Rabbi Micah Citrin

Rosh Hashanah 5766

Sometimes You Have to Sacrifice

L’shannah Tova.  Every now and then I find myself reminiscing about my days in college at the University of Oregon .  I think about my three buddies from the dorm with whom I rented a house after our freshman year.  It was a pretty typical college rental, fairly small, somewhat dingy, and with four young men living in it, rarely clean.  Though I suppose we did our best to stay on top of our chores.   Of course, chores came with the requisite grumbling.  After the dishes would start to pile up one of us might say, “Well, I guess I should do the dishes.”  Or more accurately, we would point our fingers and say that it was someone else’s turn.  What I remember most in those situations of assuming responsibility and passing the buck is the voice of my Japanese housemate Riyota.  In response to our collective laments over housework, he would offer these words of wisdom, “Sometimes you have to sacrifice.”  None of us knew exactly what he meant, but the words seemed to bring comfort and encouragement, and at least the chores got done.

These words became a mantra for Riyota.  If one of us came home complaining about a big test looming or a term paper that we had to write, Riyota would say, “Sometimes you have to sacrifice.”  In fact, soon we all adopted it as our house motto.  Any challenge or difficulty would be met with, “Sometimes you have to sacrifice.” At the time the words had no real meaning, but they always brought a chuckle.  What did we know about true sacrifice?           

Riyota’s first language was not English, but he grasped the sense of how we use the word sacrifice today in American parlance.  Riyota’s, “Sometimes you have to sacrifice” suggests giving something up or relinquishing something of value.  The use of the word connotes a painful experience in parting with the thing that is sacrificed.  Sometimes sacrifice means struggling with the loss of what we give up.  In our national discourse today we talk about bearing the burdens of sacrifice, from dealing with the war in Iraq and responding to our national energy crisis, to Congressional budgeting for the reconstruction of the Gulf Coast .  But the language of loss and burden is only one way to understand what it means to sacrifice.  Judaism suggests another way.

Each year on Rosh Hashannah we read a story about sacrifice.  We become caught in the suspense of the Akeda, the binding of Isaac.  Just as Abraham’s knife is suspended in the air poised to slay Isaac, his son, we are left hanging for a moment in terror.  Perhaps this time Abraham will actually go through with it.  But then the angel calls out to Abraham to lower the knife.  Abraham looks up and sees the ram caught in the thicket, and offers up the ram to God in place of his son.  The ram in this story is the constant.  God always puts the ram in the proper place, waiting for it to be noticed by Abraham. 

In the ancient world, the Akeda communicated a radical new understanding of sacrifice. Namely, that human sacrifice is wrong.  It is undesirable to God.  As we read the binding of Isaac in our time and during these Days of Awe, this text can still shape our understanding of sacrifice.  It can remind us that Judaism understands the notion of sacrifice in a different way than American culture.  It can shape how we might live our lives as we venture out into the year 5766.   

In Hebrew there is no direct translation for the English word, “sacrifice.”  The closest approximation is the Hebrew word korban.  But the word korban has none of the associations of pain entailed in giving up something of value.  Loss is not the emphasis.  In fact, Korban is related to the Hebrew word “karov - to be near.”  A korban is an offering through which a person seeks to draw near to God.  For our ancestors, dedication of a pristine animal as a sacrificial offering did not evoke feelings of pain and regret over a diminished flock.  On the contrary, the one who dedicated a korban found reward in a closer, more powerful connection to God and the community.  In bringing a korban, what was given, paled in comparison to what was gained.

In Judaism, we no longer sacrifice animals.  We should be thankful for progress.  But there is still a place for korban in our lives.  We seek ways to draw near to God.  We have precious possessions that we can dedicate in an effort to add meaning to our lives.  We have gifts that we can offer as we strive to draw the world around us closer to the Holy One, Blessed be Adonai.  During these High Holidays we would do well to consider three korbanot, three sacred offerings, that draw us near to God and humanity. 

The first korban is time.  While our ancestors offered up their precious commodities of sheep and produce, we can offer up our precious commodity, the time in our palm pilots and date books.  We are so busy.  To give our time as, korban, holy offering, seems like it is steep price to pay.  It seems like time is the thing that we can least afford to give away. But what would it look like to offer a portion of our time as a korban?  In our tradition the korban of time looks something like this:           

In a room glowing in the golden light of tall white candles there is a table.  The table is covered with a white table cloth.  Reflections of the candles shimmer in the dark purple wine and juice of the Kiddush cups.  The form of fluffy challah can be made out from beneath its cover.  And the true beauty of the setting is captured in the faces of those gathered around the table.           

In Jewish tradition, the Shabbat table is the altar on which we dedicate our time, and draw near to family, friends, and community.  When we dedicate time to Shabbat we come to understand that it is not about time lost, but time gained.  To make a korban of our time is a small offering for what we get back in spiritual, mental, and physical health.  We stop to breathe, and in that breath we give our souls a chance to surface, that part of us connected to the Divine.   Shabbat is the Jewish secret of stress management. And, Shabbat is good for kids too.  Recent surveys indicate that children in families that eat dinner together multiple times a week are less likely to smoke, use drugs, or drink alcohol [ National Center on Addiction and Substance Abuse-Columbia University ].  Family dinner becomes a time for bonding.  Shabbat is Judaism’s path to family rejuvenation. 

Our sages teach that we can begin to create Shabbat even by making one detail of the seventh day different from the rest of the week – a simple family meal, challah French toast on Saturday morning is a treat, spending time outdoors with loved ones, and I have learned that Shabbat at Congregation Beth Am is particularly lovely.  Work, homework, and rush will always be there waiting for us.  But by carving out time for family, friends, and prayer on the seventh day we create memories that last a lifetime.  This is the meaning of dedicating a korban of time.            

The second korban is our material resources.  Though you may not realize it, we recall this second type of korban every time we say, “V’ahavta et Adonai Elohecha b’chol levavcha, u’vechol nafshecha, u’vechol m’odecha-You shall love Adonai your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your might.” Our tradition understands the word “might” as our material resources.  When we offer the korban of our resources, we lovingly draw near to God because we help others.  At Congregation Beth Am we can find altars for the korbanot of our resources all over the synagogue.  They are the tall wooden boxes that collect our tzedakah when we come into the sanctuary.  These altars are the square, tin, tzedakah canisters that greet our school children when they come to learn Torah.  These altars were the piles of goods that we sent to the victims of Hurricane Katrina.  Tzedakah is more than simply giving to create a just world.  It is the work of bringing the image of a perfected world closer to our own.  Tzedakah is korban.  True, we give something up, but when we experience a feeling of fulfillment and shalom then our giving brings us closer to God.  The korban of our resources takes the material and transforms it into the holy.              

The third korban I call presence in community.  This is what the korban of presence in community looks like.  Recently, Rabbi Marder sent an email on behalf of the staff to one of our fellow congregants, a true leader in our community.  Rabbi Marder gave the congregant heartfelt thanks for all the time and effort this individual devotes to our synagogue and its members.  The congregant wrote back, “Whatever I do, I feel it’s a labor of love.  I get far more from Beth Am than I give.  I love Judaism, I love Torah, and I love worshipping with our community.  And, I do want more people to be included.  I believe that the more often people participate in services, the more they will WANT to participate.” 

This individual teaches us the essence of what it means to come close to community through korban.  And this person is not alone.  Like the many congregants who invest their energy and presence in our synagogue, we too can make our own lives a sacred offering to this community.  In fact, today is a good example of the korban of presence in community.  Look around, each one of us here today offers strength and blessing to this minyan.  We are all connected to each other because we are here.  And there will be to get to know any unfamiliar faces when we meet one another at Congregation Beth Am during the year. 

In a day and age when we search to belong, to find community, to seek a spiritual connection, perhaps the answer is not what we are able to get, but what we are able to give.  Our presence in community is that gift. 

Dedicating our time to holy purposes, offering our material resources to those in need, being present in community, this is what it means to draw near to God and others through korban.  This morning we considered the Akeda, the binding of Isaac, to explore a Jewish understanding of sacrifice.  But I have not been completely straight forward with you.  The Hebrew word korban is never once used in the entire story of the Akeda.  The Torah uses the word olah, a specific kind of sacrifice that was consumed entirely in flames so that the smoke would ascend to heaven.  The word olah means to rise or go up.  It is related to a word many of you are probably familiar with, aliyah.  We go up when we make an aliyah to recite the Torah blessings.  When a Jew moves to Israel , she makes aliyah.  When the Temple stood, Jews would make aliyah up to Jerusalem to offer their korbanot.  The Temple embodied the intersection between korban, our sacred offerings that draw us near to what is holy, and olah the feeling of uplift that results in bringing a korban.  In Judaism, korban is not a sinking feeling of loss or emptiness, it is a soaring feeling.  It draws us toward heaven.  It takes us to new heights and from those heights life comes into clearer focus.  From this vantage point we can see what matters.  To give to something beyond ourselves and to extend beyond our circle of concern is where the reward resides.                    

It is no coincidence that the lessons of Jewish sacrifice, of korban, drawing near, and olah, the feeling of an elevated spirit, occurred on a mountain top.  Jewish tradition says that Mt. Moriah , the place where the Akeda, the binding of Isaac occurred, is the mountain on which the Temple was built.  It became the mountain on which the Jewish people brought their korbanot.  But why was this mountain top chosen?   Our people tells this story to explain. 

Once upon a time, many generations before Abraham, there lived two brothers whose homes were separated by a large hill.  The older brother had a wife and many children.  The younger brother lived alone.  Each of them was a farmer and had a small piece of land.  One night just after the harvest, the older brother could not sleep.  He thought to himself, “God has blessed me with so much.  I have a wife and children.  We work the land together and we have more than enough wheat.  But my poor brother lives alone.  It must be very difficult for him to work the land by himself.  Surely he is need of some more food.”  No sooner had he thought this, the older brother quietly dressed and went down to his grain silo.  He took two large bags of grain and snuck over the hill to his brother’s farm, carefully placing the bags in his brother’s silo. 

A few nights later, the younger brother could not sleep.  He thought about his older brother and said to himself, “My poor brother on the other side of the hill.  He has a large family, and there are many mouths to feed.  He can’t possibly have enough to go around.  I live alone and I have more than I could ever eat.  I am sure that he could use some of what I have.” 

So the younger brother dressed and went to his silo and took two large bags of grain and stole over the mountain to his brother’s farm where he left the bags in the silo.  The brothers continued like this for several weeks.  One night, when the moon was full, the brothers bumped into each other as they reached the crest of the hill.  Just as one started to ask what the other was doing, the brothers noticed the grain in each other’s hands.  They understood what they had been doing for one another all along.  The brothers dropped their bags, embraced, and wept.  And it is on this peak that the Temple was built, that time stood still when brothers drew near to one another in righteous and sacred dedication.      

As we prepare to go out into 5766 we pray that it will be a year of korban, drawing near to holy purpose through dedicating our time, our resources, and our presence in this community.  We pray that it will be a year of olah, of lifting us up because of what we have contributed to the world around us.  May we remember to look up like Abraham and see that there are many rams in our lives waiting to be noticed, opportunities to experience the reward of korban.  Then instead of consoling one another, “Sometimes you have to sacrifice,” we can encourage one another, “Sometimes we are privileged to make a holy offering.”   

L’shannah Tova and may we all be inscribed for blessing in the Book of Life