Rabbi

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.

In The Story of Noah: A Modern Midrash, authors Barak Gale and Mark Jacobs, of the Coalition on the Environment and Jewish Life, give us a twist on the Biblical story. In their version, Noah had nearly all living things aboard the ark and was ready for the flood. The lower decks were dark and damp and supported life from the many caves in the land, as well as the plants and creatures found in the world’s great rainforests.

The upper decks supported life from the grasslands, the wetlands, and the forests. Noah understood the importance of the grasses for domestic animals as well as for the wildlife. And he knew the birds nourished themselves in the wetlands, and the importance of forests as shelter for many creatures. Noah greatly admired the ancient redwood trees and the gnarled oaks and olive trees.

Noah thought he had done pretty well in gathering male and female birds, cattle, wild creatures, and the creeping things of the earth. Yet surely the Creator did not require every creeping thing of its kind to be saved. Noah was exhausted and exasperated. He turned to God and said, “Enough already! My body aches, my hands are blistered, my knees are bloody – all from building this gigantic ark and searching for all the creatures that reside in every damp corner and atop every high place on earth.

Please, God, can’t we leave the schmutz out the ark?

And God, striving to remain patient with God’s dutiful servant, replied, “There is no schmutz in my creation, Noah.”

This modern midrash is meant to remind us of the importance of every part of God’s creation. In looking at the creation story itself, along with texts of Psalms and Job,[1] we see that God takes care of, and takes pleasure in, the variety of life that makes up creation.

Our ancient Rabbis taught: Even those things that you may regard as completely superfluous to creation – such as fleas, gnats and flies – even they were included in creation; and God’s purpose is carried through everything – even through a snake, a scorpion, a gnat, a frog.”[2]

As hard as it may be for humans to believe, every species has its own inherent value, a value beyond its usefulness to people. Thus, Judaism requires, at a minimum, that we treat all other creatures – both animal and vegetation – with basic kindness. We read in Genesis, “The Eternal God took the man and placed him in the Garden of Eden, l’vadah ul’shamrah, to till it and tend it” [3] – that is, to take care of it.

Tonight begins Rosh Hashanah, the day we celebrate by saying hayom harat olam – this is the day on which the earth was born. It is the ideal time for us to consider the magnitude of that birth and all of its creation, and our relationship to it.

Let’s begin with an admission: As far as species go, Judaism is human-centric. We are the only ones of God’s creation who were created b’tzelem elohim, in God’s image. We are to take care of the rest of creation, not the other way around. And yet, we see nature imagery for God in the Hebrew Bible. In Exodus, God says to the Israelites, “You have seen what I did to the Egyptians, how I bore you on eagles’ wings and brought you to Me.”[4] In the Psalms, we read, “O Eternal, my crag, my fortress, … my God, my rock in whom I seek refuge… .”[5] If we are created in God’s image, and God can be seen as an eagle or a rock, are we not therefore, too, part eagle and part rock? Maybe that is a bit of a stretch – but it begs us to acknowledge that we are all a part of one creation and are all interconnected.

While the Torah is human-centered regarding species, it remains God-centered in its essence. And one basic teaching of the creation story is that we may be the caretakers of the earth, but God remains the absolute owner.

We read, again in the Psalms, “The earth is the Eternal’s and all that it holds, the world and its inhabitants.[6] We do not have unrestricted freedom to misuse God’s creation, as it does not belong to us. One particular verse in Torah has led to the Jewish law bal tashchit – the prohibition against wasting or destroying – any part of creation. It reads:

“When in your war against a city you have to besiege it a long time in order to capture it, you must not destroy its trees, wielding the ax against them. You may eat of them, but you must not cut them down. Are trees of the field human to withdraw before you into the besieged city?”[7]

About this text, Rabbi Lawrence Troster writes, “When we consume in a wasteful manner, we damage creation and violate our mandate to use creation only for our legitimate benefit. Modesty in consumption is a value that Jews have held for centuries. We are obligated when we have a simchah, a celebration, to consider whether we need to have elaborate meals and wasteful decorations. We are obligated to consider our energy use and the sources from which it comes.”[8]

A popular medieval work on piety asserts that a righteous person grieves when even a single mustard seed is wasted.[9]

One extreme consequence of wasting or destroying is the extinction of a species. Again, Torah is our teacher. In Deuteronomy, we read: “If along the road, you chance upon a bird’s nest, in any tree or on the ground, with fledglings or eggs and the mother sitting over [them], do not take the mother with her young. Let the mother go, and take only the young.”[10] And in Leviticus, we see: You shall not kill [the mother] and its young both in one day.”[11] 

The Biblical commentator Nachmanides wrote about these verses: “The reason for both is [twofold. First,] that we should not have a cruel heart and not be kind. [Second], Scripture does not permit us to destroy a species altogether…. The person who kills the mother and the young in one day or takes them when they are free to fly, [is regarded] as if they have destroyed that species.”

The flip side of destroying a species is ensuring its longevity. A wonderful story about the first century sage Honi the Circle Maker (yes, that was his full name), demonstrates this obligation.

Honi was walking along a road when he saw a man planting a carob tree. Honi asked, “How long will it take for this tree to bear fruit?” “Seventy years,” the man replied. Honi then asked, “Are you so healthy that you expect to live that length of time and eat its fruit?” The man answered, “I found a fruitful world because my ancestors planted it for me. Likewise, I am planting for my children.”[12] Our tradition values this concept so much that the Rabbis teach that if you are planting a tree and the messiah comes, finish planting the tree before going to greet him – or her.[13]

Bal tashchit, not wasting, is only one prohibition we find in Jewish law. We are also barred from tza’ar ba’alei chayim, cruelty toward animals. Josephus, the first century Roman-Jewish historian wrote:

“Herod got together many wild beasts and many lions, and other beasts of uncommon strength or that were rarely seen. They were trained either to fight one with another, or with men who were condemned to death. Foreigners were delighted at the vast expenses of the shows, and at the great danger of the spectacles, but to the Jews it was a palpable breaking up of those customs [of kindness to animals] for which they had so great a veneration.”[14]

Josephus’ description of the Jews goes back to Biblical times.

As we look through the Bible, it’s clear that the people who are kind to animals are heroes, while those who would kill animals for sport are not. In one midrash, God says: King David was tested through tending sheep, and found to be a good shepherd. He would restrain the larger sheep for the sake of the small ones. First, he would let the small ones graze on the soft grass, and then let the old sheep graze on the grass that was more difficult to chew, leaving the tough grass for the young bucks. He led them to the wilderness, in order to distance them from theft. Therefore, God told him, “You have proven yourself to be faithful with sheep. Now go and shepherd My flock [Israel].”…

So too, God chose Moses through [his treatment] of sheep. Our Sages said: When Moses was herding the flocks of Jethro in the wilderness, one of them ran away. He pursued it until he found a rocky ledge. After discovering the ledge, he came upon a stream of water beside which the lost sheep stood drinking. He said, “I didn’t know that you ran away because of thirst. You must be tired.” So he carried it back on his shoulders. God declared, “You have shown compassion in tending the flock belonging to mortal man. Thus shall you tend My flock [Israel].” [15]

Similarly, we are told, Rebecca was the right woman to be the wife of Isaac because of her kindness to animals. When Abraham’s servant asked for water for himself, she volunteered to water his many camels as well, thereby proving herself worthy.[16]

On the other hand, those who cause pain to animals – even sages – are punished. In the Talmud, we read the story of the great Rabbi Judah HaNasi, the author of the Mishnah, who suffered years of kidney stones because he was insensitive to the fear of a calf being led to slaughter; he was relieved of his medical condition years later only after he showed kindness to animals.[17]

Our obligation to care for the rest of creation takes on other forms. The Talmud includes laws regarding pollution. The Rabbis stopped the use of olive wood and grape vines on the Temple altar because they burned with a great deal of smoke and caused air pollution.

Torah also requires that we have open spaces around the cites.”[18] The Talmud adds that the outer area must be used as a park. Residents may plant trees, but may not construct anything; it is to remain an open land.[19] Nor may the open space be made into a field, as that would destroy its beauty.

For 3,500 years, Judaism has been concerned with the entirety of creation. At the start of my sermon, I asserted the interconnected­ness of creation. On that very topic, Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook, first Ashkenazi chief rabbi of British Mandate Palestine, wrote:

“Everything is full of riches and greatness, everything aspires to ascend, to be purified and elevated. Everything recites a song, offers praise, magnifies, exalts; everything builds, serves, perfects, elevates, aspires to unite and to be integrated. When we contemplate the physical creation as a whole, we realize that it is all one organism, that the parts are linked in varying gradations to each other. We see this in every … living being.”

One of our traditional morning prayers begins with the words, Nishmat kol chai, t’vareich et shimcha adonai eloheinu, v’ru-ach kol basar t’fa-eir utromeim zichr’cha malkeinu tamid, “The soul of every living being shall bless Your Name, Adonai our God, the spirit of all flesh shall always glorify and exalt Your remembrance, our Sovereign.”

The modern poet, Marge Piercy, has written this contemporary version of Nishmat Kol Chai, celebrating humans’ relationship with the soul of every living being and the spirit of all flesh.

When the night slides under with the last dimming star

and the red sky lightens between the trees,

and the heron glides tipping heavy wings in the river,

when crows stir and cry out their harsh joy,

and swift creatures of the night run toward their burrows,

and the deer raises her head and sniffs the freshening air,

and the shadows grow more distinct and then shorten,

then we rise into the day still clean as new snow.

The cat washes its paw and greets the day with gratitude.

Leviathan salutes breaching with a column of steam.

The hawk turning in the sky cries out a prayer like a knife.

We must wonder at the sky now thin as a speckled eggshell

that now piles up its boulders of storm to crash down,

that now hangs a furry grey belly into the street.

Every day we find a new sky and new earth

which we are trusted with like a perfect toy.

We are given us the salty river of our blood

winding through us, to remember the sea and our

kindred under the waves, the hot pulsing that knocks

in our throats to consider our cousins in the grass

and the trees, all bright scattered rivulets of life.

We are given the wind within us, the breath

to shape into words that steal time, that touch

like hands and pierce like knives, that waken

truth and deceit, sorrow and pity and joy,

that waste precious air in complaints, in lies,

in floating traps for power on the dirty air.

Yet holy breath still stretches our lungs to sing.

We are given the body, that momentary kibbutz

of elements that have belonged to frog and polar

bear, corn and oak trees, volcano and glacier.

We are lent for a time these minerals in water

and a morning everyday, a morning to wake up,

rejoice and praise life in our spines, our throats,

our knees, our genitals, our brains, our tongues.

…

We stand in the midst of the burning world

primed to burn with love and justice and compassion,

to turn inward and find holy fire at the core,

to turn outward and see the world that is all

of flesh with us, to see under the trash, through

the smog, the furry bee in the apple blossom,

the trout leaping, the candles our ancestors lit for us.

Fill us as the tide rustles into the reeds in the marsh.

Fill us as the rushing water overflows the pitcher.

Fill us as light fills a room with its dancing.

Let silence still us so you may show us Your shining

and we can, out of that stillness, rise and praise.

As we celebrate the earth’s creation and contemplate our relationship to all other beings, let us remember our human responsibility, asserted in this midrash: “When God created the first human beings, God led them around the Garden of Eden and said: ‘Look at my works! See how beautiful they are­ – how excellent! For your sake I created them all. See to it that you do not spoil and destroy My world; for if you do, there will be no one else to repair it.’”[20] Shanah tovah.

[1]Psalm 104, 148, and Job 38-41

[2]Genesis Rabbah 10:7

[3]Genesis 2:15

[4]Exodus 19:4

[5]Psalm 18:3

[6]Psalm 24:1

[7]Deuteronomy 20:19

[8]Ten Teachings on Judaism and the Environment, https://www.huffingtonpost.com/rabbi-lawrence-troster/10-teachings-on-judaism-a_b_844973.html

[9]Sefer Hasidim

[10]Deuteronomy 22:6-7

[11]Leviticus 22:28

[12]Avot d’Rebbe Natan 31b

[13]Avot d’Rebbe Natan 31b

[14]Josephus, Antiquities of the Jews

[15]Shemot Rabba 2:2

[16]Genesis 24

[17]Baba Metzia 85a

[18]Numbers 35:2-3

[19]Aruchin 33b

[20]Midrash Kohelet Rabbah, 1 on Ecclesiastes 7:13

An older member of a congregation suffered the death of his wife of close to 60 years. As he and his family observed shiva, the seven-day period of mourning, a teenager entered the man’s house. She came over to the man and his children and grandchildren, offered her hand in condolence, and in a soft voice said, “I am so sorry.” Retreating to the back of the room, she prayed during the minyan service and then quietly slipped out.

After the service, the granddaughter of the deceased turned to her grandfather and asked, “Who was that? I don’t recognize her.” The old man shrugged his shoulders and said, “One of the kids from the Temple, I think.” During the entire period of mourning, the image of the teenage girl offering her hand in condolence brought a smile to the old man’s face. Through her presence, the teenager acknowledged the elderly man’s loss and pain. Here she was – one human being seeing the spark of the Holy in a complete stranger.

Stranger. Hearing the word often leads us to conjure up in our minds an image of someone exotic, someone unlike us, someone foreign, someone coming to our synagogue or town or state or nation for nefarious reasons, someone to fear or hate or distrust, or someone who should just go back home. Rarely do we think of someone who contains the spark of the Holy.

And yet, “the stranger” is the category of individuals mentioned in the Torah for special treatment more than any others. We read: There shall be one law for the citizen and the stranger who dwells among you.[1] You shall not wrong or oppress a stranger.[2] You shall not pick your vineyard bare or gather the fallen fruit of your vineyard; you shall leave them for the poor and the stranger.[3] The stranger who resides with you shall be to you as one of your citizens; you shall love him as yourself.[4] Hear out your fellow, and decide justly between any person and a fellow Israelite or a stranger.[5] You must befriend the stranger.[6] Every third year bring out the full tithe of your yield and share it with the … stranger.[7] You shall not subvert the rights of the stranger.[8] These are just some of the examples.

The stranger in the Torah, called the ger, encompasses many different people. First, the ger refers the Israelites from the time when they were enslaved – strangers as it were – in Egypt. I’ll return to this reference to the ger a few moments.

The ger also refers to the one who resides with the Israelites without becoming an Israelite – specifically called the ger toshav. This ger is very much like our many non-Jewish family members who are a part of the Temple Beth Jacob community.

A third ger in Torah is the person who officially joins the Israelite nation – today this is someone who converts to Judaism. As we are forbidden to make distinctions between born Jews and converts, this category of ger is best left for Biblical times.

A fourth and final ger in the Torah is a person from outside the Israelite community who does not join with the Israelite people, either through conversion or residence – someone like Moses’ father-in-law, a Midianite priest. Today, this would be a person from another nation or religion. Some of these people join with us when we host a Shabbat learning service at which many from Concord’s different faith communities attend. Others are here with us this morning, as guests of our members or simply friends of TBJ.

The commandments related to how we treat the stranger are the most often cited in Torah. They appear thirty-six times, double chai, or double eighteen. Some even say the number is forty-six, not thirty-six.

I’ll stick with double chai, as eighteen is the number that represents the Hebrew word for life – and thus we might say, bestowing kindness on the stranger – the person who is different – is one of the most life affirming actions we can undertake. It enhances two lives, which is why the commandment appears thirty-six, and not simply eighteen times – the life of the stranger and the life of the person who acts with kindness toward the stranger.

Emily Dickenson, in a few short words, reminds us that this life-affirming act in how we treat the stranger reverberates into how we relate to the Divine. She writes:

These Strangers, in a foreign World,
Protection asked of me –
Befriend them, lest Yourself in Heaven
Be found a Refugee –

That the Torah contains more laws dealing with the protection of the stranger than with any other subject, including honoring God or observing Shabbat is of tremendous significance. Obviously, for the biblical legislator, concern for the stranger was considered a religious value of supreme importance.

Very often, when we read Torah laws about the treatment of the stranger, we are told, “You shall not wrong a stranger or oppress him, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.”[9]

Many of the commandments add the words, “for you know the feelings of a stranger.”[10] It is the experience of the Israelite as a ger that heightens our sensitivity to the plight of other gerim.

I once read a story about a Jewish middle school student living in a very white community. She wrote, “When I was about twelve years old, an African-American family moved onto our street. This was highly unusual for our town in the early 1970s, as my town was lily white. My high school graduating class of 400 included only three Asians, two Latinos, two African-Americans – and about a half-dozen Jews.

“After the family moved in, my father took me by the hand and walked me across the street to welcome them. ‘We always treat someone new to the community with kindness. And we make sure that anyone who might feel different is warmly welcomed.’ He continued, ‘The Jew knows what it’s like to be excluded and treated with cruelty. We can never let that happen to anyone else.’”

About the Torah passages concerning the stranger, Rabbi Samson Rafael Hirsch, a 19^th-century German rabbi, wrote:

Whenever … the Torah lays down the law concerning the rights of persons, … the “stranger in the land” is placed under special protection. … The degree of justice in a land is measured, not so much by the rights accorded to the native-born inhabitants … or people who have … representatives or connections that look after their interests, but by what justice is meted out to the completely unprotected “stranger.”

The absolute equality in the eyes of the law between the native and the foreigner forms the very basic foundation of Jewish jurisdiction.[11]

Why does the Torah go to such great extremes in commanding – demanding – that we treat the stranger with kindness? Because Torah recognizes the unique hardships faced by people perceived to be different. They are often subject to ridicule, to racism, to xenophobia, and to unequal treatment under the law.

Consider these stories about the treatment of the Jews who lived in Morocco during the last two centuries. Treated as strangers, these Jews were descendants of children of Israel who settled in the area that would become Morocco as early as the fifth century bce.

At that time, Morocco had a mixed history vis-à-vis its Jews. As we moved into modernity, Morocco was considered to be the Arab country that was the kindest to its Jewish residents. And yet these stories are representative of that supposed “kindness.”

This is the first story:

Before the 20^th century, the legal and social status of the Jews in
Morocco was based on the interpretations of the Qur’an and the pact of Umar.

In addition to paying a per capita yearly tax levied on non-Muslims and coping with other restrictions, the Moroccan-Jews … were obliged to wear black clothing and a hair-style different from that of a Muslim, in order to be distinguishable in public. Jews could neither ride horses nor bear arms; they were prevented from learning classical Arabic or erecting new synagogues; they were not allowed to bathe in the Muslim bathhouse nor build houses higher than those of Muslims. Their evidence could not be accepted in Muslim courts. … Economic and political instability, popular rebellions, the death of a sultan, or even the rumor of such a death, rendered the Jews more vulnerable than the Muslims. Muslims often expressed their feelings toward Jews in this epigraph: “The Jew contaminates the sea.”[12]

The 20^th century was no better for the Jews of Morocco, and in fact, after 1948 and the establishment of the state of Israel, one might argue that it was worse. Author Lyn Julius tells the following story about one family:

My relatives were subjected to repeated episodes of intimidation and violence living as Jews during the upheavals of Morocco in the 1950s. They were expected to show deference to Muslims in public. … My grandfather, who had worked his whole life to build a furniture factory in Casablanca, first had his business seized and assets frozen.  The family was large – a lot of kids – and they began to struggle with hunger and fear for their future.  Eventually, the al-Fatah movement targeted my grandfather to be killed, and a Muslim friend of his gave him the warning.  My family had to flee in the middle of the night, leaving behind their home, traumatized and in panic, smuggling themselves aboard a boat that carried them to a refugee camp in southern France.[13]

The Jews of Morocco are only one example of a people deemed to be the “stranger,” despite their nearly 3,000 year history of residing in that land.

My friend and colleague Rabbi Leah Doberne-Schor astutely observes, that in addition to treating the stranger with chesed, kindness and rachamim, compassion, Torah teaches v’ahavta l’rei-echa k’mocha, “love your neighbor as yourself.”

And she asks, “Why [do we] teach both – to love your neigh­bor and to love the [stranger]? Because it’s relatively easy for us to empathize with people who seem, at least on the outside, to be like us. On the other hand, it can take far more effort on our part to understand people who appear to be different from us.”

She continues, “Despite these so-called differences, there is, in truth, no difference in our common humanity. As a Jewish person, this teaches me that we manifest God’s love when we treat neighbor and [stranger] alike in our love. Indeed, we turn the stranger – the outsider – into our neighbor by demonstrating kindness, compassion, acceptance, and justice.”

The Arab-American poet Naomi Shihab Nye teaches that turning the stranger into a friend can be a simple act. She reflects on this in her poem Red Brocade:

The Arabs used to say,
When a stranger appears at your door,
feed him for three days
before asking who he is,
where he’s come from,
where he’s headed.
That way, he’ll have strength
enough to answer.
Or, by then you’ll be
such good friends
you don’t care.

Let’s go back to that.
Rice? Pine nuts?
Here, take the red brocade pillow.
My child will serve water
to your horse.

No, I was not busy when you came!
I was not preparing to be busy.
That’s the armor everyone puts on
to pretend they had a purpose
in the world.

I refuse to be claimed.
Your plate is waiting.
We will snip fresh mint
into your tea.

We can do it. We can put fresh mint into a stranger’s tea. We can graciously welcome unknown visitors who pay a shiva call. We can and we must. When we don’t act with kindness, we remain eternally other.

The writer George Saunders recently told this story:

In seventh grade, a new kid joined our class. … Ellen was small and shy. She wore blue cat’s-eye glasses that, at the time, only old ladies wore. When nervous, which was pretty much always, she [took] a strand of hair into her mouth and [chewed] on it.

She came to our school and was mostly ignored, occasionally teased (“Your hair taste good?” – that sort of thing).  I could see it hurt.  I still remember how she’d look after such an insult: eyes cast down, a little gut-kicked, … trying to disappear. Sometimes I’d see her hanging around alone in her front yard, as if afraid to leave it. And then – they moved. That was it. No tragedy, no big final hazing. One day she was there, next day she wasn’t. End of story.

Now, why forty-two years later, am I still thinking about [Ellen]? Because what I regret most in life are my failures of kindness.

Sometimes, it is easier to be kind and compassionate toward the foreign “stranger” – the person escaping social, economic, religious, or political hardship in a distant place – than it is toward the local “stranger” – such as our neighbors down the street, or the homeless man living under the bridge. Certainly, the history of the Moroccan Jews and George Saunders’ memory brings this point home.

We have all been strangers to one extent or another, within our families, within our congregations, and within our communities – because of our race, our age, our disability, our sexuality, our gender identity, our religion, our political outlook, or some other life-affirming aspect of our being. Our national experience as oppressed strangers in Egypt compels us to make sure that today’s strangers are not similarly mistreated. So as we begin the new year of 5779, let us recommit ourselves to treating every stranger with kindness, for no other reason than our shared humanity.

Shanah tovah.

[1]Exodus 12:49

[2]Exodus 22:20

[3]Leviticus 19:10

[4]Leviticus 19:34

[5]Deuteronomy 1:16

[6]Deuteronomy 10:19

[7]Deuteronomy 14:28

[8]Deuteronomy 24:17

[9]Exodus 22:20

[10]Exodus 23:9

[11]Commentary on Shemot 1:14

[12]The Jews of the Middle East and North Africa in Modern Times, Reeva S. Simon, Michael M. Laskier, Sara Reguer (Columbia University Press, 2003), p.480

[13]Uprooted: How 3000 Years of Jewish Civilization in the Arab World Vanished Overnight (Vallentine Mitchell & Co Ltd, 2018)

There is always something special about this time of year. For some, it’s the cooler nights and smell of burning leaves, for others it’s picking apples and making pie, or the start of a new school year.  There are a lot of changes with the coming Fall.

As Jews, we take the time over the next ten days, to pause and reflect on the past 12 months and the year approaching. In many ways it’s like a self-meditative recalibration in the aftermath of so much activity. We each lead busy lives and it’s sometimes hard to find those minutes in the day to reflect, to pause, to just be still.

Between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur I take stock in everything I accomplished this past year and where I came up short…which relationships I was able to forge while simultaneously trying to understanding those relationships I could have made better, because of my lack of attention.

People come in and out of our lives each year. Friendships grow closer or wane depending on various events and circumstances. There may be new celebrations of life, the passing of a loved one, or the untimely move of a close friend. It’s truly remarkable when you pause and think back to all the new people you made relationships with this past year and at the same time how you continued to build on your existing ones.

But even more special is when one of these relationships shines in your life unexpectedly. There is a profound beauty in the simplicity of their connection to you.  Something gets triggered that bridges their world with yours in a way that is compatible and exponential in it’s ability to add to your life.  As a physicist, I know that when two waves superimpose in constructive interference the resulting wave has a higher amplitude than the previous wave. Meaningful relationships are very much like these waves and can grow to include a community – very much like the one we find ourselves in today at TBJ.

Early in my business career, I joined a small software start-up company in Burlington, MA.  I was nervous as I knew nothing about business or how software was commercially engineered.  I was given the job of “software evangelist” because they felt I was passionate enough to help be the technical sales nerd.  Everyone around me was considerably older. I was clearly the “new kid” and I was green.

One week into my new job I walked around the office and decided to go see the engineers and product team.  As I made my way around the building I noticed a tall guy who looked familiar. To my surprise, it was a Bates College classmate who graduated one year ahead of me! Peter Goodrich and I spent hours together in physics and math classes and he was someone that I could turn to when I didn’t understand how to solve a complicated physics problem. Our Tuesday nights often consisted of him helping me understand the intricacies of quantum mechanics – the nature of the smallest of energy levels of atoms and subatomic particles.

Peter and I would often meet for dinner in the cafeteria, talk about physics, and discuss the flight patterns and aerodynamics of nature’s creatures…including his passion for dragonflies… expert fliers that can move straight up and down and hover like helicopters. We would then walk to the Science center and spend the next 6 hours solving all the problems of the universe.  Hours later, our all class room white boards would be covered with Greek letters and mathematical expressions that invariably led to an answer where x = -1, 0, and 1 which correlated to some physical description of the universe.

Peter was a great friend, mentor, and calming influence when trying to work through endless problem sets. Peter also had significant dyslexia – a challenge in physics since writing out the mathematical derivations required absolute precision. In an unexpected complementary twist, Peter would guide me through advanced physics while I returned the favor by helping him be his scribe for his thesis.  It became a relationship built on two waves with a larger amplitude…and now Peter happened to be working at my first tech job!

Peter once again taught me. This time the intricacies of software engineering and product management. He had a talent to not only be deeply technical but take the time to listen to customers and communicate how best to deploy our solutions.  I would jokingly tell him his head was like a dragonfly covered in eyes that could see every angle except right behind him. I used to like to sneak up on him and scare from behind. He just knew how to see what people needed. We spent months together traveling to various customer meetings deepening our friendship.

After a year of working together, I received a phone call from someone I met at a tech event. He asked if I had an interest to join a small, unknown startup company in NH looking to change the way customers received service online. It was the time of ecommerce – if you bought something online then you should be able to return something online as well – or so he thought. I discussed this new job opportunity with Peter and he agreed it was worth pursuing.

In three years, our fledgling company went from a handful of people to over 950 employees. I would travel non-stop logging over 150,000 airline miles in one year and in an ironic twist found myself on an airplane heading to California with none other than Peter.  Once again our waves met…and this time with big hugs and a 6 hour conversation as we flew across the US.  It turned out that both of us would fly out to Los Angeles quite frequently for various meetings for our respective companies. It was meant to be.  We surprisingly both married our college sweethearts and started thinking about when our first children might show up!

By 2001, the tech industry had changed. The bubble had burst and employees shuffled from .com based companies to explore more solid ground.  I too was part of this change while Peter remained at the same company.

And then 17 years ago to this day the world stopped and watched the World Trade Center Towers fall. Three days later I received an email from a former colleague and friend asking me to call him.  It turned out that Peter was on United Flight 175 – the second hijacked airplane to hit the south tower at 9:03 AM. The very plane we would travel on together to Los Angeles just months before. It didn’t seem real or possible. Nothing did at that time.

A few months later, our college published its quarterly update with a tribute to Peter.  His warm smile and caring eyes shined back from the accompanying photo.  It was at that point that I realized I had lost a friend – someone who I did not see regularly as a “close friend”  but someone that was just simply always there in my life and there to lend a hand. Someone who was a mentor, a sounding board, a comedian. And now… he was gone. I wept.

Less than a decade later, I started a new tech business focused on helping coordinate the massive amount of information when constructing some of the largest buildings, bridges, roads, tunnels, in the world.  Our software was used to manage over 4M building projects around the globe and in an interesting turn of events I found myself standing in the hole of the World Trade Center complex on top of the very footings where millions of pounds of steel would soon be sitting.

I would often think of Peter, whisper his name in a prayer. We’re going to rebuild this even better.  Months would pass and in the Spring of 2012 the Freedom Tower became the tallest building in New York City at 1,776 feet, a deliberate and perfect height. I went to check on the project and meet with our customers and then just three years later in 2015 it was complete…and I was off to build a new company.

This past spring, I found myself back in New York City with a little spare time. I decided to take a walk to visit the 9/11 Memorial – a new addition that I had not seen. As I walked along the Memorial Plaza I gazed at the countless names of men, women, and children killed in the attacks inscribed in the bronze plates surrounding the twin memorial pools. I searched for Peter’s stencil-cut name and held out my hand to press it against my skin – something that I could take back with me as I made the two-block walk back to my hotel.

By the time I made it back to my hotel Peter’s name had faded in my hand.  I was hungry and decided to sit outside on the terrace looking out over the World Trade Center.  As I sat down, something grabbed my attention. I glanced across to the chair across from me where resting on the top was a dragonfly. I smiled. I thought to myself, “My friend Peter has returned to say hello.”

What was the probability that a dragonfly in the concrete universe of New York City would happen to pick this very spot.

And then I realized — they were about the same odds as what Max Born, a particle physicist, would describe –  that the probability of obtaining any possible measurement outcome is equal to the square of the corresponding wave amplitude.

Perhaps our waves of energy were meant to cross paths again.

Our circle of relationships may change each year but their impact is never forgotten. If we seek friendship or love ,then we must make ourselves available to seek friendship and love back. Are we prepared to love? And, our time, however limited it may be in the course of a day or a year, is the greatest gift we can give someone. Are we available to provide time?

With this season of self-reflection, let’s take stock of how we wish to be truly present in the lives we connect with each day. Let’s find a way to extend a hand to those we don’t know and explore the opportunity to find new waves with new friends- like my friend Peter.

Rabbi Robin’s D’var torah on the first day of Rosh Hashanah reminded us about how the Jewish sages warned us about how we speak of strangers as noted 36 times as commandments in the Torah. More than any other commandment. The Rabbi mentioned how there were four different interpretations in the Torah regarding strangers. I might offer a fifth. The stranger inside…which manifests when we unconsciously disconnect from our present reality and the people around us. We also become prisoners in repetitive thoughts and preconceived perspectives of those we barely know. Perhaps this is the underlying commonality among the other four interpretations throughout the Torah.

Freedom of worship, religion, and speech – these are core Jewish values. As Jews we all know what it’s like to be treated as a stranger and it’s why we are extra sensitive when it comes to tolerance and being respectful to others.

The Dali Lama wrote, “Genuine friendships depends on genuine affection and taking a sense of responsibility for each other.”

If we can have shared concern for each other, we can transcend our differences and enhance our relationships each day.

And maybe, just maybe, a dragonfly stops by to remind us of the meaning of friendship.

L’shana Tovah

Kol Nidrei 5779

Al cheit shechatanu l’fanecha … for the sins we have committed …

for raising my voice in anger at my children.

for not being home enough to support my spouse.

for not being as patient of a father as I would like to be.

for not being as patient of a husband as I would like to be.

for neglecting relationships.

for not being generous with my children.

for selfishly venting my anger on my spouse.

for taking my anger out on my mother.

for losing patience with my struggling child.

for thinking ill of my sister.

for speaking ill of my sister.

for not honoring my husband.

These are some of the actions for which we, the TBJ community, asked God for for­giveness last year. Cantor Shira and I read these from the for­give­ness cards that you dropped into the Healing Bucket that we place in the vestibule between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.

We read very similar comments the year before, and the year before that. And we will read many of these same words tomorrow.

Why is it so hard to be kind to our intimates?

We are Jews, so let’s start by looking at our Biblical ancestors.

We’ll, there’s Abraham. He made his wife Sarah pretend to be his sister when they went to Egypt. He threw out of his house his son Ishmael along with Hagar, Ishmael’s mother. He was ready to sacrifice Isaac on Mount Moriah until an angel of God stopped him.

Abraham’s grandson, Jacob, tricked his brother out of his birthright. He then deceived their father in order to obtain the blessing of the first-born. And who helped him deceive his father? His mother, Rebecca.

Miriam speaks badly about her brother, Moses. Why? According to the midrash, it’s because Moses had stopped having intimate relations with his wife, Tzipporah.

And let’s not forget that Cain killed his bother Abel; Noah’s sons ridicule their father when he gets drunk and naked; and Joseph’s brothers sell him into slavery to a passing caravan of Ishmaelite merchants.

So let me ask my question again: Why is it so hard to be kind to our intimates? In their book On Kindness, authors Adam Phillips and Barbara Taylor write:

“The pleasure of kindness is that it connects us with others; but the terror of kindness is that it makes us too immediately aware of our own and other people’s vulnerabilities (vulnerabilities that we … call failings when we are … most frightened). Vulnerability – parti­cularly the vulnerability we call desire – is our shared biological inheri­tance. Kindness, in other words, opens us up to the world of others in ways that we both long for and dread.”

That vulnerability in ourselves often causes us to hold back our acts of kindness. As the author Brene Brown says, “Vulnerability is the first thing I look for in you and the last thing I’m willing to show you. In you, it’s courage and daring. In me, it’s weakness.”

One way we defend against our own vulnerabilities is by being critical. Criticism is an ego defense. We don’t criticize others because we disagree with their behavior or attitude. We criticize others because we feel devalued by their behavior or attitude.

So, we want to be kind to our intimates, but it scares us to do so. And yet, in our hearts, in our guts, in our kishkes, we know we must. The late cosmologist Carl Sagan offers this simple, yet oh-so-difficult, suggestion: “[Remember that] none of us comes fully equipped. Let us temper our criticism with kindness.”

I recently came across an article about decades of research on how spouses and partners relate to each other.

Social scientists found that the number one predictor of a satisfying and stable marriage or partnership is treating each other with kindness. The same can be said for our relationships with our other intimates – our parents, our children, our siblings, and our friends.

Years ago, a congregant told me about her relationship with her mother. Her mother had been married several times and mostly saw her daughter as a burden. She travelled for long periods of time, leaving her child to be cared for by grandparents, with whom the girl became very close. When the mother would return home, she treated her daughter cruelly – her self-centered­ness resulted in a terrible jealousy concerning the girl’s closeness to her grandmother. The daughter eventually walked away from any relationship with her mother. And then many years later, the daughter received a late night phone call from Logan Airport. Her mother had flown in on an international flight – the daughter hadn’t even known that her mother was living overseas – to move back to the States. The mother was elderly and frail and in need of care. The only living relative was her daughter. The grown woman gritted her teeth, thought about kibud av v’eim – the commandment to honor one’s parents – and drove to Boston to get her mother. She put her in a nursing home locally and rarely visited. When her mother died, she asked me to say a few prayers at the house, as she couldn’t bring herself to hold a funeral service.

I tell you this story because we see in it an extreme version of what parental unkindness can lead to. The poet Cathy Song offers these painful words as a reminder in her work, The Kindness of Others:

Those who have never known kindness

drag into the privacy of their smallness

the baskets of fruit

appearing year after year on their porches,

to be picked apart

in the hushed posture of thieves.

They peel skin, probe flesh

the color of honey

as if the seeds will yield something

other than a glimmer of sweet air

rising from the roots of trees

and licorice-laced, half-opened leaves.

Those of the small flame,

who feed off envy and grow old quickly,

live out their lives

hungry,

glaring at themselves across the table,

wife of the cruel mouth,

husband of the thin broth

trickling like spittle.

Returning to my story of daughter abandoned by her mother, thank heavens, she did not repeat her mother’s behavior and has a very close and loving relationship with her own children.

Because sometimes, that is what unkindness from an intimate can give us: The will to behave just the opposite.

When we are kind to those with whom we are close, we are willing to celebrate their successes without feeling jealous or that their successes somehow diminish our own successes – or even our very existence. Of course, this requires treating our own self with kindness – and that is the topic of my sermon tomorrow morning.

But to celebrate others, we must drop the competition or the thinking that there’s a limited amount of success to go around. Even Darwin, famous for his theory of the survival of the fittest, didn’t believe that humans were self-centered and competitive. While he concluded through the study of biological evolution that certain species would survive, he actually believed that human beings are profoundly caring and kind, instinctively. Behaving the opposite, he taught, is what is learned.[1]

Psychologists John Gottman and Robert Levenson began studying married couples in the mid-1980s, tying to figure out what makes some relationships succeed and others not. They watched newlyweds interact for a set period of time, recording what they saw, and followed up six years later to see whether the couples were still together, and if so, whether they were still happy.

In the follow up, they divided the couples into two categories: masters and disasters. Masters were still happily married. Disasters were either divorced or chronically unhappily married.

Gottman continued the study of the couples by himself. He wanted to discover how the masters created an atmosphere of love and intimacy, while the disasters destroyed it. He created a lab that looked like a lovely bed and breakfast. He invited 130 couples to spend a day at his “lab,” and then he watched how they interacted with each other as they cooked, ate, cleaned up, went for walks, enjoyed music, and chatted. His critical discovery was this: When one spouse called out for a connection – perhaps it was to see an unusual bird that that bird-loving spouse noticed – the other spouse of the master couple responded with enthusiasm.

Psychologist Shelly Gable describes four possible ways one spouse can respond to the other who shares news. She calls them: passively destructive, actively destructive, passively constructive, and act­ively constructive. Using the bird-watching example, a passively destructive response would include ignoring the partner’s news and imposing one’s own, such as: “Hey, I just noticed they are serving salmon for dinner. That’s my favorite!”

A passively constructive response would acknowledge the spouse’s statement, but essentially ignore it, by saying something like, “that’s nice.”

An actively destructive response would diminish the statement with something like, “Those birds are a dime a dozen. I’ve seen hundreds of them today.”

With an actively constructive response, the other partner purposefully engages, saying something like, “That’s great that you saw such an unusual bird. Have you ever seen it before? And what made you look up in that direction?”

Both Gottman and Gable concluded that these kinds of interactions have substantial effects on the health of any marital or partner relationship. Gottman, in particular, noted that the couples who were still happily together six years after his initial study of them responded in an actively constructive way nearly 90% of the time, while those who divorced or were unhappily still together responded that way only 33% of the time.

When I read about these psychologists and their studies, I imme­diately remembered a conversation I had had recently. Through Cantor Shira, I met a woman who works with horses profes­sionally, and plays with horses in her spare time. Horses are her passion.

She had recently spent three days at a major annual horse event. Hundreds of horse people come together each year to learn, share ideas, shop, sell things, and do every possible other thing you might do when you are around other horse people. When she returned home, she was eager to share her experience with her boyfriend, a decidedly non-horse person. She hesitantly started talking about her time at the event when her boyfriend cut her off saying,

“You just spent three days with other horse people, talking non-stop about horse things. You don’t need to talk to me about it, too.”

She was crushed. She asked me if all non-horse loving partners responded this way. “I’m so sorry he rejected you,” I said. “I hope I am more supportive than that with Shira, but you’d have to ask her.”

While Gottman, Levenson, and Gable studied partners, their observations can be extended to other intimate relationships. 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. The daughter asked her mother whey she interrupted her. Her mother responded, “You bore me,” a clearly actively destructive response – and one not all that different from how the mother had spoken to her daughter her entire life.

When the mother first asked the question, the daughter was stunned, thinking her mother had developed a genuine interest in her daughter. She soon realized that wasn’t the case and shut down. To this day, the daughter, who is nearly 60, has never shared anything of meaning or substance with her mother.

Research shows that people who criticize their intimates – partners, parents, children, siblings, or close friends – are unable to see the positive things their intimates do and say 50% of the time, and see negativity when it’s not there. They are irrevocably damaging the relationship by devaluing the people they theoretically love most.

Kindness has the opposite effect. Kindness makes others feel loved, cared for, valued, and safe. Even when we are tired, stressed, focused on our work, or otherwise engaged, responding with kindness will go an infinite distance. Let’s pledge to turn off the TV, shut down the computer or Ipad, or close the book in order to turn our focus to those people whom we so dearly love.

At the beginning of this sermon, I mentioned some of our Biblical ancestors for whom kindness to intimates is a challenge. Not everyone in the Tanakh behaves in such a way. We have many examples of the opposite.

When Joseph, whose identity is unknown to his brothers, demands that Benjamin remain with him in Egypt because Benjamin “stole” a goblet, their brother Judah steps in and says, “Take me instead. If you take the boy, our father will surely die.”

After Naomi’s husband and two sons die, her daughter-in-law, Ruth, returns to Canaan with her. Ruth works for her deceased husband’s cousin, Boaz, who marries her in fulfillment of the Leverite marriage requirement, which as a cousin, is not incumbent upon him.

Best friends, Jonathan and David pledge themselves to each other in love. King Saul, Jonathan’s father, is paranoid about David’s royal intentions and orders that David be killed. Jonathan warns him multiple times when to flee, even as he risks his own life.

Taking action to show kindness can be the easy part. The harder part is changing our attitude. We get angry when our spouse forgets to run the errand we had asked about. We lose our temper when our child seems to slow us down – on the day we have an important meeting. We lose our cool with our aging parent who is losing his independence.

Rather than react – externally or internally – with hostility, stop to think about the other’s intention. Our spouse may have had a good reason to not stop at the dry cleaners – or maybe he just forgot. But he probably didn’t do it to make more work for us. Our child isn’t moving slowly so we can be late for a meeting. She may simply be in her own childhood world, taking time to savor what we take for granted. And our aging parent hasn’t lost his indepen­dence to annoy us. In fact, he’s probably more upset about it than we are. Let’s try to stop seeing negativity. Let’s let the spirit of generosity and kindness be the norm.

In first part of The Kindness of Others, Cathy Song reminds us:

The kindness of others

is all they ever wanted,

the laughter of neighbors

prospering in the blue light of summer.

Those of the small sputtering flame

and the sudden white sprung hair,

who feed off envy and grow old quickly,

desire largesse.

The role of poor relation

evokes a lack

they are not apt to admit,

or unbearable pity.

They prefer to penetrate the giver’s

effortless knack of giving

they perceive as vitality,

a pulsating entity

that rewards the kindness of others

tenfold.

This they have witnessed.

This they have tabulated relentlessly.

The generosity of others

whose spirits, like their long-legged

children blossoming into a progeny

of orchards and fields, flourish.

Shanah tovah. May this be a year of kindness toward our intimates.

[1]DiSalvo, Scientific American, 2017

Five-time Oscar-nominated actress Amy Adams stars in a new HBO series that began this fall. It is entitled Sharp Objects. She plays Camille Preaker, a journalist with a dark past, whose life is filled with unresolved family trauma. About her character and her own life, Adams said recently, “I don’t have the same darkness and depth of internal anger, but that sort of sadness that drives you to be unkind to yourself? I think I have that.”[1]

Let’s unpack her words for a moment. The character she portrays, Camille Preaker, has a dark past, unresolved family trauma, and a depth of internal anger. I don’t think we need advanced degrees in psychology to understand how such a person could develop a tendency toward self-unkindness. But what about the actress, Amy Adams, not the character she portrays? She has a “sort of sadness” that drives her to be unkind to herself. “A sort of sadness?” If that is all it takes to develop that tendency toward self-unkindness, there is a good chance that we are all in that boat.

For those of you who did not hear all of my three previous sermons this High Holy Day season, I am focusing on kindness. I started broadly, with kindness to the environment. Then, I spoke on kindness to strangers. Last night was on kindness to intimates.

As I moved from the broad to the narrow, it makes sense that I would end with a sermon on kindness to oneself. And let me say, this has been the hardest one for me to write. Why? Because it hits so close to home. Amy Adams is right. No one is immune from treating oneself unkindly.

Do a Google search on unkindness toward oneself and you’ll get all kinds of hits: Silencing Your Inner Critic: You Don’t Need to Torture Yourself to Grow, The Self Kindness Project, and The Cost of Self Unkindness are just some of the articles I found.

They all have the same theme. If written in the first person, it’s, “I hated myself my whole life. I was miserable. And here the steps I took to turn my life around.” If written objectively, it’s, “You don’t have to hate yourself. You don’t have to be miserable. And here the steps you can take to turn your life around.”

Sounds easy, right? But it’s so hard.

And yet, if we are going end the cycle of self-unkindness, if we are going to break away from old habits that hurt so much, if we are going to accept that we have suffered pains and losses that have led us to treat ourselves to harshly, then we have to confront our past, grab onto its proverbial bull horns, and shout at it, “you will no longer control me and how I see myself.”

The German writer Hermann Hesse, can guide us with this. He wrote, “You know quite well, deep within you, that there is only a single magic, a single power, a single salvation … and that is called loving. Well, then, love your suffering. Do not resist it; do not flee from it. It is your aversion that hurts, nothing else.”[2]

In Judaism, two concepts, two mitzvot, form the core of how Jews must behave in relation to others. The first is chesed, meaning with “love.” The second is rachamim, meaning with “compassion.” From these two, we get the idea of gimilut chasadim, meaning “acts of loving-kindness.” One of the prayers from our morning liturgy, Eilu D’varim, identifies the ten mitzvot for which there is no reward in this world for performing. One is gimilut chasadim.

If loving kindness is so important for us as Jews, and we know it’s how we must relate to others, then why can’t we turn it inward and treat ourselves with that same loving kindness?

Rabbi Yechezkel ben Yehuda Landau,[3] in writing about sin, concluded that God forgives everything. Think about that. No matter what we do wrong, no matter how far we have strayed from the right path, God is willing to forgive us.

And yet, even when we have done nothing wrong, we still beat ourselves up, simply for being.

We remember the voices of parents, grandparents, teachers, rabbis, and others who told us we were not good enough, we were a disappointment, and we’d never get it right.

Last year, on our Yom Kippur forgiveness cards, members of this community sought forgiveness from God for:

being so closed off I don’t even know what I am feeling.

feeling unworthy and undeserving.

not taking responsibility for myself.

not believing I was strong enough.

struggling with forgiving myself.

S’licha is the Hebrew word meaning “forgive­ness.” The author David Blumenthal reminds us, “It is an act of the heart.”[4]

I don’t know about you, but a lot of stuff sits in my head. I might get it up here [point to head], but there seems to be a roadblock to bringing it down here [point to heart]. I have been trying to figure out how we can clear up that roadblock.

The author Kristin Neff, in her book Self Compassion, writes, “Whenever I notice something about myself I don’t like or whenever something goes wrong in my life, I silently repeat the following phrases:

This is a moment of suffering.

Suffering is a part of life.

May I be kind to myself in this moment.

May I give myself the compassion I need.[5]

And whenever she feels inadequate, she repeats these words:

May I be safe.

May I be peaceful.

May I be kind to myself.

May I accept myself as I am.[6]

Let’s hear these again:

This is a moment of suffering.

Suffering is a part of life.

May I be kind to myself in this moment.

May I give myself the compassion I need.

May I be safe.

May I be peaceful.

May I be kind to myself.

May I accept myself as I am.

Can you say these words or something similar to yourself? I know it seems hard. But what other choice do we have?

There’s a website called Brave Girls Club. You can subscribe to their Daily Email Truths, many of which begin with the words: “Dear Tender-Hearted Soul.” This work of self-kindness requires all of our heart and all of our soul. We have a phrase for that in Hebrew: b’chol l’vav’cha uv’chol nafsh’cha. These words may sound familiar.

That’s because they are from the V’ahavta, the paragraph we chant after the Sh’ma. The V’ahavta is about love – yes, love of God with all your heart and all your soul – but how can we love God if we cannot love ourselves?

A character named Hernando in the Netflix show called Sense8 reminds us: “In the end, we will all be judged by the courage of our hearts.”

Kindness to ourselves requires that courage within our hearts, usually accompanied by deep change, starting with how we think. The writer Tak, who maintains the website The Intuitive Elephant teaches us: “If we can change our thoughts, we can change what we say. If we can change our words we use, we can change what we do. If we can change our actions, we can change how we live. So by changing our thoughts, we can change our lives.”

In a Cherokee tale, a grandfather is talking with his grandson. The older man tells the younger that there are two wolves inside each of us, which are always at battle. One is a good wolf. It represents things like self-kindness, self-compassion, and self-love. The other is a bad wolf, which represents things like self-criticism and self-hate. The grandson stops and thinks about it for a second; then he looks up at his grandfather and says, “Grandfather, which one wins?” The grandfather replies, “The one you feed.”

We can start any time to change. The longer we wait, however, the more we punish ourselves. And as we begin this process, we must always remember that it is exactly that: a process. It won’t happen overnight, in a week, or even a month. We have spent a lifetime feeding the bad wolf. It’s hungry. When we stop feeding it, it is not likely to walk away quietly. It will continue to run toward us, expecting food. Resisting will take a lot of effort. We will have moments of success and moments when we back track.

Be kind to yourself when you hit a snag and say things about yourself that are unkind. Think about the voice of your GPS. It remains calm, even when you miss your exit or make a wrong turn. It never reprimands you. I often expect mine to call me an Idiot. She never does. She simply recalculates the route. Imagine if we could do that for ourselves.

The negativity comes up, we “know” better, we try to put the thoughts out of our mind, but we can’t. What if instead, when the negativity comes up, we take a deep breath and say to ourselves, “just recalculate, just recalculate.”

I know that this won’t work for everyone. So find something that will work for you. The author Banu Sekendur suggests that you find three things to do to be kind to yourself. She gives the examples of “I will say ‘I love you’ to myself ten times a day” or “Everyday I will look at myself in the mirror and identify what I like about myself before I leave the house.” Whatever it is, make sure it reflects you. If you find it’s not working, don’t abandon the effort and start feeding the bad wolf again. Just recalculate. Find something that does work.

And remember this: The same boiling water that softens the potato hardens the egg. Life is about what you’re made of, not the circumstances. You are strong. You would not have made it this far in your life, flaws and all, if you were not.

There’s another truth to remember. No one is judging you, except you. No one is obsessed with what is wrong with you other than you.

Brianna Wiest reminds us, “Every time you’re convinced the world is plotting against you, when it seems like every last person you know has the same, recurring thought that’s humiliating and awful toward you, remember that people are predominantly … concerned about themselves … [just] like you are, [at this very moment].

Also remember that you don’t have to do this alone. If you need a therapist, find a therapist. I maintain a list of professionals who can offer help – professionals recommended by therapists and clients in our community. If no one on my list can help you, I’ll reach out and see if I can find other referrals.

Also, if you need medication – anti-depressants, anti-anxiety drugs, or something else – don’t be reluctant to find a psychiatrist or other doctor who can prescribe it for you. Using a therapist or taking medication is not a sign of weakness. It’s a sign of being strong to get the help you need. Letting your pride or ego or fear of vulnerability keep you from getting the help – that’s the weakness.

Here is a final something to keep in mind: It is not selfish to focus on yourself and be kind to yourself, not matter what the voices in your head say. You might hear your judgmental or narcissistic parent telling you that it’s not about you – that it’s about them – and how dare you focus on you. You know what? That voice is wrong. It is about you, at least at the outset. You can’t focus on others until you help yourself. Flight attendants remind us of that every time we hear the safety instructions about the oxygen masks.

We are in the season of t’shuvah, turning or changing ourselves to become the people we want to be or we know we can be. We will never be perfect. We can’t be. We are human. Flaws will remain.

But we still can make changes.

T’shuvah involves many steps. The final stage of t’shuvah is accepting who we are and realizing that our flaws make us unique. Our challenge in life is not to hide who we are, hide our inner voice, or live like other people, but to become more like ourselves.

The great Chasidic master, the Ba’al Shem Tov taught, “Compare yourself not with anyone else, lest you spoil God’s curriculum.”

One of my favorite Chasidic stories involves Rav Zusya. He was old and dying. His disciples came to visit him and found him crying. “Zusya, what’s the matter? Are you in pain?” they asked.

“No, I’m not in pain.” He then told them about a vision he had: “I learned the question that God will one day ask me about my life.”

His followers were puzzled. “Zusya, you are pious. You are scholarly and humble. You have raised many disciples and have taken care of us. What question about your life could be so terrifying that you would be frightened to answer it?”

Zusya replied, “I have learned that God will not ask me, ‘Zusya, why weren’t you more like Moses, leading your people out of slavery?’ And I learned that God will not ask me, ‘Zusya, why weren’t you more like Joshua, leading your people into the Promised Land?’”

“Then what will God ask you?” his students cried out. Zusya sighed and said, “God will say to me, ‘Zusya, why weren’t you more like Zusya?’”

No matter what we think of ourselves, no matter what we see when we look in the mirror, we are all children of God with so much to offer. The poet Marianne Williamson teaches us this in her affirming poem, Our Deepest Fear.

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.

Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.

It is our light, not our darkness

that most frightens us.

We ask ourselves

who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?

Actually, who are you not to be?

You are a child of God.

Your playing small

does not serve the world.

There’s nothing enlightened about shrinking

so that other people won’t feel insecure around you.

We are all meant to shine,

as children do.

We were born to make manifest

the glory of God that is within us.

It’s not just in some of us;

it’s in everyone.

And as we let our own light shine,

we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.

As we’re liberated from our own fear,

our presence automatically liberates others.

Life is process. Making changes in our lives is a process. Our souls are not the cold perfection of diamond, but the tumultuous organic stuff of creation. We struggle, forgive, take risks, succeed, fail, look in the mirror, turn away from the mirror, mourn who we were, and celebrate who we have become. As we let go of internal the voice that is cruel and punishing and unkind, we can weave the uncertainties of life, the shadows, the flaws, and the imperfections into the quilt of being – a beautiful quilt because it is a real quilt; a work of art, which says hineini, I am here and I deserve to be.

Shanah tovah.

[1]Interviewed in the Independent, July 2, 2018

[2]Wer lieben kann, ist glücklich. Über die Liebe

[3]18^th century Poland

[4]Repentance and Forgiveness,” David R. Blumenthal, Cross Currents.

[5]Page 119

[6]Page 202