Iggeret HaKavod - Kol Nidrei Sermon 5780

Throughout history, in every time and place of Jewish life, rabbis have given voice to ideas through written letters to express and record matters of belief, practice, ethical and communal concern.  Sometimes these letters were written to individuals, who asked a specific question of the rabbi, and sometimes these letters were written to entire communities commenting or reflecting on the needs of the day.  Each Iggeret, each one of these rabbinic letters, is unique in style and subject matter based on the rabbi who gave it voice.   These letters were written out of a sense of leadership, of love and of responsibility to the Jewish communities to whom they were written. 

There are many rabbis whose letters we still read and study today, and Maimonides is probably best known for the many letters he wrote to various Jewish communities seeking wisdom and blessing.   His letters were not meant to be instructive in the way of “musts” - you must believe or do what I say, but rather they were guides, they were letters filled with mussar and Torah - with instruction and teachings, to provide a sense of comfort and to help the individual and community make decisions and find meaning and morality for themselves in the world in which they were living.

I share with you the concept of the Iggeret, the rabbinic letter, because the written word sometimes has power that spoken words do not. And, with the start of a new decade, 5780, I wish to try a new tradition, that of writing an iggeret, a letter to you, with the start of each new year, to reflect and comment on the world in which are living.  While I don’t see myself in the same light as the great rabbis whose letters we study today, I do believe that as a rabbi I have knowledge of Torah and our tradition, that help give voice to ideas and thoughts for us to consider as we, individually and as a community, try to navigate this world in which we are living and to make it just a little bit better than how we found it.   So, with this long-standing tradition, on this holy night of Kol Nidrei, I offer my Iggeret, my rabbinic letter to you.  

Dear UH family,

As we enter this new decade of 5780, I am excited by the possibilities that lie ahead for each of us as individuals and for all of us as a community.  There are the possibilities of learning, of growing, of making our world a better place.   And yet, I am troubled that we have allowed ourselves to forget some of the most fundamental teachings of the Torah and our tradition. Which in turn have caused us to distance ourselves from one another and have allowed our larger Jewish community to begin to fray at its seems.   We have lost the ability to talk with one another, to disagree with one another, and to respect and honor our individuality.  We have allowed the disagreements of our day to separate our Jewish community into an “us” vs “them.”    We have forgotten the very real difference between “I dislike your ideas” and “I dislike you.” 

We come from a great tradition of honorable discourse - loud, exuberant, passionate, respectful discourse.  The Talmud records the entirety of these arguments, and while the decision or the halachah often goes to the majority opinion, we still record, respect, and study the minority opinion recognizing that in it there is a kernel of truth from which we should be learning.   Our rabbis had raucous debates, and sometimes even they got out of hand, forgetting themselves, and causing harm to the larger Jewish community.

The Talmud records the following debate about the kashrut (the kosher status) of an oven.  Rabbi Eliezer and the Sages, led by Rabbi Joshua, argue over a new type of oven and whether it could become ritually unclean.  Each rabbi, in his argument, summons heaven to declare if he is right. One says, “If I am right, let the carob tree move” - and it moves;  another says, “if I’m right, let the stream flow backwards” - and it does;  and still another says, “If I’m right let the walls of the House of Study fall in” - and they fall in.  Rabbi Eliezer then summons a Heavenly Voice, “If I’m right, let the heavenly voice speak,” and it does. However, Rabbi Joshua rejects the Heavenly Voice using a line that we read tomorrow morning in our Torah portion, Nitzavim, “it is not in Heaven that someone else should go up and receive it.” He says, “since Torah has been given to us, it is up to us here on earth to decide the law, not the Heavenly voice.” The Sages then overrule Rabbi Eliezer with a majority vote.  (Bava Metzia 59b)

I think we all understand the concept of majority rules, however, when we continue reading this story in the Talmud, we come to learn that this great rabbi, Rabbi Eliezer was ostracized because he disagreed with the majority.  The powers that be were worried that his dissenting voice would lead others to believe the same and disagree with them; so, they pushed him away from the community by delegitimizing his arguments, by dishonoring him.

This story may be old, but the rabbis point to it as being one of the reasons for the destruction of the 2nd Temple.  There was such disagreement and utter disregard for the other person, that sinat chinam, baseless hatred prevailed.  The 2nd Temple wasn’t destroyed because our ancestors forgot their relationship with God, it was destroyed because they forgot their relationship with each other.  It was more important for them to be right, than for them to be considerate of and to honor each other.

Sound familiar?  How often do we find ourselves in difficult and controversial conversations where we are called out and mocked for our ideas or we fear speaking up because of the potential of being ostracized or mocked for our beliefs? 

I’m afraid that today we find ourselves in a moment of history repeating itself.   Once again, we are so caught up in the premise that one side, our side, holds the only "truth", or the only "morally" correct option, that we condemn and call out any opinion or idea which is in opposition to ours, and we ostracize those who differ from us.  In so doing, we have created echo chambers for ourselves and only hear the opinions and arguments we want to hear.   This loss of dignified discourse has destroyed the ability for differing perspectives to coexist and it hinders the free exchange of ideas.  This is not Jewish. To be a Jew means to struggle and wrestle with ideas.  It means being able to hold on to the tension that comes when we wrestle and struggle with what sometimes feels like competing ideas.  But Judaism allows us to hold onto both and find some sense of truth. 

In this new year, my friends, we must change the tenor and the tone of discourse and disagreement in our community.  Not just our Jewish community but in the larger American society.   Our tradition teaches that we, we are to be a light unto the nations, an example of how to behave - of how to make this world just a little bit better.  If things are going to change, we must lead the way in changing the tone and the attitude of our discourse, to raise people up, to honor them, instead of knocking them down, and ostracizing them because they see the world differently than we do. 

How do we do this? 

With Kavod - with respect, with honor, with dignity.

From the very beginning, the Torah teaches, “And God said, “Let us make human beings in our image and likeness, (Genesis 1:26)” indicating that we humans are created b’tzelem elohim, in the image of God.  What would it mean to listen to someone, to truly listen to someone, and to hear their words as the words of God?  Would you converse with them differently?  Argue with them a little more respectfully?  Think twice before calling them out as opposed to calling out their ideas?

We come from a long tradition of arguing with God.  Abraham argued with God, Moses argued with God, and even Job argued with God.  And guess what, God didn’t treat them with disdain or say, “how dare you argue with me?” and dismiss them altogether.  Rather, God listened.  In some instances, the argument didn’t change the outcome, as Sodom and Gomorrah were still destroyed.  And yet in other instances, the outcome was changed, as Moses argued against God destroying the Israelites after the sin of the Golden Calf, and God listened - we are still here today with an incredible history.   

The Hebrew word kavod has the same root as the word kabaid, meaning heavy or weighty. The honor that we owe one another is a serious, weighty matter.  Each of us, each human being is created in the Divine image. Therefore, each of us is deserving of being treated with dignity, honor and respect, regardless of the ideas and beliefs that we hold to be true and correct.^[1]

We have work to do, and it isn’t going to be easy.  It’s going to take thought and take practice.  What do I mean?  We will have to pause and think before responding, especially on social media.  We are too quick to leap into controversy and perhaps what we need to do is to create a communal ethic as suggested by Dr. Yehuda Kurzer, one which calls on us not to respond swiftly to things with which we disagree, but to slow down, to think about what we are going to say, to respond to the idea and not the person^[2].  

You may be thinking to yourself, “whatever, this isn’t going to change anything. I am but one person, and there are others who need to change before me.”  You are right, there are others who need to change; however, we can’t change someone else, we can only change ourselves.  If each one of us in this room, were to think before we speak and react, to honor the other person and recognize that our disagreement is with their ideas and not them as people, imagine what that could do.  If we could, in our own arguments, let go of the negativity and insist that others do, as well, wow, what a world we could live in!  A world that lifts up people and ideas, a world where we argue and disagree about ideas respectfully, a world that is made better because there are multiple points of truth and right.

Tonight, we continue the heavy work of teshuvah.  We stand together as a community to confess our individual and communal sins. 

Al chet shechatanu lefanecha, the sin we have committed against You, God, and ourselves by not seeing the Divine in each person.

V’ Al chet shechatanu l’fanecha, and the sin we have committed against You, God, and the harm we have caused ourselves and others by calling people out with disdain when we don’t agree with them instead of calling out their ideas.

For these, we ask you God for our forgiveness. 

In this new year, may we find the strength and courage to be the change our world sorely needs.  May we be beacons of change bringing light, our light, into this darkened world through our right actions. May we use our ears to hear, our eyes to see, our hearts to love and our mouths to speak words of respect and give honor to all in our community, even when we disagree.

I close this letter with words from our sages:

This is what God said to Israel: My children what do I seek from you? I seek no more than that you love one another, and honor one another, and that you have awe for one another.^[3]

I wish each of you a tzom kal, an easy fast and a g'mar chatimah tovah, that tomorrow, as Yom Kippur comes to an end, you are sealed for good in the book of life.

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^[1] Rabbi Andrea Goldstein, http://mindfulness.sestl.org/

^[2] https://blogs.timesofisrael.com/why-the-witch-hunts/

^[3] Tanna Debei Eliyahu Rabbah 26:6

Who Are You - I Am Jewish - Rosh Hashanah Sermon 5780

Who Are You - I am Jewish

365 years ago, in September 1654, shortly before Rosh Hashanah, 23 Jews arrived in New Amsterdam, which is now New York.  They were members of the Sephardic Jewish community in the Netherlands, many of whom had fled from Spain and Portugal during the Inquisition and later expulsion.  They had been living in Recife, Brazil, which was a Dutch Colony, until it came under Portuguese control and they had to leave.  They came to New Amsterdam seeking a place where they could live and be themselves.  They were seeking a home that would accept them for who they were and allow them to worship in peace.  They were seeking a home where they could contribute and help build a nation and be accepted as Jews.

Did you realize that there were Jews in America before it was officially the United States of America?    Had you thought about the reality that the first Jews in America were Spanish and Portuguese speaking Sephardic Jews, not the traditional Ashkenazic immigrants we think of?  In fact, Sherith Israel, known as the Spanish Portuguese synagogue was the first synagogue in America and for almost 100 years, Portuguese was the language spoken in the synagogue.

 From 1654 through today, America has been a haven, a golden Medina, golden land for Jews who sought refuge on her shores.  Our ancestors came here seeking a place that would allow them to live in freedom as Jews.  They came here, seeking to make a better life for themselves and their families - whether escaping the Russian pogroms and the Nazis, or seeking refuge after the destruction of the Holocaust, to finding a home after years of living behind the Iron curtain.

Has it always been easy?  No.  We Jews understand history has a funny way of repeating itself.  The 23 who arrived in 1654, faced anti-Semitism upon their arrival, as Governor Stuyvesant was known to discriminate against anyone whose religion was different than his.  But he was overruled by those above him at the Dutch West India Company, who oversaw New Amsterdam, as the Dutch were known for being tolerant of all faiths.  And later, as more Jews began to arrive, they were not always welcomed with open arms, but when they found communities that would allow them to live and to be Jewish, they settled and became part of the fabric of that community.  And, so began the history of the Jewish community in the United States. 

We have had our experiences of quotas, of being kept out of neighborhoods, country clubs, of dealing with signs that said “No Jews allowed,” yet today,  as Alan Dershowitz points out, “American Jews have achieved everything we ever wanted: acceptance, influence, affluence, and equality.”  And, until the recent uptick in Antisemitism, I would venture to guess that most American Jews had never felt more secure, more accepted, than at any time in our history.  America has been good for us.  And yet, I worry. I worry that becoming wholly American has meant that we have lost part of our Jewish identity. That daily, we struggle with a “tug of war between being an American and being a Jew.”  

What do I mean?  How many of us truly think about being Jewish daily?  How many of us live Torah, recognizing that in it is a way of living - not just ritual practices, but ways that we live in this world, interacting with other people?   If someone were to ask you, to describe yourself, where would Judaism and being Jewish come into your description? 

Is it first? 

Is it last? 

Does it even make your list? 

 When you say to someone, “I am Jewish,” what does that mean?

 Can you articulate it?

I know that for some of you, especially those in the greatest generation, being Jewish likely was the center of who you were.  Out of necessity, you lived in solely Jewish communities, you may have lived with multiple generations in your home, socialized with Jews, and likely went to school with mostly Jews.  For those in the baby boomer generation, things may have changed just a bit, but again, the Jewish community was likely still very central to your entire life.  For my generation, those who came before, paved the way, the world was much more open to us.   And for millennials and generation z  - the world is yours in ways it never was for the earlier generations of your family who came to America, being Jewish doesn’t define you and your choices in a way it once did.

Honestly, I worry that some of our kids, let alone our adults, think of Judaism as an activity, not an identity. When the activity is over, there is no need for a synagogue. There is a huge difference between being able to declare “I am Jewish” and saying “I have bar mitzvah lessons and religious school on Tuesdays and Sundays just like I have softball or soccer on Mondays and Thursdays. We don’t just go to religious school or to Shabbat services like we go to the gym. We go because they connect us, ground us to our Jewish identity, to understanding that it is from Torah and this incredible tradition that we get not only narratives, rituals, and values but also a sense of purpose and connection in this world.[1]

 But I worry.  I worry that with the challenges that Jews face in America today with the rise of Antisemitism - that we, the American Jewish community will either try to hide our Jewish identity and not share it with anyone else for fear of attack, or that we’ll come to resent our Jewish identity, seeing it merely as a burden, as something that causes us struggle and strife as opposed to seeing it as a part of ourselves - something  that links us to thousands of years and many generations of a small but mighty people, who have remained steadfast in their love of and connection with Torah, and who have survived despite all odds.

 In 2002, Jewish journalist Daniel Pearl was brutally murdered by militants in Pakistan. Despite this horrific crime against humanity, in the last minutes before his death, the last words that he spoke, provided a moment of hope and peace for his family..  He said, “My father is Jewish, my mother is Jewish, I am Jewish”.   He wasn’t forced to say these words.  In fact, he could have said, I am American, I am a journalist, I am a son, but instead he said, “I am Jewish.” 

 What we later learned from Daniel Pearl’s family is that these were words of hope and words of peace.  While he never concealed his Jewish identity, Daniel Pearl considered himself a secular Jew, and yet, in his last moment, his father believes, that by declaring “I am Jewish,” he understood the power of his identity and that with it, in those last moments he knew he was not alone, as he connected himself with the many, many generations of Jews who came before him.

 Daniel Pearl’s last words, spoken almost 2 decades ago, are still so powerful today.  They are words that call on each of us, to think about what it means for us to be a link in the chain of this beautiful tradition.  They call on us to think about what it means to identify as and to be Jewish.

This is our challenge this year - to think about, I mean truly think about what it means when you say, “I am Jewish.”  What is behind it?  What words do you use to follow that statement?  How do you describe what being Jewish means, to someone else?

Many of us might start a description of I am Jewish, and then very quickly follow with BUT . . . But, I’m not religious, I don’t keep kosher, I don’t read Hebrew, yet at the end of the statement we say that the most important thing is that we’re Jewish,

This past week, I was cleaning out my desk (High Holiday preparation procrastination is great for getting things cleaned) and I came across a letter that my grandfather wrote to me in 1994.  I had asked him to share with me what he could about his side of the family. 

 Amazingly, here is one of the paragraphs he wrote.   “I was born and raised as an Orthodox Jew and while I have drifted far from orthodoxy and in fact do not practice according to any of the branches of Judaism, I am and have always professed to be a Jew.”  Jerome Jacobson

Powerful words, and yet today, I want to know more.  I want to know why he always professed to be a Jew.  What was it about being a Jew that was such an important part of his identity, that even when he let go of religious practice, he still identified as Jewish?  Was it family? A set of values?  Was it shared history and tradition?  These are questions that I will never know his answer to, but they are questions, I think are important for each one of us to think about and answer for ourselves with regard to our own statement of why we are Jewish. 

When I think about when I say, “I am Jewish,” here is what initially comes to mind. 

I am Jewish and feel I received a great foundation of knowledge because my mother never gave in when we complained about religious school or Hebrew school.  She made us continue through confirmation and graduation.  Even when one of us said we didn’t believe, she allowed us to make the choice not to participate in the service, but we had to go to class and learn about what it was we didn’t believe. 

I am Jewish because of summer camp, youth group, and the many teachers, counselors, rabbis and cantors who taught me instilled in me a passion for Jewish knowledge - from Torah, to midrash, to rabbinic tales - and a recognition that Judaism could help inform my daily life.

I am Jewish because I love that Judaism doesn’t give me the answer or require a doctrine of belief, but instead provides me with multiple answers, which call on me to think for myself about what I believe, because Judaism doesn’t demand that my belief in God match anyone else’s and that my belief and relationship with God can ebb and flow throughout my life.

I am Jewish because to be a Jew means to struggle and wrestle with ideas.  It means being able to hold on to the tension that comes when we wrestle and struggle with what sometimes feels like competing ideas.  But Judaism allows me to hold onto both and find some sense of truth.

I am Jewish because Judaism sees no conflict between being a Jew and being an American.  Because for Jews, particularism and universalism are not at odds.  I am a better American for being a proud Jew. I am a better Jew for being part of the larger whole of a shared society, as an American.

I am Jewish because I love everything about being Jewish.  From our shared history, to the State of Israel, from the beautiful melodies of our past and present, to challenging myself to bake challah weekly, from Jewish geography and six degrees of separation, to being excited when someone Jewish succeeds in the world, from raising children and sharing with them the beauty of our faith and tradition to hoping and praying that I will not be the last link in the chain of this small but mighty people. 

Over the course of this next year, together, we are going to explore what it means to us, individually, and collectively, to be Jewish.  There will be some learning opportunities to explore this topic.  There will be a congregational book read.  Together we’ll read and discuss the book, I am Jewish, which is a collection of personal reflections that were inspired by Daniel Pearl’s last words.  This collection of writings is amazing - from kids, to world leaders, to actors and media personalities, to scientists, rabbis, and others.  It is truly an inspiring book.  There are some copies in our library, and you can find it on Amazon.

I also invite you to engage with our community this year, as you explore what it means to say, I am Jewish.  Just look in today’s service handout and you will see a plethora of engagement opportunities.  I want to call your attention specifically to #showmeshabbat a new program to help us all engage with Shabbat, whether in community or with family in the comfort of our own homes!  This is a great way to stop, rest, and do Jewish.  To spice it up, we may even have weekly Shabbat challenges for you to complete and share.

And, we will be launching our own UH “I am Jewish” personal reflection campaign.  In the next few weeks, you will receive from us an invitation to write your own personal reflection on what it means to say, “I am Jewish.”  From adults, to kids we want you to think about it and share your words.  And, with your permission, we will post some of these throughout the year on our website and Facebook page, and ultimately compile our own UH - I am Jewish book.

And for those of you in our communal family today who are not Jewish, I welcome your answers too to the question of what you understand it means to be a Jew.  You may be raising Jewish children or shaping a Jewish home and the answers you give will be crucial to how you proceed.[2]

Overwhelming?  Perhaps.  Yet, when we stop and give it some thought, we might find it’s easier than we think.  

We know that being Jewish isn’t easy, especially today.  But it can be rewarding and fulfilling and powerful and comforting and everything in between.  The first Jews from Recife didn’t have it easy, but they, along with the subsequent generations provided the foundations upon which our Judaism is predicated today.  They fought for rights, for equality, for peace.  And now it is up to us to continue that path.  We must pave the way for future generations to know what it is we mean when we say, We Are Jewish.  What is the message that you want to preserve for those who come after you? 

I conclude with a quote from Anne Frank, who sacrificed so much yet continued to say, I am Jewish,

“Who knows, maybe our religion will teach the world and all the people in it about goodness, and that's the reason, the only reason, we have to suffer.  We can never just be Dutch, or just English, or whatever; we will always be Jews as well. And we'll have to keep on being Jews, but then, we'll want to be.” 

Shanah Tovah!

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[1] Rabbi Adam Stock Spilker

[2] Rabbi Ellen Lippman