Rabbi Janet Marder
Erev Rosh Hashanah 5769
September 29, 2008

            We wanted to get away together, just the two of us. In late summer Shelly and I went up to Trinidad, a tiny town of 400 people on the north coast of California , near the Oregon border. Silicon Valley was baking in a blast of heat, but the north coast was damp and cool, blanketed in fog. We walked on coastal bluffs above the slate-gray ocean, listening to the pounding of the waves and the mournful bark of sea lions.

            Most days we drove into the redwood forests to spend some time with the trees. If you have been there, you know what it is like. Ferns and pine needles carpet the ground under your feet; sunlight filters through the canopy high above, setting the tree trunks aglow; bird calls travel on a faint breeze. You walk in the dim stillness, aware at every instant of how small you are in the domain of something vast and majestic.

            They are called in Latin Sequoia sempervirens, meaning “ever-green, ever-living.”  Redwoods have grown in this place for 20 million years, since the time of dinosaurs. The oldest have lived more than 22 centuries. They are the tallest trees on earth, some stretching more than 360 feet into the air, so that, even if you tilt your head all the way back, you can barely see the top.

            “The redwoods, once seen, leave a mark or create a vision that stays with you always,” John Steinbeck wrote. “From them comes silence and awe. The most irreverent of men, in the presence of redwoods, goes under a spell of wonder and respect.”

            Why does the redwood live so long? Its thick bark, lacking volatile resins, insulates the tree from fire.  Its roots do not go deep, but they stretch out as much as a hundred feet, intertwining with those of surrounding trees, anchoring the redwood in the ground. This gives the structure remarkable stability. The trees may stand for centuries, even after they are dead.

            The key to the redwood’s strength is in its trunk. The tree soars rapidly upwards in its first hundred years. But once it has reached the forest canopy, exposed to the stress of direct sun, strong winds and low humidity, its upward growth rate slows down. As one guidebook puts it, “the tree [turns] its energy to its core,” investing its resources in growing outward rather than upward. Over the following centuries it grows only 2 or 3 inches taller each year, while building a massive trunk that may reach 10-15 feet in diameter.      

            If you have walked in a redwood forest you have seen a miraculous sight: tall trees whose insides, called the heartwood, have been burned out by lightning or fire; but the trunk remains intact and the tree still lives and grows. You can climb inside the tree, if you like; you can look way up, through the hollow trunk, and catch a glimpse of the sky.          

            We needed to get away, this year – away to someplace beautiful and still. Away from the heat. Away from the stress. Away from the ugliness of the world. As the new year dawns this night, the world overwhelms us with reasons for worry. Pundits argue whether we are living through the worst economic crisis to strike our country since the Great Depression, or the worst economic crisis to strike us ever.  Millions of us are anxious about the future of America , and our own future, too -- our jobs, our savings, our pensions, our homes. We wonder if there’s worse yet to come, and what it will take to put things right.

            Meanwhile, other problems haven ‘t gone away. Our own affluent nation, divided by race and class, contains pockets of concentrated poverty so bleak and squalid they remind us of the third world.

            On this night, entire regions around the globe are wracked by war and ethnic strife, imprisoned by hunger, drought, illiteracy and political oppression. Earthquakes and floods annihilate communities overnight. Tens of thousands of children suffer and die every day of preventable diseases. Terror and religious extremism threaten the lives of the innocent. We dread the day when chemical, biological or nuclear weapons fall into the hands of those who’d have no compunction about using them. And let’s not forget about global warming, pollution of the planet and the greatest extinction of species since the dawn of civilization.

            The ugliness of the world assaults us; private sorrows and struggles weigh us down; and sometimes it is very hard to believe in a happy new year -- a shana tova umetuka, a sweet and good new year.

            Tonight I want to share one Jewish teaching that helps me find the strength to say those words, and believe in those words. For me, it is the fundamental teaching of our faith – a powerful antidote to the ugliness of the world.

            Here it is. It’s a Midrash on a verse from the book of Exodus, in which Moses meets God in the wilderness, speaking to him from the heart of a burning bush.

            “Why did God choose to appear [to Moses] in a thornbush?” asks the Midrash. And it answers: “To teach us that there is no place devoid of the Divine Radiance, not even a thornbush” [Sh’mot Rabbah 2:9].

            And God said to Moses, “Take off your sandals from your feet, for the place on which you stand is holy ground” [Ex.3:5]. Said the Chafetz Chayim, the great 19^th century teacher: God speaks to each of us in this verse. Never say, ‘I could lift myself up to holiness at another time, in a different place.’ No, the place on which you stand is holy ground. It is available. Take off your shoes – take off the shell of habit – and rise up from where you stand” [Quoted in Chaim Stern, Day by Day, p.67].

            The great lesson of Judaism is that right here, right now, there is holiness and beauty. Wherever you are is the Presence of the Divine. In every place, at every moment. Not in the supernatural or the paranormal but in the super-normal and the everyday.

            I know that might sound pretty bizarre. Did God really speak to Moses out of a bush? Is there holiness when you’re taking out the garbage? Is there holiness when you’re shopping at Target? Is there holiness right here, in the middle of Flint Center , or out there in that parking structure where the horns honk and carbon monoxide fumes fill the air?

            About Moses in the wilderness, all I can say is that we have the story, given to us by many generations, and the story exists to tell us something. About us here at Flint Center , I can say: yes. That is what our tradition has to teach. Wherever you stand, wherever your footprints rest, and wherever you drive, and wherever you live, alone or with someone else  -- that is sacred ground.

            You don’t have to get away to find it. It’s not about another world to come. It’s not about the past and it is not about the future.  It exists in the present and it is as close as your own breath.

            Writes Annie Dillard: “There is no less holiness at this time – as you are reading this – than there was the day the Red Sea parted, or that day….when the heavens opened and [Ezekiel] saw visions of God…..’Each and every day the Divine Voice issues from Sinai,’ says the Talmud” [For the Time Being, pp.88-89].

            Why is there holiness here? Because you are here. Why is God here? Because you are here, and you carry a spark of the Divine within yourself – in your own capacity for goodness, creativity and hope.           

            The world assaults us with its ugliness. Its horrors invade our minds and hearts, but the Torah says a good man can discern God’s voice in a desolate wilderness.

            What do these words mean?

            They mean, first of all, that there is a Jewish way of seeing, and that we can be trained to see the world in that way through distinctive Jewish acts. Jews are taught to look for the presence of the sacred in the simplest, most ordinary moments. We break the shell of habit. We use words to transform our consciousness. We say a b’racha, a blessing, to wake ourselves up, to call attention to beauty and wonder in the midst of the mundane.

            You know about this, I am sure. You have heard rabbis say that there are Jewish blessings to say when we eat or drink, when we wake up in the morning or go to sleep or wash our hands; when we behold an ocean or a rainbow, see trees in blossom or a teacher who inspires us, when we inhale sweet spices, put on new clothes or taste a new fruit. We call them Birkhot Nehinin, blessings of enjoyment – words we utter before taking pleasure in the world.

            Perhaps it sounds exhausting to think about learning and saying all those blessings. So let’s think about something small, instead. What if, every time you sat down to eat – or even once a day --you took a minute to focus your intention, take a deep breath and say Hamotzi, aloud or silently? What if, on Friday night, you lit two candles in a darkened house and focused your thoughts on the people you love -- the ones who are living, the ones who have passed away? How would those moments of stillness and gratitude change your life?

            Jewish life is fashioned from a series of these ritual moments, a pattern of ordinary acts uplifted to something more. We call them mitzvot – sacred deeds, sacred duties. 

            Writes Dennis Prager: ”Judaism is a very physical religion. To be Jewish is to do. It does not suffice to feel Jewish. Feeling Jewish without acting Jewish is like feeling ethical without acting ethically. It doesn’t count. The deeds count, not the feelings. That is the power of Jewish rituals” [“Raising a Jewish Child in a Non-Jewish World,” in Moment  Magazine, November 1988].

            We say, when performing a mitzvah, “asher kid’shanu b’mitzvotav” – that we are sanctified through these mitzvot; that by doing these mitzvot, holiness enters our lives.

            We are. It does. With each mitzvah we create beauty and goodness; we enlarge the presence of God in the world. Through the conscious, thoughtful performance of mitzvot we grow ethically and spiritually; we develop strength deep inside, at the core. We resist despair. We teach ourselves, over and over again, to look at a normal situation and find within it a tiny kernel of the miraculous to celebrate.

            Stillness, gratitude, appreciation – these become habits of mind and heart. The ability to fill up your day with small moments of pleasure and beauty – this changes the way you see the world.

            There is more to it, this business of seeing holiness in the place where we stand. Because much of life is not about tasting a good meal or feasting our eyes on flowers. Much of life is spent in tedium and aggravation -- sitting in traffic while you inhale the fumes of exhaust, or attending to your email, or listening to your children squabble, or sitting through boring meetings, or standing in line or waiting on hold – and Judaism provides no inspiring rituals for moments like these.

            And some of life, sad to say, is spent in sorrow and pain and worry over someone we love. How can we claim there is holiness to be found at such times?

            Here is the point: Judaism cultivates a particular way of approaching reality. It does not say that there is a silver lining to every cloud, or that there is something noble about suffering, or that pain is sent to purify us in some unfathomable way. It does say that in any situation – on whatever ground we stand – there is a way to encounter the Divine. Judaism can teach us how to do it. We have within us all the tools we need to make holiness happen. Our own mind; our own eyes, our own hands, our own voice. We can use all of them to offer the best that is within us – to rise up from where we stand.

            So we can sit in traffic seething with rage, or we can find something interesting or even beautiful to look at, or think about. When our children are squabbling or in trouble, when our parents are in need, we can summon up compassion and patience to bring to them. We can stand in line like a mentsch -- with courtesy and humor -- and the whole experience becomes more bearable for everyone. Email exchanges and meetings – all those ordinary days on the job – they all bring us into contact with human beings who need our understanding and attention. Even a difficult, aggravating person – this has taken me a long time to learn – can teach us something useful.

            Jewish tradition uses grand words like “salvation” and “redemption.” It speaks of tikkun olam, of healing the world by searching for sparks of holy light that lie buried in dark places. Here is what this means to me.

            There is always a way to add decency and goodness to the harsh reality of what is. There is always a way to make the wilderness more humane, and more godly. There is always a way to lift things up, if only a little, and diminish the ugliness of the world. At any moment, in any place, here and now, God can be present. I can do a mitzvah; I can help transform the world that is into the world that ought to be.

            I am talking about hope – the foundation of a Jewish life. It’s not that we think the world is getting better – we believe that together, we can make things better. It’s hope that allowed generations of Jews, living in times darker than our own, to wish each other a year that would be sweet and full of goodness.

            Gratitude, appreciation, the power of hope. These gifts help us to grow strong at the core. Physican Jerome Groopman discovered the “biology of hope” through personal experience: “For some 19 years after failed spine surgery, I lived in a labyrinth of relapsing pain and debility. Then, through a series of chance circumstances, I found an exit. I felt I had been given back my life. I recognized that only hope could have made my recovery possible. Rekindled hope gave me the courage to embark on an arduous…. treatment program, and the resilience to endure it. Without hope, I would have been locked forever in that prison of pain….[Hope] changes us profoundly in spirit and body.
            “Every day I look for hope, for my patients, for my loved ones, and for myself. It is an ongoing search….” [“The Anatomy of Hope: How  People Prevail in the Face of Illness, 2004].                      

            I went to the redwoods to find a place of majesty and beauty. I came back home and realized that I live in such a place, and I know whole forests of people who evoke in me respect and awe and even reverence.

            I know two young women who created Beth Am’s Healing Circle out of their own loss and pain, sharing God’s loving presence through their own loving deeds. Another member’s personal struggle inspired her to start Beit Refuah, our support group for those affected by mental illness. I know parents who’ve watched their child in the grip of addiction or an eating disorder do their best to lend strength to others in the same situation. I know sons and daughters who care for aging parents with devotion even when it is very, very difficult for them to do.

            Every day I see men and women who carry crushing personal burdens that are mostly invisible to those around them -- and still they find the wherewithal to get up in the morning and smile and face the world with decency and good humor and hope. I am staggered by the fortitude in lives like these, by people who have such strength and substance at the core.

            This year I visited a Beth Am member who suffered a devastating accident that left her convalescing for many months. Each time I saw her she asked about me and my family. Last time I saw her she told me a story about my mother-in-law, Frances Marder, whom she has known for many years. “One thing I’ll always remember about Frances,” she said. “Back in the early 60s, when we worked together as teachers, Frances was the only person I knew who called black people by their title. Other people called our custodian ‘Johnny.’ Frances always called him ‘Mr. Jones.’ She always treated him with respect.  I noticed that about her, and I thought: that’s a woman I’d like to know better.” 

            This member is herself heroic in the way she quietly and bravely bears up in very difficult circumstances. By telling me that story about Frances she showed me a dimension of holiness in my mother-in-law’s life – a dimension we especially cherish now, when Frances shows us only glimpses of the feisty, outspoken and fiercely ethical woman she once was.  

            Right here, right now, there is majesty and beauty to be found. I see it close at hand. I see it in my mom, who has endured many months of debilitating pain but remains the most loving mother and grandmother, never ceasing to care for all of us. I see it in a congregant who suffers her own chronic pain, but who offered me generous counsel when I needed it.

            In ordinary deeds, an extraordinary light sometimes blazes up, like a bush that burns in the wilderness. Sometimes it shines even on the edge of death.

            I remember the face of a good man, wasted and gaunt in the final stage of cancer, who leaned forward intently to ask me a question. “Is there anything I can do for you?” he said. “Is there any way I can help the congregation?”

            I remember another man, still handsome and charming well into his 90s, who did his best to entertain me when I visited him at the end of his life. He told me a joke – slightly off-color – that broke me up. He told me funny stories about his childhood and his days in the army and his years at work. He was hoarse, barely able to breathe, bundled up against the cold – but he was still trying to make a connection, still trying to give his best to a friend. His daughter told me that he told jokes to the ambulance driver who took him to the hospital, and two days before he died he sang his favorite song to his nurse: “When you’re smiling, when you’re smiling, the whole world smiles with you.” He told his daughter not to be afraid when he was gone, and not to be sad.

          When you walk in the redwood forest you can see a miraculous sight: tall trees whose insides have burned out, but the trunk remains intact and the tree still stands and grows. Their roots, entwined with others, anchor them in the earth.

            There are men and women like that: physically ravaged by illness or age – yet inside they stand tall, and the strength that’s within them shines through. Our roots find their anchor in them. Once seen, once known, they leave a mark and create a vision that stays with us always. From them comes holiness and awe. The most irreverent of us, in the presence of such lives, goes under a spell of wonder and respect.

             My husband and I climbed inside a tree and stood there, in the heart of the redwood, in the stillness of a late-summer day. He put his arms around me. I put my head on his chest and I felt his strong heart beating. We were together, there, and we stood in a place where the ugliness of the world could not touch us. I wanted to hold on to the strength of his love and to carry it with me forever.

            At that moment there was no less holiness than the day the Red Sea parted. We tilted our heads all the way back, and we caught a glimpse of the sky.