Vision For East End Temple (Yom Kippur)
JUDGMENT
At the start of a new year, we ask ourselves questions. In fact, they are the biggest questions of them all: who shall be tranquil and who shall be troubled, who shall be poor and who shall be rich, who shall live and who shall die? When we hear these questions, we know they are not just poetry, not just liturgy. In our own lives, they are real.
The Unetane Tokef, which we are about to pray, asks us those questions. And it provides an answer as to how they will be resolved. God, it says, is “Judge and Arbiter, Counsel and Witness.” It sounds as if we stand before a God who weighs our deeds from the past year. God then either rewards us with health and well-being, or punishes us with illness, suffering, even death. In this model, God is a being who is far away from us, a judge who is strict, harsh, even merciless.
This understanding, however, is only one particular theology, one possible description of who God is, and what God does. And there is a big problem with this theology. We all know that wonderful people, who do good in the world, sometimes become ill and die at too young an age. We know that people who cause others harm sometimes prosper. We see this in the Bible, and we see it in our own lives and in the world around us.
So we may need a new theology to help us understand the words of the Unetane Tokef, and resolve the challenging questions of our lives.
I was introduced to such a new theological approach by my teacher at the Institute for Jewish Spirituality, Rabbi Nancy Flam. I offer it now in the hope that it can help alleviate some of our suffering, and deepen our sense of connection to something bigger than ourselves, even when things are not easy in our lives.
In the Unetane Tokef, God is called judge. Yom Kippur, coming up next week, is also called Yom Din, the day of judgment. But in order to say that what happens in our lives is not an individual judgment on us, we have to see judgment, din, not as reward or punishment. Rather, judgment is the setting of limits, the creating of boundaries that we need for life to exist. A judge, in a court, decides what falls within the bounds of the law, and what is outside the bounds. When God created the world and all life, God did so by setting limits. God separated light and darkness, land and sea, the types of plants, animals, and finally, humans. We are what we are. We are not what we are not. God’s judgment, in this new model, is morally neutral. It simply defines life, and makes it possible.
In this way, illness is not a punishment, and not an individual decision upon us. Rather, it is simply a reflection of the limits of our physical being that is part of Divine judgment, of limit-setting. Our bodies are limited. We all experience illness, and we all die. Similarly, there are limits to our own personal capacities, limits to the financial system we live within, and limits to the resources of our world. Living within these limits is hard; it sometimes causes us pain, sometimes even unbearable pain. But the fact that our bodies are susceptible to illness, and that our lives are vulnerable, is not an individual punishment for us; rather, it is a fundamental category of existence that makes us the same as every other person who has ever been, or ever will be.
When we hear any bad news, including the news of someone’s death, we are told to say the blessing Baruch atah Adonai, eloheynu melech haolam, dayan haemet. Blessed are you, Adonai our God, the Judge of Truth. In this new definition, we are not calling God the Judge who decided that this person deserved to die right now. Rather, we are acknowledging God whose judgment made us all finite, because nothing, except for God, is infinite.
And fortunately, judgment, din, is not the only force with which God created life. There is also rachamim, mercy. In fact, there is a midrash that says that God originally thought to create the world with din alone, but then realized that the world would not stand without the softening affect of rachamim, mercy. Mercy is what makes it possible for us to endure the suffering that judgment sometimes brings us. We bring mercy into the world when we visit the sick, comfort the mourner, and clothe the naked. Our job as human beings, and as Jews, is to continually weight the scales more and more to rachamim. In the words of Unetane Tokef, that we will soon pray, we ma’avirin et roa hagzera, we "temper judgment’s severe decree." Judgment is morally neutral, but how we respond to it, with mercy, can be morally good. We can’t overturn the limits of din, but with rachamim we can soften their effects, and even push against those limits too.
There is also a challenge in this new theology. It says there is no intended message in our troubles, and that may be hard to accept. When we have an illness, we may wish to find its silver lining, for example, what it can teach us about our priorities in life. But if illness is just an instance of our being limited, and not a specific Divine message, then even if being ill may be a profound time for us, it is inherently no more meaningful than being well.
Two years ago, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. She required multiple surgeries, and heavy chemotherapy over much of a year. It was a tough time for her and my father, and we all worried about her. Thank god, now, she’s doing fine. And the experience did cause her to appreciate much in her life in a new way. But this theology says that her cancer was neither a punishment nor an intentional opportunity. We are neither more connected to God, or to meaning, nor are we less connected to God, or to meaning, when we are sick, or struggling. This new theology, with a new definition of judgment, means that we don’t have to add to our suffering a layer of questioning what I did to deserve it. And even if illness does prompt a new appreciation or awareness, that is not an explanation why we were given an illness either. We didn’t get sick for a Divine reason. We got sick because of biology.
So if we don’t see intentional meaning in our illness or our other struggles, where do we find meaning? Where do look for connection to something deeper, perhaps, to God?
All talk about how God works is speculative, is strictly an intellectual exercise, until we hold it up to the lens of our own life experience. What we can know for sure about God and how the universe works, all we can know for sure, is what we sense, and what we feel. It is the kind of knowing we do with our whole being. To know what we sense and feel, we have to be present, and allow ourselves to fully engage in what is real, as opposed to what we hope, or fear, may become real. What do I smell, see, and touch, right now? What am I feeling, in my heart, right now? It might have been different yesterday, and it surely will be different in the future, but no matter. That is not now. We can make a choice to be present to what is real, to all that is real, right now.
That means being present both to din, and to rachamim, to judgment and to mercy.
Being present to din means feeling the results of life’s limits, however painful. What are the limits of my body? What are the limits of the length of my life? We also can try to be present to all of rachamim, of mercy. How are we supported by others in our struggles, right now? How do we feel connected to others by reaching out to them in their struggles? How do we perceive the presence of beauty, and of love, in all their wondrous forms?
The way to feel well, to be okay, no matter what is going on, is to be whole. That means being in touch with all that is real in our life, and not cut off from anything, even from what is hard. We try to be really present to the wonderful moments, and enjoy them fully. We also try to be present in the painful moments, and let ourselves feel that, too. The hope is that with this kind of awareness, pain will be more tolerable, and pleasure will be greater. That’s why I say there is no special message in illness. That is because there is just as much message, and meaning, potentially, at all times.
A model that Rabbi Flam offers for this kind of spiritual openness is that of being a parent. So if you are a parent, consider your own child for a moment. If you are not, consider any child whom you have cared about. As parents or adults who care about children, we strive to be present to all the experiences of our children, not just the pleasant ones. We hope to be fully with them when they experience joy, and equally so when they feel frustration, disappointment, or pain. We know that a life of pleasure alone is what we might wish for our kids, but it is not reality. We want to help prepare our children to experience everything fully, to endure and even thrive, no matter what will come their way.
So too we must try to be present to the variety of our own experiences, to pain and to pleasure, not seeing some as good and some as bad, as reward or as punishment, but rather, all as part of the whole of our lives. Our tradition teaches us that all experience comes from the same source. The Zohar, the essential text of Jewish mysticism, says “There is no place where God is not.” In this theology, God is not far away, powerful, sending us reward and punishment. God is right here, in every experience, at every moment.
And when, no matter how hard we try, we just can’t find that kind of presentness to all that is going on in our lives, we can still try to help others find it. We can still turn to the people we love and help them feel that their suffering is not a punishment, and that it is okay to feel all that is real in their lives. Every experience is a way to feel connected, to feel meaning, to be fully alive. When we allow ourselves to be open to more of life, we are open to more of the reality of the Divine.
We turn now to the Unetane Tokef.
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VISION FOR EAST END TEMPLE
Yom Kippur 5770
A few weeks ago, in the social hall after services, I introduced myself to a middle-aged woman I didn’t recognize. Turns out, she was visiting from another city. She told me the name of her home synagogue. I told her I had heard many good things about it, and that it sounded like a wonderful place. Oh yes, she said, that place has changed my life.
When we consider what we want from Jewish community, from a synagogue, from East End Temple, that woman’s assessment pretty much sums it up. We need to be a community that changes people’s lives.
The first verses of this morning’s Torah portion capture the call to become such a community. "You stand this day, all of you, before your Eternal God, the heads of your tribes, your elders and officers, every one in Israel, men, women and children, and the strangers in your camp, from the one who chops the wood to the one who draws the water." At EET, we are a wonderfully diverse community: young, middle-aged and older, married and single, with children and without children, a mixture of all professions and economic circumstances, interfaith couples and families, gay and straight, many Jews by choice and a mix of ethnic backgrounds. And what we have in common is that we are all here to “stand before your eternal God." What that means is that each of us is here because we are in search of something bigger than just ourselves. We define what we seek in different ways, whether as a search for local community, or for a broader sense of peoplehood, a search for values and structure in our lives, or for spiritual connection. I believe each of us, like our visitor a few weeks ago, on some level seeks the kind of experience that can change our lives.
I spoke on Rosh Hashana about how we might see the events in our lives not as reward or punishment, but rather as an opportunity to feel connected to deeper meaning, maybe even, to God. Today, I’d like to talk about how we can create a community that helps us experience that type of deeper connection. I am speaking about a vision for what synagogue community can be. I am talking about a vision for the future of East End Temple.
And for those of us here today who are not members of the Temple, well, its not too late to become one. Regardless, I hope that the search for meaningful community in our lives is a topic that will resonate with all of us.
Let’s start by talking about what we need synagogues for in the first place. Before modern times, belonging to a synagogue was not a matter of individual choice, not part of an individual search for meaning. Today, we have many parts to ourselves: family life, friends, work, cultural experiences. Synagogue, with its ritual and eternal values, can be the place that helps us see and integrate the meaning in all those disparate parts of our lives. And in New York City, we spend a lot of time rushing past each other: on the subway, at work and school, even at home. Temple can be the place where we stop to see how we are connected to each other, and in fact, connected to all people.
Now let’s talk specifically about what we need East End Temple for. This is my tenth year serving here as rabbi. Maybe you find that as shocking as I do. This moment has prompted me to reflect on where we have come as a Temple community, and where we are going. In what ways are we truly a place that changes people’s lives and how do we need to continue to grow to be that place?
Recently, four of the leading scholars on American Jewish life collaborated on a study of transformation in American synagogues. Their soon-to-be-published book is entitled "Sacred Strategies: Transforming Functional Synagogues into Visionary Congregations." In their assessment, so-called "functional synagogues" take care of the basics: they house regular services, religious schools, life cycle events. “Visionary congregations” do all of those things, but do much more, and in a very different way. Their activities are integrated, they are reflective and constantly changing in how they operate, they are innovative, and participatory. They have a mission to be a sacred community.
Where is East End Temple on the spectrum from functional to visionary? I’d put us right about in the middle. There are several areas in which we are well more than simply functional. Our services, led by the model we’ve developed with Synaplex, are growing more innovative, dramatic and engaging. Our education for kids is growing more family- and community-centered, often happening not in a classroom but in real-life activity. Our leadership grows ever more diverse and open to change.
But there are areas in which we have a long way to go. We need to move entirely beyond traditional religious school to a fully integrated system where children and all adults in the community learn together in an even more experiential, more relevant and engaging way. We need to get better at how we reach out to support one another when we are ill or otherwise struggling. We need to grow in our pursuit of social justice through community organizing, just to name a few.
And the single factor that will enable us to achieve all this change, and much more, is to grow more connected to one another as individuals. We need to know each other better, and be willing to care about one another. This goal is both a means to other ends, and an end in itself. For example, when we learn together in a meaningful, relevant way, we will come to know one another better. And when we know one another better, we can better decide how and what we want to learn in an even more relevant way. And the same thing works for prayer services, for supporting each other in illness and grief, for pursuing social justice, and every other area of community life.
The shift from functional to visionary reflects part of what we’ve learned from our community organizing. That is, we need to move from a fee-for-service model to a more relational model of congregation. In a fee-for-service model, people pay dues to a synagogue, and maybe make some donations, because they feel they are getting something for their money. When they are no longer getting what they were originally in it for, they leave. In a relational model, we are a part of community because we care about the other people in it. We know what is going on in their lives, and they ours. We are all invested in the type of community we have, and we all demand relevance and high quality. And this shift includes not only how we program for learning, prayer, and social justice activity. It will revolutionize how we pay for what we do too. I can imagine a day when we no longer need blanket appeals for funding, like last night’s Kol Nidre appeal, which we rely on today. Maybe we could even do away with dues entirely. That would come because each of us will know how our own lives have been changed here, and we will want to make sure that others, whom we have come to care about, can have the same experience. Then we all will naturally give to support what we love about being here. We’ll all give to our capacity, and we will have more than enough to pay for what we need.
We are today on the verge of becoming a relational, visionary community. We are prepared in a way we have not been before, at least not in my ten years here. Our truly stellar new professional staff members, Cantor Shira Ginsburg and Director of Congregational Learning Sara Blumstein, have joined our beloved administrator Sharon Shemesh and, you know, the rabbi. Our lay leadership is ready, from the wise and tireless Karen Feuer, to several rising new leaders, to many long-term leaders all committed to working for change. But however skillful staff and lay leaders are, it will be our whole community that makes change happen. Our members will need to talk together, discover common interest and need, demand new programs be created, and help make them happen. We should be able to leap to a new scale of growth, both in the quality of how we operate, and in number of members. We are ready. All that is left is the work.
What will this vision of sacred community at EET look like? We’ll be more integrated. Kids, their parents, and adults with no children, will learn together. They will study the eternal values of our people, and then act on those values together by feeding the hungry, welcoming the stranger, and fighting to maintain middle-class housing in New York City. It will mean praying together with uplifting, joyful music, and knowing what the people around us are praying about, because we know what is going on in their lives. It will mean remembering the time when others in our community supported us when we were ill, and then going to their house for a shiva, because we now have the opportunity to return what they provided us. Over sacred text, sacred singing, and yes, sacred bagels and coffee, we will share our stories about what matters most to us. We will be connected not by happenstance or proximity, but rather, by our common search for meaning and community. Then we will work together to make that community real. We will honestly say that Temple is the place in our lives where we are challenged, where we are comforted, where we act on what we believe, and where we grow.
We are going to start right now. We did so well studying together on Rosh HaShanah, I am going to ask us to continue getting to know one another right here. I’d like to ask each of us to find one person, just one, near us, who we don’t know very well. I’ll ask that each person take just two minutes each to share either something important to you about your Jewish identity (or participation in Jewish community, if you are not Jewish), or something you hope to get out of your participation at East End Temple. I’ll tell you when to switch. Then we’ll come back together.
When will we achieve this visionary community, this relational community, this place that changes people’s lives? A lot sooner than my next ten years at EET, I hope. On the high holidays, when we are all held to account, let us hold ourselves accountable. We have, for the first time in a very long time, the real chance to transform our community. Let us seize it. As we read today, "No, it is very near to you, in your mouth and in your heart, and you can do it."
Ken y’hi ratzon, may it be God’s will.
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