Shecheyanu is the blessing that celebrates life’s important firsts: the first apple at Rosh HaShanah, the first candle on the Hanukkah menorah, the first grandchild. In our family, the most memorable shecheyanu was the one we said this past year to celebrate the fact that all of our children were, finally, potty-trained.

            As many of you know, the task of parenting entails decisions from the very beginning. Decisions like: whether to use cribs or bassinets, to breastfeed or use formula, whether or not to use pacifiers. And those seem resolvable when compared to the granddaddy of them all, the question of cloth diapers or disposable.

        What appears to be a straightforward proposition turns out to be riddled with ethical implications.  What hangs in the balance, according to proponents on both sides of the issue, is nothing less than the future of the environment.  Julie and I watched a video touting cloth diapers that warned that using disposables would guarantee the loss of at least 20 old growth redwoods per child, produce tons of landfill choking refuse and waste more water in the diapers' manufacture than would ever be used cleaning the cloth variety.

        Alas, these arguments lose their compelling force at three o'clock in the morning when the future of the rain forest seems less important than calming a screaming infant.  One begins to rationalize:  "My choice of diapers doesn't matter.  That video was just propaganda for the diaper service. Why should I use cloth when the disposables are more convenient? Everyone else does!  Why should I worry about landfills when industrial waste is the real problem!"  I mean, really:  Will my choice make any difference in the big picture?

        My reaction to our family's diaper dilemma reveals something I am not proud of: my capacity for cynicism.  What is cynicism?  Cynicism is a way of looking at the world that focuses so exclusively on the negative we become resigned to the way things are.

        Cynicism grows out of a sense of our limitations: "I am just one person. My choice of diapers is not the key to saving the environment!

With my limited resources, I'll never have an effect on the big picture!"

        Cynicism grows out of a sense of frustration: "Life is tough. Why should I make it more difficult by intentionally choosing the inconvenient course?"

        And often cynicism grows out of our need to simplify complex issues. When we reduce them to black and white, we find it easier to dwell on generalities, rather than tackle the underlying, fundamental problems.

Cynicism is a way to avoid getting involved; it is a defense mechanism that shields us from unpleasant, thorny issues, the ones we wish would just disappear.

        Nowhere is this been more obvious than in political elections. Lost in the sound bites and the push polls are the complex issues cynics despise: a growing economic and racial divide in our country that polarizes public opinion; a policy framework that's tied to the election cycle, insuring short term fixes rather than long term planning; a realization that the social safety net no longer exists to protect those least able to protect themselves; an uncertainty, even at this time of supposed economic prosperity, about what the future holds.

        National elections tend to bring cynicism out into the open but, in truth, it is with us every day. Do you recognize the voice of the cynic?

        "Why should I bother to vote? After all, most politicians are either on the take or unwilling to represent my interests.  The government is incapable of making change. What makes me think my vote will make any difference in the big picture?

        Why should I donate to charities?  After all, so much of what's given goes to administrative overhead - look at the United Way scandal. Besides, the issues are too big and intractable. What makes me think my donation will make any difference in the big picture?"

        Why should I support a group home in my neighborhood? After all, it would only affect the lives of eight young girls. And so what if they show academic promise?  They'll never fully escape their inner city background. Why should I sacrifice my property's value?  What makes me think my involvement would make any difference in the big picture?

        Why should I work toward school reform?  After all, the issues on the table are the same ones that have been there since the mid – eighteen hundreds. Besides, the teachers' union and bureaucratic infrastructure are too entrenched. What makes me think my volunteer work will make any difference in the big picture?

        Why should I bother to blow the whistle on illicit or unethical practices at work?  After all, this is the way business works and it's my pension that's on the line. Besides, why should I be the one to stick my neck out?  I don't need that hassle. What makes me think my risk will make any difference in the big picture?

        Why should I bother to eat healthfully or exercise?  After all, my genetic make up will play a greater role in determining whether I get sick. And besides, I like to eat and hate exercising.  What makes me think my habits will make any difference in the big picture of my health?

        These examples illustrate cynicism's ubiquity. The root cause of cynicism lies in a thoroughly modern paradox: on one hand, we have unprecedented power to control and manipulate our world.  Advances in medicine enable us to eradicate disease, ever more powerful computers permit us to control vast amounts of information, telecommunication technology allows us to communicate around the world.

        And yet, even with this unprecedented power, so much is beyond our control.  We can communicate across the world but the images beamed back by CNN only confirm that we are powerless to eradicate war and ethnic hatred and the suffering they cause; powerless to eliminate crime and violence on our streets, powerless to end hunger and homelessness among the poor.

        At home, too, we feel powerless. Jobs that were once secure are now subject to downsizing.  Children are exposed to an ever growing array of dangerous temptations.  The disintegration of the extended family has multiplied the stress on the nuclear family.

        As individuals, too, we have less control over our destiny than once thought.  The powerful role played by genetics was underscored in a New Yorker article, which reviewed research on identical twins raised in different environments.  It revealed that such twins end up, over time, to be uncannily similar in their likes and dislikes, their choices of companions, their emotional character. Such research suggests we enter the world prewired; that nature has a far more powerful effect on shaping the people we become than the nurturance our families and communities provide.

        In the world, at home, even in our bones, we have come to feel a loss of control over our individual and collective fates. And on Yom Kippur we confront a deeper, existential anxiety of which cynicism is only a symptom. We read U'netaneh tokef, the litany of who shall live and who shall die.  While its words portray a world of perfect justice in which our deeds determine our fate, its list - who by fire and who by water – reminds us of life's caprice: that in this coming year some of us will live and some will die and we have no way of knowing who will fall into which category.  All we know is that it will happen, sometimes without warning, often to people about whom we care very much.

        How do we respond to the existential reality of powerlessness?  Our forebears trusted that God had a larger purpose and plan; on our better days we would like to think so; at other times, our response is more likely to be cynical.

        Please don't misunderstand. I am all for healthy skepticism. After all, the world is full of crooked politicians, bureaucracies in need of restructuring, judicial systems in need of reform. A healthy skepticism is essential in today's world.

        But while skepticism is essential, unchecked cynicism is destructive; it corrodes the core of community.

        Cynicism inhibits our capacity to trust: In protecting ourselves we come to suspect the worst of others. We obsess about limiting our liability and minimizing our exposure.  We plan for the worst case scenario.  While such thinking may be appropriate for litigators, it poisons the relationships between individuals.

        Cynicism destroys our faith in humanity: The cynic sees people as inherently and irredeemably corrupt. This tradition, inherited from Machievelli, Hobbes, and Nietzche, has its roots in the Christian doctrine of original sin. Psychology holds out even less promise; as Freud put it, homo homini lupus - we are to each other as wolves.

        With our faith in humanity diminished, and our trust in one another annulled, cynicism then destroys our hope.  It convinces us that we have no role in shaping the future, no chance of making a better world for ourselves and our families. Cynicism eliminates the possibility that there is a greater plan and vision for what the world could be.  All we are left with is the world as it is.

        How does the cynic view this world? Ask Menachem Mendel of Kotzk, a 19th century Chassidic teacher known as the Kotzker, Judaism's patron sage of cynicism.  He was not your ordinary pessimist.  "The whole world", he taught, "is not even worth uttering a sign for."  "The world is putrid", he said on one occasion, "it makes me choke," and on another, "the world such as it is, I have no use for except to blow my nose in it."  "But rabbi", his disciples asked, "what of man? The world may be despicable but surely man is more. Man is noble, a creature of  dignity, created in the image of God." "Nonsense," replied the Kotzker. "I will tell you what man is: an inveterate liar, an addict of comforting illusions, always deceiving himself, flying from reality, devoted to the pursuit of mendacity."

        While other Hasidic leaders preached the need for joy and exultation, Reb Mendel told his disciples, and they were understandably few, that living in this world was like walking along the edge of a knife. No illusions, said the Kotzker, about the world or the self; his goal was the unremittingly painful search for complete and total honesty. Only the harsh truth, and the cynicism and pessimism it creates and a life lived on the brink of despair. (Kotzker Material from Rabbi Sandford Ragins, 1974)

        Yet The Kotzker was not the complete cynic. One day, one of his disciples came to confess to the rebbe that he could no longer believe. Menachem Mendel did not throw him out. Instead he asked, "Why, my son, can't you believe?"

        'Because I doubt that the world has any rhyme or reason. The righteous suffer and the wicker prosper."

        "So - why does that concern you?"

        "What do you mean why does that concern me? If there is no justice in the world, I doubt there is a God governing the world."

        "So - what do you care if there is no God in the world?

        "Rebbe, if there is no God in the world, my life has no sense, no meaning at all."

        "Do you care so much about the world and God's existence?"

        "With all my heart and all my soul."

        "If you care so much, are pained so much, if you doubt so much, you believe."

 

        In this encounter, Reb Mendel speaks to us. Yes, the world is putrid and absurd, and filled with injustice. The righteous suffer, the wicked prosper, and good and evil, beauty and ugliness, truth and lies compete without a sense of pattern or purpose.

        And yet, the Kotzker bids us to make room in our hearts for hope. We can doubt, and wonder, even rail against the injustice of our times; the fact that injustice disturbs us, that we even care, is what counts. Our concern is the crucial first step to redemption on the path to hope.

        How do we find hope?  How do we rekindle our capacity to care? 

First we take note of remarkable men and women who exhibit courage and caring.  People like Alex and Mila Roslan, two Polish Christians who hid three Jewish children in their home during the Holocaust. When scarlet fever broke out, they took their son to the hospital and brought home the medicine and divided it with the Jewish children who were ill.  When one of the Jewish children required surgery, the Roslans hollowed out their sofa and smuggled him into the hospital.  The family sold their home and moved every few months to escape detection.  They did all of this at a time when the punishment for harboring Jews was death.

        We find hope in Israel and the events which have led its people closer to peace.  Israelis and Palestinians have every right to be cynical, yet despite the setbacks of recent months, they are still trying to find a way to rekindle hope for the future.  As the chief negotiators of the peace talks, Abu Alaa and Uri Savir, put it: "Maybe we dislike each other because we are so much alike. There is a lot of minority mentality in all of us. What we have in common is a very strong sense of cynicism, of suspicion, a strong defensiveness - and [yet] a sense of optimism that ultimately things will work out."

        We find hope in the examples of people here in our own community, who amid  suffering and tragedy find within themselves the capacity to reach out to others. Despite pain and sorrow in their own lives, they manage to reach out to those in need around them. If people in pain are capable of such tenderness, might we not find it in ourselves?

        Recognizing examples of living hope is only the beginning, for as Jews we are bidden to enact our hope through Tikun Olam, repairing this fragmented world. Tikun Olam means realizing our role as God's partners. It means rebuilding shattered lives, which we accomplish through small acts of compassion and healing -  small acts which enable us to affect the big picture. It asserts that even in a world of caprice and absurdity, it is possible to shape our lives and to create a sense of meaning and purpose.

        But beware: the work of tikun is not accomplished overnight or without struggle. It is slow, agonizingly slow. But we can't allow its pace to make us cynical.

        A recent retiree related that he has been giving money to social service agencies for over forty years.  "If you asked me if I see that things have gotten better," he said, "I'd have to say no.  There are more not less people in line for the soup kitchen, more people who need shelter, and clothing, than ever before.  But would I stop writing those checks? Absolutely not. Those people and their suffering are real. I can't ignore that. When suffering increases we have to do more."

        Tikun Olam is accomplished incrementally.  The process of tikun, as Rabbi Irving Greenburg put it, "works with imperfection and partial steps." So it is that the results of our individual efforts may seem unimportant or unworthy, but collectively they constitute the path to redemption and hope.

         The story is told of a woman who, while walking on the beach at dawn, came upon a young man picking up starfish and flinging them back into the sea.  After watching him for a half a mile, she approached and asked why he was doing this. He answered that the stranded starfish would die if left in the morning sun. "But the beach goes on for miles and there are millions of starfish." she countered.  "How can your effort make any difference?" The young man looked at the starfish in his hand and then threw it to safety in the waves. "It made a difference to that one."

 

Finding hope takes more than locating role models and engaging in tzedakah and tikun olam.  Ultimately, the process of transformation must take place within us. This is Teshuvah, the repentance of which we speak on Yom Kippur. By examining our own cynical views, we can reject our resignation to the world as it is. Through our own imperfections and our own partial steps, we can do tikun olam - the fixing of the world – and tikun atzmi - the fixing of our selves. Only then can we fully commit to building a life that transcends the absurd, and make hope a committed course of action, a path of deliberate goodness in an otherwise arbitrary universe.

 

        Judaism demands nothing less. That is why, according to tradition, when we arrive to the gates of the garden of Eden in the afterlife, the single question we are asked will be: did you hold onto hope?

 

May this new year, 5757, renew in us a sense of  humanity's goodness.

May we resist cynicism and reject resignation;

believing instead in our capacity to change ourselves

and through imperfect and partial steps to transform the world.

 

This year may we choose to make hope a course of committed action.  And may we be blessed with a new year of peace.

Ken Yehi L'Ratzon.  May it be God's will.

Ken Yehi L'Rtzoneynu - may it be our will.

 

 

 

Rabbi David B. Cohen

Congregation Sinai

Milwaukee, Wisconsin

Kol Nidrei 5757 - 1996