A rabbi, a priest and a president of a Baptist University walk into a Methodist Church. Not the introduction to a joke. We were each asked to talk about what we as Christians and Jews have in common. I wrestled with what to say and many of you, via Facebook, had good suggestions. Talk about the environment. Talk about Jacob and Esau, peace and reconciliation. Talk about tikkun olam, repairing the world and our joint responsibility for social justice. What follows is what I actually said.

The challenge—say something meaningful about Judaism and Christianity and what we share in common in 7-10 minutes. You have to be kidding me. This is a 5000 year tradition and I am but one person, and no two Jews agree.

There is more that we Jews and Christians share in common than not. And those differences should not be glossed over but that is a discussion for another time. Today is a day to celebrate our commonality, our unity.

It is always a pleasure to be in this sanctuary with its beautiful stained glass window with a Torah, a shofar, a Star of David, and David’s harp. It feels like coming home. Thank you for welcoming me home. And that is part of what I want to talk about: home. A synagogue, which is a Greek word, is a Beit Tefilah, a House of Prayer, a Beit Midrash, a house of study and a Beith Kneseth, a house of assembly. These are three functions that we Jews and Christians share in common—prayer, study and building community, building a home.

Perhaps my most powerful moment in my life was the day after 911. I had been at rabbinical school in New York on 9/11 and it was difficult to get home to Boston. It was a harrowing drive back to Massachusetts. When my cell phone finally began working again, after I reached Connecticut, there were many phone calls to make, reassuring people that I was OK. I consulted with an elementary school principal about how to tell her young students about the events still unfolding, a rabbi about whether to cancel Hebrew School that day and a UCC minister who by that time knew he was going to have to do the funeral together with a Catholic priest, of John Oganowski, the pilot of flight 11.  But the next morning, members of Greater Lowell Interfaith Leadership Alliance, an organization like CERL here in Elgin, in a pre-scheduled event gathered to work at a Habitat for Humanity site. When all the world seemed to be crumbling, we were building. Building a home, together. “Behold how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity.” That is the power of unity. That is the power of Interfaith Dialogue. That is the power of tikkun olam.

Judaism talks a lot about tikkun olam, repairing the world. The idea comes from a story in the Zohar about the story of Creation. According to the 16th century Kabbalists, in order to make room for the world, G-d needed to contract, tzimtzum in Hebrew, an act of love. Think about times when you hold back in order to allow someone to grow. G-d created special vessels to hold the Divine light. However, G-d’s light was so bright, so intense, that it shattered the vessels, scattering the shards with some of the Divine light still attached. It is our job, to gather those broken shards together, to repair the brokenness in the world. Gathering those shards together, to help find the lost light is the purpose of the rules, the commandments, the mitzvoth in Torah, the Five Books of Moses. When we practice mitzvoth, we are bringing holiness back into the world, releasing the light within.

I grew up in Grand Rapids Michigan, at the time a town that was 85% Dutch Reform. It even had its own form of Girl Scouts, the Calvinettes. It has been said you can the girl out of Grand Rapids, but you can’t take the Calvinist out of this Jew. Funny, yes, but I am not so sure. Those of us who were not Dutch Reform banned together in our ways. My Catholic Girl Scout troop would go caroling every year at Clark Retirement Community, the Methodist home that eventually my mother would spend her last days living in. The rabbi was on the board at Clark. Our next door neighbors were a good Methodist family. When they first came to celebrate Chanukah with my parents, their youngest asked why they couldn’t be Chanukahish instead of Christmas. That neighbor is a music minister in her church. Recently I had dinner with her and I think somehow she, and my mother, would be pleased I am here today.

What I learned in Grand Rapids, is that many Christians think that the G-d of the Old Testament was one of jealousy, vengeance and anger and that the G-d of the New Testament is the G-d of love. Somehow the New Testament is better than the Hebrew Bible. It is newer. It is better. It completes the Old.

It took me a long time to learn that while there are various scriptures we could point to argue that position, it is not correct. We share the same G-d that we both pray to. And that one G-d is a G-d of love and compassion. Remember when the Israelites were dancing around the Golden Calf? Remember when Moses smashed the 10 Commandments? G-d told him he would have to come back up and get a second set. Moses wasn’t too happy. Who me? I’m tired. I’m tired of leading this stiff-necked, stubborn people. Their YOUR people, not mine. G-d takes the people back in love, convinces Moses that G-d will go with him and lighten his burden and give Moses rest and that G-d will share with Moses his essential attributes. Moses agrees and is hidden in a cleft of the rock. All G-d’s goodness passes before Moses and he hears whispered, “Adonai, Adonai, El rachum v’chanun, erech al payim, v’rav chesed v’emet. Noseh chesed l’alaphim, noseh avan v’pesha v’takah v’nakeh.” The Lord, the Lord G-d is merciful and gracious, slow to anger, patient, full of lovingkindness and truth, granting lovingkindness to a 1000 generations and forgiving iniquity, transgression and sin. 13 different phrases to describe G-d. Thirteen different ways that we know that G-d is a loving G-d, full of compassion and grace.

This then is the answer to the Calvinists in Grand Rapids, and the reason I became a rabbi. But there is another midrash. After the Israelites received the second set of tablets, they put it in the ark of the covenant. They also gathered the broken fragments, the shards of the first set and lay them in the ark as well.

What this means is that G-d loves us and gives us a second chance. Even a third and a fourth. This brings us comfort.  I don’t know about you, but I am learning. I am not perfect. G-d does not require our perfection. It is OK to make a mistake. It is a natural, even necessary part of development. Sometimes we only learn to appreciate life’s gifts after we have lost them. If, however, we are lucky enough to be given a second chance, with the wisdom we have acquired through our experience of failure, we learn how to cherish and hold on to what we are given. The first tablets of Sinai did not endure, say certain Biblical commentators, because the Israelites had not developed sufficiently strong inner vessels to hold on to their powerful light. The first tablets, like the initial visions we have for our lives, frequently shatter, especially when they are based on naïvely idealistic assumptions. Our first marriages or first careers may fail to live up to their initial promise. We may join communities or follow spiritual teachers and paths that disappoint or even betray us. Our very conceptions of God and our assumptions about the meaning of faith may shatter as we bump up against the morally complex and often contradictory aspects of the real world. Yet, if we learn from our mistakes and find ways to pick up the broken pieces of shattered dreams, we can go on to re-create our lives out of the rubble of our initial failures.” Estelle Frankel

During that process of maturing, we are told what G-d requires of us: To do justly, to love mercy and to walk humbly with G-d. Micah 6:8. What does it mean to walk in G-d’s ways:

“To walk in God’s ways” (Deuteronomy 11:22). These are the ways of the Holy One: “gracious and compassionate, patient, abounding in kindness and faithfulness, assuring love for a thousand generations, forgiving iniquity, transgression, and sin, and granting pardon” (Exodus 34:6). This means that just as God is gracious, compassionate, and forgiving, you too must be gracious, compassionate, and forgiving.

Just as G-d clothed the naked, when He clothed Adam and Eve, we too should clothe the naked. Just as G0d visited the sick when He visited Abraham in his tent after the circumcision, we too, should visit the sick. Just as G-d fed the hungry in the wilderness by giving them mana, we too should feed the hungry. Just as G-d buried Moses, we too, should bury our dead and console the bereaved.

We are commanded to take care of the widow, the orphan and the stranger, the marginalized among us. 36 times in the Hebrew Bible, it tells us that we need to do so. Many more times than it tells us to not eat pork or to observe the Sabbath.

Yesterday Jews around the world read the portion of Genesis called Chayeii Sarah, the Life of Sarah. And Sarah was 100 and 20 and 7 and Sarah died in Kiryat Arba. The portion finishes several chapters and years later with the death of Abraham. What do we know about this matriarch and patriarch we share in common? We know that Sarah welcomed guests to her tent which was opened on all four sides. She fed them bread that was blessed. She lit candles against the darkness that would last from one Shabbat to the next. She was as innocent at 20 as she was at 7 and as beautiful at 100 as she was at 20. She was a true woman of valor. We know that Abraham followed the one true G-d, that he listened to that voice, that he sent Hagar and Ishmael out into the wilderness, that he almost sacrificied Isaac. That he arranged for a wife for Isaac and that Isaac loved her. We know that Abraham died alone and that only after his death did Isaac and Ishmael come back together to bury their father.

Eli Wiesel teaches that “True, we are often too weak to stop injustices; but the least we can do is protest against them. True, we are too poor to eliminate hunger; but in feeding one child, we protest against hunger. True, we are too timid and powerless to take on all the guards of all the political prisons in the world; but in offering our solidarity to one prisoner, we denounce all the tormentors. True, we are powerless against death; but as long as we help one man, one woman, one child live one hour longer in safety and dignity, we affirm a human’s right to live.

-Elie Wiesel, Sages and Dreamers

Dr. King, whose PhD came from that great Methodist school, Boston University, once said it similarly, “Everybody can be great, because everybody can serve. You don’t have to have college degree to serve. You don’t have to make your subject and verb agree to serve. You only need a heart full of grace. A soul generated by love.”” Answer “life’s most persistent and urgent question,” as Dr. King called it. “What are you doing for others?”

Part of how I serve will find me back here on Thanksgiving morning. I and my family, with our sleeves rolled up, taking that mitzvah of hospitality seriously as we help with the Community Thanksgiving Dinner. My tradition teaches, the world is not complete. We are completing it. It also teaches that it is not ours to complete the task neither are we free to ignore it. There is still work to be done–plenty of it–with the legacy of King, Wiesel, Heschel and others. It also teaches that in a place where there is no humanity strive to be fully human. I think that participation in this kind of dialogue leads today to our ability to do all those things.

It leads to the knowledge that we share a G-d of love, a G-d of truth and a G-d of righteousness and compassion. Today, if only we would follow the voice of the Divine.

I’d like to close with a Franciscan benediction:

May God bless you with discomfort
At easy answers, half-truths, and superficial relationships
So that you may live deep within your heart.
May God bless you with anger
At injustice, oppression and exploitation of people,
So that you may work for justice, freedom and peace.
May God bless you with tears
To shed for those who suffer pain, rejection, starvation and war
So that you may reach out your hand to comfort them
And to turn their pain into joy.
And may God bless you with enough foolishness
To believe that you can make a difference in the world,
So that you can do what others claim cannot be done. Amen.
– Franciscan Benediction

What does a Jewish congregation do when it has an interfaith family, a bi-racial family, where the mother is on the board of directors and the Bar Mitzvah’s grandfather is a Pentecostal minister? You find ways to be as inclusive as possible within the halacha.

A little history: One of Congregation Kneseth Israel’s four vision planks is embracing diversity. It wasn’t always this way, I am sad to report. Last year when I first arrived I was told that we had turned down a different bi-racial family because the children were not Jewish according to halacha; it was their mother that was black. For this Bar Mitzvah, the mother is Jewish, the children have been raised as Jewish and the father, while a practicing Christian has been supportive.

The congregation was founded 121 years ago by the Jews of Elgin with the help of Rabbi Emil Hirsch of Congregation Sinai in Chicago. He was one of the leading luminaries of the Reform Movement. Then the congregation went through an Orthodox period. A congregant who came to town to head the Elgin Watch engineering department wanted to sit with his wife at services. The barriers to mixed seating were broken. Then there were a series of Reform rabbis, a series of Conservative rabbis and cantors. Three years ago the congregation thought it was dying. It participated in an in-depth visioning process with focus groups, a change to the by-laws and the divestment from the Conservative Movement. They changed its by-laws and adopted a vision that calls for meaningful observance, life-long learning, building community and embracing diversity.

They are still not clear what to call themselves. Independent? Pluralistic? Just Jewish? Traditional? Conservative with a small c? We are probably all those things. We uphold halachic values and practice. We have endless debates over headcoverings and kashrut, Shabbat observance in the modern world and what our interfaith families can and cannot do. In the end what we are is a community of Jews celebrating our diversity.

That was clear this past weekend when we celebrated an Orthodox member’s second Bar Mitzvah at age 83 (see previous post) and that was true when we celebrated AJ’s Bar Mitzvah during Sukkot.

What halachic considerations were in play? Are the children halachically Jewish? Yes! No question about that. Their mother is Jewish. They are being raised as Jews. They are Jews. What can a non-Jewish parent or relative or friend do during a Saturday morning Bar Mitzvah celebration? How do we also celebrate Sukkot, take care of more traditional families sense of obligation and meet the requirement to be out of services by 11:45? Do we do Hallel? Kohellet? Musaf? What balance should we strike between Hebrew and English? How do we honor the unique special needs of this family? For me, this was easy and most of the way had been paved previously. This is what we opted for:

• The grandfather presented the Bar Mitzvah boy with his own father’s tallit. Ironically, the grandfather was not wearing a tallit himself, something I heard about after the fact but I never even noticed. I reassured people who asked that not every adult Jewish male wears a tallit and while our custom is that all men over Bar Mitzvah age do, some opt not to.
• The Bar Mitzvah boy lead Ashrei, having explained that we are happy because we are enriched by G-d’s words.
• He lead Hallel because it was Sukkot. Some of the Psalms were read responsively in English with two of his grandmothers leading them.
• His grandfather, the Pentecostal minister read selections from Ecclesiastes from Siddur Sim Shalom because it is a text we share in common even if the translation was different.
• The Bar Mitzvah boy lead the Torah service. His mother and Jewish relatives had aliyot. The Torah was passed down from Jewish grandfather, to mother to Bar Mitzvah boy.
• The Bar Mitzvah boy chanted his maftir, read his Haftarah and his father read part of the translation in English. Again, while this is a text we share in common, this proved to be the controversial move. People really questioned whether the haftarah could be read in English or by a non-Jew. Since in ancient times the haftarah was translated into Aramaic, the lingua franca of the day, it is certainly permissible to read the Haftarah today in English. (http://ccarnet.org/responsa/arr-94-100/). This took some of the pressure off the Bar Mitzvah boy and enabled him to shine. It included his father in a meaningful, significant way and to enable everyone more access to the text, within the bounds of halacha while making everyone feel welcome.
• The Bar Mitzvah boy himself did the haftarah blessings, before and after the reading, including the insert for Sukkot.
• The grandfather and I did the priestly benediction together. Mine in Hebrew, the grandfather in English. Again, this is a text we share in common.
• Everyone through candy–two Smarties tied together with pipe cleaner to look like a Torah scroll.
• At the end of the service, the family gathered for Kiddush all together. The Bar Mitzvah found a ceremony online while researching his speech/D’var Torah about the 13 Attributes discovered a way to do kiddush that would be inclusive of all his aunts and uncles on both sides while featuring the number 13 and reflecting on the attributes we wish for a Bar Mitzvah boy–mirroring the 13 Attributes but not a direct parallel: http://www.ritualwell.org/ritual/cup-life-ceremony
• After a Kiddush at the synagogue where the mother and all grandmothers were involved in the strictly kosher preparation, the family headed to a pumpkin farm for a Sukkot afternoon appreciating the harvest. At the down home farm luncheon, the Bar Mitzvah father gave a remarkable speech which I wish we had captured on film. Essentially he said, “AJ you are a leader, just like today how you brought all of us together for the first time and lead us in prayer. Now continue to be a leader, don’t follow the path, go where there is no path and leave a trail.”

It was a lovely day, one of embracing diversity, building community, lifelong learning and meaningful observance. We were warm and welcoming, while following halacha. Well, maybe except for my late Shabbat afternoon ride on a camel, but that is a story for another time.

L’chi lach, to a land that I will show you
Lech l’cha, to a place you do not know
L’chi lach, on your journey I will bless you
And (you shall be a blessing)3x L’chi lach

L’chi lach, and I shall make your name great
Lech l’cha, and all shall praise your name
L’chi lach, to the place that I will show you
(L’sim-chat cha-yim)3x L’chi lach

Lyrics by Debbie Friedman from the parsha Lech Lecha about Abraham and Sarah

Occasionally an off-handed remark becomes a really good idea. Several months ago an older member of my congregation mentioned that he would be 83 this year. I said that he should celebrate his second Bar Mitzvah. He demured. We planned it anyway and celebrated it this past Shabbat, Shabbat Lech Lecha.

Sometimes it is impossible to capture in words the feeling of a morning. His family sponsored the kiddush. His son-in-law designed centerpieces with his Bar Mitzvah photo from 70 years ago mounted on baseball posters with Cubs flags. Each member of his family had an honor. Little Mandy, his second grade granddaughter read the prayer for the congregation so lovingly and perfectly. Every nephew and some grand and great-grand nephews and nieces were there. Perhaps my favorite moment was watching the grandfather and the grandson daven the kedusha together.

Why a second Bar Mitzvah at 83? 83 years. An average lifetime according to Psalm 90:10 plus 13. A new start. Time to celebrate again. And the more things we can celebrate in a congregation, the better!

Abraham was already old, 75 years old, when he left his land, the place of his birth, his father’s land to the land that G-d would show him. Now maybe in today’s world that would not be considered so old. But how many of us would have the courage to listen to that voice, pick up everything and leave with our spouse and our nephew?

The rabbis have a field day with this phrase, lech lecha. Why not just say, lech, go? The rabbis teach that this lech lecha really means go to yourself, to find your own authentic self. Abraham, in choosing to listen to that voice, is exhibiting that courage. The courage of his convictions and his integrity.  This celebration of a second Bar Mitzvah seems especially appropriate. It is said that every Bar Mitzvah kid gets just exactly the right parsha. I think that was definitely the case here. The midrash teaches in Pirke Rabbi Eliezer that Abraham was 13 when he rejected his father’s idolatry and professed a belief in the one true G-d, giving birth to monotheism. That too took courage and integrity. In Peretz’s long life, I have only known him for a short time. But I have come to know him as a person like Abraham, a man filled with integrity, a man who has found himself, his authentic self

At a recent meeting of the ritual committee, he explained, patiently, that when a kippah or headcovering touches the ground, unlike a siddur which has the name of G-d in it, people don’t have to kiss it. He said, “Nah, it’s just a piece of cloth. Unless it is a Cubs hat. That’s a different story.” His humor broke an otherwise heated conversation, and coming from him, made everyone chuckle. You see, Peretz is our most observant congregant. He says he is not Orthodox, because he drives to get to shul, but he davens out of the ArtScroll siddur while we use Siddur Sim Shalom and he cares passionately about the halacha.

Congregation Kneseth Israel’s vision statement says that we embrace diversity. Often that means that we welcome interfaith families. I talk frequently these days about the range of normative Jewish expression (and observance). Peretz is part of that range of normative halachic Jewish expression. So when he davened Shacharit, from Shochan Ad on we did it all in Hebrew, with a full reader’s repetition, he using ArtScroll and me trying to call out matching page numbers. I say trying, because sometimes when someone davens, they are in a zone–oblivious to everything around them, praying, having a conversation with G-d, not to be interrupted or distracted.

This is way Peretz approaches his life here at Congregation Kneseth Israel. He participates fully and when it doesn’t quite match his own understanding of halacha, he explains and teaches—lovingly and compassionately. He listens and learns what other people have to say with respect and care. He consults other sources, then in that embracing diversity moment, he decides what is right for him–and does it. Whether that is standing for every Kaddish, not coming on Shabbat evenings when we have instrumental music, or asking questions about various kashrut hucksters. Like Abraham he is a man of integrity.

Like Abraham he has raised a family. Now he gets to see the fruits of his labor. It was a very special moment this week when I was sitting between him and Shane while practicing L’dor v’dor. It was a true L’dor v’dor moment and expressing that kedusha, holiness he has come to embrace. He has passed on that sense of kedusha, holiness, and integrity, not only to your son and daughter, your son-in-law, and your nephews who are here today, but also to your grandchildren. I love watching him beam on a Saturday morning, when the kids arrive. They make him so happy—and he they.

This parsha, his unique parsha, one that he has studied for 70 years is exactly right for him. It begins with blessing and it ends with promise, a blessing. “You shall be the father of a multitude of nations.” Abraham left a lasting legacy–the belief in One G-d and descendants as numerous as the stars in the skies and the sand of the sea. He left the legacy of a good name.

He chanted his haftarah beautifully. Not flawlessly. Even with his glasses and the big print book, I am not sure he could see the difference between a tzade and an aleph. It didn’t matter. In the old Ashkanasi Hebrew. It sounded so good. His Haftarah said, “But you, Israel, My servant, Jacob, whom I have chosen, seed of Abraham, My friend, You whom I drew from the ends of the earth, and called from the four corners…I chose you, I have not rejected you. Be not frightened, for I am your G-d.” That’s who Peretz is, Seed of Abraham, G-d’s friend. We don’t have to be afraid.

We concluded the Torah service with this blessing, in Debbie Friedman’s words, written about this very parsha. May Peretz be blessing, continue to be a blessing, as we pray he lives to be a 120 years old–or at least until his Cubs win a World Series.

This week we finally moved. At least 75% of our stuff. It is amazing how much stuff a family can accumulate. Not just me–but multiple generations. As we opened each box there were memories of my mother, Simon’s mother. It was fun to see some of our prized possessions again and find just the perfect place to display each item.

Having lived in an exended stay hotel for eight weeks, I wonder how much stuff we really need. A bed, a refrigerator (ice box), a stove, a pot and a frying pan. It reminds me of the song Anatevka from Fiddler on the Roof:

A little bit of this, a little bit of that.
A pot, a pan, a broom, a hat.

Someone should have set a match to this place years ago.
A bench, a tree.
So, what’s a stove? Or a house?
People who pass through Anatevka don’t even know they’ve been here.
A stick of wood. A piece of cloth.

What do we leave? Nothing much.
Only Anatevka.

Anatevka, Anatevka.
Underfed, overworked Anatevka.
Where else could Sabbath be so sweet?
Anatevka, Anatevka.
Intimate, obstinate Anatevka,
Where I know everyone I meet.

Soon I’ll be a stranger in a strange new place,
Searching for an old familiar face
From Anatevka.

I belong in Anatevka,
Tumble-down, work-a-day Anatevka.
Dear little village, little town of mine

One of the things that Anatevka had was a sense of community, a sense of family. Even if it was tumble-down, it was home. Not perfect but much beloved.

In this modern era it is also important to have internet, electricity, a television and a computer. When we first got here we referred to it as yuppie camping. After all, we have a roof so were dry in some thundersorms and air conditioning. Someone made my bed almost every morning and their was breakfast, coffee, cookies and dog treats each day. The staff was pleasant, efficient, friendly.

All of that is good, a helpful and I might even miss some of it. However, when I strip away everything, like that little village of Anatevka, what I really need is a bed, a pillow, a blanket. Even more importantly Simon and Sarah. People who love and care about me. People with whom together we can do anything (even live in a hotel for eight weeks!). That is what home is. As Robert Frost said, “Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.” Rabbi Jeffrey Summit, rabbi at Tufts Hillel sang,  in one of his early albums sang, “If home is where the heart is then I have a lot of homes. Once the leaving’s started, you keep going, you keep going home.”

This is about what makes a house a home. Friday night we had supper, Shabbat dinner in our new home with friends from the congregation. It was potluck, a little heavy on the carbs and absolutely delicious. It was important to me that very first Shabbat to have company. To make Shabbat. To welcome Shabbat. To welcome guests. To welcome the presence of God.

Every morning we sing Ma Tovu, words of a ancient non-Jewish prophet, “How good are your tents, O Jacob; your dwelling places O Israel.” This week I really understand that verse. Having a house; having a home is a good thing. A very good thing. Part of the reason the Israelites tents were so good, is because of modesty. No tent looked into another tent. This is true of my new house. I cannot see into anyone else’s home.

Every day we sing Ashrei, “Happy is he one who dwells in the house of the Lord.” Siddur Sim Shalom translates Ashrei as “blessed”, but that misses the mark. Ashrei usually is translated as happy. But that is different than simcha, joy. Some have talked about the pun with this word, that it carries with it the sense of rich.

This verse is one that I enjoy discussing with our Hebrew School kids about. What does it mean to be happy? What does it mean to dwell in the house of the Lord? What house? How is a synagogue, a beit kneseth, like a house? This year’s answer delighted me. We are happy when we are synagogue because we have fun.

We are very, very grateful today, for we are indeed very rich and very happy. May that sense of happiness, of fun, of joy be true in our new home. May we continue to welcome guests, Shabbat and G-d’s presence into our home. And may we always be surrounded wherever we go with the people who love us. Then we will have found home.

Last week we marked Rosh Hodesh Cheshvan, the new month of Cheshvan. Some call this month Mar Cheshvan, bitter cheshvan. After the frenetic pace of Tishri with four major Jewish holidays, Cheshvan has no additional holidays. Just Shabbat. So the month seems bitter. I would argue differently.

A group of us met on Wednesday night to talk about Cheshvan and our expectations for the month. Each month has a theme or a motif. Kislev is about light and rededication, Adar is about survival and finding your own voice, Nissan is about freedom. What is unique about Cheshvan?

For most of the people gathered, Cheshvan is a pause, a chance to catch our breaths, to allow the messages and the deep thinking of Tishri to sink in, to find balance. We talked about the importance of rocks and anchors. I talked about Balance Rock in Bar Harbor and how it perches precariously on the side of South Bubble Mountain. No matter how hard people try, it can not be pushed off. Entire football teams have tried. It reminds me to remain balanced.

But how do we take these experiences back into our regular world–whether it is the experience of the High Holidays, or the quiet of Shabbat, or a trip up Bubble Mountain. How do we achieve that balance. I tried bringing a rock in the shape of a heart made out of Cadillac granite back from Bar Harbor. It was a concrete reminder of trying to achieve that balance. Others have used the Star of David. Put the thing you value most in the center. In each of the six corners write something else important. Mine might be G-d, Torah, Israel, family, work, self. Then try every day to do at least one thing in each category.

It is interesting to me–and we didn’t get there in the discussion–another name for G-d is Tzur. Tzur Yisrael, Rock of Israel. Ma’oz Tzur. Rock of Ages. Perhaps that is because a Rock is so strong and so everlasting. But maybe, just maybe, it is because the Rock provides the balance we need in Cheshvan.

Mar Cheshvan? Not for me. I found the discussion to be illuminating and energizing. I hope the others did as well.

During Sukkot we read Ecclesiastes, Kohelet. The famous verse says “There is a time for everything under heaven.” Really? Everything? It is like the verse in the morning prayer Yotzer Or, “Yotzer or uvorei chosech oseh shalom u’vorei et hakol, who forms light and creates darkness who makes peace and creates all things.” Really? G-d creates all things? Even bad things? Even evil? I’ve wrestled with this and probably will continue to do so.

Even while we are celebrating Sukkot, zeman simchateinu, the time of our joy, we are reminded of the fragility of life. The Sukkot we build, those little booths are deliberately flimsy, non-permanent. They let the rain come in. They can blow over in a storm. But all of life is like that.

Today I had a different experience for Sukkot. My husband and I set out on a trip. I was going to pay a hospital call and then pick up something I need for the synagogue for Thursday evening. We got a later start than I anticipated. I wasn’t in a good mood despite a beautiful, sunny, warm fall day. We got to the DesPlaines Oasis and stopped for coffee. Caleb, the dog, had a chance to run. When we got back in the car, the car wouldn’t start. Nothing. Wouldn’t even turn over. No noise. I am fearing the worst.

We called AAA. They said that they would be there in about an hour. That would put all of this at the height of rush hour. Not happy. Why is this happening to me? Can’t anything work the way it is supposed to? I am worrying about the dog so close to Interstate 90, the alternator, what if we have to replace the car entirely, all sorts of gloom and doom.

Then I realized, we are really lucky. We broke down in an Oasis parking lot–perfectly safe, in broad daylight with no rain. We have AAA and towing insurance. We have the means (at the moment to deal with the financial setback of an unplanned car repair. And my mood suddenly changed.

Then AAA got there ahead of its announced time. The mechanic, Carl, from All About Automotive Inc., was personable, funny, quick and professional. It was just a simple battery change. $125.00 later, problem solved, problem over.

We continued on our way. I went to see my congregant. Despite seeming bad news and some pain, she was upbeat and optimistic. I pray for her continued strength, stamina, health and wellbeing. I didn’t get the other task

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about luck. What does it mean when we say to someone, “Good luck.”? Does that mean that there is bad luck? Does luck play any role at all? How does “beshert”, destined figure into this equation? How does the verse from Ecclesiastes fit in? Was my day good luck or bad luck? I am not sure. It just was. I think the difference is in how we respond to life’s circumstances. If we can see our days with optimism and hope, even when we are scared then perhaps that is when we really experience luck..

I learned a lot sitting in the DesPlaines Oasis today. It was truly an oasis, which is what our desert people hoped for during Sukkot. There is a time for everything, even a car battery change. It was a chance for this Energizer Rabbi to recharge her own batteries and get an attitude re-adjustment.

How do you see luck?

This is the holiday of Sukkot. I don’t feel much like celebrating. It is also international peace day. Last week, I and several of my colleagues went to the Elgin City Council meeting to hear the proclamation read that this is peace weekend and that Elgin is an international city of peace.

What does this mean? How do we understand this in light of this week’s headlines? 12 killed at the United States Navel Yard in Washington DC. 24 people shot in Chicago last night.

Ufros Aleinu demands of G-d to spread over us the shelter, the sukkah of G-d’s peace. From this we learn that, as I said yesterday, peace is fragile, as fragile as a sukkah. We are told that we need to pray for peace, to work for peace, to actively pursue peace, to run after it. We use the phrase Shabbat shalom, a Sabbath of peace and Shalom Bayit, peace of the house. We are taught that world peace can only happen when there is peace in our own homes. We are commanded to not stand by idly while a neighbor bleeds.

Well our neighbors are bleeding, and bleeding, and bleeding! What is it that can be done? It is not enough to throw up our hands and say, “Nothing can be done.”  How do we avoid becoming numb to the violence that is so pervasive. My college roommate lives in Newtown Connecticut. On that horrible day in December I spent much of my Friday afternoon with her on the phone. Her first grader was safe. Then we spent much of Patriots’ Day on the phone as we watched the Boston Marathon bombing unfold. Columbine, Fort Hood, Aurora, a Sikh temple in Wisconsin, a manufacturing plant in Minnesota, all told 62 mass shooting since 2002 in thirty states. No one is immune. No one can think, “It can’t possibly happen here.” Last night the violence included a young baby in a stroller.

I don’t have the answer. I think it must be a combination of things. Gun control at some level. Better access to mental health services. More after school programs so that kids don’t just get bored. Less violent video games. Less violence in the media. More parental oversight.

In the meantime, I am proud that Elgin has become a City of Peace and is partnering with CERL, Judson, The Elgin Police Department, U-46, the Community Crisis Center, the Renz Center, and the Ecker Center to sponsor an event on November 3, 2013 from 2-5 at Judson. It is when we come together, partnering with others, that will bring us closer to the vision of peace outlined by our prophets. Zechariah said that during Sukkot all the nations, 70 nations would go up to Jerusalem and bless G-d and proclaim that G-d is One and G-d’s name is One. It is that quest for unity that brings us closer to a day of peace.  It is our quest for shalom bayit, the peace of the house that comes first. It is the quest for choosing life, a meaningful life without despair and desperation. It is the hope of compassion and lovingkindness.

Judaism values life. All life. We are taught that humanity was created from one man, Adam, so that no one can say his lineage is better. We are taught that to save one life is as though to save the whole world. We must figure out how to actively pursue peace. How do we make sure that this doesn’t happen again anywhere? G-d can spread over a sukkah of peace. But it will be fragile. We will need to build a more permanent structure where people can live in peace and security. We need to be partners with G-d in this most holy endeavor. Then we can celebrate Sukkot in joy and peace.

Sukkot is Zeman Simchateinu, the time of our joy. The harvest gathered in, the Israelites gathered on Mount Zion to give thanks. On the second night of Sukkot, there was a special ceremony, the water drawing ceremony. It is said that “he who has not seen a Simchat Beit Hashoeva celebration has never seen a really joyous celebration at all”. Water was a critical need in the desert climate of Israel. As soon as Sukkot was over the prayers for rain would be added.

This year I am acutely aware of those who lack clean drinking water, adequate food and unsafe housing. This year I am not building my own sukkah. That only happened one other time in my married life. I am waiting for a house to close.

That house is owned by Fannie Mae and should close soon–but not before the holiday is over. So Simon and I are living in temporary housing, a studio apartment at the Marriott TownePlace Suites. It is like yuppie camping. We have a roof over our heads, air conditioning, a galley kitchen with full fridge, stove, microwave and dishwasher. We have a bed, maid service, continental breakfast and they provide cookies for the adults and dog treats every day at 4PM. What more does anyone need?

Maslow said that needs are based on a pyramid.

What this means is that physiological needs, food, water, shelter, need to be met before all others. Safety, including that of having a safe home, come next. The need for love, friendship family as so on, eventually leading to self-actualization. What I take from this is that unless your need for food, shelter, water, clothing, housing are met, you cannot experience full joy. You need to feel secure and safe before you experience true joy. You need to know you are loved to experience full joy. You need to know you belong, have a good self-esteem, and have confidence. You may have moments of joy, but they are harder to sustain.

I am in temporary housing by choice. I believe that I will be in my own home soon. But what of the millions of Americans because of the downturn in the economy are not. What of the people who are living here at the hotel, who get up every morning, get their kids to the school bus, go to work and are living here on a near permanent basis. What of the women and children at the Community Crisis Center who left abusive relationships and need the support of the Crisis Center until they can build back up their self-esteem? What about Daniel? Daniel is a young boy whose parents apparently divorced, forcing the house we will own into foreclosure. In the basement of the house on the dry wall are the markings on the wall in black crayon of how tall Daniel was. It is clear from this simple act that Daniel was loved. Where is he now? Does he have food, clothing, shelter? Does he get to experience joy?

There are many reasons why there are so many foreclosures on the market. Some of it has to do with poor federal lending policies. Some of it has to do with predatory mortgage companies that let people buy more house than they could afford. But more it has to do  with the huge economic downturn. If you don’t have a job, you can’t pay your mortgage. It is that simple. Many Americans are one pay check away from homelessness. This was true in the 1980s when I first started working on these issues and it is more true today.

Some of it has to do with healthcare. Again, if you don’t have health insurance and you suffer a major health issue, lose a job because of it or have mounting medical bills, you cannot sustain your mortgage. Some people are forced to make unbelievably difficult choices: heat or medicine, food or shelter. Many of the people effected by the economic downturn are good people. They need the safety and security of being in a good home. I have learned first hand too much about the underbelly of this housing beast this summer.

Our tradition has a prayer that includes the phrase, “Ufros Aleinu Sukkat Shlomecha.” Spread over us the shelter of Your peace, the sukkah of Your peace. It recognizes what we have long known. Shelter is fragile. It can blow over in a big wind or knocked out from under you. It can be elusive and temporary. Peace is fragile. Nighttime can be an scary time, especially if you need to choose to live under a bridge, in your car, or in temporary shelter.  I am grateful and lucky to have a roof over my head, especially on these rainy nights of Sukkot.

Jews have another prayer that we say every morning, “Ma tovu ohalecha Ya’akov mishkenotecha Yisrael. How good are your tents, O Jacob; your dwelling places O Israel.” This blessing, penned by a non-Jewish prophet, goes on to describe the wish to dwell in the House of the Lord all the days of our lives.  For Jacob, at one point his house was a piece of ground and his pillow was a rock, and he dreamed of a ladder with angels ascending and descending.

I am grateful for organizations like the Community Crisis Center, PADS, Habitat for Humanity that help provide safe, secure, peaceful shelter. I am grateful to an organization like Hyperion Homes, my funding agent, that saw a need and figured out a way to get good people back into homes.  I am grateful to organizations like Merrimack Valley Housing Partnership, Merrimack Valley Project, Fox Valley Initiative and the Coalition of Elgin Religious Leaders who work tirelessly to fix the underlying systemic issues that cause homelessness. That is true Tikkun Olam, fixing, repairing the world.

I have a bottle of champagne on ice, ready to celebrate my new home.  On Monday, my day off,  I hope to be working on a Habitat for Humanity project as my way to work so that instead of temporary housing people have real, permanent, safe secure housing. For me, that is when the real joy of Sukkot will come. When everyone can sit under their own vine and fig tree and none shall make them afraid.

Today is Yom Kippur. It is a solemn day. It is also the day when Moses came back down Mount Sinai with the second set of Ten Commandments. For this we give thanks. All day today, in recognition of this, we chanted the Thirteen Attributes. The very words that Moses heard on Mount Sinai. The very words that G-d told Moses to use to ask for forgiveness. The very words that Nehemiah used for Yom Kippur and that Amram Ga’on codified in the 9th century.

Adoani, Adonai, El Rachum v’ Chanun…The Lord, the Lord G-d is merciful and compassionate. Please G-d in your mercy, grant us atonement, grant us peace. And G-d answers these pleas, I have pardoned you according to your word.” G-d is indeed rachum v’chanun, although sometimes it seems we need to remind G-d, sometimes over and over again. Sometimes between services you would come up and ask a question about these words. Why does Harlow translate Emet as faithfulness and not truth? Why does Adonai, Adonai repeat? How do we count 13?

Each time through I learned something more or reflected on the words we have written together. Early this summer when I was planning this blog series and beginning to ask people to add their voices, I was asked wehter Yom Kippur was a joyous holiday. This answer lies in the liturgy itself. As part of the Selichot portion, the very part where we chant the 13 Attributes, we are assured of G-d forgiveness. “I will sprinkle you with clean water and you will cleaned from all your impurities.” (Ezekiel 36:25). We seem to be back the beginning. Back to Genesis where the water is gathered together. Where there is a play on words between gathering and hope. This clean living water, mayyim hayyim is the hope of Israel, mikveh Israel. So we are back to the water of the womb where we are clean, fresh, reborn, renewed. Over and over again we chant these verses. Over and over again. Assured of G-d’s forgiveness, we experience G-d’s loving presence. Having gone through the five services, I can say, Yom kippur is solemn but joyous. Once we are assured of G-d’s love and forgiveness how can it be anything but joyous.

G-d is indeed compassionate and merciful, abounding in lovingkindness, chesed. G-d will take us back in love. In Yom Kippur Readings there is a story from Rachel Naomi Remen, MD who wrote Kitchen Table Wisdom. She tells a story of hearing a prominent rabbi talk on Yom Kippur talk about forgiveness. He began by taking his infant daughter from his wife’s arms and bringing her onto the bimah. He then began his rather traditional and somewhat boring sermon. The baby girl smiled and everyone’s heart melted. She patted him on the check with her tiny hands. He smiled fondly at her and continued with his customary dignity. She reached for his tie and put in her mouth. She grabbed his nose and the whole congregation chuckled.  He said, “Think about it. Is there anything she can do that you would not forgive her? Heads nodded in agreement. She grabbed his glasses. Everyone laughed. He waited for silence and then said, “When does that stop. When does it get hard to forgive? At three? At seven? At sixteen? At forty five? How old does someone have to be before you forget that everyone is a child of God?”

I would add, created b’tzelem elohim, in the image of God, with the divine spark inside. Naomi added that for her, God’s forgiveness was easy to understand but that personal forgiveness was difficult. If we are supposed to be like God and follow in God’s footsteps, isn’t this the message? It is not that G-d never gets angry. G-d does. We have seen that—with the Golden Calf and in AJ’s upcoming Haftarah. But if we remind G-d that G-d is patient and abounding in love, G-d will forgive. Isn’t that what we should be doing too?

And so we are done. We are forgiven. A new year stretches before us.

We have been enriched in this process and our conversation as a a community has deepened. 18 of you participated in writing and studying. Still more of you read and discussed. When we chant the Thirteen Attributes again I am not sure any of us will ever think about them quite the same way.

Every year, just before Thanksgiving, the president of the United States pardons a turkey. It is usually covered by the Today Show and other news media outlets, and I smile. It is a sweet tradition…

It is a sweet tradition but it is about serious stuff.  It is about pardoning, sparing the turkey’s life. In this country only the President has the authority to do so. He is the highest authority in the land.

We used to do that too. On Yom Kippur, the high priest would select two goats, one would be for the Lord and the other for Azazel. In the Mishnah (Yoma 39a), we learn more: two goats were procured, similar in respect of appearance, height, cost, and time of selection. Having one of these on his right and the other on his left, the high priest, who was assisted in this rite by two subordinates, put both his hands into a wooden case, and took out two labels, one inscribed “for Yahweh” and the other “for absolute removal” (or “for Azazel”). The high priest then laid his hands with the labels upon the two goats and said, “A sin-offering to Adonai” (thus speaking the ineffable name of G-d); and the two men accompanying him would reply, “Blessed be the name of His glorious kingdom for ever and ever.” He then fastened a scarlet woolen thread to the head of the goat “for Azazel”; and laying his hands upon it again, recited the following confession of sin and prayer for forgiveness: “O Lord, I have acted iniquitously, trespassed, sinned before You: I, my household, and the sons of Aaron Your holy ones. O Lord, forgive the iniquities, transgressions, and sins that I, my household, and Aaron’s children, Your holy people, committed before You, as is written in the law of Moses, Your servant, ‘for on this day God will forgive you, to cleanse you from all your sins before the Lord; you shall be clean.'”

This became the central part of the Avodah service. One the head of one goat we would place all the sins and send it out into the wilderness. We would spare the life of a goat, the very word scapegoat came from this very ritual designed for this very day of Yom Kippur.

Once a year on Yom Kippur the High Priest, the Kohen Hagadol would enter the Holy of Holies and proclaim the divine name. We know that name as Adonai. Adonai, Adonai, el rachum v’chanun. We know how to spell it, Yud, Hay, Vuv, Hay. But we do not how to say it. Adonai is not it. Jehovah is not it. Yahweh is not it. Only the High Priest knew how to utter this most holy of holy names. Only one time a year, on Yom Kippur, on this very day did he dare to utter this most holy of holy names in the most holy of holies on the Temple mount in Jerusalem, the most holy of holy places.

This ceremony was the most anticipated part of the Yom Kippur service and the High Priest would prepare for weeks, practicing that Ineffable Name. It was a moment of real dread. If he did it wrong, he could die. If there was just one sin he had not atoned for he could die. In fact, the people would tie a red sash on him in case they would need to pull him back out.
Rabbi Menachem Creditor wrote a book from the point of view of the Kohen Hagadol,
“Avodah A Yom Kippur Story”. While it may sounds like a Dr. Seuss book with its rhyming scheme and rhythm, it is really quite deep. Listen: “The work I was trained for, well it had me quite scared. My family, my People, all watched me prepare…for this one special place, for this one special time, for the most special Word from one lonely voice…mine.” After the Kohen Hagadol had finished his ritual he says, “We know that we matter. We know we’ve survived a difficult year, as each one is in turn.”

Why does this ritual still matter? Why do we still read about it, year after year? Why, after much discussion here with Paul, with the ritual committee and at a Chicago Board of Rabbis Meeting, can I not quite throw it out?

While this ritual may seem ancient, there is a sense that is really important. Since the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem 2000 years ago, Jews have wondered how we can achieve atonement without the Holy of Holies. We talk about our homes being a mikdash me’at, a little sanctuary, and the husband (always the husband!) being the high priest. When we “make Shabbat”, light the candles, say Kiddush over wine, bless the bread, we are imitating the ritual done in the Holy Temple, our homes become our temple. Our actions of linked to our collective memory. We say Kiddush to remember both Creation and the Exodus from Egypt. We eat challah to remember the challah in the Bible. All of our festivals remind us of other events that have taken place before.

In the Talmud, Sukkah 49z, two rabbis are lamenting the destruction of the Temple. Once, Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai was walking with his disciple, Rabbi Yehoshua, near Jerusalem after the destruction of the Temple. Rabbi Y’hoshua looked at the Temple ruins and said “Alas for us!! The place that atoned for the sins of the people Israel lies in ruins!” Then Rabbi Yohannan ben Zakkai spoke to him these words of comfort: “Be not grieved, my son. There is another equally meritorious way of gaining ritual atonement, even though the Temple is destroyed. We can still gain ritual atonement through deeds of loving-kindness. For it is written ‘Lovingkindness I desire, not sacrifice.'” (Hosea 6:6)

So we can still repent by doing acts of love and kindness. That is true of the Bar Mitzvah project goat rescue and that is true of what you have done that here today. Your bringing can food to fulfill Isaiah’s vision of what a fast is, to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, free the fettered, are acts of love and kindness. That is the fast that Isaiah says G-d desires. So w have met our obligation for atonement. As they would say in the Talmud you are yotzei, fulfilled. This brings us comfort and hope. And since you are all fulfilled, you can do home now.

The Avodah service is still a mysterious concept to us today. Can we make any sense of it? Most of us don’t have contact any more with goats. Now I know that recently one congregational family bought a goat for a Bar Mitzvah project. I am told that the cost of a goat, two zuzim, is about $75 plus food. And I understand that this goat will be dedicated, set aside, spared, in order to help children with disabilities. It is, in fact a goat, for Adonai, even if it came with the name Obama. It is a way to make this concept of goats and turkeys real. Or you can go online and buy a goat from Heifer International. For about $100 that goat will be given to a family in a third world country as part of  its microfinancing programs. That goat will help an impoverished family by giving it milk, some for them, and some to sell in the marketplace. That goat too will be spared. These maybe modern examples of avodah, service, work, offering of your heart.  Or perhaps the Jews who act out kaparah, the swinging of a chicken over their head on the eve of Yom Kippur, as a sin offering, is a visceral vestige of this ancient rite.

Yet even though you have met your obligation you are still sitting here. Why? Simon Jacobson describes Yom Kippur as entering your own personal holy of holies. This is the inner sanctum. Everything had to be pure.  If the High Priest had not atoned for even one sin he could die. How does one prepare for such an awesome task? How does one become pure?

Echoing the high priest’s own preparation, we have been working on it for weeks. The chairs were set up, books put out, linens changed to white, silver polished, flowers ordered. Everything needs to be just so. Books read and reread, sermons written and rewritten, Hebrew practiced, bimah rehearsals scheduled. For the high priest and for me, part of the preparation involves immersing in the mikveh. This week I went to the mikveh, preparing to do Divine Service. I have gone to the mikveh any number of times before Yom Kippur. It is a ritual that resonates with me deeply. On the way there this time it was not clear to me why I was going. What was I expecting from this experience this year? I called my chevruta partner in New York. She said I would know. On the way there I made a wrong turn and got lost. A metaphor perhaps. Once I got finally got there (only 5 minutes late!), I began to understand. I knew already that the drive time gave me a chance to think, to prepare. It was a personal act as opposed to the communal leading I would do. First me, then my household, then all of us together. What does mikveh have to do with any of this? Mikveh offers hope that we will be pure, embraced in the womb and coming out reborn, cleansed of our sin.  It is something we go into and come out of, and back into, like the Holy of Holies.

As Jacobson said, “Today we have no High Priest and no Temple. But the Holy of Holies still exists—in the depths of our own soul. On Yom Kippur we attempt to reach the purest part of our selves and to connect with G-d there. We might not be able to stay in that pure place for a long time. It might be only for a few minutes. But as we know the most special experiences last only a moment. We prepare for these most special times for hours, years, even decades, and the effort of the preparation is well worth that split second”.

Part of the function then of this ritual today is retelling the story since we don’t actually do Seder Avodah any more. This is about memory. We tell the story again and again so we remember, so we can reconnect, in the hope that it will happen to us as well, that we will be able to enter that very special place, that holy of holies, that Makom Hakadosh, even if it is only for an instant.

Makom is another name for G-d.  Rabbi David Paskin wrote a song after his daughter Liat died of a brain tumor before her second birthday. He explains how we comfort a mourner saying “Hamakom yenachem etchem. May The Place comfort you.” He asks the question, why The Place. Why use that name for G-d? Why not call G-d, The Compassionate One, the Merciful One, the Comforting One? Why call G-d at that moment the Place. He discovered that it is because when you lose a loved one, all you have left is a space, a place, an emptiness. Now we try to rush into to fill that emptiness. We are scared of it. We organize shiva minyans, bring deli platters, anything to fill that space, that place. I know, when Liat died I was the one to buy the deli platter! What the comforters are saying is may that space that hurts so damn much comfort you. May you learn to live with that space. “May the One who fills our space, give us hope and give us strength. In our silence may we hear the voice of G-d. HaMakom yenachem etchem.”

We may not have the Holy of Holies anymore, but we can still go into our own personal holy of holies. And we come back into it and come back out of it. We can still proclaim, as did the High Priest one time a year, just like today, “Baruch shem kavod, malchuto l’olam va’ed, May the Name, however we pronounce it, be praised for ever and ever.” As Creditor says in the name of the Kohen Hagadol, “And while the this time the voice that was needed was mine, perhaps the next time that one voice will be yours… The challenge that day is to walk through your door…so come. Hold my hand. Stand with me. Do your part.  Close your eyes. For to dream all you need is your heart.”

Sometimes it is hard to dream. Sometimes we feel all alone. Sometimes we are sad, so Creditor is reassuring when he says, “For to dream all you need is your heart.” We are about to enter the part of the service that is about remembering. Yizkor. Yizkor Elohim, May G-d remember. May G-d remember our loved ones the central prayer of Yizkor says. I always thought it was about us remembering our loved ones, our parents, our sisters and brothers, our children, other relatives and friends. Why do we need to ask G-d to remember our loved ones? Doesn’t G-d already know?

Our prayer also includes a promise of giving charity in the names of the persons we are remembering. Perhaps this another one of those acts of lovingkindness. Or perhaps it is because our tradition teaches that even our dead need atonement on this Yom Kippur day. That this giving of tzedakah helps avert the severe decree. That we are somehow coming before G-d with a gift, an offering, our own mincha offering, our own avodah, in the names of our relatives.

Yizkor is a newer liturgy, probably from the time of the Crusades when entire Jewish communities were being wiped out and it was important to remember that we survived and to remember the names of those who did not. Yizkor is short. The central part is a single paragraph beginning Yizkor elohim, May G-d remember. Because of my pledge of tzedakah may G-d remember. May their souls be bound up in the “bond of life,” together with the souls of all our ancestors and all the righteous people in the Garden of Eden. May they be sheltered in the divine wings of the shechinah, in peace.” Our acts of tzedakah will contribute to redeeming a soul.

We have to redeem our parents’ souls? Why? Memory is a very powerful thing. We remember our parents fondly. We are even nostalgic about them. We may be nostalgic about the Holy Temple and we weren’t even there. But sometimes, our parents did not quite finish their own repentance, their own teshuva. That is part of the reason for saying Kaddish for 11 months for a parent, to redeem their souls and make their teshuva complete. To heal our own relationships with them. 11 months and not 12 because we wouldn’t want anyone to assume that our own parents had that much teshuva to do. It is our obligation as children to heal those wounds. That is how we break the chain in the full list of the 13 Attributes, G-d forgives sin, transgression and iniquity, granting pardon, and visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children, and upon the children’s children, unto the third and unto the fourth generation.’ This very verse is the central part of our high holiday liturgy, except the Talmudic rabbis truncated the verse in the liturgy. We don’t think that the sins of our ancestors are visited on the third and fourth generation. We are only held accountable for our own actions. Thank G-d.

Yet Yizkor exists. We want G-d to remember our parents for good. We implore G-d to do so. We even promise tzedakah on their behalf. Rabbi Gedalia Dov Schwartz, the head of the Chicago Rabbinical Council, the Orthodox rabbinical court and the people who bring you Kosher certification, including Coca Cola, taught this very important lesson at a recent Chicago Board of Rabbis meeting. Why does yizkor say “Avi mori, my father, my teacher”, why not my beloved father? Because our parents are our first teachers.

However, he added, some parents are well meaning, well intentioned but not practical. A light bulb went off for me. They may have lots of book smarts but don’t know how to raise children. They maybe distracted. Their focus maybe on making money and not on spending time with their families. Perhaps they had very high standards and they didn’t want praise to go to your head. Perhaps they could never say that they loved you or that they were proud of you. For that they should atone. For that we should forgive them. Perhaps they were even worse and actually inflicted abuse, emotional, physical, sexual. If that is the case, then Yizkor can be painful. Maybe even impossibly difficult. Forgiveness may seem impossible. But we need to remember their sins, so that we can eventually over time forgive, and not repeat the sins in the third and fourth generation. This then becomes the purpose of Yizkor, to remember the good and the ugly. To allow our relationships to heal so that G-d, through our prayer and our charity will take note of and remember our ancestors.

I was moved by a quote of Vladimir Jankelvitch, in his book Forgiveness. Le Pardon in case any of you want to tackle it in French. This Russian Jew living in France was asked to write about forgiveness as it related to France reconciling with Germany in 1967. He said, “Forgiveness undoes the last shackles that tie us down to the past, draw us backward and hold us down…Nothing could be more evident: in order to forgive, it is necessary to remember.” At first I rebelled against this quote. I even disputed it at the meeting. Having worked on domestic violence hotlines, I know that some people are not ready to forgive. It can be even dangerous. I know what the statistics are therefore I am sure that there is more than one person sitting here who has wrestled with these very issues. I did not want to be the one to stand up here and say, “You have to forgive.” No victim needs added guilt because they cannot forgive.

So often in popular culture, we are told that we must forgive, that forgiving is forgetting. Nothing could be further from the truth in Jewish thinking. In order to forgive we need to remember. That is part of the function of Yizkor. Forgiving happens slowly over time. Listen to the language carefully, “Forgiveness undoes the LAST shackles.” It is not done all at once and we are done. It is more like a spiral staircase bringing us ever closer.

Many yizkor services include this reading from Abraham Shlonsky’s A Vow: “I have taken an oath: To remember it all,
to remember, not once to forget!
Forget not one thing to the last generation
when degradation shall cease,
to the last, to its ending,
when the rod of instruction
shall have come to conclusion.
An oath: Not in vain passed over
the night of the terror.
An oath: No morning shall see me at flesh-pots again
An oath: Lest from this we learned nothing.”

Most of us sitting here today were not in the Holocaust. We certainly cannot remember the Crusades or the Plague. We were not there when Rabbi Akiva were tortured and yet we need to remember too. Our history as Jews and our own personal sadnesses, traumas and tragedies.  Memory of even the most painful things teaches us something. That is the first step in forgiveness, in teshuvah. We have to remember in order to heal. People who forget history are doomed to repeat it. Sometimes it is impossible to forgive.

Rabbi Harold Kushner in his book, How Good Do We Have to Be, a New Understanding of Guilt and Forgiveness, talks about the role of memory, funerals and yizkor. If you have not read this book, I urge you to do so. It is one that I find I return to again and again in my own life, particularly at this time of the year. Kushner tells one of his congregants that the father who cannot say “I love you” is an emotionally constricted man, not that the son was not loveable. He counsels a woman whose father is dying of cancer who says that she hates her father and doesn’t want to go to the funeral, because he left her family when she was nine and then refused to go her wedding unless he walked her down the aisle. “First of all, if you go the funeral and decide afterward that you made a mistake, that you would have been better off not going, that is just a mistake and you will get over it quickly enough. But if you stay away from the funeral and afterward realize you should have done, I’m afraid you will carry the burden of guilt much longer. But more importantly, this is your opportunity to mourn the father you never had.”

Kushner concludes his book with part of his own Yom Kippur sermon given the year after his son died. He knew he had to have answers for himself and his whole congregation. He came to the conclusion after his year of grief, that G-d does not ask us to be perfect or to never make a mistake. G-d wants us to be whole. That is what we do on Yom Kippur. That is the function of both the Avodah service and the Yizkor service. They are helping us in our imperfection, in our sin, in our brokenness, in our sadness, to become whole.

That is what the Day of Atonement means, to be at one, at peace, with whatever hand life has dealt you. It may require hard work. To be whole before G-d, to be one with G-d, means to stand before G-d, acutely aware of our faults but also aware of our virtues. To do a heshbon hanefesh, an accounting of our souls, both the Vidui alef bet version of sins and our own positive heshbons that we did at Selichot. To hear the message of our acceptability, even if we are not perfect, especially if we are not perfect. We will not be rejected for not being perfect. To be ourselves, as we talked about last night, not Moses, and not Zusiya, just ourselves, good enough. At a recent Weight Watchers meeting they taught a similar thing. We are all worthy, capable, active, healthy.

Remember, as Kushner tell us, that life is not a trap set by G-d so that we can be condemned for failing. Life is not a spelling bee, where you make one mistake and you are out. Life is more like a baseball season. Even the best teams lose 1/3 of their games, and even the worst teams have days of brilliance over the long season. Even the Cubs and the White Sox, especially the White Sox and the Cubs.  Our parents may not have been perfect either. But they were good enough. They brought us into this world and we are here today to remember them and to remind G-d to remember them.

Part of yizkor then is to provide the space to mourn the relationship you did not have the opportunity to mourn. Maybe your parent died when you were still a child and you miss them. You long for them to see your own children and grandchildren. Maybe you had a child who died and you mourn the possibilities of what that life might have had. Maybe you had a relationship that withered or a spouse who died and you miss the quiet moments and the simple dinners. Maybe you had a sibling who died and you miss basketball games or family dinners. Maybe you wish you could just pick up the phone and call.

We want our loved ones to have mattered. I am reminded of two songs, Empty Chairs at Empty Tables from Les Mis.

There’s a grief that can’t be spoken.
There’s a pain goes on and on.
Empty chairs at empty tables
Now my friends are dead and gone.

Here they talked of revolution.
Here it was they lit the flame.
Here they sang about tomorrow
And tomorrow never came.

 From the table in the corner
They could see a world reborn
And they rose with voices ringing
And I can hear them now!

The very words that they had sung
Became their last communion
On this lonely barricade at dawn.

 Oh my friends, my friends forgive me
That I live and you are gone.
There’s a grief that can’t be spoken.
There’s a pain goes on and on.

Phantom faces at the windows.
Phantom shadows on the floor.
Empty chairs at empty tables
Where my friends will meet no more.

 Oh my friends, my friends, don’t ask me
What your sacrifice was for
Empty chairs at empty tables
Where my friends will sing no more

Look around this room. There are people who were here last year who are not here now. Pearle Brody, Paul Maring, Don Lesser. Parents. Aunts and Uncles. Grandparents. Even a baby yet unborn. We remember them. They enriched all of us and our community. Their lives had meaning. If they were here they might use Peter, Paul and Mary’s words,

Carry on my sweet survivor
Carry on my lonely friends
Don’t give up on the dream and don’t you let it end!

Yizkor is that phone call. Yizkor is that empty chair. Yizkor is remembering the dream and carrying on. Yizkor is that holy of holies, that makom kadosh, that holy place, that we can go into and out of, even if as David Paskin said, it hurts so damn much. Yizkor is part of what makes us whole and at one. Yizkor heals.

Using Kushner’s words, “Ultimately, in the end, if we are brave enough to love, if we are strong enough to forgive, if we are generous enough to rejoice in another’s happiness, and if we are wise enough to know that there is enough love to go around for us all, then we can achieve a fulfillment that no other living creature will know.” This then, is the function of Yizkor, to implore G-d to remember while we do the same as we sit meditating on it. This then is the power and the function of memory. To help us to lead a meaningful life, even when some of the circumstances are painful, especially when the circumstances are painful. Then we can enter the Holy of Holies like the High Priest and come back out again. Then we enter Paradise, Gan Eden, the world to come.

We continue with Yizkor.