The Merit of Our Ancestors - Shabbat Memorial Day 5774

(To hear this sermon as it was delivered on Friday, May 23, 2014 at Temple Shaaray Tefila in New York City, please click here.)

Many of you know that my father, Elliot, is also a congregational rabbi. You can gather, I’m sure, that my dad has always been and continues to be a powerful influence on my life, a shining example of the positive impact a rabbi can have on the lives of those in his community. This past weekend my home synagogue honored my dad for his upcoming retirement at the end of June, the end of 37 years in the rabbinate, 35 of which were spent as the founding rabbi of Shir Ami in Bucks County, Pennsylvania. I was blessed with the privilege of leading Erev Shabbat services for my home congregation, to be their rabbi for an evening, not just one of their rabbi’s sons.

As I stood on the bimah where I celebrated my consecration, my bar mitzvah, my Confirmation, my wedding, looking down upon so many familiar faces, some of whom had been there since the very beginning in 1979, since a fledgling congregation, without a building, hired my father to be their founding rabbi, just a year before I was born. In a moment that was as wonderful as it was surreal, looking down from the bimah on my father, now sitting in the kahal I reflected on my rabbinic heroes. I thought of those around whom I am and, I think, will forever be, completely star-struck, those from whom I glean and absorb every drop of knowledge and experience I possibly can. Some of these future Rabbinic Hall of Famers, if you will, include our own Rabbi Stein, URJ President Rick Jacobs and VP Danny Freelander, who also was there to speak and sing as part of our service, HUC Chancellor David Ellenson, new HUC President Aaron Panken, former CCAR President Janet Marder. And yet, even with all the inspiration they continue to give me, day by day, the reason I chose this path, the reason I responded to this sacred calling to become a rabbi, is because of my father. And as I reflected on that, I realized then, as I continue to each and every single day of my life, that I stand on the shoulders of giants.

The truth is: so do we all. Personally, professionally, whatever the case may be, each of us is blessed to stand on the shoulders of giants. Albert Einstein once wrote, “Many times a day I realize how much my inner and outer life is built upon the labors of my fellow, both living and dead, and how earnestly I must exert myself in order to give in return as much as I have received, and am still receiving.” Truly, the best way to honor and acknowledge those who came before us and paved the way for us, is to continue to build, onward and upward, on what they left for us in the first place.

And this is, in essence, what we are doing and saying when we pray the Amidah, most especially the Avot/Imahot prayer at its start. We call upon God, and we remind God of our ancestors, what they did for God, and what God did for them. As I explain to the students in the Religious School, this prayer says, “Hey God! Remember Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob? Sarah, Rebekah, Rachel, and Leah? Remember how they devoted themselves to You and how You took care of them? Well, we’re their descendants. Please, God, be with us the way you were with them.” It’s what our tradition calls z’chut avot, the “merit of our ancestors.”

Cause even God, it seems, might need some reminding. And one of the skills ingrained in our n’shamot, our souls, is memory. One of the things we Jews do best of all is remembering. From Yizkor services at Yom Kippur and the three pilgrimage festivals; to shamor v’ZACHOR,  “keep and remember,” the two commandments regarding Shabbat; to zecher litziyat Mitzrayim, from the Kiddush blessing Richard will lead for us later in the service, the recalling of the Exodus from Egypt, as we sanctify the Sabbath day over wine.

We are certainly the People of the Book. But perhaps it is just as true is that we are the People of Memory.

The power of memory is what has bound our people together for more than 3000 years. It is that shared story, that common narrative, that we are compelled to recall and recount month after month, year after year. And in our own lives, it is that same power of memory that gives us a foundation of strength. It forever ties us to our grandparents when we hear a song they loved on the radio, to our parents when we recall their being by our side through so many ups and downs and in-betweens. It ties us to childhood, to camp or high school or college moments forever frozen in our minds, the cornerstones of who we now are.

As this Shabbat begins to grace us with her presence, we look to the secular calendar to see it is Memorial Day weekend. Sometimes lost in the excitement of a long weekend of, hopefully, sun and barbecues with family and friends, is why we’re even able to dream of those barbecues in the first place. We forget the ultimate sacrifice made by the bravest women and men this country has ever seen. We lose sight of how they died fighting, so that we could seek the deepest meanings and enjoy the greatest pleasures this life has to offer us.  

On this Shabbat Memorial Day, let us really remember. When our cups runneth over with the blessing of memory, may we remember as well that every single one of us stands on the shoulders of giants; that it is the labors and sacrifices of our fellow man and woman upon which our luxury is built, as Einstein said, from whom we “have received, and are still receiving.” And may we live in such a way, that we may be deserving of z’chut avot, the merit of all of our ancestors.

AMEN.      

Of Counting and Offering - 9 Iyar 5774

(To hear the audio of the this sermon as given at Shabbat Unplugged at Temple Shaaray Tefila, please click here.)

“525,600 minutes, 525,000 moments so dear.
525,600 minutes - how do you measure, measure a year?
In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee.
In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife.
In 525,600 minutes - how do you measure a year in the life?
How about love? How about love? How about love?
Measure in love. Seasons of love.”

I used to not like that song so much. When the whole Rent craze began nearly 20 years ago, I didn’t really get it. I actually was lucky enough to have seen the original cast on Broadway back in 1996, and after the show the four of us in my family looked at each other and said, “So? So what?  What’s the big deal?” We liked it, it was good. But “amazing”? “The greatest show ever”?? We had no idea what these people were talking about.

But the question is still a good one: How do we measure a year? How do we measure our lives?

Well, we count. We love to count. (“1! 1 beautiful year! 525,600 minutes! Aha! I love it!”) We do, don’t we. We quantify everything – how many hours we spend at work, how long was our phone conversation with Mom, how much time do we have for our meeting before the next obligation; how many people attend our work events, how many people come to Shabbat Unplugged, how many people on the mailing list, in the Facebook group. We struggle so desperately for qualitative, descriptive ways to measure the level of success or engagement or connection, and in our frustration, we resort to gauging ourselves by numbers.

And maybe even more than that, we love to count down. I vividly remember listening to Casey Kasem and American Top 40 in the carpool on the way to Religious School and watching Adam Curry host MTV’s weekly Top 20 Video Countdown, before TRL diluted even that to a daily occurrence. We count down to birthdays, anniversaries, vacations, ends of school years, the first day of camp. I had classmates in rabbinical school who, from somewhere in the middle of the 3rd year, if not earlier, had begun a very precise countdown to our ordination day. And I have a colleague and friend who, from the moment the World Series ends each year, can tell you to the day, how long before pitchers and catchers report to Spring Training.

On one level, it makes sense. When our daily lives aren’t necessarily so thrilling or exhilarating moment to moment, we give ourselves something larger, something significant, to look forward to. It heightens our anticipation and excitement and can even make whatever that moment is more enjoyable, perhaps more meaningful. But on the other hand, aren’t we just wishing our lives away? By counting down, counting away, aren’t we negating the current moment? Are we somehow ignoring, even neglecting, the awesome potential of the “now”?

How about “counting up”? How about that?
Our tradition answers: Yes. Unequivocally yes. And that answer is the Omer.

The Omer is where we find ourselves right now, an interesting juncture in the Hebrew calendar. We are between the celebration of our freedom at Pesach, and looking ahead to the next Jewish holiday, the pilgrimage holiday of Shavuot. Like many of our chagim, Shavuot has both an agricultural and a textual, rabbinic significance as well. Agriculturally, Shavuot is the Festival of the first fruits of the harvest, thanking God for what we hope is a bounteous crop. For the Rabbis, Shavuot commemorates the moment when we received Torah at Mount Sinai. And there are seven weeks between the start of Pesach and Shavuot, which literally means “weeks.”

So we count the Omer. These 7 weeks, these 49 days.

But we don’t count down. We count up.

Why?

See, in line with the agricultural roots of the holiday, farmers were supposed to make an offering of the appropriate grain with each day of the Omer. That’s actually what “omer” means: this grain offering that accompanies each day. Instead of taking something away, we add to our cumulative offering. So that’s part of the answer: we’re building up the bounty of goodness as we prepare to thank God for all of it.

For the rabbinic element, there is even more reason for counting up. The holidays of Passover and Shavuot are commemorations of the 2 most important events in our people’s history: freedom from slavery, and the receiving of the gift of Torah. More than any other moments in our calendar, more significant even than Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur, what these holidays call to mind are nothing short of what makes the Jewish people the Jewish people. Period.

So for the Rabbis, we’ve got to get ourselves ready. We’ve got to get ourselves spiritually prepared, growing, building, counting upwards, gradually elevating ourselves to Mount Sinai, to make aliyah, if you will, which, as we know, literally means “to go up.” We are to purify ourselves, clean up nice, put on our best suit, so to speak, slowly but surely, so that when we’ve finished counting up these 7 weeks, we will be ready—or at least as ready as possible—to receive the divine gift of Torah.

So, my friends, let’s count up. Let’s count our blessings. Let’s be thankful for every person, every interaction, everything we’re able to do and say and contribute to our world. Let’s change our perspective to appreciate all of these as privileges, rather than taking them for granted as things we’re entitled to. Let’s raise ourselves up, elevate our consciousness of all that makes our lives the most wonderful of gifts. And then perhaps the offerings of ourselves, what we bring to the table of life, each and every day, will be not just acceptable, as the words of the prayer go, but enriching and fulfilling—for God, for our loved ones, for ourselves.

AMEN.