Let’s begin with a story. Or two.
Once
upon a time, a young man went to his rabbi and said: “Rabbi, you know I’ve been
a pious Jew all my life. But something has changed. When I was a child, I felt
very close to God. But now that I’m
older, it seems as if God has left me. I go about my daily business, I say my
prayers, but I no longer feel God near me.”
The
rabbi smiled, as though he’d heard the problem stated many times before. “You
may be certain God has not left you, my friend,” he answered kindly. “When you
teach a child to walk, at first you stand very close. The child can take just one step, so you must
catch him. But as he grows, you move
farther and farther away, so that he can walk to you. God has not abandoned
you. Like a good parent, God has moved farther away, but is still close by,
waiting for you. Now you must learn to
walk to God.”
Isn’t
that a nice story?
I
think so – except for one thing:
I
don’t buy it. I don’t buy the rabbi’s answer.
I
don’t believe God ever moves away from us. I believe God is ever present and
that it is we who move away from God. We do it for innumerable reasons,
some of them quite respectable like, we don’t believe the God as described in
our childhood. Or we become distant
because the need to earn a living or ferry our children from one place to
another or deal with a plumbing emergency – and some reasons we may be less
proud of – I’m not going to list any of those, because – well – many of them
are in the litany of sins in our prayer book today. The point is, in our hectic, stressful,
distracting daily lives, it’s remarkably easy to forget that God is in the
world.
And
that reminds me of a story I like a great deal better.
One
fine summer day, the great Ukrainian Hassidic master, Rabbi Levi Yitzhak of
Berditchev, called his disciples to him and said that he had an urgent
announcement to make to all the Jews of Berditchev.
“But
Rabbi,” said one of the disciples, “it’s market day, the busiest day of the
week! Can’t this announcement wait ‘til Shabbat?”
“No!”
the rebbe insisted, shaking his head from side to side so emphatically that his
side-curls waved in the air. “Now, this minute. As soon as possible!”
And
so the rebbe’s disciples ran through the streets of Berditchev, insisting that
all the market stalls should be covered and all the shops shuttered and
everyone must come immediately to hear the rebbe’s announcement.
The
Jews of Berditchev loved their rebbe, but they were nonetheless vexed. “What’s
so important it can’t wait?” they grumbled. “A Jew doesn’t feed a family by
listening to his rebbe make announcements. He has to earn a living!”
Nonetheless,
they trudged to the town square where they found their rebbe standing on a
carton. He waited for them to quiet down then slowly rose and looked at them.
Then he said this:
“I
am very pleased to announce to you, Jews of Berditchev . . . that God is in the world!”
For
a moment or two, the Berditchev Jews were taken aback and wondered if they’d
heard correctly. But then, the rabbi’s meaning began to dawn on them, and they
were ashamed of the way they’d been living their lives. So the people of
Berditchev returned to the marketplace and, sure enough, many of them found God
there, waiting for them.
In
this story, we find the essence of Jewish mysticism. The rebbe implores his
community to step out of their busy distracted lives – where prayers are said
by rote and ideals are compromised as a matter of course – and acknowledge –
no, feel - the presence of God.
It is also the essence
of Yom Kippur, which asks us to do the very same thing. It is a day separate
from our secular lives, a chance to reflect and renew our acquaintance with the
spiritual. When we forget what is sacred
in life – and we all do – it’s not because cosmic reality has changed, but
because we stopped paying attention.
I
often think of these two stories when people come to me – as they often do – to
say “Rabbi, I’m having trouble believing in God” or “I’m no longer sure I
believe in God” or, simply, “I don’t believe in God.”
And
my answer is usually pretty much the same. “Tell me,” I say, “what God don’t
you believe in? Because it’s probably one I don’t believe in, either. The first
thing you should know is, your doubts are healthy – and thoroughly Jewish, by
the way. Let them serve as an invitation to study some of the fascinating
questions and answers raised by Jews who, for centuries, have struggled with
the same issues you’re struggling with at this moment.”
The
turning away from God is a classic Jewish problem and the best evidence for
this fact is Yom Kippur itself. On this day of repentance, we speak of teshuvah – of spiritual return. Judaism
assumes that each and every one of us needs to make teshuvah on this day – that each and every one of us has drifted
away from God - from the essence of our souls, the divine spark within us - and
needs to wrestle his or her way back.
I
use the word “wrestle” quite deliberately here, for the word “Yisrael”
literally means “one who wrestles with God”, and it comes from the story of the
biblical Jacob wrestling with a divine being.
We are b’nai Yisrael, the children of God wrestlers, and God wrestlers
ourselves.
As
your rabbi, I have the same struggles as many of you, wrestling with God in my
own unique way. But one thing that is different
about me is that I often have the tremendous privilege of hearing the myriad
ways my fellow Jews wrestle with God.
Many
of us, for instance, struggle with the Torah because it presents a God most of
us don’t recognize in the real world. The God of the Torah is a loquacious
conversationalist, who finds the time to argue with Job about metaphysics and
bargain with Abraham about the number of righteous people necessary to save
Sodom and Gemmorah.
He strikes down
the impertinent, rewards those who grovel before him (sometimes) and orders the
Israelites to slaughter all of their Midianite prisoners, including the women
-- except for the virgins and children whom he orders enslaved. Not everyone is
comfortable with that.
Then
there is our liturgy, which is loaded with metaphors that personify God – the High
Holiday prayers’ central images are of Avinu Malkeinu, our Father and King. While these ancient images of God may work
for some of us, others may question them.
So how can this
Father, this King – this parent and sovereign - allow so much brokenness and
suffering? What kind of King allows the strong to persecute the weak every
single day, all over the world? What kind of Father sends Hurricane Matthew
through the Carribean and the American Southeast, killing hundreds of his
children? Or, for that matter, allows a dear, sweet Beverly resident, Riley
Feasedent, to be stricken with fatal cancer at such a young age?
The Jewish mystics recognize that there is much brokenness
in the world and we are here to help in its repair. That is essentially our purpose. One version of Kabbalah’s creation myth was comes
from Isaac Luria in the 16th century. Here
the term “myth” refers to a people’s sacred stories about origins, deities,
ancestors and heroes. In this myth God
is Eyn Sof, without end, and contracts to make space to create the
universe. And into this space vessels
are filled with divine light so powerful that the vessels shatter – a cosmic
catastrophe, a big bang, if you will.
Yes, there is brokenness. But
shards of light can be found everywhere, and we humans are here to find them,
and return them to their source, to do a kind of cosmic repair of the universe
and divine unity. This is the true
meaning of the term tikkun olm, world repair.
The
idea that we created in God's own image means we possess a divine spark, a spark
that connects us with all humanity and all life. Faith is our testimony that the light still
burns and that meaning is still to be found.
We do not deny the absurdity of life.
No human being, especially no Jews, living in our times, could do that. We have seen the depths of human cruelty and
the destructive power of nature. But as my mentor, Rabbi Art
Green, writes: “We refuse to give into
hopelessness. The struggle for faith and
the refusal to give into despair are one and the same.” The way in which
we respond to tragedy and reach out to each other is one way in which we find
God's presence in the world.
But what God do we find? Ah, that’s up to each and every
one of us God wrestlers. Is God avinu — an intimate, loving parent?
Or is God malcheinu, a distant, demanding sovereign? Is God dayan emet, the
true judge? Or is God harachaman, the compassionate one? Is God Ein Sof,
without End. You are free to choose,
because we have the gift of Free Will.
In truth, all of these
concepts of God, however disparate and seemingly contradictory, are one. The
ancient rabbis say that God is like a statue that we may perceive from an
infinite number of different directions, and from each perspective, we perceive
something new.
There is a beautiful
contemporary children’s book in which different types of people call God by
various names: A soldier calls God,
“maker of peace”, a child calls God “parent”, a shepherd calls God “shepherd”. Metaphors for God help us relate to God, help
us speak to God, and different ones may be meaningful at different times in our
lives. On the last page of the book, all
of these people come together, gaze into a reflecting pool at their own images,
and call God “One”. And it is in this
unity that we many find God, especially on this day.
The mystics teach that universe
is like a garment for the divine that fills and surrounds it. When we say Shema
Yisrael, Adonai Eloheinu Adonai ehad – Listen O Israel, God, our God, is one –
we are bearing witness to this divine unity.
In a world that seems so fragmented, and so torn apart, it is important
to remind ourselves that there is divinity everywhere. A divine spark within each of us that
connects us to each other and to all existence.
On
this day, and this day alone, we recite aloud the second line of the Shema:
Baruch shem kavod malchuto l’olam va-ed. Blessed is God’s holy name and God’s
kingdom, for eternity. On every other
occasion, we whisper it, after reciting aloud the first line, Shema Yisrael.
Why? Because, say the mystics, today is the day we remind ourselves, loud and
clear, that we are part of the divine
unity. God’s “kingdom” is right here
and God is right here – not up in heaven, pulling our strings like some master
puppeteer – but in this world, within us, within all creation. When we say
Baruch shem kavod aloud, we are claiming our place in the universe, and
accepting all the responsibilities that go with that claim, in terms of how we
live our lives.
If God is everywhere, in everything, then the potential to
encounter the divine is present at every moment. Eating, conversation, work – seemingly
mundane activities – have the potential to be made holy. The great mystic,
teacher, and activist Abraham Joshua Heschel taught that, “God
is hiding in the world. Our task is to
let the divine emerge from our deeds.”
It only takes a moment to find our breath,
notice a sunrise, smile at a passerby, or count a blessing. It only takes a
moment to be in the moment – but make no mistake: this isn’t easy.
Claiming a moment (then another, then another) is the teshuvah (spiritual
return) to which we re-commit at Yom Kippur. Tools of a spiritual life –
prayer, study, meditation, reflection, good deeds – empower us to make
Godly moments everywhere. What would the world be like if we all made a whole
year of holy moments like that, to let the divine emerge from our actions?
Highlighting the moral dimension of this mystical teaching, Art Green
explains that, “The only value of monotheism is to make you realize that all being,including every creature,
and that means the rock and the blade of grass in your garden as well as your pet lizard and your human neighbor next door are all one in origin. You come from the same place.[And] Therefore – and this is the “payoff” line
theonly one that really counts:
Treat them that way!
They are all God’s creatures; they exist only because of the divine presence, the same divine presence that makes you exist. This realization calls upon you to get to know them! Get to love them! Discover the unique divine gift within each of them! [...] That”
– according to Art – is “what it means to be a religious human being.”
Art is talking
about what we’ve been discussing these past 10 days: that relationships matter. With ourselves, with our community, with
humanity, with all life. God is in these
relationships. He is describing the same
things as the great Rav Kook, especially as we sing the fourth melody of his
Fourfold song: we “unite with all
existence, with all creatures and with all worlds” and with all of them, we
sing.
And
so, I invite you to sing with me now, the fourfold song. If you managed stayed
awake through any of my previous sermons, you were probably wondering when I’d
get to it. Because I’ve used it throughout these high holidays as our guide. On Rosh Hashanah we discussed the Song of the
Self and how it differs from the discordant song of selfishness. We discussed the song of the nation, and how the
ancient ties shared by people in this sanctuary can lead to a unique intimacy
and friendship in the present – and our congregation’s plans to further
increase, and deepen, our relationships and connections. And last night we
considered our obligation to sing the Song of Humanity, however difficult we
may find that melody in today’s world.
On this day of
teshuvah, of return and transformation, we open ourselves to the oneness of
God, and of God’s creation, and what that can mean in how we live our lives. And I am going to ask you to join with me now
in reciting the Four Fold Song with me.
“The Fourfold Song”…
There is a person who sings the song of the
Self. He finds everything, his complete spiritual satisfaction, within himself.
And there is a person who sings the song of
the Nation. She steps forward from her private self, which she finds narrow and
insufficiently developed. She yearns for the heights. She clings with a
sensitive love to the entirety of the Jewish nation and sings with it its song.
She shares in its pains, is joyful in its hopes, speaks with exalted and pure
thoughts regarding its past and its future, investigates its inner spiritual
nature with love and a wise heart.
There is a person whose soul is so broad that
it expands beyond the border of Israel. It sings the song of humanity. This
soul constantly grows broader with the exalted totality of humanity and its
glorious image. He yearns for humanity’s general enlightenment. He looks
forward to its supernal perfection. From this source of life, he draws all of
his thoughts and insights, his ideals and visions.
And there is a person who rises even higher
until she unites with all existence, with all creatures, and with all worlds.
And with all of them, she sings. This is the person who, engaged in the Chapter
of Song every day, is assured that she is a child of the World-to-Come.
And there is a person who rises with all these
songs together in one ensemble so that they all give forth their voices, they
all sing their songs sweetly, each supplies its fellow with fullness and life:
the voice of happiness and joy, the voice of rejoicing and tunefulness, the
voice of merriment and the voice of holiness.
My prayer for the year to come is
that Rav Kook will be our teacher, and that we will sing the Fourfold Song loud
enough for others to hear, and to join in. May it be a song of wholeness, a
song of integrity and a song of peace. And let us say: Amen.
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