Rabbi Janet Marder

Kol Nidre 5767, October 1, 2006

Give Me Your Hand

         Once a student asked the great Rabbi Elijah of Vilna, an 18^th century Sage, where he found the greatest teachings about character improvement. The rabbi pointed across the room, toward his bookshelf. The student said, “But which volume do you mean, Rabbi?” ‘You don’t understand,” said Rabbi Elijah. “I’m not pointing at the bookshelf – I’m pointing at the clock on the wall above my bookshelf. That’s my greatest teacher.”

         Rabbi Elijah learned moral lessons from the clock, which reminded him with every tick that time is passing, that time is precious, that all we have is the life we’re living now.

         The High Holy Days teach that lesson, as well. Much of our liturgy focuses on the passing of time and the urgency of this moment. Here at Beth Am, we have our own High Holy Day tradition, which helps us pay attention to the ticking of the clock at the turning of the year.

         All year my husband, Shelly, keeps a file of New York Times obituaries which he presents to me, with great fanfare, on the eve of this sacred season so that we can reflect together on those who passed away in the year that’s now behind us – the great and the notorious, the remarkable and the merely odd.

         Gone from the world of sports is world heavyweight boxing champion Floyd Patterson; Bob Mathias, a sickly boy who grew up to win two Olympic gold medals for the decathlon; legendary sports announcer Curt Gowdy; and Red Saracheck, who coached basketball at Yeshiva University, and who is my model of a coach who had his priorities straight. “The players are just unusual,” he once told a reporter. “They tell me they can’t come to practice and I say, ‘Why?’ and they say, ‘Gotta study,’ and what can I say? Studies come first with these kids…that they have time to play basketball is a miracle.”

            There were big losses to the world of entertainment: Sven Nykvist, a great cinematographer who worked with Ingmar Bergman; Gordon Parks , the first major black director and photographer; producer Aaron Spelling, who gave us “The Love Boat” and “The Mod Squad,” as well as many other hours of cultural enrichment. Three television hosts passed away: Mike Douglas, Ralph Edwards, and Louis Rukeyser, of “Wall Street Week.” Gone also are comedians Richard Pryor, Jan Murray, Red Buttons, Don Knotts and Louis Nye, sidekick to Steve Allen.

            We lost actresses June Allyson, Shelley Winters and the great Maureen Stapleton; and actors Dennis Weaver of “Gunsmoke” and “McCloud,” Pat Morita of “The Karate Kid”, John Spencer of “The West Wing”; Al Lewis, Grandpa on “The Munsters,” Jack Warden of “12 Angry Men,” and leading man Glenn Ford, who passed away at 90. And let’s not forget Elmer Dresslar, the voice of the Jolly Green Giant, and James Doohan, who played “Scotty” on “Star Trek,” and whose cremated remains, per his request, were beamed into outer space.

            Gone from the music world are jazz singer Lou Rawls, soul singer Wilson Pickett, trumpeter Maynard Ferguson, pianist Billy Preston, tenor Gene Pitney, who sang “The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance,” and country-western singer Buck Owens, who invented “the Bakersfield sound” with his band, the Buckaroos.

            The literary world lost some bright lights: Muriel Spark, who wrote “The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie”; Nobel Prize-winner Naguib Mahfouz, who wrote “The Cairo Trilogy”; award-winning playwright Wendy Wasserstein, dead at 56; Stanley Kunitz, a giant of American poetry, dead at 101. And there were Mickey Spillane, who created detective Mike Hammer; Peter Benchley, who wrote “Jaws,” Rona Jaffe, who wrote “The Best of Everything,” and Stan Berenstain, who with his wife Jan, churned out 250 books about “The Berenstain Bears.”

            Gone from journalism are investigative reporter Jack Anderson, provocative interviewer Oriana Fallaci, A.M. Rosenthal of the New York Times, Otis Chandler of the L.A. Times; and Milton Himmelfarb, distinguished essayist for Commentary, who said, among other choice aphorisms, that “Jews earn like Episcopalians and vote like Puerto Ricans.”

.           Feminist pioneer Betty Friedan passed away, and so did social critic Jane Jacobs, literary critic Wayne Booth, pioneering space scientist James Van Allen, management theorist Peter Drucker and economist John Kenneth Galbraith.

            The religious world lost an eloquent crusader for social justice: the Reverend William Sloane Coffin; as well as the great British rabbi Louis Jacobs, and Vashti McCollum, an atheist whose 1948 lawsuit to stop religious instruction on school property led to a landmark Supreme Court case establishing the separation of church and state in public education.

            Here were some shady characters who left the scene: Milton Obote, strongman of Uganda; John Profumo, British politician whose career ended in a sex and espionage scandal; Yugoslavian war criminal Slobodan Milosevic; Kenneth Lay; Stanley Tookie Williams, an early leader of the Crips gang who turned his life around on Death Row, executed last December for murdering five people; and William Musto, popular mayor of Union City, New Jersey, who was convicted of racketeering and was re-elected on his way to prison.

            We should remember the heroes, as well: Hugh Thompson, an Army helicopter pilot who stepped into the line of fire to save Vietnamese civilians at My Lai; Frederik Philips, Dutch electronics executive who saved hundreds of Jews from the Nazis by employing them in his factory; Robert Scott, a World War II fighter pilot who saved thousands of Allied troops and refugees, author of “God is My Co-Pilot”; and Dana Reeve, who lovingly cared for her husband, Christopher, raised millions of dollars to help those with spinal cord injuries, and  passed away, a non-smoking victim of lung cancer, at age 44, leaving a 13 year old son.

            Gone from the political scene are Caspar Weinberger, who served under Presidents Reagan, Nixon and Ford; former Senators Eugene McCarthy and William Proxmire; feisty Texas governor Ann Richards; silver-haired Texan Lloyd Bentsen, who said to Dan Quayle in a famous vice-presidential debate, “Senator, you’re no Jack Kennedy”; and Nellie Connally, widow of Texas Governor John Connally, the last surviving occupant of the limousine President Kennedy rode in on November 22, 1963.           

            We lost giants of the Civil Rights movement: Rosa Parks, Coretta Scott King, the Rev. Earl Stallings, Baptist pastor of Birmingham, Alabama, who in 1963 faced the wrath of his white parishioners when he seated African American worshipers in their midst for Easter services.

            And there are always a few miscellaneous folks: Joseph Owades, who invented light beer, Ruth Siems, who invented Stove Top stuffing, and George Johnson, the oldest person in California, who ate sausages and waffles every day of his life, and who passed away this month at the age of 112, with a sharp and independent mind and, according to the autopsy, with “the body of a very healthy 50 year old.”

            All of them now belong to the past. Their stories are over – but ours, as the ticking clock reminds us, are still going on.

         “For as long as I can remember,” writes columnist Elizabeth Hayt,  “I have been gripped by a fashion fever before the High Holy Days that begins in late August and peaks in mid-September. This feeling of urgency, the need to buy something new and special for the Jewish New Year, I believe, is a lasting effect of growing up in Great Neck, N.Y., an affluent, predominately Jewish suburb on Long Island .

         “Great Neck is a place where I remember women wearing fur coats over tennis dresses to the supermarket. Where the natural look was shunned. Where grooming, like chicken soup, was the remedy for everything.

         ….“I remember the exhilaration of passing through the smoked-glass doors of Temple Beth-El of Great Neck, decked out in a spiffy wool outfit purchased for the High Holidays. It never mattered that my turtleneck sweater, [long] skirt and opaque tights were too hot and itchy for the Indian-summer weather that invariably hung over the holidays. Oblivious to physical discomfort, I felt exalted by the chance to flaunt something new and stylish before the congregation.” [“Sprucing Up for the Holidays: It’s a Mitzvah; NY Times Sept.20, 1998]

         Some of us know just what she means. We remember when the High Holy Days were all about what you wore, and the competition to be well-dressed was intense.  It’s true that it’s a mitzvah to dress in your best to celebrate a festival.  But it’s easy to get it backwards. The real point of this season is not how we look but whether we look within. The High Holy Days are not about outward display but about what’s happening inside us.

            You all look great tonight – but I don’t really want to talk about your clothes. I want to talk about what’s going on inside. Inside Congregation Beth Am.

            I start with a little girl. Maybe you saw her: her picture was on the front page of the New York Times on May 5, 2006. It was an unusual front-page story – nothing about war or terrorism or the president’s poll ratings or a natural disaster. This was a beautiful story that made you feel glad to be alive. The caption under the picture was “Little Ballerinas, Redefining Grace.”

            It was a story about a special ballet class in Queens for eight little girls, ages 3 to 10, who have cerebral palsy and other debilitating conditions. “Even at a tender age,” the article said, “the girls…grasp that they will never romp in a playground or flip onto a gym mat, let alone play hopscotch, tag or hide-and-seek. But being little girls, they are not immune to the dream of being a glamorous ballerina swathed in frilly pink, gliding gloriously on a stage in front of everyone.”

            The girls’ mothers tried taking them to other ballet schools, but they were told, again and again, “We can’t accommodate your daughter.”  So Joan Ferrara, a physical therapist, started a program just for them. “For an hour a week,” the article says, “the girls escape a world plagued by awkward physical motion and enter a room where elegant music is played and they get a taste of movement that is graceful, smooth, supple and refined.” Their teacher reminds them, again and again, to “smile and be proud.”

            The picture on the front page of the Times shows the students’ annual recital. The camera focuses on a small, blond ballerina with a determined look on her face, her arm curved over her head in a classical pose. The rest of her class is lined up along the stage. All of them are wearing pink tutus and white tights, bulky leg braces and fuzzy tiaras on their heads. Kneeling behind each girl is a teenager dressed in black. As the music plays, the teenagers lift up the little ballerinas, help them to hold their positions and gently turn them around.

            After the performance, Veronica, age 7, sits in the lap of her volunteer helper, 16 year old Christine. Veronica says that her favorite ballet is “ Swan Lake ,” because “it’s about a girl who works very hard and never, ever gives up.”

            When I first read this story, I kid you not – I thought about Congregation Beth Am. I thought: I want Beth Am to be like that: a place that embraces all kinds of kids, no matter how physically different or socially awkward, and makes them feel loved and important and proud. A place where all children learn from caring adults to be brave and hopeful about the challenges in their lives; a place where they never get bullied or left out or hurt. A place that creates teenagers like those dedicated volunteers – good-hearted young people who stand in the background so the little ballerinas can shine. A place where the generations reach out to one another. A place where we lift up those who can’t stand by themselves.

            Some people go through their whole life thinking of the synagogue as a place where you purchase the things that you want: a Bar or Bat Mitzvah for your kids; an occasional service or lecture; clergy who will be on call if you ever have a problem. But it can be so much more, if you let it.          

            Another story about a little girl. Last year on Rosh Hashana I spoke about Lazar Balon, one of our senior émigré members --  a remarkable person; a brilliant surgeon; a big man with a personality to match, and a powerful, optimistic spirit. This past January Lazar passed away, just shy of his 99^th birthday. His granddaughter, Marina, who is a college student, said this at his funeral:

            “Once, when I was a little girl, my grandfather took me to the park. I was playing on the bars and suddenly turned over so I was hanging down by my knees. My grandfather saw me and was so worried about me that he came running over. He ran so fast that he bumped into a piece of equipment and bruised his knee, but he didn’t even notice. He ran up to me and held out his hand. I saw his face, so full of love and concern for me. And I realized that whenever the world was upside down, whenever things were confusing or upsetting, my grandfather would always be there to hold out his hand to me.”

            Lazar gave Marina a sense of stability and strength, one that I hope will stay with her always, though her beloved grandfather is gone.  A synagogue can do that, too. It can be a warm place, a place that is stable and strong; teaching eternal truths, and living by them, too. It can stand upright and firm when the world is upside down; it can be a rock and an anchor in scary, chaotic times. A synagogue can ground us when we’re drifting; it can nourish hungry souls with music and stories and ancient, beautiful words; it can bring comfort and peace to soothe our hurts. It can do all that, if we let it.

            The Talmud [Berachot 5b] tells the story of Rabbi Eleazar, a poor man who one day fell ill. Rabbi Yochanan went to visit him and found him lying alone in the dark. Rabbi Yochanan was a beautiful man, and when he came in, his radiance lit up the room. He saw that Rabbi Eleazar was weeping. “Why are you crying?” he asked the sick man. “Is it because you fear you haven’t studied enough Torah? Do not worry, for we have learned, ‘it matters not whether you have done much or little, as long as your heart is directed towards heaven.’ Or are you crying because you’re poor? Not everyone enjoys sustenance in both this world and the next. Perhaps you’re crying because you have no children? As for me, I have buried ten sons.’ 

            Rabbi Eleazar answered, “I am weeping because all this beauty will one day decay in the earth.” Rabbi Yochanan stopped asking questions and offering answers. He said, “then you have good reason to weep,” and the two of them wept together. Yochanan said to Eleazar, “Give me your hand.” He gave him his hand, and he raised him up.

         Once Yochanan himself fell ill and was visited by Rabbi Hanina. After speaking with him Hanina held out his hand and Rabbi Yochanan stood up. The Talmud asks, "But why, if Rabbi Yochanan was such a great healer, couldn't he raise himself?" And the Talmud answers,  "Because the prisoner cannot free himself from prison."

            A synagogue is not a place where the well-dressed and the well-heeled give charity to the less fortunate. In this synagogue, all of us are broken sometimes, and all of us are sometimes strong. We’re all human beings; we all make mistakes; we all have disappointments. There are no perfect lives, there are no perfect families here. All of us have days we spend in the darkness and times when we are afraid and times when we want to cry. Nobody here is always on top; all of us fall down and need to be lifted up. All of us know illness, sooner or later – our own or that of someone we love. All of us struggle with pain; and all of us someday have to face the end of life.

            A prisoner cannot free himself from bondage. Self-sufficiency is a cruel illusion; sooner or later we all learn the truth. I need someone else’s hand to lean on, and someone else needs me. Well, but that’s what our families are for, you say; what does this have to do with a synagogue? Sometimes our families are far away, or there is no family, or none capable of help; and even the best families can’t do it all.

            So we have synagogues, sacred communities where new families and networks of friends grow up. These networks don’t form because a synagogue staff person organizes them. They grow organically, when people spend time together and come to know and care for one another.  They grow slowly, through the years, as members make deep connections and share the passages of their life. As the Talmud says: according to the labor is the reward. Those who invest themselves in this congregation will reap in time a fruitful harvest.        

            What I fear, most of all, is a synagogue where people come to show off how good they look, no matter how they feel inside. What I want, most of all, is a sacred community where we speak the truth and offer our best to one another; where all of us give and all of us receive. I hope that you want that, too.

            One final story about a little girl. This one is mine.  She’s grown up now, but I hope she doesn’t mind if I remember the way she was. I always thought of my daughter’s room as a window into her heart. When she was a baby we were the ones who decorated her bedroom, but as soon as she could walk and talk she took over that task herself. When she was in preschool her works of art went up on the walls: ambitious messes of glue and Cheerios, sponge paintings and handprints.

            Later there were papers filled with her laborious attempts to print the alphabet, and thousands of versions of the same drawing – in crayon and marker and paint – a drawing of our family: mommy, daddy, big sister, little sister. Then her school mementos went up on the wall: certificates and blue ribbons for effort and sportsmanship and being a good helper; souvenirs of basketball games and class trips and drama productions.

            When she was 12 years old, approaching Bat Mitzvah, the wall decorations changed. I thought there were going to be posters of rock musicians, but I was wrong. When she was 12 Rachel started papering her walls with photographs – a massive collage covering every inch of space. There were photos of everyone in our family – parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles and cousins – and wallet-sized photos of all her friends.

            Lots of smiles. Lots of big hugs. Lots of bright sunshine. Again and again; Rachel with her big sister, Betsy. Rachel as a baby on her grandma’s lap. Rachel clowning around with her buddies at camp and school. Rachel hanging out with all her cousins at our family reunions in Mammoth.

            On the threshold of adulthood, as the world got bigger and more threatening, Rachel’s room reminded her of the people she loves and the places she was happy. Whatever else was going on outside, in her own room she saw the things she wanted to believe in: family, friendship, people who care for one another. A sunlit world where effort counts and sportsmanship matters, and nothing is more important than helping people.

            The words and images that fill our minds have a profound impact on us. We Jews come to synagogue to fill our minds with the words that belong to us, the good and holy words of Torah. Simple words, concrete and down to earth teachings about how Jews create a sacred community.

            Honor your father and mother. Rise up before the old. Share your harvest with the poor and the stranger. Do not steal; do not deceive one another. Be faithful in your marriage. Do not mock the deaf or put a stumbling block before the blind. Judge your fellow human beings fairly. Do not stand by while your neighbor bleeds. Do not hate one another in your heart; love your neighbor as yourself.

            Whatever else happens outside, whatever vulgar or violent messages the surrounding culture delivers through the airwaves, here in our own place, we’re reminded of the purpose of our lives. Kedoshim tihiyu. You shall be holy, for I, Adonai your God, am holy. Build a world that I can dwell in. Make a place for me in your life. Build communities where what’s inside a person matters more than how they look on the outside.

            Build sacred communities where the weak are cared for, where the old and frail are cherished and the hungry are nourished. Build a place where my children, and all children, are safe and loved and can hold on to their dreams for a long, long time.         

            At Beth Am, we teach these words. At Beth Am, we try to build that world, together. We try to raise brave and hopeful Jewish kids, compassionate teenagers, college students who face the world with strong and loving hearts. In a society that can be cold, competitive and callous, we try to carve out a space that is decent and generous and full of light.

            Your clergy and educators can’t do that on our own. All of us do that work – all of us together create the culture we share at Beth Am. It’s in the way we speak to one another, and to the people who teach our children, and to the people who work in the temple office and clean up the physical plant – remembering that each one of us is made in the image of God.

            It’s in the reverence we show for our tradition, and the enthusiasm we show for Jewish learning. It’s in the way we sing and pray and celebrate Shabbat, and in the way we greet strangers who come through our doors. It’s in the way we stretch out our hands and lift up the falling, knowing that one day we are the ones who will need to be carried.

            When I was out of work and was feeling low, you lifted me up. When I had problems in my marriage; when my wife was sick; when my mother was dying; when our son was in trouble; when I lost my husband; when I was worried about my sister, you were there for me to lean on. When I was new in town and feeling alone; when I got a bad diagnosis; when I was tired and hopeless about the way the world is going; when we lost our baby and my heart was breaking, you gave me your hand and you didn’t let me fall.  Let these be the words that bind us together. Let these be the words that you say to one another, you who are the members of this holy congregation.

            The clock is ticking, and all sermons must come to an end at last. But this one, I hope, will go on inside you, for you are the ones who can make it come true.