Rabbi Charles Briskin
Heeding the Call
Rosh Hashanah Morning 5762

September 18, 2001 / 1 Tishrei 5762

For a full four minutes every April, Israel comes to a halt. Two minutes on Yom Hashoah-Holocaust Remembrance Day and two on Yom Hazikaron-Israel's Memorial Day. The wail of air-raid sirens pierce the bustle of city life, summoning all people to stop-for two minutes. The cacophony of noise in each city, town, and kibbutz is reduced to one sound--the cry of the siren. Cell phones stop ringing, shop keepers stop bartering, politicians stop arguing and car horns stop honking. Drivers halt their cars in the middle of the street, and step out to stand in silent reverence and remembrance. For two full minutes the country stops. Then, the sound of the siren recedes, people return to their cars, and continue with their daily tasks, as car horns, cell phones, and radios fill the void that the siren left behind.

The first time I heard the siren's call I was studying abroad in Jerusalem. I didn't know what was happening at first. A siren blast in Israel usually portends something ominous. It took me a few moments to realize that it wasn't a warning call but rather a wake up call. The siren frames one of Israel's most important and poignant ritual acts, an act in which an entire nation participates. It took me a few more moments to realize that as a Jew, as a temporary resident of Jerusalem, as a Hovev Zion-a lover of Israel, I too was impelled to join this community and participate in this act of solidarity with the people of Israel. Religious, political, and ethnic divisions disappear, if only briefly, as an entire country stands to honor and remember those killed in the Shoah, and those who gave their lives serving their country.

Does America provide us with an opportunity to participate in a ritual of such size and scope? An act uniting several million people across a vast region for the same two minutes of silence? Not yet. Our civic observances have lacked the crucial ingredient-universally shared experiences. We could never fully comprehend what Israel knows-until now.

It has been just one week. But it seems like a lifetime. The cowardly face of terror, so familiar in Israel has now impacted each one of us in the most profound and tragic way. We remain stunned by the broad visual images of the large-scale destruction. Moved by individual faces of survivors. Touched by desperate pleas from loved ones looking for their lost ones. I feel today, more than any other point in my lifetime, that we are one nation, indivisible, united in our fear and outrage, our compassion and resolve.

Prior to last Tuesday, we did not have a modern universally shared experience. From this point forward, September 11th, 2001 will be a second Memorial Day-a day to honor our civilian casualties of war. We will need to mark it in a significant way, much like Israel marks its tragedies; through siren blasts and a complete cessation of work-even if for only two minutes.

Nevertheless, it is premature to begin remembering the past while we are still mired in the present. We continue our response. Blood banks are full right now, however, we must remember that the need for donations, especially in this area, is ongoing. We are sending money. The Union of American Hebrew Congregations has created a disaster relief fund. You can contribute directly through its website. We are sending cards of support to the rescue and clean-up teams. In the midst of our altruism, we are also trying to take care of ourselves, attempting to come to terms with what we are experiencing. Our synagogues and churches have seen unprecedented gatherings. More than ever, people have come out, moved by need to be reassured.

I have not been a rabbi for very long, yet what I experienced last Tuesday night will be one of the defining moments of my rabbinate. We opened our doors to the community. People found refuge in our sanctuary. The 700 men, women, and children who gathered at Beth Am, including myself, knew that our fear and uncertainty could be soothed by finding solace and comfort in community. I looked into the distressed eyes of the stunned. I saw tears and sorrow. But I also saw abundant love and support as we drew strength from each other's comforting embrace. Arms were grasped tightly around shoulders as we swayed and sung, with particular poignancy, "Oseh Shalom bimromav, hu ya'aseh shalom aleinu, v'al kol Yisrael." "May the one who causes peace to reign in the high heavens, cause peace to reign among us, all Israel, and all the world." People responded to the call.

Throughout Jewish history, the shofar has been used for three purposes; it has been an alarm, signaling danger. It is has summoned soldiers into battle. And it has been used to gather the people together. It is a crude and ancient predecessor to the siren, heard widely in our age. The shofar issues a raw, non-verbal call, easily distinguishable among all other sounds. The shofar blast is a sound of our tradition.

In 2001, we still need to hear the shofar, and heed its call. Today is Rosh Hashanah. It is called by our tradition, Yom Teruah-the day of the shofar blast. What does the shofar say to us today? It says, come gather, with your people. Join in sacred community. Conquer your fears. We're here. We've heard its call. Yet as time moves forward, we cannot become deaf to its sound. We still need to gather, in community, as gathering is a fundamental value of what it means to belong to a Jewish community.

I have been rooted in community for most of my life. I was born and raised in a very stable suburban Boston neighborhood. My first move was when I went to college. I spent 18 years living among the same few families. My parents were active members of our synagogue. They involved me in the community as well. We spent a lot of time there, for services, school, meetings. Most of their close friends were, and continue to be part of their synagogue community. The boys and girls who began Hebrew school when I did, and became Bar and Bat Mitzvah when I did, were the same people with whom I was confirmed and graduated high school. Assistant rabbis came and went, but the senior rabbi remained the same. I was part of a very stable community.

Menlo Park the fourth city in which I've lived in the last six years. It has been hard, at times, to plant roots in communities and synagogues. But when we lived in Southern California, Karen and I found a close-knit synagogue community with whom we affiliated. This small, eclectic Venice California shul welcomed us with open arms. We prayed with acquaintances who treated us like dear friends. We ate herring and drank schnapps with the old men on Shabbes. We danced in the streets on Simchat Torah. We found a synagogue family despite being far away from our parents.

New York, however, was different. We lived in the heart of Jewish Manhattan-the Upper West Side, but found little warmth. Although there were as many synagogues as there were Starbuck's, we were lonely. We hopped from shul to shul, trying to find the right match. But it just never happened. We lived among the largest concentration of Jews in the country, and we had a few close friends and some family nearby, but we still couldn't find community. We were isolated and adrift in the cold, lonely city.

In a book called Bowling Alone, sociologist Robert Putnam explores the decline of participation in American civic life. He shows how Americans have become increasingly disconnected from social structures. Americans are increasingly isolated, he notes. We work spend more time at work, more time on the internet, more time in front of the television. We vote less, go to fewer meetings, devote less time to social activism, and spend less time in our synagogues. We have deliberately removed ourselves from community. The move toward isolation is dangerous for Jews, for without community, the Jew withers

In our Haftarah this morning, the Jewish governor Nehemiah, and Ezra the scribe provide an account of what it means to gather in holy community. "At the coming of the seventh month, when the people of Israel were in their towns, all the people gathered as one body in the square in front of the Water Gate." The people gathered to hear the law of Moses read once again, perhaps as a reminder of what it means to be a people "consecrated unto God," by performing mitzvot and living in holy community.

Why is this the message? Because we need to be together. In ancient times our Holy Days were a private rite and ritual. Its customs were carried out by the Priests, in the deep recesses of the Temple, removed from the people. The community stood on the periphery, disengaged. The focus has shifted, away from the priests, and onto the people. The essence of Rosh Hashanah is in the gathering, in the response to the shofar.

We read on Yom Kippur; "Adonai spoke to Moses saying; daber el kol adat b'nai Yisrael v'amartah aleihem; kedoshim t'hiyu, ki kadosh ani Adonai eloheichem." (Lev. 19:1-2) Speak to the entire community of Israel and say to them; "You shall be holy for I, Adonai your God am holy." The Hebrew is written in the plural. We become holy when we come together. Notice that Judaism spends much time talking about holy communities, and not holy individuals. Sainthood is not a hallmark of our religion.

Theologian Carol Ochs teaches, "The Torah suggests that we were created to be in community, that only in community do we sense the presence of God and that only in and through community can we become holy." (Our Lives as Torah, p. 154)

But convening the entire community in one place, as we do today, does not define who we are. Yes this is among our largest gatherings, however, the heart and soul of Beth Am is evident more so when we gather in more intimate settings. Every time we gather to pray in a minyan-the requisite 10 people needed for a worship service, we form sacred community. When we gather in a house of mourning to console the bereaved, we form sacred community. When we gather to learn, and when we gather to perform acts of social justice, we form sacred community. Whether we are an ai-dah-a congregation of 2000 or a minyan of 10, it is through our gatherings that we become holy. When God created the world, man and woman were created as helpmates for each other, partners in God's holy work. They relied upon each other, just as we do, to function well in sacred Jewish community. Although there are many Jewish acts that can be done alone, our greatest fulfillment is when we join with others.

It can be challenging at first to recognize the benefits of belonging to our synagogue community. But consider; it means much more than a providing a good Jewish education for children. Belonging to our synagogue community means being able to share joys and sorrows in a supportive and nurturing environment. Belonging to our synagogue community means finding a comfortable way to grow intellectually and spiritually. Belonging to our synagogue community means finding solace and refuge. It means exploring notions of faith and tradition in a safe environment. It means encountering the divine through holy acts. Belonging to our synagogue community means finding a spiritual home.

Our region has, of course, been rocked by the downturn in the economy. Many in our synagogue family have found themselves unexpectedly unemployed. Yet nestled in the harsh, barren landscape of Silicon Valley, we find a sheltering oasis. An unemployed member shared recently, "Beth Am was the place where I educated my children. I never thought it could be a place of comfort, solace, and support for me." She quickly realized that Beth Am is much more than a religious school, Shabbat services, and programs. It is a place where people care. Where people take interest in you. "If we are a community," said another congregant, "we need to be there for each other. Not just for simchas, but for the tough times too." These people have invested themselves in Beth Am, and have come to understand what it means to be part of a synagogue community.

Silicon Valley is known as a center of venture capital. In our current economy, V.C., as they say, is much more difficult to acquire. But if capital is seen as a form of wealth or value, consider what it means to be rich in "social capital." A term first coined in the late 19th century, social capital has been used recently to measure an individual's riches, based on the wealth and breadth of his or her significant relationships. Engagement in civic life leads to the development of more connections and relationships, which leads to higher social capital. Being involved in synagogue life automatically provides access to huge amounts of social capital. Spiritual and emotional wealth comes to us when we are connected to one another, developing relationships, and doing sacred work, in community.

In parashat Ki Tissa, in the middle of Exodus, we are provided with instructions for counting the members of the Israelite community. A census was taken of all the people from the age of 20 and up, and each was required to pay a half-shekel in order to be counted among the community.

Why a half-shekel? So that no individual was seen as complete. One needed another to become whole. The Hebrew, Ki tissa et rosh, while translated as census, literally means, raising the head. When we are counted, when we raise our heads, we are exalted.

This year, especially, may we all stand tall, raise our heads, and be counted. May we devote ourselves to increasing our social capital. May these words of Torah be true for us; "Kedoshim t'hiyu, ki kadosh ani Adonai Eloheichem-You shall be holy for I, Adonai your God am holy." Above all, may we continue to heed the sound of the shofar and be drawn into sacred gathering, and fee that we are home.

Amen.