July 9, 2008
This piece appeared in the Rosh Hashanah 2007 issue of the Jerusalem Report Magazine
While Rosh Hashanah is known by several names—among them the Day of Judgment, the Birthday of the World—its official title, as proclaimed by the ancient Rabbis, is Yom HaZikaron, the Day of Remembrance. On its most basic level, Rosh Hashanah as Day of Remembrance proclaims God’s omniscience: “You remember all that happens in the world,” begins the Zichronot, or Remembrance section of the Musaf, the additional prayer. What is God remembering, and how does God remember? And what role do humans play in the process?
Memory is different than history. “Memory” implies personal experience, with a twist of internality different than the colder connotations of “history.” Where the three Pilgrimage festivals—Passover, Shavuot and Sukkot—emphasize the historical event of the Exodus from Egypt, Rosh Hashanah (and Yom Kippur) focuses on the personal, lived experience of the individual Jew. As Franz Rosenzweig writes in The Star of Redemption, “The Days of Awe place the eternity of redemption into time… Eternity is stripped of every trace of the beyond…; it is actually there, within the grasp of every individual and holding every individual close in its strong grasp.” While on Passover we strive to see ourselves as if we personally had left Egypt, as the Haggadah reminds us, on Rosh Hashanah there is no as if: The moment is real, it is here. The memory we relive is our own, and not the history of our ancient ancestors.
Rosh Hashanah is thus the holiday that most emphasizes our humanity. The narrative of Jewish national identity which forms the basis of the Pilgrimage festivals, and even of Yom Kippur (which appeals to the relationship between God and Israel as the basis for forgiveness) is virtually absent from the holiday. Pointedly, Rosh Hashanah is the only Jewish holiday that draws its traditional Torah readings from Genesis—that is, from the book of the Torah whose narratives take place before the emergence of the people of Israel. It is, after all, the birthday of the world, and not only the Jews.
And thus Rosh Hashanah, in a very singular way, is the day on which are invited to be authentically ourselves. There is no part to act out, no role to play. There is no Haggadah, no script; there is no matzah or maror, no sukkah or lulav, there are no props. Instead, Rosh Hashanah is our Day of Remembrance, our day to remember our own lives, to invite and enable God to remember our lives with us. Indeed, in order for God to “remember all that happens in the world,” we humans must remember all that has happened in our lives. In the process, just as the sound of the shofar travels and reverberates within our bodies, we invite the Divine consciousness to enter our own. On Rosh Hashanah, as on no other day, God needs us.
A Rabbinic legend (Midrash Tehillim 81:6) powerfully illustrates the point. If the Rabbinic court proclaimed Rosh Hashanah a day later than was anticipated, says the midrash, God tells the Heavenly court to go home and come back tomorrow. “When it is not a decree for Israel,” the midrash states, “It is not an ordinance for God.” That is, if the Rabbinic court says that today is not Rosh Hashanah, then God is bound by the decision.
The message of this and other Talmudic passages is that the human role in the Covenantal relationship is particularly pronounced on Rosh Hashanah. In fact, it is so pronounced that God bows to human utterances. Yet this reality exists in a lovers’ quarrel with the ultimate power wielded by God: “On Rosh Hashanah it is written… who will live and who will die.” Still, the question must be asked: Where ends God’s agency in bringing about our future, and where does our own begin? (Likewise: When does the silence end, and the sound of the shofar begin?) On Rosh Hashanah we are reminded of how intertwined the life of the Divine is with our own lives.
To return to memory: The Talmud (Rosh Hashanah 32b) asks, Why on the High Holidays do we not recite Hallel, the celebratory collection of Psalms sung on the Pilgrimage festivals? The Talmud answers that God Himself says that it would be inappropriate to sing Hallel on a day when the books of life and death are open before Him. In other words, it would be inappropriate to sing Hallel, says God, because today is not a day of history, it is not a day for scripted singing. It is rather a day for a song emanates from the individuals who are standing in judgment, remembering themselves. And so the song of Rosh Hashanah is not a song of words, but a primal song open to manifold interpretation, the song of the shofar, that says “Wake up, wake up, and remember who you are!”
July 9, 2008
“And it came to pass after these things that God tested Abraham. And He said to him, “Abraham.” And he said, “Here I am.” And He said, “Please, take your son, your only one, the one whom you love, Isaac; and get yourself to the land of Moriah, and offer him up there as a sacrifice, on one of the mountains that I will tell you.”
What would you do?
You are Abraham. When you were 75 years old, the voice of God came to you and told you, “Get out from your land, from your birthplace, from your father’s house and go to the land I will show you. And I will make you a great nation and I will bless you and make your name great, and it will be for a blessing.” You left behind everything because of your faith in this God, because of your trust in this God’s word. God told you that you would become a nation—that you would have land, and that you would have children.
And after many years of waiting, you finally did have a child with your wife Sarah—miraculously so: She was 90, you were 100! You waited for years. You may have started to doubt God’s promise, but then the promise was fulfilled. You have been given everything because you sacrificed everything—you left it all behind, and you got a complete life in return.
And now, this. Now this same God in whose word you placed your entire existence, your entire future, asks you to give it all up again. This same God, who promised you land and children and blessing and who delivered—this same God asks you to sacrifice that which you love more than anything in the world. More than that, this same God, who you yourself humbled with the words, “Will the judge of the all the earth not do justice,” this same God asks you to take the life an innocent child, a being created in God’s own image.
What would you do?
Traditionally, this is how we read the story of the binding of Isaac, the Akedah. From the Talmud through the great medieval commentator Ramban, up through Kierkegaard in the nineteenth century and Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik in the twentieth, this has been the essential question: What would you do? Would you have the faith of Abraham? Would you do as he does? Would you speak up? Would you say no?
We read this story on Rosh Hashanah because today is a day to take stock of our faith. Today is a day to examine our relationship with God. It is a day, as the Talmud says and as the Machzor echoes, when all the creatures of the earth walk past God for review. Are we up to the challenge that Abraham poses? Would we do as Abraham does? That is our question on Rosh Hashanah.
But there is another way to read the Akedah. Rather than read the story from the point of view of Abraham, we can read it from the point of view of Isaac: “And it came to pass after these things that God tested Abraham,” my father. And He said to my father, “Abraham.” And my father said, “Here I am.” And He said, “Please, take your son, your only one, the one whom you love, Isaac”—please, take me!; and get yourself to the land of Moriah, and offer him up there as a sacrifice (offer ME up there as a sacrifice), on one of the mountains that I will tell you.”
My father did not consult my mother. He did not ask me how I felt about this. But we went along. And after a while, I noticed there was no animal for the sacrifice, and so I said to him, “Abba,” and he said, “Here I am.” And I asked him, “I see that we have the fire and the wood—where’s the lamb for the sacrifice?” And my father said, “God will provide the lamb for the sacrifice, my son.” And we walked on together. And when we arrived at the place, my father took me and tied me up, and put me on top of the altar. And then my father took the knife and raised his arm. The knife was over my throat.
You are Isaac. Your father has led you through the wilderness for three days. When you ask him what it’s all about, he misleads you. You climbed a mountain with him, and now he has tied you up and placed you atop an altar, and at this moment he has a knife extended over your throat.
The question is not, What do you do? Physically, you are bound. You can’t do anything. Rather the question is an emotional, intellectual, and spiritual one: How do you respond? How do you feel? Confused? Terrified? Angry? Resigned? At peace? Accepting?
When we take the traditional view, and read the story from Abraham’s perspective, we start from the standpoint of freedom. Abraham’s Akedah is a story about choices. Abraham is not forced to do this. He is asked, as Rashi, the greatest of Torah commentators, reminds us in his comment on the tiny word נא. Note in verse 2 that God says קח נא את בנך—Please, take your son… Rashi focuses on the word נא, please, and says, “The word נא connotes a request. God said to Abraham, ‘Please take this test for me.’” Abraham performs the Akedah of his own free will. He freely chooses to listen to God’s call.
This approach resonates with us because, as my teacher Rabbi Yitz Greenberg has said, today we are all, in effect, Jews by choice, just as Abraham was. Even if we are not converts, all of us today have the option of engaging Judaism on our own terms. There is no one forcing us to live Jewishly, or to identify as Jews at all. And so on Rosh Hashanah we ask ourselves, Will we choose this path? Will we listen to God’s voice?
But as we have seen, there is another side to the story. When we approach the Akedah from Isaac’s point of view, our questions change. Isaac’s story is not a story about choices. It does not start from the standpoint of freedom. Rather, Isaac’s story is a story about powerlessness. It is, as the very name Akedah suggests, a story about being bound. The Akedah, from Isaac’s point of view, reminds us of this truth: that we are all inheritors of our parents’ choices. We are all born into a context. We are all born into a history. We are all born into a situation over which we have no control.
Remember my friends: Abraham left everything behind! He was a new Adam. He left his father’s house, his country, his homeland, to found something new. And so Abraham is a man of freedom, the first Jew and the first convert to Judaism. But Isaac—Isaac is very much a part of his father’s house. He is the inheritor of that house, the inheritor of his father’s new land, the inheritor of his father’s covenant with God. Abraham’s legacy has been placed on Isaac’s shoulders. Isaac is the third Jew, after Abraham and Sarah, and the first Jew by birth.
And so the question that Isaac asks us on this Rosh Hashanah is, How will we respond? Will we go along? Will we participate? Will we take up the mantel of our forebears? Will we accept the history into which we have been born?
D. Renewing the Covenant
Today, Rosh Hashanah, is the day when we renew our Covenant with God, the day when we bless God as זוכר הברית, the One who remembers the Covenant. The Covenant is a two-sided commitment, a commitment between us individually and collectively with God, to bring justice, righteousness, and holiness to the world. As partners in the Covenant, both we and God limit our choices. For His part, God agrees to sustain the world, to be a partner with humanity and with the Jewish people, to love us and to be patient with us.
By embracing the Covenant, we commit ourselves to live by a set of moral, ethical and religious principles that acknowledge the fundamental dignity of every human being, every image of God.
To live as Covenantal people means curbing our desire for power, by resting on Shabbat.
It means limiting our appetite for food, by eating certain foods and not others.
It means restraining our sexual impulses, and elevating sex to an act of love, intimacy, and dignity.
To live as Covenantal people means seeing the poor in our midst as images of God, deserving of our respect and our sustenance.
It means caring for our young, tending to our old, and taking care of those who are alone.
It means speaking out against injustice and taking action to liberate the oppressed.
On a global and communal level, to live as people of the Covenant is to make the world a more just place and to correct its wrongs. On a personal level, it means binding ourselves to a promise—a promise to restrain ourselves from our worst, and to inspire ourselves to our best.
Today, as we read the Akedah story and as we recommit ourselves to our Covenant, we are both Abraham and Isaac. We are Abraham because we are free to make our choice. God is asking you, God is asking us, to be God’s partner. And we are free to choose. And so we are Abraham.
But we are also Isaac. We come here today as children of our parents and grandparents, the product of their choices and the history they created for us. We—you and I—have been burdened with a history and blessed with a birthright at the same time, just like Isaac.
We are the next link in a chain that extends back to Elie Wiesel and Hannah Senesh, to Sigmund Freud and Albert Einstein.
It extends further back, to Moses Mendelssohn in the nineteenth century and the Ba’al Shem Tov in the eighteenth;
To Baruch Spinoza in seventeenth century Amsterdam and to Joseph Karo in sixteenth century Palestine.
And it keeps going, back a thousand years to Maimonides and Rashi, and to Rabbi Akiba and to Hillel a thousand years before them;
To Ezra and Daniel, to Mordechai and Esther,
To Isaiah, King Solomon and King David in Jerusalem;
To Joshua in Canaan and Moses at Sinai;
To Jacob wrestling with the angel at the River Yabbok,
And to Isaac and to Abraham, there atop Mount Moriah on that awful silent day, this day, this Rosh Hashanah, this very moment.
Today we are all Abraham, and we are all Isaac. Today we ask ourselves, “What am I bound to? What are my commitments? Are my commitments the right ones? How can I recommit myself to the things that are really important, to myself, my family, my community, our people, our values, our Torah, our God?”
For some of us, today truly is the start of life beyond our parents’ house, away from our hometowns, away from our native lands. It is a day of Abraham. But today is also a day of Isaac, a day when we do not start afresh—but rather a day on which we begin again, conscious of the burden of our people’s history and the profundity of its millennia of wisdom. We are both powerful and powerless at the same time.
And so the question stands. Or, I should say, the questions. To the Abrahams in us: What will you do? God is not asking you to sacrifice your child. But the implications of your choices will have an effect on your children, and on the world all our children will inherit. What will you do? What kind of world will you build for them? What classes will you take, what activities will you be involved with, what places will you go and who will you befriend—and what picture will all those strokes ultimately paint? To the Abrahams in us, today is a day to reckon with the choices we have before us.
And to the Isaacs in us: How will you play the hand you’ve been dealt? How will you respond? How will you make time to be a responsible custodian of this amazing and unparalleled 4 millenia-old tradition? Will you make time for Torah study? Will you make time for social justice? Will you make time for prayer? Will you make time for family? As the campus rabbi, I welcome you to make time for all these things through Hillel. You are always welcome, and I and the rest of the Hillel staff, are always available to you to be a companion and a guide on your Jewish journey. How will you engage this birthright of yours? To the Isaacs in us, today is a day to reckon with the choices that have been made for us—and to respond by making our own choices.
I bless you, as I hope you will bless me, with the courage of Abraham, to be a trailblazer and a visionary; and with the passion of Isaac, to know your people’s story, and to make it your own.
לשנה טובה תכתבו ותחתמו
July 9, 2008
Posted by Josh Feigelson under Sermons
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בראש השנה יכתבון, וביום צום כיפור יחתמון
On Rosh Hashanah it is written, and on Yom Kippur it is sealed: Who will live and who will die, who by fire and who by water, who in his time and who too early…
The most famous lines in the High Holiday liturgy, and the most haunting: On Rosh Hashanah it is written, and on Yom Kippur it is sealed. On these days we stand in judgment before the Almighty, on trial for our lives. We look around us and we wonder, who will be here a year from now? In a year’s time, who will look back on a year of success, a year of growth, a year of good deeds? Will my neighbor? Will that woman across the aisle? Will I?
On Rosh Hashanah it is written, and on Yom Kippur it is sealed. Our fates are sealed on this day! This is it! What are we to do?
ותשובה ותפילה וצדקה מעבירין את רע הגזרה
Three things, the Machzor tells us. Three things will take away the harshness of the decree: Teshuva, repentance; Tefilla, prayer; and Tzedakah, charity. If we do these three things, we may not annul the decree, but we will take away its pain. We will make it more bearable. We will redeem ourselves in some small measure.
At this point I imagine that someone out there is thinking, “That’s a really sweet idea, rabbi. But I have no idea what it means.” Or maybe you’re thinking, “What’s with all the hocus pocus? If I pray really hard and I give money and I confess my sins, I get to live this year? We all know that’s not how it works.”
So I’ll tell you: you’re right, it’s not hocus-pocus. Confessing your sins today will not bring you the health you want. Praying really hard today will not deliver you the success you strive for. And giving 10 percent of your income to charity will not buy you the love you desire. That stuff is hocus-pocus, and the machzor is far too sophisticated for that. We are not about hocus-pocus.
So let me tell you what I think this is really all about.
ותשובה ותפילה וצדקה מעבירין את רע הגזרה
We have to look at each word of that sentence to really unpack it.
So first, teshuva. Yes, teshuva means repentance. But more literally it means, “Return.” What kind of return? Returning to who we are capable of being, who we want to be, who we were meant to be. Returning to our צלם אלקים, the image of God within us.
Doing teshuva means letting go of the things that we mistake for being important and grabbing hold of the things which really are important in our lives. Doing teshuva means being honest with ourselves about who we are and who we aspire to be. It means confessing, but confessing in a way that we really mean it—not a rote recitation of sins, but simply and profoundly realizing what we have done or failed to do in the last year, and taking responsibility for it. And it means resolving not to repeat our mistakes. In short, doing teshuva means returning to our best self. It means being the person we want to be.
If we do that, then in whatever time we have remaining, we can know that we have been doing the things most important to us, that we have been living a life we can be proud of, a life after which we can meet our maker and say, “Thank you for that wonderful, blessed experience.” When we realize that, the bitterness of the decree—רע הגזירה—is eased.
Tefilla. Tefilla is prayer. Big help. What is prayer? Prayer is many things, but on its most basic level prayer is about embracing the existence of others in the universe. It is about recognizing that we are not alone, as lonely as we may sometimes feel. No matter how tormented we may be, no matter how far away the rest of the world may seem, when we pray we step into a world in which God hears us. Indeed, God is so close that God can hear the whispers of our lips and the murmurings of our hearts. To pray, then, is to realize that God is with us.
As Jews, we go even one step further: We pray with a community, and we phrase our prayers in the plural—אלקינו ואלקי אבותינו ואמותינו, “Our God and God of our ancestors.” So for we Jews, prayer is also about inhabiting the world with other human beings.
Prayer for us is an act of remembering that, while the world does not revolve around us, we have a unique role to play in it. When we really pray, we well up with a feeling of fullness. We feel the presence of God and we feel the souls of our fellow travelers here on earth, and in the words of the Amidah prayer, “וכל החיים יודוך,” all living creatures join in giving thanks for this life. Prayer, like teshuva, is not about reciting a rote text. That text, like the text of the confessional, is a suggestion. True prayer transcends those words, and reaches a point where we realize that we share this world with others. And in that moment, the pain of our loneliness, the bitterness of the decree—רע הגזירה—is eased.
Tzedakah. Tzedakah is charity. But it is much more than charity. Tzedakah of course comes from the root Tzedek, which means justice. Tzedakah is about righting the wrongs of society, about making the world a more just and equitable place.
Why is tzedakah on our list? I have tried to show how engaging in teshuva and engaging in tefillah, returning to the selves we want to be and recognizing that we are not alone, can make our remaining days of life ones we will cherish. What about tzedakah?
Whatever the reason, we live in a world that is far from perfect. Perhaps it was Adam and Eve, perhaps it was God’s mistake, perhaps it was even God’s design: But the bottom line is that we live in a world in desperate need of repair. The Kabbalists tell us that when we perform mitzvoth, when we repair the world, we mend the sacred vessels that were shattered at the moment of Creation. On the other end of the spectrum, Maimonides, the arch-rationalist, tells us that when we do an act of tzedakah, we are able to see the divine presence in the world.
What both of them are saying, I believe, is that when we right the wrongs of the world, the image of God within us is acting. And when we right the wrongs of the world, when we comfort the fallen and heal the sick and free the oppressed, we not only see God in ourselves, but we allow the godliness of the other to be seen as well. And in that moment, the divine presence is palpable. We feel great, the other feels great, and the bitterness of the decree—רע הגזירה—is eased.
ותשובה ותפילה וצדקה מעבירין את רע הגזרה
So let’s talk tachlis, as we say in Yiddish. Let’s get down to business. Rabbi, what do you want me to do? I’ll tell you: three things.
Teshuva. Teshuva is not something just for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. It’s for all the time. So on a regular basis—the first of the month, maybe, or some other regular time—take an hour and go through your priorities. Make a list. And evaluate your life against that list. Are you really spending your time the way you want to? Are you really being your best self?
Tefillah. Every day take at least five minutes to clear your head. It can be a walk by Lake Michigan, it can be sitting on the floor in your bedroom. Doesn’t matter to me where. But just take five minutes to slow down enough to be able to hear your heart beat, to experience your body, to listen to the people and things around you, and to be grateful.
Tzedakah. Find a cause you care about and spend fifteen minutes a day (an hour and a half a week) working on it. There are tons of possibilities, but if you’re having trouble thinking of one, I’ll make a suggestion. As I hope you know, an entire people is being persecuted and nearly wiped out in Darfur, Sudan. According to recent reports by the World Food Program, the United Nations and the Coalition for International Justice, 3.5 million people are now hungry, 2.5 million have been displaced due to violence, and 400,000 people have died in Darfur thus far. Here’s something you can do in less than five minutes a day: Call the White House. Every day. 202-456-1414. Demand that President Bush take action. You have been given a suggested script. The White House gets a thousand phone calls a day. That’s it. If every person hearing this sermon called the White House every day for the next month, it would send the President an unmistakable message that the public cares about this issue, and it would take just 2.5 hours of your time over the course of a month.
בראש השנה יכתבון, וביום צום כיפור יחתמון
On Rosh Hashanah it is written, and on Yom Kippur it is sealed. What kind of life will we lead this year? What kind of world will we build this year? How will we do better this year?
Today, my friends, is a day to let go of the things that don’t matter and to focus on the things that do. None of us knows how much time we have left, and so, in the words of Rabbi Eliezer in the Talmud, we should live each day as though it were our last. What will you do in the next three minutes, in the next three hours, in the next three days, three weeks, three months, and three years, to make your life into something to be proud of? That is your question, that is all our question, this Yom Kippur.
Gemar chatima tovah, May we all find the inspiration to live our best life today.
July 9, 2008
(To see this on video, click here. Go to five minutes before the end.)
In the Jewish tradition we have a beautiful custom that at the beginning of Shabbat, the Sabbath, on Friday night, parents place their hands on the heads of their children and offer them a blessing.
Benediction means blessing. And so as we conclude this Commencement, and as the sun begins to set and Shabbat draws close, I invite all the parents here to focus your heart on your children. In a moment, I will ask you to offer a blessing to your children with me.
And to the graduates, both to those whose parents are here today and to those whose parents are far away, I ask you to open your hearts to receive your parents’ blessing. For even if they are not physically with us today, their spirits join us here in blessing you.
With our hearts directed, and with all the joy and hope and promise of today, I ask you to join with me in offering the traditional blessing from the Torah:
“May God, the source of life, the source of mystery, bless you and keep you.
“May the light of God’s face shine upon you and make you glow with grace.
“May God’s face turn toward you, and give you peace.” Amen.
July 9, 2008
Posted by Josh Feigelson under Sermons
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There’s a great old Woody Allen routine from his standup days in the 1960s. He tells a story about going down south and getting picked up by a bunch of guys in white sheets. At first he thinks they’re on their way to a costume party. When they say, “We need to go pick up the grand dragon,” it hits him: down south, white sheets, the Grand Dragon, I put two and two together. I figure there’s a guy going to the party dressed as a dragon.
After a while they realize he’s Jewish, and they’re getting ready to hang him. And at this point Woody says, “Suddenly my whole life passed before my eyes. I saw myself as a kid again, in Kansas, going to school, swimming at the swimming hole, and fishing, frying up a mess-o-catfish, going down to the general store, getting a piece of gingham for Emmy-Lou. And I realize it’s not my life. They’re gonna hang me in two minutes, and the wrong life is passing before my eyes! And I spoke to them, and I was really eloquent, I said “Fellas, this country can’t survive, unless we love one another regardless of race, creed or colour”. And they were so moved by my words, not only did they cut me down and let me go, but that night, I sold them two thousand dollars worth of Israel Bonds.
Now, don’t worry, friends: This is not the Israel Bonds appeal, though we will be happy to accept donations for Northwestern Hillel. My message today is not about Israel Bonds. My message is about your life passing before your eyes. Because tonight, on Yom Kippur, the story of your life should be passing before your eyes. And God forbid you’re seeing the story of the life of a kid getting a piece of gingham for Emmy-Lou, when you should be seeing your own story—the story of the life you have lived, and the life you have yet to live.
Yom Kippur is a time to focus on my favorite question: What’s your story? What do you want to remember about your life, and what do you want to be remembered for by others? On Yom Kippur we confront our mortality, and we ask ourselves, What will be our legacy? The liturgy and the imagery of Yom Kippur prompts us to think about death so that we will think about what is most important and significant in life.
Now this is a heavy way to spend your first weekend at college, I’ll grant you that. If you were planning on going to some big parties your first Friday night on campus, you came to the wrong place. But you know what? This is actually an incredible gift. Because if this is your first Friday night on campus—and please, raise your hand if it is. Thank you, and welcome. If this is your first Friday night on campus, this is an incredible gift. Because here you are, with hundreds of other people, reflecting on what’s most important in your life. Here you are, at the start of a new chapter—one of the most exciting, and probably the most expensive, chapters in your life story—and you have a space to reflect, a space to ponder what your story has been and what your story can be.
As the Torah tells us in the book of Leviticus, in ancient times the Yom Kippur service looked a little different than it does today. The service was performed by the Kohen Gadol, the High Priest, who wore simple white garments—hence my simple white garments (different than the white garments of the guys in the Woody Allen story). The ritual centered on three acts of confession and sacrifice he performed. The Kohen Gadol first confessed and sought forgiveness for his own sins and those of his family, then for those of his tribe, and finally for those of all of Am Yisrael, the entire Jewish people. In other words, he moved outward in concentric circles. He first focused on himself and those closest to him, next on his community, and finally on the nation.
The model of reflection laid out by the Kohen Gadol is a good one for us to adopt. The ancient rabbis realized this, and constructed our Yom Kippur prayer around it.
So tonight, as we reflect on our stories—both our stories of the past year and those of the coming year—let’s use the model that’s right in front of us, and consider ourselves and our families, our community, and our larger people and nation.
I. What’s your story with your family? Who are the most important people in your life? How have you treated them in the past year? How have they treated you? How would you have wanted to treat them?
There’s an old song by Mike and the Mechanics that you still hear in the grocery store every now and then, called ‘The Living Years.’ You know it. It can be a little cheesy. The refrain goes, “Say it loud, say it clear: You can listen as well as you hear. It’s too late when we die to admit we don’t see eye to eye.” But at the heart of the song is the message that we only have whatever time we have, and, in the words of the song, It’s too late when we die. We only have our time here and now to tell the people who matter to us the words that matter to us, and to them.
So how will your story be better this year with regard to yourself and your family? What do you wish you could say to a parent or a child or a close friend that you haven’t said? It’s Yom Kippur, the day when we can start anew. So what will your story be?
II. Next: What’s your story with your community? For many of you here, you have just entered a new community. What will your story be here? Who will your friends be? What causes will you devote yourself to? What organizations and groups will you join? What subjects will you study? How important will classes be to you, and what things would you be willing to skip class to do?
Beyond campus, we are also part of a larger community here in Evanston and Chicago. What will your story be regarding them? Will you see yourself as an Evanstonian? Will you register to vote here? Will you volunteer in the community? Will you learn about its history, its own story?
And here’s one other community: The Jewish community. What will your story be with the Yiddin, the Jews? Now, I want to be very clear about this: I’m not giving you guilt. Really, I’m not. Because if I have to appeal to guilt, then I have cheapened what the community of Jewish life has to offer.
Tonight we are asking, What’s your story? That’s not a Jewish question. That’s a human question. All human beings ask that question. But what we’re doing tonight is exploring it through the community of Jewish life. That’s a literal community, in the form of the living, breathing people in this room. It’s also a community of texts and values and ideas and stories, a community of readers and writers who go backwards in time to Maimonides and King David and Moses and all the Jews in between. And it goes forward in time to include all the thoughts and insights and discussions of people around the world, both those who are on the planet right now, and those yet to be born. It includes you and me. We are all linked, we are all connected, by the rich and thick tradition of Jewish thought and language.
That is an amazing gift. Think about it for a second. It’s a stupendously amazing gift. So many people in our society don’t have this—a thick culture, a community that helps us find ourselves and make sense of our stories, a community that transcends the limits of time and space and creates sacred moments for us to connect with one another and reflect on our stories.
So what will your story be with Jewish life this year? How will you deepen your Jewish story? How will you thicken your Jewish story? Maybe you’ll learn more, and take a Jewish studies class here at Northwestern. Maybe you’ll go on a birthright Israel trip (www.freeisraeltrip.org) and discover what your story is in the land of the Jewish people. Maybe you’ll host Shabbat dinner for your friends once a month and create a space for them and yourself to learn and reflect.
What will your story be with the many communities you are part of? And what will your story be with the Jews?
And finally, what will your story be with regard to our nation and our world? As we all know, these are times of immense challenges. From Iraq to Darfur, from global climate change to Israel’s relationship with her neighbors and the prospect of a nuclear-armed Iran, these are challenging times. On this Yom Kippur we wonder, what will the story of the world be? What will be the story of Darfur? What will be the story of Iraq? What will be the story of Israel? What will be the story of the planet? These are open questions. And these are your questions, our questions. What will we do to write the world’s story?
Sometimes our urge is to check out, to say, the story of the world isn’t my story. It’s too big. What can I do? But my friends, as our texts and our liturgy remind us, and as the prophet Jonah about whom we read on Yom Kippur learned, you can’t hide from the challenges of the world. You can’t hide from what God and God’s creation demand of us. We have no choice but to be engaged. And we can write the story, we can write a different ending. Indeed we must.
So what will your story be this year? What will be your story about the world? What will your story be about the Jewish community, about Chicago, about Evanston, about Northwestern? What will your story be with your family? What will your story be with yourself? It’s Yom Kippur. On every day, but on this day especially, our stories are being written. We are writing them. Our friends and family are writing them. Our communities are writing them. Our world is writing them. What will your story be?
I want to bless you all, as I hope you will bless me, with a year of growth, a year of good problems. I want to bless you, as I hope you will bless me, with a year of health and peace. And I want to bless you, as I hope you will bless me, with a year of discovery, a year of authenticity, a year of being yourself, a year of living the story you want to live, the story you are meant to live. Shana tova.