Rosh Hashanah Sermon 5767

These days I’m not always sure what to say when people ask me how I am. There are two possible answers to this question.

The first - the short answer - is: “Good.”

And the second - the long answer - is: “Not so good.”

It’s not that I have anything about which to complain. I am a lucky man. I’ve been blessed with a wonderful family, a good job, and a comfortable lifestyle. I’m in relatively good health. I love what I do and I believe that my work makes a difference. There’s ample food on our table (maybe too much) and we have friends and people who care about us. I also live in one of the freest and most affluent countries in the world. What more is there to ask for?

Like many people, however, I find myself overwhelmed these days by an oppressive sense of anxiety and hopelessness in our world. The world in which we live is so bleak and frightening it makes me want to hide under my bed. What can I do to change the world or solve the overwhelming problems we’re facing these days? How can I make a difference? Where can I find hope in an age of despair?

When did this sense of malaise begin? Was it five years ago on September 11th, or did the problems begin before that? The threat of annihilation is not something new. I remember learning how to do “duck and cover” in a Miami classroom more than forty years ago during the Cuban missile crisis. As if hiding under a desk could protect us! At that time my parents worried about the red menace, the iron curtain, and the atomic bomb. Life was so simple back then! I also remember the riots in our urban centers during the height the civil rights movement – we were afraid that American society was crumbling around us. With all that, we still had a sense of hope and faith in the future. President Kennedy spoke about a hopeful revolution, and he assured us that the changes that were taking place in the world promised to create a better tomorrow. Martin Luther King Jr. inspired us to “to dream” of a better tomorrow. Despite serious problems, we knew that America was a hopeful place.

I’m not sure that this sense of hope exists today. The world has become a grimmer and more dangerous place in the twenty first century. Of course there are still good folks in the world as well as good things happening around us. But we can’t avoid the darkness and despair that threaten to overwhelm us. They have become a way of life. Consider the facts:

• We live with a growing fear of terror. Although America has been relatively quiet since 9/11, most Americans are waiting “for the other shoe to drop.” The question is not whether there will be another terrorist incident; the question is when.

• We feel less safe today than we did before and I don’t mean just in terms of terrorism. Most of us grew up in a world in which our parents didn’t worry if I went to the mall with our friends, or played ball in the street. Now we worry about the threat of predators and violence.

• We were proud of our country. Now we wonder why the world hates us so. And how is it possible that at time when there is such affluence in our nation so many people are barely getting by? Katrina reminded us how easily we could loose everything…

• We live in a world in which genocide is a daily reality. Darfur weighs upon us, not to mention Cambodia, Bosnia and Rwanda. We are unable to stem the hatred and violence that threatens the far and not so far corners of our planet.

• Finally, as Jews we live with a growing sense of dread. What does the future hold for Israel? Who doesn’t remember that famous handshake between Yitzhak Rabin and Yassir Arafat? Less than a decade ago we had high hopes that peace was on the horizon – today we wonder whether Israel is moving toward Armageddon….

As we sit together in synagogue on Rosh Hashanah we are overwhelmed by anxiety and hopelessness. But it’s not just the world – it’s also our personal lives as well. We come to synagogue on Rosh Hashanah with our own personal list of worries and concerns. Some of us are struggling with illness. Others are worried about their children, young or old. And as we recite the Unetaneh Tokef, we’re reminded that there are forces beyond our control at work in our universe: “Who shall live and who shall die; who shall be at peace and who shall be tormented.” If we weren’t feeling hopeless enough, this prayer threatens to overwhelm us

I often think about our grim circumstances as I recite Psalm 27. This is the special psalm we recite from the beginning of Elul until Hoshanah Rabbah. It sounds like it was written yesterday. The author speaks of a dark and dangerous world, a world in which enemies attack us, in which we are insulted and maligned, and a world where we can so easily lose those dearest to us in the blink of an eye. But the psalmist offers hope: “The Lord is my light and my help. Whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life. Whom shall I dread?” He ends, “Kavay el Adonai hazak v’ametz lebekha kave el Adonai” – “Hope in the Lord and let your heart take courage. Hope in the Lord.” Psalm 27 suggests that if we trust God, we can face life’s trials and tribulations with equanimity. If we have faith then there is reason to have hope. Hopefulness is the greatest form of faith.

Yet, I suspect that for many who are here, such faith is either lacking or hard to find. It’s easier to be hopeful if you can place yourself in God’s hands; if you believe that “God will provide.” But how many of us are ready to do that? Some of us may have a simple and pure faith but many, if not most of us, worry and ruminate about the future and worry about God. We live in a constant state of terror and despair.

I’m reminded of the man who toppled over the edge of a cliff. As he fell toward his certain death, the man reached out and grabbed a branch protruding from the cliff side. Hanging there he yelled, “Help! Help! Is there anyone out there? Can someone save me?” Suddenly a voice boomed out from above, “This is the Lord. I will protect you. Let go of the branch and I’ll lower you down to the ground. There was a long pause and then the man feebly said, “Is there anyone else out there who can save me?”

It’s not that we don’t believe in God – it’s simply that we’re not prepared to trust God. Could it be that life hasn’t given us much reason to trust God? So where can we find hope? And what do we mean when we say we are hopeful or hopeless in light of today’s world?

I believe we err when we assume that hope means passively turning our lives over to God. Hope is not out there – it’s in here (heart). This is the message of the Unetaneh Tokef, or Psalm 27. Hope stands at the middle of a continuum between despair and escapism. At one extreme we cynically believe that the world is conspiring against us and there’s nothing we can do to save ourselves. Despair paralyzes us and makes us incapable of action. At the other extreme is a flight into fantasy and escapism. We believe that there’s nothing that we need to do as long as put ourselves in God’s hands. But that’s not a fair expectation of God. The escapist is incapacitated by being overly passive. In between these two extremes lies hope: It is the belief that what we do makes a difference in the world and that we are partners with God in creating a world of goodness and godliness.

This is one of the central motifs of Rosh Hashanah. If you look at our liturgy you will find this theme of hopeful optimism. It can be found in prayers like the Vayetayu, a beautiful poem in the Musaf service, in which we express the idea that we believe in a future when all human beings will come to recognize God’s moral sovereignty in the world, and when nations will come together in peace. And it’s expressed in the Alaynu, a prayer that we recite daily in which we say, “And so we hope in you, Lord our God, soon to see your splendor, sweeping idolatry away and perfecting the world…” There is hope in these prayers: The world is getting better.

The whole point of the Unetaneh Tokef is to encourage hopeful activism. “Repentance, prayer, and righteous acts can avert the severity of the decree” is not wishful thinking. It expresses our faith in the power of human actions. Hope is not something for which we wait but something we create through our actions, small and large. This prayer challenges us to live up to that hope.

Will hope rid the world of suffering and pain? Hopeful activism allows us to make a difference, if not in the whole world at least, in our small corner of the world. Even small differences can have major consequences for others. They ripple forth like a pebble thrown into the middle of a pond. Like the butterfly affect, a small act of hope and action can have a profound affect on the world.

This is what the Talmud means when it suggests that we should view our actions as perfectly balanced. We are to imagine our actions as if they are measured in a scale of judgment, our good deeds on one side and our transgressions on the other. One good deed or one transgression can tip the balance for us and for the universe. There is great hope in the suggestion that what I do makes a difference. But there is also great challenge!

Rabbi Hugo Gryn, a prominent British rabbi and survivor of the Shoah, understood the power of hope. He said that he learned the most important lesson of his life not in a school of theology but in a concentration camp. During the winter of 1944 he was interred in a camp with his father. One evening his father took him and some friends to a corner of the barracks. He announced that it was Chanukah and produced a clay bowl. The elder Gryn began to light wicks immersed in bit of melted margarine from his rations. When Hugo protested that he was wasting food, his father looked at him and said, “You and I have seen that it is possible to five for three weeks without food. We once lived almost three days without water. But you cannot live properly for three minutes without hope.”

Every mitzvah and every good deep is an act of hope. We don’t always begin with hope but through these acts gain hope!

For me Rabbi Gryn’s story epitomizes hopeful activism. Hope is not something for which Hugo Gryn’s father waited. He understood that we must create hope through our actions and we must share hope to others. He taught his son that a life without hopeful actions is not worth living.

Teshuvah – change, Tefillah – prayer, and Tzedakah - righteous acts of caring and compassion. Jewish spirituality is contained in these three words. And that is what a synagogue is here to encourage. Real faith is not expressed in theological constructs but in what we do and how we choose to live. The lighting of the Chanukah candles in a concentration camp warmed the hearts of the hopeless and reminded them that they were not alone. It may not have changed their reality but it changed their perception of the world.

I believe that we must change the way we think about religion. Synagogues and churches ought to be in the business of creating hope. In a nasty and sometimes violent world, a successful house of worship is the back of the barracks; it is a little corner of the world where we strive together to bring comfort and hope to others. And in an uncaring and anonymous world, a house of worship can be a place that celebrates our uniqueness, human dignity.

This is even more important considering the role religion has come to play in the world today. At a time when religion has become a toxic force in the world because it has allowed itself to become so politicized, religious communities must return to their original mission. Simply put, it is to bring hope to the world. We can do this by encouraging people to live lives of meaning and compassion, lives of caring and goodness, lives of responsibility and love.

We need to begin with one another but our responsibility must extend beyond our immediate family and friends as well. We are part of a community. We are part of a nation. We are citizens of the world. In the post 9-11 generation when we are tempted to withdraw from the world, we must reach out in caring concern to those around us.

How can we do this? We can do so through Gemilut Hasadim, through acts of loving kindness. This coming year I’d like our congregation to dedicate itself to performing acts of kindness and caring for one another and for those around us. This will become our Mitzvah of the year that we can work on together. Gemilut Hasadim or acts of loving kindness are the most important behaviors we can foster as human beings. They are a means not only of showing caring but of creating hope. They include acts such as comforting the mourner, visiting the sick, burying the dead, helping the needy and showing respect for the elderly. In a world filled with hate Gemilut Hasadim is an affirmation of hope.

Have you ever heard the expression, “Commit Random Acts of Kindness?” Over the last number of years there have been a number of campaigns around the country to encourage people to perform acts of random kindness such as putting money into a parking meter when you see someone is about to run out of time, or helping a senior citizen with their groceries, or maybe offering your mail carrier a cup of coffee in the morning.

This is a lovely sentiment. But from a Jewish perspective, there’s nothing random about Gemilut Hasadim. It’s a way of life. It’s what we’re supposed to do all the time. Hesed is our way of creating hope in the world. As a congregation we need to create such opportunities and to care for one another. Whatever else a synagogue is, a place of learning, a place of prayer, a place for social gather, it aught to be first and foremost a place that gives people hope. It needs to be a place that says that love is not dead and that apathy is to be eschewed.

Elie Wiesel said: “I have learned two lessons in my life: first, there are no sufficient literary, psychological, or historical answers to human tragedy, only moral ones. Second, just as despair can come to one another only from other human beings, hope, too, can be given to one only by other human beings.” In a world that sometimes appears hopeless, I believe that hope begins right here, right now, with you and me.

Let us not only have hope; let us create and live by it, through our deeds, through our concern for others, and through our faith.

May this be a year of hopeful activism for us and for the world.

Shanah Tovah