Pockets
Kol Nidre 5777
Rabbi Jill
Perlman
Every year at
the beginning of the second semester of our tenth grade confirmation experience
here at Temple Isaiah, I create two concentric circles of chairs, one facing in
and one facing out so that my students can look one another in the eye as I ask
them a series of questions. Every once in a while I say switch and the inner
circle moves down by one.
It’s like speed
dating…but not.
I ask them to
listen to their partner, not to judge, to share only what they’re comfortable
sharing. There are ten or so simultaneous conversations happening at once
between pairs; it’s a beautiful cacophony of story. After a few questions about
winter vacation and favorite activities to get us comfortable, I start to dig
deeper.
Describe a time in your life when you
felt powerful.
After a few “well,
what do you mean, powerful?” type of questions, the conversations take off.
There’s an energy to them. These young men and women sound powerful as they share
stories of their own power. I hear someone talking about serving on student
council and another about what it feels like to be a mentor, making a
difference in a young person’s life.
I call out,
Switch.
Describe a time in your life when you
felt powerless.
There’s some
pause here. There almost always is. And then the stories start. A time when
someone was bullied. Or someone watched from the sidelines as someone was being
bullied. Someone else speaks about a death in the family.
Switch. And
we’re back to power.
Describe a time in your life when you saw
injustice and you acted on what you saw.
Switch.
Describe a time when you didn’t act on an
injustice you saw.
Switch.
What is the biggest injustice you see in
the world that needs to be addressed?
Switch.
What keeps you up at night?
The tone always
changes after these conversations. Many students are leaning forward. There’s
personal investment now. I’ll bring them to text later that evening; we’ll dive
into what Judaism has to say about power and powerlessness. But first, we begin
with them. For they are each an eternal text. I want them to know that they are
each Torah with wisdom and holiness just as each one of us is.
I begin this
semester, which is focused on Judaism and Justice, asking these questions to
help our young men and women understand that they are indeed powerful. They can
do amazing things. They can mentor and help and challenge and stand up and
educate themselves to better themselves and the world.
And I also want
them to tap into their own powerlessness. For they are that, too.
At ages 15 and
16, these extremes are at their fingertips. They’re on top of the world, discovering
something new every day,… but they also need a bathroom pass at school because we
don’t yet trust our teenagers. (We should by the way.)
And that’s life
no matter how old we are. It just plays out in different ways. Balancing our
extraordinary power with our extraordinary powerlessness.
We have two pockets
and in those two pockets, we should carry two notes. One note should read: Bishvili
nivra ha’olam—“For me, the world was created.” And the other: V’anokhi
afar v’efer—“I am but dust and ashes.”[1]
We are at the
heart of the universe and yet nothing really at all.
A historian once
said, “Astronomically speaking, man is almost insignificant.” But it was a theologian
who said, “Astronomically speaking, man is an astronomer.”[2]
We are the
tellers of our own tale, you see. The spinners of our own story. We are
significant or insignificant, powerful or powerless based on our own interpretation.
We decide that we matter…
If you’re
convinced that the world is meaningless, then yes, the world as you experience
it around you will probably affirm your assumption. If you understand that you
have a purpose on this earth, then in all likelihood, all will appear to align
for you on your journey. We are the ones in charge of connecting the dots. We are
the ones who recognize beauty in the chaos.
Upon reading the
first few chapters of Genesis, a close reading reveals that there are two
creation stories with which we need to contend, two stories of how we, human
brings came to be.
In the first
account, which primarily makes up what we know as Genesis Chapter 1, man is
given the mandate to take charge of the world and some read to subdue it. The
great Jewish thinker, Joseph Soloveitchik calls this first human being Adam I
or Majestic Man.[3]
The Man who wields control over creation.
The second Adam,
in our second account of the creation of the world, is the Adam who is the
keeper of the garden charged with taking care rather than control of it. This
is the Adam over which God proclaims, “It is not good for man to be alone.”[4]
He is the Adam who needs relationship. Soloveitchik refers to him as Adam II or
Covenantal Man. He works in partnership with the earth, with other human
beings, and with God. He seeks no need to rule it.
Scholars,
rabbis, readers – we’re all puzzled by this double account of creation. Why do
we have both? Did the great Editor up there flub, make a mistake?
Soloveitchik chides
us on taking everything so literally. He offers that we have both accounts because
they are both true in that they both reveal something essential about who we
are as human beings. These two variant Adams are the opposing sides of human
nature. Whereas Adam I is our ambitious self, Adam II is the inner, the moral
side of our being. Whereas Adam I wants to rule the world – and could, Adam II simply
wants to serve it.
In every one of
us abides these two Adams and we have no one single home.[5]
We need Adam I.
He gets things done. He creates, he dreams big, he leads the team. He
strategizes to get the win on the football field or in the conference room. He
asks for a raise when we deserve it. He is our urge to strive for excellence in
all that we do.
We need Adam II.
He quiets us down. He reaches out for help. He takes our emotional and
spiritual temperature. He asks: what is life asking of me, what am I asking of
life?
Adam I wants to
know how the world works. Adam II wants to know why. Why in every way. What is our purpose, why are we here.[6]
Those two
pockets? The teaching continues: At times when we are arrogant and smug, when
we begin to lose our grounding on this earth, when Adam I is all that we are, that is when we are to reach into our
pocket and pull out the note that reads: I am but dust and ashes.
And at times,
when we feel that we are not enough, that the world is too overwhelming, when
we wonder if we have the right to speak up and even if we do, will it make any
difference at all, that is when we
are to reach our hand into the pocket with the message: For me, the world was
created. I can do something.
It’s all in
discerning when to pull out the right note; it’s all in discerning when we have
let the pendulum swing too far to one side or the other.
Now we know that there are those of us who live in the world of believing that we are only dust and ashes. We feel like we are never enough. We are not smart enough, not nice enough, not rich enough, not brave enough, not pretty or handsome enough. We re-play mistakes we’ve made in a never-ending blooper reel in our heads. Life is more moments in the dark than in the light. We feel lost in the crowd. We wonder: does anybody know I am here? I’m screaming and nobody hears me. For those who live primarily in dust and ashes, this is the year – please - to reach into the other pocket and remember: the world, it was created for you. You are powerful. You are enough.
And there are those of us
floating, those of us who feel more than confident that yes, the world is
indeed ours. We are not only smart enough, we are smarter. We are not only nice
enough – we are the nicest. We have all the answers. We’ve got this. You don’t
even need to show up, that’s how much we’ve got this. For those basking in the
light, this is the year to reach into the other pocket and remember: you, too,
will return to this earth as you came for the dust always returns to the dust.
And this needs
to be said as well: I cannot ignore the gendered nature of these extremes. Whereas
self-esteem is expected in men, self-aggrandizement is expected in women.
Humility as a
behavior can play out as subservience, and subservience used to be a necessary
expectation of women and still is to a degree. We don’t have to look very far
back in our history to know that women in particular were taught to put others’
needs well before their own. The pendulum for women shifted so far over to the
selflessness side that when a woman ventured forward to step into her own
ambition, she was treated as treif. She’s not very lady-like. We still feel
those ripples today... don’t we?
It is more than
time to re-calibrate. This is a journey about noticing how much space you take
up in the universe. It is time to ask yourself: Are you always the loudest
voice in the room? If so, then step back, leave room for other voices. Or is
your voice always missing? If so, it is time to step in and speak up.
If you are
unsure which pocket you need to look in, it’s the one instinctively you don’t
want to look in – that’s the one.
The world was
created for me. I am but dust and ashes. The truth is that most of us live at
neither extreme. Women and men alike, we all
struggle with the need for control and the realization that there is little
control to be had.
These two
pockets, these two life messages – they’re both painfully and poignantly true.
The world is ours. We are unique. We have power. It is up to us. Up to us
whether we will do something with our existence, give something back – or not.
And it is also true that the world will continue spinning long, long after we
are gone. Most of our names will not be remembered in a few generations. In 100
years, God-willing, this room will be filled with all new people.
On Rosh Hashanah,
the day on which we celebrate the birth of the world, it’s easy to feel like
anything is possible; indeed, it’s all for us. And today, on Yom Kippur, the
day on which we mimic death - no food, no drink, no sex, traditionally dressed all
in white as we might be at our own funerals, a day full of repentance – it’s
easy to feel as if the dust is returning to the dust.
From the Talmud,
we are taught to repent one day before our death.[7]
Most of us, however, have no idea when that day will come. Will it be tomorrow,
will it be next year, will it be in forty years? To repent one day before our
death when that day is an unknown means every day is, of course, a potential
last day. Abraham Joshua Heschel wisely knew: “The fact of dying must be a
major factor in our understanding of living...”[8]
Not in that
Carpe Diem, Seize the day kind of way. No, it has to be more. There has to be
more to life than our own happiness and our own pleasure.
Can being honest
about our mortality have the power to change how we live?
Each night in our home, after we turn out the lights, as my children lie in their beds, we ask them:
What was your favorite part of the day? They share their worst parts, too. Sometimes, we talk about something that we could have done better as we get square with our lives before bed.
And then comes gratitude. We ask: what do you need to say thank you for?
I am thankful Josh shared his snack. I am thankful for the rain because the plants needed it. I am thankful you took me to karate. I am thankful for you, Mom, for you Dad.
…And we’re thankful for you, Lev and you, Eli, and you, Maya.
The 24th Psalm: The
earth is God’s, everything within it, the world and all who dwell on it.[9] In
other words, we’re all renters on this good earth. We own nothing. Being honest
about our mortality can ground us in gratitude and provide a new perspective on
making meaning in this life.
Thank you, God,
that we have been blessed to open our eyes one more day. This world is a
beautiful place – it really is. And it deserves that we open our eyes in
radical amazement and awe to take it all in. I know that it doesn’t always feel that way. To me either. It’s difficult to parse the beauty when so many are in pain. When children in Aleppo are rescued from collapsed buildings literally covered in dust and ashes, when water fills the streets in Haiti and too few are taking notice, when so many are disillusioned to say the least about the current presidential campaign and the possible future of our country.
If the world was indeed created for us, then what are we doing to it?
Well, as Uncle Ben said to Peter Parker, “With great power comes great responsibility.”[10]
In other words as we say at our Passover tables: B'chol dor vador chayav adam lirot et atzmo k’ilu hu yatza miMitzrayim. “In every generation, one is obligated to consider oneself as if one personally had come out of Egypt.”[11] I came out of Egypt. Me. And you. You came out of Egypt, too. There was a journey and we made it to the other side. It’s a template for hope.
The story of the
Exodus isn’t just a story of the past. It was never meant to be. It’s for us –
now. Rebbe Nachman teaches, “The Exodus occurs in every human being in every
era in every year in every day.”
We were slaves
and we use our humble beginnings, this memory of who we were, memories that
trigger our own sense of powerlessness in this world today to push us to courageously
right our wrongs, to make this world more whole. To do the sacred work of
rescuing the refugee and rebuilding homes lost in the hurricane and speaking up
for a better future.
Because our humility
is our strength. Our marginalization is our power. The world is made of dust so
of course, this world was made for us as we are made of dust as well.
This is what I believe: We are enough, but the world is not yet
enough. We as human beings are enough, but the world is not yet enough.
It is from our
suffering that our compassion is born. And so we need to urgently get to work
showing and sharing that compassion.
One last story: A
woman was traveling on a train to be with her family. As she leaned out through
an open window, one of her gloves fell out. She reached into her other pocket,
took out the other glove and threw it out the window, too. Some people watching
her asked her why she tossed the glove away. She said, “After losing the first
glove, I realized that the second one was not necessary for me, but perhaps
someone outside the train would find both and use them.”[12]
This story is
about more than a glove. It’s about recognizing that loss can lead us to living
out our lives with love and compassion for someone outside of ourselves. That
is how we begin to make the world feel a little more enough.
Rabbi Larry
Hoffman visited us a few weeks ago to kick off what will be a year-long process
of visioning for our future, determining who we are and who we will be as the Isaiah
community. What are we really all about? What values are at our center?
There will be a
series of conversations throughout the year, including one tomorrow at 2:15
during our traditional Yom Kippur study session. These high holy days are a
reflective time for each one of us as individuals, but it is also our time as a
community to reflect as well.
On vision and values
and purpose, on creating a world of enough, let me offer this. There is infinite
wisdom in those two notes in those two pockets.
I believe that
we are stronger when we are a community that challenges us each to cultivate a genuine
sense of humility. We appreciate all of your accomplishments, all of your Adam
I-ness, but we are about nurturing your Adam II here. That moral center that
guides the rest of your life.
Yom Kippurim
sounds an awful lot like Yom C’Purim,
a day like Purim. The day of masks.
Perhaps it is to remind us of the masks we wear every day, how we try to hide
who we truly are.
Well, my hope is
that today and for all of your tomorrows, you know that you do not need to wear
those masks here. And we want to help create a world where you feel you do not
need to wear them out there either, where no one does.
We have humble
beginnings. One is obligated to see oneself personally coming out of Egypt – why? Not only so that we can be linked
to our past, but so that we can be linked with all who suffer. We’re in this
together.
We are and we
must be a community that realizes that even though we are but dust and ashes, we
are still enough – and in a world that it not yet enough, there is work to be
done, so much work… and so, let’s get to it.
As the prophet
Micah proclaimed, we must act justly, love mercy, and humbly walk with our God.[13]
Astronomically speaking,
we may be insignificant, but theologically
speaking, we are God’s partners on this earth. And that makes all the difference.
Shanah tovah. G’mar tov.
[1] Teaching of Rabbi
Simcha Bunam of Peschischa.
[2] From “Two Pockets” by
Rabbi Joshua Davidson in Naming God,
edited by Rabbi Lawrence Hoffman. The referenced historian is Harry Elmer
Barnes and the referenced theologian is George Albert Coe.
[3] From The Lonely Man of Faith, Joseph
Soloveitchik.
[4] Genesis 2:18.
[5] Line adapted The Lonely Man of Faith, Joseph
Soloveitchik.
[6] My thinking here on
Soloveitchik’s two Adams has been inspired by David Brooks in his book, The Road to Character.
[7] Pirkei Avot 2:10.
[8] Heschel, “Moral
Grandeur and Spiritual Audacity.”
[9] Psalm 24:1.
[10] From Spiderman.
[12] Story from Rabbi Joseph Potasnik found at: http://www.beliefnet.com/faiths/judaism/2009/08/hope-and-encouragement-for-tough-times-from-jewish-leaders.aspx?p=8#G44cftXjSfQkl8TT.99
[13] Micah 6:8.
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