindness that Herr Rosenau and his family had given to a stranger twenty-one years earlier had come full circle. His entire family was saved.

In Hebrew, acts of kindness are referred to as g’milut chasadim, or acts of chesed. Many examples of acts of kindness are found in the Torah. For one, our patriarch Abraham is visited by three strangers while recovering from his own circumcision at the age of 99. Abraham warmly greets them, welcomes them into his tent, and cooks for them; he becomes the model of hachnasat orchim, hospitality. Later, Abraham sends out his most trusted servant, Eliezar, to find a wife for his son, Isaac. Eliezar meets Rebecca at a well. She offers to provide water for Eliezar and for the many camels he has brought along on his journey. Rebecca becomes the model of general kindness.

When I was a child, I read Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird and decided that I was going to become a lawyer, just like the kind Atticus Finch, the hero of the story. I would defend the rights of minorities, the poor, those wrongly accused, and all others who struggled in our society. Tzedek, tzedek tirdof – “justice, justice you shall pursue” – a passage in Torah provided my guidepost.

Tzedek provides the root for the word tzedakah, which we refer to as charity. It really means providing monetary support for a just reason or to result in a just outcome. My colleague, Rabbi Tracy Klirs, offers this comparison of g’milut chasadim and tzedakah.

“What unites the different actions which are classified as g’milut chasadim is that, taken together, they create the warp and woof of a living, self-sufficient community which is organized to provide the benefits of community to all its inhabitants, especially during their times of greatest need. While, frequently, the kinds of actions encompassed by g’milut chasadim, may overlap acts of tzedakah – the Rabbis considered g’milut chasadim to be greater than tzedakah. The reason for this is that tzedakah benefits only the poor and the living, while gemilut chasadim benefits both rich and poor, living and dead.

“Our tradition has placed such an enormous emphasis on g’milut chasadim because of our profound understanding of the impor­tance of community and the essential elements required to create community. At some time in every single person’s life, regardless of whether we are rich or poor, powerful or lowly, we will find ourselves in need of receiving g’milut chasadim from others. And the only way that a system dependent on g’milut chasadim can work is if everyone in the community performs kind acts whenever they are able, so that when the time comes – and it will definitely come for each of us – that we need to make a withdrawal from the communal bank, there will be the goodwill in our account from which to draw.”

A story making the round on Facebook goes like this:

I work in a decent sized, local, independent bookstore. It’s a great job with a lot of pretty neat customers. Recently, in the middle of the day, a little old lady came in. She effused how much she loved the store and how she wished she could spend more time in it, but that her husband was waiting in the car. She told me how she loved my bangs. And she put some art supplies on the counter.

Then a college student, who’d been up my counter a few times to gather his school textbooks, came up behind her. She turned to him and, out of nowhere, demanded that he put his textbooks on the counter. He was confused but she explained that she was going to buy his textbooks.He turned sheetrock white. He refused and said that she couldn’t do this, as he was holding like $400 worth of textbooks. So, she boldly took them out of his hands, and threw them on the counter. She told me to put them on her bill. The student was practically in tears. He was confused and shocked and grateful. Then she turned to him and said “you need chocolate.” She grabbed handfuls of chocolates and put them in her pile.

He asked her “Why are you doing this?” She ignored him and instead asked, “Do you like Harry Potter?” Not even waiting for an answer, she threw a copy of the new book on the counter.

She finished and I rang her up for a crazy amount of money. She paid and asked me to please give the student a few bags for his items. The student hugged her. We told her how amazing she was and what an awesome thing she did. She turned to both of us and said one of the most profound things I’ve ever heard:“It’s important to be kind. You can’t know all the times that you’ve hurt people in tiny, significant ways. It’s easy to be cruel without meaning to be. There’s nothing you can do about that. But you can choose to be kind. So be kind.”

The college kid thanked her again and left. I told her again how awesome she was. She was staring out the door after him and said to me: “My son is a homeless meth addict. I don’t know what I did. I see that boy and I see the man my son could have been if someone had chosen to be kind to him at just the right time.

I bagged up her art supplies. I felt awkward and like I should say something but I didn’t know what. Then she turned to me and said: “I wish I could have bangs like yours, but my hair is too darn curly.” And then she left. She is the best customer I’ve ever had. And she taught me – be kind to somebody today.”

Yes. Be kind to someone today.

Another of my colleagues, Rabbi Barbara Block, reminds us about society’s emphasis on “random acts of kindness.” She says, “I am glad that we learn of people who do heroic acts in difficult circumstances. They inspire us to extend ourselves for others. And yet, if we think of kindness only in this way, we miss something very important.

Kindness of the everyday, unheroic variety is often unsung. But ordinary kindness is even more important than heroic acts. The kindness of a parent, patiently answering questions over and over, and taking the time to teach a child how to play with others, rarely makes the news. Nor does the kindness of someone who tries always to shop in stores that treat their workers well, or who invests in companies that have fair labor practices. Yet, this kindness makes more of a difference to the world than a one-time extraordinary act.”

Mussar is a Jewish ethical tradition in which its followers study their habits to change them when change is warranted.

Alan Morinis, a modern-day Mussar teacher, says this about chesed, kindness: I once heard Rabbi Abraham Yachnes clarify the extent of the stretch that is necessary to have an action qualify as chesed. He said that if you are walking down the street and someone is walking beside you carrying a large box, and you offer to help the person carry the box, that’s not chesed. You’d simply be a terrible person not to help someone in that situation. What counts as chesed is when you are walking the opposite way from someone carrying a burden and you turn around to help carry that load in the direction he or she is going, delaying your own arrival at your destination. That’s chesed.

Rabbi Simon the Just taught: “The world rests upon three things: Torah, service to God, and bestowing kindness.”[1] Torah teaches us, serving God is about our relationship with the Divine, and chesed, kindness, is about how we act toward one another. All three are necessary. Without any one of them, the triad collapses.

I remember a conversation I once had with a congregant, who informed me as his son was studying to become a bar mitzvah, that in their family, the emphasis was not on God – but rather, on goodness and kindness. “We add an extra ‘O,’” he said.

This is not unlike what Rabbi Simlai teaches in the Talmud:[2] He asserts that the Torah begins with an act of chesed and ends with an act of chesed. Early in Genesis we read, “God made garments for the humans and clothed them.”[3] Late in Deuteronomy we read, “And there God buried Moses.”[4]

Some suggest that Rabbi Simlai is not merely referring to an opening story and a closing one, but instead, that the entire Torah is characterized by chesed. That is, the Torah sets forth a vision of the ideal world in which peoples’ behavior is mostly characterized by kindness and compassion. And yet a third interpretation of Rabbi Simlai’s words suggests that the giving of the Torah itself is the quintessential act of chesed – that God loved the Jewish people so much, that in kindness, God shared God’s own teachings and lessons on how to live, with us.

Probably one of the most recognized, stirring, and difficult to understand prayers of the High Holy Days is the Un’tanah Tokef, the prayer that speaks of who will live and who will die. Rabbi Joseph Meszler of Temple Sinai in Sharon, MA offers this inter­pretation of that prayer – reminding us of the role of kindness in our lives:

On Rosh Hashanah it is written, on Yom Kippur it is sealed:

That this year people will live and die,

some more gently than others

and nothing lives forever.

But amidst overwhelming forces

of nature and humankind,

we still write our own Book of Life,

and our actions are the words in it,

and the stages of our lives are the chapters,

and nothing goes unrecorded, ever.

Every deed counts.

Everything you do matters.

And we never know what act or word

will leave an impression or tip the scale.

So, if not now, then when?

For the things that we can change, there is t’shuvah, realignment,

For the things we cannot change, there is t’filah, prayer,

For the help we can give, there is tzedakah, justice.

Together, let us write a beautiful Book of Life

for the Holy One to read.

And as we enter the new year of 5780, may that Book be filled with acts of chesed and g’milut chas­adim – acts of kind­ness.

Shanah tovah.

[1]Pirkei Avot 1:2

[2]Sota 14a

[3]Genesis 3:21

[4]Deuteronomy 34:6

Yom Kippur Morning 5780

If you have heard my sermons this High Holy Day season, and you heard my sermons the last High Holy Day season, you may have noticed a pattern: my sermons have all been on kindness. Last year, I spoke on kindness to the earth, to strangers, to intimates, and to oneself. This year, rather than focus on the relationship, I have spoken on our internal and external modes of communication – kindness in thought, in word, and in action.

I sermonize four times each High Holy Day season. Why have I sermonized only on kindness for two High Holy Days in a row?

I am deeply concerned by the lack of kindness in our world. Civility appears to be a thing of the past. Nasty thoughts have taken over our minds. We ignore each other, or worse, taunt or bully or harass. Can we talk to one another – or do we mostly scream or shut each other out?

What would it take to really see or listen to each other? To not only notice another person, but to hear what the other is saying without judging or accusing? To open our hearts? To try to understand? To not presume? To admit there may be another perspective? To acknowledge that our information may be incomplete? To be mindful, thoughtful, even reflective? We don’t have to agree, but can’t we be kind?

In my three other sermons these High Holy Days, I spoke about dan l’kaf zechut, the obligation to give someone the benefit of the doubt – or kindness in thought; likvod habriyot, to recognize the dignity of every person – or kindness in word; and gemilut chasadim, acts of loving kindness. Our Jewish tradition is filled with stories and teaching about kindness. It’s not new, nor is it alien to us.
One of our morning prayers, Eilu D’varim, comes directly from the Talmud. It reminds us that ten different actions we undertake “are the things the fruit of which a person enjoys in this world, while the principle remains for the world to come:” They are:

1. honoring one’s parent(s),
2. engaging in deeds of loving kindness,
3. arriving early for study, both morning and evening,
4. providing hospitality to guests,
5. visiting the sick,
6. rejoicing with a wedding couple,
7. accompanying the dead (for burial),
8. being devoted in prayer,
9. making peace between two people, and
10. studying Torah, which is equal to them all.

Most of the ten reflect kind deeds, as we relate to parents, guests, the ill, marital partners, the recently deceased, and two quarreling people. Let’s focus on that last one – two quarreling people. Even back 1500 years ago, the approximate time from which the Talmud dates, our rabbis were concerned with bringing peace to a situation in which two people are disagreeing. That they said little more about this leads me to believe that they understood the toxicity that can result from ongoing unkindness.

I recently put the word “kindness” into a Google search bar. The top five results were:

• kindness.org
• randomactsofkindness.org
• kindness-matters.org
• kindspring.org
• spreadkindness.org
I first noticed how many organizations exist today that try to make our world a kinder place. I second noticed that they were all .org; none are looking to make money in spreading their message of kindness. And I third noticed how similar their goals are.

• kindness.org maintains a platform designed to inspire real life acts of kindness.

• randomactsofkindness.org offers daily ideas of ways we can be kind. It also provides a group-based activity that can be used to celebrate kindness each month as a team, a small collective, or an entire workplace.

• kindness-matters.org is a global campaign designed to improve the way all people interact with each other. “Do a kind act today,” is its motto. It honors the memory of Peyton James, a 13- year old who took his life after years of being bullied.

• kindspring.org is a place to practice small acts of kindness. For over a decade, the kindspring community has focused on inner transformation, while collectively changing the world with generosity, gratitude, and trust.

• spreadkindness.org is dedicated to encouraging and empowering people to practice kindness in their everyday lives by providing individuals and groups with tools, ideas, projects, and events to help make the world a kinder place.

Let’s delve a bit deeper into the first organization, kindness.org. Its website begins with these words: “Right now, the world is experiencing a kindness deficit. We’re on a mission to change that.” Then they offer four options:

1. Choose kindness today: “Every kind act matters,” they remind us. What impact will you have?

2. Learn kind, an Inquiry-Based Learning framework for bringing kindness and social-emotional education to classrooms based on each student’s experience, personality, home life, and unique educational needs.

3. Kind lab, which uses research in genetics, neuroscience, psychology, economics, and anthropology to answer questions: What are the costs and benefits of being kind? What kind acts are most impactful? How does kindness contribute to a happy and fulfilling life?

4. Work kind, which asserts that 72% of employees think it’s important for an employer to recognize kind acts in the workplace, and offers proven benefits for businesses.

After these four suggestions, kindness.org provides links to school lesson plans, kindness stories, kindness ideas, kindness videos, kindness posters, a kindness to blog to read or post to, and information on the science of kindness.

12kindsofkindness.com has a completely different approach. Its founders write:

Kindness is one thing we all have the ability to share. It’s free, it feels great, and it’s within our control. So, why is it so difficult to be kind at times? How can we become less judgmental of others and ourselves? We tend to only see what we want to see, hear what we want to hear, and surround ourselves with people who share our own experiences and tastes. Countless [resources] have tried to help us become kinder people, but how often do we really put that advice into practice?
They continue: Two self-centered New Yorkers, often focused on what’s ahead instead of what’s around them, created a series of 12 steps as a way to become kinder, more empathetic people. As a resolution, they practiced this for 12 months.

Their 12 steps are:

1. Can I help you? Direct that question especially to strangers.
2. Open you eyes. No longer be a bystander.
3. Switch it up. Imagine yourself in the shoes of someone who annoys you.
4. Don’t beat yourself up. Forgive yourself for past errors.
5. Forgive and forget. Let go of pain and misunderstanding.
6. Face yourself. Confront your fears and insecurities head on.
7. Kill them with kindness. Do something nice for those with whom you don’t get along.
8. Walk a mile in their shoes. Participate in the lifestyle of some¬one you don’t understand.
9. Go big or go home. Do something nice for someone important in your life who you often neglect.
10. Pay it forward. Leave money in public places with note asking the finder to do something kind with it.
11. Wear a smile. Spend a day smiling at every person you meet.
12. Dive deep. Start a dialogue about what you have experienced and learned through steps one through eleven.

What kind of a world do we live in where we need website after website to remind us of our need to be kind and then to teach us how? Where did we lose our way? I know that many of you are conjuring up an answer in your head that is of a political nature, perhaps blaming the current occupant of the White House. But I would suggest that the absence of kindness and civility dates from much earlier than 2015 or 2016. Rather, I would offer that it stems from several realities:

• Keeping to ourselves
• The rapid rise of social media
• Online anonymity
• Fearing those who are different
• The failure to remember from where we came
• Economic uncertainty
• Economic prosperity
• Sensationalism of news

Zachor is the Hebrew word for remembering. Later this afternoon, we will hold a Yizkor service, which shares the root of zachor, in order to remember our loved ones who have died. But zachor is more than just about remembering people. It’s about remembering words and deeds, too.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, the former Chief Rabbi of the United Kingdom writes, that: “Acts of kindness … linger in the memory, giving life to other acts in return.”

My colleague Rabbi Mark Kaiserman asked his Facebook friends to share with him acts of kindness from the past, that is, as Rabbi Sacks states, that “linger in the memory.”

I share a few with you.

Four years ago, my car was stolen. It was my only way to get my daughter to school, groceries, anything. It felt like my legs had been cut off. Within a week, one person lent me her car, another started a gofundme, and after three weeks, I was gifted a car. I’ve never felt so much love! As a bonus, my stolen car was found, beaten up but drivable. I gave it to someone else who had no car, and kept the kindness going!

After a terrifying night in children’s hospital with one of my kids, I was exhausted and needed coffee, but dare not leave the room. Suddenly, a volunteer arrived with a coffee trolley. I tried to say “thank-you” when she handed me the coffee, but I had gotten too tearful. She touched my arm and said so kindly, “Let us take care of you so you can take care of your baby.” I will never forget that moment of kindness.

I was at college during my 21st birthday. It’s a really big one and my best friend was very concerned it would be difficult for me because my mother had died two years earlier. She called all my friends to make sure they would call me with best wishes. She also put up signs all over the dorm telling people to be quiet so I could sleep in. I was so touched by her love, concern, and kindness, and think of it often. Twenty-eight years later she’s still my best friend.

About ten years ago, when my husband was in the early stages of dementia, I felt I could leave him at home while I went to work, as long as I checked in by phone a couple of times a day. One day, I came home to find a note on my door from a neighbor who had recently moved in and whom I didn’t know, telling me that my husband was in her apartment. I found him drinking soda and chatting happily with a woman who was showing him her family scrapbooks. She explained that my husband had come to her door apparently confused, looking for our apartment. She invited him in, managed to find out where he lived, and left me the note. I thanked her for being so kind – especially when she could have been afraid or annoyed. She explained that her father, in the last years of his life, had Alzheimer’s, and she knew how difficult it could be.

The author Alissa Altman writes, “Life … [is] hard enough. Be in beauty; be with the people you love, who love you back, and who require little more than kindness.”
I close with the poem Small Kindnesses by Danusha Lemeris:

I’ve been thinking about the way, when you walk
down a crowded aisle, people pull in their legs
to let you by. Or how strangers still say “bless you”
when someone sneezes, a leftover
from the Bubonic plague. “Don’t die,” we are saying.
And sometimes, when you spill lemons
from your grocery bag, someone else will help you
pick them up. Mostly, we don’t want to harm each other.
We want to be handed our cup of coffee hot,
and to say thank you to the person handing it. To smile
at them and for them to smile back. For the waitress
to call us honey when she sets down the bowl of … chowder,
and for the driver in the red pick-up truck to let us pass.
We have so little of each other, now. So far
from tribe and fire. Only these brief moments of exchange.
What if they are the true dwelling of the holy, these
fleeting temples we make together when we say, “Here,
have my seat,” “Go ahead – you first,” “I like your hat.”

May 5780 be a year of kindness.