Choosing the Right Path and Getting the Wrong Result

Choosing the Right Path and Getting the Wrong Result

Sermon for Yom Kippur Day 2012-5773

Rabbi David Kaufman

In the 1973 movie, Sleeper, starring Woody Allen, a man, Miles Monroe, awakens 200 years in the future. His doctors discuss his care when he wakes up:

Dr. Melik: Well, he's fully recovered, except for a few minor kinks.
Dr. Agon: Has he asked for anything special?
Dr. Melik: Yes, this morning for breakfast. He requested something called wheat germ, organic honey and tiger's milk.
Dr. Agon: [laughs] Oh, yes. Those were the charmed substances...That some years ago Were felt to contain life-preserving properties.
Dr. Melik: You mean there was no deep fat? No steak or cream pies? Or hot fudge?
Dr. Agon: Those were thought to be unhealthy, precisely the opposite of what we now know to be true.
Dr. Melik: Incredible.

Miles Monroe: Where am I anyhow, I mean, what happened to everybody, where are all my friends?
Dr. Aragon: You must understand that everyone you knew in the past has been dead nearly two hundred years.
Miles Monroe: But they all ate organic rice! 

Woody Allen poked fun at the things that we do to try to stay healthy. He thought that people would find it funny, as we do, if the foods we consider today to be terrible for us turn out instead to be good for us. Many of us work very hard to keep ourselves healthy…some of us, not so much.

Few of us live like Jack LaLanne, the fitness guru who died at age 96 last January, would have wanted us to live, but then again there is only one Jack LaLanne. For those here who do not know about him, Jack LaLanne was the guru of fitness in America for most of the latter half of the 20^th century. He created the jumping Jack. Yes, it is named after Jack LaLanne. For those of us who have difficulty doing one, much less ten, twenty, or fifty pushups; at age 43, in 1957, Jack did over 1,000 pushups in 23 minutes while on the television show, “You asked for it.” He worked out two hours a day, every day. Jack LaLanne believed that we could control our health, entirely. Yet while few of us live like Jack LaLanne, none of us IS Jack LaLanne.

We try to work out regularly. We run, walk, swim and bike. We eat organic. We diet. We play tennis and golf. We do not smoke or if we do, we work hard to quit. We take our medicines and follow the things that our doctors tell us to do. Yet too often in spite of our best efforts, illness strikes.

I wrote in my recent bulletin article about how as I look back on the year that has just passed, I am struck by the many health challenges faced by people in my life over the past year and a little more, no few of which are ongoing.

Some of these individuals inspire me just by walking through the door of the Temple; the very act a reminder of their inner strength and our human ability to overcome. Others have not been so fortunate as to be given the chance for healing, but have shown tremendous power of the spirit in facing their illnesses, inspiring many others. This year, I sat at all too many bedsides, offering words of prayer and comfort, holding hands, hugging shuddering shoulders, eyes filled with tears.

What does one say, when the question is an existential one, “Why?” Why is this bad thing happening to me? To her? To him? Why now? Even more specifically, why in spite of efforts to do all of the right things? Sometimes even when we choose the right path, we get the wrong result. That is what I would like to talk with you about today.

I will begin with a look at Fundamentalist ideas of reward and punishment, then at challenges to the idea that God punishes at all. Finally, I would like to talk about what is perhaps the hardest thing for us to address, the idea of not being in complete control of what happens in life.

Fundamentalist Ideas

On Yom Kippur, we are particularly mindful of our vulnerabilities, our strengths and weaknesses, our successes and our failings. The Torah uses the terms “blessing” and “curse” in describing the good things and bad things that happen to us.

We read in the book of Deuteronomy:

When all these things befall you, the blessing and the curse that I have set before you, and you take them to heart amidst the various nations to which Adonai your God has banished you, and you repent to Adonai your God, and you and your children heed God’s command with all of your heart and soul, just as I enjoin upon you this day, then Adonai your God will restore your fortunes and take you back in love.

The Deuteronomists, those who authored the Book of Deuteronomy and edited parts of the Book of Joshua as well, believed that whatever befalls us in our lives occurs because God blesses us or because God curses us. Everything that happens according to this belief happens because God wills it to happen. It is the philosophy that has guided traditional Jewish thought for generation after generation. It continues to form the basis of Orthodox Jewish thought today with some modification for free will, and is prominently found among Fundamentalist Christians and Muslims.

Taken together, the belief that God either blesses us or curses us and the belief that God is always just, leads to the conclusion that God rewards only the righteous and punishes only the wicked. Blessings that are in our lives are rewards for our righteousness. Curses are punishments for our misdeeds. Therefore, if curses are present in our lives, according to this philosophy, it is because we have sinned.

Many of those who are suffering feel a need to seek out the reason why. Just as Job’s “friends” did in the Book of Job, there is an assumption that suffering must be deserved. In ancient times, suffering and sin went hand in hand to the point that in the story of Hagar and Sarah, Hagar is said to look down upon Sarah because Sarah was barren. It was not merely a reflection of problematic physiology, but of her sinfulness. God was punishing her.

Some take this kind of thought to an extreme, arguing that floods, hurricanes, tsunamis and other major natural disasters are the result of sinfulness, the disasters occurring as punishment by God. Our tradition, Reform Judaism, finds this idea offensive. We do not feel compelled to explain why God did these things.

For fundamentalists, who believe that God causes all things to happen, there must be reason why God made this happen or allowed it to happen. They ask, “What did these people do, what did we do, to deserve this?” No answer to that question is appropriate in my mind and I am sure that the vast majority of you, if not all of you, would agree with me. The problem is not the answer, but the question itself.

I have spoken and written about this many times in the past, but it never hurts to mention that the belief that blessings and curses are bestowed upon us by God for what we, ourselves, have done in our lives is already an advancement over the previous theodicy, the belief about divine justice, that is found in the book of Numbers, chapter 14. There we find:

Adonai, slow to anger and abounding in kindness; forgiving iniquity and transgression; yet not remitting all punishment, but visiting the sins of the fathers unto the children, unto the third and fourth generations!!!

According to this philosophy, righteous people are indeed punished!!! Not for their own actions, but for the misdeeds of their ancestors! How did anyone come up with this idea? Well…the basic concept is the same one that underlies the Avot v’Imahot prayer that we say in every service. In that prayer, we ask God to bless us because of the righteous actions of our ancestors. It must be assumed for that to happen that we could also be cursed as well.

The idea that we may be punished for the sins of ancestors is a reasonable explanation for why bad things happen to good people. It explains why the righteous might suffer. The problem is that this kind of god would be unjust and vindictive, taking vengeance upon innocents who had nothing to do with the action taken. A good and just God would not do this.

By the time that the book of Deuteronomy was written, it seems that the belief that God would punish descendants for the behavior of ancestors had ended. Now, blessings and curses were considered to be rewards and punishments for one’s own actions. According to the Book of Deuteronomy, when bad things happen to us it is because we ourselves deserve them.

Challenges to Fundamentalism

The problem is that where the earlier philosophy explained why bad things happen to good people, by putting the blame for punishment on ancestors, the philosophy as found in Deuteronomy does not. Deuteronomy argues that bad things simply do not happen to good people. If something bad happens to someone, they must deserve it. The righteous are never punished, because that would be unjust and God is always just.

This brings us to one of the first real challenges to the Deuteronomic idea of reward and punishment, the Book of Job. In Job, Job’s friends, people who know him to be an exemplary person, argue that the curses befalling him must be happening because God was punishing him for his sins. Job must have done something wrong about which they did not know. God would not punish a righteous man. Therefore, the path they saw for Job was to admit his failings and perhaps then God would withdraw the punishment.

The one thing that the story tells us to be true beyond any doubt is that Job is righteous. God tests Job to prove a point to Satan about just how righteous Job is. While the author tells a story that tries to explain why Job is suffering, the reader knows all along that Job is a righteous person who is being punished. How could this be? A just God, who is all powerful and all seeing, cannot punish the just, even if intending to reward later.

However, we have all seen innocents suffer. The story of Job rings all too true for us. The problem remains. A just god would not punish the innocent for the sins of others, nor would such a god allow the righteous to be punished if it were possible to prevent it. This day, during which the written prayers seek mercy and compassion from God in order to turn away punishment, we should remind ourselves that the view of God as judge and arbiter is not the only one provided by our tradition.

The 23rd Psalm holds a much different explanation for why bad things happen to good people and offers a different view of God’s role in relation to human suffering.

When I walk through the valley of the shadow of death—or to translate the idiom more appropriately, “the darkest valley”,

I will fear no evil, for You are with me,

Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.

The 23rd Psalm, though we recite it during the funeral liturgy, is not about death. It is about those times when we find ourselves in a dark valley, where we might easily be afraid. Therein, when we cannot see the light ahead, the psalm reminds us that Adonai is our shepherd, watching over us, that God will not let us get lost, and that God will lead us to green pastures and to tranquil waters. Even when we find ourselves in the most awful places in life, we shall fear no evil because God is with us.

In the 23rd Psalm, there is no request for God to simply lift us from the valley into the light, nor is that expected. The God of Psalm 23 helps us to face the difficulties that we will encounter along the way, like a loved one holding your hand during a time of illness and pain. This God does not curse us, nor does this God have the power to remove our curses.

At this time of year, we call God, “Avinu,” “Our Father.” We ask God to treat us like a loving parent, with compassion and mercy. The God of the 23rd Psalm takes care of us like a parent with a sick child, loving, embracing us, aching out of helplessness, yearning to bring us to a better place, to bring us through the tough times. And like a parent, all the while calming our fears. God can not remove us from our darkest valleys, but like a parent, God can help us feel better as we walk through them.

Control over fate

Growing up, we are taught that our actions affect how we are treated. If we perform well in school, we receive good grades. If we behave at home, our parents will be happier and perhaps give us things that we want to have. If we are nice to our friends, they will be nice to us. We would like this pattern to continue on as we get older in all our relationships in life and many times we act as if this is the way things work.

We believe that if we eat healthy and live healthy, exercising and avoiding problematic things, that we will live forever or at least much longer and much happier. We do not bat an eyelash when we hear that someone who is battling issues with weight or smokes or drinks a lot tells us that they are suffering health consequences. But what of the marathon runner who has diabetes? I know at least one.

We are to an extent like the friends of Job. We would like to find answers that fit with our preconceived notions of how the universe works. God, in our tradition, brings order to chaos. We expect to find order. We do not like chaos.

We read the first verses of the creation story incorrectly:

When God began to create the heavens and the earth, the earth being tohu va-vohu, all chaos, and darkness covered the face of the deep. The spirit of God swept over the surface of the waters. And God said, “Let there be light!” and there was light.

Nowhere are we told that all of the chaos was transformed into order, only that all that there was in the beginning was chaos. Some chaos remains. And nowhere are we told that all of the darkness was transformed into light, only that light appeared in the midst of the darkness.

If we are able to live our lives like Jack LaLanne, we will most likely live healthier lives than we might otherwise. We can bring some order to chaos, but we cannot forget that tohu vavohu are still around. Woody Allen once said, “If you want to make God laugh, tell him about your plans.”

There are times when we may choose the right path, following it diligently, and nonetheless receive the wrong result because of something completely unforeseen or perhaps because the path that gets us closest to where we want to go, may not get us all the way there.

In the past year alone, more than one friend who never smoked a cigarette has recently found himself facing lung cancer. Most of us know of the challenges faced by a member of our congregation who went kayaking, fell terribly ill, and is now a famous face of health care reform. The young child of a colleague is facing leukemia. Tohu va-vohu.

We are not in full control. We realize that on this day, the Day of Atonement, perhaps more than we do on any other day. Whether we believe that God has influence in what happens to us or not, we know that we are not able to lift ourselves from all of those dark valleys, nor avoid wandering into a few in the first place. This day, we hope to be inscribed and sealed in the Book of Life for a good and healthy year, but we know that not all of us, in spite of our best efforts, will be so inscribed and it frightens us. Not that we doubt our worthiness, but that we doubt our ability to control what happens.

This day, we acknowledge both that we have the ability to influence the direction of our lives, to make teshuva, to turn to the right path, and that some things are beyond our control and that we hope for mercy and compassion when we face them.

We may not be able to avoid entering valleys in our lives, but we do have some say as to how we go about journeying through them. Psalm 23 reminds us that God is with us in our dark valleys, but others may also be there with us, giving us strength as well. It is my hope that I may be there alongside you with a caring presence at a bedside, with a word or a hug. I am always available for you and your loved ones, any day, any time of day.

And let us gain strength from one another in our congregation. Let us, each of us, reach out and help those in need in any way that we can, whether it is by giving blood, by donating money, by giving a hug, by calling or visiting those touched by illness or sorrow and letting them know that we are thinking about them. This is what being a part of a congregation and a community is truly about, offering and finding friendship and support, being there for one another.

May we ever help to bring true the words of Psalm 30 that we find during the concluding service today, “You have turned my grief into dancing, released me from my anguish, and surrounded me with gladness. Adonai, my God, I shall give thanks to you forever.”

           

Kein Yehi Ratson. May it be God’s will. Good Yom Tov.

Why Bad Things Happen to Good People

Sermon for Yom Kippur 2003

Why Bad Things Happen to Good People

At this time of the Jewish year, it is normal for us to think about all that is happening in our lives and all that has happened to us and to our loved ones. We recall the memories of personal tragedies, perhaps thinking of our own loved ones who died before their time. Our country recently marked two years since the tragedy of September 11, 2001.
Two years ago, on Yom Kippur, we entered our congregations having witnessed two weeks of images of destruction and its unfathomable aftermath, listening to stories about loved ones lost. Many, many heroes perished amid the twisted steel and searing flames. The very ground of our nation quaked and all of us, wherever we were, shook along with it. So many emotions filled us in those days as we watched the horrors unfolding on television, the awful plumes of smoke filling the skies above New York City and Washington, DC. The skies have cleared, and those emotions, are perhaps somewhat less intense now. Yet we remember them well: ANGER- that someone would do such a thing, HELPLESSNESS- as we watched the events unfold, unable to alter them, ANGUISH- as we thought about the safety of our loved ones and friends who were in New York, SADNESS- for the many lives lost and many more forever changed, RELIEF- that we and our loved ones were safe, EMPATHY- for those for whom this was cruelly untrue, FEAR- that more tragedy was to come, COMPASSION- as we donated blood and gave money to aid those in need, PATRIOTISM- as we rallied together as a nation, PRIDE- as we were reminded of the ideals of our nation and its continued strength, HUMILITY- as we realized that despite our strength we were and are vulnerable.
On Yom Kippur, we are particularly mindful of our vulnerabilities, our strengths and weaknesses, our successes and our failings, our blessings and our curses. I use the words “blessing” and “curse” specifically because they are the words used in the Torah to describe good things and bad things that happen to us. In the Jewish tradition, there are many explanations for why bad things happen to good people. Some of these are repugnant to the modern enlightened mind, but are strongly held beliefs by many fundamentalists who believe in the unfailing truth of the bible. You will hear, if you have not already heard, the opinions of those who hold these beliefs.
We read in the book of Deuteronomy, “When all these things befall you, the blessing and the curse that I have set before you, and you take them to heart amidst the various nations to which Adonai your God has banished you, and you repent to Adonai your God, and you and your children heed God’s command with all of your heart and soul, just as I enjoin upon you this day, then Adonai your God will restore your fortunes and take you back in love.”
The author of these words believed that whatever befalls us in our lives occurs because God blesses us or because God curses us. Everything that happens in our world, according to this belief, happens because God wills it to happen. It is a philosophy that was highly prominent throughout Jewish philosophy for generation after generation and continues to be found among Jews in some measure in the Orthodox community and strongly in the Ultra-Orthodox community. It is also a philosophy found in many Fundamentalist Christian circles.
The belief in this philosophy, that God either blesses us or curses us, coupled with the belief that God is always just leads to a philosophy that God rewards the righteous and punishes the wicked. Blessings that are in our lives are rewards for our righteousness. Curses are punishments for our misdeeds. Therefore, if curses are present in our lives, according to this philosophy, it is because we have sinned.
Someone with this philosophy is forced to seek out a sin or sins that might have led God to punish those who have been afflicted. An appalling example of this are the statements made by the Reverend Jerry Falwell, who argued in essence that a lack of morality among Americans resulted in the tragedies that befell our nation two years ago. We all, I am sure, feel revulsion at this sentiment and could not disagree more strongly. We do not feel compelled to explain why God punished them, their families, and our nation, and most of us, if not all of us, would find despicable the notion that any of them, ANY of them, deserved this fate. For fundamentalists, who believe that God causes all things to happen, there must be reason why God made this happen or allowed it to happen. They ask, “What did these people do, what did we do, to deserve this?” No answer to that question is appropriate in my mind and I am sure that the vast majority of you, if not all of you, would agree with me.
Interestingly, the belief that blessings and curses are bestowed upon us by God for what we, ourselves, have done in our lives is already an advancement over the previous philosophy, that which is found in the book of Numbers, chapter 14. There we find, “The LORD, slow to anger and abounding in kindness; forgiving iniquity and transgression; yet not remitting all punishment, but VISITING THE SINS OF THE FATHERS UPON CHILDREN, unto the third and fourth generations!!!” According to this philosophy, righteous people ARE PUNISHED, not for their actions, but for the misdeeds of their ancestors! This is a reasonable explanation for why bad things happen to good people, if we are willing to believe in a God who would do such a thing. This kind of god would be unjust and vindictive, taking vengeance upon innocents while failing to punish the guilty. This philosophy does explain why bad things happen to good people, but does so in a way that is unacceptable in its concept of God. A good and just God would not do this.
By the time that the book of Deuteronomy was written, it seems that this philosophy and a belief in this kind of god had been altered. Now, blessings and curses were considered to be rewards and punishments for one’s own actions. According to this philosophy, when bad things happen to us it is because we ourselves deserve them. The righteous are not punished.
The problem is that where the earlier philosophy explained why bad things happen to good people, by putting the blame for punishment on ancestors, the philosophy as found in Deuteronomy does not. Deuteronomy argues that bad things DO NOT HAPPEN to good people. If something bad happens to someone it is because they are wicked. The righteous are never punished, because that would be unjust and God is always just. Thus, we come to the philosophy of the so called “friends” of Job, who believed that the curses befalling him were happening because God was punishing him for his sins. Job, in their minds, could not be righteous. God would not punish a righteous man.
As noted by Rabbi Harold Kushner, in his book When Bad Things Happen to Good People, the story of Job assumes three things, that God is omnipotent, all powerful, that God is omniscient, all seeing, and that God is omni-benevolent, always good. Applying these to the story of Job, we find a problematic contradiction. The one thing that we are told is true beyond any doubt is that Job is righteous. If God is all seeing, then God knows that Job is righteous. If we were to assume that God is not all seeing, then the entire proposition fails because God would not know who is righteous and who is not and therefore rewarding or punishing ANYONE at all would be unjust. Let us for the moment assume, as the author of Job does, that God is indeed all seeing and that Job is righteous.
The contradiction comes in that bad things, curses, are happening to Job, to someone who is righteous and whom God knows is righteous. While Job’s friends question this, the author does not. The reader is left with no doubt that Job is righteous.
Now to the problem posed by the contradiction. A just God, who is all powerful, and all seeing cannot punish the just, even if intending to reward later. Imagine the pain that Job felt as he watched his family die, as he suffered the tortures of physical pain and emotional suffering. Does his return to success at an even greater level outweigh this? Does it even matter? And what of the members of Job’s family? They were not rewarded later. They were killed or allowed to die. The problem, as I see it, is that even if the god of the book of Job intended to reward Job later from the outset, such a plan is not benevolent.
So, we return to our question, why? Why do bad things happen to good people? Certainly, none of the explanations we have looked at thus far provide any comfort to us as we reflect upon the events of September 11 in which so many innocents perished in such horrible ways or any number of tragedies that have affected members of our own community. A just god would not punish the innocent for the sins of others, nor would such a god allow the righteous to be punished if it were possible to prevent it, nor may we assume that anyone who suffers deserves to suffer.
There is a fourth explanation for why bad things happen to good people that is found in a source with which all of us are familiar. The 23rd Psalm holds a much different explanation for why bad things happen to good people at its heart and in fact, is one appropriate to the views of modern Reform Judaism and more broadly to the views of an enlightened and compassionate world.
If we translate the psalm based upon the Hebrew tradition and not upon the Greek tradition that forms the basis of the King James version of the bible, it is even more apt.
The LORD is my shepherd, I will not be missing (from the flock),
He makes me lie down in green pastures;
He leads me to tranquil waters;
He renews my soul;
He guides me in righteous paths for his name’s sake.

And When I walk through the darkest valley,
I will not fear evil, for You are with me,
Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.

You prepare a table for me before my enemies,
You anoint my head with oil;
I have plenty to drink.

Only goodness and unquestioning love
shall pursue me all the days of my life,
and I shall dwell in the House of the LORD
for the length of my days.

You see, the 23rd Psalm is not about death specifically, but about facing our troubles in this life, including times when we or our loved ones will face death, but also times of illness, familial troubles, economic crisis, national tragedy; any time when we find ourselves in a dark valley, where it may be difficult to see beyond the boundaries of our circumstance. It is then, when we can not see the light at the end of the tunnel, the opening at the end of the valley, that we remember that the LORD is our shepherd and that God will not let us get lost, God will lead us to green pastures, to tranquil waters. Even when we find ourselves in such an awful place in life, we shall fear no evil because God is with us.
Why does this represent a fourth view of why bad things happen to good people? The answer is that God does not lead us into the valley. God does not bring the curse upon us. God does not make the bad thing happen to us. Nor, NOR, is God able to simply lift us out of the valley. In the 23rd Psalm, God is not omnipotent, not all powerful. God does not simply lift us out of the valley. God works much harder, guiding us every step of the way, leading us to nourishment, helping us to face the difficulties that we will encounter along the way, like a loved one holding your hand during a time of illness and pain. This God does not curse us, nor does this God have the power to remove our curses.
At this time of year, we call God, “Avinu,” “Our Father.” We ask God to treat us like a loving parent, with compassion and mercy. The God of the 23rd Psalm takes care of us like a parent with a sick child, loving, embracing us, aching out of helplessness, yearning to bring us to a better place, to bring us through the tough times. And like a parent, all the while calming our fears. God can not remove us from our darkest valleys, but like a parent, God can help us feel better as we walk through them.
The God of the 23rd Psalm is not everything that we would like God to be. We would like a God who would never let anyone suffer, who would never let parents see their children die, never allow children to grow up in the absence of a father or mother, a God who could smooth over all of our differences, who would never let a bad thing happen to a good person, and who could abolish all illness, famine, ignorance and war from the face of the earth.
But we know that these things do happen. We know that bad things happen to good people. All of us know all too well. How harshly were we reminded so recently. The thoughts, the images, are seared into our memories. I know that many of us, if not all of us, here today have asked “why.” No, more than that, we cried out, “WHY?!!!” The author of the 23rd Psalm would tell us that all of us will enter dark valleys in our lives, not because of anything that we did or anything that our ancestors did, nor because God placed us in their midst, and that when we are in those valleys and we become afraid, we should remember that we are not alone, that God is with us.
But not only God is with us in our valleys, often we are in them together. Let us gain strength from each other. Let us reach out and help those in need in any way that we can, whether it is by giving blood, by donating money, by giving a hug, by calling those touched by tragedy and letting them know that we are thinking about them.
Today, during this time of our great humility before God, we bravely face the future together as we offer our most fervent prayer that peace will come to us, to our people Israel, and to all the peoples of the world, that the words of the prophet Micah will soon come true, “Let nation not lift up sword against nation. Let them study war no more.” And we ask, with all of our hearts, “Oseh Shalom Bim’ro’mav. Hu ya’aseh Shalom. Aleinu V’al Kol Yisrael. V’al Kol Ha’amim. V’imru Amein,” that God who makes peace in the heavens, make peace descend upon us, upon Israel, and upon all the peoples of the earth. And let us all say, “Amen.”

Kein Yehi Ratson. May it be God’s will. Good Yom Tov.

The Road Less Traveled

The Road Less Traveled
As Reform Jews, we are free to choose what Jewish things we practice and how we wish to practice them. We are also free to choose to live as Jews and to make Judaism a meaningful part of our lives or to choose another path.
As a rabbi, I have had the pleasure to teach many students, to share my thoughts on life with them and to hear theirs. Confirmation students question everything strongly, challenging each other even concerning the question, “Why be Jewish?” and thinking about what the consequences are of making that choice? Finishing up their Sophomore year of High School and looking ahead at applying to colleges, they are in the midst of a tremendous period of self analysis, a time not only when they examine their current identities and how Judaism fits into their lives, but a time when they look closely at the world around them and ask themselves who they wish to be. One of my former confirmation students, a young woman with a great passion for social issues, whose parents are both Jews by birth, was particularly troubled by the question, “Why be a Jew?” and decided to write about it in her confirmation speech. She began with the words of Robert Frost.

The Road Less Traveled
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth
Then took the other, just as fair
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I
–I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

My student continued, “As a Jew, I take the road less traveled by. The difference is, in the beginning, I did not choose to become a Jew. I was born into a house of Jewish parents, and raised as a Jew as a child, not because of a decision I had made, but one that my parents had made for me. Now, however, I stand at the crossroads for myself. On one side of the path, a road sits. It is worn down; many have walked on it, and many still do. The majority of my friends choose this path, as their parents have. It is mainly foot-printed by Christian soles, but others wear it down, pressing its leaves into the earth, smoothing the gravel into a fine pulp so that it may be smooth for the next pair of boots that cross it. The other side, however, is not so smooth. It is a bit rocky. It is, “just as fair,” and is bright and cheerful, not angry or jealous that the other path has more travelers. It has been scorched and destroyed, but its grass still grows green. Some weeds grow on its surface, other vegetation colors it, thriving where few feet have crossed. It is the path of Judaism.

Being Jewish is not always easy. It has its downsides, as does every religion, brought down by the ignorance of others, or the lack of fellow travelers. I am not saying that there are not other woods where Judaism is more common. There are other countries, states, and cities, and even schools where the path is easier to walk across. Although it exists, it is not mine. I am at a crossroads where very few stand with me. Many of my friends choose other paths, some ask me to come with them. And sometimes, I wonder where I am headed. Which path do I choose?

How is my life affected by the path I choose? I have yet to see. I do know one thing, and I am sure of it. I take the path less traveled by, and that will make all the difference.”

They were the sentiments of one Confirmation student, yet clearly they are relevant to everyone. There is something powerful that draws us to the path of Judaism, even though we know that the path is a bit rockier and at times we may even have to use a machete to hack our way through the overgrowth. We know that along the road less traveled, we are more likely to find undiscovered treasures, natural beauty less tarnished by the masses hurtling by on the high ways. We also know that there are wonderful things that can only be seen and experienced on other roads, roads significantly more heavily traveled. Some of those things we will miss, others we will come to by a side road and then leave by a side road again. Some things we will experience through the trees from a distance.

Many things on the path that we choose, those on other paths will never experience at all. Some flowers only bloom away from the hustle and bustle. The fruit on the trees on our road less traveled is given more time to ripen before it is picked by passersby-by. On occasion, we may even look down and see the trace of the foot prints of those who walked the same path generations before us. Sometimes we find ourselves walking only with Reform Jews. At other times, we find ourselves walking the path along side many others, some of whose reasons for being on the path might be very different from our own.

It is true that on occasion, the road less traveled may be lonely. We may not see fellow travelers often. Yet unlike on more heavily traveled roads, we are much more likely to take notice of travelers on our road less traveled, perhaps even taking the time to greet them, to talk about the sights we have seen, to play “Jewish Geography” or even to share some of the wonderful fruit that we have gathered on our journeys.

Though, as Jews, our footsteps fall on the Jewish path, we may choose at some time to join the others on the high ways, to travel speedily and anonymously in the pack, for every now and then we will come to junctions where our less traveled road links up with others. Many times, others whose journeys have been along the more traveled roads will join with us on our path, sometimes choosing to become one of us, to convert to Judaism. But often with their hearts and minds dedicated to the road more traveled, they take the hands of their loved ones and journey along side them on the road less traveled, our road.

For certain, the road less traveled draws the Jewish soul. In the words of the prophet Micah, “For all the peoples walk, each in the name of their own god, but we will walk in the name of Adonai, our God, forever and ever.”

I do not know what each of us will encounter along the path we will choose, but that along the way, as Micah tells us, we need “to do righteous deeds, to love acting kindly, and to walk humbly with our God.”

I stand before you today without a sigh, as a guide on the road less traveled by. Up ahead there is much more to learn and experience, and if you continue on this road, it will indeed make all the difference.

Dvar Torah on Creationism

Dvar Torah on Creationism
August 24, 2007
Rabbi David Kaufman

On satellite radio, there have been frequent advertisements for a website called Godsaidmansaid.com. I decided to take a look at it the other day. It is a creationist website that argues that the ridiculous notion the earth is only 6,000 years old.

One article on the website discusses evolution. The author points out that:

Before 1859 and Charles Darwin, the prevailing view of man was that the age of the earth was young...about 5,850 years or so. Darwin was a former theology student who turned materialist. His first book, The Origin of Species, catapulted him into the status of the father of the doctrine of evolution.

That much is true. Darwin’s theory mandated that the earth be much older and dramatically challenged the orthodox views of his day. Since 1859, Evolution, the development of our world WITHOUT the influence of the divine, has been the standard view and the basis of natural science ever since. The idea that the world was only a few thousand years old was not so crazy only a century and a half ago.

Hah! You say! Silly! Ludicrous! A 6,000 year old earth! Yet,
this Rosh Hashanah Jews around the world will celebrate the year 5,768. Not even 6,000. From where does that number come?

Last year, Stephen Rosenberg wrote an Op-Ed for the Jerusalem post in which he answered that question.

Rosenberg pointed out that it is assumed that the dating 5767 is Anno Mundi, the years of the world from Creation, or at least from the birth of Adam. The count is based mainly on Seder Olam Rabba, a treatise ascribed to Rabbi Jose ben Halafta of the 2nd century CE. It is mentioned in the Talmud, but was not used as a calendar until the 9th century. Prior to that dates had been based upon the local ruler’s time in power. By the end of the 10th Century, Seder Olam Rabba’s count became the accepted dating throughout the Jewish world.

According to this system, the end of the Second Temple is dated to the year 3828. It counts 1,656 years from Creation to the Flood, 392 years from the Flood to the birth of Isaac, then 400 years to the Exodus, 480 years to the building of the Temple and another 900 years to its second destruction.
That works out at 68 CE, which is very close to the date of 70 based on Roman sources, and the date of Creation is then 3760 BCE, which is the date we use, being 5767 minus 2007. Thus, our world is only 5, 767 years old.

Science says otherwise. The accepted science is that the age of the earth spans from 4 billion to 6 billion years, and the oldest known rocks are estimated at 3.9 billion years "by measurement of lead isotypes that condensed from the primeval cloud of interstellar gas and dust from which the entire solar system is thought to have been formed."

Humanity came on the scene much later, after the formation of land masses and seas, when life appeared in the form of plants and primitive organisms. Some kind of development then ensued, which gave rise to more and more complex organisms that eventually resulted in the Humanity that we know today.

The only way the formation of planet Earth can be envisaged as developing in less than 6,000 years would be by a process of "catastrophism" - the rapid succession of major catastrophes one after another - but this is rejected as being completely improbable. One would need to believe in MIRACLES.

One small problem—well one really large problem—is that hundreds of millions of people around the world DO believe in miracles. They are believers in the Truth of the “Bible,” which is very much a catastrophic history and certainly not science. The inerrant Truth of the biblical narrative is the basis of the godsaidmansaid website and also the basis of the Traditional Jewish dating of the days since creation.

Rosenberg asks a rather interesting question, which is also addressed by Creationists. Why is it that Jewish dating goes back to just 3760 BCE?

True, it is based on the ages of all those biblical characters, but why do they go back for less than 6,000 years? Why do our records go back to only that date?

Chapter 10 of Genesis sets out a picture of the world and its inhabitants after the Flood, and it includes other cultures, particularly the Egyptians and the Mesopotamians which have their own records. These records are at least partly available to us today. How far back do THEIR records go?

The Egyptians, who were concerned to push back their monarchic history of "the two lands" as far as possible, counted their first royal dynasty as starting with the Pharaohs Scorpion, Narmer and Menes, at about 3150 BCE. The earliest written records of any kind from Egypt date to about 3300 BCE. Hence, Egyptian “named” History includes 5,307 years of information.

As for Mesopotamia, it was two rivers rather than two lands that shaped its history. Its civilization may go back to the earliest Stone Age of about 8000 BCE, but its named history is no earlier than the Egyptian record. The early temples appear in about 3500 to 3250 BCE and pictographic writing dates from around 3300.

The earliest dates of writing in Egypt and Mesopotamia (Sumeria) coincide and it is still a matter of argument as to which came first, Egyptian hieroglyphics or Sumerian cuneiform.

All this suggests that named history as we know it today cannot go back further than about 3000 BCE at the earliest, while before that folk memory takes over. That memory, in oral form, could perhaps have gone back another 500 years, or 1,000 at the most. Our tradition tells us that it goes back to some date between 3000 and 4000 BCE, and the given one of 3760 then becomes quite believable.

SO WHERE does all of this leave us - in a world 5,767 years old, almost 5,768, or one that is billions of years old?

The Jewish Tradition seems to give us a place among the nations based on the earliest records available to us and them, and it is clear that such records would place our beginnings in a world of nearly 6,000 years ago, and at a date, that we still record, of 5,767 years before the present.

Then again, perhaps each of God’s Six Days was a billion years long?

Meanwhile, in only a few weeks, on Rosh Hashanah we will welcome the year 5,768 since creation and in the words of the great 11th Century Jewish exegete, Rabbi Abraham ibn Ezra, “Ha-mei-vin, ya-vin,” “The one who understands what is truly being said, will understand.” There will be no explanation. For a number based upon faith, there can be none.

Happy almost 5,768 or something in the billions. Either way, have a good new year.

Shabbat Shalom.

Life after Loss

Sermon on Life after Loss
Yom Kippur 2006-5767
Rabbi David Jay Kaufman

“If some messenger were to come to us with the offer that death should be overthrown, but with the one inseparable condition that birth also cease: if the existing generation were given the chance to live forever, but on the clear understanding that never again would there be a new child, or a youth, or a first love, never again new persons with new hopes, new ideas, new achievements; ourselves for always and never any others—could the answer be in doubt?”

I will utter these same words again this afternoon during our memorial service. They are a well reasoned attempt to assuage us of our grief. How could we deny that new life is essential? Yet, how could we deny that loss is painful? Would not we love to have just a bit more time with those dear to us? Would not we ask the messenger from the depths of our hearts, “But what if life could be longer? Healthier? Would that be so bad?”

Sometimes, it is not the adult level and intellectual discourse that is helpful, but that at the level of a child. One such source of help is a book written for children called simply, “Sad isn’t bad,” by Michaelene Mundy.

The first page of that book reads:

It’s okay to cry.
When someone you care about dies, it’s very sad. There will be tears, but tears can be good. Sad isn’t bad.
You might feel like you are too big to cry. You’re not.

You might even notice yourself crying at things that didn’t use to bother you—a shoe that won’t tie, a toy that breaks, homework that seems too hard…. Tell yourself it’s okay to cry when you’re sad. You have a good reason.

This advice is as appropriate for adults as it is for children. Children may not know that crying is okay. They might not understand that other things may cause them to get angry and cry, things that normally would not bother them. Adults often forget that crying is okay. They feel embarrassed perhaps, or that they must “be strong” for others. The fact is that the advice holds, “It’s okay to cry. “And though “you might feel like you are too big to cry, you’re not.”

Mourning is a process, a journey, that begins without our consent. We are cast out upon a path unknown, cold and dark. Yet as we walk the path of mourning, warmth and light appear along our way: a kind word, a hug, a shoulder to cry on, a fond memory that makes us smile. Over time there may be quite a bit of light on the path and more warmth than not, but there will always be times when the chill of mourning will return, if for only a short while.

These chills amid the warmth may well be memories, thoughts about a parent, a spouse, a child, absent from our lives: perhaps memories of playing catch, riding a bike, eating cake, playing music, cooking, sewing, singing, dancing, a season, a sunrise, a sunset, a rainbow… It is also possible that there will be chills amid the warmth that are sorrows for memories never made, joys not shared.
Harold Schulweis wrote a poem about the mourning process and how it changes over time:

The yahrzeit candle is different, announcing neither Sabbath nor festival. No benediction recited. No song sung. No psalm mandated.

Before this unlit candle without a quorum, I stand, unstruck match in my hand.

It is less distant now, the remembrance ritual of parents deceased. I am older now, closer to their age than before. I am older now, their aches in my body, their white hairs beneath my shaved skin, their wrinkles creased into my face.

It is less distant now. This ritual once made me think of them, now makes me think of me.

Once it revealed relationships to them, now it ponders on my children’s relationship to me. Once I wondered what to remember of them, now I ask what will my children remember of me: what smile, what grimace, what stories they will tell their children of me.

It is less distant now. How would I be remembered? How would I be mourned? Will they come to the synagogue? Light a candle? Recite the Kaddish?

It is less distant now. Once yahrzeit was about parents deceased, now it is of children alive. Once it was about a distant past, now it is about tomorrow.

A part of our mourning process is, in fact, about us and those who will mourn for us. It is the realization that, as we say in our liturgy, “all of us must trod the same path, though we know not when that hour may come.” We may wonder to where the path leads. Where does it all end for us? What happens to our soul? Though we have no specific answer, because God is good and cares for us, we can expect that what will become of us will be the best that it can be.

Among my favorite poems about death, if one can have a favorite poem about death, is “When I am Dead” by Christina Rossetti. It is short and sweet.

When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress tree:
Be the green grass above me
With showers and dewdrops wet;
And if thou wilt—remember, And if thou wilt—forget.

I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on, as if in pain:
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise, nor set,
Haply I may remember, And haply may forget.

Just as is our hope on this Day of Atonement, that God will look upon us, remembering the good and forgiving the not so good; we hope that our loved ones will, when the time comes, remember the good about our lives, and forget the not so good. This is also the hope of the second of the blessings in the Priestly Benediction. “Ya’eir Adonai Panav Eleikhah vi-hu-nekha,” “May Adonai shine God’s light upon you and be gracious unto you.” We dearly want God to pay attention to us, to remember us, to shine the light of the divine presence into our lives. Yet, with attention, with remembrance, with light shown into the darkness, it is not only those things of which we are proud that are seen. We ask God to pay attention to us, but to be gracious in so doing because in shining the light upon us, God surely sees the good and the bad. In our remembrance of our loved ones, may we light the candle of memory and let its radiance shine, but let us be gracious, remembering the good and, perhaps, forgetting the not so good things in the story of our lives.

Atem Nitzavim Hayom Lifnei Adonai. Today, we all stand before Adonai with the light of God’s presence shining down upon us, into our hearts, into our past. What is it that we wish for that light to reveal about us? How could we live our lives better?

Our tradition teaches us that we should NOT live each day as if it were our last. That seems at bit surprising at first. Why should we not live and enjoy? Why not cherish every moment? Instead, our tradition tells us that we should do that regardless. If death should be far away, we should cherish every moment, we should enjoy life. Yet, we should also plan for tomorrow. The rabbinic tradition tells us, “The day of death is concealed, so that people might build and plant.”

Harold Kushner points out that:

Sometimes the anticipation of death can invest our days and our decisions with meaning. People can respond to the inevitability of death in one of several ways. We can choose the path of self-indulgence, saying to ourselves, “Eat, drink, and be merry for tomorrow I may die. “ We can respond with despair, thinking, “What is the point of doing anything since nothing lasts?” like the author of the book of Ecclesiastes, or like Woody Allen’s recollection of himself as a child who proclaims, “What’s the point of doing homework?” after learning that the sun is going to disappear and all life will end in six billion years. Or we can choose to say to ourselves, “Since my days are limited, let me make the most of them.”

The tapestry of our lives will be colored by the choices we make, the indulgences, the kindnesses, the despair and the hope, the times we wasted and the times we made the most out of life. The places that our tapestry will hang when our life is finished will tell of our impact in the lives of others. Who will remember us, for what good that we have done? Will it be our loved ones alone gazing at the colors and patterns we have woven? Or will our tapestry be remembered by the community, admired for generations? Will those standing before it be thankful for having contributed a part to its artistry? Will they, not having had the opportunity, wish to have been a part of its creation? Will they think to themselves, if only he or she had cared more, had given more of themselves, reached out to help more, we would be so much better off? Or will they cry tears of thanks for generosity and kindness that made a difference, for trees planted in old age that bear fruit for the generations to come?

What we do in our lives, with our lives, through our lives does this. The greater the impact someone has upon us, the greater the emptiness their passing leaves behind with us. For many in this sanctuary, death has come recently to their home, to their family, and the emptiness is profound and clear. For some, age and illness have brought it near. Others find that loss and sadness are more distant, but emptiness remains.

We say yizkor elohim, may he or she be remembered by God. Even after decades, WE could never forget. We ask that El Malei Rachamim, God full of compassion grant our loved ones perfect rest; and that Shalom, our rest, our wholeness, descend upon us, even as we remember those without whom, our lives are not whole. As we sing, “Oseh Shalom Bimromav,” standing arrayed before the light of memory, tears come to the edges of our eyes. We try to halt them. We are, after all, older now.

Yet perhaps something within us will remember a bit of advice told to us or even the words written in a child’s book:

It’s okay to cry.
When someone you care about dies, it’s very sad. There will be tears, but tears can be good. Sad isn’t bad.
You might feel like you are too big to cry. You’re not.

Then our tears water the grass that never withers, the flowers that never fade, and “if thou wilt—remember and if thou wilt—forget.”

May we all be blessed with abundant Shalom, peace, well-being, and wholeness in our lives. May the new year be one filled with sweet memories.

L’shanah Tovah Tikateivu,

May you be inscribed and this day sealed in the book of life for a good and happy new year.

Teshuvah

Sometimes It Is Beyond The Sea
Sermon for Yom Kippur Morning 5768
Rabbi David Kaufman

In this morning’s Torah portion, we read

For this commandment which I command thee this day, it is not too hard for you, neither is it far off. It is not in heaven, that you should say, “Who shall go up for us to heaven, and bring it us, and make us to hear it, that we may do it?” Neither is it beyond the sea, that you should say, “Who shall go over the sea for us, and bring it to us, and make us to hear it, that we may do it?” But the matter is very close to you, in your mouth, and in your heart, that you may do it. (Deuteronomy 30. 11--14)

Nechama Leibowitz, the great Orthodox Torah scholar (yes there are Orthodox women who are Torah scholars, though far fewer than there should be)--- Nechama Leibowitz tells us that the Traditional commentators differed regarding the interpretation of this passage.

The main question that must be decided is whether "this commandment" refers to the duty of repentance dealt with in the previous verses or whether Hatorah Hazot, “this Torah” means the whole Torah.

Most of our Traditional commentators hold the view that we are dealing with the whole complex of Jewish observance. The sages in the Talmud assume this to be the case, in their discussion of the passage.

It is argued that if the Torah would have been inaccessible -- beyond the sea or in heaven, you would have had the valid excuse to argue, Who shall go up to heaven etc. Now that it has been made close to you, you have no further excuse.


Nechama Leibowitz argues that:

The Torah is not the property of a privileged caste of priests and initiates. It is not in heaven but in our midst. It is the duty of all to study, teach and practice its tenets.

One of my favorite stories in the Talmud (Baba Metzia 59a) has to do with this topic. I have embellished a bit. It is the tale of an oven that needed to be declared kosher.

This oven was a new invention created by a certain man named Achnai. Achnai brought his new oven to the rabbinical court at the house of study for them to give his invention their approval and to deem it Kosher. Every sage declared that the oven was not kosher except Rabbi Eliezer. This is the only time in Jewish history when among a large group of Jews there were only two opinions.

Rabbi Eliezer brought forward every imaginable argument to try and convince the other sages that the oven was kosher, but none of his colleagues was convinced.

Rabbi Eliezer got frustrated and he shouted at them: “If Achnai's oven is kosher, then let this carob tree prove it!” He had actually expected the Carob tree to respond in sign language and though it did, the rabbis did not know American Sign Language. So instead, frustrated itself, the carob tree flew out of the ground and landed a hundred cubits away.

Unimpressed, the other sages stated flatly: “No proof can be brought from a carob tree.” Rabbi Eliezer just stared at them and thought, “Okay, they must prefer the opinions of other trees. I should have called upon an oak tree or perhaps a pomegranate.”

Again Rabbi Eliezer implored them: “If the oven is kosher, then let this stream of water prove it.” And the stream of water flowed backwards. “No proof can be brought from a stream of water,” the rabbis responded.

More frustrated than ever, Rabbi Eliezer cried out: “If the oven is kosher, let the walls of this house of study prove it!” And the walls began to fall inward. But Rabbi Joshua rebuked the collapsing walls saying: “When scholars are engaged in a disagreement over a point of Jewish law, what right do you have to interfere?” And the walls did not fall in honor of Rabbi Joshua, nor did they resume their upright position in honor of Rabbi Eliezer.

Now, wondering who the architect and contractors were who built the house of study that was collapsing upon them and making a mental note to call their lawyer, again Rabbi Eliezer said to the sages, “If the law agrees with me regarding the fact that Achnai's oven is kosher, then let it be proved by heaven.” And a heavenly voice cried out: “Why do you rabbis argue with Eliezer? He's always right in his interpretation of the law!"

Rabbi Eliezer thought, “So there!” and put his hands on his hips knowing that he was right.

But Rabbi Joshua arose and exclaimed to the sky: “It is not in Heaven” (Deuteronomy 30:12). One must follow the majority!” At that moment, according to the sages, God laughed, saying “My children have defeated me! My children have overruled me!”

Rabbi Eliezer went on to create a new website and began to fundraise for the next house of study election wherein he hoped to be victorious and to obtain control over the supreme court. The website is called Move-Oven.org .
This story comes to teach us that the verse, “It is not in heaven” refers to the Torah, all of it, oral law and written law, and to our ability to posses it. We have the law and we interpret it.

Yet there are commentators who disagree with the Traditional assessment. Nahmanides, Rabbi Moshe ben Nachman, a 13th century scholar, tells us that the passage refers to the mitzvah of repentance (teshuvah). The Torah wishes to emphasize that nothing stands in its way and no man can find valid excuses of time, place and circumstance to defer the duty of returning to God. Commenting on the passage, he states:

Though you are scattered amongst the peoples, you will still be able to return to the Lord and do all that I have commanded you today: for the matter is not beyond you or too difficult for you, but it is within your grasp for you to perform at all times and in all places.

Teshuvah, returning in repentance, is not dependent on external conditions, on where the Jewish people lives or on the pressure of alien cultures. It is purely a matter of individual free choice, dependant upon one’s resolution to return to the divine source, however far you have become alienated from it, and however numerous the barriers that have grown up between you and your Creator: "but the word is very close unto you, in your mouth and in your heart, that you may do it".

The Tradition and the Torah portion tell us, “It is not beyond the Sea.” But sometimes it seems to be.

If only changing our ways were easy. If only we were able to give up our bad habits at will. Stop smoking because we know it to be bad for us. Stop overeating, start working out more. Sometimes it seems beyond the sea.

And if this passage deals with the entire Torah, how much the more difficult? If only we could act as the Torah demands with ease. If only we could follow its precepts and paths without getting lost, honoring mother and father, not coveting the possessions of others, keeping the Sabbath Day and its meaning relevant in our lives. Sometimes it seems beyond the sea.

Sometimes it IS beyond the sea. Our Tradition bids us, “You should not remain idle while your neighbor bleeds.” We live in a global community. Our “neighbors” include everyone. We do not discriminate because someone lives 100 miles away instead of 10 miles or 10 feet. We do not even discriminate because someone lives 1,000 miles away or half-way around the globe. Concerns for those further away might be less obvious to us and we might be less motivated to try to reach out to help, but we certainly wish to aid those suffering no matter where they are.

Since I have been in Des Moines, our community has reached out to the people suffering in Darfur, but also to those Sudanese within our community. We reached out to the victims of Hurricane Katrina, fellow American citizens, but also to the victims of the Tsunami in Southeast Asia, members of other nations and other religions. Sometimes it IS beyond the sea. We reach beyond the sea to help those in need.

Sometimes, our concerns are for the safety and prosperity of the nation and people of Israel, not only for its Jewish inhabitants, but for all of its inhabitants. We see the threats on the horizon and those right before us and we reach beyond the sea to help. Sometimes it IS beyond the sea.

Other times, it is not a physical distance that lies between us and the fulfillment of mitzvot, rather the tasks seem beyond us. There are times when the best medicine in the world cannot save a life, when our best efforts to help another through a crisis are not good enough. Sometimes it IS beyond the sea for us, out of our reach.

How often do we look our Traditions and wonder why our ancestors did them. Why do our texts tell us not to eat certain foods or not to prepare them in a certain way? There are many theories, many statements given by the rabbis and by scholars. Some, who believe that all of the Torah was given by God to Moses at Sinai declare it simply God’s will. Yet, for others among us, the answer is unknown, beyond a sea of time. Sometimes it IS beyond the sea.

But you know what? We have boats and planes that can travel beyond the sea. We can reach out to distant lands and provide food. We can reach out to those in Israel to aid them in time of need. We can learn new techniques and create new technologies to better lives and save lives. We can learn the history of Traditions that are from times long past and done for reasons unknown to us. We can change our behaviors, though it may be difficult to do so. We can forgive. We can repent. We can atone.

The waves upon the sea and the distances we must traverse may make our journeys difficult, but if we work hard, if we strive to do our best, if we are earnest in our efforts, we will arrive. And when we stand upon that shore, beyond the sea, beyond our challenges—then, we will say to ourselves, you know, “It is not beyond the sea.” We can do it.

Sometimes, forgiveness that seems impossible to give and repentance that seems impossible to achieve, are simply beyond the sea. And we must remember that we can go beyond the sea and often need to do so.

Not long ago our ancestors looked up at the sky to the stars and the planets. The moon was the light in the night sky. It was in the heavens. Few then would have envisioned that some day, human beings would stand upon the moon and gaze upward toward the earth. Sometimes what may appear beyond the sea or even in the heavens, impossible, is possible to achieve.

Sometimes though it is beyond the sea, we may still achieve it.

May we all be inscribed and sealed in the Book of Life for a happy, healthy, and prosperous new year.

Shanah Tovah and Shabbat Shalom.

Sermon on Forgiveness and Atonement

Sermon on Forgiveness and Atonement
Kol Nidrei 5768
Rabbi David Kaufman

On Rosh Hashanah, I noted the fact that I have been involved in an interfaith dialogue concerning the concepts of Might and Right. That discussion has led us into several other topics, of which one is very appropriate for Kol Nidrei.

It was stated by a participant in our dialogue that, in her mind, one of the most important areas of difference between Christianity, Islam, and Judaism is the Christian call to forgiveness, which brought us into dialogue about forgiveness in our religious traditions.

As Jews, we prioritize repentance and atonement in particular much more than forgiveness.

In the words of Claude Montefiore, the great nephew of Sir Moses Montefiore and a tremendous scholar in his own right:

For us there is but one atonement—the atonement wrought by human repentance and the divine forgiveness; by God’s grace and help on the one hand, by human remorse and effort on the other…That is the Jewish atonement; we know no other… We do not ask that our past sins may be forgiven in the sense that their effects may be cancelled, for that is impossible. All we can ask and do ask for is better insight, purer faith, fuller strength. We want to grow in holiness of life and in the love of God.

In Judaism, forgiveness cannot be given until the sinner atones, that is, corrects or compensates for damage done. Some sins cannot be forgiven by Human beings at all, such as murder, since nothing can bring the dead back to life and nothing can compensate the dead person, much less his or her loved ones. Forgiveness in the Jewish tradition CANNOT be given without atonement and one cannot atone if one cannot remedy the damage done. Just as saying "sorry" does not atone, neither does forgiveness without repentance and atonement effect the removal of sin.

The philosopher Hermann Cohen tells us that:

God in mercy can grant atonement only to those who strive for the good, who recognize sin and wish to avoid it. Without our moral work in repentance, God would be unable to redeem us.

Yet, can we not forgive? Is not forgiveness a part of Judaism also? Yes, but in a different way. We may forgive our anger, removing our own hatred of people who have committed a sin. That forgiveness we may do. That is within our power, it is our choice, but forgiving an action which is unforgivable is not possible and forgiving an action for which atonement is possible, but has not been accomplished, is not acceptable.

One cannot seek forgiveness of a sin, if repair is possible, but has not been done. If you have stolen from someone, you cannot seek forgiveness for the theft while withholding the means to restore what you have stolen. You must try to restore it first. Atonement is not simply seeking forgiveness, nor changing your ways, but involves repairing the damage you have done.

Additionally, atonement requires intent. The rabbis tell us in the Mishnah that “One who says, ‘I will sin and repent, then I will sin and repent again,’ is not really repentant. And one who says, ‘I will sin, and the Day of Atonement will atone for me, will find that the day will not avail for atonement.”

On this day, we think not merely of forgiveness for sins, but also of the effect that such forgiveness will have upon us. Our tradition talks about this in terms of the Book of Life. A discussion concerning the Book of Life leads to the following question: What is the difference between achieving forgiveness and achieving salvation?

You can only be forgiven for specific actions for which you have repented and if possible atoned. Achieving salvation on the other hand requires that your good works outweigh your bad ones, particularly sins for which atonement has not been or cannot be made. In Judaism, one is not doomed for failing to atone for any single sin, nor "saved" by any single good deed. Furthermore, belief in anything without works atones for nothing.

One can be an ATHEIST and do good deeds and receive the best of the afterlife, but one who believes devoutly in God after all is said and done, but has lived an evil life absent of righteousness cannot be. Some say that such a person is allowed to live again, literally bringing reincarnation into Judaism, so that they may try again to live well. The Jewish tradition believes that NO ONE has THE answer about the afterlife, but that a righteous God would prioritize deeds and not faith. Thus, in the Jewish tradition it is believed that the righteous of all religions will benefit the best of the afterlife and not just the righteous among Jews. There are likely even more non-Jews in this state in the afterlife than Jews, simply because there are far more non-Jews. The Jewish view of who may merit in God's eyes is very definitely not tribal. Ours is but one path, one way to live a righteous life.

One interesting question that arose in our dialogue about forgiveness and sin is the description in Christian Scriptures of the response to acts of healing performed by Jesus on Shabbat. Christian Scriptures make it clear that the religious authorities argued that acts of healing on the Sabbath violate the Sabbath, something that clearly results in a negative view of the Jewish leadership, who would prioritize the rule of law above all.

Yet, from a Jewish perspective, the story of healing on the Sabbath as depicted in Christian Scriptures makes absolutely no sense in a Jewish context because saving a life does and has always surpassed the prohibitions of the Sabbath.

One is not only allowed, but even mandated to take up arms in ones defense on the Sabbath, surely a more extreme action than an act of healing would be. Even in ULTRA-Orthodox communities today doctors visit patients on the Sabbath in order to heal. When a life is on the line, the rabbis argue that we are commanded to break any law except murder, idolatry, incest, or adultery in order to save a life. To not break a law in order to defend or save life is considered an evil and could even be likened to murder.

Rabbi Simon Glustrom, past chairperson of the Rabbinical Assembly's Publications Committee, a Conservative rabbi, speaking about the imperative to save life said:

The Talmud emphasizes this principle by citing the verse from Leviticus [18:5]: "You shall therefore keep my statutes…which if one does, he shall live by them." The rabbis add: "That he shall live by them, and not that he shall die by them." (Babylonian Talmud, Yoma 85b)

When life is involved, all Sabbath laws may be suspended to safeguard the health of the individual, the principle being “pikkuach nefesh doheh Shabbat”--[rescuing a] life in danger takes precedence over the Sabbath.

One is not merely permitted--one is required to disregard a law that conflicts with life or health.

The Shulkhan Arukh, one of the most authoritative post-Talmudic rabbinic works, tells us that, "It is a religious precept to desecrate the Sabbath for any person afflicted with an illness that may prove dangerous." (Orah Hayyim 328:2)

This is also the case on Yom Kippur. One is obligated to break the fast if fasting endangers one’s health. Caregivers are also obligated to break the laws of Yom Kippur in order to care for those whose lives are endangered. Rabbi Glustrom noted that:

In spite of the virtue of observing a fast, it is not virtuous to observe laws at the risk of one's life. Such conduct is regarded as foolish, even as sinful. The Sages described this stubbornness as a "piety of madness."
Christianity and Judaism as well as Islam, all parts of our dialogue, all emphasize the need to aid others and prioritize the saving of life. When our righteous deeds and our sins are considered, according to the Jewish Tradition, the good deed of saving a single life outweighs almost everything else combined.

This idea of the prioritization of saving a life over the fulfillment of mitzvot is not limited to health alone. The rabbis command that one not attempt to fulfill a mitzvah if doing so could endanger life. For example, during times of persecution, Jews who were normally obligated to place a Chanukkiah in a window visible to passers-by, were commanded not to endanger themselves by doing so and instead to place the Chanukkiah in a place where it would not draw dangerous attention.

Currently much of the debate concerning Pikkuach Nefesh centers around organ donation.

Rabbi Dr. Goldie Milgram, writing for Belief.net about organ donation in the Jewish tradition wrote:

Depending upon your age, you might remember Jewish tradition on the topic of organ donation as very different from how it actually is today. Once opposed, Jewish law and practice on organ donation has changed dramatically, which is the beauty of Judaism as a living, evolving tradition. Now that organ transplantation is a highly successful way to save a life, organ donation has been deemed an obligatory act, a mitzvah chiyuvit, by every major branch of Judaism.

Now, it is important to note that some Orthodox leaders differ on how to determine the time of death, and prefer a point later than brain death, which results in some organs being rendered unusable but even in that case, the kidneys, barring kidney disease, remain transplantable after death. Accordingly, not to bequeath your organs has become a transgression of the mitzvah of pikuakh nefesh, “saving a life.”

Three verses from Torah frame the source for organ donation: “You shall not stand by the blood of your neighbor” [Leviticus 19:16], “You shall surely heal” [Exodus 21:19] and “You shall restore” (a lost object, which includes someone’s health) [Exodus 23:4]. And amazingly, despite very different ways at coming to their decision – virtually the full spectrum of Judaism, with only a few rabbinic decisors dissenting, agree that post-mortem organ donation is an obligatory mitzvah.

Currently, the debate centers on when death has occurred, because heart and lung transplants require that the donor’s organs be kept working. Important Jewish texts and prevailing traditions in the minds of some more Traditional authorities seem to call for both heart and breathing to have stopped in order for a person to be officially dead and therefore, those holding the opinion that the heart must stop beating for death to occur, essentially do not allow for the heart and lungs to be donated.

All of these issues, from violating the Sabbath in order to heal to disturbing the body after death in order to transplant organs, necessitate the fulfillment of one law while violating another.

In other words, the Jewish Tradition understands that the righteous may have to break a few rules while being righteous. Our tradition teaches us “Tsedek Tsedek Tirdof,” which is often mistranslated “Justice, Justice, you shall pursue” instead of “Righteousness, Righteousness, you shall pursue.” The statement comes as a commentary concerning how judges should function and is found in the Torah in the book of Deuteronomy.

The Torah teaches that judges should try to execute justice, but that justice should be a righteous justice. Justice should not be blindly enforced, but should instead take into account other issues and once they are taken into account, a decision based upon righteousness as well as justice should be reached. The statement, “Righteousness, Righteousness, you shall pursue,” serves to emphasize that it is righteousness and not justice that should have as much influence as possible.

This idea is also true on this day, the Day of Atonement. We come before God as judge seeking not justice, for we know that we have sinned, but mercy, righteousness, understanding, kindness… We want God to be Av Ha-rachamim, “Merciful Father” and not Dayan Ha-emet, “Judge of Truth.”

None of us is without sin. Many of us could stand to be a bit kinder and more merciful ourselves. Yet, we come before God thinking of our faults and hoping that God will think also of our merits, graciously elevating our merits while lessening our faults.

“Yaeir Adonai panav eilekha v’hunekha.”

This day, we ask God to shine God’s countenance into our souls, to see into our depths, the good and the bad. Gazing upon us, we ask that God to be gracious unto us, being merciful in considering our faults.

Having done that, may we all be inscribed and sealed in the Book of Life for good and sweet year.