SERMON

EREV YOM KIPPUR

21 SEPTEMBER 2007 - 9 TISHRI 5768

“ALONE”

When I spoke last week, first on Wednesday evening, erev Rosh Hashanah, about anger and frustration, and then Rosh Hashanah morning about emotional pain, what I was trying to say then was that I fully and completely understood how hard it can be to go through all, or even some of, the steps that we are expected to take during the process of this ten-day period. I really do understand the difficulties that life presents to us, and I know that the challenges in our lives can make it nearly impossible to stop whatever else we are doing to take the time to assess our failings, to make amends, to make and articulate the commitment to changing our behaviors and ourselves for the better, and to beginning the process of change itself. I do understand that it is not easy. And because of all of the difficulties and challenges in our lives, it is not hard to understand why we are always looking for easy.

I also understand that sometimes, when we are forced to admit our shortcomings and our mistakes, we might think at that moment that we are the only one who has been that short-sighted or mean or stupid or weak or whatever it is that embarrasses and humiliates us to have to admit. And so we feel alone and not very good about ourselves. And then, if we have to ask forgiveness from someone, we think that the other person probably doesn’t have a very good reason to offer us that forgiveness, unless they are really just kind and generous and compassionate and merciful. And we wouldn’t expect that from them, because that would just be pushing our luck. The way the world seems to work today, it’s a dog-eat-dog, every-person-for-themselves kind of place, and any sign of forgiveness would indicate weakness, and we can’t let anyone think we are weak, or they will take advantage of us, sort of like kicking us when we are down. So we withdraw into ourselves further and further, wanting to do the right thing, but afraid of making things worse by showing our vulnerabilities. It’s a vicious cycle and it is the exact opposite of what is supposed to happen between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.

What I wanted to do last week was to set the stage for looking at the next steps in this process through which we are all supposed to go; I wanted to give you a context. I understand that some people didn’t like what I had to say because they thought I was asking them to do more than they were able to do. And they didn’t like the tone with which I expressed myself.

As you all know only too well, I have no idea what each of you is capable of doing because I am not you. And although many of you tell me about the circumstances of your lives, and while I can probably guess pretty accurately about your lives from what I know of your various situations, I can really only extrapolate from my own life experience and the experiences of those about whom I learn as I pass through life. And I dare say that the same is true for you.

So some of you got angry or frustrated with me because you heard one thing from me when I meant another thing. Rather than quibble about what I meant or who was right, please let me say it again in other words so that there will be less of a chance of misunderstanding: the world in which we live, as good as it might seem in some respects, is not in very good shape. I don’t believe in blaming people as a way of solving problems. But I do believe in looking to our tradition for advice and counsel on how to live in, and work to improve, the world in which we find ourselves. In our tradition, in Pirké Avot, we read: “R. Tarphon said: The day is short and the work is great, and the laborers are sluggish, and the wages are high and the Master of the house is pressing...It is not incumbent upon you to complete the work, but neither are you at liberty to abstain from it.”^[1]

I get it. We are so busy that we honestly believe that we can’t take on one more thing. We don’t have enough time now to do everything we need to do, so how could we even think of committing ourselves to doing more? And how would we decide, among all the problems that there are out there, which ones get first priority?

I dare suggest it, friends, because I can’t see any other way for us to live. We obviously can’t continue the way we are because, despite how good we may think we have it, relatively speaking, in the United States, the rest of the world is in deep trouble, partly because of us. And as Rabbi Tarphon has suggested, if we don’t all pitch in to help, what has to be done simply won’t get done, and things will simply go from bad to worse. And perhaps even more to the point, we simply cannot wait for or expect someone else to do our part for us.

Talking about this reality in terms of the High Holy Days is never popular. None of us likes to be told that we aren’t doing enough, although Judaism knowingly focuses on this time of the year for us to try to come to grips officially with how we can address this reality without giving up hope or succumbing to fear. And it is indeed possible that some really are doing as much as they can. If you are one of those people, then please know that the rest of us hold you in the highest esteem, that we stand in awe of you, and that we wish we could emulate you more closely and more often.

But if you are not one of those people -- and most of us would likely fall into this latter category -- then you are probably aware of how guilty (and perhaps angry or frustrated) you might feel that you find yourself in the situation where you would like to do more, where you really want to do more, but where you just can’t seem to pull it together to make that happen. Something happens to us when we find ourselves in this position, and it isn’t pretty. What happens is that we begin to feel alone, separated from one another, isolated and probably lonely. When something happens that causes you pain, loss, or sadness, sometimes our reaction to it is counterintuitive. As Rabbi Naomi Levy has suggested: “An experience with loss or sadness often leaves us feeling isolated from the people who surround us....Suddenly we realize that our pain is so deep no one else can share it. Friends may empathize, but no one else can live inside another person’s wounded heart. Not even those who know us most intimately....Sometimes when we are experiencing sorrow, our first instinct is to push people away. It seems counterintuitive to shut people out at this very time when we need them most, but we do it anyway. We turn down offers to go out with friends. We are abrupt on the telephone. We wish that the whole world would just leave us alone. We lose sight of a very important fact: there is great comfort in community.”^[2] And yet, even that community sometimes seems to make demands on us that we think would tax us too much, that we fear would drain us even more without offering us much, if anything, in return. On the other hand, without community, without a sense of belonging, without a sense of being part of something larger than ourselves, we really will not only feel alone; we will honestly be alone. You won’t be surprised to learn that being alone and separate from one another is not the Jewish way. It was the great sage Hillel who said, “Al tifrosh min ha-tzibbur” ^[3] “Do not separate yourself from the community.” He saw community as a lifeline – in both directions. As someone whose life now revolves around the synagogue, I can see very clearly what he meant and why and how he meant it.

What is the Jewish way is for us to try to find balance in our lives, a balance between the demands of our lives that drain us of our energy, of our capacity to love and to enjoy life,  and those things that energize us, that fill us with hope and happiness, contentment and fulfillment. It’s not as though we don’t know what the ideal is. But we are always confronted by all those things that seem to prevent us from approaching or achieving that ideal. And when that happens, we often feel very much alone.

The not-yet-dead horse that I keep beating, the one you can ride off happily into the sunset, is the horse that takes you in the direction of deeper engagement in community. Just as a side note, I think it’s worthy of note that in all of Jewish tradition we have never encouraged any kind of a monastic system: no monks, no nuns, no people who lived separated from the rest of the mainstream community in monasteries or convents, unless they lived in fully social communities of their own. The point is that from a Jewish point of view, in order to be fully alive, you need to be part of the community and not alone, not isolated. And for the community to be fully alive, it needs all of its members to be involved as well, the more the merrier.

There have been times in my life when, despite my outgoing nature and my various involvements in the community, I have felt very much alone. And I will admit that there are times when I really want to be alone, to get away from it all, to achieve a little solitude so that I can decompress, get some rest, and regain my sense of equilibrium. That’s one of the reasons I go to Wisconsin every summer, to spend some time in the wilderness, communing with nature, recharging my spiritual batteries. But I do that so that I can come back into the community refreshed and revitalized, ready to resume my life and my work as an integral part of the world in which I live. I also understand that this issue of “aloneness” and its occasional companion, loneliness, have their counterpart in my relationship with God as well. There are times when I wonder why I feel abandoned by God, especially at the times when I think I need God’s presence and help most critically. Of course, far be it for me to consider what it might feel like to God when I abandon God.

I am reminded of a vignette that apparently has appeared in several different places. “One night a man had a dream. He dreamed he was walking along the beach with God. Across the sky flashed scenes from his life. For each scene he noticed two sets of footprints in the sand, one belonging to him and the other to God.

When the last scene of his life flashed before him, he looked back at the footprints in the sand. He noticed that many times along the path of his life there was only one set of footprints. He also noticed that it happened at the very lowest and saddest times of his life.

This really bothered him and so he questioned God about it. “God, you said that once I decided to follow you, you'd walk with me all the way. But I have noticed that during the most troublesome times in my life there is only one set of footprints. I don't understand why when I needed you most, you would leave me.”

God replied, “My precious, precious child, I love you and I would never leave you! During those times of trial and suffering when you saw only one set of footprints, it was then that I carried you.”^[4]

What I hope you understand from this little story is that despite “what we think, no matter how it feels, we are not alone. There are people who care about us, who want to help us, and whose very presence can offer us hope.”^[5] At the same time, in order for me to be able to say that with any confidence, any certainty, any faith that I am right, I have to believe that you will be there for each other, for us, when we turn to you for mutual aid and support. This is not about us and them. We are all “us,” and they are “us” as well. When our tradition says, “kol Yisra’eil areivim zeh bah zeh,” it means that we are not only dependent on one another, but we are interdependent as well.

And it means that the one sure way out of our feelings of isolation, loneliness, and separation is to take the risk of reaching out, even if it means that we might be rejected. I think you would agree that “most people would prefer not to deal with the pain of others. That is why they may not call [us when we are down]. But if we can muster the strength, this is the time for us to reach out to them. We must try very hard not to resent their silence. Instead, we must teach them not to be afraid of us....When we need to receive comfort...we just have to be willing to say to someone “I need you.” And then we have to let them enter our lives.”^[6]

Why do I think this is so important? Because I am the rabbi of a small congregation, a small community many of whose members would like to believe that they can lean on us and can depend on us to be with them during the bad times as well as during the good times. And I am the rabbi of a congregation that is a part of a larger community, and just as I believe that we need to be there for each other in the smaller picture, so do I believe that we need to be there for each other in the far bigger picture as well. Except for those times when we need some solitude in order to recharge our spiritual batteries, we need to be as actively engaged in our community as it is humanly possible to be.

Let me conclude tonight with this thought and reminder: according to Jewish tradition, we may not ask God for forgiveness – or even to answer our other prayers – unless and until we have done everything ourselves within our own power to make happen what we are praying for. So we may not even pray to God for health or happiness unless and until we have done everything we can to achieve those states ourselves. Likewise, we may not ask God to forgive us for not working for justice and peace until we have either worked for justice and peace as much as we possibly can or until we have honestly sought forgiveness from those whom we have wronged, either intentionally or unintentionally, by our lack of action on those goals. Then, letting our actions speak for themselves, we may legitimately approach the Almighty with our personal petitions.

No wonder, then, that we are a little reluctant when it comes to admitting our failings and shortcomings. No wonder that we sometimes feel alone, or fear that we will feel alone. And no wonder that this empty feeling is so depressing and awful. No wonder that we feel sorry for ourselves, thinking that maybe we are beyond redemption, beyond forgiveness, beyond help.

Let me suggest that wherever you are, you really are not alone. You are an important, vital link in the chain of tradition that binds us to one another. You are entitled to recite, or to be included in this prayer:

“When we are feeling self-pity, God, help us to see beyond ourselves. When we are feeling despair, restore us to hope. When we shut people out, help us to believe in the healing power of companionship. Remind us that we are not alone, that we are needed, that we are heard, and that You are with us, now and always.”^[7]

Amen.