Rabbi Janet Marder

Erev Rosh Hashana 5766
October 3, 2005

By the Light of the Silvery Moon

         One of my teachers used to say that a sermon should be like a bathing suit: long enough to cover the essentials, but short enough to be interesting.  My words tonight will resemble neither a bikini nor those voluminous bloomers worn by bathers in the 19^th century. As for the essentials…I guess the most essential thing I want to say is how glad I am to be celebrating these holy days with you.

         This is my seventh year at Congregation Beth Am. I remember well what Flint Center looked like to me the first time I stood here and greeted you on Rosh Hashana: rows and rows of strangers. This room is still vast, but now when I look out from this place, I see you.

         I know so many of you now, and I know your stories. I know who fell in love this year, and who is fortunate enough to be married to their best friend; and who parted in sadness or anger from a spouse. I know who was blessed with a new child, and who struggled to conceive a child. I know about the intensity of your jobs and the pain of being out of a job. I know about the craziness and also the sweetness and the beauty of raising your kids; and I know about your struggle to help an aging parent; and I know the pain and grief you have felt at coping with illness or losing someone you love.

         You bring your stories to me; you honor me with your confidence and your trust. Tonight I bring stories to you, as a gift from my heart to yours. Here is the first:

         One summer night a 36 year old man looked out his bedroom window and painted the scene that lay before him. In the lower right he painted a little cluster of village houses, all peaked roofs and straight lines, dim blue like the surrounding hills; the windows lit by small rectangles of pale yellow light, a small church steeple rising up in the middle. On the left, closer in, a massive cypress tree surges up, flame-like, undulating in waves like seaweed. Above it all, far grander than the houses below, he painted a great sky filled with light.

         Here the brush strokes are all curves: huge pulsating phosphorescent balls – orange and yellow and white; fantastic glowing spiral trails in a dark-blue sky, like the Milky Way on steroids, so intense they seem to vibrate on the canvas. One glowing ball sits near the horizon; it is Venus, the morning star. The focal point of the sky, in the right corner of the frame, is a brilliant orange crescent moon.

         Though the scene throbs with energy it also has a mysterious serenity.

         Today all the world knows and loves the painting that Van Gogh made that starry night, from the window of the mental hospital where his brother Theo had placed him one month before, suffering from epileptic seizures and a mood disorder exacerbated by heavy use of alcohol and drugs. Astronomers have verified that the position of the morning star and the waning moon were as Vincent painted them just before dawn on June 19, 1889.

            But if you or I had looked out the window of his cell that night we would not have seen what Van Gogh painted. The scene on the canvas reflects his inner world more than the landscape of Southern France .

         Heartsick and depressed, feeling himself friendless, rejected and alone, Van Gogh created a beautiful, visionary sky that expressed his own religious yearnings, his desire to transcend suffering and reach a place of peace. The bright sliver of crescent moon that he placed at the top of the scene was a personal symbol that he clung to throughout his life. 

         It appears often in his paintings, and as a young man he sketched a picture of a crescent moon in his book of Psalms, next to a verse that speaks of comfort and hope: “The Eternal is my light and my help; whom should I fear? God is the stronghold of my life; whom shall I dread?” [See Vincent van Gogh, The Weaver of Images: The Starry Night, His Tapestry of Heavenly Consolation, by Jacquelyn Etling].

          Like Van Gogh, each of us in this sanctuary tonight has our own window on the world, our own vision of the way things are.  The view we shared this past year was a dark and disturbing one. Together we witnessed disasters both natural and humanly wrought, shocking images of war and suffering, of corruption and privation here at home and around the world.

         I thought of detailing them all tonight, as I do some years. I thought of speaking about tsunamis and hurricanes, African genocide and bloodshed in Iraq, terrorism and the fear of terrorism, anxiety about global pandemics and global warming; painful divisions in the American body politic and virulent hatred abroad.

         But tonight I did not want to linger on those grim specters of the year now ended. They are with us all the time; we carry them around inside us, like a low-grade fever, like a dull throb in the temples, like a dose of toxic radiation impossible to escape if you live in this world. We do not need to be reminded, tonight, of how bad things can be.

         I want to focus, instead, on how a man in physical and emotional pain paints a sky full of light. And how we, who are not artistic geniuses but ordinary people with our own share of personal and communal pain, can find a way to transcend the darkness in which we live.

         My first story was about hope. My second story is about gratitude.

         This year I became acquainted with a remarkable man – a Beth Am member whose name is Lazar Balon. He is 98 years old. He grew up in Ukraine , in a Jewish agricultural settlement – he is one of our few émigré members who still carries memories of Jewish customs and the Yiddish language. Today Lazar lives in a small apartment with his wife, Vera; he has a devoted daughter, Galina, and a smart and beautiful granddaughter, Marina.

         Lazar and Vera do not speak much English, and my Russian is almost non-existent, but thanks to Galina’s translation, I came to learn her father’s story. When he grew to manhood he became a surgeon who specialized in reconstructive surgery of the face and head. He single-handedly established the department of reconstructive surgery at Leningrad University . During the Second World War Lazar served in a hospital on the front lines, operating on soldiers who were grievously injured in battle, restoring them to life and repairing their devastating wounds.

         Lazar showed me an album of photographs of his patients – some of the pictures were so graphic that I could hardly bear to look. But he studied the photographs intently, with concentration and pride. Today, more than 60 years later, he still feels a deep and quiet satisfaction at the good work he did and the lives he saved.

         Lazar Balon is a patriot. He has a small picture of the American flag on his front door. “God bless America ,” he said to me, with fervor. Though he has no love for the former Soviet Union , he is proud of his military service and his record of valor in battle against the Nazis. While his wife served me tea and cookies, Lazar slipped away into the bedroom. Five minutes later he emerged, beautifully attired in a natty gray suit, with a chest full of medals and ribbons awarded him in the army.

         Lazar is a handsome man with a thick head of hair, alert eyes, a charming smile, broad shoulders and a rugged bearing. He is also very ill, and he knows that he may not have much time left in this world. “Two important things,” he told me. “Two things I want you to know. Number one: I love life. Number two: I believe in people.”

         I asked him: “Lazar, after all you saw in the war, you still believe in people?”

         And he answered: “I believe in people more.”

         Where does he get his courage? Where does he get that sparkle in his eye – and where can I get some of that, too? Dr. Lazar Balon, nero ya’ir– may his light continue to shine – exemplifies the spirit of his generation of émigrés. Men and women who saw horrors we cannot imagine as they lived through famine, persecution and a war that killed more than twenty million of their countrymen, followed by the brutality of Stalin’s regime, deportation to the gulags and the virtual extinction of Jewish life and culture.

         These elderly emigres are tough, rugged individuals – they had to be to survive. Yet even as their physical strength diminishes, their inner strength shows through. Their material circumstances are modest. Many of them have not fully mastered English, and daily life is often a struggle for them. Yet I come away from every encounter with these elders inspired by their capacity to celebrate life. Not in a mushy, sentimental sort of way. These men and women are stubbornly down to earth. But they are so glad to be alive, and so very grateful to be here in this country.

         People like Lazar Balon are heroes to me. Their status is often much lower in this country than it was in the FSU. They gave up professional standing and the respect of their peers to come here, mostly for the sake of their children and grandchildren. But they deserve to be honored by all of us – not just because they have survived, but because they came through hell with their spirit unvanquished, and because they had the strength to begin again.

         They are my teachers of gratitude, the art of giving thanks. When I was a kid I thought of gratitude as a department of etiquette – when you receive a gift you have to say thank you and write a note. As I’ve gotten older I’ve realized that gratitude is a quality of mind and spirit that can transform life. And it doesn’t come easily or naturally. It is, in fact, a disciplined way of thinking and seeing the world that requires mindfulness, effort and practice. It’s easy to slide into self-pity. It’s easy to focus on our complaints, and to make ourselves and the people around us miserable. It’s easy to let worry or frustration overwhelm us. It’s easy to be overcome by the darkness.

         A positive mind-set is partly a matter of inherited temperament, but gratitude can also be learned. Some psychologists recommend writing down, once a week, 3-5 things we’re grateful for in a “gratitude journal.” Many Jews do this at the Shabbat table with family or friends. We’re blessed with a tradition that devotes one day a week to enhancing our appreciation of life.

         Gratitude is also a daily spiritual practice. Jews are given the “Modeh Ani” blessing to say upon awakening, giving thanks for the breath of life and the gift of a new day, like the Buddhist teaching that one should wake up each morning with a smile. And we’re taught to pause to utter words of gratitude for each pleasure we encounter – every meal we eat, every beautiful sight, every delicious fragrance, every holy day we celebrate. Writes Marge Piercy:

         “I am not sentimental

         about old men mumbling the Hebrew by rote

         with no more feeling than one says gesundheit.

         But the discipline of blessings is to taste

         each moment, the bitter, the sour, the sweet 

         and the salty, and be glad for what does not

         hurt.”  [From The Art of Blessing the Day]

         My third story is about love. Rabbi Bob Alper tells this story about his parents: “My mother and father observed an unusual ritual throughout their nearly forty-nine years of marriage. Whenever they left home together, just before walking through the door, they would kiss each other. Usually it was a perfunctory kiss, a force of habit kind of thing, but without question it was mandatory for them, almost like paying homage to a superstition, which it was not.

         “Apparently they had kissed at the door ever since they were newlyweds, and the custom held. Even if they were in the midst of a quarrel (and their arguments were always civil), there would be that brief pause, the kiss, and the discussion would continue as they walked outside. As a kid, I thought all couples kissed whenever they left their home.

         “Certain memories surrounding my father’s death remain especially clear in my mind. The phone call, the funeral, the hundreds of people offering consolation, my teenage son’s arm around my shoulders, and reciting Kaddish, the mourner’s prayer I had led thousands of times, now as a mourner myself.

         “But most of all, I remember watching my mother leaving the apartment on the way to the funeral. When she reached the front door she paused for a moment, only a moment, and sighed. Then she squeezed my hand hard, and walked out into the hallway.

         “I wouldn’t dare try to characterize my parents’ marriage. After all, what does a child, even a grown child, really know about his parents’ relationship? But there is history that I experienced along with them, and themes in their lives to which I was privy. Lots of heartache and hard times, but also a good deal of joy and pride and a more comfortable life towards the end.

         …”In the final years of their marriage my parents experienced an increase in tension, sniping, impatience, and anger. I stood to the side, sad, hoping the same would not happen between [my wife] and me, and wondering if what I was witnessing was unique to Mom and Dad or a natural by-product of the frustrations of aging.

         “Still, the Psalmist wrote how in God’s sight a thousand years are like one day. In human experience I learned that sometimes one brief moment can outweigh decades. One brief moment can become more significant than all the events and feelings of the years that surround it. A moment in a cold, formal hospital room, for example.

         “A few months after…Thanksgiving…, my father entered the hospital for prostate surgery, a common operation for men his age, but scary nevertheless. On the morning of his surgery he was slightly groggy but still cavalier when my mother and I kissed him good-bye. We ate a little breakfast and passed the time as people do in hospitals until the doctor arrived with a good report and the promise that Dad would be returned to his room within an hour.

         “We awaited him. Finally a squad of orderlies and nurses wheeled him into the room and carefully transferred him from litter to bed. When the people cleared away I looked down to see a much older-looking Norman Alper, his hair matted, his mouth shriveled, a red mark across the bridge of his nose and saliva sliding down his chin. He slept fitfully.

         “But soon he awoke, and looked at us, and smiled. And then one of the most wonderful scenes I have ever witnessed took place. Carefully, lovingly, Mom handed Dad his dentures  which, in his vanity, he had never before been without. He fitted them into his mouth, and his face brightened. Almost ritualistically, she returned his glasses. His hearing aid. She dabbed his cheek and combed his hair. And at the last, she replaced his wedding ring on his finger.

         “Step by step, she brought him back to her. Step by step, he returned to her. Pure joy. Pure, sweet joy passing back and forth between them.

         “I stood nearby but, to them, not present. They were alone with each other.

         I watched my elderly parents. Lovers. Still.”

         Rabbi Alper’s story reminds us of all the long-married, sometimes-bickering, utterly devoted couples we know, and captures a great secret: nobody on the outside can grasp a love that goes deeper than words.

         The greatest transformative force in our life is love. Love fortifies us from within; as the Talmud says, it puts us on our feet. Coming home to someone who understands us and believes in us when we don’t believe in ourselves, someone who cherishes us despite our human failings, gives us the strength to cope with almost anything. If we are lucky enough to know such love, we should thank God that we have been so blessed.  We owe our partner our deepest attention and respect, and we should place our marriage at the very center of our life.

         All of us need love. If we are feeling lonely or unfulfilled in marriage, it doesn’t have to be that way. Relationships in trouble can be made better. Dr. John Gottman, who has studied many hundreds of couples, writes in a book I recommend -- The Seven Principles of Making Marriage Work  -- “One of the saddest reasons a marriage dies is that neither spouse recognizes its value until it is too late.”

         Love gives us the strength to live. Those who have lost the love of their life deserve our tenderness and support. Gently, sensitively, we can re-connect them to life by offering friendship and a listening ear.  “The world is built with chesed, with loving kindness,” says the Psalmist [Ps .89:3]. I hope Beth Am can be a community built on chesed, where friendships blossom and marriages are made; where couples find in Judaism a solid anchor for their life together; where the widowed and divorced are not forgotten by their married friends; where single people, with and without children, are embraced and invited to holiday meals.  If you are waiting to be so embraced, why not be the first to reach out to others? If love teaches us anything, it is to open up our circle and bring others into our family.

         Three stories for the New Year: three messages about hope, gratitude and the power of love. They speak to the struggle within all of us to live with joy and purpose in a frightening world, and to keep trying to make it better.

         If you’ve been in my office you know that I keep a picture of Van Gogh’s radiant night sky on my bookshelf, where I can see it every day. I listen to your stories, I listen to the news; and I look at that painting – at the story it tells of light and color triumphant over darkness.

         I look especially at that shining moon – not only Van Gogh’s personal symbol of hope, but a powerful religious symbol in our own tradition. Jews have watched the sky for millennia and charted its phases in our ancient calendar --  the waxing and the waning, celebrating our festivals under the full moon and greeting the new moon with prayer and ceremony.

         Imagine for a moment what it means to be connected to the universe around you in deep, elemental ways. Imagine a life that moves in rhythm with the heavenly bodies, that pays attention, with awe and reverence, to their beautiful, elegant orbits. Imagine clear nights unpolluted by urban glare or noxious smoke; imagine recapturing the ecstasy and mystery of the open sky.

         We watch the moon pass again and again through its phases, and we learn that the only constant in our life is change. The moon is the marker of time, reminding us that we move to rhythms greater than ourselves. Our children grow up; our parents and loved ones pass away; and so are we all carried forward ceaselessly into the future. But we see the moon reborn again and again -- and learn, as our Sages taught, that we can renew ourselves.

         “Hope is a state of mind,” wrote Vaclav Havel, “not a state of the world.” “Hope is not this bubbly, fizzy emotion that rises up in you,” says playwright Tony Kushner. “It’s a very tough thing. You have to work to find it. You have to work to drive it through despair.”

         “Sing joyously to God, our strength,” says Psalm 81. “Raise up song, sound the drum, the melody of lyre and harp. Tik’u vachodesh shofar…blow the horn on the new moon, on the full moon for our festival.” Blow the horn, lift up song, celebrate this life, believe in this life, even when the sky is black and the light is barely there.

         A new year has come. Above us, in the night sky, the sliver of a silvery moon shines down on this dark and troubled earth, its light tranquil and serene as a promise of what the earth could be, and will be someday, we pray. Let us remember the last words spoken on the moon, in December 1972, as the crew of Apollo 17 looked out at the small, fragile planet we call home:

“We leave the moon as we came, and, God willing, as we shall return: with peace and hope for all mankind.”

            Let us not give in to the dark. Let us seize hold of this life, and live it with gratitude, with love, and with hope.