To watch the sermon being delivered, click here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i9xEu2HLudU
We are the Hope - Rosh HaShanah 2020 - Rabbi Jill Perlman
Shabbat shalom and shanah tovah. Let me start by acknowledging this moment. How strange this is. How odd that there is a screen between you and me, between you and the folks normally down half a row this way and that. It is strange, yes, but we are grateful we have ways like this in which we are able to still be together – all of us - on these holiest of days.
It is so important to mark time, especially these days. A new year is here to proclaim that life is not on pause. We are not on hold. No - we still love during this time and God knows we cry. We are still creating and dreaming and learning though the how might be different than before.
But still so many of us, I know, are sitting in varied states of despair. I want to say: that I see you. We see you. And I want you to know that whatever it is you are feeling at this time, your Temple Isaiah family is here and will walk with you. We know some of us are struggling with our mortgage or our rent or basic necessities after job loss. We are here for you and ready to provide help. We know some of us are struggling with loneliness. We are here to listen. Some of us are struggling because our homes are not sanctuaries at all, but places of danger. Please reach out. We know some of us are working parents, struggling with being both present in our professional capacities while also making sure our children are learning and growing academically and socially - spiritually as well. I see you. I really see you because I, too, am in the midst of this. And some of us are scared. Really scared. We have health conditions or someone we love does. Some of us long for our families who are far away. We missed family celebrations. Weddings. We missed being present to bury our loved ones. We miss helping our sisters through surgery and meeting our grandchildren in person newly born into this world.
This is hard. This is more than hard. It is excruciating at times.
I asked many of you what you needed me to say at this moment. Your response? Hope. You need hope.
And so, I want to talk about hope.
But not the kind of hope that comes only from above. Or the hope that comes in the form of miracles like the parting of the sea. No, I am going to talk about the hope that is you. You are your own best hope. And mine, too. No, I am not talking to someone else on the screen. Not the box above you or below. I’m talking to you. And I need you to hear me. Because I believe in you and I need you to believe in you, too.
I know there are too many days when you have felt like Sisyphus pushing that rock up the hill only to have it fall back down upon you. We all engage in the same striving and wondering if we are capable of enacting change and making a difference. Will we ever get to the top of this seemingly insurmountable hill we are all climbing?
A global pandemic. Racial injustice. Fire, smoke, eerie orange skies. A planet with a climate clearly out of control. And leaders who seemingly do not know what to do. Or worse – who do but refuse to act.
I know you feel out of control. I do, too. And we just want someone to fix this for us.
Let us remember though that this is not the only time in our people’s history and in human history when we’ve wished for a miracle.
In his book, There is no Messiah – And You’re It, Rabbi Robert Levine recounts a conversation with a little girl about Elijah and the cup we set out for the prophet at our Passover seders. She asks what it’s for. He shares that we set it out every year hoping that this will be the year that Elijah makes an appearance at our doorstep for Elijah is to announce the coming of the messiah, the one who will repair our world. She considers this and asks, “Why are you still waiting? Why don’t you do it yourself?”
Children know how to tell the truth, don’t they? Why don’t we do it ourselves?
After all, it’s not as if we haven’t known about our country’s gaping wounds and long history with racism before this summer. It’s not as if we didn’t forecast longer, hotter, drier summers years ago. It’s not as if we don’t know by now the ways in which we can curb the spread of this virus.
In hoping for the messiah as our people have for millennia, this one that will create our new world, have we opted out of our own sense of responsibility? What would it look like if our job wasn’t just to wish, but to do? If we evolved from merely opening the door for Elijah to claiming Elijah’s role for ourselves and boldly announcing to the world that these are the days of change and transformation. And the messianic age is here. We are our messiahs, our own best hope for a new world and it begins today.
Moshiach, the Hebrew word for messiah, means the anointed one. Let us stop waiting and wishing. Let us grab the oil and anoint one another. Let us pour the oil down our own heads because this moment needs us. We must choose whether we will step up and serve or we will run away from our responsibility. Our world depends on us. Our children depend on us.
The messiah is no bystander. These days don’t need bystanders. They need you.
In moments like this, some have resisted their obligation and service to the greater good for these moments test us and they ask us to sacrifice. But what would have happened if Abraham had resisted the call? Or King David? Or Harriet Tubman? Or Malala Yousafzai or Greta Thunberg?
How would our world look different if we were all a world of bystanders who hoped someone else would do the hard work for us?
Even the most miraculous moments in our most sacred texts don’t picture us as bystanders hiding on the sidelines or as victims waiting for a savior. No. Even in the moment right before the biggest miracle of them all, the Exodus and the parting of the sea, our Torah paints for us this picture: Moses cries out to the people, “Stand by. Witness God’s miracle!” But God having none of that bellows back, “Why are you crying out to me? Tell the people to move forward!”[1]
And isn’t the same true for us today? When we wait and watch for a miracle, we are not doing our part. And our part, God says, is to move forward. To get going. To act.
But I’m too broken, you say, and it’s just too hard. You look around and say, the world is already too broken, too.
There is a story of a cat who caught a bird, held onto to it for a while and then lost interest and let the bird go. The bird, newly freed, checked itself over, tested its wing, but still didn’t fly. Why? You see, the bird was still caught in its own brokenness.[2]
Does that story carry truth for you?
The brokenness has gotten inside of us. In our heads and our hearts. Too much has happened; it’s piled up and even when the cat lets go, it turns out that we no longer believe we can fly.
Fortunately for us, Judaism has always been about transformation. And accepting the broken as a sacred part of who we are. There’s holiness inside of you, too. Brokenness doesn’t sully that. When those first tablets were broken at Sinai after we had fallen and made grave mistakes with the Golden Calf, did we throw those broken tablets out? No. We simply placed them in the holy ark alongside the new ones and we carried them with us out of the wilderness into the Promised Land. They stayed in the ark always, reminding us that brokenness is a part of who we are; it tells our story. Brokenness is holy, too. We remember every single time we fell down because it is a reminder of every single time we stood back up.
Who is going to get us out of all of this? You are, carrying all that holy brokenness with you. That is how we grow; that is how we transform and remember how to fly.
When our ancestor Jacob leaves home, he has a vision that God is with him; angels ascended and descended in his midst. Even when he was far away from home enduring difficult challenges, the powerful knowledge that he carried God with him wherever he travelled gave him strength.
When we too feel lost, when we feel like we are in our own exile, let us remember God is with us wherever we may be. May we awaken like our ancestor Jacob did and exclaim with awe, Holiness follows me everywhere and through anything!
I am filled with hope when I remember: We are not alone.
The Rambam, the 12th century Jewish philosopher, embodied hope when he encouraged us to say: “I believe with perfect faith in the coming of the messiah. Even though he may tarry, still I do believe.”
Now replace the word messiah with the word goodness. For what is the Messiah, but goodness? I believe with perfect faith in the coming of goodness. Even though it may tarry, still I do believe.
Replace the word messiah with kindness: I believe with perfect faith in the coming of kindness. Even though it may tarry, still I do believe.
Replace the word messiah with justice. I believe with perfect faith in the coming of justice. Even though it may tarry, still I do believe.
Whether or not you believe in a personal messiah matters not. Do you operate with hope in your heart? Then I believe in you. And you should, too.
I believe with perfect faith that we will wake up, my brothers and sisters and we will bring goodness, kindness, and justice into this world. Even though we may tarry, still I do believe.
Some of us have been shaken to the core in all that has befallen our world. Some of us very personally have felt the assault of their virus. Others of us have had our worlds turned upside down by another loss this year.
And it’s hard to get back up again. It is hard to see hope when the sun is smothered in smoke and the light can’t get through. But you can do this. The biggest mountain to overcome is not external; it’s not out there. It’s here [point to heart]. Don’t believe yourself when you say you are too broken or our world is too far gone. Don’t believe them when they say you don’t matter or that our vote doesn’t matter or that our kindness doesn’t matter or that tending to the vulnerable makes us weak.
Don’t let the meanness of politics right now diminish your power. Don’t let the overwhelm caused by simultaneously schooling our children at home while holding down a job take away your sense of self. Don’t let the loneliness of this moment define who you are. You know who you are.
You have purpose. Feel it welling up inside you. You are meant to make a difference. These holy days wrench us out of the mundane and remind us that we are each so precious and so worthy – and the world is counting on us to remember that we are powerful.
When God first calls to Abraham, the father of our people, of us, God proclaims: Ve’h’yeih bracha.[3] And you shall be a blessing. That is a command! BE a blessing.
God, you remind us every day when we listen that we have sacred purpose. God, you are knocking at our hearts. Your shofar is calling to wake us up, reminding us that we must work to follow your command to be blessings in this world.
Our purpose will manifest in different ways: for some, as advocates for responsible action on climate change and for others, to be models for doing the deep, introspective work of examining our own implicit biases. We will be blessings when we realize what we do matters – and that we don’t live in silos, but are interconnected for good and for bad. The mask we wear during this pandemic can quite literally save a life. The smoke from our fires drifts and chokes our neighbors. We matter, each and every one of us. And we get to choose whether we will save this world or destroy it.
Everything has changed. But so have we. We have grown. We are transforming every day to hold this world and re-shape it into something new and wonderful. A world that values caring for the vulnerable, taking care of our planet, eschewing standing on the sidelines, re-establishing that while winning isn’t everything, a hand that pulls you up is.
This will not be easy. It will require everything of us. Our strength. Our courage. And yes, our fear, too. We need not be fearless.
Many of us know the line, Kol ha’olam kulu gesher tzar me’od. The whole world is a very narrow bridge. V’ha’ikar lo l’fached klal – and the important thing is not to be afraid. It’s wonderful and makes for a great song, but it is not the original text.
Rebbe Nachman never said lo l’fached – do not be afraid. He used a different version of the verb in the reflexive, lo l’hitpached. How different and frankly more real a line it is when we read, when we sing: The whole world is a very narrow bridge. The most important thing is to not make yourself afraid.
You see it’s not fear that’s the problem. It’s whether or not we let that fear control us and stop us and shrink us and make us believe we have nothing left to give.
If you are afraid right now, you are not alone. If you are afraid right now, let me venture to say that that is good – for it means you are awake and aware and you have noticed that our world is on fire. What matters most is what we do with that fear. Will it paralyze us, will we stick with the status quo, or will it launch us forward over that narrow bridge to become our best selves?
I know your heart is broken – mine is, too - but don’t let your fear make you pick up those broken pieces and clumsily glue back together because you are so desperate for normalcy to return. No, notice the pieces. And see them for what they really are. Scream about the brokenness. The pieces of our hearts strewn all about the floor are alerting us that there is something terribly wrong within us and around us. We have hidden our brokenness for too long. That is precisely why we are here. We keep sweeping the truth of our wounded planet under the rug. We keep sweeping systemic racism and our part in perpetuating it under the rug. Bandaids won’t solve anything when it’s our whole body that is sick.
I am not here to tell you that it will all be okay every day. I am not here to tell you that it will be okay soon. But I am here to walk beside you as we work together to answer God’s call to be blessings.
The little girl wonders about Elijah’s cup on the table. Do we have the courage to tell her that we are waiting no more and that Elijah has arrived and is already in our midst? Do we have the chutzpah to no longer sit on the sidelines and to boldly announce that these will be the days of our change and transformation? Do we feel our own sense of purpose welling up inside of us?
Do you believe in yourself?
I do.
This will all seem impossible until it’s done, until we’ve stood up and given this world our all. I believe in you. It is you who will change this world. It is you who will transform it. It is you and has always been you. It is you who inspires hope in me. And I believe in us. We – all of us - are our own best hope – and the moment begins now. So let’s get to work.
Shabbat shalom. Shanah tovah.
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