Kol Nidre 2013: Din and Rachamim Rabbi Rachel Goldenberg

My colleague, Rabbi Nancy Flam[1], has worked for many years in the field of Jewish pastoral care, illness, healing, and spirituality. In her work, as in mine, she spends time with Jewish people who are facing illness and death, and she tries to help them find meaning – to even find God – in their experience. She writes of her conversations with a woman she calls Rebekah:

When Rebekah was diagnosed with breast cancer, she felt ambivalent. On the one hand, she had all of the “expected” responses: fear, anger, sadness. On the other hand, she began to feel relief, as if an enormous burden was being lifted from her. Now in “crisis” mode, she could no longer “do” her regular life – working as a high-powered psychiatrist, managing her household, and so on. The shock of serious illness propelled Rebekah to examine her life, determine what was of real value, and restructure the way she was spending her time and energy.

Many people in this room have experienced the shock of a serious diagnosis, facing the inescapable truth that life is finite.

Tonight, on Kol Nidre night, and for the next 24 hours, we all are supposed to experience that same shock. As we take the Torah scrolls out of the Ark and leave the doors open, I face my own empty casket. We dress in white shrouds, and refrain from actions that sustain or perpetuate life – eating, drinking, sex. On Yom Kippur, life is suspended. We are the living dead as we wait for God to extend divine grace and mercy once again and bestow upon us another year of life. This realization – that our lives are not in our hands – that we are mortal – is meant to propel us, as it propelled Rebekah – to examine our lives, our priorities, and to make meaningful changes.

Rebekah also felt compelled to seek a theological framework with which to understand her illness. What was God’s role in this experience?

She refused to believe that God had sent this disease with the intent of punishing her for some sin she had committed. Likewise, she could not accept her illness as a divinely intended “blessing” sent by God to help her see more clearly and reorder her life. She did not believe that God intervened this way in individual human lives, meting out rewards and punishments. Her illness seemed to her a random event in the universe: unearned, without moral cause.

Rebekah sought a way to find God in her experience that wasn’t about divine intent to cause her suffering -  a way to find meaning that wasn’t about her moral failures or successes.

For most of us, Yom Kippur too is not all about repenting for terrible moral failures out of fear of some divine punishment. And if we have failed in these ways, then there is a mechanism for confessing and gaining forgiveness from others and from God.

More present at this time of year, is the realization that we are fragile human beings, prone to illness, disaster, and death. We stand before the open ark, our bellies empty, and we feel so small – so vulnerable. We want to find meaning in this human experience –to find God in these short lives of ours. That God on the throne meting out punishment and reward doesn’t work for a lot of us, just as it didn’t work for Rebekah.

So then, what is God’s role in suffering? Goodness? Death? Disaster? Blessing? Cancer? Infection? Healing?

Rabbi Flam addresses this question by re-examining the traditional Rabbinic concepts of God’s Judgment (or Din, in Hebrew) and God’s Mercy (or Rachamim, in Hebrew.) Din is the strict and severe aspect of God judging us and doling out punishment for what we did wrong and reward for what we did right. And Rachamim (which from the word “womb” or “rechem”) is the soft aspect of God’s love and caring for us, no matter what, just because we are God’s children.

In the Talmud[2] we have a teaching about what God does all day long:

Rav Judah teaches that every day consists of 12 hours. During the first three hours of every day, God is occupied with the study of Torah.

During the second three-hour period, God sits in judgment over the whole world.

But when God sees that the world is so guilty as to deserve destruction, God gets up out of the throne of Judgment and sits down instead on the throne of Mercy.

In this teaching, we find a very traditional notion of God, judging our actions and deciding what the consequences will be. But what really moves me is that at the moment we have strayed the farthest –this is when God moves to the throne of Mercy. Somehow, God is moved to compassion –when we need it most.

In another place in the Talmud[3], God is actually imagined exclaiming, “Oh! that I might forever let my mercy prevail over my justice.” God deeply desires to allow rachamim to prevail over din. It seems, from these texts, that God empathizes with our flawed, limited human condition and is moved to draw upon the Divine qualities of compassion and mercy to soften our experience of limitation.

Rabbi Flam takes this notion even further, with her understanding of din and rachamim, especially when it comes to life-threatening illness. In her words, “perhaps disease has nothing to do with merit or demerit, and is simply a necessary though sometimes agonizingly painful feature of this physical creation.” [4]

It is not that God’s quality of din is punishing us with disease – or that death is a punishment for something we did wrong. But God, in creating us and the world, sets some hard and fast limits. “Physical bodies are limited; they are created with a finite capacity for life and health. They are vulnerable to disease, injury and decay. We are created, and, without exception, pass away. This is part of God’s holy design.”[5] God doesn’t do this out of a desire to watch us suffer– the limits inherent in life itself just ARE.

But, while “illness is an expression of that quality of din or limitation, healing is an expression of God’s rachamim, the divine attribute of mercy.[6]” As we heard in the teaching about God’s two thrones, rachamim is classically understood as the force which softens the severity of din. In fact, rachamim is what makes it possible for us to live with the reality of din – with the truth of mortality and vulnerability. “According to one Midrash, God initially thought to create the world with the attribute of din alone, but then God discovered that the world could not endure without rachamim. The two qualities had to work together in the formation and daily recreation of the world.[7]”

It is clear from our classical teachings as well as from Rabbi Flam’s new understanding, that human beings are the ones who have to bring God’s rachamim into the world. Isn’t this how the world indeed works? Human acts of mercy, compassion and empathy are what make it possible for us to endure, to suffer the sometimes excruciatingly painful limits and losses inherent in creation. Earlier, I posed the question of what motivates God to move from the throne of justice to the throne of mercy. I believe that our human acts of compassion have an impact on the divine realm and bring more mercy into the world.

Of course, our acts of love and compassion don’t completely cure illness or change the fact of death. But our rachamim can deeply affect how we experience din – our acts can affect how we cope with illness. Flam goes so far as to propose that acts of rachamim do not only make the limits more bearable, but they may actually affect the limits themselves.

You may be aware of a classic mind-body study of women with metastatic breast cancer that found that the women who provided emotional support and care for one another lived twice as long as those who did not receive such care. While all the women eventually died of cancer, the limits of their lives were moved.

Our traditional Jewish sources speak to the power of rachamim to move the limits of din. There are stories like the one of Rabbi Akiva, who upon visiting a sick disciple, cleaning his room and tidying up, the student was cured. Or stories of Rabbi Yohanan Ben Zakkai who would visit with the sick, listen and show his care, reach out his hand, and the person would be not only be comforted, but relieved of discomfort and pain[8].

I recently visited with a congregant – Lew Case -  who is in his nineties and whom many of us know and love. He gave me permission to share the following with you. As he ages, Lew is experiencing more and more limitations. At this point he has a very difficult time seeing and hearing. His once very full, independent and active life has gotten smaller and smaller, and he now is residing in a nursing facility. He is often frustrated, and sad that he can no longer cook for himself or even read a book.

When I asked Lew whether God has been present in this experience, his answer came immediately. He was sure that God had not abandoned him – and he was certain that God was not punishing him. He felt God’s presence quite powerfully, in the love and care and presence of his family, his friends and his caregivers who have been accompanying him on this difficult journey. While he mourns the losses that come with age, he is also full of gratitude for all of the stages of his life, and especially for the love that continues to surround him. That love, I believe, is the human expression of the Divine quality of rachamim – of mercy and compassion in Lew’s life.

It is within our power as human beings to overcome the limits of din, not only with our research and medical interventions, but with our love, our compassion and our empathy. When we bring attention, love, presence, and dignity to others who are suffering, we bring true healing, both spiritually and sometimes even physically.

This Yom Kippur, we can face that inescapable truth of our own finitude and know that we are not limited in our response to that truth. We can be channels for that divine quality of rachamim in the world. As we pray for God to extend compassion to us and to grant us another year of life, let’s consider how we might become vessels of mercy this year.

What would it take for me to move from the throne of judgment to the throne of mercy in my own life – in my relationship with myself and with others? What would it mean for me to be more generous with my love? To respond to others with more compassion?

In closing, I offer this prayer, written by Rabbi Rami Shapiro:

We are loved by an unending love.

We are embraced by arms that find us
even when we are hidden from ourselves.
We are touched by fingers that soothe us
even when we are too proud for soothing.
We are counseled by voices that guide us
even when we are too embittered to hear.
We are loved by an unending love.

We are supported by hands that uplift us
even in the midst of a fall.
We are urged on by eyes that meet us
even when we are too weak for meeting.
We are loved by an unending love.

Embraced, touched, soothed, and counseled,
Ours are the arms, the fingers, the voices;
Ours are the hands, the eyes, the smiles;
We are loved by an unending love.

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[1] Throughout this sermon, I quote and paraphrase extensively from Rabbi Nancy Flam’s article, “The Angels Proclaim It, But Can We?” published in the CCAR Journal Spring 2009 issue.

[2] Babylonian Talmud, Avodah Zara 3b

[3] BT Berakhot 7a

[4] Rabbi Flam, “The Angels Proclaim It” (see Footnote #1)

[5] Ibid.

[6] Ibid.

[7] Ibid.

[8] BT Berakhot 39b

Rosh Hashanah AM 2013/5744 Our Eruv Rabbi Rachel Goldenberg

I want to begin this morning with the story of a very courageous 11-year--old.[1]

This year, Tennessee state lawmakers attempted to pass a measure, called the “Classroom Protection Act.” This bill expanded on a failed bill that came to be known as the “Don’t Say Gay” bill, which would have banned elementary and middle-school teachers from mentioning the phenomenon of homosexuality. This year’s “Classroom Protection Act,” added language requiring school officials to inform parents if they suspect one of their students is gay. Thankfully, the measure never made it to the floor of the Legislature.

Meanwhile, an 11 year old boy named Marcel Neergard spoke out. Marcel learned that his state representative John Ragan, the sponsor of these homophobic bills, was being given an educational “Reformer of the Year” award by an organization called “StudentsFirst.” Marcel circulated a petition nationwide for StudentsFirst to rescind the award. Marcel, a 6^th grader, was being homeschooled because of severe bullying that he suffered the year before. In 5^th grade he came out as gay, and other students began to target him with hurtful names. Despite his parents’ loving support for him, he because depressed and suicidal.

Marcel took a huge risk, going public in order to raise awareness and protect others like himself. He posted videos and wrote articles, telling his story. Ultimately, Marcel’s activism persuaded StudentsFirst to rescind the award John Ragan’s award.

Marcel may not feel safe in his school. But, as I watched his story unfold, I witnessed a larger community out there supporting him, writing positive comments on his web-posts, and signing his petition. Although Marcel may not yet be able to bring the fullness of who he is to his school community, he has discovered a larger circle of love and support. This embrace has given him the courage to express himself and make a difference.

This June, after the Supreme Court struck down the Defense Of Marriage Act, lifting the federal ban on gay marriage, my Orthodox colleague Rabbi Avi Orlow posted a teaching on his blog. He based it on Mishnah Pirke Avot, which says, “Al tifrosh min hatzibur,” “ Do not separate yourself from the community.”

The simple meaning of this statement is already quite powerful. Be a part of your community – we need you!  But Rabbi Orlow interpreted the text differently. He read it as “don’t divide yourself within yourself,” meaning, you should not be required to hide parts of yourself from your community. A holy community is one where it is safe to be all that you are and where we need you to engage your whole self.

Both the Defense of Marriage Act and Tennessee’s “Classroom Protection Act” masquerade as measures that protect “us” from some kind of threat. Marriage needs to be defended and classrooms need to be protected from those people out there who are different from “us.” The real impact of laws like these is to force some human beings to hide parts of themselves from the world. This hiding can lead people like Marcel to turn the hate that others have for him in on himself. The real impact is to prevent a whole segment of our population from fully engaging in the community. The real impact is to cause suffering for human beings who are just as much a part of “us” as anyone.

“Do not separate yourself from the community”  - “Do not separate yourself within yourself.” Our communities need to be places where we can bring our whole selves: gay, straight, married, single, with or without children, old or young. And building that whole and holy community requires reaching out to others as well as helping others to reach within themselves.

This morning’s Torah and Haftarah readings illustrate this challenge of overcoming separation between and within people.

In our Torah portion, Sarah has all but given up hope that she will be able to bear a child. A few years prior, she had encouraged her husband Abraham to have a child with her maidservant, Hagar, and Ishmael was born. Now, in her nineties, Sarah miraculously bears her own son, Isaac.

One day, Sarah finds Ishmael and Isaac playing together. This could be a healing moment for Sarah - an opportunity to reach out to Hagar and commiserate about motherhood and to overcome the jealousy and anger she previously felt about her barrenness. Instead, Sarah experiences separation within herself. Jealousy rises up again, and she is unable to enjoy watching the boys laugh together. 

So Sarah banishes Hagar and Ishmael from the camp. The slavewoman and her son are now “other” - separate from herself and her family.

In our Haftarah, we have another story of exclusion. Every year, Hannah, her husband, and her husband’s other wife Peninnah, would go up to the altar at Shiloh to worship. Peninnah has children, but Hannah is barren. And every year at this feast, Peninnah taunts Hannah, making her miserable. Hannah’s husband tries to reassure her that he loves her, but Hannah has internalized this sense of exclusion such that she can’t really hear him – his words of comfort do not reach her. One year Hannah approaches the Temple, praying and weeping in her misery. The priest, Eli, accuses her of making a drunken spectacle of herself, only adding to the alienation she feels.

In these stories, people don’t see each other or themselves as part of a shared circle of belonging. Those perceived as separate are either banished or bullied to the point that they exclude themselves. Thankfully, though, by the end of these stories, we see a way back to connection.

After their banishment, Hagar and Ishmael are wandering in the desert. Having run out of water, Hagar can’t bear watching her child die of thirst. So she leaves him under a bush, lifts up her voice and weeps. God hears her suffering and responds, showing Hagar a well of water. God then blesses her child, assuring Hagar that Ishmael will grow up to be a leader of a great nation.

For Hannah, once she overcomes her sense of alienation from the priest and explains that she is pouring her heart out to God in her anguish and distress, the priest actually listens. The next year, God takes note of Hannah, and she bears a son who becomes the great prophet Sh’muel.

It isn’t a coincidence that both sons in these stories – Ishmael and Sh’muel – have names that mean “God hears.” God listens to Ishmael and Hagar, Hannah and Sh’muel, and embraces them in a circle of caring and awareness. To God, all of these people are worth taking note of. To God, they all belong.

This is what Jewish community and synagogue life should be about – creating that circle of belonging– that sense that we all are worth taking note of – that someone is listening. At our Reform movement camps, they call that circle of caring and belonging the Eisner or the Crane Lake bubble.

There is actually a traditional Jewish word for that bubble. It is called an “Eruv.” Jews who observe Shabbat according to strict interpretation of Jewish law, are prohibited from schlepping objects from the private domain into the public domain on Shabbat. For instance, you wouldn’t be allowed to carry a potluck dish from your house to the synagogue on Shabbat. However, our ancestors created a loophole. You can erect a physical boundary called an Eruv, using poles and wire or string, that encircles the area in which your community lives. The Eruv transforms what was once considered the public domain into a private domain.

This means that on Shabbat, I can carry what I need from one place to another within that boundary. My house, your house, the synagogue, the playground, the street, the yard – if they are within the Eruv - are now all part of the same private domain. We all now live together in one extended home.

As we are well aware, our congregation has a very wide geographic spread. It would be impossible to erect a physical Eruv around our community. But what if we reimagined the concept of the Eruv and recognized that we do have a giant invisible Eruv that includes all of our homes.[2] We could say then, that the sense of CBSRZ community does not only exist in the synagogue building. It now exists in each of our homes, and in every place in between.

The implications of this are quite powerful. It means that no matter how far away I live from you, we are both woven into the same web of relationships, caring and responsibility. When I look around this sanctuary, I know that these are the people I can turn to for help, and when I am called upon to help, I will respond. It may be as simple as an older member knowing she can ask a fellow CBSRZ member for a ride to services or as mundane as knowing that if I need a dentist or a contractor, I can look at our online business directory for a lead.

But these relationships go far beyond the mundane. The concept of Eruv creates a reality in which we see each other as all living in the same private domain. This doesn’t mean that I must share my personal business with everyone in the congregation. But it should mean that when there is a death in my family, or when I’m sick, I can count on this congregation – those who know me well, and those who may not know me yet – to respond with caring. It means that we pay attention to each other - we attend to each other, and we bring our whole selves to this community.

We may not worry about carrying objects on Shabbat, but in this circle, you can you carry your tears and know you’ll get a hug. In this Eruv, you can schlep to feed others and get fed yourself, both gastronomically and spiritually. In this bubble, other adults share the work of helping your kids to be mensches.

When we create this Eruv-like embrace around our community, our assumptions begin to change about who belongs. Because not only does the Eruv include people who are already members of CBSRZ, but it also includes unaffiliated Jews and their families in our towns whom we need to figure out how to touch. And the Eruv also includes folks who are not Jewish, but who can be our partners in making our community at large a better place.

So, we do have an Eruv. But, according to Jewish law, you don’t just put up an Eruv boundary and leave it to the elements. This series of poles and wire requires constant attention. The community is responsible for regularly checking for gaps in the Eruv and fixing them.

Here at CBSRZ we can’t become complacent, thinking that we have this fantastic sense of community, and if left on its own, it will operate just fine. We need to regularly care for this Eruv. And the way do this is one relationship at a time.  

There are a number of ways we build relationships around here.  A major initiative for us this year is our participation in what is called a Listening Campaign. In October, side by side with the AME Zion Church in Middletown, a few dozen CBSRZ members will be trained to go into our CBSRZ community and have one-to-one conversations with our members.

The main purpose is to deepen connections within our congregation.  During these conversations, congregants will share their concerns and their passions, what they need from and how they want to contribute to our community. The larger themes that emerge will then go to our Board to help determine congregational priorities. We also hope to emerge from this with a relationship to the AME Zion Church – a vibrant African American congregation that is within our Eruv – and with some possibilities for working together in the future. Most importantly, we hope that the outcome will be a stronger, more interconnected community.

At the same time that you are having these conversations with each other, I will be conducting my own listening campaign. After 6 years of being your rabbi, it is time to take our relationship to the next level. I want to connect with folks whom I happen to see at services or classes but haven’t sat down with to chat for a long time. I want to listen to your passions and concerns, whether you are a new member, a long-time member, active, or not so active. I will be reaching out to folks myself, but if you want to come and chat with me, please call the office, and we’ll make a date.

There are many other ways we tend to our Eruv, whether through home-based Shabbat dinners where we gather in small groups or through the critical work of our Chesed committee which cares for congregants when they are ill or in need, and much much more. However you engage, we hope that you will bring your whole self to this community – whether you are in need of help or have help to offer.

I want to close with a story from the Talmud about two men - Elisha ben Abuya and Rabbi Meir. Elisha ben Abuya is a brilliant scholar who has a crisis of faith and rejects the fundamental belief in one God. He publicly transgresses Jewish law to the point that the rabbis erase his name from the record and refer to him as “Acher,” the “Other.” Everyone in the community abandons him. The only person who does not cut himself off from Elisha is his greatest student Rabbi Meir. Rabbi Meir persists in being in relationship with his teacher, even though Elisha has strayed from proper Jewish ways and beliefs.

One day Elisha ben Abuya is riding a horse on Shabbat, which is, of course, not permitted. But Rabbi Meir walks behind his teacher anyway, to learn Torah from him. Eventually, Elisha and Meir cross the Eruv – the Shabbat boundary. On Shabbat, it is also not permitted to walk more than a certain number of paces beyond the Eruv. So Elisha says to Meir, “I have been measuring the paces of my horse, and you need to turn back. We are about to go beyond the permitted distance.” Meir responds, “You too go back!”[3]

In this story, we see the love and the caring between these two men whose lives have taken radically different turns. Elisha cares so much about Meir that he watches out for him. Even as he flagrantly violates Shabbat himself, Elisha vigilantly attends to Meir’s needs, counting the paces of his horse to make sure that Meir doesn’t violate Shabbat as he walks behind him.

Meir still values his relationship with his beloved Elisha such that he is willing to be seen with him in public while his teacher rides a horse on Shabbat, even though his teacher has been ostracized by the rest of the community. While Elisha literally goes beyond the pale, Meir pursues him, even beyond the Eruv and urges him to not separate himself from the community. “You too go back!”, he pleads, as if to say, “You are still an important part of my life and the life of our community – we need you – yes! Even YOU! to be a part of us.”

---

[1] https://www.facebook.com/WeStandWithMarcel

[2] It is with great gratitude that I attribute this concept to Rabbi Hesch Sommer, Director of the Jewish Wellness and Healing Center at Jewish Family Services of New Haven

[3] Babylonian Talmud, Hagigah 15a

Erev Rosh Hashanah 2013/5774 Who is this God I’m returning to? Rabbi Rachel Goldenberg

Twenty years ago, my teacher Rabbi Margaret Wenig wrote the following in a High Holy day sermon:

Imagine now that God is a woman, and she is growing older. . . .

She moves more slowly now. She cannot stand erect. Her hair is thinning. Her face is lined. . . . Sometimes she has to strain to hear. Yet she remembers everything.

On Rosh Hashanah, the anniversary of the day on which she gave us birth, God sits down at her kitchen table, opens the Book of Memories, and begins turning pages; and God remembers.

“There is the world when it was new and my children when they were young. . .”.. . She marvels at our accomplishments: the music we have written, the gardens we have planted, the skyscrapers we have built. . . .

“They can now fly faster than the winds I send,” she says to herself, . . .

“They even visit the moon which I set in the sky. . . .”

Then there are pages she would rather skip. Things she wishes she could forget. But they stare her in the face, and she cannot help but remember: her children spoiling the home she created for us, brothers putting each other in chains. . . .  And God remembers the many times she sat by a bedside weeping that she could not halt the process she herself set in motion.[1]

During the 10 Days of Awe that begin tonight, we talk of “teshuvah,” of turning back to God. But who is this God that I’m returning to? Many of us don’t think about God so much during the course of the year. And then we sit synagogue for hour upon hour over these High Holy Days, faced with this prospect of talking to God and asking God for forgiveness. As we turn the pages of the prayer book, we encounter names of God and ways that we are supposed to think about God. For some of us, the traditional names and images work to reconnect to the Divine. But for others, the language of this book gets in the way.

Particularly on these most holy days, God is at God’s most male! The prayerbook uses names such as “Av ha-rachamim,” “merciful father”; “Ha-melech ha-kadosh,” “the holy King,” and of course, the prayer we will chant in a few minutes - “Avinu Malkeinu,” “our Father, our King.” Even though most of our prayerbooks now have gender-neutral English translations, we can’t escape this image of God as a wise old king, seated on a throne. And then there are divine characteristics that aren’t necessarily male, but which describe how God acts in the world: as judge, dealer of life and death, and an entity that would ask his servant Abraham to sacrifice his son.

For some of us, these traditional images work to connect us to a presence of power in the universe. After all, Rosh Hashanah is traditionally the day when we recognize God as the ultimate ruler, capable of forgiving our greatest sins.  Even for me, a feminist who generally resists male names for God, the phrase “Avinu Malkeinu,” “Our Father, our King,” is potent. The name, “King” evokes humility in me as I contemplate the enormity of the universe. And thankfully for me, the name, “father,” evokes love and compassion – a big hug and a listening ear as I share my shortcomings and my yearnings.

But as we begin these days of prayer, I want to offer some alternate paths towards connecting to God. Because for some of us, the name “father” does not evoke those positive feelings of connection, and the name “king” is too foreign. Once we open the door to other names and images, we might find ourselves connecting in surprising, perhaps even deeper ways.

Twenty years ago, when Rabbi Wenig wrote her sermon, “God is a Woman, and she is growing Older,” it was groundbreaking. No one had ever captured the experience of the Divine in quite this way. Even today, when Wenig asks us to imagine Rosh Hashanah as sitting at the kitchen table with God, our Mother, reviewing the year together, she opens up an experience of spirituality for us that the traditional prayerbook doesn’t begin to touch.

This year I want us all to be able to find names and routes to an experience of God, that moves us. Perhaps then we can use these many hours of sitting in shul to get curious about God, to explore and experiment.

Every year I spend a lot of time talking about God with our 10^th graders in Confirmation class. At the end of the year, they each write a piece about their understanding of God. Tonight I want to share some of these young people’s words from the past few years. Some of these folks have graduated high school while others are still working in our religious school as teacher’s aides. (I hope some of them are here tonight!)

Collin Schuster wrote,

When I was first presented with this question [of God]. . .   I saw a stereotypical old man with a white beard, having a lot of power and making a lot of important decisions.  . . . But beyond this image, I never actually considered who God was, in my life, and in this amazing world we live in.  Even after learning about many different philosophers’ views,. . .  my own understanding of God seemed foggy, until Rabbi Goldenberg presented a new idea to us [from the modern thinker Martin Buber], the idea that God is present in [human] relationships.

 Mr. Buber [introduces the concept of an “I and Thou” relationship] in which you experience somebody, relate to their being, and become aware of that person as a [full] human being.  When you care about someone and form this kind of “I-thou” relationship, you have the chance to experience God’s presence. 

Derek Arbige built on this concept, teaching that:

I-thou relationships are the special bonds that you share with the important people in your life.  You care about them and their feelings even when they aren’t around.  G-d can be experienced through the special connection that you share with others.

Martin Buber’s concept of “I and Thou” often speaks beautifully to our youth.  At this time in their lives, relationships are everything, whether they be with friends or girl or boyfriends, or with their parents. They can see how a mutual relationship often contains an element of the transcendent. Through relationships with people, they feel connected to something bigger than themselves, and when the relationship is strained, that connection to God becomes strained as well.

During these holidays, it can be helpful for all of us to reflect on the Divine energy between ourselves and others. How might I nurture the bond between myself and those whom I love? Where has that connection broken down during this past year, and what can I do to rebuild? How might I see the experience of apology and forgiveness with others as a way of “returning to God” and helping Divine blessing flow more fully through my life?

Another student, Dana Foley, spoke of another path to God:

There have been many times in my life where I see something in nature that is just amazing, whether it’s a picture or something I see with my own eyes.. . .This [leads] me to the idea that I want to pass on to you. God inspires awe. In too many ways to name, God inspires awe.

For many of us, it is difficult to relate to the idea of a personal God – an entity that I can talk to and who hears what I have to say. But awe often comes more easily, especially when we are surrounded by nature or find ourselves moved by a work of art or music.

When my family and I visited the Grand Tetons and Yellowstone national park this summer, we couldn’t escape moments of awe. They occurred at every turn –from watching how the heat of the earth causes water to bubble and spout to witnessing a mother moose and her young, to experiencing the majesty of tall craggy mountains rising up at your feet. In synagogue we evoke that sense of awe with music –from humble Hebrew chants to the rich 4-part harmonies of our choir. These too are pathways to God.

An approach to God called “Process Theology” describes God as the power of Being itself unfolding –the power of Being as it is becoming. When Moses asks for a name for the divinity calling to him out of the Burning Bush, God shares the name, “Ehyeh asher Ehyeh,” or “I will be what I will be.” The words of our liturgy describe God as That which renews each and every day – every moment – the work of creation. In this approach, God is the process of the unfolding in all its dazzling complexity.[2]

During these holidays, allow yourself to experience God in this way which doesn’t involve words. Close your prayerbook and notice the beauty of this sanctuary, the life in the people surrounding you. Allow your heart and body to pray, resonating with the music as it washes over you.  Teshuva or return can be this experience of getting in touch with how small you are and how amazing it is that this universe is continually unfolding and that you are a part of that process.

One of last year’s Confirmation students, Danni Roman, traced how her concept of God had changed and evolved over her life: from a wise old man to a powerful eagle, from her best friend that she could talk to and share everything with, to the energy motivating acts of love and kindness, to the awe at the small miracles of everyday life.

She ended her speech, saying: “What I have realized is that God might be a combination of all those things. He can be a teacher, a protector, and a friend. He can be inside me while surrounding me.” Danni concluded that the most beautiful part of Judaism is that, “We are raised to question and interpret things for ourselves. We are raised to wrestle with God.”

Tonight, and in the 10 days of intense prayer to come, we can allow ourselves to connect to God in many different ways. As the process of unfolding, as the energy between ourselves and others, as the experience of awe. And that exploration can continue beyond these holy days.

Perhaps we can even see that idea of “teshuva” or return to God as a commitment to make some space in our lives to be God wrestlers, whether that means struggling or discovering, praying or singing, sitting in meditation, or taking in nature or a text. Maybe this year we can make a commitment to visit the spiritual side of ourselves a little more regularly. Who knows what doors might open within us or between us. Who knows what new names and paths towards God might emerge.

For tonight we can start by imagining, as Rabbi Wenig does, that instead of standing before the throne of a king, we are seated at a kitchen table, chatting with our aging mother over a cup of tea. “In a single glance, she sees our birth and our death and all the years in between.”

The words tumble out:

“I’m sorry that I. . .”

            “That’s all right, I forgive you.” [she says.]

“I didn’t mean to. . .”

            “I know that, I do.”

“I was so angry that you hit me.”

            “I’m sorry that I ever hurt you. But you wouldn’t listen to me.”

“You’re right. I wouldn’t listen. I should have. I know that now, but at the time I had to do it my way.”

            “I know,” she nods. “I know.”[3]

Perhaps we can imagine, as we open the ark, that God is right here tonight, turning the pages of her book of memories. She looks up for a moment. “Come home,” she says to us, “Come home.”

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[1] Rabbi Margaret Moers Wenig, “God is a Woman, and She is Growing Older,” Introduction to Judaism: A Sourcebook, Eds. Einstein/Kukoff, UAHC Press: New York, 1998,  pg. 190.

[2] Rabbi Toba Spitzer, “Why We Need Process Theology,” CCAR Journal: The Reform Jewish Quarterly, Winter 2012.

[3] Rabbi Margaret Moers Wenig, “God is a Woman, and She is Growing Older.”