tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-51613535489900382972024-02-06T23:17:38.619-05:00Torah From TerrorHow rabbis responded with words of Torah to the tragic events of September 11, 2001Rabbi Jason Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07805550465729805847noreply@blogger.comBlogger93125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5161353548990038297.post-26363073343321504852011-09-08T11:33:00.000-04:002011-09-08T11:33:24.087-04:00Torah From Terror - 10 Years Later (Rabbi Jason Miller)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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My life was in limbo on September 11, 2001. My wife and I had spent our first two years of marriage living in a small apartment in Manhattan, just twelve blocks from the Jewish Theological Seminary where I was studying to become a rabbi. We planned to relocate to Jerusalem after the Jewish holidays where we would experience life in Israel for the year and I would continue my rabbinic studies. In the week prior to Rosh Hashanah, I traveled by plane to Chicago to visit my friend who had just moved there. Little did I know I would be stranded in Chicago and our plans to move to Israel would be canceled.<br />
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I woke up on the morning of 9/11 in my friend’s Chicago apartment. My friend told me to turn the television on to the Today Show on NBC because a plane had just flown into one of the World Trade Center towers. I couldn't believe my eyes and then we saw another plane fly into the other tower. The world would change forever, and so would the way people talk about that date in history. My flight was canceled, but I was able to take a train back to Michigan a couple days later. Air France, with whom we had booked our flights to Israel, decided they would no longer fly to Israel and immediately refunded our money. We made the difficult decision, along with many of my classmates and their spouses, to stay in the U.S. for the year rather than spend it in Israel. Ironically, it was a choice we made because of the terrorism in America and not because of the scary terrorist acts that had plagued Israel all summer long.<br />
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My wife and I had already rented out our New York City apartment so returning there wasn’t an option. Instead, we took our possessions out of storage and moved to Caldwell, NJ – close enough to commute into Manhattan and live in a vibrant Jewish community where I would intern at the local synagogue. For us, 9/11 altered our plans. But that is certainly no comparison to the way so many lives changed dreadfully as a result of the horrific events of that day.<br />
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Driving to Manhattan from New Jersey during those first weeks following the 9/11 attack, my eyes were drawn to the smoke emanating from Ground Zero. I sat in rabbinical school classes listening to my classmates discuss the sermons they were crafting for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. How would we use the power of words to bring healing to the men and women sitting in front of us during these Days of Awe?<br />
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Following the High Holiday season, I decided to collect the sermons that rabbis had delivered right after 9/11. I spoke to my teacher, Rabbi Neil Gillman, and asked if he would be willing to help me edit these sermons and compile them into a book called "Torah From Terror." He agreed and we got to work sending out requests to Reform, Reconstructionist, Conservative and Orthodox rabbis. We asked them to submit a sermon from either Rosh Hashanah or Yom Kippur that dealt with the 9/11 tragedy. Immediately, the sermons began pouring in. We wanted to make these words of Torah available to the world and quickly. So we decided to create the Torah From Terror website.<br />
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On this, the tenth anniversary of the 9/11 attacks I have decided to reformat the Torah From Terror website. Now visitors are able to leave comments on the different sermons. The search capability is also much improved from the original site. I hope you will read through these words of wisdom and find comfort and hope in them. May these words be a remembrance of that horrific day and may we continue to find inspiration in words of Torah.<br />
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My wife and I made the best of a change of plans, while so many families will never be the same after September 11, 2001. Our country will never be the same after being shaken so devastatingly. May the memories of all those who lost their lives that day forever be for blessings.<br />
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-Rabbi Jason Miller<br />Editor, Torah From TerrorRabbi Jason Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07805550465729805847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5161353548990038297.post-65680887039157732752001-09-17T10:04:00.000-04:002011-09-06T01:10:06.972-04:00Rabbi Joel Abraham<center><i>The following sermon was delivered during the 2001 Jewish High Holiday season following the tragic events of September 11, 2001. It has been included on the <b>Torah From Terror</b> website as a resource and retains the copyright of its author. Please cite the source accordingly.</i></center><br />
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Rabbi Joel Abraham <br />
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Kol Nidre 5762<br />
Temple Sholom – 26 September 2001<br />
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This Kol Nidre evening, as we continue to examine ourselves, let us take a moment to return to our theme these High HolyDays of kesher, of connection. As we ponder what we have done over the past year, we wonder how we go about this task. We look at the words of the Mishnah that tells us that for sins between humanity and God, the Day of Atonement atones, but for sins between one human being and another, the Day of Atonement does not atone, until that person has first received forgiveness from the other. That should have been our work over the past few weeks, especially in the last ten days – seeking forgiveness from those we might have wronged. <br />
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We might understand two reasons to seek forgiveness from another human being. The first is to clear our conscience, to make right what we have done wrong. For some of us that reason is compelling in itself. For those who judge their actions by the standard of what God expects of them, seeking forgiveness is part of the process of atonement. At this time of year, we must seek to cleanse ourselves of sin, to become pure once again.<br />
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However, for others of us, this once-a-year process may not be enough motivation in itself. We can understand the benefit of a once-yearly “soul check”, but perhaps see that more as an internal process than external. What is important is realizing what we have done wrong, and resolving to do better in the future. There is no need to go to others to ask for forgiveness – after all, they probably do not remember what we might have done, so why bring it up and cause more trouble anyway? Even if the process is one of personal reflection; even if we do not imagine God actually sitting down in front of a giant book filled with our good and bad deeds; even if we do not expect to be wiped clean of sin – there is still wisdom for us in the words of the Mishnah. The Day of Atonement does not atone for sins between one human being and another, until we have sought forgiveness from that other human being. After all, it is a bit selfish for us to think that we can know ourselves what wrong we have done someone else, before we have spoken to them about it, or asked what we need to do to make it right.<br />
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Two years ago, at the High HolyDays, we examined the truism that it never hurts to say that you are sorry. Because I had the audacity to suggest that to the congregation, I have kept those words in mind ever since, and tried to live by them. Even when we think that we are not at fault, there is no harm in saying that you are sorry. This idea seems to fly in the face of our first reason to seek forgiveness – that there is a scorecard keeping track of our sins. After all, if we were right, then the other person has the burden of the sin, and we are blameless. For us to still ask for forgiveness, there must be another reason, something else compelling us to seek forgiveness, to repair the breach in our relationship.<br />
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That compulsion is the desire that we have for kesher, for connection with other human beings. When we are arguing with a friend and, perhaps, not speaking, we miss their companionship, their point of view, their input on our own lives. The most common complaint that I hear from grown children regarding their deceased parents is that they never had a chance to reconcile, or to tell them how much they meant or how much they loved them. Sometimes, it can be very difficult to strengthen a kesher, when the other partner is no longer around. Now, in the aftermath of sudden, national tragedy, we have been reminded how such opportunities can be cut short before we have the chance to mend, to heal.<br />
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This evening, let us take the opportunity to look at three major connections, keshers, in our life. Let us use this Yom Kippur to resolve to strengthen those bonds with others in the coming year. First, we will look at our connection with our family; second, our connection with our neighbors, and finally, our connection with our friends.<br />
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Family may seem to be the most obvious of keshers. After all, in many cases, we live with our spouses or partners, and live or have lived with our children or parents or siblings. These are people that we need to interact with every day – whether it is to share the bathroom, pick what to watch on TV, pass the salt, or celebrate birthdays and anniversaries together. Not surprisingly, with such intense and intimate interaction, these are the people with whom we get the most frustrated, the most furious, and flare up at on the smallest pretense. In mitigation, we can say that we only get so mad because we love them, but in the instant of fury or snub, that subtle explanation is easily lost. A door slams. Words are exchanged. People storm off. These little wounds may heal quickly, but they still leave scars.<br />
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The answer to such difficulty is not so melodramatic as we may have been thinking in the past few weeks – our lives our sacred and may soon be cut short, so spend more time loving and less time reproving. Judaism insists that part of a loving relationship is letting others know when they have done or are about to do wrong. Parents have the responsibility of teaching their children what is right and wrong, but they are not alone. Children can educate parents, can keep an eye on brothers and sisters – as we said last week – kol yisrael aravin zeh b’zeh – all Israel is responsible one for the other.<br />
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The secret to a good relationship, it has been often said, is communication. In our hectic and busy lives, we find it difficult enough to coordinate schedules with our spouses and partners, let alone sit down and talk to our children, or to call our parents and relatives. But, and here’s the plug, Judaism realizes this difficulty and works to make time in our lives for those more relaxed interactions. Unfortunately, we view Judaism more often as an intrusion into our personal lives or our family times, then as an aid to finding more such opportunities. Shabbat, for example, exists outside of time. We should be jealous of the Orthodox who shut out the outside world completely for 26 hours and only spend time with their family and loved ones. We can do that as well – if not for 26 hours, perhaps we can decide that the whole family needs to be home for Friday evening dinner, or for Saturday afternoon at the movies, or even a leisurely breakfast. Right now, we are in the midst of all the new beginnings of the Fall – new schools, new jobs, the High HolyDays, the new TV schedule. Judaism again comes to us and forces us to take time out to celebrate. Enjoy the two hours that you are stuck together this evening, sitting next to each other in uncomfortable seats. If you haven’t been able to this year, resolve to do whatever it takes to have your extended family together for Rosh haShanah dinner, or Break the Fast, or Passover Seder. As Judaism has opened the door for you, use this time of year as an opportunity to talk to your family members – to ask for forgiveness, to try and heal old wounds, to strengthen the kesher between you.<br />
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Judaism also gives us insight into how to treat others. We are told to love our neighbors as ourselves. As we consider how the we view the world, so we should also assume that our neighbors have the same thoughts and feelings – that they are human beings in the same way that we are. That just as much as we are “I” to ourselves, so are they to themselves, and we are the “they”. Much has been made in the past two weeks about how Americans have come together – how we reach across lines of race and ethnicity and are Americans together. However, other than possibly standing next to someone of color at a rally, how many of us have actually reached out to someone and had a conversation? Created a new kesher? Because of this tragedy, I have met other members of our Plainfield community that I might not have met sitting in this building. As a congregation, we will be reaching out to the Muslim community and hopefully sharing some events with them in the coming year. We will also be creating opportunities for our youth to get to know the youth of Plainfield, through contacts that I have made with local ministers.<br />
However, the Temple can only go so far, without the membership working to make such efforts a success. For the past three years, we have worked actively with the Interfaith Council for the Homeless in Union County to sponsor local commemoration of the Children’s Defense Fund’s Children’s Sabbath. Some members of our religious school have participated, but despite the event having been held in our sanctuary last year, few congregants attended. If we invite the Muslim or local communities to join us here for worship, will you be here as well? If we go to their places of worship, will enough of us make the effort to find a strange place to create a new connection? Imagine how we might feel if we asked the local community to participate with us in a rally against anti-Semitism and no one came. If we love our neighbor as ourselves, we must imagine how we might feel in their shoes.<br />
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We have relationships formed by blood and marriage, and relationships formed by where we live or where we may be located. Different from relationships of circumstance are the relationships that we choose to cultivate, that we call friendship. We can make friends at work, in school, through leisure or social action activities, or by chance. These are the relationships that support us in dark times. Friends are the ones that we turn to when we need to laugh, when we need someone to share with, when we want to just have fun. The kesher of a friendship is only as strong as the work that we put into that relationship, the care that we give that is reflected back to us.<br />
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Pirke Avot tells us that we should find ourselves a friend. Sometimes we do that without thinking. We meet someone, we interact, and before we know it, they are a close friend. Other times it takes more work – making time to meet, to talk, making the effort to connect. In this room, we have collected a group of like-minded people who have gathered together for some of the same purposes. People who are looking to form a community, not just of fellow congregants, but of friends as well. Some of us may find it difficult to make time to find friends; here at the Temple we have a timesaver. Come to an event at the Temple and fulfill your Jewish purpose; meet someone here and find a friend to fulfill your social needs. Any event at the Temple has a social side – whether it is the bagels put out an hour before the Sunday morning lectures, or the oneg on Friday night. The secret of a thriving congregation is congregants who are willing to create a strong kesher amongst themselves – people who can call each other friend as well as fellow congregant and Jew.<br />
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We are defined by our personal connections. We are sometimes judged, fairly or not, by the behavior of those around us – whether it is parents who are judged by what their children do, or children who are judged by the appearance of their friends. We ask those whom we trust to recommend others – whether for plumbers and electricians or babysitters and psychologists. We rely on our personal connections to connect to the wider world. We trust those whom we know, and so trust those whom our friends and family know. Just as all of us were connected in some way to someone who was lost or miraculously escaped the events of September 11, so we are also connected to the good things that happen in life and the world around us.<br />
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In this New Year, as we look back on the things that we have done to others that we need to ask forgiveness for, let us also look for new opportunities for things to be thankful for. Let us rededicate ourselves to the keshers in our lives – to family, to our neighbors, and to our new and old friends. Let us choose, through strong and far-reaching connections, to anchor ourselves in this world, to weave a web of kesher after kesher, connecting and interconnecting until we can scarce follow the lines ourselves. Next year, let us have so much more work to do seeking forgiveness, because we have so many more people that we care about asking for forgiveness from. Then truly, the Day of Atonement will atone for us and send us out once again renewed and reborn.<br />
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L’shanah tovah u’m’tukah - a good and sweet new year.Rabbi Jason Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07805550465729805847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5161353548990038297.post-82874709863401114272001-09-17T10:03:00.000-04:002011-09-06T11:02:51.019-04:00Rabbi Jon Adland<center><i>The following sermon was delivered during the 2001 Jewish High Holiday season following the tragic events of September 11, 2001. It has been included on the <b>Torah From Terror</b> website as a resource and retains the copyright of its author. Please cite the source accordingly.</i></center><br />
<br />
Rabbi Jon Adland <br />
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Rosh Hashanah Evening<br />
September 17, 2001<br />
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It is hard to celebrate our Jewish New Year this year. It is such a sad time in the souls of the people of this nation and for many around the world. The core of our being has been shaken. Our hearts are in pain. Our strength has been drained by watching the news, listening to the overwhelming tasks ahead, thinking about war, and thinking about those who may have survived, but couldn’t be saved. Our minds are filled with images of destruction unlike anything we have seen before.<br />
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September 11, 2001 changed everything about our country forever. It changed us, too. We will never ever see things the same way again. We will never walk into an airport without looking around. We will never look at another skyscraper without seeing the sight of that plane flying into it and the ball of fire that followed. We will never go watch a building implosion as if it were some sideshow. We will never take for granted the freedoms that are ours. We will hug our children a little tighter, phone our friends a little more often, and say I love you as often as we can. I will never forget September 11, 2001, as long as I live. This date will live on as a day of reckoning for a long, long time. <br />
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I am not old enough to have known the horrors of WW2. I wasn’t there to liberate the death camps and see the victims, living and dead, inside the gates. I have seen the pictures of the natural disasters brought on by hurricanes, tornadoes, and earthquakes. I remember the assassinations of President Kennedy, Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy. I watched the news about the war in Vietnam and the Persian Gulf War. I saw the pictures over and over again on TV of the Challenger blowing up. And now this carnage and destruction. Nothing compares. There are so many people: those who died, those who survived, those who lost a loved one or too many loved ones, those who tried to help and those who felt helpless. The tidal wave of this cowardly act will affect so many people that it is incomprehensible. It is affecting you and me each and every day.<br />
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How do we respond to this pain that fills our hearts? How do we respond to the words we read about the miracles of lives saved and the depth of grief felt by those who lost a father, mother, brother, sister, friend or relative? We will hear about the person who overslept and was late to work that day or the person who missed a subway or the person who decided to stay home instead of flying. The story of everyone who got out of the buildings alive will inspire us with courage and the awe of chance in life. We won’t hear the stories of the heroes who died. We won’t hear about the many who helped others down the stairs or may have stayed to comfort a wounded co-worker. We won’t hear about the many who didn’t quite make it out.<br />
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It is the stories that we don’t hear that will haunt our imagination. There are so many who probably died trying to save another. There are so many who died just because their office was just too high for them to be able to get out in time. There are so many who died just because they went to work that day. <br />
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Finding a place in the midst of all of this is so hard. Finding my soul while looking at the debris is difficult. Yet, we as a people have faced overwhelming situations before. Only 56 years ago, we saw the end of a savage era and began to rebuild our lives. The fortitude and strength to overcome such adversity and pain and death was faced by every survivor. We knew we had to go on. We knew that we had to heal first and grieve, but the survivors were alive. Their strength came from being a Jew and the traditions of Judaism. The Psalmists and sages of the past also saw death and destruction and felt pain, but through their experiences of living they offered to us hope. Hope that we can use today and tomorrow and the next day. <br />
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Now more than ever we can turn to God. I am not angry with God for I don’t believe that God does evil. Human beings do evil. God is the source of goodness. I don’t believe that God intervenes in a world where free will is an important part of our belief system. Though we often ask God to do the miraculous, we forget that God does things that are miraculous constantly. God displays many miracles even when we aren’t looking. Rather, we must show God who we are and what we do in this world. God should know that we believe in goodness and kindness and love and compassion and righteousness and caring. God should know that we believe that God is good. God should know that when life is bleak and people are struggling that the strength and presence of God is near and that presence is comforting. The psalmist wrote in psalm 46, “God is our refuge and stronghold, a help in trouble very near. Therefore we are not afraid, though the earth reels, though mountains topple into the sea—its waters rage and foam; in its swell mountains quake.”<br />
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We must use this strength of God and turn it into good. We must choose the blessing over the curse, life over death, goodness over evil. We shouldn’t do it with just lip service, but with the work of our hands and the spirit of our souls. We have witnessed a great destruction, but we have also witnessed the resilience of a people. Thousands streamed to the sites of destruction to dig for the survivors. Thousands did what they could to begin easing the pain whether giving blood or money or time. Once, we all stood at the bottom of Mt. Sinai and heard the charge to live with God in our hearts and souls, in our hands and feet. Today, we all stand at the bottom of the towers as they crumbled and realized that this mountain is our challenge to live life, to be good, and to overcome evil. We must use the most important mountain in our tradition to bring life and meaning to this mountain of destruction.<br />
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It is ahead of us that we face our greatest tasks. How do we come to grips with such evil and hatred in the world? How do we make sense of the senselessness of such an act of death and destruction? What do we tell our children, the next generation about living life? What can we give them to sustain them? We must find meaning in a world turned upside down. Judaism teaches that we must always choose life and make a difference in this world. That is the message for the ages.<br />
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Last Saturday morning, 15 people came to the morning service. The night before there were so many people and the service was so important. People needed to pray and contemplate and think and sing and cry. On Saturday morning we returned to the regular service that we do each Shabbat morning and I found myself finally praying in a way I haven’t prayed in a long time. I read each word of each prayer as if the whole world was listening to each syllable. I prayed to God and it felt good and comforting. God is my stronghold. No matter how many people assail God or turn away from God, God is the source of my strength. When enemies attack me, I turn to God in prayer and song, and I turn to the God inside of me for the strength to offer these words and to hopefully make a better world. I want God to be with me in this time of trial and I want to be with God.<br />
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Most of us haven’t faced the great evils of the world. We haven’t been inside of a terror attack. We haven’t seen evil face to face like others have so maybe it is easy to say that God is with us. Yet, we have to believe in the faith that there is something greater out there beyond what we can see or feel or touch. We must have faith in this power that moves in ways beyond our comprehension and gives strength to people in their greatest moments of trial. The people on the planes and in the Pentagon and in New York faced death. I hope and pray that God was with them in their hour of need. There is great evil in this world and that is why I need to affirm my sense of goodness. There is chaos and I must assert my sense of order. I believe in God and I hope that God believes in me.<br />
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I heard a story earlier in the week about the great Redwoods of California. These trees reach tremendous heights as high as 300 feet. Imagine a tree the length of a football field standing vertical in a forest of other trees standing vertical reaching up to the heavens. One would think that the tree would have deep roots to hold it up, but the Redwood has shallow roots that spread out in all directions interlocking with the roots of the other trees. In this fashion, when the wind blows each tree helps keep the other upright. It is this kind of interlocking strength that we need right now. We have been shaken, but not broken. It may be blowing a fierce wind out there, but we are holding each other up. <br />
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We need to be the Redwoods as we rely on each other in the days to come. Some of us may heal more quickly, but no one, I believe, can put Sept.11th, out of his or her mind. As human beings, we will take comfort in our friends and families. As Jews, we can turn to our community and we can turn to the words that have offered us comfort and strength for so many years and through so many trials. What we can’t do is retreat or bury our heads as if nothing is different. What we can’t do is be non-responsive to the world around us. What we can’t do is pretend that September 11th, never happened. It did. We are still here. Thousands aren’t anymore. We can’t live their lives, but by our will, our strength, our fortitude, our spirituality, our goodness, our compassion and our love, we can give meaning to their deaths.<br />
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The prayers we read during the High Holy Days will test our personal beliefs. We will read things that might not make any sense any more. We may find ourselves struggling with God a little more. We may find a word here or there that touches a nerve, strikes a chord, argues with us or helps us move on. I urge you to use these days of awe as a time for personal reflection and introspection. Think about what makes your life matter in the scheme of things. What about you can do to make your life matter even more now.<br />
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September 11, 2001, is a day that will live on in each of our hearts and souls. It will always be a day of mourning and sadness. We cannot stop living because of those who have died. Better yet, we should live in a way that pays tribute to all those who died. <br />
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The world has changed a lot since last Tuesday. I have changed since last Tuesday. I pray that a better world awaits us, but it may take some work to get there.<br />
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Kein Yehi Ratzon—May this be God’s will.Rabbi Jason Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07805550465729805847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5161353548990038297.post-69784612800299314492001-09-17T10:01:00.000-04:002011-09-06T11:01:20.488-04:00Rabbi Batsheva Appel<center><i>The following sermon was delivered during the 2001 Jewish High Holiday season following the tragic events of September 11, 2001. It has been included on the <b>Torah From Terror</b> website as a resource and retains the copyright of its author. Please cite the source accordingly.</i></center><br />
<br />
Rabbi Batsheva Appel<br />
<br />
Baruch Atah Adonai Eloheinu Melekh Ha’Olam dayan ha-emet. Blessed are you Lord our God, King of the Universe Judge of the Truth. This is the prayer that is said on hearing bad news. It is familiar to those who have had the sorrow of wearing black k’ri’ah ribbons after the death of a loved one, because it is the prayer that is said as the ribbon is cut. <br />
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As a Reform Jew I try various aspects of ritual and practice. Beginning several months ago <br />
I tried saying this whenever I heard bad news. Why? If I remember correctly, I wanted a way to mark bad news so that it would not get lost in the shuffle, so that I would actually hear it and pay attention. And at the same time make some connection with God. I think that I was also intrigued. How many other religions have a blessing for hearing bad news?<br />
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Baruch Atah Adonai Eloheinu Melekh Ha’Olam dayan ha-emet. Blessed are you Lord our God, King of the Universe, Judge of the Truth. While I knew that saying this blessing would not necessarily be easy to do, there have been times over the last several months when it has been very hard to do. There were some mornings when things happening in Israel meant that I was saying this blessing every day as I got up. Other times I would say it and think, <br />
why does this blessing use the image of God as Judge? Does this mean that God judged and decided that this would happen? To think of God as a Judge is, for me, one of the hardest parts the High Holy Day liturgy. I struggle each year with this image of God and here I was using the image as mine sometimes on a daily basis.<br />
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Baruch Atah Adonai Eloheinu Melekh Ha’Olam dayan ha-emet. Blessed are you Lord our God, King of the Universe, Judge of the Truth. Last Tuesday, I heard about a plane hitting the World Trade Center on the radio and I said the blessing but it was difficult. When the radio announced that the second tower had been hit by the second plane, I froze. Right now I can’t tell you whether or not I ever said the blessing. I struggled with what had happened.<br />
I struggled with the idea of God as a Judge who decreed that this tragedy should be so. I struggled with the idea of God who would permit such things to occur. I just struggled with ideas about God.<br />
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Baruch Atah Adonai Eloheinu Melekh Ha’Olam dayan ha-emet. Blessed are you Lord our God, King of the Universe, Judge of the Truth. God has been on our minds a lot this week. We have had our own questions and for some of us, our children’s questions. We have struggled with how to think about what happened, about God. We have been attending prayer services and vigils and Shabbat services. Rabbi Wisnia spoke about God last night.<br />
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Usually we don’t speak much about God with our friends and family. I remember my surprise at my second interview here at Beth Chaim. When I got home, I called my friends and said “Well, I think that it went well and you will never believe it, I spoke about God during the interview. I talked with the search committee about how I think of God.” But we are talking about God this week. We are thinking about God. We are singing God Bless America.<br />
<br />
I think I know why we have God on our minds, why we are searching so ardently. In the Mechilta, a midrash on the book of Exodus it describes what the 10 commandments look like.<br />
We know from the book of Exodus, that there are two tablets, but we don’t know what the tablets look like. Two copies of the same thing? Equal numbers of words on each tablet? Or the way we usually see them, 5 commandments on each tablet? The midrash in Mechilta suggests that there are 5 commandments on each tablet and then suggests that we read across. Anochi Adonai Eloheicha “I am the Lord your God.” lo tirtzach “Do not murder.” In other words, when someone commits murder they deny that god exists<br />
<br />
What happened a week ago was horrific. If it had been some sort of tragic accident, an air traffic control system gone terribly awry it would have been bad enough. But what we saw was murder, over and over again. What we saw was the handiwork of evil people, who, although they might have thought that they were acting in God’s name, effectively denied God’s existence, over and over again. It was enough to sear our souls, whether or not we were there; whether or not we knew someone there; whether or not we only saw. So this past week we have sought ways to reconnect with God, ways to think about God, ways to answer our questions about God, ways to prove that God does indeed exist.<br />
<br />
I know that I struggle with my ideas about God. I am not always logical or coherent. Sometimes though it can be helpful to read or hear what other people think about God.<br />
Last night it was fascinating to hear Rabbi Wisnia speak about God and to think about how much he and I, two very different people, agree. I can tell you some of what I believe about God.<br />
<br />
I believe that God is the Creator, which is probably how I made the switch from Biology to the rabbinate. It is part of the wonder of biology to see the beauty of God’s design. I believe that God revealed the Torah to us. I don’t think Moses took dictation on Mount Sinai, but I do think that God is in the Torah. I believe that God redeemed us from Egypt. Whether or not the Sea of Reeds actually split, the Exodus from Egypt is too much part of us for me to believe that God was not a part of that. I believe that God is eternal and holy and infinite and all powerful and all knowing. I believe that God gave humanity free will. I believe that we have a relationship with God as human beings and that we have a covenant with God as Jews. I think that God is constant. There have been times when God has felt distant. I have only lately realized that I am the one who moves. <br />
<br />
There are many things that I don’t believe about God. I don’t think that God has a favorite sports team, nor has God cursed the Boston Red Sox. I don’t think that God influences the outcome of the lottery, roulette, blackjack, or bingo. <br />
<br />
I don’t think that God has a form or body. I don’t think that God is male. I don’t think that God is female. But here is where my theology becomes contradictory. I don’t think that God has eyes, but I want to know that God sees. I don’t think that God has ears,<br />
but I want to know that God hears prayers. I don’t think that God has hands, but I want God to act, to heal, to intervene. I don’t think that God has arms, but I want God to comfort me. I don’t think that God has wings, but I want to be under the shadow of God’s wings when I die, as we read in Eil Malei Rachamim.<br />
<br />
It is our liturgy that challenges my thoughts about God the most. Whether the wings in Eil Malei Rachamim, or seeing God as my Rock in Yihiyu L’ratzon, I keep thinking about my ideas of God. <br />
<br />
This morning we are about to read the prayer that challenges me the most, Unetaneh tokef.<br />
In this prayer, we speak of God as awesome and fearsome. We stand trembling before God as we are judged. And so we are back to the idea of God as a Judge. We are about to read how God judges all of this day. The evidence is our own words in our very own handwriting about all the things that we have done this year. Troubling enough, but then we read that God considers each soul and sets our destiny and the limits of our life.<br />
<br />
“How many shall pass on, how many shall come to be;<br />
Who shall live and who shall die;<br />
Who shall see ripe age and who shall not;<br />
Who shall perish by fire and who by water;” <br />
<br />
I do believe that our actions count. I can’t believe that God is a puppet master who determines what my life is to the last detail. I can’t believe that God decided last year all those who were saved and all those who died this week. Or even that God decreed that such a thing would happen. Yet there it is. And I struggle.<br />
<br />
It is easy for us to see things as either/or. Either we believe this prayer in its entirety or we are not here. I think that for us as Israel there is another choice. I think that the struggles that I have spoken of are a valid choice. Too often there are those who think that the idea of God is one-size-fits-all, that there is one way to think. And this it not true. Rabbi Wisnia gave you his concept of what God is. I have just shared some of my concept of God. What I really want to share is that I struggle. I wrestle with our texts. I challenge our liturgy. I actively think about God. And I don’t have all the answers and that is fine.<br />
<br />
In Genesis we read about Jacob wrestling with a man? an angel? Beside the Jabbok river the night before he sees his brother Esau again. After it is all over, Jacob gets his new name Yisrael, Israel, one who wrestles, who struggles with God. Questioning, challenging, wrestling, thinking about God is very Jewish. <br />
<br />
Evil people tried to deny and devalue the existence of God last Tuesday at the World Trade Center and at the Pentagon and in Pennsylvania. There were many others who affirmed God’s presence in the world. The firefighters, police officers and emergency medical service personnel who died trying to save others affirmed God’s presence by declaring that every life is important. The passengers about flight 93 that crashed outside Pittsburgh, if they did what we believe they did, affirmed God’s presence by preventing other people from being murdered at the cost of their own lives. God does not want us to die, or to commit suicide,<br />
But each life is important.<br />
<br />
Many of us this week affirmed God’s presence in much smaller ways, as God’s agents<br />
<br />
<br />
This past week we have clothed the naked and fed the hungry. We have visited the sick<br />
In the coming weeks we will comfort the mourners and bury the dead. We have affirmed God’s presence and acted as God’s agents. We have raised our standards of how to act in the world and we have the chance to keep those standards.<br />
<br />
Baruch Atah Adonai Eloheinu Melekh Ha’Olam hatov v’hameitiv. Blessed are You, Lord our God, the one who is good and beneficent. This is the prayer for good news. This is the blessing that I will be trying on this year as a Reform Jew. I want to be ready as I hear about the wonderful actions of the people in our country and around the world. I want to ready as I hear that we have kept our high standards. Repeat after me. Baruch Atah Adonai Eloheinu Melekh Ha’Olam hatov v’hameitiv. Blessed are You, Lord our God, the one who is good and beneficent. I want all of us to be ready for a good year with all of the possibilities that a new year brings for us.Rabbi Jason Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07805550465729805847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5161353548990038297.post-38939612943521571732001-09-17T10:00:00.000-04:002011-09-06T00:49:13.929-04:00Rabbi Melanie Aron<center><i>The following sermon was delivered during the 2001 Jewish High Holiday season following the tragic events of September 11, 2001. It has been included on the <b>Torah From Terror</b> website as a resource and retains the copyright of its author. Please cite the source accordingly.</i></center><br />
<br />
Rabbi Melanie Aron<br />
<br />
Erev Rosh HaShanah 5762 - September 17, 2001<br />
<br />
The Meaning of One Death, One Life<br />
<br />
Perhaps it's spending so much of my life at funerals, that makes last week's events more difficult to absorb.<br />
<br />
I know what one death is like. I have been with families grieving for one father, one sister, one son. The gaping hole when death comes suddenly, unexpectedly. The tears and the pain, the exacerbation sometimes of existing family fault lines, or sometimes thankfully, the healing that coming through a crisis together may bring. Most often there are plans that will never come to be, hopes unfulfilled, happy events in the future whose joy will be diminished by the absence of a loved one. Rarely are there no regrets. If the survivors are children, there is the terrible knowledge that this loss will not be easy to overcome. I know what one death is like.<br />
<br />
But over the past few days, it has been difficult for me to hold in my mind, the deaths of so many victims of the September 11th attack. I try and put it into some context that I am familiar with - if I officiated at three funerals a day, and continued from now until Jeremy, who was just Bar Mitzvah, graduated from high school, could I lay to rest all of the dead from last week's tragedy? What becomes of all the sorrow, the burdens of so many people?<br />
<br />
In most ancient times the taking of a life was an offense against the family of the deceased. That made sense. The family suffered the loss, both emotionally and economically. Therefore the family had the right to avenge the loss. In the Bible you can see a transition taking place, as murder becomes not just a crime against the family of the victim, but also against society. Cities of refuge are established, places for an accidental man-slaughterer to flee. Whereas originally the sanctuary was an automatic refuge to whomever could reach it, now it is society that decides whether the criminal deserves protection from the avenger. If, as the Bible describes, the killer is one who has killed unwittingly, without having been his victim's enemy in the past, then he can stay. But if he has lain in wait for his enemy and strikes him a fatal blow and then flees to one of these towns, then he is taken even from the corners of the altar and handed over for punishment.<br />
<br />
Murder is not just an offense against the human community but it is also an offense against God. In murdering another individual, one is blotting out God's image reflected in every human being. That is why Jewish law came to require an almost unattainable level of certainty in imposing the death penalty, and why we are required by Jewish law to intervene in order to save a life, even where we are not directly involved.<br />
<br />
The first murder in the Bible, of course, is Cain killing Abel. Here some commentators attempt to blame God- after all God didn't accept Cain's offering and that's what seems to have started it all.<br />
<br />
But the Bible rejects this rationalizing. Bad things happen, we may even be treated unfairly, that does not entitle us to lash out. Cain is warned, as his blood begins to boil, " if we do right, there is uplift, and if we do not do right, sin crouches at the door. Its urge is towards us, yet we can be its master."<br />
<br />
The rabbis read into this story every contemporary source of warfare: economic, political, religious and even sexual. They tell us that Cain and Abel divided the world between them. Cain took all the moveable property and Abel the land. But even the whole world divided among two brothers was not enough. Cain said to Abel, why are you wearing clothing that comes from my property? And Abel said to Cain, why are you standing on the earth?<br />
<br />
Others say they were competing over Eve, the only woman alive, our own Helen of Troy.<br />
<br />
And still others say that it was religious intolerance: that they were arguing as to whether the Temple would be built on the property of one or the other.<br />
<br />
Cain and Abel, living in a world before Torah, a world without law, were not able to manage their conflict, were not able to find a way to live together. Placing this first fratricide so close to the beginning of the Torah was to shows us how deeply ingrained in humanity is the recourse to violence.<br />
<br />
Perhaps closest to the events of this week, is the attack of the Amalekites on the Israelites following the crossing of the sea. We are told, that contrary to the established conventions of warfare at that time, the Amalekites attacked the camp at the rear, attacked the weakest members of society, the civilian stragglers, old men and children, rather than the armed men at the front. Perhaps for that reason the Torah treats them differently from all the other enemies of the Israelites. The Egyptians enslaved the Israelites for 430 years. They forced cruel labor upon them, they embittered their lives with hardship, yet we, the Israelites descendents, are commanded in the Torah, "you shall not abhor an Egyptian".<br />
<br />
The Amelekites are a different story. They are viewed as enemies of God. When the battle is over and Moses builds an altar it is called Adonai Nisi- which the Torah translates as "hand upon the throne of the Lord". And the Bible reminds us: "The Lord will be at war with Amalek throughout the ages". The Amalekites, as a people, disappear from the pages of history, but the concept of the Amalekites is evoked whenever an enemy arises who recognizes no limitations, who abides by no laws, who dehumanizes those who are targeted for death and feels no compunction in wiping them out. Amalek is the enemy of every organized community.<br />
<br />
In 1938 Mahatma Gandhi, who was leading a campaign of non-violent civil disobedience against the British, published a statement in the newspaper suggesting that the Jews in Europe adopt that strategy in Germany. Martin Buber the prominent philospher wrote a response that was published on February 24th, 1939. Buber was a pacifist; later he became an outstanding Jewish proponent of a bi-national state in Palestine. He was not a man of war. But he wrote Ghandi a letter, saying in essence that not every enemy is British: civil disobedience works only against those with an underlying respect for human life.<br />
<br />
I do not wish to see America at war. I pray that we do not imitate our enemies and become Amalek, indiscriminantly killing civilian non-combatants. Doing so will not prevent further terrorism and will only encourage another generation to rise up against us. But neither should we be innocents, who refuse to recognize murderous hatred when it is directed against us.<br />
<br />
In America we have differences of opinion and still go out to coffee. In the House and Senate, and even on the Supreme Court, the most partisan of opponents may still be personal friends. Arthur will be pleased to know that Justice Ruth Bader Ginsborg, and Justice Anthony Scalia enjoy attending the opera together. I may be a Republican and you a Democrat but we can still live side by side, our children attending the same schools, our arguments limited by the conventions of our society.<br />
<br />
It is not like that in all parts of the world. Conflicts are not seen as limited, compromise is viewed as treachery and enemies are demonized.<br />
<br />
As Jews, our concern for Israel makes us think of fundamentalist Islamic extremism mainly as a danger to the Jewish homeland in Zion. But Islamic fundamentalist extremism is active in other areas of the world as well- ask Hindus in Kashmir, ask Buddhists in Afghanistan, ask the Southern Sudanese Christians and Animists, ask the Ibo's in Nigeria.<br />
<br />
It is not Islam with which we have a quarrel. Islam is a beautiful religion, closer in many ways to Judaism than Christianity. It has a sense of halachah which Christianity lacks, and a tradition of midrash. It has been in some times and places, a religion of tolerance and humanism, of learning and culture. Our enemy is a particular narrow and totalitarian political use of Islam, a perversion of Islam. An Assyrian Bishop I spoke with on Sunday evening used the analogy, bin Laden is to Islam, as the KKK is to Christianity. Perhaps we can get the analogy a little closer, as Timothy McVeigh was to fundamentalist Christianity, as Yigal Amir is to Judaism. Even if Israel did not exist, there would be conflict between the West and this version of Islam, as there are conflicts between this and other more mainstream versions of Islam. As the United States creates alliances around the world, we reach out to Muslim countries to join us, so long as their professions of sorrow at our loss, are accompanied by a serious commitment to renouncing terrorism as a means of achieving political goals.<br />
<br />
There are those who lay blame for recent events on the economic disparity between the United States and the peoples of the Southern Hemisphere. It is embarrassing how disproportionate a percentage of the world's resources we use here in the United States. Working with other religious groups on the appeal for the year 2K Jubilee debt forgiveness for African nations, I learned about the hardships we create when insisting that debts to the West be paid back. I hope on Yom Kippur, or perhaps given the dislocations of this high holidays season, it will be on Children's Sabbath in October, to talk about the terrible moral quandaries related to the exploitation of children around the world in factories and fields. We cannot ignore the suffering that exists in much of the world. We need a Marshall plan for the 21st century. But, it is also true that inequities within poor countries are a cause of poverty and destitution, and that often local elites take no responsibility for the well being of their citizens. Judaism urges our allegiance to the government wherever we live, on the presumption that government is an important protector of the well being of the inhabitants of the land.<br />
<br />
The massive deaths at the Pentagon and at the World Trade Center were for some a challenge to their faith in God. The randomness of death, the vulnerability of the good and the innocent, all belie a simple understanding of God's action in our world. Our tradition would put theological justifications of the sort Jerry Fallwell recently presented, in the same category as the foolish responses of Job's friends. After Job loses all of his property, his children and his health, his friends come to visit proclaiming that God is wholly righteous and that if he has suffered then he must have sinned. The Bible rejects these words of comfort as being neither helpful to the situation nor insightful in providing a deeper understanding of the workings of God.<br />
<br />
While for me there are no simple answers to the theological problem of evil, there was much in the past week that spoke of good and the presence of God in the hearts of people. It has been a long time since I have heard stories of self-sacrifice like those of the fire fighters climbing up the stairs in the World Trade Center, and of courage, like that of the cell phone heroes on the Pittsburgh flight. Individuals on crutches were carried down 50 flights of stairs, volunteers who felt that they had useful skills drove 10-12 hours through the night to come and help. There have been tremendous acts of generosity from people of all of the many different faiths and nationalities that make up New York City and from countries around the globe.<br />
<br />
It is also significant that even under these most difficult circumstance, our country has spoken out strongly against acts of violence or threats against those whose ethnic background or nationality might lead them to be identified as related to the perpetrators of these terrible acts. To me this speaks to a wonderful decency in the American people. When on Friday I spoke on the phone with David Aboujoudon, one of the leaders of our Arab- Jewish dialogue, he expressed surprised at the statements of American government officials, community leaders, ordinary citizens and in particular Jews. His experience in the land of his birth, and the attitudes he had been taught, did not lead him to expect this.<br />
<br />
I am a rabbi who tries to help people at times of loss and I know the meaning of one death. But I am trying at this difficult time to focus also on the meaning of one life, on the good that can be added to our world by individuals acting with courage, faith and love. Rabbi Abba Hillel Silver, who preached during the difficult days of the 1930's and 40's described the task of good people as follows: to stay sane in the midst of madness, to stay civilized in the midst of brutality, to light candles in the midst of darkness. If we rise to those challenges then we will repair through our own actions the damage that has been done to our families, our society and our God.Rabbi Jason Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07805550465729805847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5161353548990038297.post-52380197255494990442001-09-17T09:59:00.000-04:002011-09-05T23:50:05.401-04:00Rabbi Brad Artson<center><i>The following sermon was delivered during the 2001 Jewish High Holiday season following the tragic events of September 11, 2001. It has been included on the <b>Torah From Terror</b> website as a resource and retains the copyright of its author. Please cite the source accordingly.</i></center><br />
<br />
<br />
To Choose Life<br />
<br />
Rabbi Bradley Shavit Artson<br />
<br />
Delivered at<br />
Sinai Temple, Los Angeles<br />
Rosh Ha-Shanah 2001<br />
<br />
<br />
My friends, with all that s going on in the world, this has been a week of devastation and a challenge for all of us. Today, Rosh Hashanah, we come together historically to rededicate ourselves to the sovereignty of God, to the notion that God is, in some important and mysterious way, a melekh, a Majesty who rules over us. Just look at virtually any page of the Mahzor, and there you see again, and again, and again, “Eloheinu, ve-Elohei Avoteinu… Our God and God of our ancestors, reign over all the universe in Your glory, and in Your splendor be exalted over all the earth. Shine forth in the majesty of Your triumphant power over all the inhabitants of Your world, that every living form may know that You have formed it, and every living creature understands that You have created it, and all with life’s breath in their nostrils may declare: The Holy One, God of Israel, is sovereign, and God’s dominion rules over all.”<br />
<br />
I can’t help but wonder: given that we have just endured a week in which two large buildings in Manhattan were destroyed, in which the Pentagon was attacked in Washington, in which the world shows weariness before the fight has even begun, I wonder why we are sitting here and reading a book that speaks, repeatedly, about God as Sovereign? <br />
<br />
Why do we sit and talk about God being Ruler, when God’s children are being blown up? Why do we speak about God’s law uniting all humanity, when freedom is under assault? When the very foundations of democracy are being attacked and when, in some corners of the world, people were dancing in the streets and passing out ice cream and candies to children as a way of celebrating this attack against democracy? And why in a year, in which Israel has been suffering these attacks relentlessly, why would we be reading from a tired old book some abstract theological concept about this divinity to whom somehow we must pledge an allegiance today. <br />
<br />
I know that you read the newspapers as well as I do, and I am sure that you watch TV better than I do. So I don’t want to speak about this issue as a pundit. I am not here to offer you policy suggestions, I am not here to analyze to situation in strategic terms, but i’ll tell you what I am today - today I am a simple Jew. I am a citizen of the United States, and I need to come together with you today to make some kind of religious sense of what has gone on. I need to understand why when we gather together, our tradition will have us speak of God’s sovereignty. I need to know why that matters in the world, and I need to know where to go from here. <br />
<br />
It is my hunch that we all need that today. So, I want to start by thinking about God as Majesty. <br />
<br />
All people serve a master. It is an illusion of modernity that freedom somehow means freedom from all authority. And it is, I believe, the wisdom of our tradition to remind us that the power that we have as human beings is to choose what will be our master in life. The choice, then, matters essentially, because, there are many masters competing for our loyalty. There are fame and youth, and power, and wealth, and prestige, all of these masters seeking our service and countless people throwing away their lives in the service of these very masters who ultimately turn on those who serve them and abandon them. The only master worthy of service is a master so large that the distinctions that human beings normally makes - the pettiness of our ambition, our frailty, our greed, fade into insignificance. In choosing your master, friends, choose one whose service is freedom. Choose one who calls you to an adult maturity and summons you to take responsibility for your own life and for the world in which we live. It turns out then, that in choosing the master, the only master worthy of service is God. That is why, perhaps, our tradition indulged in an ancient pun, in speaking about the Ten Commandments engraved, carved into the rock, the Torah uses the word harut - to engrave. But you know, the Torah is written without vowels and without punctuation, and so the Rabbis play with the consonants: al tikra harut, ella heirut – Don’t punctuate the Hebrew as “engraved”, but as “freedom.” For the only freedom given to adult human beings is to take responsibility for a life of law, and order, and justice. Freedom is not the freedom to simply pursue our own momentary whims, that’s a form of slavery. Freedom is the ability to stand tall and make of your life a shield, so that others may also live in freedom. <br />
<br />
And what than, if God is our master, what than is the core of divine service? Here, I turn to one of the Torah’s most famous passages that we read only last week. In speaking to the people of Israel, God says the following words, “I call Heaven and Earth to witness this day against you, that I have set before you life and death, blessing and curse, therefore choose life that you and your offspring may live.” <br />
<br />
I’ve often pondered that passage and thought to myself: what kind of God needs to tell us to choose life? But this week makes clear: there are people out there who reject life. There are people out there whose rejection of life is so strong that they would rob others of that blessing as well. And I recognize again God’s wisdom in telling us that choosing life is not some passive thing we do by inaction. Choosing life takes willing choice, it takes consciousness, it takes attention, and it takes discipline. To choose life, we have to resolve on what it means to live with meaning, and with purpose, and with dignity. <br />
<br />
€ To choose life means to know yourself so well that you know who you truly are. So that when others seek to make you into someone else, you are able to know, “that’s not me and I won’t go there.” We live in a world that presumes to tell us that some people are better than others, and that some ways of being human are worthy of dignity, and that others should be ignored or removed. To choose life means to choose to be yourself, trusting that God made you as you are, and that you, therefore, have a purpose as you are. <br />
<br />
The great Rabbi of the Talmud, Rebbe Akiva, told the remarkable story during another time of devastation and violence. At the time where the Roman Emperor had made it a capital offense to observe Judaism and to live a life of Torah, Rabbi Akiva insisted on publicly teaching Torah. His disciples said: Master, don’t you know that in teaching Torah, you endanger your life? The Romans have made it a crime! Rabbi Akiva responded with the following fable:<br />
<br />
There was a time once when a fox was walking by a river stream and saw a large school of fish swimming frantically upstream. And the fox said to them: “Brothers and sisters, why are you swimming this way?” And they said: There are fishermen down at the other end with nets and they seek to trap us and to take our lives. And the fox said to the fish: “You don’t need to swim away from them. In fact, you don’t need to stay in the water at all. Come out here and live with me! My ancestors lived with your ancestors very happily, come out of the water and I will take care of you.” And the fish turned to the fox and said: “They call you the smartest of animals, but you cannot be very clever, because if we are in danger here in the water which is our natural place, how much the more so would we be imperiled where we to live our home to try to live in yours.” <br />
<br />
In a world that tries to tell us to abandon who we are, to walk away from our Jewish heritage and a life of Torah and Mitzvot, to choose life means to reject that false choice. It means in a face of terror and violence to affirm that we are, as we have always been, Am Israel - the Jewish people, and that we have, from the beginning of our time, wrestled with what it means to serve God and to magnify and glorify God’s kingdom in the world. The terror has no power over us, because we remain in our natural place, in our synagogues, in our schools, studying and living Torah. <br />
<br />
€ To choose life means to illuminate God’s image in our fellow human beings. It is, I think, one of the crowning points of glory of our Torah that at it’s very inception it tells us that each and every human being is fashion in God’s image. “Na’aseh adam be’tzalmenu - Let as make humanity in our image,” says God. And that means, then, there is no human being devoid of the divine. <br />
<br />
€ To choose life means to resist stereotyping, our fellow human beings, and I point out here that we as Jews bear a particular responsibility in that area. Both because we have suffered by being stereotyped by others, and because we have been for this century engaged in a political struggle that puts us at odds with most of the Arab world. It is, therefore, doubly incumbent upon us, to make sure that Arab-Americans and Muslims are not scapegoated because the terrorists who committed this act share their faith. We must stand up in democracy for the core conviction that people are judged by their deeds, and not by their ethnicity, and not by their labels. And if we do not do that then we have nothing to say when people turn against us in that very same way. <br />
<br />
€ To choose life means to choose a life of service and I think here, particularly, of the heroic fire-fighters and police who gave their lives in a hundreds, so that their fellow citizens should live. And I pray that we will never again take for granted the courage and the honor of serving in a police force, in the fire force, and in the military. These men and women put their lives at risk so that we may live. They deserve our honor and our respect. <br />
<br />
I think not only of those men and women, but I think of the stories now coming out of the World Trade Center, of the heroic men and women who made sure to help their fellows get out of the building alive. Of the people who stopped along their way to help someone who was a little slower, someone whose legs were failing them, someone who could not catch their breath. Their names we will never know in full, but their heroism ought to inspire our own. <br />
<br />
Think of the countless volunteers of this past week. In the hundreds of thousands, people all over this country and all over the world have been asking, “What can I do to help?” And have been stepping forward in a variety of ways. And I think that remarkable story that is found in the Talmud in Massekhet Sanhedrin. It is told that once Rabbi Joshua ben Levi, one of the great Rabbis of his generation encountered the prophet Elijah. You know that, according to Jewish legend, Elijah never died. He was whisked up to heaven in a chariot and he comes down every now and then to talk to us about the age of the messiah, an age of world peace and harmony. There, standing by the tomb of another great Rabbi, was Elijah. So, Rabbi Joshua ben Levi approached the prophet and he said to him: “Master, When will the Messiah come?” And Elijah said to him: “Go and ask him yourself.” So the Rabbi said: “Where is he?” And Elijah responded: “The Messiah is standing by the gates of the city. That’s where the lepers gather. And those people with leprosy are constantly wrapping and wrapping their bandages and treating their wounds. He sits among the lepers also bandaging and re-bandaging. But where others take off all the bandages and then put on all the bandages, the Messiah is not so. The Messiah takes off one bandage, cleans the wound and re-bandages it immediately because he thinks, ‘perhaps, my service will be needed by someone else. I need to be ready to help.’” <br />
<br />
Imagine a tradition that speaks of a Messiah who was injured, and who, even while tending his own wounds, is worried about caring for those of other people. I think about that vision of Messiah this week when I read about Dan Lopez, who worked in the World Trade Center. After the building was hit, he used his cell phone to call his wife, Liz. This is what he said to her: “Liz, it’s me Dan. My building has been hit. I made it to the 78th Floor. I am OK. But I am going to remain here to help evacuate other people. I’ll see you soon.” And those were his last words. I think of the paradox of Dan Lopez choosing life by dying, by choosing to place himself at the service of other workers in that building, he made of himself a monument to the choice of life. He stood up at the last moment to this brutal terror. <br />
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€ To choose life, my friends, means to live life to its fullest. The poet Allen Ginsberg spoke about “the dearness of the vanishing moment.” The present is rapidly receding into the past and our only choice is whether we choose to live this moment or merely wait for some other moment yet to come. But life is merely a series of moments and if we don’t train ourselves to live in the present now, it will pass us by, leaving us with nothing. In that light, I wonder, if you had only 60 seconds and could make one phone call, whom you might call and what you would say? I want to share with you some of the words of some of the people who faced exactly that choice:<br />
<br />
Stuart Meltzer called from the 105th Floor. He phoned his wife and he said to her: “Honey, something terrible is happening. I don’t think I am going to make it. I love you. Take care of the children.”<br />
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Mark Hogan on United Flight 93 phoned his mother and he repeated three times: “I love you. I love you. I love you.”<br />
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On flight 175, Brian Sweeney called his wife: “I just wanted to let you know that I love you and I hope to see you again. If I don’t, please have fun in life and live your life the best you can. Know that I love you and that, no matter what, I will see you again.”<br />
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One friend in the building didn’t have a phone, so, he e-mailed another friend: “I don’t think I’m going to get out. You have been a really good friend.”<br />
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Veronique Bowers phoned her mother. She said: “Mommy, the building is on fire, there’s smoke coming through the walls, I can’t breathe. I love you Mommy, goodbye.”<br />
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To choose life means to know whom you would call and what there is to say and to remember that nothing else really matters: the people you love, spending time with them, showing them that you love them, letting them love you. That, it turns out is what God has made us for, and what constitutes God’s highest service.<br />
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Our agenda for the coming year is to choose life. I need to warn you that it is not an easy choice to make. There will be people who will seek to take advantage of the violence and the terror to remake us in an image of the terrorists. There will be people who will respond to the terror by bigotry of their own. (Last week we heard Reverend Falwell and Reverend Robertson blame a whole host of innocent people for the terrorist attacks in a way that can only make these men look petty and small.) We must resist the temptation to do the same. <br />
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In that regard we have no better guide for how to choose life than the words of the prayer we have already recited this morning. Rabbi Amnon of Mayence wrote the Unetaneh Tokef in a similarly difficult time and he closed his prayer with the following powerful words: “u’teshuvah, u’tefillah, u’tzedakah, ma’avirin et ro’a ha-gezerah – but repentance, prayer, and deeds of love remove the severity of the decree.” Notice, that Rabbi Amnon recognizes that we cannot remove the decree. What has been done has been done. It was wicked, it was devastating, and it has assaulted us all. <br />
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But the consequences of what have been done – that is in our hands. I want to unpack his religious language into more contemporary concepts: <br />
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“Repentance” – teshuvah – translates into paying attention to our own inner life, to what goes on inside our souls and that, my friends, we control. We have the choice to abandon our complicity, to abandon our slavery to habit and drudgery, our indifference to our fellow human beings and the way we have trained ourselves not to look people in the eyes and to see them as a human beings. This I understand to be Teshuvah.<br />
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“Prayer” means turning beyond ourselves and reaching out to a world beyond. It means addressing each other in a fullness of being. It means being able to beseech God on our behalf, in memory of the deceased, on behalf of those who are still ill and suffering, on all of God’s children who are in need of healing, who have suffered loss.<br />
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And, finally, “deeds of love” translates into the need to take action. It is insufficient to simply be in touch with your own inner life and to commune with the divine. At times such as this, the service of God requires hands – reaching out to our fellow human beings, repairing the world. You are God’s hands.<br />
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So, we must mobilize this year on behalf of New York and Washington, two beautiful cities that symbolize freedom. We must find ways to contribute and to help whether that means contributing blood or supplies, giving to charity, or providing for our own needs in this city. <br />
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My friends, we must stand tall with Israel. Here I will violate what I told you and I will say something political. Make no mistake about it that when the enemies of freedom identify their targets, they are correct in understanding that their enemies are the United States of America and Israel, sister democracies committed to the notion that people have a right to their own destiny and their own freedom. They are not wrong – those who live their lives by terror and darkness – to see us as their enemy. And at this time let no one question our resolve, with our brothers and sisters in Israel, on the right of the Jewish people to self-determination in our own land, in our own state.<br />
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And let no Jew doubt that the Jewish democracy in the Middle East is unafraid of peace with its neighbors and is willing, even now, to discuss a real peace, a peace with security, a peace that will benefit not only Israel but the Palestinians and our other Arab neighbors. But let nobody confuse our unflagging commitment to peace for weakness. We will fight for our children’s right to go to bed safely, and we will fight for our own safety and security just as would any free people.<br />
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If the events of the last week leave us with any message, the message must be – as it has always been – that freedom requires eternal vigilance, that liberty requires determination, and that the revolution that was launched by Israelite slaves leaving Egypt thousands of years ago, the sparks of that revolution, which shined in 1776 and gave birth to this nation (which saw itself as a new Israel expressing an old Covenant), that that revolution still remains incomplete. In affirming your master, know that you are in the service of a master who demands the freedom of the heart, and soul, and mind. In the coming months and years, we can best fight terror by re-committing to civilization, to democracy, and to a life of Torah and Mitzvot.<br />
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God bless us all; we need those blessings.<br />
<br />
Rabbi Bradley Shavit Artson is the Dean of the Ziegler School of Rabbinic Studies of the University of Judaism. He is the author of The Bedside Torah: Wisdom, Visions, & Dream.Rabbi Jason Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07805550465729805847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5161353548990038297.post-26613582337311643142001-09-17T09:57:00.000-04:002011-09-07T14:51:08.330-04:00Rabbi Ilana Baden<center><i>The following sermon was delivered during the 2001 Jewish High Holiday season following the tragic events of September 11, 2001. It has been included on the <b>Torah From Terror</b> website as a resource and retains the copyright of its author. Please cite the source accordingly.</i></center><br />
<br />
Yom Kippur – 5762<br />
Rabbi Ilana G. Baden<br />
Indianapolis Hebrew Congregation<br />
<br />
I read the newspaper yesterday. Here is a sampling of the headlines I found: <br />
• Airlines struggling to stay aloft <br />
• Child abuse, neglect killed 45 here last year <br />
• Mad cow disease case confirmed in Japan <br />
• Economies are headed for recession <br />
• Pakistan won’t end Afghanistan ties <br />
• Sikh residents report harassment <br />
• Miners killed in rescue are praised as heroes <br />
• 100 injured when blast derails train in India <br />
• Last standing piece of building is toppled.<br />
<br />
There’s no denying it: We live in a complicated world. Perhaps this morning’s Torah reading puts it best: R’ei, natati l’fanecha hayom et ha-chayim v’et ha-tov; v’et ha-mavet v’et ha-ra. “See, I have set before you this day life and good; and death and evil.” <br />
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As a Jewish people, we do our best to focus on ha-chayim v’ha-tov, on life and good. We remind ourselves daily of the blessings in our lives: our family, our friends, God-willing, our health. We look around with pride in this synagogue – as we gather with our community at this High Holy Day season, thanking God for another year that has been granted to us.<br />
<br />
However, while we strive to concentrate on the good things in life, we cannot ignore ha-mavet v’ha-ra, the death and the evil. We cannot ignore the fact that the world is also filled with misfortunes. Natural disasters – such as earthquakes and tornadoes – wreak havoc on communities. Medical complications – such as miscarriages and cancer – cause suffering not only for the patient, but for friends and family alike. And national travesties – such as the recent attacks on New York and D.C. – remind us that the world is not as safe as we would like it to be.<br />
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So, as we gather today on this Yom Kippur, we are faced again with that eternal question: Why does God allow bad things to happen in this world and what is the meaning behind them? Clearly, this is a difficult question, a question that has plagued the minds of scholars and sages throughout the generations. In response, there are those who say that suffering is a form of Divine Punishment; there are those who say that suffering is a test of our faith; and there are those who say that suffering is the means by which God can teach us valuable lessons.<br />
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Suffering as punishment. What does this mean?<br />
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Thousands of years ago, the Holy City of Jerusalem and its Temple were destroyed by Israel’s enemies. Many interpreted this devastation as divine retribution for not keeping God’s commandments. The prophets of the day preached to the people that God had allowed this calamity to take place because of His anger and contempt for the society’s corruption. They scolded the people for their sinful ways, saying that it was because of Israel’s rebelliousness that God allowed their enemies to overtake them.<br />
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And so, too, today, do we have people that would like to blame us for what has happened in our country. Self-proclaimed, would-be prophets, such as Jerry Falwell, say that the devastation in New York and D.C. is due to God’s wrath over matters such as pro-choice, homosexuality, and the ACLU. They blame us – yes, us – for giving into what they deem temptation and corruption; for pushing God to take such a drastic measure in order to punish us for our misdeeds. While this view is certainly hateful to many, it does console a few. For it suggests that we could have control over disaster. If only we were more “righteous”, God would not have to chastise us with such tragedies.<br />
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Suffering as a test. What does this mean?<br />
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Another popular explanation of why bad things happen in this world is that God uses these misfortunes in order to test us. God wants to make sure that we are a faithful and loyal people. Therefore, He sets challenges before us, so that He can prove to Himself and to others, that we are worthy of His blessing. However, God is careful to choose only those whom He knows will pass the test, such as Abraham, who was willing to sacrifice his beloved son to God; or Job, who was able to maintain his faith in God, even when faced with financial and personal ruin.<br />
This view is reminiscent of an ancient commentary on a verse from Psalms: Adonai tzadik yivchan, v’rasha v’oheiv hamas sina nafsho. “God tries the righteous, but [as for] the wicked and he who loves violence, God hates his soul.” The rabbis, therefore, teach us that when bad things befall us, it is because God knows that we are capable of dealing with them. <br />
Rabbi Yonaton, a sage from antiquity, compared God’s testing humans with a potter who taps his pots, so that he can be sure that they are sturdy. Rabbi Yonaton taught, “A potter does not examine defective vessels, because he cannot give them a single blow without breaking them. So then, what does he examine? Only the sound vessels, for even if he gives them many blows, they will not break.” By testing the sound vessels, the potter is able to demonstrate that he has produced a commendable item. So, too, some would say, with God. By testing us, He is better able to assure that His creation is worthwhile. <br />
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How many of us can relate with this mentality? I, myself, have often heard people frame their own hardships in such a way. There’s the woman who lost her job. Upon receiving her pink-slip, she told her co-workers, “God doesn’t give us more than we can bear. He’s sending me this trial so that I can learn to be more resourceful. I know I’ll figure something out.” And there’s the man who was diagnosed with leukemia. He told his wife, “This is a test, dear – a test of how well we can cherish each other in bad times, as well as good times.” And there is the headline on MSN.com’s web-page for America’s response to our current situation. It is a quote from the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., who commented, “The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy.” <br />
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Suffering as a lesson. What does this mean?<br />
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There are those who say that God allows bad things to occur in order to teach us a valuable lesson – a lesson we would not otherwise have learned if we did not suffer a bit.<br />
It seems that many people find meaning and comfort in this view of suffering. By assigning a purpose to our pain, we might be better equipped to persevere through it. As Rabbi Joseph Soleveitchik commented, “Suffering comes to ennoble man, to purge his thoughts of pride and superficiality, to expand his horizons. In sum, the purpose of suffering is to repair that which is faulty in man’s personality.” <br />
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Take, for example, the Israelites’ wandering in the wilderness after being liberated from slavery. Our text tells us that there was a more direct route from Egypt to Canaan. Yet, God decided to lead them in a more round-about fashion so that the journey would last forty years. For generations, Torah scholars have wondered why God would do this. <br />
One popular explanation teaches us that this was for the benefit of the Israelite people. For so many years, they had no choice but to be slaves, unable to control their own destiny. Therefore, God felt the need to extend their transitional period before they reached the Promised Land – so that they could develop the skills they needed in order to become an independent nation. Though the wilderness was a harsh and dangerous place, it was a necessary evil that would ultimately result in strengthening the People of Israel.<br />
<br />
<br />
So here we have it: three different explanations on why God allows suffering to occur in this world: to punish us, to test us, or to teach us. To many, such interpretations are comforting. After all, who wouldn’t like to think that there is a grand, divine plan, and that everything happens for a reason? However, I, personally, cannot subscribe to any of these perspectives on why bad things happen.<br />
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God, as I understand God, is not is so petty as to need to punish us through pain. Neither is God so insecure that He would need to test our faith and loyalty in such a cruel way. And neither is God so cavalier with people’s welfares and lives to use them in order to teach us a lesson – no matter how valuable or valid that lesson might be. <br />
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So what do we do with all these stories from our Bible? In pondering this question, I am reminded of a story told about the great Jewish philosopher, Martin Buber. Once, when he was taking a train-ride, he met a very traditionalist rabbi. The two began to discuss Torah, and came to talking about the verses regarding Amelek, Israel’s worst enemy. They noted that it is written in the Torah that the Israelites were to utterly destroy the people of Amelek. Buber said to the rabbi, “You know, I don’t believe God ever really said that.” The rabbi was astonished. He protested, “But it’s written, and Moses wrote down everything just as he heard it from the mouth of God!” To which Buber replied, “Oh – don’t get me wrong. I believe that this is what Moses heard, but I don’t believe that this is what God actually said.”<br />
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So, if we reject the notions that God is punishing us, testing us, or teaching us, how can we interpret the evils that befall us? What do we make of all the pain and suffering?<br />
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Recently, Rabbi Debra R. Hachen wrote a modern-day midrash, or rabbinic story, that offers us another perspective on how to understand tragedy. Rabbi Hachen composed this midrash just last week and shared it with her congregation on Rosh Hashanah. Today I would like to share her words with you:<br />
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God sat shocked on the throne in heaven. God couldn't believe what had just happened down on earth. It was September 11 and God saw it all as it unfolded. God couldn't find words to speak, and tears started to form in God's eyes. Then the accusing angel approached, the one who was always trying to get people into trouble with God…<br />
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[Ha-Satan spoke:] "O Eternal One, Master of All, Judge of all Truth: here it is just a week before the holiest days of the year -- the days when you open the Book of Life and examine the deeds of each human being. And what will you find this year? Just when people should be starting to think about repentance, prayer and charity, you will find that almost twenty sinful people committed a terrible crime - and took the lives of 5,000 people in one day - in one morning! And, once again, O Master of All, they said they did it in Your name. Now is the time,” said Satan, “to get rid of humankind once and for all. It was a hopeless experiment, and it's not going to yield any good results."<br />
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…"O Eternal One," Satan spoke in a consoling whisper. "Just give me the word. I will take care of it all. We'll destroy this world and start over again. We angels will help you build a better version."<br />
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…The Eternal One [replied,] "You may be right. Perhaps there is no future for humanity. Perhaps it's time to give up. But I must be certain. I must send three of my loyal and faithful angels to check it out and see if there is any reason to save this world."<br />
So God called three angels, the same three that had been sent so long ago to visit with Abraham in the desert, and gave them their instructions. "Each of you search high and low, and bring back to me any evidence that humankind is still worth saving and helping. Return by nightfall, and I will make my decision."<br />
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So the angels went down to earth and began to look through the rubble at each site. They saw the pain of those who were wounded, they knew that under the collapsed buildings there were thousands who had died. But they split up and began to search further for any evidence that man, in spite of all this evil, was worth saving. <br />
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The first angel [went to New York. He ] came across two men covered in dust. They were embracing and shaking, so he stopped and overheard them talking to a firefighter. “We were on the 68th floor,” they said, “when we realized we had to evacuate quickly or we would die. But there was a woman in our office who was in a wheelchair -- and the elevators weren't working. We found the emergency wheelchair and moved her over, so we could carry her down the stairs. It was hard work -- coming down all 68 floors. Others told us to leave her and run -- that the firemen would bring her later. But, we couldn't desert her. We passed the firemen on their way up to help others, and we kept going. We got her out, and an ambulance whisked her away immediately. Just as the ambulance pulled away, the building collapsed. We ducked under a van, and now we are just grateful to be alive. Another minute, and all three of us would have died in that building.”<br />
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Ahhh...thought the angel. The courage of the firefighters who entered the dangerous building to save lives, the compassion these two ordinary men showed for a woman in need, and their gratitude for being alive, surely God will want to save the world for their sake. And so he gently, almost invisibly scraped some of the dust that had fallen from the buildings off of their faces, and flew up to heaven and presented it to God.<br />
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The second angel went to Pennsylvania, [where] all on the plane had perished. He could sense the spirits of those who died -- could almost feel how they were still linked to their loved ones back home. So, following the trail of connection, he found himself in a home where a wife stood trying to explain what happened to her neighbors. Tears were rolling down her face. “He called me on the cell phone,” she said. “He told me how much he loved me, and then he said that he and four other passengers were going to rush the hijackers and try to stop them. After that, I never heard from him again. But now the authorities are telling me that the plane was headed for D.C. to crash and kill hundreds or thousands of people. I lost my husband today, but I know that he saved the lives of others by his actions.” <br />
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Ahhh....thought the second angel. The love of this man for his wife, and the courage these men showed in the face of evil, surely God will want to save the world for their sake. And so he gently, almost invisibly, lifted one tear from her cheek and flew up to heaven and presented it to God.<br />
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The third angel went to D.C. He too saw fire and smoke and death and rescuers hard at work. Then he started searching through the city to see how the rest of the people were reacting. Most were in their cars or on the streets heading home. They were in shock and disbelief. But he watched as one woman, a Christian minister, drove past a mosque, made a U-turn, and came back again. She parked and got out of her car and walked up to three Muslim women standing outside the mosque. "My friends,” she said, “what can I do to help?" - for there on the building were scrawled ugly words of hate, spray painted by those who blamed all Muslims for the attacks that morning. The women embraced and cried together, and the Muslim women thanked the stranger for her kindness and caring. She promised to return and bring others to stand with the women in solidarity against hatred and prejudice. <br />
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Ahhh...thought the third angel. The way this woman reached out to those who are scapegoated and wrongly accused, surely God will want to save the world for her sake. And so gently, almost invisibly, he captured the words "What can I do to help?" and flew up to heaven and presented the words to God.<br />
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Just then, Satan appeared before God to announce that he was ready to carry out the mission of wiping out humanity and that he had the plans already in hand to start over on another world. "All you have to do is give the command,” said Satan, “and I'll see it is obeyed immediately."<br />
"Wait!" cried God. "You are right that humanity is capable of much evil. And you are right that from time to time it looks as if hatred has won out over love. But I have evidence that we cannot give up on the people down below us. My angels have brought me proof that there is hope for my creation: here is the dust to remind me how compassionate human beings can be - and how much they treasure life. For compassion's sake I will save the world. And here is a tear, a remembrance of the love shared between husband and wife, and a reminder of one who gave his life to protect others from harm. For the sake of selflessness and love, I will not destroy the world. And lastly, here is the voice of a woman who saw wrongdoing and did not turn away. She was willing to stand up for what was just and right, and to get involved. For the sake of justice and righteousness, I will not destroy the world, for they will in the end redeem this world."<br />
Satan's face fell, and he knew he had lost again. "But God," he asked, "how many times will you give them another chance? Take a look at history -- how many wars and genocides will it take before you change your mind?"<br />
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"Oh, Satan," said God, rising up from the throne. "You don't understand. I also hate the suffering and pain. But as long as I can still see the goodness and mercy and love in the hearts of my children on earth, I must have hope that the pain will one day end."<br />
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[And God sat back down on the throne to begin hearing the prayers of those who were calling out from earth, and to record again the deeds of humankind in the Book of Life for the year 5762.]<br />
<br />
I’ll be honest with you. I don’t know why bad things happen, and I am not so sure that God does either – at least not on a case by case basis. Yes, God is ultimately responsible for everything – the bad along with the good. Our Torah portion reminds us – God gives us ha-tov, the good, along with ha-ra, the evil. Yet, I do not believe that God personally sends pain and suffering to us as individuals or as communities. God does not, per se, cause bad things, but neither does He stop them. Pain and suffering are a part of this world. <br />
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So what does God do when confronted with the tragedies and the travesties? I believe that God weeps alongside us, mourning for the loss and acknowledging the pain. And I believe that God is there beside us, giving us comfort and encouragement to live our lives with meaning, to perform acts of love and kindness, and to go forward in strength.Rabbi Jason Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07805550465729805847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5161353548990038297.post-41889685857161496342001-09-17T09:56:00.000-04:002011-09-06T00:19:57.225-04:00Rabbi Aaron Bisno<center><i>The following sermon was delivered during the 2001 Jewish High Holiday season following the tragic events of September 11, 2001. It has been included on the <b>Torah From Terror</b> website as a resource and retains the copyright of its author. Please cite the source accordingly.</i></center><br />
<br />
Rabbi Aaron Benjamin Bisno<br />
Congregation Rodeph Shalom<br />
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania<br />
<br />
A Still Small Voice is Heard<br />
<br />
Kol Nidre / Yom Kippur Day 5762<br />
September 26 And 27, 2001<br />
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I have so much to say to you. I have so much I want to share.<br />
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But I worry that what I have to say may not be up to the expectations built into this moment -- you know, “the-Yom-Kippur-High-Holy-Day-what-did-the-rabbi-talk-about-this-year-sermon-moment.”<br />
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I have so much I want to say -- and what I have to say feels enormous.<br />
But it is also very simple. And I am concerned my words will not be sufficient.<br />
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____________________<br />
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When last we gathered as a congregation, we stood on the cusp of a New Year. There was then a new heaviness upon our hearts. At the time it had been only a week since we first saw the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center laid low.<br />
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Together we sustained a horrific blow to our collective psyche. Our sense of personal safety and national security had been attacked. Our trust had been assaulted.<br />
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Many of us were quiet on Rosh HaShanah, and yet we came together and stood with one another. As we quietly ushered in the New Year, our standing all together upheld and supported us.<br />
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Even as our hearts were heavy, our collective sharing sustained us. It was in this way that our own twin towers -- the spires of our doubt and fear -- were made the smaller.<br />
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I am thankful for the experience we shared on Rosh HaShanah. I am thankful for having been able to share it with you.<br />
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Today we gather to observe Yom Kippur. We have the benefit of a bit of distance from the events of September 11th, and yet, at least for me, the distance has produced only greater silence. And with distance, the pain has grown deeper.<br />
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As the enormity of the attacks on the people in those four planes and at the World Trade Center and in the Pentagon -- as the enormity of the attacks on each of us -- and on our freedoms and way of life -- as all this begins slowly to sink in -- the quiet, the hurt, the sadness -- as all of September 11th sinks in -- the pain has grown deeper.<br />
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____________________<br />
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The Lebanese Christian poet Kahlil Gibran, author of The Prophet, offers that sorrow carves a groove in us.<br />
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And I tell you that the groove sorrow is carving into me feels enormous -- deep and wide. And what I feel I have to say about this groove of sorrow -- that feels enormous, too.<br />
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I hear what I have to say inside my head. I feel what I have to say beating in my heart. What I have to say catches in my throat. What I have to say feels enormous.<br />
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But then when I think about everything that happened on September 11th in New York and all of what has followed . . . . what I have to say suddenly feels very small.<br />
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____________________<br />
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Judaism calls the part of us that struggles to make itself known “the Qol Dmamah Daqah.” The King James Bible translates the Hebrew phrase as “the still, small voice.”<br />
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Literally, the Hebrew means “the sounds of a storm’s last wind,” and originally the phrase referred to the last winds of a tempest. Qol Dmamah Daqah -- the sounds that are heard from the depths of a storm , from the depths of a tempest in the desert wilderness.<br />
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Eleventh century French scholar Rabbi Shlomo ben Isaac, better known as Rashi, moves us away from the notion of Qol Dmamah Daqah. as a referent for an audible, physical sound. And with 20th Century theologian Abraham Joshua Heschel, Rashi offers that Qol Dmamah Daqah is better understood not as “the sounds of a storm’s last wind,” but rather as “a voice of silence.”<br />
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Now that’s good. The part of us that struggles to make itself known comes not from the outside world, but from our own depths. The part of us that struggles to make itself known is “ the voice of [our own] silence.” If you will, then, the Qol Dmamah Daqah -- is best understood as “the still small voice of silence.”<br />
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Our Qol Dmamah Daqah comes from our own depths. It is what animates us. This voice from deep within each of us gives us our affect and emotion. This voice gives us our personalities and our politics.<br />
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The Qol Dmamah Daqah is our inner voice -- our still small, silent, inner voice -- and it is what makes each of us different from one another and uniquely ourselves.<br />
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On Yom Kippur our Tradition reminds us that we must each find our own Qol Dmamah Daqah -- We must each find our own still small, silent, inner voice --<br />
And we must listen for it. And we must hearken to it.<br />
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And though we may feel ourselves bereft and depleted with nothing to say -- or more likely -- though we may feel exhausted at the prospect of giving voice to what we do not yet feel we have the means to articulate --<br />
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How we yearn to say what is in our hearts! But it is so painful and sad!<br />
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Though we may be bereft, depleted and exhausted -- though it may be difficult -- on Yom Kippur, especially --<br />
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We must listen for our Qol Dmamah Daqah -- our still small voice of silence!<br />
And we must hearken to what it tells us to express!<br />
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For even if what we would say is silent or very small -- even if it is not said with words -- if it is sincere -- if our Qol Dmamah Daqah is sincere -- our Tradition tells us it will be sufficient. On Yom Kippur, we must trust this is true. It is our tradition.<br />
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Our Tradition is rife with stories which describe the journey we are going through now -- that we have been going through since September 11th -- and will be on for the rest of our lives.<br />
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In particular, Jewish Fiction and Literature offers many stories which tell of those who came before us -- people like you and me -- who found it difficult to express the words they felt themselves called upon to produce.<br />
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There is the story of the joyful worshipper, who while attending services felt compelled to offer a prayer of thanksgiving, yet he knew no prayers. After sitting in silence for some time, while the prayers and words of others swirled about him, the man put his fingers into the corners of his mouth and joyously whistled his thanks.<br />
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There is another version of the story which has the man reaching into his pocket for a flute as his neighbors are singing. And in this version, after sitting in silence while others prayed, the man put the instrument to his lips and added melody to their words.<br />
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In each case, our Tradition records that the worshippers’ expressions, their voices, if you will, were sincere and, therefore, sufficient.<br />
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____________________<br />
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On Yom Kippur, each of us must look within and search for our voice. On Yom Kippur, as did those in these stories, we must each find a means of expressing our gratitude and our joy.<br />
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But as the next story relates, on Yom Kippur, each of us must also look within and find a means of expressing our fears and our doubts, as well.<br />
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In this story, a worshipper is frustrated at her inability to pray the words as they are printed on the page. In this story we do not know if this worshipper’s inability to pray is due to an inability to read -- or if she is of failing eyesight -- or whether on this particular year, as may be true for many of us, she simply does not feel she can affirm the prayers as they are printed on the page.<br />
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Regardless, in this story, this worshipper sits when it is appropriate to sit, and she stands when it is appropriate to stand. But when it is time to pray, rather than reading the prayers -- for that she cannot see her way to doing -- this woman chooses to recite the 22 letters of the Hebrew alphabet: alef-bet-gimel -- all the way to the end -- resh-shin-sin-tav -- over and over again with the hope that God will arrange her letters into the prayers she cannot offer.<br />
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Our Tradition tells us that because the letters this worshipper offered were a sincere expression of her Qol Dmamah Daqah -- the still, small, silent voice within -- as with the two other worshippers before her -- it happens. According to tradition, God does arrange her letters into the prayers she cannot offer. Her voice is sincere and so it is sufficient.<br />
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That our Tradition preserves so many stories of ordinary individuals, worshippers like ourselves -- that our Tradition treasures the stories of such ordinary people, people who in spite of themselves find ways to express that which resides in their hearts if not on their lips -- That our Tradition preserves and treasures such stories should reassure us.<br />
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That these stories are retold and renewed time and again should comfort us. For some of us likely see ourselves in those immortalized in the fables of Jewish Tradition. This year, we too may feel we have no letters, no words.<br />
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And by the same token, there may be those among us who have not lost the power of speech -- for whom the letters form words, and the words prayers. There may be those among us for whom the “words of their mouths come easily,” but who nonetheless feel discomfited or ill-equipped to listen -- let alone to hearken fully -- to “the meditations of their hearts” -- to their Qol Dmamah Daqah -- to their still, small, silent voice within.<br />
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We may all feel from time to time like inarticulate worshippers. This has certainly been my experience. In fact, while I can fill this time with words, as I stand before you, I feel incredibly inarticulate.<br />
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It is an enormous task to speak with you -- replete with enormous expectations -- yours and mine! And as I have but a still, small voice to offer, I can only hope that what my Qol Dmamah Daqah urges me to express -- I can only hope it will be sufficient.<br />
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You may know that about a month ago I became engaged to be married. I could not be more excited!<br />
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And yet in the past two weeks, as I have begun to appreciate the true magnitude of heartache the attacks on New York City and our nation’s capitol unleashed -- as I have come to appreciate how many people were killed so tragicly, so mysteriously, so horribly -- and that so many were young and happy -- and in the prime of their lives --<br />
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In a way I had not had to before -- since becoming engaged and then confronting the full reality of September 11th and its aftermath -- I have had to fully come to terms with the fact that the lives of more than 6,000 people vanished -- and with them their dreams and so many of the dreams of their loved ones --<br />
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In a way I had not had to before, I have come to understand that so will my relationship with Michelle someday end.<br />
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I pray this end will not be for a very long time! It is a terrible thought!<br />
But it is inevitable -- and is precisely the lesson in this tragedy for us all.<br />
It is what our still small inner voices are responding to!<br />
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And it is precisely the point of Yom Kippur!<br />
Michelle and I have discussed the reality that in all likelihood one of us will die before the other. And while we pray that our ends, when they come, will be peaceful and many, many years into the future, we cannot know how or when either of us will go.<br />
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And yet, the reality remains. Someday our relationship and our lives will end.<br />
And it is true for our parents, and our siblings, and every one of our friends.<br />
It is true for everyone we know. It is true for everyone of us.<br />
And it is true of every relationship every one of us has.<br />
They will all someday end.<br />
And we have no idea when this will happen for any of us!<br />
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If we did not understand this -- or if we did not want to acknowledge this before -- before September 11th -- then what we have seen in the past sixteen days -- and make no mistake about it -- we’ve all been witnesses as this lesson has been taught to us most cruelly -- if we did not know that everything we know of life will end, before the events of September 11th unfolded, we surely cannot avoid coming to terms with this fact now!<br />
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The events of September 11th necessarily force us either to reaffirm or reprioritize everything we value. There is no avoiding it. Nothing is promised to us. All we prize in life is but lent to us. And at any moment we may be called to surrender all we care about and love most.<br />
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The comfort and hope in this cruel lesson?<br />
The comfort and hope is precisely our sorrow’s opposite.<br />
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Precisely because of the deep groove sorrow carves in us -- precisely because at any moment we may have to surrender all we care for and love most -- we have an opportunity at every moment -- to bring comfort and hope and joy and meaning into our world!<br />
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Precisely because of how deep a groove sorrow carves -- at each and every moment of our lives, we have opportunities to maximize the potential for blessings -- and to continually bring comfort and hope and joy and meaning into our world!<br />
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And I must tell you -- and this is the sum of what my Qol Dmamah Daqah tells me to say -- these opportunities -- the ones that are available to us at each and every moment of each and every day of our lives -- The opportunities we have at every moment of our lives to maximize the blessings we share --<br />
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These opportunities ARE ENORMOUS!!<br />
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How do I know this?<br />
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Jewish Tradition and my Qol Dmamah Daqah –<br />
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Jewish Tradition and my still, small, silent voice within tells me it’s true.<br />
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____________________<br />
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My prayer for each of us, in this New Year, a year that began with such difficulty –<br />
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My prayer for each of us -- and all our loved ones -- is that we all be sealed in the Book of Life for a lifetime full of blessings.<br />
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May this New Year see all of us embrace the fullness of the time we are afforded -- filling our days with gentleness and laughter and meaning -- seizing every opportunity to tell those we love how we feel -- to strengthen and affirm others -- to offer kindness and understanding to all with whom we share our lives.<br />
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And may each of us always listen for and hearken to -- our Qol Dmamah Daqah -- the still, small, silent voice within us.<br />
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For regardless of whether our voice tells us to sing or to spell or to speak or to be silent -- though it be small -- the enormity of the comfort and hope and joy and meaning we can provide one another is matched only by the depth of the grief we feel.<br />
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And from out of the depths -- the tempests and storms that rage about us -- and from the deep silences that pulse within -- May a still, small voice be heard -- and may it be sufficient.<br />
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Amen.Rabbi Jason Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07805550465729805847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5161353548990038297.post-62159445006397927632001-09-17T09:55:00.001-04:002011-09-08T16:37:56.466-04:00Rabbi Neal Borovitz<center><i>The following sermon was delivered during the 2001 Jewish High Holiday season following the tragic events of September 11, 2001. It has been included on the <b>Torah From Terror</b> website as a resource and retains the copyright of its author. Please cite the source accordingly.</i></center><br />
<br />
Rabbi Neal Borovitz<br />
<br />
Saying Aleynu After the Attacks<br />
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Friends, over the past seven days I have repeated my belief that our primary answer to terror must be in the words of last week’s torah reading “ Choose Life” choose life by continuing to live our lives as best we can. And so what do I say to you tonight, tomorrow or Wednesday? Should I merely lament the tragedy of the past week or should I teach Torah? Should I put aside what I planned to teach or should I go forth? For better or worse my friends I have chosen to do both. Rather than ignoring what I had written, or pretending that the events of last week did not occur Tonight’s D’var Torah will be an annotated version of what I had prepared before last Tuesday.<br />
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The words, “We rise for the Aleynu” is music to the ears of many Jews. When we chant the Aleynu everyone knows that Services are just about over and the Rabbi is done speaking. The fact is we recite the Aleynu so often, that, many of us, knowing it by rote, seldom thing about what we are saying. Tonight I ask your indulgence as I attempt to wrestle with the meaning of this prayer in the context of the attacks upon America last week.<br />
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The Aleynu is one of the oldest prayers in Jewish tradition dating at least from the third century when it was written as an introduction to the Malchuyot or Kingship section of the High Holy liturgy. The great 18th century German Jewish Scholar Moses Mendelsohn suggested that since The Aleynu does not mention either the destruction of the Temple or exile that it may in fact pre-date the Destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem in the first Christian century. Irrespective of its dating there can be no doubt that this prayer is a statement of Jewish pride. It is a proclamation that The Jewish people is alive! and Adonai is God ! The prayer opens by proclaiming: “ It is our duty to praise The Master of All things and to ascribe greatness to the One who formed the world precisely because “God did not make us like the nations of other lands and give us a portion like that given to other families of human kind.”<br />
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I will hear the Aleynu tonight as a call to take responsibility for myself and for others, not to take revenge. It is our call of thanksgiving for the many thousands who were able to escape the fire of terror in both New York and Washington.<br />
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The Aleynu prayer is first and foremost a prayer of thanksgiving to God for making us Jews. It was an affirmation on the part of the Rabbis at the beginning of Jewish life under Christian persecution that being a Jew was an honor, not a badge of disgrace. Similar to the blasts of the Shofar, which follow the Aleynu in our Rosh Hashana morning liturgy, the Aleynu is a prayer that is directed inwardly toward God and outwardly to our enemies.<br />
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Tonight I sing the Aleynu as a proud American and a humble Jew. I am thankful and proud that I am a better person than either the diabolical master minds or the suicide bombers who they send to Israel daily and who they sent to America last Tuesday. Rosh Hashanah is called Yom HaDin the day of Judgement. It is the time we are called upon to account for our actions and our in-actions. On this 7th day after the destruction of the World trade center this day of self-reflection each of us must ask What will we do to prevent a recurrence? Will we willingly pay the price in dollars and time to upgrade American security? Will we finally realize that the there will be no free world until we stand up to the modern Amalekites, whom we call terrorists.<br />
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Over the centuries there been both Jews and Gentiles who have viewed the Aleynu in a negative light. Since its placement, sometime in the 13th century, into the prayerbook as the concluding prayer for all Jewish worship services, the Aleynu has come under attack from both outside and inside the Jewish community for being too parochial and chauvinistic. One of the lines in the original prayer was directed against paganism. Based upon the words of Isaiah 30 and 45 It stated “They worship vain things and emptiness and pray unto gods who cannot save”<br />
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In Medieval Europe Christians, including Jewish converts to Christianity, would use this line of the Aleynu as a pretext for inspiring pogroms proclaiming that the statement was anti-Christian. The attacks soon led Jewish communities to edit out this line. Whether it was anti Christian or not, the Jewish community eliminated this line of the prayer in order not to offend others or to inspire hatred of Christians. When will we hear a call from Muslim leaders demanding an end to Jihad against Jews and Christians. When will America’s so called allies in the Muslim world stop giving moral and in many cases political and physical support to terrorists out of a perverted sense of Muslim solidarity?<br />
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One Hundred years ago American Reform Judaism undertook to re-write the entire first paragraph of the Aleynu based upon the feeling that it was too particularistic. The core of the Aleynu, with its proud particularistic affirmation of Jewish faith was replaced by a euphemistic universalism, which the authors attempted to fit to the traditional melody of the Aleynu. This Reform text of the early 20th century is still included in both our Machsor Gates of Repentence and our Siddur Gates of Prayer. Over the course of these Holy days, whenever I ask you to turn to a page out of sequence, to recite the Aleynu, I am choosing to use the traditional text over the classical Reform adaptation. Tonight I want to explain my choice.<br />
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My preference for the traditional Aleynu is not merely esthetic, though neither the special High Holy Day melody used in the Shofar ritual, nor the more familiar traditional chant of the Aleynu really fit the Reform text. My choice is also not based solely upon my childhood memories. Rather I believe that the ancient text of the Aleynu speaks poignantly and succinctly to the two-fold challenge of modern Jewish life. Every time we conclude our worship with the traditional Aleynu we simultaneously affirm our Jewish particularism and confirm our faith in a universal God who will, in the words of Zechariah, one day be recognized as the One true Force of the Universe and Source of life.<br />
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Following the Aleynu tonight I will for the 30th time read the names of the 11 Israeli Athletes slaughtered at the Munich Olympics. On that day in 1972, when terror forever changed the Olympic games, I was a young Rabbinic student, on my way to my first High Holy Day pulpit. I remember, that at morning services, in Cincinnati Rabbi Fred Gotshalk, the President of HUC, asked all of us, to ignore the Aleynu text, found in the old Union Prayerbook and join him in the traditional Aleynu.For Rabbi Gotshalk, who as a young boy had left Germany just days after Krystalnacht, the Munich massacre was proof text that rather than being an impediment to the realization of the Messianic vision, Jewish pride and particularism was a necessary pre-requisite to the achievement of Universal peace. Just months later in his last interview Abraham Joshua Heschel expressed this same thought when he said, “ It is out of my ramped particularism that my Universalism arises”<br />
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In their comments upon the Aleynu, Rabbis Gotshalk and Heschel taught me that its ok to be unique. The Aleynu’s message is that every one of us has a unique portion. As individuals as families as religious communities and as nations we have the right to acknowledge our uniqueness and to respect the differences of others. Mordecai Kaplan another of the great rabbis of the 20th century based his philosophy of Reconstructionist Judaism upon this very same premise. For you and me, Jews living in the 21st century the applicability of these 20th century teachings is clear. The Aleynu is, as Rabbi Larry Hoffman has written, the mission statement of Judaism. Our role in life is to be thankful for the privilege of being God’s partner in the creation and redemption of the world. Our responsibility is to teach that equal opportunity is not the same as equal skill equal talent or equal luck. The marvelous mystery of life is that it is not computerized. Input affects output, but in life what we do, does not totally determine what happens to others or to ourselves.<br />
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As I mentioned earlier the birthplace of the Aleynu as a prayer is the ritual for the first sounding of the Shofar in a section of the Holy day liturgy called Malchuyot or Kingship. If I am correct in the premise that the Aleynu is a prayer of thanksgiving and praise, My question on this Rosh Hashanah is: What does the Aleynu have to do with the over riding theme of these Holy Days which is Tshuvah or Repentance.<br />
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In the preparation of this D’var Torah I came across a commentary by Dr. Saul Wachs, an outstanding contemporary American Jewish educator which has led me to a possible answer to my question. Dr. Wax has noted that the Aleynu prayer is built upon three Biblical verses. One is from Exodus 15 “ Adonai shall reign for ever and ever: The second from Deuteronomy 4: Know this day and set it on your heart that Adonai is God in heaven above and the earth below. The third is from the prophet Zechariah chapter 14 “ Adonai shall be king over all the earth on that day Adonai shall be one and His name One.<br />
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Saul Wachs points out that all three of these verses speak of God’s power as a warrior. Each verse comes from a passage where the Hebrew term for War, Milchama, is found. In the Aleynu, the unknown Rabbinic author has turned these verses on their heads. Rather than talk of the destruction of the wicked, the theme of the Aleynu is the destruction of wickedness. There are no inherently evil people there are only people who choose to do evil things and act in an evil manner.For the author of the Aleynu, God’s power is not manifest in a magical Divine ability to crush enemies by force but rather the power of God is revealed when people realize the error of our ways and exercise our power to change. It is our acknowledgement of God as King that empowers God. The Aleynu, Saul Wachs taught is fundamentally a prayer of Tshuvah.<br />
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Understood in this context the Aleynu is a daily reminder to Jews to both be thankful for the heritage of Torah and our relationship to God and a reminder that our covenant with God imposes upon us as Jews a number of responsibilities. The Aleynu teaches me that it is our responsibility to never give up hope. It is also our responsibility to not allow hate to become a cancer eating at our souls. The responsibility to always strive to do better; the responsibility to work toward the creation of a messianic age are also explicitly stated in the Aleynu. In addition this awesome prayer commands us to thank God for being a nudge and inspiring us to do the right thing. The Aleynu is a reminder to us that one of the greatest blessings in life is to have a purpose for living.<br />
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The events of this past week once again lead me to question the extent of Tshuvah and the premise expressed by Saul Wachs that there are no inherently evil people. I confess tonight, on this day of Judgement that I want revenge for the loss of a friend at the World trade center last week and the murder of thousands of my fellow Americans and my fellow Jews in Israel this past year at the hands of terrorists.<br />
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The Aleynu is a reminder to me that I must seek justice not revenge. I cannot allow my hate to lead me to take out my anger on all Muslim Americans. Looking at the Aleynu as a prayer of Tshuvah is a reminder that in spite of our understandable and justifiable anger we must listen to the call of Deuteronomy and Pursue Justice Justly. The singing of the Aleynu is a constant reminder that as Jews we cannot abdicate our responsibilities to God to our fellow Jews or to other human beings. The High Holy days teach us that on the ultimate day of Judgement at the end of time, God will balance the scales of Justice with mercy. As taught in the Aleynu, in the messianic age the righteous will be granted eternal life and the wicked will perish. Until then it is our job to bring those scales as close to equilibrium as we possibly can. We can neither sit passively by, saying that terror is beyond our control, nor can we allow ourselves to become like them. We can, however, as the Aleynu indicates, give thanks to God for giving us Torah as a path by which we can avoid falling into the pit of hatred and by which, we can do our part to bring about the conditions necessary for the vision of Zechariah to be realized. The Aleynu prayer is a mantra we can utter together, as a call to ourselves and to others, to take responsibility for creating a society, in which experiencing God’s Presence, takes precedence over human selfishness and human apathy.<br />
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Last Thursday during a discussion at our weekly Torah study class I came to a new realization of the meaning of the verse from Zechariah with which our unknown author of the Aleynu chose to end his prayer.<br />
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The verse reads:and is normally translated as “Adonai shall be king over all the earth on that day Adonai shall be one and His name is One”. I suggested to that class that the Hebrew letter vav that is usually translated as and can at times be better translated in English as by or when. If we translate Zechariah’s final vav as when rather than and, the concluding message of the Aleynu becomes Adonai will be One when His name is One. My translation allows that the Messianic age envisioned by Zechariah and the other Biblical prophets will not appear magically. Neither will it come about Apocolypticly as Muslim Christian and even some Jewish fundamentalists believe. Rather, a world that is balanced with both Justice and Mercy will come about only when all peoples are willing to recognize the Oneness of God. There is a Midrash in Bereshit Rabba which teaches, that the reason that Genesis states that all humans descend from one person, is so that we will learn to acknowledge both that all of us are equal and that each of us is unique.<br />
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Last Friday night I began my sermon by asking a series of questions. Where was God last Tuesday? Was God AWOL from America? Where was God this past year? Did God go on a Sabbatical and leave the world, in particular the Land ofIsrael in the control of Terrorists? I said that the only reason that I can and I must sing Avinu Malkeynu this year is because I believe that God is not responsible, but we are. I explained that the axiom of my faith in God is that by creating us with free will, God has given us each of us the power to not only make choices which affect me but also the power to interfere in the free will of others. Moreover, the Divine Plea Choose life , found in last week’s Torah reading teaches me that we human beings have the power to interfere in both the free will of other people and in God’s Will as well.<br />
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Tonight, I sing the Aleynu, including the words:<br />
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“He did not make us like the other nations of other lands and give us a portion like that given to other families on earth”, in honor of the people who carried co-workers and strangers out of the World Trade center last week. I will sing these words of praise in memory of the fire fighters and police who rushed in to help; in memory of the passengers including Jeremy Glick, a young man who grew up in Oradell, who helped to prevent additional disaster by crashing their plane inPennsylvania. I will chant the Aleynu in memory of the thousands of good decent people, like my friend Debby, who died because evil people exercised their free will. I will sing the Aleynu in honor of the millions of Americans who have come forward this week and said Enough!!<br />
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I ask all of you to now rise and join in the singing of the Aleynu on page 43 as a reminder that a world balanced with both Justice and Mercy will come about only, when all people are willing to recognize the Oneness of God.<br />
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We rise for the Aleynu.Rabbi Jason Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07805550465729805847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5161353548990038297.post-122986086938630262001-09-17T09:55:00.000-04:002011-09-08T16:02:10.709-04:00Rabbi David Bockman<center><i>The following sermon was delivered during the 2001 Jewish High Holiday season following the tragic events of September 11, 2001. It has been included on the <b>Torah From Terror</b> website as a resource and retains the copyright of its author. Please cite the source accordingly.</i></center><br />
<br />
Rabbi David Bockman<br />
Beth Meyer Synagogue<br />
Raleigh, North Carolina<br />
<br />
Hayom Haras Olam:<br />
A Rosh Hashana Response to September 11, 2001<br />
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Since our son was born, things have changed for us. Oh, I know that people warned us, but we used to eat meals in restaurants: no more. We used to go to clubs to listen to music: it ain't happening. We used to keep up with current movies: we haven't set foot in a theater since July 20. We used to keep up with important events: now our newspapers pile up, unopened, at the kitchen table. And sleep? Fuggedaboudit! The world that we used to cherish, as a young married couple, is now so changed that I know it will never return. <br />
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That's not to say that there's no upside. After all, I love my baby Theo. When he's not screaming or fussing, he's the cutest kid on the planet. And he's so... well, since he was born...okay, since he was born and Vicki is staying home from work on maternity leave, we finally took the plunge and ordered cable for our television. We now can watch Emeril Lagasse cook wonderful food... for other people. We can listen to the top 100 pop songs of all times on VH1 or MTV. We can watch gripping legal dramas "ripped," we are told, "from today's headlines" nearly 24 hours a day on the "all-Law-and-Order-network" (and did you know that Vicki's family is related to Sam Waterston?). We can sit through the same "news" story with the same ridiculous pun told by the same insincere anchor person every twelve minutes on CNN Headline News. Vicki's even become hooked on a show called Trading Spaces, where two couples redecorate a room in each others' houses in only two days with a budget of one thousand bucks and the use of a slightly meshugena interior decorator who insists, for instance, that ceiling mirrors and peat moss walls would "work together" to create that "colonial" feel the owners love. And, of course, we try never to miss "Iron Chef," a hilarious Japanese cooking program of gladiatorial cooking grudge matches, in which each chef is given one hour to prepare and serve a gourmet meal featuring a special ingredient, such as gourmet truffles, peaches, or (drum roll) "chipmunk, delicacy of mountain people!" <br />
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Not only do we have a chance to see these new shows, though. At three AM feedings, we've been privileged to watch shows we thought were long gone, such as the Match Game with Gene Rayburn (you have just won two hundred and seventy five dollars!), the Brady Bunch and even Quantum Leap, playing on the sci-fi channel. You may remember the premise: a scientist, played by Scott Bakula, gets stuck in a time-travel experiment gone terribly awry, so he keeps bouncing back and forth to moments in his own life-span, each episode "leaping" into a new and unexpected person. Thus, he and his friendly holograph, Al, are the only characters seen consistently throughout the series. On one occasion, he may be a college football quarterback, whereas in the next hour, he might "leap" into the body of Miss Rosa Parks, all the while maintaining his own experiences, intelligence and empathy. The uniting factor in all this disunity is the problematic of each show: Sam needs to discover, before he can "leap" out of his current situation, a way to interfere in some specific way so that a person he meets will do something humane, heroic or famous. Exactly opposite to Star Trek, Quantum Leap's prime directive might be stated as "mix in and change some crucial element of these people's lives so that a good outcome will be assured." Only then, when he's accomplished his good turn, can Sam face his next challenge, always hoping that his next leap "will be the leap that takes him home." <br />
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I can only vaguely imagine what that must be like, to be a wanderer and a sojourner, constantly and relentlessly giving of myself in interaction with worlds that appear before my eyes, yet hoping against infinite hope that I will someday find my home in one of these worlds. How lonely he must be! How cruel the gods of television must have been to knit a skein of coaxial cable into tableaus of near-misses that eternally tantalize this decent man; a fellow who regularly and repeatedly lays his life on the line, opening his heart to shore-pounding waves of disappointment even as he leaves behind a trail of marked improvement. <br />
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Imagine it, if you can: every single day a test of your ability to learn from your mistakes, every waking moment a Rosh Hashana. We, too, are called periodically to face a new challenge, a new set of situations and circumstances, a new universe. Indeed, we will say three times in the musaf prayer today, after each time the shofar is blown: Hayom Harat Olam - today, the world is pregnant. Although we translate this as the much simpler "Today is the birthday of the world" for our young children, we ought to at least - for ourselves - think through the implications of what such a newly growing world might be. <br />
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New life, new possibilities, an uncharted future. Wow! Like the moment of the Big Bang, the empty space tingles with energy, bristles with probability, expectant of its own becoming. Emptiness gives way to fullness, darkness to light, nothingness to Being. In such moments, symmetries are born before they are broken, elementary particles snap into being in pairs, the wave function swells toward existence. All the universe is a black body, radiating perfectly, maximally, supernally. Today, the universe grunts and pushes itself into the now, and the rest - as they say - is commentary. Hayom Harat Olam! Today, a world is born! <br />
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A world is the perfect cocoon for the metamorphosis of potential into actuality. That which is conceived is born. That which is born is taken note of. That which is noted becomes somehow ingrained in a future pattern of becoming. And already, at the beginning of a world, Neitzsche's character Zarathustra will announce the fulfillment and completion of that world, and furthermore its obsolescence, its overcoming. Each path of divergence chosen leads to a unique world that plays itself out inexorably to its logical end. Given a universe brimming with possibilities, a single creation can lead to a multiverse of linked, yet unreachable, parallel universes whose parameters differ only slightly. Hayom Harat Olam. Each day, a slew of worlds is born. <br />
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But I can tell you, having been there when Theo emerged two months ago, that the process of birth is not an easy one, nor is it particularly pretty. I'd always heard people talk of the "miracle" of birth. They were, of course, correct. But they rarely, if ever, talked about the blinding intensity of the contractions before the epidural can kick in, the profusion of blood and screams, the rebuff to a quietly offered massage that manifests in hurled profanities and emasculting insinuation. And when the baby emerges, when the baby emerges... They don't exactly tell you how alien this newborn will be, how inhuman it will look. Like a waterlogged creature from another planet that communicates solely via squawks and unholy, blood-curdling screams, the newborn metamorphoses slowly over a span of months into a wizened old man, a young girl, a disfigured gargoyle, and someday (we expect) into a ...baby. <br />
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People don't exactly explain to you how the priorities you've spent a lifetime arranging will suddenly become worthless, how your survival, health, accomplishments and personal sense of style will no longer mean much in the scheme of things. Birth may in fact be a Nietzschean transvaluation of values, but it surely seems like a signal glimpse into the awful truth that the so-called "normal" moral universe we inhabit is just the thinnest of veneers designed to protect our delicate minds from the seething chaos that everywhere abounds, just below life's surface. <br />
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I don't think I ever understood before Theo’s arrival what the "birthpangs of the messiah" might really mean. All I can tell you now is that the rabbis who dreamed up that phrase were either much more aware of women's issues than we generally give them credit for, or else they were a bunch of sick-minded individuals. Because, if anyone who has gone through a birth actually thinks that a global-sized version of that travail will sieze the world before things can get better, who would ever allow it to happen? <br />
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So, last week I was awakened by the squeal of my new master, whom I resent so terribly at moments like these. I picked up my bleary-eyed carcass from the not-yet- slept-in-sheets and changed his poopy diaper, trying to excite him with the prospect of "new pants!" Vicki took him in bed to feed him, and turned on the TV to one of those inane morning shows, drifting off into a sleep-deprived feeding-induced daze. As I was resting my bones leaning against a pillow before I got up and showered to go to the shul, they announced that there was some breaking news, that there seemed to be some kind of fire in New York's World Trade Center. I shook Vicki, said "hey, look at this, maybe it will be some actual news on this news show." A few minutes later, of course, we saw another plane fly directly into the building, vomiting forth billows of flame and debris. We watched, stunned and shocked, as did so many others on that Tuesday morning. We watched the burning smoke across the Pentagon, the collapses and implosions, people fleeing and dying. And what was happening in my house right then? Vicki was crying, worrying about the baby; specifically, about what kind of world we were bringing him into. Thousands of lives were snuffed out before our eyes, and we could think of nothing more pressing than to worry about a little bossy alien creature who does nothing more substantive than urinate in his pants or in our bed, multiple times each day. <br />
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A shiver went up my spine, because I had quite a disturbing sense of deja vu. When I was younger, many Jews read Hebrew with the "Ashkenazzis" pronunciation, the "s"es rather than the "t"s. Hayom Harat Olam used to bother me, because the old guys pronounced it "Hayom Haras Oilam," which means "today he destroyed a world." Could any of us doubt, can any of us doubt that that was exactly what we saw occuring, the destruction of our world through a rain of fire and hurricane gales of glass shards scouring the streets of New York's financial district, Chinatown, Greenwich Village, drifting off in the clear Autumn sunshine to blanket Brooklyn and Staten Island? Today a world is destroyed, just like that, in a bizarre and sadistic snuff film, without any more fuss than squashing a cockroach. With a carboard box cutter and not even enough training to land, with sufficient jet fuel to reach California and a really well thought out television programming angle, a world is destroyed. Gone. Just like that. Hayom Haras Olam. <br />
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Of course, ours is not the first generation to see its Temples burning. In the Midrashic collection Breishit Rabba, we get a chilling fantasy brought in the name of Rabbi Abahu: "God set about creating worlds and destroying them, creating worlds and destroying them, until it came to this one, and, as the Torah says, 'God saw that it was very good.'" At first blush, you would be tempted to read this midrash as describing sequential occurences, one after the other. But it is also quite in line with this text to understand that, in effect, R' Abbahu chooses to read the destruction and creation of subsequent worlds as identical events. In the very destruction of one world is the germination of another. The two events are alternate views of the selfsame process. <br />
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When the world we knew exploded into rubble exactly one week ago, we all suddenly saw the horizon of a different sort of place, one in which Americans care about helping each other and commit heroic acts without a second thought. We could look towards a future where good and evil are much more plainly drawn than they had been for quite some time. We could see a new day dawning where blood banks have to turn away donors and where wearing red, white and blue ribbons does not brand you a Yankee Doodle Dandy. A new world is appearing where we learn to be careful, where we learn who our friends and supporters really are, where - perhaps - the president of the United States of America gives up on a missile defense shield and drilling in an arctic wildlife preserve, instead making our country safer by instituting more common sense security measures and lessening our dependence on petroleum. A new world makes it possible for us to step beyond the divisive questions of race, religion and political party affiliation. Hayom Haras Olam; Today a world is destroyed, and today a world is born. I've spoken in the past week about the Tower of Babel and the mitzvah of the preservation of life, previously so difficult to accomplish, but now as available to each of us as Microsoft Windows. I've spoken about the need for tzedaka and the blessing you recite when you hear bad news, the helpful things each of us can do and more. Because this is a time of sorrow and pain, it is also a time of resolve. Because this is a time of destruction, it is a time of indeterminacy and open-ended possibility. Because this is a time when we stand poised in a delicate balance between what was and what will be, it is chance to look forward to not falling into the same habits, but resolving to activate mitzvot in each of our lives - those powerful tools that teach behavior and attitudes and give us, and the universe we inhabit, a frisson of kedusha, of Holiness. <br />
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In the Torah this morning, we read of Abraham's personal struggle as his wife Sarah demanded that Haggar and Ishmael be sent away because Ishmael was making fun of her son Isaac. And, contrary to what we might predict, God tells Abraham to listen to Sarah! He sends Haggar and her son into the desert where they are distraught but ultimately safe, and free to become what they will become. It is certainly possible to read this story in a number of different ways. We can see God telling Abraham that, in essence, he should jettison his old son, world, family, because their time is now past and the new son must be given his own chance to soar. Hayom Haras Olam, today a world is detroyed, so that today a world may come into its own. <br />
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But perhaps there is another factor here that we've not yet fully explored. God tells Abraham to LISTEN to Sarah's voice. We might well imagine the ensuing conversation between Abraham and God: <br />
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Abe: God, what do I do? Sarah wants Haggar & Ishmael kicked out because my wonderfully sensitive thirteen year old son Ishmael can't be around the baby without mocking him, taunting him, being a bad influence on him. <br />
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God: Abraham, listen to her. <br />
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Abe: But, but, but...But Ishmael's my son, too! Why should he and his mom get thrown out into the desert? <br />
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God: Abraham, listen to her. <br />
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Abraham: But I love Ishmael. I care for Haggar, who has been so important to our family. And , God help me, I love Sarah, the old lady, even though having this baby has made her a little bit of a control freak... <br />
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God: Hell-OOoo, I said LISTEN to her! Listen to everything she says to you. <br />
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Abe: Okay, God, you're the boss. <br />
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And, as we all know, Abraham proceeds to ignore what God says! Instead of listening to his wife Sarah, we read that he gets up early in the morning and DOES what she had demanded previously, never stopping - even once - to LISTEN. To listen to her pain, her fears, her hopes and her vision. How can we expect Abraham to perform in tomorrow's subtle test - when God will say take up your son, your only son, your beloved son, your laughing boy Isaac - if he can't even follow simple instructions this morning? <br />
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Perhaps, all these thousands of years later, we are still misunderstanding God's expert advice to us about human relationships. In our zeal and eagerness to make things right we run to DO, to fix, to take action, or even to exact retribution before we really even know “what's goin' on.” Perhaps, all these thousands of years later, this model has run its course and shown itself to lead to the destruction of a world, the point where someone - and we don't even know who - trains other someones to ignore every single voice they hear pleading each for its life. <br />
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Maybe that is the sound the shofar makes this morning. Torn from an animal who happened to be at the wrong place at just the wrong time, the shofar cries out with the pain of a collapsing skyscraper, with the agony of rescue workers who rushed in to help and became trapped beneath the dying behemoth, with the moaning exhalation of thousands of human beings whose only crime was to come in to the office to do their job or meet an acquaintance and whose ashes choke the air of huddled masses yearning to breathe free. Maybe the shofar is the echo of a world that is itself cracking apart at its seams, falling inward to its own vaporizing death. And maybe, just maybe, if we listen to the shofar with our minds quiet and our hearts open wide for embracing, we will hear the hope-inspiring cry of a new world being born today. <br />
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You can do this. It doesn't require lots of money or high tech equipment. It might not even take a significant investment of time. You might even find that you won't lose stature in other people's eyes by not jumping to act or control, but opening your heart to allow others to speak their piece. It will take a bit of personal restraint to quietly and attentively listen a world into existence. Maybe now you will get the chance to do that, since there are so many battered souls needing to cry, needing help, needing sustenance, needing someone to listen. Quite coincidentally, our Wake County Jewish community has been working on a project, co-funded by the STAR grant people, to deepen ties within our community by training a group of volunteers to heal using openhearted listening. This group effort, called B'yachad, meaning "together", is right now accepting registration for volunteers who can commit to meeting for seven weeks to study with rabbis and social work trainers to develop the facility for openhearted Jewish listening. If you are interested in becoming one of these select few within our community, please see me or call the Jewish Federation for an application. We hope this program will help us - in our little corner of the universe - midwife this new world into existence. <br />
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Like you, I am aghast at what I witnessed. Like you, my world exploded last Tuesday in a leaping horizontal tongue of orange flame. But I feel not only for myself, or for you, or even for the thousands dead or missing and the hundreds of thousands waiting for word of their loved ones. If my suspicion is correct, God has lost a world too. If I'm right, God creates and destroys those worlds Rabbi Abahu talked about simply by "quantum leaping" into and out of them, for how can a universe be sustained without God's presence? Maybe you can, listening to the shofar in just a few moments, spare some concern for a wandering and sojourning God who leaps into and out of universes, always hoping against hope that someday a world will listen enough to sustain itself without dashing headlong into self-destruction; hoping against hope that the next leap will take God to a world about which it can be said that it is "is very good;" hoping that the next leap will be the leap...home.Rabbi Jason Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07805550465729805847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5161353548990038297.post-57631482713697077932001-09-17T09:54:00.000-04:002011-09-06T00:42:13.654-04:00Rabbi David Cohen<center><i>The following sermon was delivered during the 2001 Jewish High Holiday season following the tragic events of September 11, 2001. It has been included on the <b>Torah From Terror</b> website as a resource and retains the copyright of its author. Please cite the source accordingly.</i></center><br />
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Rabbi David B. Cohen<br />
Congregation Sinai<br />
Milwaukee, Wisconsin<br />
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Rosh HaShanah 5762 – 2001 <br />
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For Andy Alameno, z”l<br />
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When the children of Israel defeated the Canaanites, Deborah composed a song to bless God and the Jewish people. Near the song’s end, Deborah spoke of the mother of Sisera, the murdered Canaanite general: “The mother of Sisera looked at the window and moaned through the lattice. ‘Why is his chariot so long in coming? Why are the hoofbeats of his steeds so tardy?" (Judges 5:28) The Midrash states that the mother of Sisera cried, screamed, and moaned one hundred times while waiting for her son to come back from battle.<br />
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According to the Bible, the Shofar is sounded only nine times on Rosh HaShanah. The rabbis of the Talmud expand the number to thirty times. Yet for two thousand years the tradition has been to sound the Shofar 100 times on Rosh HaShanah. Whence the number one hundred? Every Shofar blast, we are told, corresponds to one of the 100 anguished cries and moans of Sisera’s mother. <br />
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If the Bible bewails the death of one of Israel’s enemies, how much more might we cry out for friends and neighbors we’ve lost this past week. How many agonies will our hearts have to bear? <br />
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While you and I share so many questions, I have no answers. I cannot tell you what all this means. For all of us, this week has been a long walk through a terrible, lonely fog. I have no answers, but I can speak to you honestly and directly with the hope that, as the Talmud says, “words that come from the heart will enter the heart.” So far, I have come to recognize only this: at the dawn of the year 5762, the Shofar’s blast will signal the myriad losses we’ve suffered. <br />
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It would be hard to overstate the impact of this past week’s events. Last Monday we went to bed in peace, believing that terrorism is something that happens far across the sea, assured that we were safe and would never be touched by evil. This Monday, I want to talk about what is happening to us as individuals, as families and as a community.<br />
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Many of you know the attack last Tuesday affected my family directly. My sister’s husband, Andy Alameno, worked for the bond-trading firm of Cantor Fitzgerald on the 105th floor of One World Trade Center. Their tower was the first to be hit. Andy’s boss managed to call his wife. Don’t worry he said, something hit the building but they are evacuating us now. Don’t worry if you don’t hear from me. I’m sure the phones will be out for hours.”<br />
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The news reported that several others made such calls. But the building’s top floors were quickly engulfed in smoke and flame. Escape was impossible. We never heard from Andy. <br />
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As America watched the spectacle unfold on TV on Tuesday, we hoped and prayed Andy was safe and simply unable to contact us. No word on Wednesday was not a good sign. Sally began to fill out the forms to officially declare Andy a missing person so that dental records could be released. Hair brushes and clothing were collected for DNA analysis. The bureaucracy of death is overwhelming. Especially when there is no body. <br />
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Meanwhile in Manhattan, my brother Sam was visiting hospitals, searching for Andy’s name. Sam told me that he saw some amazing things: The mass exodus of dust covered people shuffling slowly uptown. Second Avenue filled with earth moving equipment and emergency vehicles. Retail restaurants and stores giving away food and shoes to those who were walking home. <br />
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My mother lives in Manhattan, but last Tuesday she was in Florida visiting her father. Unable to get back, she watched the unfolding story there. She was able finally to return by train on Friday afternoon. As she arrived at Grand Central Station, she saw a group of dust and soot covered firefighters making their way for their train to Connecticut. Spontaneously, everyone in the terminal began to applaud. When my mother arrived back on the Upper East Side at dusk, every street corner had scores of people holding candles in vigil. <br />
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When the news broke, my father and step-mother drove to my sister’s home from their house just a few miles away. They have been there ever since, joined by Andy’s brother and sister who live nearby. Together, they’ve helped Sally with difficult issues like how to deal with the various bureaucracies and how to tell Sally’s young children about what happened to their father. On Wednesday, the Governor of New Jersey’s wife came to pay a condolence call. She stayed for 40 minutes. As she left, my father thanked her. “You really didn’t have to do this.” “You don’t understand,” she said.” I have to do something. We all have to do something.”<br />
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Julie and I appreciate how many of you have asked how my sister and I and the rest of our family are doing. In truth, we are overcome by an inescapable, enveloping sadness. We don’t yet fully understand how our lives have changed. I never imagined the possibility of calling my younger sister a widow, or that my niece and nephew would grow up without their father. My niece Nina, two and a half years old, spent the first part of the week parading around the house saying, “my daddy always comes home from work.” Yesterday, she dissolved in my sister’s arms, moaning over and over, “My daddy, my daddy…”<br />
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100 Shofar blasts do not begin to describe the agonies we bring this Rosh HaShanah. There are so many losses! The sound of the Shofar signals the loss of loved ones, whose families, like Sisera’s mother, wait by the window for a chariot that will not return.<br />
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Yet our losses are more than so many individuals. The sound of the Shofar also signals the loss felt by those left behind, the loss of family wholeness. When we told our children that uncle Andy had died, their first question, asked immediately: when will Aunt Sally remarry? For them, family is a puzzle, and a piece is now missing. How do we make it whole again? Sadly, none of us can return to who and where we were just a week ago. <br />
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The sound of the Shofar signals a loss of innocence. Our children said: “I think God is sad,” and; “I wish the police had gotten them out of the building sooner.” Our children expressed hope that uncle Andy was in the hospital and would try to get home. Michael said: I hope they catch the bad people who did this. But I hope they don’t hurt them.” How, we might ask, will we be able to preserve that sense of optimism, of sensitivity, in the days and months ahead? <br />
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It won’t be easy for, indeed, the sound of the Shofar signals the loss of hope for peace. If you searched every newspaper and magazine in America this week, you’d find no mention of peace. All the rhetoric is about war. It will be a prolonged war, they tell us, one that will require sacrifices. We will need to cede some civil rights, allow the authorities to expand their investigative capacities. <br />
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They may be right. This may be a battle between the forces of light and darkness, between those who prize freedom and western notions of liberty and those who demand conformity to the values of Islamic fundamentalism. But in all the talk of war, there is lacking any hint of deliberation and forethought. We might feel the urge for revenge, to wipe countries of the map, to bomb them into the next millennium, but we know that such popular sentiments do nothing to address how difficult it is to find and punish the perpetrators. <br />
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As Thomas Friedman warned, we don’t want to inadvertently create a new generation of suicide bombers by inappropriately targeting entire communities for the acts of a few. How to proceed then? It isn’t entirely clear. But we do know what hasn’t worked in the past. Targeting an individual like Osama bin Laden often leads to failure. Muamar Khadaffi, Saddam Hussein, even Pancho Villa, were never caught. And indiscriminate bombing didn’t work in Vietnam or Laos. And a land war? For an answer we need look no further than Afghanistan itself and the terrible quagmire the Soviets created. <br />
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One point is clear: Instead of focusing exclusively on war, we should reiterate our ultimate goal, a world of peace. While armed conflict may be a necessary and unavoidable step, we can’t let it overshadow the eventual peace we pray for.<br />
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If we do, we may yet see darker days in America. The sound of the Shofar has already signaled a collective loss of tolerance. On the surface, our country is coming together in a spirit of community and patriotism. But even in this moment of drawing together, lines of division are emerging. Already we see pronounced intolerance and violence directed towards Arab Americans and Muslims. This past week, I wrote a statement for by the Wisconsin Council of Rabbis suggesting the anger we feel about last Tuesday’s attacks not be directed at individual Arab Americans and Muslims. As Jews who know something about the injustice of blaming a group for the actions of a few individuals, we should call upon all Wisconsinites to reach out to each other, especially to those rendered most vulnerable by Tuesday’s events. <br />
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Sadly, I am having trouble getting all the rabbis to agree to sign the statement (It has since been revised and issued). I understand their ambivalence. I know Arab Americans do not support Israel. I know terrorist groups like Hamas fund raise in Milwaukee. I know there may well be terrorist cells here in Wisconsin, and if not here, certainly in Chicago. I too was sickened to watch some Arabs celebrate as people were still dying. And it was chilling to hear from an acquaintance that her daughter at Purdue University saw Arab students wearing t-shirts that said: this is just the beginning. But blaming the entire group for the actions of a few is just wrong, no matter how odious those actions are. For if we fail to take the moral high road, and reach out to Arab Americans and Muslims, we will have ceded to the terrorists another victory. <br />
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In addition to intolerance expressed towards Arab Americans and Muslims, the sound of the Shofar signals the loss of religious tolerance. We’ve already begun to hear the hateful ideas of Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson who just the other day said that liberal civil liberties groups, feminists, homosexuals and abortion rights supporters bear partial responsibility for Tuesday's terrorist attacks because their actions have turned God's anger against America. "God continues to lift the curtain and allow the enemies of America to give us probably what we deserve," said Falwell, appearing on the Christian Broadcasting Network's "700 Club.” "Jerry, that's my feeling," Robertson responded. "I think we've just seen the antechamber to terror. We haven't even begun to see what they can do to the major population." <br />
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The irony, of course, is that Robertson and Fawell are absolutely right: the Osama bin Ladens of the world can’t stand that our country tolerates and engenders diversity. Our society’s openness is our strength as a nation. To say that civil liberties groups have brought on this tragedy, puts religious fundamentalists like Falwell and Robertson in the same camp with Bin Laden and the Taliban. <br />
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Beyond signaling the loss of our hope for peace and religious tolerance, the sound of the Shofar signals the loss of our innocence as American Jews. Among all Americans, American Jews are particularly distressed. This may be due, in part, to the worry that non-Jews will blame our country’s close ties to Israel for the current troubles. Indeed, there have been several published comments, and much more said in private, that suggest that the US reconsider its relationship with Israel. <br />
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The answer to such comments is clear. As Rabbi David Saperstein made clear in a recent address, “…this attack was not about Israel. (Indeed it was planned long before the Intifada began.) Osama bin Laden is not consumed about Middle East politics around the cause of the Palestinians. Instead, he has been focused on his extremist Islamist view of the world in which anything connected with Western Civilization, and particularly America, is evil. To blame Tuesday’s attacks on Israel is a canard and a deception; a distraction from what this struggle is really all about. Israel is an issue to Bin Laden primarily because it is an outpost of Western values, of democracy and freedom that has no place in their world-view. That is, of course, one piece of what this was about but it is not the main story and we ought not allow anyone in this nation or this world to make it so.”<br />
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Beyond the Israel connection, American Jews are upset for a reason far more complex. As American Jews, our identities are divided: Our Jewish selves feel the historical burden of oppression and persecution. We carry with us the scars of the exile, the inquisition, the Holocaust. Our American selves, in contrast, feel at home here. We’ve been the beneficiaries of America’s unique blend of religious tolerance and economic and social opportunity. The two sides of us – Jews and Americans – have lived together in happy symbiosis. <br />
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Tuesday’s events destroyed the balance between our Jewish and American sides. To feel threatened as Americans, not as Jews, is a continental shift in self-understanding. And while some have taken comfort in the thought that at least now Americans understand what Israel has been going through, it is an ephemeral recognition at best. Polling numbers indicate that the same number of people support Israel as did eight months ago. Any expected bump of sympathy has been offset by those who feel that Israel is the root cause of Mideast terrorism. The numbers of people who blame Israel will undoubted grow. As we recover from our shock at last week’s events, we would do well to examine how we can more fully support Israel in its own challenging hour.<br />
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This year, the Shofar blasts signal our anguished losses. Not only for friends and family members lost forever, but for the values of religious and racial tolerance, the innocence we had as Americans and Jews, the loss of the hope for peace. <br />
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So what do we do? We can’t bring back those who have died, but we can extract from their deaths a sense of purpose. We can rededicate ourselves to the values on which this nation stands. In accord with Jewish tradition we can buttress the religious and racial tolerance currently under threat. Even is our sadness, we can remember that our ultimate goal is not revenge, but justice, and, ultimately, a world of peace. <br />
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The other day, our son Jacob said: Rosh HaShanah is the world’s birthday and the world is 5762 years old. Is the world a baby or a grownup? <br />
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This Rosh HaShanah, the world is all grown up, with a grown up’s capacity to wreak terrible violence and terror, but also with a grown up’s ability to envision and create a world of peace. On this Rosh HaShanah, 5762, may we turn to each other and comfort each other, even though we ourselves are shaken. And may we remember and be comforted by the words of the Prophet Jeremiah: <br />
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“For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, says the Lord, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you a future and a hope. Then shall you call upon me, and you shall go and pray to me, and I will listen to you. And you shall seek me, and find me.” (Jeremiah 23:11-13) AMEN.Rabbi Jason Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07805550465729805847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5161353548990038297.post-76192830602478743672001-09-17T09:53:00.000-04:002011-09-08T16:28:10.635-04:00Rabbi Diane Cohen<center><i>The following sermon was delivered during the 2001 Jewish High Holiday season following the tragic events of September 11, 2001. It has been included on the <b>Torah From Terror</b> website as a resource and retains the copyright of its author. Please cite the source accordingly.</i></center><br />
<br />
Rabbi Diane Cohen<br />
<br />
Temple Ohev Shalom <br />
Colonia, New Jersey<br />
<br />
ROSH HASHANAH 5762 DAY 1<br />
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I’m in a hurry to get things done<br />
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Oh I rush and rush until life’s no fun<br />
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All I really gotta do is live and die<br />
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But I’m in a hurry and don’t know why<br />
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My original intent for this first morning of the new year was to amuse you, read you the full text of that song by Alabama, joke about being a country-music fan. But in the interim between the conception and the delivery, we have all been so hideously side-tracked by the events in New York and Washington that I have been hard-pressed to find anything funny to share with you.<br />
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But while levity seems to be inappropriate, the topic of my remarks remains very appropriate, and perhaps even more so since the terrorist attacks of last week.<br />
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Because, you see, I had planned to speak today about time, and for most Americans, time seemed to be suspended last week. The days seemed to flow into one another; we were sleep-deprived and exhausted from the shock and the grieving.<br />
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I don’t know about you, but what saved my life, and not for the first time, was Shabbat. About an hour before candlelighting, I turned off the computer and the television and began my Shabbat preparation. And for the next 26 hours, the only connection I had with lower Manhattan was the Star-Ledger and the Home News and the conversations I had with many of you on Friday night and Shabbat morning. My body was crying for sleep, and I happily gave in. Without Shabbat, there is no doubt in my mind that I would have crashed from exhaustion.<br />
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Seldom has the difference between secular time and Jewish time been more pronounced. In a week when day flowed into day, we Jews had a pause button, a way to get off the world for a while, and recoup our energy.<br />
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Let me tell you what I’ve learned about time. I’ve learned that time is finite. There is just so much time that we’re given, in a day, or a week, or a lifetime. And if we don’t use that time wisely, we have squandered a precious commodity.<br />
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Of course, one might learn the wrong lesson from what I’ve just said. One might react as the writer of the song with which I began these remarks, and decide that if time is short, we need to move as quickly as we can, pack as much as we can into the time we’ve been given.<br />
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We might assume that. But let me suggest another possibility. Let me suggest that, like any other finite commodity, we must spend it wisely, and packing five lifetimes into one is not spending it wisely, any more than wasting our time on frivolity. I remember a number of years ago, my son Josh was traveling through England and France, and underestimated the amount of money he would need in England. By the time he got to France, he was running dangerously low on funds and called his father and me in a panic. I remember well the day I was working in a synagogue office and spent most of the time on the phone with my son in Paris.<br />
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What you need to know about Josh is that he eats pretty much anything not moving. It’s his metabolism. He’s a runner and burns it off. He’s a pleasure to cook for. But the downside is, he needs to eat often. And he’d been saving his money for – I’m not sure what. And he told me he was so hungry he thought he was going to pass out. I yelled at him to find an orange and maybe some bread, that he’d get help through Western Union the next morning.<br />
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Josh was trying very hard not to squander his limited funds, but there was a need to spend some of it to survive.<br />
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We need to learn how to preserve our time, while at the same time learning how to use it wisely.<br />
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The most important lesson we can learn is to pace ourselves. Josh, my marathon runner, can tell you that. Learn when to expend your energy, learn when to conserve it. Learn how to balance your output so that you are not left without any energy, without any time.<br />
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This past Shabbat wasn’t the first time that rhythm of six days work/one day rest helped. Eight years ago, I spent two hellish days moving into my home in Connecticut. I was determined to open as many boxes as possible, get my home in order. But when Friday morning dawned, I knew my more important task was to find my roasting pot and my spices, go find hallah and a chicken, and prepare for Shabbas. That night, I ate and went right to sleep. There was nothing more I could do, you see. I got out of bed the next day to eat, and then went back to sleep. By Saturday night, I was a new person and able to resume setting up my home.<br />
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I have no doubt in my mind that, had that second day not been Friday, I’d have continued to push myself and been pretty useless to myself and my community. Shabbat forced that pause, and it preserved me.<br />
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Recognizing that time is finite can have a number of effects. A little over a week ago, during our discussion before Selihot, I reminded the group of a famous Mishna that tells us to repent one day before our death. What’s the problem, I asked. It was obvious. How can we know when we will die? Ah, I said, so when should we worry about repenting?<br />
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The unpredictability of life could not have been brought home more forcefully than just two days later, when those three planes did their awful damage. Five thousand lives brought to an end. And how many messages were unsent? How many tasks were left undone? How many I’m sorry’s were left unsaid?<br />
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The message of these Days of Awe was horribly underscored last week – our time here is finite. Is there a project – a painting or a book or a piece of music – you believe is in you? What are you waiting for? Is there a skill you believe you could master, if given the time? What are you waiting for? We always think we have tomorrow, until tomorrow is hijacked.<br />
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But lest you think that taking care of all those postponed dreams will necessitate your packing more activity into your already packed lives, let me now suggest something I think many survivors of the attack will be doing. Re-evaluate your life. What is no longer so important? What now seems trivial? What are you engaged in – is it worth the time you are spending? Step back and consider the value of your activities in the long run. That’s hard, because we have become so now-focused that we have lost sight of the grandeur of the forest as we tag and measure each tree.<br />
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If you would like some suggestions for activities of value, check out our tradition. Judaism has survived because what it represents has survived – family, honesty in business, the orderly pace of time, the recognition of Something greater than ourselves, the value of study for its own sake, community.<br />
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For how many of those values do you make time in your daily or weekly life? Most of us would recognize the importance of family, although I would guess that there may be some who recognize its theoretical importance, while always pushing it away till later. But what about the pace of time? What about the recognition of Something greater than ourselves? Do we take the time, daily, to recite prayers of acknowledgement and thanksgiving along with prayers of petition? Do we take the time to study a piece of Jewish text? Do we support our synagogue’s minyan?<br />
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If you speak to people who structure their lives Jewishly, you will learn something very interesting. When the office or the classroom or the laboratory is only one venue of activity, along with a place to study with a friend or relative, along with a place to daven with 9 other Jews, these people find their lives more balanced, fuller without being overloaded. They will have learned to put their professional lives into context. They will have learned to structure their time well.<br />
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Now let me suggest another element in how we use time. Learn not to let time become our master. Somewhere in the body of the Alabama song is a reference to clocks, and the race against the clock.<br />
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Life isn’t a race. To paraphrase central character in the film The Legend of Bagger Vance, life isn’t a race to be won, but merely to be run. Life is for us to journey through. Once again, we are focused on the minutiae of our day without stepping back and enjoying the greater picture. I wonder how many of you have checked your watches during the time I’ve been speaking. Some more than once, I would imagine.<br />
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Tell me – do you have somewhere else to go today?<br />
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I promise you, you will not be kept here indefinitely. I will be as ready as you for lunch. Checking your watch is an indication of impatience and perhaps of boredom. The boredom I can’t help too much, but it’s only another reason to find the time to study. You can’t get bored by what you’ve learned to enjoy. But impatience? If God were as impatient with us as we are with each other, the world would have ended a long time ago.<br />
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Let me suggest something radical to you. Tomorrow, leave your watch home. Next Shabbas, leave your watch home. On Yom Kippur, leave your watch home. Will it really be so important to know whether it’s noon or quarter after? Michael, Harold and I will begin the services promptly and move through them in a timely fashion. Leave your watches home and become immersed in something timeless.<br />
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While we’re on the subject of impatience, we need to understand something else about time.<br />
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God’s time is not our time.<br />
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God has a far different perspective on time. Minutes and hours are not the same for God as they are for us. And with God ultimately in charge, we need to learn to let go of our impatience. In a world where life has been distilled down to sound bytes, where we have coined the term nanosecond, we have lost the appreciation for hours and days. And we grow impatient if our needs are not immediately gratified. I remember a comedy routine by Bill Cosby that is over 30 years old, but still brings a smile to my face. His wife Camille was pregnant with their first child, and he was concerned at the long months the child was confined to that small room. He mused, “Maybe I should get Camille to swallow a basketball so the baby can have something to do.” Then he speculated, “Maybe Polaroid could work on an instant gestation along the lines of their camera. Kiss your wife, wait 90 seconds, and there’s the baby.”<br />
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Thank God we have not figured out a way to cut those nine months short, although I know there are mothers out there would might disagree. And to be sure, Cosby’s routine was pure comedy. But some 30 years later, we have invested years of technological research in learning how to speed along the needs of everyday life. I was in Office Max this morning, and a woman asked about the cost of faxing a document to north Jersey. When she learned how much it would be, she walked off, smiling, saying, “I’ll mail it!” How we have come to depend on faxing and e-mail and all the other instant forms of communication in our world. For all that they are invaluable in their place, they have gone from being a part of our culture to driving our culture.<br />
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And we’re not ready to wait. I’m reminded of the little girl in the movie “Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory” who kept whining to her father, “I want it and I want it NOW.”<br />
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God sits back and considers two things. First, is what we want something we should have? And second, what needs to happen first? And how long will each step take before our prayers are answered? Some of us think that God is like Santa Claus. Ask for something on Monday and find it on Friday. While in our rational awareness we know better, deep inside we become impatient, and we are tempted to complain like Willie Wonka’s little friend – “But God, I want it NOW.”<br />
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Faith in God means bringing our petitions to the Holy Throne, and then saying to ourselves, “If my will matches God’s will, it will happen in God’s time.”<br />
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That sounds tough to swallow. That sounds fatalistic and vaguely not-Jewish. But the alternative is to rage in our world, furious that things aren’t going our way and doubting the beneficence, or even the existence, of God.<br />
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What is on God’s agenda to come to us will come to us.<br />
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Such a perception of the long view of time has never been more important than now. Those of us who love Israel and have watched her struggle with this year-long uprising and the accompanying loss of her tourist income have wondered just how long the matzav, the situation, will continue. And now, we are torn in two directions, worrying about Israel, but worrying not one bit less about this country, that has given us greater opportunities than any other in our history. We worry about our families, our neighbors, the shopkeepers with whom we do business – we worry about an entire way of life and about the safety of everyone who shares the name American. And once again, we wonder how long the matzav will continue.<br />
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We have already been cautioned that the struggle will be a long one. And just a week after the attacks on New York and Washington, we are prepared, we think, for the long haul. But will we truly be prepared to be patient here stateside while our armed forces are doing their job? Or will we simply want the struggle to be over?<br />
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There’s not a thing wrong with wanting violence and bloodshed to end. But it will end when the time comes for it to end. This war will not be merely a strategic contest between two armies on the field. And our country, which has shown its mettle in conflicts in past decades and centuries, will be called upon again to demonstrate the courage of which Tom Brokaw speaks so glowingly in his paean to the World War II generation. Our parents’ and grandparents’ generation knew how to be patient. They knew that nothing worthwhile comes quickly. And they understood far better than our world does that a petition favorably received by God does not mean immediate gratification.<br />
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Are you in such a rush to get things done that you’ve rushed the fun out of life? Or more to the point, have you rushed the meaning out of life? In this season of self-evaluation and introspection, let me invite you to do more than just consider whether you have wronged another, whether a friend or relative or God. Let me invite you to consider whether you’ve wronged yourself, by squandering time, but not spending time wisely; by filling your minutes without filling your years; by watching the count-down on your digital watches without considering what is eternal in your life. Slow down, take off your watch, immerse yourself in the timeless, and recognize that our time isn’t God’s time. Then join me in praying that God grant us the patience, the wisdom, and the courage that will be required to prevail in the time before us.Rabbi Jason Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07805550465729805847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5161353548990038297.post-73362107212842304752001-09-17T09:52:00.000-04:002011-09-06T00:56:36.234-04:00Rabbi Hillel Cohn<center><i>The following sermon was delivered during the 2001 Jewish High Holiday season following the tragic events of September 11, 2001. It has been included on the <b>Torah From Terror</b> website as a resource and retains the copyright of its author. Please cite the source accordingly.</i></center><br />
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Rabbi Hillel Cohn<br />
Temple Gan Elohim - Phoenix, AZ<br />
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GRAVE NEW WORLD OR BRAVE NEW WORLD<br />
Erev Rosh Hashanah 2001-5762<br />
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Let me tell you how fortunate we feel to be here among you and to be able to lead the first High Holy Day services of this new and promising congregation. In these terribly tragic and troubled times we join together in grief and sorrow for what has taken place in our country but we also join in faith and celebration. It is precisely at times of tragedy and upheavel that we crave the comforts and security of family and friends. You can certainly understand how anxious we were to be away from the congregation and family in whose midst we have lived and with whom we have prayed for the past 38 years. But you have removed that anxiety by the warm and loving way you have taken us into your hearts and we are very much at home here among you. When we raised our voices together in singing "God Bless America" we sensed that we are here among family and friends.<br />
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It is either the epitome of naivete and the ultimate expression of Chutzpah or else the incredible but at the same time natural expression of a history-conditioned faith, People and tradition, to say the same words on this Rosh Hashanah that Jews have recited for many, many centuries. We say: "this is the day of the world's birth." Even though we understand that our world is much more than 5,762 years old now - even though that is a number that much more traditional Jews take literally - we celebrate the birthday of the world. If not the physical world then it is at least the world of humanity whose birth we celebrate on Rosh Hashanah.<br />
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But this Rosh Hashanah we celebrate the birth of a different world. One of the expressions we have heard and read with frequency since last Tuesday morning is that this is a new world, that the world will never be like it was before Tuesday morning. Those who have said that it is a new world have come from different places. Some have referred to the new kinds of weaponry used, when planes intended to take people from place to place to engage in their family and business lives, are commandeered and become weapons of mass destruction. Some have referred to this being a new world because it was our centers of government, finance and military power that were targeted by terrorists. <br />
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In the midst of our overwhelming pain and sadness and anger we have each turned to a variety of resources. We have turned to family and friends for solace and strength and they have, in turn, turned to us. We have turned to the internet and been inundated with reactions and analyses and invitations to respond in a number of ways. We have turned to the media, becoming almost glued to our TV screens for a new word, a new glimmer of hope, a new insight. And we have turned to God both privately and communally in prayer and reflection, seeking our own healing and the healing of others.<br />
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Part of my own dealing with my sadness, perplexity and anger has been to turn to the insights of our Jewish tradition. I have been drawn to the great liturgy of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, the Days of Awe which begin this evening. I have read and reread the Unetane Tokef, that remarkable prayer which lists the many things that can occur during the course of a new year, reminding us of the precariousness and fragility of life. Though the traditional text does not include it as one of the things which is written on Rosh Hashanah and sealed on Yom Kippur we now know that in addition to there being the possibility of being strangled or stoned or swallowed up by an earthquake we must now contend with what our sisters and brothers in Israel have had to contend with for so long, the possibility of our lives ending by acts of terrorism.<br />
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I have thought over these past few days about how possible it will be for any of us to pray for inscription in the Book of Life, Blessing, Peace, Ample Sustenance when the threat of perhaps more terrorist acts hangs over our heads.<br />
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On Friday noon as I sat with a few others in the synagogue which I served for close to four decades, responding not just to the request of our President that we go to our places of worship but responding to my own need, I turned silently to the traditional text of Avinu Malkenu. While some of the traditional text is preserved in the reform liturgy the more complete text includes some verses that literally leaped off the page to me. Our Father, our King, nullify the thoughts of those who hate us; Our Father, our King, thwart the counsel of our enemies; Our Father, our King, exterminate every foe and adversary from upon us; Our Father, our King, seal the mouths of our adversaries and accusers; Our Father, our King, tear up the evil decree of our verdict." I prayed those words more fervently than I have ever prayed them before.<br />
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We celebrate the birth of the world and it is, indeed, a new world, a radically changed world. What kind of a world is it whose birthday we are gathered together to commemorate even if not to fully be able to celebrate?<br />
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As is the case with so much of life, a choice is open to us and for me the choice is between two different kinds of worlds.<br />
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It wasn't until yesterday morning when I read the editorial pages of the Los Angeles Times that I was able to see more clearly the choices of those worlds. A rather inventive headline writer captured one choice with the words that were emblazoned across the page under the words: "Terror's Aftermath." The headline was: "GRAVE NEW WORLD." In an accompanying opinion piece the very gifted writer Richard Rodriguez captured much of what I have felt since last Tuesday morning. He wrote: "It was a week when words failed us. We sensed ourselves entering some terrible epoch, but we did not have sufficient nouns or verbs."<br />
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After capturing a number of the feelings with unusual eloquence, Rodriguez ends with these words: "...the most important conversation becomes the one we have with ourselves. It is a conversation about risk and caution. Should I take the plane trip I've scheduled for next week? Do I really want to take that new job in a skyscraper? Do I want to sit in a crowded movie theater? Such questions announce our new age. We are going to ask ourselves many such questions in the future."<br />
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It is a "Grave New World" that came into being on Tuesday morning. And we have a choice to let that be our world or to become part of a "Brave New World." <br />
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Now it was Aldous Huxley who wrote of the "Brave New World" and his classic book was one which was part of the library of futuristic literature, that envisioned what the new tools of science and other fields would bring into being, a world where privacy would be invaded easily. It was a world where World Controllers would rule and insure the stability of society by presiding over a five-tiered caste system where the Alphas and Betas would rule and the Gammas, Deltas and Epsilons would be the labor force, a world where a drug called soma would ensure that no one ever feels pain or remains unhappy and where social stability is further ensured through the use of pre and postnatal conditioning.<br />
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But our choice is of a different kind of Brave New World rather than succumb to being part of a Grave New World where threat and anxiety and terror govern our lives. <br />
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Our Brave New World whose beginning we can celebrate this Rosh Hashanah is for us Jews a world where we respond to even the most horrendous of attacks by engaging in Teshuvah, Tefillah and Tzedakah, Repentance, Prayer and Righteousness, those acts which our ancestors said would enable us to avert the evil and severe decree.<br />
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In the brave new world not just we but all people will engage in a real turning, a turning away from violence and hatred, a turning away from a ruthless disregard of human life, a turning away from religious and national and cultural arrogance.<br />
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In the brave new world not just we but all people will engage in a real kind of prayer which accompanies every appeal to God by a resolution of the heart and mind and spirit and body to fulfill that prayer. As a magnificent reading in one Jewish prayer book puts it so well: "We cannot merely pray to You, O God, to end war; for we know that You have made the world in a way that we must find our own paths to peace within ourselves and with our neighbors...We pray to You instead, O God, for strength, determination, and will power, to DO instead of just to pray, to BECOME instead of merely to wish, for Your sake and for ours, speedily and soon, that our land and world may be safe, and that our lives may be blessed."<br />
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In the brave new world not just we but all people will engage in real Tzedakah, in acts of righteousness. We have seen remarkable and extraordinary displays of righteousness, charity, generosity and heroism over these past days. But they cannot be confined to crises. That needs to be become our daily vocation.<br />
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These are our tradition's understanding of how the evil decree can be averted. But this is a new world and so it requires something else.<br />
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The brave new world requires us to be men, women and children of Tikvah, of Hope. We must not give in to despair. For Jews the imperative of hope, though it might be sprinkled through the great classic literature of our people such as the Bible and the Talmud, was never said better than it was said by the great teacher of the 18th and 19th centuries, Rabbi Nahman of Bratzlav. He said, "Never despair! Never! It is forbidden to give up hope." <br />
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That is a command, an imperative, that we must accept, difficult as it may be, as we embark on this new year and, indeed, at the same time enter the new world, the post September 11th world into which we have been plunged just as so sadly thousands of our fellow citizens have been plunged into death. <br />
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It is not a naive, polyannish hope that we should have. It is a hope and a faith that we Jews, above all, must never relinquish, the hope that the day will come when God's kingdom will be established and God's Oneness will be acknowledged through word and deed. <br />
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Yes it is difficult to call for hope in these days. We are in much the same position as were our ancestors who experienced the destruction of the ancient centers of trade and might and religious splendor, the destruction of Jerusalem and the Holy Temple. When they were carried off to Babylonia they lamented. They sang in words preserved in Psalms: "By the rivers of Babylon there we sat and we wept...How can we sing a song unto the Lord on alien soil?" And today, by the Hudson and the Potomac rivers we sit and we weep and wonder how we can hope again and have faith in tomorrow and have faith in God. The very same book of Psalms provides us with an answer: "O God, I WILL sing You a new song, sing a hymn to You with a ten-stringed harp...Happy the people who have it so; happy the people whose God is the Lord." <br />
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And the other requirement for the evil decree to be averted, for the war to be won, is to retain and even to enhance our humanity, not to become the very beasts and barbarians whom we decry.<br />
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At two interfaith services held in my community last Wednesday night I was asked to speak. At both I urged my fellow citizens not to forsake OUR humanity even as we deal with the most inhumane of acts. We must be so careful never to blame an entire group for the acts of some of their group. That is not the honorable way. And I asked them to join me in making a renewed commitment to do what I have learned from my history and tradition is the way of God and godly people, what the late Abba Hillel Silver said so eloquently: <br />
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to stay sane in the midst of madness<br />
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to stay civilized in the midst of brutality<br />
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to light candles in the midst of darkness.<br />
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Let US not forsake OUR humanity even as we come face to face with the most inhuman of forces for to do so would be to let the terrorists and their ideologues have the ultimate victory.<br />
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I don't know whether or not we, the people who tonight all over the world greet the year 5762, are a Chosen People. But I believe with all my heart and soul that we are a Choosing People. That was made clear way back in the days of the Torah when we were instructed to Choose Life in order to really live. And as a Choosing People who are now entering a new world ours is to determine whether it will be a Grave New World or a Brave New World.<br />
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Is this naivete or Chutzpah? I think not. Rather I think it is the natural expression of a faith that has been tempered by history and experience and which teaches that there is no alternative.<br />
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May you and I and all the people of our country and all good and decent people of the world walk bravely into a new world where terror threatens us no more and where the blessings of life and peace and the God of life and peace are showered upon us in great abundance. May it be a year in which the very bitter drops we have been forced to drink over these past few days are replaced by the drops of sweetness for which we pray. Ken Yehi Ratzon.<br />
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<i>Rabbi Hillel Cohn is rabbi Emeritus of Congregation Emanu El in San Bernardino where he served for 38 years. He retired in June, 2001. For the High Holy Days of 2001 he officiated at services of a newly-formed conregation, Temple Gan Elohim in Glendale, Arizona, a suburb of Phoenix. He is a past national officer of the Central Conference of American Rabbis and his sermons are often included in the American Rabbi.<br />
</i>Rabbi Jason Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07805550465729805847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5161353548990038297.post-87506667602410589262001-09-17T09:51:00.000-04:002011-09-06T10:48:38.580-04:00Rabbi Scott Corngold<center><i>The following sermon was delivered during the 2001 Jewish High Holiday season following the tragic events of September 11, 2001. It has been included on the <b>Torah From Terror</b> website as a resource and retains the copyright of its author. Please cite the source accordingly.</i></center><br />
<br />
Rabbi Scott Corngold<br />
Temple Shaaray Tefila, New York, NY<br />
<br />
“Gibor”: A Sermon for Rosh HaShanah Morning 5762<br />
Tuesday, September 18, 2001<br />
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Last Wednesday evening, right after our community service here at the Temple, Howard Teach and Joel Marcus came up to Rabbi Stein. They asked him if he would help the people in their 85th Street apartment building do something, some kind of short prayer vigil for the guys at the firehouse next door, who lost nine of their men downtown. Rabbi Stein said of course, and invited me to come along. So I joined him and a gathering of neighbors, called together at an hour’s notice, at 10:15 on that sad night. <br />
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About a hundred people had assembled. On the sidewalk by the firehouse, folks were already starting to leave flowers and candles. Inside the garage, the names of nine men of Engine Company 22 and Ladder Company 13 remained on the outcall chalkboard, the ones who still haven’t reported back. Those names deserve to be mentioned here: Firefighter Martin McWilliams, confirmed dead. Captain Walter Hynes. Firefighter Thomas Casoria. Firefighter Michael Elferis. Firefighter Thomas Hetzel. Firefighter Vincent Kane. Firefighter Dennis McHugh. Firefighter Thomas Sabella. Firefighter Gregory Stajk. <br />
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The captain in charge Wednesday night called down the fellows on duty, and soon about fifteen or so appeared. And they sure looked like the kind of guys who could –-and would-- run up 110 floors of a burning building carrying 70 pounds of equipment. Their eyes were red, but they did their best to smile some appreciation. Rabbi Stein said a few words, which were very beautiful. We all sang “God Bless America.” And everyone offered them quiet applause of gratitude. But that didn’t seem enough. So people started calling out “Thank you,” softly; and that still didn’t seem enough. So everyone started going up to these brave, weeping men, thanking them one by one, shaking hands, hugging; then a lot of people started embracing one another. And of course, even that was hardly enough. But there was power and strength in that hugging, in the tears, in coming together --at least enough power to help us get to the end of that day.<br />
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I went back to the firehouse on Sunday, and the scene was very different. Those few bunches of flowers were now multiplied into a vast sidewalk memorial, surrounding the photographs of nine young and middle-aged men. Maybe you were there too; there were just hundreds of people stopping by or staying to help. Helping collect donations for the family fund that has been set up. Helping the firefighters we met on Wednesday move and sort all the goods and materials donated for the rescue efforts. And I asked the captain: “Are they going to be able to use all that stuff?” Well, don’t stop bringing those donations. The captain told me: “What they can’t use downtown, we’ll bring to the Armory and the Javitz Center. And what they can’t use there, we’ll give out here in the neighborhood --to the homeless shelters, the battered women’s shelter, the AIDS shelter.” <br />
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After awhile I left, and I was pretty overwhelmed, yet again. The idea that the firemen of these two companies, amidst everything else, with all they’ve already given, with all they’ve lost, were spearheading a food and clothing drive to help the community. And I wish I had something more profound and eloquent than a cliché, but these guys are just such heroes.<br />
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In a week of tears, we’ve probably all cried many in gratitude, in awe, of the kind of heroism that has been displayed. And tears in grief over the amount of honor and decency and bravery that we lost when we lost all these five thousand people. I don’t have to tell you the stories; they’ve been the consolation for an inconsolable city and country and world. The ones who ran up into the buildings to save lives; the ones aiding those on the ground as the debris fell; the ones who overcame the hijackers on Flight 93 and took the plane down, saving us all from who knows what other tragedy; the ones in the planes and the buildings who made the calls to let family members hear a last tender word; the ones who must have been helping their friends and coworkers and total strangers in their final moments.<br />
<br />
But then again, this experience has simply shown us what has always been true about the magnificent possibilities of courage and of love, just never tested in quite this awful way.<br />
<br />
Many generations face hard tests. We’ve looked back with respect, honor, disbelief at the feats and heroism of those of the past. There’s even a wistfulness and nostalgia: look at the due paid in recent years to the World War II experience and what Tom Brokaw has called “The Greatest Generation.” Well, haven’t we now seen, if we hadn’t known it before, the greatness in this generation? And it is a greatness that we can measure without the obscuring haze of the past that turns events into myths and people into titans. On the contrary, here, in this great generation of ours, we have heroes like a mayor, for instance, whose flaws are no secret to any New Yorker, but who rises so extraordinarily to the occasion when we need extraordinary behavior most, to be better than we could have ever hoped him to be. “Sometimes,” observed a former mayor and adversary, Ed Koch, last week, “a flawed individual can do great things that make those flaws pale in significance.”<br />
<br />
I’m not sure if it takes a Jew to recognize that, but it is certainly something that Jewish tradition has always taught. Judaism has never pretended that most people are not deeply flawed. That’s surely what this annual appointment with God over the High HolyDays acknowledges. But our tradition teaches that our very imperfect selves can do good acts, heroic acts, redeeming acts. And in the end it is those deeds that matter most. In a literal sense they define who we are and what we can become. <br />
<br />
Hebrew conveys this in the very grammar of the language: take the word “gibor.” Gibor --it is an adjective: strong, courageous, brave. And it is also a noun: hero. To do a courageous act, to be brave, is to be a hero. If you are gibor, you are a gibor. And that is what this week has taught us too, how great and simple acts have made heroes. It has shown us what real heroism is, in its breathtaking and tragic manifest forms, and, if we can listen through the noise, in its hushed expressions as well. Go out walking in the streets of this city and you’ll see them to your right and left, and right here in this room. All the heroes, all the quiet heroic deeds that are getting us through this chaos, and that make this generation a great one. Think about it. <br />
<br />
I think a man who has lost a best friend, or maybe the friend of a friend, and funnels his grief into raising funds for families and for rescue efforts is a hero.<br />
<br />
I think a woman who, along with the exhaustion of her regular job, volunteers her skills as a psychologist to be a counselor at the Family Assistance Center is a hero. <br />
<br />
I think it is heroic to be a schoolteacher, as scared and upset as the rest of us, who projects calm and normalcy to ease a classroom of children. <br />
<br />
I think it is heroic to be a worker in dozens of different professions and vocations trudging on to do the unglamorous, unrewarded jobs that keep this city running in the middle of a crisis.<br />
<br />
I think it is heroic to be a teenager overwhelmed with the same unanswerable questions we all have, but still willing and able to lead a congregation of young people in prayer during a youth group High HolyDay service.<br />
<br />
I think it is heroic to return to downtown, to get back on planes, to come to synagogue -–to show our children, our community, ourselves, and any haters who think they have won some kind of victory—- that we will not be made afraid.<br />
<br />
And I think it is so heroic to be a woman who will come to a community service and call her missing husband’s name out, and who will brave television cameras in her darkest time to give the human face to what has been lost when we say “5,000.” <br />
<br />
And I hope that kind of heroism fortifies all of us in the hard days ahead, as we keep trying to grasp that, as poet Maya Angelou put it last Friday, “5,000 is five thousand ones.”<br />
<br />
Gibor -–brave, courageous, strong: a hero. But there is another Hebrew word too, another Hebrew phrase. A phrase that teaches us the source of courage that sustains and fortifies us. The word is “hazak.” It also means strong, firm. The phrase is a phrase we say in synagogue, sometimes when a bar or bat mitzvah is called to the Torah, all the time when we finish reading a book of the Torah. The sheliach tzibur, the service leader, calls out these words to the congregation: “Hazak Hazak, v’nithazak!” –“Be strong, be strong, and from that we will all be strengthened!” And the congregation calls those words back: “Hazak Hazak, v’nithazak!” A dozen or a hundred or a thousand “ones” whose individual voices, whose strength strengthens one another, fusing us together to make a mighty, maybe even heroic force. That is why we are stronger when we are not alone. That is why there can be such power when we come together in synagogue --or churches, or mosques, or outside firehouses, or in Union Square. It is why New York City, where so many have come together, is the greatest city of our great generation. It is why this is a great country. It is why good, heroic people around the world together will find strength from one another across the borders and cultures, struggling together to vanquish hate. <br />
<br />
“Be strong, be strong and we will all be strengthened!” Please call it out after I do: “Hazak Hazak, v’nithazak!” In the balcony, together: “Hazak Hazak, v’nithazak!” In the sanctuary, together: “Hazak Hazak, v’nithazak!” Be strong, be strong …and, please God, may it be Your Will, we will all be strengthened.<br />
<br />
Ken y’hi ratzon.Rabbi Jason Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07805550465729805847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5161353548990038297.post-36404349498849627682001-09-17T09:50:00.000-04:002011-09-07T21:38:53.332-04:00Rabbi Menachem Creditor<center><i>The following sermon was delivered during the 2001 Jewish High Holiday season following the tragic events of September 11, 2001. It has been included on the <b>Torah From Terror</b> website as a resource and retains the copyright of its author. Please cite the source accordingly.</i></center><br />
<br />
Rosh HaShannah 5762/2001 - First Day <br />
Menachem Creditor<br />
Universal Donors<br />
<br />
There are no words to describe the feelings we’re all having right now. I wanted to start with that- because finding any words to say today was next to impossible. Here are the thoughts that went through my mind:<br />
<br />
Where is God right now? <br />
What was God doing when those planes killed all those poor people?<br />
What am I doing in shul?<br />
Do I mean any of the words I’m saying? Shouldn’t I be doing something?<br />
<br />
I should tell you that I spoke with a friend of mine who is going to be ordained as a cantor this year. She said to me this past Wednesday, “Sometimes I really envy you rabbis- at least you have words to say.”<br />
<br />
I didn’t respond to her with the words that came to mind. I wanted to say to her, “I wish I could be a cantor instead- I wouldn’t have to struggle to find those words.”<br />
***************<br />
<br />
I remember a Yizkor sermon I gave two years ago, using the themes of the movie Saving Private Ryan. I taught a mishna from the tractate Sanhedrin that I found appropriate. I wish it weren’t appropriate again:<br />
<br />
For this reason was one human being created: to teach you that one who destroys a single soul, scripture blames them as though they had destroyed an entire world; and whosoever preserves a single soul, scripture credits them as though they had preserved a complete world.<br />
<br />
These horrible people did not just murder the souls of those whose names are coming to be known- they destroyed the worlds those people, zichronam livracha-may their memories be blessed, would have created.<br />
<br />
The mishna ends with this sentence:<br />
And therefore every single person is obliged to say: the world was created for my sake.<br />
<br />
This world that we live in is fragile. A lot more fragile than we thought. But we have to remember that it is ours. Those incredible heroes in the search and rescue squads are living this mishna- they are taking responsibility for their world. And making order out of the chaos, starting at ground zero.<br />
<br />
I’ve thought non-stop about what to say to us in this drash, and I’ve chosen to honor those who have died with my words this morning- I had a message to deliver, and though changed forever, I’m going to share it. <br />
<br />
We are going to rebuild, to quote Mayor Guilianni, and we will be stronger than before. <br />
<br />
There’s a midrash that the letters of the Aleph-Bet were the blueprint that God used to build this world. We are going to do that same thing- letter by letter, brick by brick, we will take back this world and fix it. Kein Yehi Ratzon, May that be God’s will.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">*******************************</div><br />
I am O+ type blood. A universal donor, some would say. Though the Red Cross blood drive closed their doors from masses of potential donors, the repeated call for O+ and O- blood was their closing request for the next day. There is something that I can contribute that can help.<br />
<br />
That’s, by the way, the hardest thing for all of us, I think. The fact that we desperately want to do something to help, but we can’t. It’s like the idea of Teshuva, repentance- the fact that the wrong has been committed means that no other act can bring it back. Our actions cannot erase the actions of the past.<br />
<br />
But I keep thinking to myself, I am O+ type blood. A universal donor! There must be something can do!<br />
<br />
So I went Wednesday afternoon to the Red Cross building at 66th St. and Amsterdam and volunteered my time as a volunteer chaplain in the Spiritual Response Team for anyone who might need care- but it occurs to me that perhaps the only reason they had such a team was in order to let all of us clergy, who are dedicating our lives to be there for people in need, - we need to be there, as part of the team. We recognize, like the mishna says, that the world, created with one person alone, is ours to heal.<br />
<br />
But it still feels surreal. The only comfort I feel lies in the fact that there are countless numbers of people volunteering their energy, their resources, their blood, and their souls in order to fix this recently damaged world.<br />
<br />
So what kind of help can we really contribute? I was told by the Red Cross, that the real help we can give is funds and blood- next week. I was told not to stop my efforts with this week. The countless numbers of people who showed up to give and give and give wouldn’t be there forever.<br />
<br />
You can donate toiletries, clothing, money, blood, toys, love, your skills, your counseling abilities- there is a universe of ways to help.<br />
<br />
Pirkei Avot says, You are not obligated to finish the work, but you’re also not allowed to walk away from it. <br />
<br />
I’m going to make a suggestion from the bimah which might be unexpected. But I’m going to make it anyway. I’ll introduce it with a text from the Talmud.- And keep in mind that the holiest day of the year is Shabbat, not Rosh HaShannah.<br />
<br />
Our Rabbis taught: One must remove debris to save a life on the Sabbath, and the more eager one is, the more praiseworthy is one; and one need not obtain permission from the Jewish court. <br />
<br />
How is this so? If you see a child falling into the sea, spreads a net and bring it up! — The faster the better, and you don’t need to obtain permission from the Jewish court even though you are thereby catching fish [on Shabbat]. <br />
<br />
If you see a child fall into a pit, break loose one segment [of the entrenchment] and pull it up — the faster the better; and you don’t need to obtain permission from the Jewish court even though you are thereby building a step [on Shabbat].<br />
<br />
Now all these cases must be mentioned separately [in order to teach us that any effort which helps improve the situation is permitted, because the saving of life is the ultimate observance of Shabbat]. (Bavli, Yoma 84b)<br />
<br />
So here’s the suggestion: Since we need a parallel service on the first day, and not the second day, I think it’s a safe assumption that many people in this Social Hall today will not be here tomorrow. <br />
<br />
Now, while I think shul is an important place to be, we’ve just learned an important text from the talmud that enables me to say this: Donate something of yourself tomorrow.<br />
<br />
• If you’re not going to be here, give blood tomorrow, on Rosh HaShannah.<br />
• If you’re not going to be here, call 1-800-HELP-NOW, and donate money tomorrow, on Rosh HaShannah.<br />
• If you’re not here, daven spontaneously wherever you are to ask God to support the rescue operations going on tomorrow, on Rosh HaShannah.<br />
<br />
-And do the same the day after. And the day after.<br />
<br />
Remember that mishna that we learned before, the one about the world being created for you as an individual? Rav Nachman of Bratslav, a noted Chassdic rabbi, had the following expansion of the text.<br />
<br />
Every person must say, “The entire world was created for my sake.” Because if they say that, they’ll think to themselves, “If the world was created for me, I’ve got to look around and concern myself as much as I can with fixing the world. I should fill in the gaps in the world, and pray for anyone who needs help.”<br />
<br />
In the name of Rav Nachman, I’m begging any of you who will not be here tomorrow to make the day a day of Tikkun HaOlam, fixing the world. And if you are going to be here tomorrow, noch besser! Fix the world the day after!<br />
<br />
These past days have taught us that the world is a fragile place, and that the deep goodness of people just waits for a need to come out.<br />
<br />
Please- don’t wait for the need to be as great as it is today. Use all of your ability to fill in the gaps that are there.<br />
<br />
We are all universal donors- it’s our universe. And while I deeply wonder what God could possibly doing right now, I’m sure that God is wondering what I’m doing too. <br />
<br />
I’m keeping my remarks short, because I think that today isn’t about listening to a rabbi. It’s about listening to each other and being a supportive community. But I want to reinforce one point: we are Jews, and our responsibility as Jews is to act. <br />
<br />
Every life that we sustain is n entire world. And every chance we miss to sustain a life is just as serious.<br />
<br />
Call the Red Cross and donate blood and money. Find the fund for the families of the rescue workers that were caught in between the towers who did not have insurance.<br />
<br />
I’m going to close with the same prayer tomorrow, because I place no other wish as high as this:<br />
It’s Rosh HaShannah- a time for beginnings. This Rosh HaShannah is going to be a very different kind of beginning- and it is certainly going to be a new world that we see.<br />
Please God, may it be a world where we have each other. -Amen.Rabbi Jason Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07805550465729805847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5161353548990038297.post-1932006242709553902001-09-17T09:49:00.000-04:002011-09-06T00:22:04.094-04:00Rabbi Geoffrey Dennis<center><i>The following sermon was delivered during the 2001 Jewish High Holiday season following the tragic events of September 11, 2001. It has been included on the <b>Torah From Terror</b> website as a resource and retains the copyright of its author. Please cite the source accordingly.</i></center><br />
<br />
Rabbi Geoffrey Dennis<br />
Congregation Kol Ami<br />
Flower Mound, TX <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
And after the fire, a small still voice (I Kings 19)<br />
<br />
The German Philosopher Ludwig Wittenstein declared, “The limits of my language are the limits of my world.” So what are we to make of something that leaves us speechless? Something so incomprehensible, so alien, that words fail us? Such an otherworldly event seems to have overtaken America on Tuesday when, in coordinated attacks, suicide terrorists destroyed the World Trade Center, damaged the Pentagon, crashed airplanes filled with travelers, and massacred as yet untold numbers of innocent people. And to add to the horror (is it possible at this point?) is to realize how the killers actually used, not only themselves, but also many of their victims as weapons to kill others. It seems otherworldly in its evil, truly diabolical in the root sense of the word – the work of demonic forces.<br />
<br />
On reflection, However, these actions are all too human. When my wife said to me, “It’s like something out of a Schwarzenegger movie,” I was shaken out my dumb horror. Of course, as Hollywood shows us in movie after movie, human imagination can conjure up such a plan, and human ingenuity can make it real. The sobering truth is, infernal fires burn brightest in the human heart. Alas, poor humanity.<br />
<br />
This truth is never far from the minds of Jews. We have known, have witnessed, and as often as not, have suffered by such humanly diabolical invention throughout the millennia of our history. Already 2500 years ago Isaiah was wise to observe, “The human heart conceives evil from its youth.” The savage suddenness and arbitrary cruelty of the terror attack that leaves we Americans fresh with horror is, sadly, a dread the People Israel have known for too long.<br />
<br />
But then, in the midst of the cruelty, the chaos, the blood and fire, we are starting to hear other stories. These too are stories of self-sacrifice. But instead of suicide in the name of mass murder, these emerging stories are about self-sacrifice in the cause of life. Already we know that perhaps hundreds of New York firefighters died in the heroic effort to save and help the victims of the WTC attacks. No doubt other harrowing stories of courage and altruism on behalf of the victims will become known. Clearly this tragedy reveals there are many who have hearkened to Ezekiel’s call to replace their hearts of stone with hearts of flesh, hearts that responded in a moment of crisis to the suffering of others with the last full measure of love and devotion. If there is any comfort to be found in this tragedy, no doubt it will be found in such examples.<br />
<br />
But for now we are far from the possibility of comfort. So let us instead mobilize our other Godly capacities. The Bible calls upon us to “walk in God’s ways.” How may we do this? Just as God is compassionate, let us act with compassion. Just as God lifts up the fallen, let us too lift up the fallen. And just as God keeps faith with all who sleep in the dust, let us keep faith with all those who died Tuesday; seeking justice on their behalf, offering support to their families, and comfort to all those who have suffered. May the small still voice of conscious and caring be heard in the aftermath of this fiery horror. May the voice of God stay with us long after the burning pain and passion of this moment starts to recede.Rabbi Jason Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07805550465729805847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5161353548990038297.post-71719275200543268212001-09-17T09:48:00.000-04:002011-09-08T16:40:43.129-04:00Rabbi James Diamond<center><i>The following sermon was delivered during the 2001 Jewish High Holiday season following the tragic events of September 11, 2001. It has been included on the <b>Torah From Terror</b> website as a resource and retains the copyright of its author. Please cite the source accordingly.</i></center><br />
<br />
Rabbi James Diamond<br />
<br />
Sermon – Rosh Hashanah<br />
<br />
5762 (2001)<br />
<br />
We are gathered here on this Rosh Hashanah morning, exactly one week after that day of terror, destruction, and death, and we are still numb. The disconnect between the brazenness, the violence, the evil, of September 11th and the vision of humanity the Machzor holds up to us today, is so great as to mock those words and give them something of a hollow ring.<br />
<br />
Our mood this morning is exactly captured in the opening words of Shakespeare’s “King Henry the Fourth – Part 1”:<br />
<br />
“So shaken as we are, so wan with care<br />
Find we a time for frighted peace to pant<br />
And breathe short-winded accents of new broils<br />
To be commenced in strands afar remote.<br />
No more the thirsty entrance of this soil<br />
Shall daub her lips with her own children’s blood.”<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
What can we say as we look back and try to go forward. What lessons are there for us to ponder on this Rosh Hashanah morning? What must we bear in mind at this time of judgment and self-examination of ourselves and our society? Do we know?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I hope it is not presumptuous of me or glib to try to suggest a few things. In this regard I can identify with the opening sentences of the Jewish ethical classic Mesillat Yesharim. Mesillat Yesharim, or The Path of the Upright, written by the great Italian Kabbalist Moshe Hayyim Luzatto around 1739, is among the classic texts that lay out what is involved in living an ethical and saintly life from a Torah perspective. Luzzatto begins the Mesillat Yesharim with these words:<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
“I have not written this book to teach the reader anything new.<br />
Rather it is my aim to direct his attention to certain well known<br />
and generally accepted truths, for the very fact that they are well<br />
known and generally accepted is the cause of their being overlooked.”<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
It is in this spirit that I offer the following remarks: not to teach anything new but to remind us of some truths that we all know but which we must articulate again and keep before us at this trying time and in the days to come. The events of last Tuesday have altered the face of reality for some of us - confirmed it for others - and I think we also are about to change the way we go about our lives as Americans. But the truths I wish to hold up here today, truths distilled from both our experience as Jews in this world and from our timeless Torah, these truths are inviolate, foundational, and as relevant to our emotional, social, and moral welfare now as they were when they were developed by our forbears.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Some years ago, after a bombing in Jerusalem, the late lamented Israeli poet Yehudah Amichai wrote the following lines. I read them last year just after last Rosh Hashanah, when we held a memorial for him on campus, and I read them today:<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
“The Diameter of the Bomb”<br />
<br />
“The diameter of the bomb was thirty centimeters<br />
and the diameter of its effective range about seven meters,<br />
with four dead and eleven wounded.<br />
And around these, in a larger circle<br />
of pain and time, two hospitals are scattered<br />
and one graveyard. But the young woman<br />
who was buried in the city she came from,<br />
at a distance of more than a hundred kilometers,<br />
enlarges the circle considerably,<br />
and the solitary man mourning her death<br />
at the distant shores of a country far across the sea<br />
includes the entire world in a circle.<br />
And I won’t even mention the howl of orphans<br />
that reaches up to the throne of God and<br />
beyond, making<br />
a circle with no end and no God.<br />
<br />
<br />
New York City and Washington are much larger than Jerusalem. The physical diameter of destruction is much, much greater. There are many more than four dead and eleven wounded – many more. There are many more than two hospitals and one graveyard involved. But the degrees of separation in New York City and Washington are greater than Jerusalem only in number, not in substance. The Amichai poem points to the first of the root ideas the events of last week have shown, again: that we are, all of us, connected to each other. Profoundly connected.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Now here’s another one. We must remind ourselves that in spite of all its ugliness and evil, this is a good and beautiful world. I could cite the familiar words of Anne Frank but I’d rather go back to Genesis and recall the phrase repeated many times in the first Creation story: “And God saw that it was good.” Over and over again, God saw that this world is good. And beautiful. Go outside in the very early morning, as the sun is rising and the world is quiet, and look around and savor the beauty. Recall how gorgeous the blue planet, this ball we live on, looks from space. If it weren’t Rosh Hashanah I’d play a tape of Louis Armstrong singing “What a Wonderful World.” So that’s a second we should hold on to.<br />
<br />
Thirdly, let us not, as we contemplate the enormity of the evil and see that it was done by apparently sane, normal, regular people intentionally, let us not yield to despair and lose our faith in the human being. We already have the teaching of the psychiatrist Viktor Frankl, who survived the death camps and emerged from them to write not long afterwards:<br />
<br />
“Our generation is realistic, for we have come to know man as he really is. After all, man is that being who invented the gas chambers of Auschwitz; however, he is also that being who entered those gas chambers upright, with the Lord’s Prayer or the Shema Yisrael on his lips.”<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
One of the very first things a Jew who prays says in the morning, when he or she opens the Siddur, are these words: “O Lord, the soul who you have given me is pure. You created it. You fashioned it. You breathed it into me.” Let us remember that on the sixth day of creation, when man had been created, God looked at the world and this time pronounced – “behold it was very good.” Just look at the kindness and love that have poured forth from all quarters in the wake of the catastrophe. If it weren’t Rosh Hashanah I’d play a tape of Aaron Copland’s magnificent “Fanfare for the Common Man.” So principle #3: let us re-affirm the human being and the grandeur of which we are capable as the obverse of the depravity of which we are also capable.<br />
<br />
I come now to a fourth thing in which we must not lose faith: this country and what it stands for. As Americans we suddenly feel vulnerable, off balance. We have been attacked. Damage has been done not only to buildings of significance real and symbolic but to our psyches individual and collective. In this climate, at this fateful time, it is crucial that we not yield to doubt and uncertainty about our collective enterprise on these shores and the values on which it rests. I intend no jingoism when I say this nor am I holding a brief for those who call for national breast-beating for sins that they say stain our national life and character.<br />
<br />
Let me read you something the great American writer Philip Roth wrote over 40 years ago, where he captures the rudiments of what I’m pointing to. In his early story “Eli the Fanatic” he describes a night-time drive the main protagonist Eli Peck takes though the suburb of Woodenton.<br />
<br />
“Square cool windows, apricot colored, were all one could see beyond the long lawns that fronted the homes of the townsmen. The stars polished the permanent baggage carriers atop the station wagons in the driveways. [This was before SUVs.] He drove slowly, up, down, around. Only his tires could be heard taking the gentle curves in the road.<br />
<br />
What peace . What incredible peace. Have children ever been so safe in their beds? Parents – Eli wondered – so full in their stomachs? Water so warm in its boilers? Never. Never in Rome, never in Greece. Never even did walled cities have it so good. … Here, after all, were peace and safety –what civilization had been working toward for centuries. … It was what his parents had asked for in the Bronx, and his grandparents inPoland, and theirs in Russia or Austria, or wherever else they’d fled to or from. And now they had it – the world was at last a place for families, even Jewish families. …” <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Sounds a lot like Princeton, doesn’t it? Roth is, of course, being sarcastic in this riff, and I’m sure you hear his social critique. The story in which this passage is imbedded is about how a group of middle class Jews, more or less assimilated ones, resist the attempt by some Orthodox survivors of the Holocaust to move in to Woodenton and set up their Yeshiva there. You could easily transpose it into the key of non-Jewish whites resisting people who are black in their skin color not in their garb, or Hispanics or what have you. The passage reminds us that the vision of America, the American dream, is still very much unrealized, impugned and diminished by privatism and self-centeredness. We talk too much of rights and too little of responsibilities.<br />
<br />
But at the same time I think that Philip Roth, in his prescient way, puts his finger on something even more important. He grasps in an implicit way that, powerful as America is, there is something fragile about this country, fragile and maybe even illusory. It is fragile and maybe illusory because it is new and unprecedented. Only 225 years old, which makes America a relative newcomer to the age-old attempts of human beings to organize their life in common. America may be an illusion and it may, in the fullness of time, turn out to be temporary, but right now it’s very real. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Friends, at this defining moment in our national history, let us remind ourselves that America is an ongoing 225 year old experiment, a grand experiment, in human self-government, and 225 years is not a long time in human history. The experiment is still evolving, unfinished, as I’ve said. But can we not say that the results so far, while not perfect or conclusive, are encouraging? As Jews we should know this, for in our long history we have never lived in a society quite like this one, as citizens of a superpower whose national life rests so exclusively on the principles of the Enlightenment. <br />
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There’s a lot at stake in the American experiment. Not only for us as Jews but for the whole human enterprise on this planet. That is in part why we and many nations are so shaken up today, why we feel violated. Because the experiment has been attacked and shown to be vulnerable. <br />
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We need, then, at this time to shore up in ourselves a renewed awareness of the nobility and the glory of the vision that underlies these United States of America as embodied in the Constitution and the Bill of Rights. We need to know what is at stake here. We need to be as resolute in our cause now as our forbears were a generation or two ago against Hitler. Think of the blood they shed on the beaches of Normandy and the Pacific and elsewhere so you and I could sit here today.<br />
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And as we do so let us keep in mind the core ideas and postulates I have called up here today:<br />
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- that humanity is a family name and we are all inter-connected<br />
- that we inhabit a good and beautiful world<br />
- that we are all inherently good<br />
- that this country is a precious experiment, on the ongoing success of which a lot is riding<br />
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None of these principles is new. We know them from Jewish tradition and from Jewish experience. We know them from the decisive historical fact that we faced Hitler, we fought him, defeated him –we can never over-estimate that achievement - and we survived. And we must do so now against whoever who conceived and paid for and executed the uncivilized carnage of September 11th. <br />
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This being so let us take to heart these words from the song of the partisans, those who took to the forests of Europe to resist Hitler, these words of Hirsh Glick, that stand for me as one of the great utterances of the Jewish, indeed of the human spirit. If it weren’t Rosh Hashanah I’d play a tape of it: <br />
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“Zog nit keynmol ‘az du geyst dem letzten veg”<br />
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“Never say that you now walk the final way<br />
When leaden skies obscure the bright blue light of day.<br />
For soon the hour we have yearned for will appear,<br />
And a drumbeat will proclaim that we are here!”<br />
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We are here. We survived Hitler. We will survive this. We must!Rabbi Jason Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07805550465729805847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5161353548990038297.post-75968011413531633162001-09-17T09:47:00.001-04:002011-09-07T14:47:29.704-04:00Rabbi Fred S. Dobb<center><i>The following sermon was delivered during the 2001 Jewish High Holiday season following the tragic events of September 11, 2001. It has been included on the <b>Torah From Terror</b> website as a resource and retains the copyright of its author. Please cite the source accordingly.</i></center><br />
<br />
Rabbi Fred Scherlinder Dobb<br />
Adat Shalom Reconstructionist Congregation - Bethesda, Maryland<br />
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Response to Tragedy – Nine / One One<br />
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One week ago this morning, our world was shattered. <br />
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Like rabbis everywhere, I knew there could be no avoiding that fact at this moment. To talk about anything else, after all we’ve been through, would be idle chatter. Yet to talk about it involves the chutzpadik presumption that I have something to say, deeper than what we’ve been hearing for so many hours a day from the media’s best minds, deeper than what some of us have shared in our many gatherings this past week. The opening words of the cantor’s prayer Hin’ni he’oni mi’ma’as, which Rachel offers so beautifully and so humbly before the heavy moment of the Yom Kippur musaf, come to mind: “Here I am, meager of deeds, in turmoil, and afflicted with such fear…” <br />
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I don’t want to expend many words on saying “there are no words to describe what has happened, or how we feel…” – though please hold onto that caveat throughout my remarks. I’ll begin instead with a brief mention of the sermon that, until last week, I would’ve given. It was going to deal with issues of identity and assimilation, based, in part, on observations from my belated honeymoon to Italy this summer. The sermon was called, “When in Rome.” A few days ago my wife, Minna, pointed out a random, painful link to the-now scrapped title: a news brief reporting that, quote, “American Airlines uniforms and a pilot's key card -- which grants access to any American Airlines facility in the world -- were taken from a hotel in Rome, Italy, earlier this year…” One of many ironies. <br />
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Yet the parallels between the sermon I would have given, and the one I am giving, run deeper. Two millennia ago, Rome was the undisputed super-power of the Western world. For hundreds of years Rome enjoyed security, freedom, even democracy (to a point). While slaves and workers toiled, its empowered classes lived lives not unlike ours: they visited spas, discussed philosophy, enjoyed the fine arts, created and exploited the latest technologies. No need to learn languages other than theirs, even when traveling -- everyone speaks Latin, don’t they?! They were safe … secure … on top of the world. <br />
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And then, Visigoths sacked the capital.<br />
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Chas v’shalom – God forbid! – that theirs should become our fate. There are, of course, differences: Our society doesn’t have gladiators (though we do have professional sports). We don’t drink our water from lead pipes (though lead poisoning still affects millions of children). We certainly don’t oppress Christians (despite Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson’s odious assertion to the contrary). Still, there is one great parallel, from which we must learn: whatever nation has hegemony – economic or cultural hegemony, not just political or military – will have detractors on all sides, trying to tear down what that nation has built up. Modern-day-Visigoths have just proved the point.<br />
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I am not here to prognosticate: others are doing that, 24/7, with greater eloquence and erudition. And were I to try, you know what I’d say – yes, the Visigoths will be back; yes, we must defend ourselves, even peremptorily; yes, we shouldn’t become a fortress state at the expense of the civil liberties so dear to our national identity; yes, it’s a tightrope… So instead of speculation, today I shall try to frame what has happened through the lens of our tradition and its rich resources – for only then am I on solid footing.<br />
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The Unetaneh Tokef prayer, in all its power and horror, embodies the central myth of these Days of Awe: “this day is awesome, and full of dread… [for on it], all who enter the world pass before you like sheep for the shepherd… You number, and count, and determine their life, one-by-one… B’Rosh Hashana yikateivun, uv’Yom tzom Kippur yekhateimun. On RH it is written; on YK it is sealed: Mi yichyeh u’mi yamut – who shall live and who shall die.” What follows is a painful catalog of how those who die shall die: “who at their natural end, and who before their time. Who by fire, and who by water. Who by sword, and who by beast ...” Then, a catalog of how those who survive shall live: “who in peace, and who uprooted. Who in quiet, and who torn apart…”<br />
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The Hassidic master Reb Levi Yitzchak of Berditschev comes to mind. Amidst the pogroms of the late 1700’s, he gave a drash on why the Torah calls the Day of Repentance Yom Hakippurim, in the plural: because repentance must go in both directions. And that Yom Kippur, he thundered against God from the pulpit, saying: “Today is Judgment Day. Today all Your creatures stand before You so that You may pass sentence. But I, Levi-Yitzhak son of Sarah of Berditchev, I proclaim that it is YOU who shall be judged today! You who separate babies from their mothers, You will be judged by Your children who suffer for You, who die for You, and Your law, and Your promise.” (adapted from Elie Wiesel’s Souls on Fire p. 110)<br />
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On this Rosh Hashanah, we share the Berditschever’s indignation. Unetaneh tokef, like so many of our prayers today, sits uneasily inside us. As Rabbi Deborah Waxman so beautifully told us earlier this morning, we must accept the anger, pain, anxiety and loss that we have all felt in the past week – some of us tragically more so than others – before we can go on with our prayers. Yet go on we must. The story ends with a resigned Levi Yitzchak saying, “but I am only dust and ashes; You are the Creator of heaven and earth. And so I pray…”<br />
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That worked for the Berditschever and his shul, 200 years ago. We, however, need more – we need to call a millennia-old bluff. The Holy One does not write our fate in some supernal register on RH, and seal it on YK. People invented that metaphor, to scare ourselves into doing the work of tshuvah, of introspection and change. It worked so well that over the generations, many of us internalized it. Today, we refuse. Save for the hijackers, there is no correlation here between sinning, and dying in a Pennsylvania cornfield, the Pentagon, lower Manhattan. None. Thanks, God, but this week, we don’t need some errant and dangerous theology in order to appreciate our own vulnerability. Life itself has conveyed the message.<br />
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[pause] Still, our tradition and its metaphors -- however challenging -- offer powerful ways to understand this tragedy, and to begin to deal with it.<br />
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In years past, I’ve noted that if you haven’t completed your teshuvah, your repentance, by the close of next week’s Ne’ilah prayer, the tradition offers you an ‘automatic extension’ through Simchat Torah. That ‘grace period’ is marked by the festival of Sukkot, in which we are commanded to live in feeble structures, to remind us of our time in the wilderness. What better symbol of vulnerability is there than this temporary structure, the sukkah, exposed to the elements? As Rabbi Arthur Waskow wrote in an email, this week’s events have shown that we all live in Sukkot, all the time.<br />
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The images played over and over and over again on our televisions and in our minds’ eye -- now seared into our collective memory -- have brought home the fragility of our existence. Safety is an illusion. Wealth, power, prestige, uniforms, first class reclining seats, sweeping views from a corner suite – this week, none of these things helped. The human condition is vulnerable.<br />
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Within this frightening awareness, however, we may find a ray of insight. When you live with a sense of vulnerability, you know not to take life for granted. Loving life and the gifts it gives us, and knowing how easily they are lost, are sides of the same coin. One does not come without the other. We who have ever flown from here to the West Coast, or set foot inside the WTC, or worked for the government, or simply been American – we are now all survivors of a close call. Let us learn from the harrowing narrowness of our escape to appreciate ever more the gifts that are ours – to count our blessings.<br />
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The same prayer that so enraged the Berditschever Rebbe can now help us. Three things can avert the severe decree, we’re told at the end of Unetaneh Tokef -- Teshuvah, tefillah, and tzedakah; turning or repentance, prayer, and charity or justice. There’s no guarantee that these will change the decree, of course -- nor that there’s a decree to change, at least for us as individuals. These actions are not magic – but they do help us, despite our vulnerability, to take control over what we can. What could be more important, in the face of fragility and tragedy, than to recommit ourselves to making the world a better, safer place? Tshuvah makes us think about who we are, and how we’re doing, and exhorts us to improve. Tefilliah gives us space in which to reflect on issues of ultimate importance. And Tzedakah actually changes the world, directly, bit by bit. So perhaps Unetaneh Tokef is telling us that though we can’t always save ourselves, incrementally it is the world that we save, with everything we do in with the limited time bequeathed to us.<br />
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We have all heard by now of the courageous acts of the passengers on United Flight 93, who it turns out were bequeathed just one precious hour. In frantic cell phone calls to loved ones, at least four people – two of whom, a gay Mormon man and a committed Jew, were friends of colleagues – learned of the hijackers’ intent. They decided among themselves, with the agreement of the other innocent, frightened travelers on board, to avert death. Not their own – that, they knew, was largely beyond their control – but that of countless souls already in the hijackers’ sights. Mark Bingham and Jeremy Glick and the others certainly didn’t know that the plane may well have been shot down had it continued on – a fact which in no way diminishes what they did, or the impact they had on the world. Their tale of heroism has been, and will remain, a glimmer of hope, a glimpse of humanity at its best, in this very dark time.<br />
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There’s a concept in Judaism called Kiddush Hashem, the sanctification of God’s name. For much of the past 2000 years, this term has been used to describe the act of martyrdom – which in many ways applies here, to the passengers of Flight 93. But Kiddush Hashem, the sanctification of God’s name, is also about bringing God’s presence into the world. It is the only antitode to its opposite, Chilul Hashem – the desecration, or hollowing out, of God’s name. Just when God’s name and presence were being hollowed out by monstrous acts of violence, the passengers of Flight 93 — and firefighters, and rescue workers, and ordinary men and women who helped their colleagues while risking, and even losing, their own lives — were surely engaging in Kiddush Hashem.<br />
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It is up to us, in the wake of this tragedy, to follow their model, to do what we can, and to be models ourselves. <br />
But how? Two suggestions I will elaborate on: One, we can push, even beyond our comfort zone, to help others. And two, we can ensure this help reaching all others, by breaking down boundaries of distrust between people.<br />
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A fellow Reconstructionist rabbi whose congregation was hit hard, Dan Ehrenkrantz in Montclair NJ, offered this in an email message this week: “The purpose of terrorism is to make us terrified – to cause us to live with fear, and to make decisions from a place of fear. While we must take reasonable precautions in the face of threats, and perhaps alter our lifestyles to increase our safety, we must resist making our decisions and living our lives from a place of fear. We can deny the terrorists that victory.” <br />
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There’s a personal piece to this teaching: we cannot cower in a corner, afraid to live our own lives – though as Beth Sperber Ritchie reminded us on Saturday, fear is a normal part of the post-traumatic stress we now share. There’s also a national angle: witness the revolting attacks committed against Arab-Americans and their mosques and businesses in Philadelphia, Chicago, Texas and elsewhere. Obviously, we condemn such acts of violence against fellow Americans. But how do not let fear take over, when discussing the difference between racial profiling and terrorist profiling? When getting into a cab with an Arab or Muslim driver? When accepting or even using phrases like “the Arab mind,” that we would not tolerate being used about us or other peoples?<br />
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This is a challenge we must meet. Shortly after Pearl Harbor, Eleanor Roosevelt, in an “anti-scapegoating campaign,” had her picture taken with Japanese Americans. The next day a major California newspaper editorial called for her “resignation” (!), as “a lover of that fetid race.” Sad to say, jingoism is no less a part of American culture than such positive things as coming together in times of crisis – better to err on the side of fighting it more than some think necessary, rather than risk letting it fester, and grow into something beyond control.<br />
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I was reminded of another challenge by a 12-year-old member of our congregation, Shoshana Gurian-Sherman, during a Torah school discussion this Sunday morning. She expressed concern about – and I believe I’m quoting here – “this ‘my country right or wrong mentality’ that’s everywhere. It doesn’t feel OK to say anything else. As awful as this week was – and it was – that many people are dying all the time of poverty, hunger, etc.” She’s right: patriotism is important at a moment like this, but blind patriotism never is. The complete moral bankruptcy of other nations and peoples offers context for, but should not blind us to, our own shortcomings. <br />
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Shoshana was speaking in good Jewish fashion. During the life of the prophet Amos, in the 8th century BCE, five-sixths of the Jewish people – those in the Northern kingdom of Israel – were all but annihilated by the Assyrians. It was a close call as well for the southern kingdom of Judah; Jerusalem barely withstood the siege. Even in the midst of this geopolitical and national turmoil—or perhaps because of it—Amos’ prophecies focused on the ethical conduct of the Jewish people. He castigated them for forcing servants to work on Shabbat, for withholding tzedakah, and other injustices.<br />
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The prophets were those voices in ancient Israel who spoke, rarely popularly, about the supreme importance of ethics. They “spoke truth to power.” What might that prophetic voice say today? For one, as Shoshana said: even in the shadow of healing and rebuilding and preventing future tragedies, important domestic concerns must not be abandoned. We have seen a remarkable oneness within our society this past week, with people’s definition of “community” extending to include total strangers. Now we ask, will it include the sub-living-wage workers who still clean our offices and park our cars? Will it include the victims of ongoing environmental degradation, the refugees from uncontrolled climate change? Let us sustain and nurture this new sense of looking out for others, and cherish it as the parting legacy given by the death of so many innocents.<br />
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One other thing the prophetic voice might say is what another Torah School student shared, quoting her teacher: “revenge is best served cold.” We should respond not merely as retribution – in our tradition, for over 2000 years now, “an eye for an eye” has meant not to kill murderers, but to exact whatever measure of recompense and justice we can. Let us respond only in ways that serve our long-term goal of reducing terrorism and injustice in the world. This week has highlighted our sense of humanity. Would bombing Kabul be consonant with that sense? Will more grieving families, elsewhere in the world, ease the grief felt by families here?<br />
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These are national and international questions. Some, but few, of us, can affect their outcome in the short term. But the prophets spoke of the personal as well as the political. On the personal level, as individuals and as a community, our actions in the face of tragedy speak volumes. We can and must demonstrate – to others, and equally, to ourselves – all the good and just things for which we stand.<br />
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Let us answer those who would take life, by saving and affirming life – by fulfilling Judaism’s central mandate of pikuach nefesh, the saving of life – in any way we can. We can give blood, or as Loren Amdursky is doing, organize a blood drive. And since that’s only a palliative response, we can then go on to its longer-lasting equivalents: sign up for organ donation, and encourage others to do the same. Learn CPR.<br />
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Likewise, we can send money to the families of victims (for instance through the United Jewish Communities or the United Way). And since that kind of tzedakah too is short-term, let’s then engage in some more demanding way in the ongoing fight to eliminate homelessness and suffering and poverty, here and throughout the world. Let us live a life of tzedakah, in both the sense of “charity” and of “justice.”<br />
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To affirm life like this is to give hope to ourselves and to others. It is a response to those who say that inevitably, things get worse from here. It is an act of faith. “Faith” can be a challenging concept for Reconstructionists, but it is a vital one. As Dennis Boni suggested at our first memorial gathering on Wednesday, it is an act of faith that lets us get in a car and drive down the road, undeterred by the fact that a line of paint, and an assumption that others will do the right thing, is all that separates us from thousands of oncoming cars. We are talking about a kind of faith that lets us go on with life, putting one foot in front of the other, hoping for solid ground, even without a guarantee that the next step will be a safe one.<br />
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May our next steps indeed be safe ones. Above all, may no person, no terror, no fear keep us from placing one foot in front of the other, as we march together toward a new day – doing our part to make a better world, to sanctify God’s name and presence in the world with every step we take.<br />
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Kein y’hi ratzon – may we rise to this imperative, this opportunity, this challenge. Shana tova.Rabbi Jason Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07805550465729805847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5161353548990038297.post-67005632459153738872001-09-17T09:46:00.000-04:002011-09-06T11:07:59.326-04:00Rabbi Jerry Epstein<center><i>The following sermon was delivered during the 2001 Jewish High Holiday season following the tragic events of September 11, 2001. It has been included on the <b>Torah From Terror</b> website as a resource and retains the copyright of its author. Please cite the source accordingly.</i></center><br />
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Rabbi Jerry Epstein<br />
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The terrorists who wrought havoc last Tuesday killed themselves. They called themselves Martyrs. They wanted those whose cause they represented and indeed, the whole world to place them on a pedestal of honor. In their quest, they shattered the lives of a Society. For no one in our country was untouched. Let no one be mistaken, however. They were not martyrs — just as the Suicide Bombers in Israel are not Martyrs.<br />
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The etymology of the term “martyr” is significant. It is derived from a Greek word meaning "witness." The real martyr is one who feels that not only his death, but also his whole life must bear testimony to God’s will. His life’s goal is to be God’s partner in the world. The Jew’s crowning distinction is to be a witness to God. As it is written in the Book of Isaiah, "You are my witnesses, saith the Lord, and I am <br />
God." Based upon this verse, the Midrash quotes God as further saying, "If you act as my witnesses, then I am God. But, if you do not act as my witnesses, I am, so to speak, NOT God."<br />
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The sounding of the Shofar, the most ancient ritual in the observance of Rosh Hashanah, has been interpreted as a summons to the soul of each human being to present itself as A witness to God’s Kingship and the supremacy of His values for humankind.<br />
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The real martyrs last week were not the terrorists but the firemen and the policemen who gave their lives in an attempt to save others because they bore witness to God. The real martyrs were not the terrorists but those who tried to rescue husbands and wives, parents, and children from acts of hate because they bore witness to God. The real martyrs are those who fight in Israel every day not to hurt the innocent — but rather to protect their homes, their land and their lives. The real martyrs are those whose lives are taken only because of their desire to walk in the image of a loving God. They are God’s witnesses.<br />
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The Shofar’s call to us to become God’s witness, His partner in building a more perfect world, presents an awesome challenge. But, that is the challenge. For the Jew, one need not be a martyr – to be God’s witness.<br />
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The sounding of the Shofar consists of three different categories of blasts: The Teruah, the Shevarim and the Tekiah. The sound of Teruah, the nine wavering blasts, derives its name from the Hebrew word Re’uaah which means tottering or shaky. To me, it is a metaphor for the unstable world in which we live — one in which the events of September 11th could occur. Although we had the illusion of confidence, strength and even invincibility, the acts of last Tuesday morning shattered that perception. We live in a world that is tottering. When financial markets can be brought to a halt, when air traffic in the world’s strongest country can be crippled and when the seats of economic and governmental power can be attacked — without warning, our world is in serious danger.<br />
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The three staccato blasts that comprise the Shevarim sound are aptly named because Shevarim means “broken.” At this time, the Shevarim serves as a reminder of the many innocent people whose lives are broken asunder. Our lives will never be the same. In the past, many of us were detached from terrorist tragedies. We observed them. We read about them. We watched them on television but, except, in rare cases, they did not directly affect us. Most of us were impacted by the coordinated terrorist attacks last week.<br />
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I feel broken. My expectations, my hopes, the patterns of my life have been shattered. And, from talking to many of you, I know you feel the same way. The Shevarim sound of the Shofar represents that feeling. <br />
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There is another sound of the Shofar, the Tekiah, consisting of one, firm blast which represents unity and strength. And, it is that blast upon which we must focus today. The Teruah represents our shaky, unstable world. The Shevarim represents our broken souls. But, God has mandated that we conclude each cycle of Shofar blowing with the Tekiah, the sound of strength which must serve as our call to action — to be God’s witness — just as the Tekiah did millennia ago.<br />
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The Teruah and the Shevarim represent what we are. The Tekiah calls us to be what we must become.<br />
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Every terrorist action is designed to precipitate a reaction — usually capitulation to outrageous demands. Sometimes those demands are explicit. And on other occasions such as now, the demands of the terrorists are implied. <br />
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Our challenge, as victims, is to react – but, instead of giving the terrorists the reward that they seek, capitulation, we must respond as Americans, as supporters of Israel and as Children of God, and give the terrorists the reaction they deserve.<br />
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The terrorists attacked America and so we must sound a Tekiah — a solid, powerful response – firstly as Americans. It was America that was savagely attacked and it was the American people who were brutalized. It is as Americans that we must respond. Our challenge is to bring our country together. We must stress the values that are uniquely ours. As a nation, we must do what is right — because it is right. There are those who are already saying that the terrorist activity is due to the United States’ support for Kuwait in the Iraqi Conflict or for Israel in the Mid-East conflict. This week, I heard many complain that United States citizens could have been spared this anguish if only our country had abandoned its allies and partners. And, of course, the plea from these same people is to prevent further attacks by withdrawing United States’ support in the future. As Americans, we must urge that our country continue support of all democratic nations and persecuted societies no matter where they are; whatever the inconvenience and cost. As Americans, we cannot permit ourselves to forsake those values which are the pillars of our Country’s foundation.<br />
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As Americans, we must sound a Tekiah — the blast of unity — and support our government when we experience, as we inevitably will, the inconvenience of the shortage of oil, higher gas prices and increased taxes. It’s easy to feel the passion of commitment now. Let us resolve to remember that passion when our lives are personally impacted. Being a part of a society with rich values and commitments of integrity comes at a cost. As Americans, we cannot let terrorists determine our agenda.<br />
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About 2500 years ago when the land of Israel was being ravaged by enemies, God commanded Jeremiah to purchase land to which his family had rights — before he and his nation went into exile. The prudent pragmatist would have perceived it as a terrible investment. Jeremiah would not be able to benefit from the land for decades — since he would be in a foreign country. Real estate prices were obviously dropping. But, Jeremiah reclaimed the land as a demonstration of commitment to his nation and its rebuilding. If nothing else, it would be a symbol to the people of Jeremiah’s confidence in the future. As American Jews, Jeremiah’s behavior teaches us a powerful lesson of what we must do. Now is the time to demonstrate faith in our Nation by making a point of buying its products. Now is the time to show support for American businesses by consciously purchasing “American.” Will this always be the most prudent or pragmatic decision for our personal interest? No! But, Jewish values have always taught us that there are times when National necessity must take priority over personal preference. This is one of them. We must act as Americans; Americans who respond with the values we have learned as committed Jews.<br />
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Terrorists attacked Israel: at Sbarros, at a train station. At nightclubs. And so, we must sound the Tekiah and become God’s witnesses as supporters of Israel. The architects of brutality want to send a message that will weaken Israel. And so, our response through our Tekiah of commitment must be to strengthen Israel. Those who feel comfortable going to Israel must go now. We must make a statement. I believe that personal visits are vital. I have been to Israel 5 times in the past year. Yet, I acknowledge that each individual must make a personal decision as to whether or not to travel to Israel. No one can make that decision for you. At the same time, now more than ever it is important to understand that visits to Israel have both symbolic and practical value. If you can go, make a decision to go. <br />
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Palestinian terrorists wish to destroy Israel’s tourism. They want to create fear. If you make a personal decision that going to Israel is not right for you now, I urge you to remember that there are many who wish to spend time in Israel and who financially can’t afford it. You can sound a Tekiah of unity and strength and help. This year, 45 college and post-college young men and women are studying at our United Synagogue Conservative Yeshiva in Jerusalem. But, over 100 students had expressed interest in participating. 48 of those who did not enroll in the Yeshiva did not do so because of insufficient financial resources. There are 25 boys and girls who are studying in our NATIV Program for the year following high school. There are others who could not participate because of finances. Even if you can’t go to Israel, you can make an important statement by assisting others to go.<br />
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The Conservative/Masorti Jews in Israel also need our financial assistance at this time so that they can grow. Make a decision to help the Masorti Movement strengthen its congregations and respond to spiritual needs of Conservative Jews in Israel. They need our help and support. Make a decision to help tighten the bonds, the links — between Jews in North America and Israel. There are three separate, worthwhile appeals at your seat. When you leave the synagogue today, take those materials with you and immediately after Rosh Hashanah, sound your own Tekiah through committing your personal resources to make a statement.<br />
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This is also the time to communicate with our friends and relatives in Israel. Pick up the phone. Send an e-mail. Write a letter. Let people know that you care about them. Let them know that you are thinking about them. You can make a difference — if you want to.<br />
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Terrorists in America and Israel claim to act according to God’s will; assert they are performing God’s work. In so doing, these False Martyrs besmirch and sully God’s name. I will not believe in a God who would consider and condone for one millisecond — the MURDER OF INNOCENT PEOPLE to further a cause. And so, we must sound a Tekiah to enhance God’s Holy Name. That is a personal responsibility. This is the moment to make a statement to terrorists by reconnecting to God. Last week, in the wake of the tragedy, reporters called me for my reaction. A few of them asked, “Rabbi, as man of Faith, where do you think God was during this tragedy?” I responded, “I don’t know precisely where God was. No one does. For anyone to PRETEND TO KNOW WHAT God was thinking is the height of hubris. For anyone to claim that these acts of terrorism are punishments by God for rejecting specific laws is blasphemous. The challenge for everyone is to search for God in his/her own way. But I have been thinking about God’s role in this tragedy since last Tuesday. I now have a paradigm that works for ME: As Jews, we believe that God often manifests His presence in humanity and its behavior. God CREATED the world with the capacity for good and evil. There are, unfortunately, times when EVIL reigns. But, the challenge is in the positive response of God’s partners and witnesses to the evil they confront.<br />
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On Friday, I had an inspiring experience that strengthened my belief. I was invited with 23 other clergy to be part of Mayor Giuliani’s party to pray with President Bush at Ground Zero of the World Trade Center. As we waited for 2 hours for the President, I mingled with the masses of volunteers.<br />
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• I met a fireman and when I asked him where he was from he said ‘I’m from Chicago. On Tuesday afternoon, when I saw what had happened, I gave my wife a hug and kissed my three children. I got in my car and drove straight to New York. Since that time, I have been lifting rubble that was once the World Trade Center. I have been digging to find parents so that I can reunite them with their children. I have to do what I can.’<br />
• I met a doctor who told me that on Wednesday morning he closed his Manhattan office and moved down to the World Trade Center site. He said, ‘I had to be here so that when they find survivors, I can help them immediately. At that time, every second will count. I haven’t been able to help anyone yet so I have been lifting bricks and twisted metal. I bring ash from the site to dump trucks. Hopefully, when they find someone, I’ll be there to help.’<br />
• I met a retired teacher from Boston who took a bus on Wednesday morning. She told me that when she showed up to help, they looked at her and asked ‘What can you do?’ She said, ‘I can’t lift a lot, but perhaps, I can bring water to those who need it.’ And, that’s what she has been doing. She carried bottles of water and brought them to the firemen and policemen who were thirsty and hot.<br />
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God was clearly at that site. He came after evil ran amuck. As much as we need God, at this time, God needs us to be His witnesses. Perhaps God was in the response of the many men and women who rushed to give blood and sacrificed to volunteer; who opened their hearts to provide help. As Jews, we believe that we are God’s witnesses by the way we act in His image. As the Talmud tells us, just as God visits the sick, so must we visit the sick. Just as God comforts those in pain, so must we. As Children of God, we must respond to the pleas — the cries — for help. How will we reach out — as God’s witnesses — to those whose lives are irreparably filled with pain? That is the real test of our strength. What will we do to help wives whose husbands will no longer embrace them? How will we help husbands whose wives will no longer share their joy? How will we help parents who have lost beloved children? We must help wipe the tears of those in pain, no matter who is shedding those tears. That is our mandate as God’s witnesses on this Earth. This is not the time to flee from God. This is the time to run towards Him. Let us respond to terrorism by making sure that there is a response to evil. We must be that response.<br />
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The Jew responds to tragedy through prayer. In moments of distress and deep despair, the Jew sounds the Tekiah — the sound of strength, the sound of unity, the sound of commitment — through prayers. Let us pray for the souls of those whose lives were senselessly and brutally taken. Let us pray to God for the health of those whose bodies are in pain. Let us turn to God and pray for the spiritual healing of those who will nevermore see friends, acquaintances, colleagues and loved ones. Let us pray to our God for the strength to respond appropriately, sensitively and meaningfully to the crisis which has been thrust upon us. Let us pray for peace for the United States, for Israel and for the world. And, let us pray for Divine inspiration to become better witnesses to God’s presence in the world.<br />
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At the end of the sounding of the Shofar in the Musaf Service, we recite “this day the world was called into being; this day all the creatures of the universe stand in judgment before You — either as children or servants. God, if as children, have pity upon us as a father pities his children. If as servants, we call upon you to be gracious to us and to be merciful in judgment.” Today, the world is once again called into being. We are called to be God’s witnesses and to join in the recreation of our world. May God give us the strength and commitment to respond appropriately.Rabbi Jason Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07805550465729805847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5161353548990038297.post-36601423220620952632001-09-17T09:45:00.000-04:002011-09-08T16:42:17.635-04:00Rabbi Yossi Feintuch<center><i>The following sermon was delivered during the 2001 Jewish High Holiday season following the tragic events of September 11, 2001. It has been included on the <b>Torah From Terror</b> website as a resource and retains the copyright of its author. Please cite the source accordingly.</i></center><br />
<br />
Rabbi Yossi Feintuch<br />
Congregation Beth Shalom<br />
Columbia, Missouri<br />
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Two rabbinic masters in the Talmudic period, R. Joshua and R. Eliezer disputed when the New Year actually begins. R. Joshua claimed that the world was created in Nisan -- the month of spring -- when we celebrate Pesah and nature that springs back to life in a myriad of shades of green from the dreariness of winter.<br />
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R. Eliezer disagreed. The world, he claimed, was created in Tishrei -- the month that begins tonight -- that marks the onset of fall. It is the time when "the leaves are beginning to turn from green to red and orange", a time of fading blooms and dying leaves.<br />
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As Rabbi Harvey Meirovich puts it: "Logic seems to dictate starting the New Year when nature erupts with fresh energy. Yet, here Jewish wisdom defies logic, casting a decisive vote for autumn. We are summoned to renewal precisely when autumn skies cast their lengthening shadows upon us, when nature's decay encompasses us."<br />
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Indeed, Judaism sided with R. Eliezer's view; new beginnings should emerge "when the spirit of death stalks the byways." Life can and must "start afresh even when standing on the threshold of decay."<br />
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Tragically, the catastrophe that befell America less than a week ago with the murderous destruction of thousands of lives of our fellow Americans, will catapult this nation to unity and camaraderie, and to the restoration of security and peace in our land and beyond.<br />
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From the smoking ruins and ashes in New York and our nation's capital, a new America that is determined to lead the free world to victory over the forces of evil shall emerge. America will manifest its resolve to choose life for itself and all nations that cherish the divine sanctity of life.<br />
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As Rabbi Harvey Meirovich puts it: "Faith is to trust not when all goes well, but particularly in the autumns and winters of our journeys, when shadows fall and feelings tend to sink".<br />
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Think of what happened a short time after the creation of Adam and Eve. What happened? Disaster struck. Can you imagine what it must have been for Adam and Eve to abide in Paradise and be expelled from it forever?<br />
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Rather than sink into an utter despair about their terrific loss, our first biblical ancestors chose to create a new existence for them. Far from despondency, Adam and Eve were determined to carry on with their changed-for-ever-new life.<br />
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For it is in their post-Paradise new environment that Adam and Eve created new life by giving birth to a new generation, Cain and Abel. Life could still be worthwhile living even outside Eden -- albeit life with challenges and hardships.<br />
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Alas, a second catastrophe would soon befall them as Cain killed Abel. Forced to become a fugitive for the rest of his life, Cain 'd never return back home.<br />
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Even in the face of this repeated disaster -- losing in a single day both of their children -- the symbols of their renewed life, Adam and Eve continued to hope and to believe in better days to come. In giving birth to Shet, their third child, they proclaiming to us in the words of<br />
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Israel's national anthem: OD LO AVDAH TIKVATENOO -- "Our hope is not yet lost".<br />
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In OPTing for life they invented OPTimism -- a signature characteristic of Israel's heritage, so poignantly evinced in the act of re-creating life especially in Europe's Displaced Persons' camps after the Shoah.<br />
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Did you know that there in those camps of Jews who survived Auschwitz and its likes, and who had no place to return or go to, the second highest birth rate in the world was registered?<br />
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The Jew's unique ability to resurrect himself and spring back into meaningful and constructive life was seen also after the Devastation that befell us with the two separate destruction of our people's Temple in Jerusalem, first by the Babylonians and five centuries later by the Romans.<br />
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It's not that our ancestors had only lost the very site where they could -- through the rituals of bringing offerings -- commune with God. In both instances when the Holy Temple was set to fire, our ancestors were also forced out of their land.<br />
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And just like Adam and Eve, the people Israel responded again and again to these and other monumental calamities, with a reaffirmation of Jewish<br />
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faith and hope as the study of Torah and doing mitzvot replaced the Temple's offerings of meat and grain.<br />
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Similarly, the message of hope in better and more peaceful days to come is evident in the significantly high birth in Europe's D.P.'s camps at the end of World War II.<br />
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The same goes for the reopening last week of the Jerusalem Sbarro Pizzeria that was destroyed only a few weeks ago by a suicide bomber (and his collaborators) inflicting a heavy death toll on innocent people.<br />
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Lance Armstrong, the American cyclist who has won the last three races of the Tour de France, the single most grueling sporting event on the face of the earth, is also a paragon example of what choosing life is all about.<br />
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For Armstrong first had to conquer an advanced testicular cancer before he could wear the highly prestigious yellow jersey of this cycling contest.<br />
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The road to healing and victory began for Armstrong when he resolved upon being diagnosed with cancer that "a slow death is not for me". Pondering his situation, he went through a serious introspection -- not unlike our own quest for being written in the Book of Life on these High<br />
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Holy Days -- and asked himself: "If I live, who is it that I intend to be? I found that I had a lot of growing to do as a man."<br />
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In his book: It's not about the Bike, My journey back to life Armstrong writes that to be a winner -- be it over a life-threatening disease or in a cycling race -- "You don't fly up a hill; you struggle slowly and painfully up a hill."<br />
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Yet, to translate this mindset into action proved to be formidable for him. The vigorous and intensive chemo treatment he had received did take a horrendous toll on his physical and mental capacities.<br />
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In a would-be comeback race Lance was trailing badly, fighting strong wind and cold rain. "All of a sudden, [he] lifted [his] hands to the tops of the handlebars . . . [and] pulled over."<br />
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L. Armstrong reflects on his abandonment of this race: "I didn't care if my teammates understood or not. I said goodbye and took off. I just didn't want to be there. I evaded my responsibility."<br />
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Armstrong's problem was that he saw himself as a victim -- as one who could not return to what he was before, or to who he had wanted to become.<br />
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What ultimately convinced Armstrong that he had to come back and take on the Tour De France race were the piercing words of his agent. When Armstrong seemed to have quit competitive cycling once and for all: "You are alive again, and now you need to get back to living."<br />
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But in order to make it happen, Armstrong understood that "the trick was not to climb mountains every once in a while but to climb repeatedly."<br />
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Also, to go and cycle again the all too familiar beaten roads that he had ridden before he became sick was not going to do it for him. He understood that in order to restore himself successfully he'd have to ride new roads where he had never been before.<br />
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The deal was to always find a new road, some place he hadn't been before. "I couldn't stand to ride the same road twice." "You need newness" -- he writes -- "even if half the time you end up on a bad piece of road, or get lost."<br />
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Friends, what does all this has to do with us, and with this first night of the New Year? I think quite a lot. If we want to restore ourselves, we will not be able to do it by climbing mountains every once in while.<br />
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And in the wake of the catastrophic disaster of this past year's last week, we are behooved to ask ourselves how we can choose life not only for ourselves and for our loved ones, but for our fellowmen and women as we begin this New Year.<br />
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Many of us have donated already blood and rushed our checks with much of our recent tax relief rebate back to where relief is sorely needed -- New York City with its thousands upon thousands of new widows, widowers and orphans. These bereaved folks did not only lose dear and near ones, they have also lost their main source of income.<br />
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If we cannot, however, comfort the frightened in New York, we could do so in OUR neck of the woods. Just expand the definition of who's frightened to include the sick, the needy, the new comer whose face you do not recognize, and those who are distressed over personal difficulties. It's much easier to spot and comfort such people in need than what it has been for the rescuers in down town Manhattan last week.<br />
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We choose life when we resolve to drive more courteously, and when we communicate with others more patiently. We choose life when we offer thanks and appreciation for help or service in our behalf, and when we volunteer more frequently where such help is in premium.<br />
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And we choose life when we do something good and nice to help someone -- tutor a kid at the library, or volunteer at a food bank. There are a million things you can choose from: such actions must not be temporal but life-long and life-sustaining practices. In short, we choose life when we strive for a higher level of mentshlichkeit -- Yidish for kindheartedness and gentleness.<br />
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When engaging ourselves in such work we block despair and depression from taking root in our hearts. In fact, folks who are engaged consistently in helping others generally live considerably longer. That's not wishful thinking. That's a medical fact.<br />
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By the same token, feeling and living Jewishly cannot be successful for us and for our children, if we do it only seldom, that is to say, once a year. To be successful in Jewish living -- a life that is meaningful, fulfilling and joyous -- we need to climb our mountains repeatedly. And we need new and renewing ways where we have not been in the past to make our practice productive and rewarding.<br />
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There are many ways to live Jewishly, all emanate and relate to Torah. But how many of us are worthy in earnest of being called -- that which others have called us: "The People of the Book"? And how would we know Torah if we shun our weekly Torah readings, or neglect to open the Bible or any other relevant book at home, at least on Shabbat?<br />
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How would we renew ourselves if we deprive our children AT HOME of a direct association between parental love and Jewish living? Is paying for tennis or piano more indicative of parental love? I hope not.<br />
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How would we find new ways for creating a new living if we travel without a road map? How would we know, for example, that our Bible forbids us to rejoice when our enemy, let alone a rival, falls, and that<br />
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Torah bids us to honor the elderly? In short, how would we know what is ethical or holy, if we do not even try to learn?<br />
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Jewish feelings alone are insufficient, and we all know where good intentions, devoid of a proper compass, might lead. Jewish feelings are good -- but they are nothing without Jewish doing. And we need to be an integral and an active part of a community, not only for the sake of the community, but for our own. As Lance Armstrong tells us, there's no winning in a race like Tour De France unless you have a reliable and dedicated team to support you.<br />
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Teammates are critical in cycling. They help each other and particularly the one with most prospects to win to conserve his strength on a severe climb. Teammates will chase down a rival sprinter by sitting on his wheel to slow him down, allow him to draft, and will protect their lead guy from crashes with other riders.<br />
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For the cyclist the team is called a peloton, for the Jew it is a minyan, a congregation, a people, humanity and creation. For America -- facing today THE threat of this new century to its and the Free World's way of life -- it is a global coalition that is resolved to eradicate the menace of worldwide radical and militant so-called Islam.<br />
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Any sport team must have a critical number of players without which it cannot play and win. When, as a player you're penalized and removed from the field, you hurt your team. And conversely, when a teammate wins, the victory belongs to all.<br />
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Sergei Khrushchev, (the son of Nikita, a prominent leader of the Soviet Union in the thick of the Cold War), explained similarly his recent decision to become a U.S. citizen. "I could have just stayed here with a green card, but my wife and I decided to be responsible -- to live here, to vote, not just to consume."<br />
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Friends, when we consume the High Holy Days services or an occasional Bar/Bat Mitzvah ceremony - but would not offer our time to needs within the community during the rest of the year -- we shirk one of our basic responsibilities as Jews.<br />
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When parents do not help their children evolve Jewishly by saying the Sh'ma with them twice a day, nor would they read or discuss with them a Jewish book, they deprive their child of critical team support.<br />
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The same hold true if parents do not take their children to the synagogue, or engage them in home rituals and tsedakah giving, or in other acts of loving-kindness.<br />
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When we allow the small core of volunteers in our Jewish community to shoulder alone again and again the onus of a task we neglect the duty of a teammate. And by neglecting to join regularly this community's services, we will miss hearing not only God's word, but we miss communal prayers for the sick; we miss standing with the bereaved in our midst.<br />
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Being a member of the people Israel commits us to be a teammate. Being an interested and active member of this community, however, is just the beginning of our Jewish identity and commitment.<br />
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There are national and world Jewish organizations that need our support even as we need their services and concern for various causes that affect us in this way or another. Resolve during these High Holy Days to join or support an additional Jewish organization and to subscribe to another Jewish periodical.<br />
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"Al tifrosh min Ha-tsiboor" -- Do not walk out on the community -- taught Rabbi Hillel. To be a responsible Jew is to be and live within a<br />
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community that supports you in a time of need, even as you support other fellows in their hour of need. Life is such that it compels us to help others at time, and others to help us when our cup has emptied out. This no different from the coalition of a global community that our Government seeks to unite these days in a war to uproot worldwide terrorism.<br />
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The questions we ought to ask and answer during these Ten Days Of Awe are whether we are in the peloton -- in the playing team -- of the Jewish community here in town? Are we true members of American and world Jewry? Have we advocated and supported in earnest the urgent vital needs of the State of Israel, our beleaguered and bleeding homeland?<br />
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Alas, our Israeli brethren who have faced brutal terrorism for most of Israel's fifty-three years of independence feel strongly that American Jewry seems to behave as if it is much, much farther than just 6,000 miles away from Israel. And that very few Jewish Americans seem to care. During last year, the year of intifada and misery for the people of Israel, our Israeli brethren felt very much alone. And we thought naively that radical Islamic terrorism had only to do with the particular situation of Israel alone, rather than seeing it as a mere tip of the iceberg.<br />
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You know, the human monsters who masterminded and perpetrated last week's heartless devastating assaults on the innocent in New York, outside Washington and in the skies of Pennsylvania believe (or believed) that they were the good guys -- the holy ones -- in contrast to their victims.<br />
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But we, who are assembled here tonight know that we are a people that is commanded to be holy, to aspire to holiness. We know, however -- and that's why we are here tonight -- that we are NOT perfect -- that we have quite a bit of mending to do; that OUR road to holiness is ALWAYS under construction.<br />
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As R. Ismar Schorsch reminds us: "We learn most from our failures. No other religion is quite so self-critical. Our Bible goes out of its way to record the flaws and errors of our people's loftiest leaders."<br />
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If King David admitted his egregious religious fumbling, should we be exempt from doing that? And if we had thought that we were beyond improving our day-to-day way of interacting with people about us, and beyond pushing forward our potential to better ourselves, we would have not come here to immerse ourselves in the annual High Holy Days experience.<br />
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Here's an interesting fact from our aviation history that might help you understand my point here. When American top pilots first attempted unsuccessfully to break the so-called "sound barrier"; many gutsy test pilots succumbed to the terrific air pressure in the cockpit as they approached Mach 1. Their planes disintegrated, and they fell to earth.<br />
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It was Chuck Yager, however, who had figured out that despite the almost unbearable shaking of the jet, once you hit and surpass the first mach, the turbulence ceases. It was Chuck Yager who discovered that, in fact, there is NO sound barrier, and that there is life beyond the seemingly unbearable travails that precede a breakthrough.<br />
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And Judaism, too, has survived and thrived in the aftermath of its own calamities bequeathing to us the belief in a world whose present troubles shall be overcome with our steadfast efforts.<br />
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So has Lance Armstrong demonstrated that new life can and must emerge from the 'falls' of our lives. And it is our own bruised and bleeding country today that believes and inspires others that it is imperative and possible to bring about better and more peaceful days than at the present. Though the task will be enormous it will be done.<br />
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My friends, this must be our challenge too. Our very being here tonight at the beginning of autumn attests also to our religious fall; a time when we take note of our yellowed Jewish commitments, a time when we become aware of our languished Jewish practices and fallen ideals -- a time when our inner peace is deeply shaken. And we, too, understand that such a state of our affairs must change.<br />
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Like the anguished Adam and Eve upon their expulsion from the Garden, like our devastated Rabbis upon the demise of the Temple, and like Lance Armstrong -- enfeebled and dispirited following his chemotherapy and like the diminished New York and Washington -- we too can and must begin once again. We will choose a renewed life.<br />
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Our rebirth can come, but it will come only through force of will! God has called upon us to finish the work of our own and then the world's creation. In the words of R. Eric Yoffie on September 11, 2001: "We are tragically reminded that the human capacity for evil will not die. We have the perpetual task of proving that the human capacity for good will be at least as resilient."<br />
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Let us hope and pray that the New Year will lead us to the will and ability to cull from our personal inventories of disappointments, failures and sorrows the wherewithal to be born again into more enriched and rewarding living.<br />
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For if we believe and trust in the ultimate triumph of good over evil, then we must do more and more to tap persistently into the reserves of the potential good in us, and put them to frequent use guided by the light of Torah.<br />
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As we answer this challenge with renewed and strengthened resolve, we will once again feel the joy of knowing that OUR road to choosing life is always under construction.Rabbi Jason Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07805550465729805847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5161353548990038297.post-33365337944327477722001-09-17T09:44:00.000-04:002011-09-06T10:19:15.618-04:00Rabbi Marla Feldman<center><i>The following sermon was delivered during the 2001 Jewish High Holiday season following the tragic events of September 11, 2001. It has been included on the <b>Torah From Terror</b> website as a resource and retains the copyright of its author. Please cite the source accordingly.</i></center><br />
<br />
Rabbi Marla J. Feldman<br />
Temple Beth El, Flint, Michigan<br />
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Rosh Hashana morning, 5762.<br />
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Just Say No!<br />
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Most of us are familiar with the Torah portion assigned to this holy day – Akedat Yitzhak – the saga of the binding of Isaac. We learn of Abraham and Isaac’s journey to the pinnacle of Mt. Moriah, where Abraham was prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice to prove his commitment to the new covenant with Adonai.<br />
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There are many troubling aspects of this story that have puzzled Biblical scholars. We read a few moments ago, “Bayom Hashlishi, vayisa Avraham et einav, vayar et hamakom meirachok.” “On the third day of their journey, Abraham lifted up his eyes and saw the place from afar.” Commentators have asked the question, why did they have to travel for three full days before finding the spot upon which Abraham would sacrifice his son? Why did G-d prevent them from seeing the mountain until the third day? <br />
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Most respond that the three days were a test for Abraham – G-d wanted Abraham to think twice about sacrificing the only child of Sarah, in whom the future of the Israelite people was invested. This was not only about the pain of losing a child; Abraham was about to sacrifice the future of the Jewish people, as it was with the descendents of Isaac that the covenant with G-d was made. It was the children of Isaac who were to inherit the Promised Land and become a great nation. According to the midrash, in order to test Abraham to the fullest, G-d provided obstacles in their path and gave him plenty of time to change his mind. Yet Abraham persevered and passed the test in the ultimate act of faith unparalleled in our tradition… but then again, maybe not.<br />
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Of course we all know that at the final moment, an angel appears and calls out “Avraham, Avraham! Al ta’as lo meumah!” “Abraham! Abraham! Don’t harm the boy!” With that, the angel shows Abraham the ram to be sacrificed in Isaac’s stead. But this passage raises other troubling questions. Why did an angel come instead of G-d, who had commanded Abraham in the first place? And why does the angel repeat “Abraham! Abraham!” two times, instead of just calling him once, as G-d had done previously? <br />
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One explanation is that Abraham was so determined to complete the task ahead that he didn’t even hear the angel the first time. When he didn’t respond, and was about to sacrifice Isaac, the angel called again, more urgently, to stop him, “Avraham… AVRAHAM!” In his zealousness to fulfill the divine will, as he understood it, Abraham was oblivious to everything around him; he failed to hear the angel and failed to see the ram in the thicket. <br />
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Perhaps Abraham failed the test as well. What if G-d WANTED Abraham to defy an unjust order? What if the three-day journey was designed to give Abraham time to consider the implications of his actions? What if G-d expected Abraham to challenge the decree, as he had done in arguing with G-d over the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah? What if G-d wanted Abraham to think for himself? <br />
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Some commentators have offered this as an explanation of why G-d sent an angel to stay Abraham’s hand rather than issuing the order directly. G-d was so disgusted with Abraham that never again in the Biblical text does Abraham hear the divine voice spoken directly to him.<br />
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Such is the nature of fundamentalism – the radical, unquestioning conviction that one knows the divine will, and the determination to act on that belief regardless of the consequences. We have seen those consequences this week, up close and personal. Our innocence was sacrificed on the altar of religious fanaticism. Fundamentalism is a threat that comes not only from Muslim extremists, but also Christian and even Jewish fundamentalists who cannot tolerate diversity or individuality. They would undermine our way of life, and the most basic elements of our belief system, and we must oppose them.<br />
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Paul Simmons, a theologian from the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary, provides an insightful analysis of the nature of fundamentalism: <br />
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“Fundamentalism must be described not only on the basis of doctrine but in terms of its spirit or style… It is a mindset or temperament – a certain style of religious mentality or perspective characterized by an arrogance that considers itself normative in all matters of theology and morals. It is a type of Gnosticism. It is ideological, intransigent and inflexible, expecting and priding itself on doctrinal and moral conformity…<br />
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“Fundamentalism is a religious zeal that sees itself as G-d’s movement or agent for the salvation of the world. Thus… Fundamentalism finds kindred spirits in every religion of the world – from Torquemada to the Ayatollah Khomeini and various sectarian and cultic leaders of fringe movements in mainline religions.”<br />
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Within the Christian community, this absolutist position finds expression in the censorship of textbooks or films, bombings of reproductive health clinics and the murder of doctors who work in them – all in the name of G-d. It is manifest in the fervor to proselytize and inject this ideology into the political system, giving their beliefs the force of law. <br />
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Islamic fundamentalism, as we have seen, opposes the values and freedoms of Western, liberal democracy. It tolerates the persecution, maiming and murder of women in places like Pakistan and Afghanistan in the name of morality. It permits discrimination and harassment directed against adherents of other faiths, as we have seen with the imprisonment of Christians and the decree requiring Hindus to wear a yellow patch under the Taliban regime. It permits coercion and murder under the guise of a holy endeavor.<br />
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And yes, even within our own community, religious zealots excuse throwing stones at cars on Shabbat or spitting on women dressed in modern attire, in the name of G-d, and even justify the use of terror to evict Arab residents of “Judea and Samaria” claiming it as the fulfillment of the covenant between G-d and Abraham.<br />
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Despite all the negative things that we associate with fundamentalism, there are aspects of it that make it very attractive to the masses that identify with such belief systems. It deals in certitude and absolutes. There are no gray areas: G-d exists; G-d’s will is known; if we do G-d’s will, we will be saved! In many ways, it is easier – there are no decisions to be made; others will tell you what is right or wrong, what G-d expects and what you should do. It provides answers to all of life’s questions in all spheres – religious, political, social, and family relations.<br />
<br />
Perhaps most appealing is the sense of mission it instills; the passion that comes from feeling part of something larger than oneself. There is comfort in the bond that forms among those who share the same certainties and purpose.<br />
<br />
The alternative to absolutist fundamentalism is liberal relativism. In this system, in which we live, there are no easy answers and no exclusive claim to truth. Basic philosophical questions that challenge all of us are elusive. What does G-d want from us? For the fundamentalist, the answer is belief. For the liberal, the answer is action… but we disagree about which actions. Why do people suffer? Religious fundamentalists would say people suffer because of sin; moral relativists will understand suffering as part of the human condition and focus on how we cope with suffering rather than what causes it. Why do loved ones die? While a fundamentalist might see death as a return to G-d, we will claim that is the wrong question; we ask ourselves how to live our lives rather than why we die.<br />
<br />
Relative answers are rarely entirely satisfying, and annoyingly equivocal. But once we give up our absolutes, we must make choices on our own and think for ourselves. There is no guarantee that we are right, that we won’t change our minds, or that others will share our perspective. We might experience loneliness, insecurity, or even despair as we sense our individuality; we are out on a limb, alone with our tenuous beliefs, which are subject to change with each new piece of information we receive. The only absolute we are certain of, is our own uncertainty!<br />
<br />
So, if fundamentalism is so much easier than moral relativism, why do we cling so strongly to our belief system and reject the simpler path? Why do we feel threatened by it, instinctively refusing to surrender to easy answers?<br />
<br />
In a fundamentalist world, where all is known, there is no room for discussion, and no questioning of authority. For Americans this is disturbing, for the democratic system is based upon open debate. The absence of dialogue or the ability to challenge one’s leaders, makes possible the growth of totalitarian regimes and can lead to misguided missions. Bigotry flourishes in absolutist societies that deny freedom and diversity of thought.<br />
<br />
Not only as Americans, but also as Jews, we should find moral absolutism troubling. We cannot accept a system in which there is no room for the individual to strive toward his or her potential. Absolutism stifles the human will to change and grow through our mistakes as well as our achievements. Without choice there can be no integrity, no humanity.<br />
<br />
If Jewish fundamentalists throughout history had had their way, there would have been no Spinoza, no Maimonides, no Talmud or Biblical commentaries, and no women rabbis. Isaac would have died upon the altar, and that would be that.<br />
<br />
There is another Bible story we traditionally tell on this day. Rosh Hashana celebrates the birth of the world and our miraculous creation out of the void. Part of our birth story is the tale of Adam and Eve. Unlike Abraham, they defied G-d and made a choice to eat from the tree of knowledge of good and evil. They rejected ignorance and gave up their blissful, comfortable existence in the garden in exchange for knowledge. They chose mortality over paradise, despite the imperfection, strife, questions and pain that would follow. Had they not made that choice, humanity would not exist.<br />
<br />
For us, being liberal is the necessary alternative to fundamentalism. The American Heritage Dictionary defines “liberal” as: “Having, expressing, or following social or political views or policies that favor non-revolutionary progress and reform… that favor the freedom of individuals to act or express themselves in a manner of their own choosing… tolerant of the ideas or behavior of others.” <br />
<br />
“Liberal” as we understand it, is not the opposite of “conservative” in the political sense. Rather it is the opposite of “fundamentalist” – we see shades of gray in everything around us! We should stop apologizing for being ‘card-carrying liberals’ and instead we should embrace it, celebrate it and be proud of it.<br />
<br />
The Jewish way is not to seek absolute answers to life-questions, but rather to engage in a process of searching within ourselves and in the world around us. Life, for us, is a journey; as we meet others along the way we may gain strength and knowledge and comfort in the realization that others are searching also. Perhaps this was the journey G-d intended for Abraham and Isaac.<br />
<br />
But this way of life means risk; we must learn to live with moral ambiguity and uncertainty, and, as we have recently felt, sometimes we will live with insecurity as well. But that is the cost of our freedom. <br />
<br />
The war that is being fought today is not about land or political agendas. It is about beliefs and a way of life. It is a war between absolutism and relativism, between fundamentalism and liberalism. And it is being fought not only by terrorists from afar, but also by political extremists and religious fanatics within our own borders.<br />
<br />
If we are to learn a lesson from Abraham’s trial, it is this: to pass the test, humanity must sometimes say no. G-d does not want our blind allegiance or blissful ignorance. We have traded our immortality for the freedom to think, as G-d intended us to do. We must not offer up our future on an altar of fanaticism, moral certitude or self-righteousness. Meaningless sacrifice will not sanctify the holy name. Righteousness will not be found in certainty.<br />
<br />
As we engage in the battle before us, may we have the strength of our convictions, and the fortitude to live with the consequences. O G-d, bless us in this crusade to preserve our way of life, and may we emerge victorious. AMEN.Rabbi Jason Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07805550465729805847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5161353548990038297.post-13466311329580415092001-09-17T09:42:00.001-04:002011-09-08T16:44:59.358-04:00Rabbi Josh Finkelstein<center><i>The following sermon was delivered during the 2001 Jewish High Holiday season following the tragic events of September 11, 2001. It has been included on the <b>Torah From Terror</b> website as a resource and retains the copyright of its author. Please cite the source accordingly.</i></center><br />
<br />
Rabbi Josh Finkelstein<br />
Temple Emanuel of New Jersey<br />
Paterson and Franklin Lakes, New Jersey<br />
<br />
Whom Shall I Fear<br />
<br />
In Jerusalem there is a chair, an exquisite, hand crafted chair that no one sits in. An empty chair. The chair belonged to Rebbe Nachman of Bratslav. Tradition has it that the chair was a given to the Rebbe from a follower in 1808. The man, a simple laborer, had worked on it a few hours each day for six months. In the 1920's the chair was dismantled and put in hiding for safe keeping, and in 1936 a family escaping Europe ahead of the Holocaust brought the chair to Jerusalem.<br />
<br />
The Rebbe's chair was restored and placed in the central yeshiva of the Bratslaver Hasidim. Since 1810 when Rebbe Nachman died without an heir or designated disciple, there has been no other Rebbe for the Bratslaver Hasidim and no one has sat in that chair. The chair is empty.<br />
<br />
An empty chair. A symbol of hopelessness? The phrase itself conjures up a foreboding, a sense of despair, of hopelessness. Will the chair ever be filled? Will the Rebbe's place ever be occupied. Is there any hope for the future? Or just fear?<br />
<br />
Though it remains empty to this very day, it reminds the followers of Rebbe Nachman of his teachings and of the hope and joy he instilled in his disciples. When they see that chair, they see not an empty, desolate seat, but a symbol of hope and renewal, and they are not afraid.<br />
<br />
Their lack of fear is in keeping with One of their Rebbe’s seminal teachings. Rebbe Nachman had a saying later put to melody be his disciples:<br />
<br />
Kol HaOlam Kulo Gesher sar Meod, Veha Ikar Lo Lifahed Klal.<br />
<br />
A person walks in life on a very narrow bridge. The key is not to be afraid<br />
<br />
Last Tuesday September 11 started as a day that did not filled people with fear. The sky was blue. It was a glorious morning. All that changed suddenly. Like most of you, I can remember where I was on that morning. I was in my car headed for a meeting at the Jewish Theological Seminary in Manhattan. I was listening to the traffic report, and became curious by the reporter’s mention of an explosion at the World Trade Center. I continued listening and driving when the report came that a plane hit the second tower. Approaching Fort Lee, I turned back. <br />
<br />
Emerging from my car at the synagogue, the sky was still blue, the day still beautiful, but everything else had changed. We rent our building to the Paterson Board of Education. Each day young boys and girls come to study at theB.U.I.L.D. Academy for Leadership Development. On this day a number of children were being picked up early. Like parents elsewhere throughout the Metropolitan Area, these parents wanted to make sure their children were safe. They were scared. Tuesday had become a day of fear.<br />
<br />
As the days have slowly passed many emotions have come to the surface of our collective psyche. There was an overwhelming sadness expressed by some. Watching the scenes in person or on television who could not be saddened beyond words at the scene of human beings falling 90 stories to their death. As days passed, stories were told. Tears would well up in our eyes as we heard of the last moments of husbands and wives, mother and fathers, sons and daughters. This one called from the 92nd floor to say good bye, a last e-mail to say I love you, a cell phone call from a plane about to crash with the simple message to tell the children that I love them. The stories are still being told much as the bodies are still being counted.<br />
<br />
Many were shocked at the horror they were watching in disbelief. And most would eventually express anger at the monsters who would perpetrate such a heinous act. Still the overwhelming emotion is fear. Fear to ever fly again. Fear to come to synagogue on Rosh Hashannah. Fear for the future of the world. Fear of the world we live in and cannot control.<br />
<br />
During the final moments of the year 999, according to an ancient chronicle a throng of worshipers huddled in the flickering candlelight of St Peter's basilica in Rome, weeping and trembling as they awaited the turn of the Millennium.Many were certain it would unleash an apocalyptic terror and the end of the world. So convinced were some fanatics that the apocalypse was upon them, that they gave away all their possessions and fled to the Vatican in ashes and sackcloth.At night, they prostrated themselves on the polished marble floor, their eyes closed in anticipation of the biblically prophesied end of days. As the Pope concluded the midnight liturgy, "the crowd remained rooted, motionless, transfixed, barely daring to breath, 'not a few dying from fright ... then and there."' ( Richard Edross in US News 8/16/99)<br />
<br />
Fear is part of the human condition from our earliest imaginations. One of my favorite books is entitled Does God Have A Big Toe. It is a children’s book of stories based on biblical tales culled from the imagination of Rabbi Marc Gelman. In one story Rabbi Gelman tells about the first day of Adam’s life. Imagine what paradise must have been like. All is beautiful, all is wonderful, then the sun begins to set and night begins to fall. Adam is panicked. Remember he had never before experienced a setting sun and its beauty is only appreciated when you know it will return. Adam hides and cowers in the garden. When God finds him, Adam can only be calmed as God explains that the sun sets and rises and tomorrow will be another day. Adam is calmed as he falls asleep<br />
<br />
Adam is a part of each of us. We each have the ability to be frightened. We would not be human, if we did not fear. At times our fear can be healthy–it can save our lives. At times our lack of fear will lead us to complacency, and will cost many their lives. Our society has shown an immense lack of fear over the past years. We created a false sense of security on which others preyed. The experience of the last week has restored a fear, that when channeled will cause us to be more cautious in the future. <br />
<br />
Our caution will alleviate some of our anxieties but it will not fully conquer the fear that is a part of our human experience. <br />
<br />
Remember Rebbe Nachman’s simple teaching:<br />
<br />
Kol HaOlam Kulo Gesher sar Meod, Veha 1kar Lo Lifahed Klal.<br />
<br />
A person walks in life on a very narrow bridge. The key is not to be afraid.<br />
<br />
In order to survive, to live we need to conquer that fear which is paralyzing and debilitating, while channeling the fear which fosters a sense of self preservation. We are no less human because of them. If anything, we become more human through them. Yet in order to survive and prosper in this world we cannot give into them.<br />
<br />
How do we overcome fear and the paralysis it brings?<br />
<br />
Once before when our nation faced dark times and hopelessness marked the day, America was reminded of its resiliency. In his first inaugural address Franklin Delano Roosevelt reminded America what it has forgotten:<br />
<br />
‘This great Nation will endure as it has endured, will revive and will prosper. So, first of all, let me assert my firm belief that the only thing we have to fear is fear itself - nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror which paralyzes needed efforts to convert retreat into advance.<br />
<br />
Roosevelt knew that to overcome fear we must advance and build. The only enemy that can vanquish us is the fear that would prevent our advancing and stop us from building a better future. <br />
<br />
We must grow, we must advance, we must build, or we risk being conquered by our fear.<br />
<br />
Tomorrow we will talk of building new buildings and building community, Today let us talk of building spirit and spirit builders.<br />
<br />
One such spirit builder was my grandfather.<br />
<br />
My grandfather Louis Finkelstein was a remarkable man. He was a shy young boy raised in the Brownsville section of Brooklyn. The son of a Lithuanian trained rabbi, he too was raised to be a Rabbi. For twelve years he served Congregation Kehilath Israel in the Bronx, until he left the Pulpit to become a full time faculty member at the Jewish Theological Seminary in New York.<br />
<br />
The hardest day of my Grandfather's life was when he told his father that he was leaving his congregation for a faculty position at the Seminary. "Leaving your pulpit? what's a Rabbi without a pulpit?"<br />
<br />
Still He left his congregation for the Seminary and I fully believe he saw all of America as his new congregation. In 1951 he was appointed Chancellor of the Jewish Theological Seminary. From his new position he would endeavor to influence not only Jewish attitudes, but American culture as well.<br />
<br />
His appointment as Chancellor coincided with a renaissance of Judaism in America and the establishment of the State of Israel. The convergence of these forces put him on the cover of Time Magazine, October 15, 1951. The focus of the article was the regeneration of Judaism in America and the mission of the Jewish Theological Seminary in America. In the article, my grandfather reminisced to the beginning of the century. He told the reporter:<br />
<br />
"When I was a seminary student 40 years ago, it seemed so clear to us that our faith could not survive here that we wondered for what purpose in the Divine Economy the Jews had been brought to the New World."<br />
<br />
Forty years later he looked out on a world that saw America as its best new hope for preserving Judaism. The key for my Grandfather was faith and hope. Faith in God and hope in the future. Indeed the title given to the article by the editors of Time Magazine was The Days of Fear are over.<br />
<br />
One day near the end of my years as a student in Rabbinical School at the Seminary, I was spending an afternoon with my Grandfather at his apartment. It was at the time when Senior rabbinical students begin to look for pulpits.Talmud seemed easy compared to the challenges that laid ahead. Perhaps, my grandfather could sense my trepidations he never questioned me about them.<br />
<br />
Instead he started talking about the world and how lucky I was. He told me how much the world had changed in his lifetime. How at my age he faced a world in the throes of depression with bleak prospects for the future. Look how far the world had come. It had survived two World Wars and now even the iron curtain was falling. More people are free than at any other time in History. When he was born a simple cut could bring infection and death, but now people were learning to conquer even cancer. To be sure there is much to be done, but look how far we<br />
<br />
have come in the past century, imagine what you can do in your lifetime in the coming century."<br />
<br />
The power of his message has never left me. His was a message of hope and faith that could conquer any fear. His hope and faith were contagious.<br />
<br />
Many people have come up to me over the years and remarked about meetings they had with my Grandfather or how they heard him speak at their congregation. They invariably tell me how moved they were by him. Some say he was more prophet then Rabbi. Indeed, my grandfather was in some sense a prophet , in some sense a Rebbe, but mostly a Rabbi who taught lessons he learned in the wisdom of our holy writings.<br />
<br />
Among those is the 27th Psalm which our people recite every morning and night during the High Holiday season. The Psalmist tells us: <br />
<br />
Adonai Ori V'Yeeshee, MeeMee Eerah Adonai Maoz Chayai MeeMee Efhad.<br />
<br />
The Lord is my light and salvation, whom shall I fear?<br />
<br />
The Lord is the strength of my life. Of whom shall I be afraid?<br />
<br />
The Psalmist acknowledges our fear. The underlying understanding of the Psalm is that people are afraid; Fear exists in this world–but we overcome it. When all looks lost, when enemies surround us, we need but to be resolute in our faith.<br />
<br />
When all is falling apart the psalmist grasps even harder to his faith in God–knowing that that faith will make all the difference. <br />
<br />
At the end of the 27th Psalm we are told:<br />
<br />
Lulay He emanti Leerot be Tuv Adonai be Eretz Chaim<br />
<br />
Yet I have faith that I shall see the Lord's Goodness in the land of the living.<br />
<br />
Or perhaps we should translate the verse as <br />
<br />
If I have faith, I will be able to see the Lord's Goodness in this world<br />
<br />
The key to conquering our fears is to have faith to see what is good in this world. We live in a world blessed with beauty and replete with wonder. If we allow ourselves to see the wonder and beauty than we can overcome all.<br />
<br />
I do not know of anyone who will pass a firefighter or a police officer and not reflect on the events of last Tuesday. As people were fleeing the towers hundreds of firefighters were running up stairwells looking to save lives, knowing thatdangers lies ahead.<br />
<br />
Among the hundreds of firefighters and police officers who perished during the initial rescue efforts was one who told his family that, “the only moment of bravery for a fire fighter is when he takes his oath of office, the rest is duty.”<br />
<br />
Thousands went above and beyond the call of duty to save strangers, and many gave their lives. That our world produces such bravery and goodness of spirit is something of which we should be proud.<br />
<br />
A few days after the Attack on the World Trade Center, we read about Jeremy Glick. Fate put Jeremy Glick on United Airlines Flight 93 headed for San Francisco last Tuesday. When the flight was hijacked, Jeremy called his wife from his cell phone. When hearing what had happened at the World Trade Center, Jeremy conferred with several passengers. When he returned to the phone Jeremy Glick told his wife to take care of their newborn daughter and have a good life because he and a few passengers were going to storm the cockpit to try to prevent a terrorist attack on Washington D.C. I can only imagine the fear that the passengers on that plane felt facing certain death, but their fear gave way to action as they sought to make their final moments of sacrifice and goodness. <br />
<br />
We may never know exactly what went on in that cockpit, but we do know that the plane crashed into a desolate field, killing only those people on the plane. Their gallantry in the face of death may have saved countless other lives. <br />
<br />
If that is how they acted in the face of death, imagine how people can act when faced with life?<br />
<br />
We need not imagine for the examples are all around us. Through the darkness of the past week we have seen moments of wonder and episodes of goodness. We see scenes of volunteers lining up to help rescue strangers who may still be alive under hundreds of thousands of tons of wreckage. Blood banks in the metropolitan Area asked potential donors to hold off because the initial outpouring was so great. Drop off centers were inundated. All this should give us pause, to reflect on the nature of goodness. <br />
<br />
In our communities we have also seen examples of goodness emerging from the evil perpetrated by terrorists. Last Thursday I was invited to a Community Service sponsored by the Clergy Association of Franklin Lakes and Oakland and the Creative Living Counseling Center, held at Barnert Temple. While I went to give and receive support, I came away receiving uch more than I had expected. The clergy community cognizant of Temple Emanuel’s troubles with building approvals, wanted us to know that they welcome us as a member of the community. In this moment of sadness, I felt the joy of communal embrace and inclusion. I felt goodness emanating from those around and I was filled with hope for our future.<br />
<br />
A few days later, I had a similar experience in a very different place. On Sunday I was part of an “All faith” service held on the steps of City Hall in Paterson. In my few weeks in Paterson I have developed a growing respect for the legacy and history of the city and the Jewish community that flourished here. The opportunities to meet community leaders and to know the city as it exists have been few. As I arrived at this service, I could not have felt more welcome. Ministers, priests, Imams, and civic leaders, including Mayor Barnes and Congressman Pascrell, were praying together, joining together. One of the preachers pointed out that what men had wrought for evil, God turns to good. Gathering there and walking the streets of Paterson I sensed goodness and community spirit that was special. We were not black and white, Christian, Jew, Moslem or Sikh–we were Patersonians, Americans, human beings.<br />
<br />
Many have remarked that they were fearful of coming to the synagogue this year. Their fear stemmed from the recent terrorist attack. Since last Tuesday, a Police car has been parked in front of the synagogue 24 hours a day. Aside from security, it has afforded me the opportunity to talk with some of Paterson’s finest. In discussing the mood of the neighborhood and the city since last Tuesday, one of the officers remarked that generally there is a different feeling in the city. There is a neighborliness, a communal spirit–more so than usual. Is it permanent? I do not know, but I do know that the communal spirit has raised hope and help conquer fear.<br />
<br />
The stories are endless. Each of us knows one or has heard one that brings out a hope for our future. For every story of tragedy, there is an image of courage and goodness that has helped sustain us in this week of mourning. When we look at these images, our faith in humanity is restored. When we read these stories we begin to see the Lord's Goodness in the land of the living.<br />
<br />
Acts of goodness liberate us from our paralysis. Immediately we are freed from the shackles of fear and liberated from the depression of spirit. Acts of goodness have the ability to build spirit and hope. For some, the acts of goodness will bring them to God . For others, faith in God will bring them to acts of goodness. In the end the direction of the equation does not matter. In the end we will be able to rejoice with the psalmist who declares:<br />
<br />
Kaveh el Adonai Hazak ve Ya ametz Libecha ve Kaveh el Adonai<br />
<br />
Hope in the Lord; be strong and take courage ! Hope in the Lord<br />
<br />
We need to learn the lesson of the psalmist. We must look at the world and see all that is good. The goodness that we see, will enable us to look toward the future with great hope, and to build that better future for us and our children.<br />
<br />
Two hundred years ago Rebbe Nachman taught his disciples that life indeed the whole world is a narrow bridge and the essence of life is not to give in to fear. His followers learned the master’s lesson well. His chair in Jerusalemremains empty. Some say it because no one cane fill his void. I beleive it is the communities way of showing their conquest of fear. They have conquered their fear of a life without a master by having great hope in the future they build. <br />
<br />
Kol HaOlam Kulo Gesher tsar Meod, Vehaikar Lo Lifahed Klal.<br />
<br />
A person walks in life on a very narrow bridge. The key is not to be afraid.<br />
<br />
May we all be blessed this year with the strength to see all that is good in the world, and to enter this new year free of fear and full of hope.<br />
<br />
Let me take this opportunity to wish you and your families a Shannah Tovah U'metukah A meaningful, sweet, happy and healthy and peaceful New Year from Elana, Sarah, Eli, Rebecca and me.Rabbi Jason Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07805550465729805847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5161353548990038297.post-77781077926757067902001-09-17T09:42:00.000-04:002011-09-07T21:36:10.992-04:00Rabbi Marc Fitzerman<center><i>The following sermon was delivered during the 2001 Jewish High Holiday season following the tragic events of September 11, 2001. It has been included on the <b>Torah From Terror</b> website as a resource and retains the copyright of its author. Please cite the source accordingly.</i></center><br />
<br />
September 19, 2001<br />
<br />
Remembrance and Hope:<br />
A Service of Testimony and<br />
Recollection<br />
Rabbi Marc Boone Fitzerman<br />
<br />
<br />
Congregation<br />
<br />
We gather in longing, in the shadow of chaos;<br />
We gather to bear witness to loss and destruction.<br />
Meaning will come, and understanding;<br />
Truth will arrive at another time<br />
And everything will take its accustomed shape.<br />
There will be words and ritual and the comfort of liturgy,<br />
And we will tell each other what it was all about.<br />
But in an hour of chaos there can be no seder,<br />
No rounded words of resolution,<br />
No final judgments by those who speak for us—<br />
Not while the rubble is still mounded high,<br />
Not while the dead lie still, unburied,<br />
Not while the mourners have not begun to mourn,<br />
Not while the plume continues to rise, <br />
And ashes cake the surface of the city—<br />
A snowfall of grief and un-creation.<br />
The first task of mourning is the telling of loss,<br />
Its particular look, its color and shape; <br />
The way it smelled and sounded on the day it happened;<br />
The telling, over and over again,<br />
Of where we were at the very moment,<br />
And what we saw, and who did what;<br />
And how the priest was carried into the church he loved<br />
So that his body could dignify the ruin and confusion;<br />
And how the killer’s picture surfaced in the trash—<br />
The very document that brought him to this land.<br />
No abstracts here, no summary statements,<br />
No general remarks or estimated losses,<br />
But the thing itself, without disguise or euphemism,<br />
The thing observed, the thing felt deeply.<br />
<br />
<br />
First Testimony<br />
<br />
[My brother] heard a loud crash and the building shook and [there was] a hissing sound. When the elevator doors opened, a thick cloud of black smoke came billowing out and he turned around to head for the front doors. As he was about to jump the turnstile, there was a loud explosion which picked his body up and hurled him through the front glass doors and into the street. His head was literally on fire and at that point he really started to panic. There was a man a few steps in front of him, whose body was engulfed in flames. He used his hands to try to put the fire out on this man, until a security guard came and wrapped his jacket around the man and dropped and rolled him.<br />
<br />
Congregation<br />
<br />
We pray for wives who will not see their husbands,<br />
Who will never see them in the land of the living;<br />
And for husbands who heard a last word of love,<br />
Choked and broken, a whispered hope<br />
That the plane would land, that the floor would hold,<br />
That there would be no fire, that all would be well.<br />
We pray for parents who could not hold the hand<br />
Of a child dying beneath beams of steel, <br />
Falling, falling with impossible force,<br />
A universe suddenly collapsed on itself,<br />
Compressed as if between two great hands.<br />
And we pray for children who do not yet know their losses,<br />
Who cannot know the meaning of the tears<br />
Shed and wiped and shed again,<br />
A torrent of grief, sweeping, unquenchable.<br />
Let all who mourn feel our sorrow unending.<br />
Let all who are grieving feel our echoing grief.<br />
We have no gift of life to bestow on the mourning,<br />
No return to “before,” no undoing of “done,”<br />
But the willingness to walk with those who will walk,<br />
To stand with those who are willing to stand,<br />
To sit with those who can only sit,<br />
And to kneel in the dust, hand to forehead,<br />
When there is no one to walk or stand or sit.<br />
<br />
<br />
Second Testimony<br />
<br />
Tim Finnerty is missing. He is my son and I feel like I have been robbed of my spirit. I see the anguish on Theresa’s face, she’s his wife, and I want it to not be there. She has a beautiful smile. Why is that missing, too? All of you who know Tim are missing something, too. He was so willing to help and gave so much to everyone. Why is he not here to continue? My son was fun to be with, and waiting to find out information from the World Trade Center destruction has taken away all the fun. I want more than memories. I want Tim.<br />
<br />
Congregation<br />
<br />
Who will give us justice at the moment of pain?<br />
Who will bestow the blessing that will make this day right?<br />
No voice calls from the mound before us,<br />
No cloud is broken to reveal its interior.<br />
All is cloud; all is thick, impenetrable—<br />
Thick with vengefulness, thick with spite and loathing;<br />
Thick with the rage that lifts knife to throat;<br />
Thick with the viciousness that pulls aside the door,<br />
To reveal the promise of the throttle and gauges,<br />
And the gleam of the buildings on the near horizon.<br />
How marvelous to see them! The flames, the smoke,<br />
The promise fulfilled in the mind of the believer,<br />
Over and over until truly fulfilled.<br />
The silver tube now inside the building,<br />
Columns collapsed by the great sweep of metal;<br />
An aluminum scythe in a ripening field.<br />
Each stalk a pillar, a support, an upright,<br />
Held from below, holding above,<br />
Until nothing could hold a moment longer.<br />
How long does it take to un-build a building?<br />
It is over almost before it is begun.<br />
<br />
Third Testimony<br />
<br />
All we could see was dull orange flame licking out of the windows two thirds of the way up the building and smoke billowing up. Looking through binoculars at the flames was even more frightening as you could almost feel the heat. We clung together. Many of us wept, no one knew what to say. It was obvious that many people were dying, that they had no way to get past all that fire. Several of us saw people jumping out of windows. We began to talk of their families. One of us had two nephews who worked there, and he couldn’t stand still. Finally, he reached his sister, and learned that they were all right. Then, all of a sudden, a huge burst of smoke rose from the southern tower and it crumbled and disappeared from sight. Everyone gasped and clutched each other even tighter. It was a completely horrifying experience. Something so permanent, just disappearing. And who was in it, or under it? We stayed longer. And then the second tower erupted in smoke, and sank out of sight. We all gathered in a prayer circle. Jews, Christians, a Moslem, a Buddhist. And we prayed for [the] safety of those in the building and their rescuers, and for strength for the health-care givers, and for strength for the families to deal with their grief and for wisdom to know how to respond skillfully and not vengefully. And then we sang.<br />
<br />
Congregation<br />
<br />
Yitgadal:<br />
We praise the men of Company 18,<br />
And all the companies from all the firehouses,<br />
Who rushed with their brothers into the mouth of chaos,<br />
Who rushed because they could not help but rush,<br />
Who rushed, to be crushed on a sooty morning, <br />
When the city of fifty thousand people <br />
Was suddenly consumed and made no more.<br />
Bless their efforts, bless their heroism.<br />
And bless the heroism of those who helped them,<br />
Who saw the face of God on a darkling day,<br />
And ran towards disaster with hope and mercy.<br />
We praise the doctors and we praise the donors.<br />
We praise the couriers and drivers and cameramen.<br />
We praise the ferry workers and we praise the nurses.<br />
We praise the cooks and we praise the welders.<br />
We praise the friends and we praise the strangers,<br />
From the hewer of wood to the drawer of water.<br />
We praise the women and we praise the men<br />
Who helped the fallen and carried the dead,<br />
And who are at their work this very moment,<br />
Because someone must always attend to the dead.<br />
Give them strength and alertness and stamina and feeling,<br />
So that they can bring to a close what was begun by others.<br />
<br />
Fourth Testimony<br />
<br />
I was on the 70th floor and heard people screaming, “Help me, help me.” I saw people jumping out of the windows. My partner and I started yelling for co-workers. There was water from the sprinklers everywhere. We heard explosions. We were pushed against the floor. I thought my leg was broken. I grabbed the belt of a fireman. (don’t let go, don’t let go). He and his buddy made it out.<br />
<br />
Congregation<br />
<br />
Ve-yitkadash:<br />
And make us holy.<br />
Give us the strength to see the face of God<br />
In those who do not look like us.<br />
Give us the strength to see that all are not alike,<br />
And that a name, a face, the sound of a voice,<br />
Is not the same as guilt; is not guilt at all.<br />
Let our freedom stand without impairment,<br />
Offered freely to those who share this land.<br />
Let justice be done, but let it be worthy justice:<br />
Unhurried, scrupulous, dignified, fair.<br />
Who will stand if unruly men <br />
Throw off the restraints of law and mercy?<br />
No people can withstand the assault of a patriotism<br />
That does not respect the rule of fairness.<br />
Give us calm and patience and understanding.<br />
Give us the strength to abide a time of waiting,<br />
While the future is measured out with wisdom.<br />
Give us all of this, for we will not survive<br />
The fury of our own impatient passions. <br />
<br />
Fifth Testimony<br />
<br />
On Thursday, I left The New York Times, where I have been a staff editor for 23 years, at my usual time, 11:30 a.m., for lunch….On Fifth Avenue, five or six police officers rushed me, made me put my head against a wall and, with threats and curses, spread-eagled me and handcuffed me. Amid a lot of cursing, they searched me. All that time, I asked them what I was being accused of. I told them I was an editor at The Times and that my Times identification was in my right front pocket. They grabbed it and my driver’s license from my wallet, but I remained handcuffed, with my face against the wall, for about 15 minutes. An officer, evidently after consultation with a sergeant, undid the handcuffs and told me I had been detained because someone in the crowd said I had said I had a bomb….I can only imagine that I became a suspect because I was wearing a kufi, a knit cap usually worn by Muslims. I told the officers that I was neither an Arab nor a Muslim, but a Puerto Rican Roman Catholic….Some friends have suggested that I stop wearing a kufi, but I tell them that the day we can’t wear what we want, the day we give up our freedom, is the day the terrorists have won.<br />
<br />
Congregation<br />
<br />
Shmay Raba:<br />
And let us enlargeYour name<br />
With leaders of insight and understanding.<br />
We pray for men and women who will do our will<br />
With firmness, clarity, and resolution.<br />
And we pray for men and women who will do our will,<br />
With a care for children and the weak and vulnerable.<br />
Give them strength and mercy and open hearts.<br />
Let necessity unfold in each form it takes,<br />
But bent to conform to the shape of peace.<br />
We ask for blessing on those who lead us:<br />
Give them knowledge, wisdom, and understanding.<br />
Let them serve our cause as they serve Your cause,<br />
With acumen, courage, sureness, and will,<br />
Tempered by modesty, restraint, and justice.<br />
Give them eyes to see and ears to hear,<br />
So that we come forth in victory to the blessings of peace.<br />
<br />
Sixth Testimony<br />
<br />
I went out the side door. Initially I thought it was a car accident. Then I looked up and saw Tower One of the World Trade Center in flames. It was clear there were hundreds of casualties. Everyone was on cell phones. I’d lost my cell phone and laptop computer when I ran out of the building. I went over to the Hudson River. After I called in to my editor from 3 World Trade Center across the street, there was another wave of panic and people were running everywhere. I went outside and saw Tower Two had been hit, right about in the middle. For a while, I just stared and watched with the other survivors as the tower burned. As I was watching, I heard a gasp and an “Oh no!” Someone had just jumped or fallen from the top of Tower One. I saw three more people fall from Tower One.<br />
<br />
Congregation<br />
<br />
And let us finally pray for the city itself:<br />
Torn, undone, its shining wholeness<br />
Brought low beneath a deluded martyrdom.<br />
Aycha yashva; How does the city sit?<br />
It sits in piles of glass and metal, <br />
And scraps of paper from a thousand offices,<br />
Blown by the ferocious winds of passion.<br />
“She that was great among the nations,<br />
She weepeth sore into the night.<br />
All her pursuers overtook her…<br />
Her adversaries are become the head.<br />
Behold, O Lord, my affliction,<br />
For the enemy has magnified himself;<br />
The adversary has spread out his hand.”<br />
We pray for the day of restoration,<br />
When the city itself is crowned with joy.<br />
Let towers rise on sure foundations,<br />
On streets once littered with twisted fragments,<br />
Now made broad by glad procession.<br />
<br />
Seventh Testimony<br />
<br />
I was sitting at my desk when my body shook and I heard the impact of the first hit. I didn’t know exactly what it was but I know it had to be a bad “accident.” The people on my floor were screaming and I ran to the window to see the West Street side of the blast. I looked out the window and noticed debris falling blocks away, people falling from the sky, people down on the ground, people cowering for cover, and the first fire trucks to arrive on the scene. My building security announced that the problems across the street did not impact us and that we should not panic and stay put. I grabbed my personal effects, just in case. I made it to the lobby and the door was locked. I went down to the next level, which was an exit onto West Street where everything was happening. I turned to run back to the lobby. The group of us banged on the door. I prayed that the towers would not fall over onto my building and that I would <br />
<br />
die. By the grace of God, someone was in the lobby and opened the door. <br />
<br />
Mishebayrach<br />
<br />
We join each other now in words of hopefulness:<br />
Mishebaraych avotaynu Avraham ve-Sarah:<br />
May the God who blessed Abraham, Sarah, and Hagar,<br />
Isaac and Rebecca, Jacob and his family—<br />
Leah and Rachel, Bilhah and Zilpah—<br />
Bless and heal the wounded and the maimed.<br />
Give them and their families courage and hope,<br />
That what began in fire will end in restoration;<br />
That what began in darkness will end in daylight.<br />
Let the burned be made whole;<br />
Let the bent be straightened.<br />
Let the broken be knitted together with love,<br />
And the saved be saved from confusion and fearfulness.<br />
Let each of them stand to bear witness to You<br />
Who are Somaych noflim and Rofay cholim.<br />
We pray for healing of the body and the spirit,<br />
So that the crease of experience yields to consolation.<br />
And let us all say: amayn, amayn.<br />
<br />
Recitation of the Names<br />
<br />
And now we join each other in words of comfort.<br />
Five thousand missing and hundreds dead.<br />
We turn to each other with open palms,<br />
Questions hanging in the dust-flecked air.<br />
Let this gathering close where it first began,<br />
With care for each and every soul<br />
Pulled into the swirl of desolation.<br />
They are gone, and will not walk again,<br />
Or weep or sing or speak our names.<br />
But we, the living, can speak their names<br />
And make the sounds of liberation.<br />
We stand to recite the names of the dead,<br />
And to blow the notes of a festive season<br />
Turned inside out by human suffering.<br />
We stand to recite these eighteen names,<br />
Then the blowing of the shofar and eighteen more.<br />
Eighteen more, and then more again.<br />
We stand to recall until the end of time<br />
Names that will live as long as we remember them.<br />
Let these names stand for all who died,<br />
Who gave their lives or had them taken<br />
In storm and fire, in blood and suffering.<br />
<br />
Names and Teki’ot<br />
<br />
Barbara Arestegui, 38<br />
Jeffrey Collman <br />
Sara Low, 28 <br />
Karen Martin <br />
Thomas McGuinness, 42 <br />
Kathleen Nicosia <br />
John Ogonowski, 52 <br />
Betty Ong, 45 <br />
Jean Roger, 24 <br />
Dianne Snyder, 42 <br />
Madeline Sweeney, 35 <br />
Anna Williams Allison, 48 <br />
David Angell, 54<br />
Lynn Angell <br />
Seima Aoyama <br />
Myra Aronson, 52 <br />
Christine Barbuto, 32 <br />
Carolyn Beug, 48<br />
<br />
Teki’ah<br />
<br />
Kelly Booms <br />
Carol Bouchard, 43 <br />
Neilie Casey <br />
Jeffrey Coombs, 32<br />
Tara Creamer, 30 <br />
Thelma Cuccinello, 71 <br />
Patrick Currivan <br />
Brian Dale, 43 <br />
David DiMeglio <br />
Donald Ditullio, 49 <br />
Albert Dominguez <br />
Alex Filipov, 70 <br />
Carol Flyzik, 40 <br />
Paul Friedman <br />
Karleton D.B. Fyfe, 31 <br />
Peter Gay, 54 <br />
Linda George, 27 <br />
Edmund Glazer, 41<br />
<br />
Teki’ah <br />
<br />
Lisa Fenn Gordenstein, 41 <br />
Andrew Curry Green <br />
Paige Farley Hackel, 46<br />
Peter Hashem <br />
Robert Hayes <br />
Ted Hennessey, 35 <br />
John Hofer <br />
Cora Holland, 52 <br />
Nicholas Humber, 60 <br />
John Jenkins <br />
Charles Jones, 48 <br />
Robin Kaplan, 33 <br />
Barbara Keating, 72 <br />
David Kovalcin, 42<br />
Judy Larocque, 50 <br />
Jude Larson, 31 <br />
Natalie Larson <br />
N. Janis Lasden, 46<br />
<br />
Teki’ah <br />
<br />
Daniel John Lee, 34 <br />
Daniel C. Lewin, 31 <br />
Susan MacKay, 44 <br />
Chris Mello, 25 <br />
Jeff Mladenik, 43 <br />
Antonio Montoya <br />
Carlos Montoya <br />
Laura Lee Morabito, 34 <br />
Mildred Naiman<br />
Laurie Neira <br />
Renee Newell, 37 <br />
Jacqueline Norton, 60<br />
Robert Norton, 82 <br />
Jane Orth, 49 <br />
<br />
Thomas Pecorelli, 31<br />
Berry Berenson Perkins, 53 <br />
Sonia Morales Puopolo, 58 <br />
David Retik<br />
<br />
Teki’ah <br />
<br />
Philip Rosenzweig <br />
Richard Ross, 58 <br />
Jessica Sachs, 22 <br />
Rahma Salie, 28<br />
Heather Smith, 30<br />
Douglas Stone, 54<br />
Xavier Suarez<br />
Michael Theodoridis, 32 <br />
James Trentini, 65 <br />
Mary Trentini, 67 <br />
Pendyala Vamsikrishna <br />
Mary Wahlstrom, 75 <br />
Kenneth Waldie, 46 <br />
John Wenckus, 46<br />
Candace Lee Williams, 20 <br />
Christopher Zarba, 47<br />
Robert Fangman <br />
Michael Horrocks<br />
<br />
Teki’ah<br />
<br />
Amy Jarret<br />
Amy King <br />
Kathryn LaBorie <br />
Alfred Marchand, 4 <br />
Victor J. Saracini <br />
Michael Tarrou <br />
Alicia N. Titus, 28 <br />
Alona Avraham, 30 <br />
Garnet “Ace” Bailey, 53 <br />
Mark Bavis, 31<br />
Graham Berkeley, 37 <br />
Touri Bolourchi, 69<br />
Klaus Bothe, 31<br />
Daniel Brandhorst, 42 <br />
David Brandhorst, 3<br />
John Cahill<br />
Christoffer Carstanjen, 33 <br />
John “Jay” Corcoran, 44<br />
<br />
Teki’ah <br />
<br />
Gloria de Barrera, 82 <br />
Dorothy Dearaujo, 82 <br />
Lisa Frost, 22 <br />
Ronald Gamboa, 33 <br />
Lynn Goodchild, 25<br />
Francis Grogan, 76<br />
Carl Hammond, 37<br />
Christine Hanson, 3<br />
Peter Hanson, 32 <br />
Susan Hanson, 35 <br />
Gerald F. Hardacre, 62<br />
Eric Hartono, 20 <br />
James E. Hayden, 47 <br />
Herbert Homer<br />
Robert Jalbert, 61 <br />
Ralph Kershaw, 52 <br />
Heinrich Kimmig, 43 <br />
Brian Kinney, 29<br />
<br />
Teki’ah <br />
<br />
Robert LeBlanc, 70 <br />
Maclovio “Joe” Lopez, Jr., 41 <br />
Marianne MacFarlane <br />
Louis Neil Mariani, 59 <br />
Juliana Valentine McCourt, 4<br />
Ruth McCourt, 45 <br />
Wolfgang Menzel, 60 <br />
Shawn Nassaney, 25<br />
Marie Pappalardo <br />
Patrick Quigley, 40 <br />
Frederick Rimmele <br />
James M. Roux, 43<br />
Jesus Sanchez, 45 <br />
Kathleen Shearer <br />
Robert Shearer <br />
<br />
Jane Simpkin, 35 <br />
Brian D. Sweeney, 38 <br />
Timothy Ward, 38<br />
<br />
Teki’ah <br />
<br />
William Weems <br />
Charles Burlingame, 51 <br />
David Charlebois <br />
Michele Heidenberger, 57 <br />
Jennifer Lewis, 38<br />
Kenneth Lewis, 49 <br />
Renee May, 39 <br />
Paul Ambrose, 32 <br />
Yeneneh Betru, 35 <br />
MJ Booth <br />
Bernard Brown, 11 <br />
Suzanne Calley, 42<br />
William E. Caswell, 54 <br />
Sarah Clark, 65<br />
Zandra Cooper <br />
Asia Cottom, 11 <br />
James Debeuneure, 58 <br />
Rodney Dickens, 11<br />
<br />
Teki’ah<br />
<br />
Eddie Dillard <br />
Charles Droz, 52<br />
Barbara G. Edwards, 58 <br />
Charles S. Falkenberg, 45 <br />
Dana Falkenberg, 3 <br />
Zoe Falkenberg, 8 <br />
James Joe Ferguson, 39<br />
Darlene “Dee” Flagg, 63<br />
Wilson “Bud” Flagg, 63 <br />
Richard P. Gabriel Sr., 54 <br />
Ian Gray, 55 <br />
Stanley Hall, 68<br />
Bryan Jack, 48 <br />
Steven D. “Jake” Jacoby, 43 <br />
Ann Judge, 49 <br />
<br />
Chandler Keller, 29 <br />
Yvonne Kennedy <br />
Norma Khan, 45<br />
<br />
El Malay Rachamim (Leader)<br />
<br />
Psalm 23<br />
<br />
Adonai is my shepherd, I shall not want—<br />
Giving me repose in green meadows,<br />
Leading me beside the still waters to revive my spirit.<br />
Guiding me on the right path for that is God’s essence.<br />
Though I walk through a valley of the shadow of death,<br />
I fear no harm, for You are with me.<br />
Your staff and Your rod comfort me.<br />
You prepare a banquet for me in the presence of my foes.<br />
You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows.<br />
Surely goodness and kindness shall be my portion all the days of my life.<br />
And I shall dwell in the House of Adonai forever.<br />
<br />
Kaddish<br />
<br />
Yitgadal, ve-yitkadash shemay raba<br />
Be-alma divra chirutay ve-yamlich malchutay<br />
Bechayaychon, u-ve-yomaychon, u-vechayay dechol bayt Yisra’ayl<br />
Ba-agalah u-vi-z’man kariv ve-imru: amayn<br />
<br />
Yehay shmay raba mevorach le’olam ul-olmay almaya<br />
<br />
Yitbarach ve-yishtabach ve-yitpa’ar ve-yitromam ve-yitnasay<br />
Ve-yithadar ve-yitaleh ve-yithalal shemay de-kudsha: berich hu<br />
Le’ayla le’aylah min kol birchata ve-shirata<br />
Tushbechata ve-nechemata<br />
Da-amiran be-alma ve-imru: amayn.<br />
<br />
Yehay shelama raba min shemaya, <br />
Ve-chayim alaynu <br />
Ve-al kol Yisra’ayl ve-imru: amayn.<br />
<br />
Oseh shalom bi-m’romav, hu yas’aseh shalom alaynu<br />
Ve-al kol Yisra’ayl, ve-imru: amayn.<br />
<br />
Oseh Shalom (Congregation)<br />
<br />
Final Testimony<br />
<br />
Hey [Julie], it’s Brian, I’m on a plane and it’s hijacked and it doesn’t look good. I just wanted to let you know that I love you and I hope to see you again. If I don’t, please have fun in life and live your life the best you can. Know that I love you and no matter what, I’ll see you again.<br />
<br />
Teki’ah GedolahRabbi Jason Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07805550465729805847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5161353548990038297.post-42728725526244832922001-09-17T09:41:00.000-04:002011-09-06T01:02:52.274-04:00Rabbi Joseph Forman<center><i>The following sermon was delivered during the 2001 Jewish High Holiday season following the tragic events of September 11, 2001. It has been included on the <b>Torah From Terror</b> website as a resource and retains the copyright of its author. Please cite the source accordingly.</i></center><br />
<br />
Rabbi Joseph M. Forman<br />
<br />
The Yom Kippur of Anger <br />
September 27, 2001<br />
<br />
Traditionally, the High Holy Days are a time when we look forward to the newness of the year, a time when we get a clean slate, and start over, unencumbered by the baggage of the previous year. We read and hear words from our liturgy like “forgive”, “pardon”, “wipe out our transgressions”. <br />
<br />
But this year is terribly different. This new year we do not begin with a clean slate, but one bloodied with the recent violence of terrorism here in America. And rather than relying on our liturgy to awaken us from our usual complacency, we have been jolted from it, making it all the more difficult to start this year in a mood of contrition. Instead, we are filled with horror, fear and uncertainty, and perhaps most of all, anger. And now, the holiest day of the Jewish year is here, calling us to forgive. But this Yom Kippur I am not in a mood to be forgiving. We are not in a frame of mind to forgive. Forgiveness seems impossible this year.<br />
<br />
The Talmud teaches us and our prayerbook reminds us that: “For transgressions against God the day of atonement atones, but for transgressions of one human being against another, the day of atonement does not atone until they have made peace with one another.” (Yoma 8:9) For forgiveness to occur we must make peace with one another. Our tradition is clear: We who have wronged others must seek forgiveness. And we are urged to forgive people who genuinely seek our pardon. Yet the individuals who have carried out these evil acts of terrorism in our nation are not in the least remorseful. They seek no forgiveness. And so we cannot forgive them. We cannot forgive them for their unpardonable atrocities, their sins of genocide. <br />
<br />
This New Year is turned inside out. Typically this is a time when the process of Teshuvah, of repentance and forgiveness, begins. But instead, the senseless acts of destruction upon our nation have marked an end of our forgiving this year. Just as the clouds of dark smoke still smolder in Washington and New York, so does a rage smolder in me, perhaps in each of us. The traditional white robes we wear today, symbols of purity and goodness, contrast with these dark times. We are only now beginning to have a full sense of this nightmare on our nation. The images of September 11th linger before our eyes. The unimaginable scenes from television, the shocking photographs, and the heart-and-gut-wrenching stories in the paper – let alone from people we know – or even our own experiences, cannot be erased from our minds. How unfathomable is our sense of horror at the tragic loss of the lives of thousands of people! We grieve with their families and friends. And just as we saw the World Trade Center crumble before us, so in that moment we also witnessed the end of an era of innocence. We grieve as well over the magnitude of this loss. So much anguish consumes our attention. But we are angry as well. We rage with a fury no less potent than the hate that brought these events about.<br />
<br />
You may hope that soon the fires within us will cool; that soon our lives will, as President Bush has said, return to “almost normal.” Perhaps you even hoped that my words today would comfort you. But because these past two weeks have brought unexpected events and inconceivable emotions, this year I encourage you to do what seems so contrary to the spirit of Yom Kippur: I urge you now to remain angry. Remain angry, because our anger, our fury can ignite a passion within us to redeem our world from the hate that now consumes it. So don’t let go of the images from this month. Allow them and your passion for goodness, for freedom, to inspire you to change our world. Don’t go back to normal or even “almost normal.” Don’t lose those feelings about what is most important to you. Let our anger be the source of strength that rebuilds our nation. <br />
<br />
It is not often in Jewish history that we have openly expressed our rage at those people who have sought to destroy us. But not only have we been the recipients of hatred and anger; there have been times in our history when we Jews have been angered to the point of hate. We have been so angry and so outraged that we have openly railed against our enemies.<br />
<br />
As you know from the story of Passover, after 430 years of Egyptian bondage the Hebrews were freed. In the unfolding drama of the Exodus, the angry god of Israel hardens Pharaoh’s heart, so that Pharaoh will suffer the full wrath of a vengeful God’s punishment. Pharaoh and all the Egyptians are awed by the extraordinary power of our God enabling the Hebrew slaves to make their way safely through the Sea of Reeds. But on their way to Sinai the Israelites met a new enemy, the Amalakites. “Remember what Amalek did to you on your journey,” the Book of Deuteronomy recalls. “How undeterred by fear of God, he surprised you on the march, when you were famished and weary, and cut down the stragglers on your rear.” (Deut 25:17-19) <br />
<br />
The authors of our Torah were so outraged at this act of injustice and cruelty, this terror upon the innocent, the weak, the frail, upon the aged, upon young women and children, that they prescribed in the Torah: “When the Lord God grants you safety from all your enemies around you, you shall blot out the memory of Amalek from under heaven. Do not forget. Lo Tishkach!”<br />
<br />
Amalek has been linked in Jewish literature to Haman, to Rome, to Hitler and Hussein, to every villain we have endured. And now, Osama bin Laden. The lesson of Amalek is that there are events in our history so terrible we must never forget them. Lo Tishkach! Do not forget! <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
And so we remember. We remember Amalek every year -- not once, but twice, on the Shabbat when this portion appears in the Torah, and again on Purim. But why remember? We remember because recalling the injustices we suffered at the hands of our oppressors re-ignites our outrage, our righteous indignation, it fans the flames of an anger burning within us. Our hope is that we will transform this anger into strength and commitment that we will enable our people to change the world for good that we might all live in safety. Lo Tishkach, our Jewish tradition demands. We cannot forget. <br />
<br />
But remembering the evils of Amalek was not the only time we recalled the tragedies of our people. And it was not the only time our fury has raged so viciously.<br />
<br />
Twenty-six centuries ago, in the year 586 B.C.E., the ancient Babylonians conquered Israel. As part of their campaign through Jerusalem, they destroyed our sacred Temple, the holiest site in all of Jewish history. With the sanctuary of our God laying in ruin, our people were exiled to Babylonia. The Israelites struggled to comprehend the magnitude of this tragedy. As an expression of their grief, they wrote the book of Lamentations. “Eicha! Yash’va va’dad ha’ir ra’ba’ti am ha’yita k’al’mana . . . Alas! Lonely sits the city once great with people! How she has become like a widow.” Giving voice to the great agony that swept the Israelites’ now decimated community, the Book of Lamentations is a litany of sorrow and tears. It is read each year on Tisha B’Av, the 9th of Av, the date on which we commemorate the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem. The ancient Biblical writers of Lamentations understood, however, that just as loss and sorrow are part of our humanity, so, too, is anger. Lamentations has several brief verses that express our peoples’ outrage at this cataclysmic destruction. And so, too, do many chapters in the Book of Psalms contain disturbing imagery flowing from our people’s anger at Babylonia:<br />
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Fair Babylon you predator, a blessing on him who repays you in kind what you have inflicted upon us. A blessing on him who seizes your little ones and dashes them against the rocks.<br />
(Psalms 137:8-9) <br />
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Give them, O Lord, their due, according to their deeds. Give them anguish of heart; Your curse be upon them. (Lamentations 3:64-65)<br />
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Many centuries later, during the Crusades, our rabbis added more sharp words to our sacred holiday rituals. For the rabbis, the relentless terrors of the Crusades were too much to bear unanswered. The anger, the fury, emanating from both fear and a sense of helplessness moved them to add the harshest words of Lamentations and Psalms to our Haggadah. For not only did they wish to have every Jewish family openly express their anger at the Easter-time atrocities of the Crusades, but once again, they saw purpose in reciting the angry words of our tradition during the sacred moments of our religious lives. <br />
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Pour out your fury on the nations that do not know you, upon the kingdoms that do not invoke your name. For they have devoured Jacob and desolated his home. <br />
(Ps. 79:6-7)<br />
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Pursue them in wrath and destroy them from under the heaven of the Lord!<br />
(Lamentations 3:66)<br />
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Pour out your wrath upon them; may your blazing anger overtake them.<br />
(Ps. 69:25) <br />
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Jewish life was not easy following the Crusades. The Spanish Inquisition and expulsion after expulsion tossed our people about. But no one could have imagined the atrocities of Hitler and the Nazis. It was only half a century ago that we began to emerge from the smoke and ashes of that long night of terror. The anger we feel from the devastation of the Holocaust has not even begun to fade from memory. But lest from all the suffering we learn nothing, lest we commit the sin of all “good” people: looking away from evil, we Jews have taken an oath to remember our anger. We have established a new sacred day on our calendar, Yom HaShoah, a day of remembrance for all the victims of the Holocaust. And again this Yom Kippur afternoon, this very day, we will retell the history of these martyrs, again invoking our anger, again struggling to give meaning and purpose to the rage of injustice that still – even to this very day – burns within us.<br />
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How familiar the words describing the events from a generation now lost to us seem. They are eerily resonant of the events of two weeks ago:<br />
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Even now the air we breathe is thick with the dust of our martyrs. Do men and women know that they breathe it still? And how can they not feel the earth trembling beneath their feet as they walk upon ground under which so many were thrust without mercy? <br />
(GOR, p.435.) <br />
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Throughout our long history, from Pharaoh and Amalek, to the Babylonians and the Crusaders, even to the Holocaust, we have turned to the artists of language to help us give voice to the rage within us. Prophets, rabbis, and poets -- those who have endured through each generation of hate – have added new layers to our sacred tradition to help us express our anger toward those who wished to destroy us. The billowing dust of destruction – still burning our eyes, still choking our voices -- does not settle. Through it all we still cry out for justice. Our vision, our hope is not yet dimmed.<br />
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So now, at this New Year, on this day of change, let the words of our ancestors help transform our anger, so that we may rid our world of tyrants, and fulfill the words of the Psalmist: “. . .that [evildoers] may be erased from the Book of Life and not inscribed with the righteous.” (Ps. 69: 29)<br />
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In that Book of Life, our liturgy declares: “On Rosh Hashana it is written, on Yom Kippur it is sealed: How many shall pass on, how many shall come to be. Who shall live and who shall die. Who shall be secure and who shall be driven. Who shall be humbled and who exalted.”<br />
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These divinely recorded decrees are ascribed to a god hidden from our sight, one beyond our understanding. But our Reform Judaism sees the work of God carried out in partnership with us. We understand that God is made real by our actions and our deeds. Our future is not yet written, it is not sealed, even after this day has ended. If we seek a world free from the horrors of terror and destruction, then we must rage with a passion for righteousness no less furious than our ancestors’. <br />
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Our expressions of rage today should not come as indiscriminate hatred, even more loss of innocent lives, nor violence toward other people simply because they may share in the heritage and the faith of our attackers. We must remain committed to the diversity of the faces of America, and not allow an unbridled anger to destroy the very liberties our nation was founded upon. <br />
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The sacred moments of our religious life, from the revelry of Purim to the solemnity of these High Holy Days are rife with expressions of anger. And today, in light of the events that have shaken our nation, we have as much reason as our ancestors to rage, to burn with anger and perhaps even hate. But we must not allow our anger to fashion a world created in the image of hate. Our passion must always burn for righteousness. Then, with our anger transformed, can we begin to rebuild our world. And then, and only then, will we inscribe ourselves in the Book of Life and Blessing, of Righteousness and of Peace.<br />
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AMENRabbi Jason Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07805550465729805847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5161353548990038297.post-38200374389449156122001-09-17T09:40:00.000-04:002011-09-08T16:47:56.101-04:00Rabbi Michael Friedland<center><i>The following sermon was delivered during the 2001 Jewish High Holiday season following the tragic events of September 11, 2001. It has been included on the <b>Torah From Terror</b> website as a resource and retains the copyright of its author. Please cite the source accordingly.</i></center><br />
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Rabbi Michael Friedland<br />
Sinai Synagogue<br />
South Bend, Indiana<br />
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Rosh HaShanah - Day I<br />
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September 18, 2001<br />
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Her eyes, I think, will stay with me forever. Imploring, beseeching, full of so much sadness. I think the shock of where and how she was, was sinking in. I can't begin to describe all that was in those eyes.<br />
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Yesterday; Thursday, August 9th the 20th of Av, on my way to work, I found myself walking down Yaffo street. Hungry, I decided to stop and grab a quick bite... at Sbarro's Pizza.<br />
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Walking into Sbarro's there is a larger area for sitting in the front, but the back looked a bit cooler and quieter, so I decided to grab a seat in the back. That decision saved my life.<br />
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Waiting on line, when they brought me my baked Zitti, it was cold. So I asked the woman behind the counter if she'd mind warming it up. "Ein Ba'ayah", no problem, she said with a smile. I will always wonder if that was her last smile on earth...<br />
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A couple of moments later, a fellow from behind the counter came to the back with my baked Zitti. Then he started to speak to someone at one of the tables... That baked Zitti saved his life.<br />
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At about 2PM, I both felt & heard a tremendous explosion, and day turned into night.<br />
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And then the screaming began. An awful, heartrending sound; the sound of people coming to terms with a whole new reality, of people not wanting to comprehend that life has changed forever.<br />
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A woman was lying near the steps to the back. Her eyes were staring straight at me, following me. So full of pain and longing, sadness and despair. I dropped down beside her trying to elicit a response to see if she could speak. And then I watched the life just drain out of her. I tried to get a pulse, to no avail. She died there, on the steps in front of me. She was lying by the table I had decided not to sit at... I recall once, reading a story of a boy who was saved from a near-drowning by a stranger. As the fellow carried him ashore, the boy looked up and said "thanks for saving my life, mister". To which the man responded: "Just make sure it was worth saving...".<br />
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The description by Rabbi Binny Friedman of his experiences at the Sbarro restaurant bombing in Jerusalem captured the sense of serendipity, fate, bad luck or good fortune that swirls around catastrophic events. This past week our country, the mightiest nation in the world, suffered the worst terrorist attack in history. And the description of terror in the Sbarro Pizza attack was replayed a thousand times at the World Trade Center, the Pentagon and on the planes that were used by the murderers as human bombs. Horrible suffering and serendipitous salvation. Tammie Brown told me of a friend of the family who worked on the 99th floor of the Tower. It was such a beautiful morning in New York that Tuesday that he decided to go to the park and davven. That act of prayer literally saved his life. And yet there are stories of tragic fate as well. Barbara Olson the solicitor general's wife, was supposed to take a flight on Monday but in order to celebrate a family birthday flew out Tuesday on flight 77 from Dulles, the plane that struck the Pentagon.<br />
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Rabbi Reuven Hammer, describing the feeling in Israel, but what many must be feeling now in America, said, "There is such a sense of uncertainty that what time of day one chooses to get a haircut may determine whether one will live or die."<br />
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"B'rosh HaShanah yikatayvoon u'vYom Tzom Kippur yehatemun, kamah ya'avrun v'kamah yibareyun, mi yamut umi yehiyeh". On New Year's Day the Decree is inscribed and on the Day of Atonement it is sealed, how many shall pass away and how many shall be born, who shall live and who shall die, who shall attain the measure of man's day and who shall not attain it who shall perish by fire and who by water, who by sword and who by beast..." The Unetaneh Tokef prayer, a cornerstone of the Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur services, articulating a model of life in anxious balance has been at best for us an academic exercise, a guided imagery to get us in the mood for High Holidays. But in the aftermath of the tragic suicide bombings in Israel, still in shock from the terror attacks on American soil we recognize that in fact our fates can be decided in split second decisions we make deliberately or unknowingly.<br />
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The facade that we are in complete control of our destiny is carefully cultivated by the streams of information we absorb: if we eat right, if we exercise the right amount, we will be healthy, if we work hard, save money, diversify our investments, we will be wealthy. Just as the impenetrable twin towers of the World Trade Center have collapsed so to these illusions are shattered. At times like this we avow the reality of our dependence on God. God does give us the ability to take control of our lives but ultimately there are limitations. I think that is why we have seen this outpouring of prayer across America - it is acknowledgment that when the limits of our ability to control a situation have been reached we turn to a different power for strength.<br />
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The liturgy of the High Holiday period reflects this duality of acquiescence and mastery. One example of this liturgy is psalm 27 a psalm we say morning and evening throughout the High Holiday period. Psalm 27 begins with confidence, opening with rhetorical bravado. Hashem ori v'yishi, mimi ira? The Lord is my light and my salvation, from whom shall I fear? But as the psalm proceeds we get a better look at the psalmist's inner state. Al taster paneikha mimeni - don't turn your face away from me, al tazveni- don't abandon me, Al titneni benefesh tzarai - don't hand me over to my enemies. This is not boldness, this is fear and anxiety. This is the response "We will hunt down those terrorists and make them pay" while knowing deep within that a terrorist tragedy could occur tomorrow and the next day and there is very little an open democratic multicultural society can do about it.<br />
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Lulai heemanti b'tuv Hashem - states the psalmist. The New JPS translation notes the oddness of this statement: Had I not the assurance that I would enjoy the goodness of the Lord....and then it trails off. The statement is left incomplete. We are left hanging. What if one does not have the assurance of God's goodness, then what? The impression is made that the psalmist is not as confident as he pretends to be. And neither are we. We also put on a brave front. Like the Dubner Maggid's explanation of the Avinu Malkeynu prayer: We call out Avinu Malkeynu- we want a good new year, Avinu Malkeynu -cancel all the bad decrees, Avinu Malkeynu-annul the evil designs of those who hate, Avinu Malkeynu-destroy our enemies, Avinu Malkeynu-remove all diseases from us, Avinu Malkeynu-bring us back in perfect repentance. and then we say quietly at the end, honenu va'aneynu ki ayn banu ma'asim - be kind to us by responding to our requests since we have no merits that make us deserving of all these things. In the aftermath of the bombings we hear bravado about America defeating terrorism yet deep down I think we all have to admit that the terrorists have achieved an initial success in terrifying us. Life will no longer be the same.<br />
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The difficult truth is that life has always been precarious. We suffer loss daily. The author of Psalm 27 states Ki avi v'imi azvuni vashem ya'asfeni - Though my father and my mother leave me, the Lord will gather me in. Our world is flimsy - our lives are fragile and the ties we have to others are frail. Even parental love is impermanent. Nothing is forever but God. The only difference after the terrorist attacks in New York, Washington, Jerusalem and Tel Aviv is that we have now placed a magnifying glass over that reality.<br />
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But today is Rosh HaShanah. The author of the Tur, a medieval code states despite the image of judgment hanging over our heads we rejoice, we wear white, we have festive meals, we celebrate this day. We can celebrate in good conscience because our Judge recognizes our condition and our background. Atah yodea yitzram ki haym basar v'dam - for you know the nature of their creation. They are flesh and blood. Adam yesodo me'afar vsofo le'afar. B'nafsho yavie lachmo - Man's foundation is from dust of the earth and his end will be in that same dirt. He obtains bread by the peril of life. And therefore unlike the judges in Texas our judge is kashe likhos v'noach lirtzot. Slow to anger and ready to forgive. Today all Americans know what Israelis have known for a long time - the world is not a safe place but it can be a beautiful place. And our psalm offers us three responses as to how we can appreciate and navigate this world.<br />
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Ahat shealti me'et Hashem otah avakesh shivti bvait Hashem kol yemai hayai lahazot b'noam Hashem ulvaker behaeichalo. One thing do I request from God, to dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, to gaze upon the beauty of God and to frequent His Temple. The first response to our anxiety is to seek opportunities to behold God's presence. How is that possible? It is to recognize God's ways in the world. Where was God on that fateful Tuesday of death and terror? God was there in the firefighters who risked and gave their lives to save others. God was glimpsed in the lines of people who sought to give blood, so many people that in two days, the hospitals in New York had enough. God's presence was felt in the doctors and other volunteers who rushed to the scene of the attack and offered to assist the wounded and the rescuers. God was in that poignant moment when from his cell phone Jeremy Glick wished his wife a good life and to look after their baby and then with other passengers forced the terrorists to crash the plane in an empty field, thus saving the lives of untold hundreds.<br />
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This is lahazot b'noam Hashem - to glimpse the beauty of the Lord. The second response the psalmist offers to dispel the unquiet in our souls is Vezbecha v'ohalo zivhei truah ashira v'azamra lashem. I sacrifice in His tent with shouts of joy singing and chanting a hymn to the Lord. In the midst of sadness and gloom we must not despair. Rabbi Nahman of Bratzlav, the great Hasidic Rebbe, concluded his final Shabbat lesson as he was dying with the words "Gevalt! Jews - don't despair! There is no such thing as despair at all". Rav Simha Bunim from Psyscha taught that in Parashat Ki Tavo we read of the terrible curses that will befall the Jewish people if we do not behave properly. The list of curses does not specify any particular sins that will cause these horrors but one - because you would not serve the Lord your God in joy and gladness over the abundance of everything (Deuteronomy 28:47). That is the greatest of sins. There is beauty in our world, there is goodness encircling our domain. We must be prepared to see it and to celebrate it. I suggested in the religious life committee's High Holiday booklets, Rituals and Reflections, that people make a list of all the good that they have done this past year. We need to recognize the good in this world and to rejoice. A hundred people came to evening minyan the night of the attacks and during it we sang "Hiney ma tov u ma naim - how good and how pleasant when brethren dwell together." It was uplifting to share moments of prayer, moments of transcendence with others. We don't know what tomorrow will bring us but at this moment we are alright and we owe it to God and ourselves to sing out and celebrate each moment of life that God gifts to us.<br />
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Finally the psalmist calls out to God Horeini Hashem Derakhecha Instruct me in Your way, O Lord. How shall we learn what that way is? Through commitment to Torah study. Whether you come to minyan or our adult education classes or purchase books at Barnes and Noble or through All Judaica.com. Our tradition is accessible to all. And what is the way of God that the Psalmist seeks? It is the goodness we glimpsed in God's presence. God has told you O man what is good and what the Lord requires of you: Only to do justice and to love goodness and to walk modestly with your God" (Micha 6:8). There was a group of insurance company employees who were in the World Trade Center at the time of the attack. They were on the 81st floor and the head of the office insisted that everyone begin to make the trek down the 81 flights of stairs. On the way down on the 64th floor they saw a woman in a wheel chair. She had no way to get down so two of them picked her up and carried her all the way down 64 flights of stairs in the dark and got her into an ambulance before the building collapsed. That is following God's way - not the perverse desecration of these murderers who presume to act for God's greatness. Each of us must act to do the good that each of us is capable of doing. May we never know the circumstances that led to the acts of heroism last week but each of us in our daily lives can act in ways that increase goodness in the world. Each of us is capable of random acts of kindness. Each of us can use our ability to speak to heal wounds and rifts and not create them. Each of us can stand with our neighbors and friends in times of need.<br />
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The psalmist living 3000 years ago knew well the world that we postmoderns live in. Like us he wanted to project an image of confidence - mimi ira from whom shall I fear. But truly inside he was anxious - al tazveni, don't leave me Lord, don't turn away. Still he had faith in God and that faith was sustaining - he concluded his psalm: Kaveh el Hashem, hazak v'ametz libekha kaveh el Hashem - Have faith in God, be strong and of good courage have faith in God! He had glimpsed the goodness of the world, he could rejoice in it and sought to learn how to act on that goodness. Our world is a frightening place. It is filled with dangers. But we are still alive. Our lives have been spared where others have not. May God grant each of us another year of life and may we make of our lives lives worthy of saving...Rabbi Jason Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07805550465729805847noreply@blogger.com0