Kol Nidre Sermon

  

The story is told of a certain Pious Jew who would come to synagogue day in, day out – always hoping for the spiritual experience he had heard so much about. “What would it be like,” he wondered, “to hear the voice of God?” And then finally one Yom Kippur it happened. All at once he felt the divine presence enfold him. The room was bathed in radiant light. He felt an overwhelming sense of peace and joy; he felt complete. And then a voice came to him and said: “What is it you desire, my son? If you could have anything in this world, any wish satisfied, what would it be?” Without even pausing to think, the pious Jew answered: “It’s this that I want! The feeling of spiritual bliss. If this could last forever, I’d never ask for anything again.” And the powerful Voice boomed back: “Have you never seen a hungry child?”

 

What’s the message of this story? On one level, the story assumes an opposition between religious seekers, portrayed here as self-absorbed and complacent, preoccupied with nebulous, other worldly pursuits, and seekers after social justice – those who are sensitive to the pain of others, grounded in the real world and passionately engaged in its problems. The real power of the story, however, comes from its message that there should be no split between religious seekers and seekers after social justice – that if you truly wish to sense God’s presence you should come to the aid of a hungry child. (Rabbi Janet Marder)

 

Even so, each of the two domains, spirituality and social action, are worthy of consideration on their own terms. Tomorrow morning, I’ll speak on spirituality, focusing first on the current cultural backlash against organized religion, with such books as the one titled: god is not great: How religion spoils everything. Tonight, I want to explore the place of social action in Jewish life, and make the case for Sinai to expand our activity in that area.

 

Why am I talking about social action and tzedakah, on this day dedicated to the most personal of tasks, the soul accounting of heshbon hanefesh and teshuvah, repentance? Because there is no more central a precept in all of Judaism. When push comes to shove, there is nothing more important.

 

A story illustrates: Rabbi Moshe Leib of Sassov told his students “There is no quality and no human attribute created without a purpose. Even base and corrupt qualities can be uplifted to serve God.”

 

One student raised his hand and asked, “Rabbi, to what end can the denial of God have been created? Surely there is no purpose to atheism.”

Rabbi Moshe paused and then replied, “This too can be uplifted through the deed of tzedakah. For if someone comes to you and asks for your help, you shall not turn him away with pious words, saying, “Have faith and take your troubles to God!” You shall respond as if there is no God, as if there is only one person in the world who can help this man, only you.” And our high holy day prayerbook, the machzor, puts it this way: pray as if everything depends upon God; act as if everything depends upon you.

 

Judaism’s focus on social justice goes back to the very beginning. As the Torah observes, “there will never cease to be some in need on the earth.”  Our role is clear: the Torah continues: “I therefore command you, open your hand to the poor.” (Deuteronomy 15:11)

 

The Jewish passion for Social Justice is founded on Jewish values that emerge in the first days of creation:

Kavod Habriot: human dignity.  Created in the image of God, we have an inherent right to be treated with respect.  Linked by our shared destiny, we have an obligation to treat others with compassion. We need both to receive and to bestow kavod to feel fully human.

 

Tikun Olam: perfecting this imperfect world.  The Jewish belief that we have a role in completing creation which we fulfill by recognizing injustice and suffering and doing what we can to correct it. 

 

Tzedakah: doing acts of justice, not out of a sense of charity, or noblesse oblige, but because justice demands it.  Tzedakah is the Jewish assertion that we are responsible for our neighbors’ welfare, for ameliorating their suffering, and restoring them to a life of human dignity.  Tzedakah speaks to our role in feeding the poor, clothing the naked, protecting those least able to protect themselves.

 

With the values of Kavod, Tikun Olam, and Tzedakah, our ancestors proclaimed war on poverty and injustice; they exhorted us, in Isaiah’s words, “to undo the bonds of oppression ... and share our bread with the hungry.”

 

Their teachings are clear; yet, our prophets warned that we would, at times, overlook the suffering of others, our vision obscured not by evil, but by complacency.

 

What led them to think we would become complacent?

Perhaps they knew that we human beings are by nature self centered, focused first and foremost on our own needs.  Or that occasionally we have our own tzuris that justifiably preoccupies us.

Or perhaps they understood that face-to-face encounters with the poor are difficult.  That we would be frightened by the behavior of some, skeptical of the needs of others, not willing or able to emotionally extend ourselves again and again.

Or perhaps they knew that poverty would seem intractable, especially to those burnt out by long volunteer hours or frustrated by inefficient organizations that leave volunteers feeling underutilized.

Or perhaps they simply sensed that repeated exposure to the poor would desensitize us to their plight.

While complacency is an understandable, if lamentable, response to injustice, our tradition offers the example of Noah to show just how dangerous such an attitude can be.  When Noah emerged from the ark, the Zohar tells us, he opened his eyes and saw the world completely destroyed.  He began crying and said:  “God!  If you destroyed your world because of human beings then why did you [bother to] create them?  One or the other You should do: either do not create humanity, or do not destroy the world.”

 

How did God respond?  “[Noah, before the flood] I gave you ample time to ask for mercy for the world!  But as soon as you heard that you would be safe in the ark, the evil of the world did not touch your heart and you built the ark to save yourself.  Now that the world has been destroyed you open your mouth to utter questions and pleas?”

 

Noah is our worst-case scenario: a heart so hardened it failed to concern itself with the needs of others precisely when its compassion was most needed.  Noah’s negative example warns us against complacency lest we overlook a potential catastrophe on our doorstep.

 

Another version of the story I began with tonight: Yet another Pious Jew came to synagogue to give thanks to his creator. One Yom Kippur he felt the divine presence enfold him. The room was bathed in radiant light. He felt an overwhelming sense of peace and joy; he felt complete. And then a voice came to him and said: “What is it you desire, my son? If you could have anything in this world, any wish satisfied, what would it be?” Without even pausing to think, this particular pious Jew answered: “Nothing. I need nothing. I have my family, my work, my friends. I have nothing I can ask for.”

 

Just then, from the back of the sanctuary, came the broken sobs of the rebbe, who had overheard the entire exchange. “You could have asked for anything, the end of war, or sickness, or poverty and hunger. Yet, you couldn’t see pass your own needs, your own self-satisfaction. How could you squander such an opportunity?”

 

At this time in history, when the American Jewish community is most capable of playing a leading role in addressing the ills of society, we are hardly present. What’s more, our values have been picked up by others.

 

Consider tomorrow afternoon’s Haftarah reading, the book of Jonah. Jonah, you may recall, was the reluctant prophet. God asks Jonah to travel to the metropolis of Nineveh and to prophesy there, telling the people they have three days to repent or they will be destroyed. Jonah immediately runs in the opposite direction, and catches a ship traveling to Tarshish. During the journey, a great storm comes up, Jonah goes over the side and is swallowed by a whale. Three days later, he emerges resigned to travel to Nineveh.

 

A curious story; it gives rise to the question: why did Jonah flee from God’? Why didn’t he want to play the prophet? A conventional answer is that he didn’t have faith his mission would succeed; he worried he’d arrive to Nineveh and no one would listen to him.

A less conventional interpretation turns the story on its head. Maybe Jonah was reluctant to go to Nineveh because he knew that the Ninevites would listen to his plea; that they would put on sackcloth and ashes, that they would repent and in so doing show up the Jews, who were forever ignoring their own prophets’ pleas to repent.

 

And of course that’s exactly what happened. The Ninevites responded immediately to Jonah’s plea and proceed to repent, genuinely and sincerely. Jonah’s fear was realized; the Ninevites had learned our Mitzvot and they were doing them, in this case better than we ever did.

 

Friends, when it comes to commandments concerning Tzedakah, feeding the poor, staffing a homeless shelter, building affordable housing, our non-Jewish neighbors have learned our mitzvoth and they are doing them. A quick survey of social service programs in Milwaukee will reveal that every significant effort is led and populated by churches, some of them large suburban mega-churches, others small, inner city storefronts. But try to find a synagogue. You’ll have to look very hard. Our Christian neighbors have learned our Mitzvot, and they are doing them.

 

How did this happen? How can it be that the reform movement, once the vanguard of fighting for social justice, once so active in the struggle for civil rights that the landmark 1965 voters’ rights bill was written on a conference table in the Washington D.C. offices of our movement, has now become so quiescent in the face of mounting social ills.

 

Please understand: I don’t mean to imply that Jewish Milwaukeeans aren’t involved doing tzedakah on an individual basis. Many do. Here at Sinai, I know families who spend their vacations in Mexico, helping to build homes. I know students who have spent time abroad learning about challenging social issues and developing creative ways to address them. I know congregants who provide the organizational depth behind interfaith meal programs, who sit on the board of COA, the Children’s Outing Association, and the United Way, and I am proud of all their efforts. I recognize that there are programs such as Mitzvah Day and Tikun HaIr that provide episodic opportunities for service. I know that the American Jewish Committee and the Milwaukee Jewish Council are involved in some community efforts, so hold your phone calls. My point is that collectively, as a congregation, we are not on the map.

 

Why does it matter? If I can volunteer elsewhere doesn’t my effort count? It most assuredly does. But the Jewish way of fixing this broken world – Tikun Olam – requires collective effort. Let me explain.

 

Tikun Olam means creating a perfect world. According to Judaism that means a world in which the inherent dignities of every human being are respected and privileged, including the infinite value, equality, and the uniqueness of ever human being. The way we work toward that world is by creating mini-worlds in which we can experience a taste of that messianic future and then we return to the real world and try to transform it to fit that model.

 

So where is this mini world? In antiquity is was the Beit Hamikdash, the Temple in Jerusalem, a place untouched by violence or death, where no one went hungry, where everyone got justice, where God’s presence would be felt because you felt the full humanity of every human being.  Shabbat is a remnant of that world. On Shabbat, we commanded to live in a perfect world, where there is nothing left to be done and you can experience the fullness of the human relationship, the fullness of spiritual connection. (Yitz Greenburg)

 

This is the task of building a synagogue community today. To create a space in which the ideals and aspirations of Judaism can find expression; where everyone can feel valuable and respected. Where we can create here at Sinai a mini world through which we can aspire to everything Judaism points us toward.

 

So here is the plan: starting over the next weeks, you’ll be hearing about a plan coordinated by our social action committee, to convene a number of community conversations, the purpose of which will be to create a social justice agenda for Sinai, and to brainstorm how to bring those efforts to fruition. Everyone will be invited to take a part. Assuming you agree with my assertion that there is value in a collective effort to do social action work, where should Sinai put its efforts? Where should we focus our efforts in the wider community? And, if our neighbors are in fact doing our mitzvoth, how can we learn from them and work with them to fix our broken society?

 

I enter the conversation with no preconceived plan or focus, preferring instead to trust that our collective wisdom and vision will be far superior to anything any one of us might produce. That most certainly has been the case during the past few major projects we’ve undertaken at Sinai.

 

Friends, we are blessed to be able to ask ourselves these questions and to have the talents and human resources among us to create a significant social action effort. As heirs to the legacy of prophetic Judaism, we share the prophets’ concern for the poor and downtrodden, their contempt for ritual acts unaccompanied by ethical conduct, and their vision of peace for all humanity. What’s more, we know can empower each other to help “let justice roll down like waters and righteousness as a mighty stream.”

 

I am looking forward enthusiastically to participating with you in this congregation wide conversation, and I have great faith that our efforts will help create, at the very least, a mini world of justice and peace.

Ken Yehi razton – may it be God’s will. Ken Yehi rztonainu – may it be our will.