The Longest Night - Erev Rosh HaShanah 5775

(Video of this sermon as it was delivered at Temple Shaaray Tefila of New York City can be seen by clicking here, scrolling to the second-to-last video available, entitled "High Holy Days 2014 8:30." The sermon begins just after the 1:00:00 mark of the service. Or to hear it as an audio file, please click here.)

It was the longest night of his life. Even for a man who’d been on the run for 20 years—years of sleepless nights teeming with fear and dread—this was, by far, the most difficult. Having fled for his life from enemies both known and unknown, with the entirety of his family and every possession he’d ever amassed, longing for just a glimpse of clarity, some semblance of resolution in his life, he escorted them all to momentary safety on the other side of the river. Back on his side, he was left alone, where he lay down, and tried to sleep.

Tried, I say, because the pursuit of sleep was futile, and even he knew it. The frenzied tempest of terror swirling in his head was one he was all too familiar with; it whipped up anew each evening as the sun descended in its course. But this night would make every night before it seem as a restful luxury.

Jacob, a man tormented by the deceitful deeds of his past, by wrongs committed against both his brother and his father, was all alone. And yet, our text tells us in the very same breath, a man came upon him and wrestled with him until the rise of dawn. In their epic steel cage match, the back-and-forth of a fight straight from the action movies, the man wrenches Jacob’s hip socket, leaving him with a limp for the rest of his life. But Jacob is the victor, refusing to let the man go until he blesses Jacob, which he does. His blessing comes in the form of a new name—Yisrael—because, as the ish says, “You have struggled with God and with human beings, and you have prevailed.”

Who was this ish, this man? For many, this man is an angel of God, deduced from the explanation of his new name, as one who has struggled with God. For others, this man is none other than his twin brother Esau, whom Jacob had swindled out of his birthright for a bowl of stew, whose identity he later assumed so he could steal their father’s innermost blessing meant for the oldest son; whose dignity and self-worth Jacob had trampled upon with utter disregard; the very same man whose threats had sent him running all this time; the man he would confront the following day, for the first time in 20 tumultuous years. Still another interpretation is that of a bat mitzvah student of ours a few years ago, who opined that the man might have been Isaac, their father; that in Jacob’s enduring guilt at from having stolen the benediction, he sought to right this wrong, demanding a legitimate blessing before letting him go.

Fascinating. Perhaps true. But the text is clear. Jacob was l’vado, left alone, to himself. And it seems to me, as it does to many of our sages, that Jacob was wrestling with none other than himself. It seems to me that Jacob was grappling violently, with every fiber of his being, at the crossroads of his life, in a dark night of the soul, struggling to deal with all that he had been, all that he had done, all that he had experienced. Jacob, I believe, was engaging in cheshbon hanefesh, the accounting of the soul we are charged with doing at this time of year—taking stock of who he was, who he wanted to be, and how he would begin to narrow the gap between them.

My friends, especially this year, we are all Jacob. As individuals, as Jews, as Americans, as citizens of the world. And let us be frank: 5774 was a very, very long night. It was restless and fitful, traumatic and fraught, disturbing, disquieting and very deeply upsetting. And all of us—each and every one of us—carried that with us, bearing that weight upon our shoulders, as we entered through shaaray tefila, the gates of prayer, this Erev Rosh HaShanah. And so I feel we owe it to ourselves to emulate Jacob, to wrestle with and explore the year together, to begin our own collective cheshbon hanefesh, so that, like our flawed, imperfect forefather, we too can prevail in this new year of 5775.

So where have we been? 5774 found us glued to our TV sets, perhaps as never before, the bad news seeming to come in endless waves, filling us with outrage and anger, sadness and disbelief, frustration, desperation, and, perhaps worst of all, numbness. We watched as the least productive government in our nation’s history, worse by leaps and bounds than the infamous “Do-Nothing Congress” of the 1940’s, grew somehow even more polarized, more obstructionist, more dysfunctional, when we wondered how that could ever be possible. We endured the bickering: over security and spying, immigration, gun control, and increasing the minimum wage, while the abyss between the haves and have-nots continued to widen.  

We zoomed out from domestic concerns to see that things were even worse overseas than here at home. We heard the hemming and hawing of world leaders as tens of thousands were killed under Bashir al-Assad’s oppressive regime. In Africa. we saw one militant group attack an upscale Nairobi mall, while another kidnapped 280 girls from a Nigerian school, intending to make them sex slaves, their education seen as blasphemous, while in their warped view of faith sex trafficking is condoned.

And yet, somehow it all feels like a distant memory, from far longer ago than just a handful of months. It all seemed to dissolve quickly in the rearview mirror, as school let out, the kids went off to camp, and spring gave way to the Summer of Our Discontent.

It began on June 12^th, when Naftali Fraenkel, Gilad Shaar, and Eyal Yifrach—3 Israeli teenagers—were kidnapped by terrorists as they attempted to hitchhike home. Hopes for their safety, for their possible return to their families, were dashed when their bodies were discovered in a field northwest of Hebron on June 30^th. Retaliation followed swiftly, and the cycle of violence continued to escalate, as Israeli air strikes on Hamas targets in Gaza commenced and the rockets fired from Gaza multiplied. And just as Naftali, Gilad, and Eyal were laid to rest, a Palestinian teenager, Mohammed Abu Khdeir, also just 16 years old, was kidnapped in East Jerusalem, and then beaten and burnt to death. Perhaps most shocking, most upsetting of all was that the murders of these four children were greeted with a sickening display of glee: Palestinians and, yes, Israelis alike celebrated the pain inflicted upon the other, with politicians and leaders and clergy on both sides not only having incited these heinous acts, but even going so far as to claim responsibility for doing so, and with pride. “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth,” seemed to be the cry from everyone, forgetting the prophetic warning of Doc from West Side Story that such a rationale would only leave the whole world blind and toothless. And before we knew it, it was Groundhog Day all over again. Hamas’s rockets kept coming, fired strategically from amidst the homes, schools, hospitals, and shelters of the innocent and unarmed, turning all the citizens of Gaza—especially their children—into literal human shields for those who seek to kill as many of Israel’s citizens as possible, ultimately to wipe her completely off the map. The air strikes gave way to a ground operation, increasing the death toll on both sides. In response, anti-Semitism once again reared its ugly head all over the world, most especially, though unsurprisingly, in Europe, in acts ranging from the thinly-veiled to the shockingly overt. Perhaps the most terrifying discovery of this latest chapter was that of an intricate network of underground tunnels connecting Gaza to various sites inside Israel’s border; tunnels constructed from cement and electricity supplied by Israel herself, in the name of improving living conditions in Gaza, when it was under no obligation whatsoever to do so. These tunnels, Israeli intelligence would soon learn, were to be used in a massive Hamas operation of mass murder and kidnapping planned for today - Rosh HaShanah 5775. Thank God above, and the Israel Defense Forces here, that these tunnels have been destroyed. And yet, as the summer’s clashes finally came to a halt, for however long that halt will last, we are left to wonder if an actual end will ever be in sight.

Then the focus of the world shifted abruptly, as Malaysian Airlines Flight 17 was shot right out of the Ukraine sky, killing all 298 passengers and crew members on board. As international inspectors fought through red tape and obstruction to try to make sense of it all, we heard the stories of families ripped apart, of brothers and sisters, sons and daughters, fathers and mothers who kissed loved ones goodbye, never to see them again, reminding some of us of what happened here in our beloved city just over 13 years ago.

We looked up through those empathetic tears to see the rise of ISIS, the so-called “Islamic State,” targeting the Yazidi people in their ruthless efforts to “purify” Iraq and her neighbors of non-Islamic influences. And then we saw the devastating grief of our own American families, those of James Wright Foley, a freelance war correspondent during the Syrian Civil War, and Steven Sotloff, a Jewish journalist from Miami, the grandson of Holocaust survivors, both beheaded on video, for all the world to see. And once again, the specter of another armed conflict, of more American servicemen and –women risking their lives on the ground in Iraq, is very real and very scary, yet another thing that keeps us up at night.   

And when our focus circled back around to our own backyard, we watched the powder-keg of racial tension ignited by the police shooting of yet another unarmed black teenager, this time in Ferguson, Missouri, when Officer Darrell Wilson shot and killed18-year-old Michael Brown. In the days and weeks that followed, we saw the non-stop coverage of the protests and rioting, the police brutality and teargas, the deployment of the National Guard by the governor. And we were confronted with the sobering truth that when it comes to race relations in our fair republic, we still have miles to go before we sleep.                

And just when we had had enough of all the bad news coming from every corner of the globe, just when we couldn’t possibly take any more of it, then came word of Robin Williams, one of the most beloved actors and personalities in our history, taking his own life, giving in to the engulfing darkness of depression. As a nation shattered by his death recalled their favorite and most meaningful Robin Williams moments, we prayed that perhaps some good could come from his passing, slowly beginning to peel away the stigma and shame associated with the disease of depression. In these ways, and many others, may his memory be for a blessing.

The 18^th century rabbi Simcha Bunim of Peshishka is credited with a simple, yet wonderful teaching. He taught that everyone must have two pockets, with a note in each pocket, so that he or she can reach into the one or the other, depending on the need. When feeling lowly and saddened, discouraged or disconsolate, one should reach into the right pocket, and, there, find the words: "For my sake was the world created." But when feeling high and mighty one should reach into the left pocket, and find the words: "I am but dust and ashes."

My friends, in so many ways, 5774 was a long and excruciating night of the soul. And so, it seems to me, what we all need is a nechemta. A nechemta is a consolation, a source of comfort to conclude a difficult or upsetting passage, a warm blanket for just such a cold and sleepless night as this past year. We need it, don’t we. We’ve been forced to reach repeatedly into the pocket that tells us we are but dust and ashes. We’ve been beaten down emotionally by an onslaught of negativity, an endless reel of hopelessness playing again and over again in our minds, asking if there is any hope for tomorrow, yet fearful of receiving an answer; leaving us both desperate for the release of sleep, and yet terrified of what dreams, or nightmares, may come. For our hearts, for our souls, for our general well-being, we need to know that the sun will rise tomorrow, that its rays will gradually banish the darkness, if only for a while, that it will be a new day for each and every one of us. We need to know, if only for a moment or two, that the world was indeed created for us. And when we turn off the news and look around us, we can see that there is plenty of hope to comfort us and light our way after all.

There’s the story of Peter Frates, former captain of the Boston College baseball team in 2007, diagnosed at the age of 27 with ALS. But rather than let his condition define him, he girded his inner strength and set out to conquer his disease, saying in a recent interview, “For me, it was, ‘Okay. Here’s what we’re dealing with. Let’s go to work.’” He earned an audience with the Food and Drug Administration in Washington in March of 2013, where he said to them, “I ask of you: let’s speed up the process, let’s work together, and let’s make this disease a thing of the past.” Two months later, he married Julie, whom he’d met 8 months before his diagnosis, walking her down the aisle despite normally being almost entirely confined to a wheelchair. Over the summer, a friend of Pete’s introduced something called the Ice Bucket Challenge, to raise awareness of ALS and funds to find a cure. Suddenly, athletes all over Boston, then all over the country, then celebrities and everyone everywhere, even former Presidents, began to take part. The result? As of September 17^th, the Ice Bucket Challenge had raised over $114 million towards eradicating this terrible affliction. And, by the way, Pete and Julie welcomed a baby girl, Lucy Fitzgerald Frates, into the world on September 1^st. Pete’s father John said that her birth was “the perfect ending to the miracle month of August.”

There’s the story of Austin Hatch, the 19-year-old college freshman from Indiana. At the age of 8, Austin survived the crash of a plane piloted by his father, in which his mother and two siblings were killed. Eight years later, he was once again the lone survivor of another plane crash which took the life of his father and stepmother, leaving Austin in a medically-induced coma. This brave young man, a 6’6” high school basketball star, suffered such a traumatic brain injury that he literally had to re-learn how to walk and talk. Keeping his parents close to his heart all throughout the long and difficult recovery process, he said, “I can hear their voices in my head when I face a difficult situation. My dad and mom raised me to be an uncommon man. The uncommon man gets up at five in the morning to go work out, to get stronger, when no one else is. It takes an uncommon man to do that when no one is looking.” Asked by Maria Shriver what answer he had come up with to the question, “Why me?,” he told her, “The time that you could spend wondering and thinking why me?,’ that’s time that you could've spent working your tail off to get better.” Securing a full scholarship to the University of Michigan, his late mother’s alma mater, he was able to fulfill his lifelong dream of playing basketball for the Wolverines just a few weeks ago. On July 25^th, he tweeted, “"Y do bad things happen 2 good ppl?" has no answer. What we should ask is "what do good ppl do when something bad happens 2 them?”     

And then there’s the story of you. Of each of us, of all of us together. Chances are, you have come through something difficult, something challenging, something deeply trying at some point in your life. In the past month or year or decade, every single one of us here tonight and everyone we know, has endured, has made it through something, whether it’s an exhausting bout with cancer, the mending of a broken friendship, or the conquering a personal fear. I can’t tell you how often I’ve sat with many of you in my study and found myself saying, “You are so much stronger than you think you are.” And that’s the truth. Certainly stories like those of Peter Frates and Austin Hatch can inspire and motivate us to reach our highest potential. But let us not forget that we too–each and every one of us–have tremendous strength within ourselves to nourish our souls and others’ as well.      

In the morning, Jacob is blessed. The mysterious ish gives him the new name of Yisrael, because he has struggled with God and with humanity, and he has prevailed. Having found the strength within to make peace with himself, he comes face-to-face with his brother Esau, falling into a tearful embrace that is probably my favorite part of the entire Torah. Following this beautiful reunion, we read, Vayavo Ya’akov shalem ir Sh’chem, “Jacob arrived at the city of Sh’chem shalem, whole, complete, at peace.” For all he has been through, all that has haunted his dreams and his waking life, every troubling thought that kept him up at night, and even the wrenched hip socket he now hobbles upon, Jacob has arrived on the other side of the river shalem, whole, at peace, with a renewed hold on life, and a hopeful outlook on whatever the future may bring.

On this Rosh HaShanah, may we be as Jacob our patriarch. May we be honest with ourselves about where we have been, as individuals and as a community, even as we struggle to make meaning of it all. When we feel much more like dust and ashes, may we remember that, for each of us, for all of us, was the world created. May we know in our heart of hearts, in our most difficult hours, that hope is always there, that hope never dies, that the darkest hour is just before the dawn. And may each of us, all of us, enter through the gates of this new year like Jacob, like Yisrael, shalem—whole, complete, and at peace, with ourselves and each other.

For, like Jacob, we will prevail.

Now let’s go to work.

AMEN.  

Robin Williams & the Darkness of Depression - Ekev 5774

I don’t know about you. But I hate watching the news. It’s something I know I have to do, but it’s really become a chore, hasn’t it. There’s the ongoing situations in Israel, Iraq, the aftermath of Malaysian Air attack. There was another shooting of another unarmed black teenager, this time in the St. Louis suburbs, this time an 18-year-old named Michael Brown, and the horrible situation that has resulted, with riots and teargas and police brutality and even a military presence. The imprints of the damage we’ve done to our world continues to emerge, as extreme weather wreaks havoc, here in the Northeast with historic flooding, all while there’s seemingly no water to be found on the West Coast, and what water there is has been forcefully shut off for tens of thousands in Detroit.  

Then came the news of Robin Williams taking his own life this past Monday. And a world already steeled and hardened by an onslaught of miserable news and images and sentiments from all over the world, including our own American backyard, when many of us thought and wondered how it could get much worse than this: unfortunately this was our answer.

I am heartbroken. I am devastated. I am crushed. For his family, who couldn’t have loved him any more than they did, who knew all he struggled with, did everything humanly possible to keep him here with them and in the end, all of it wasn’t enough to prevent him from doing this. For us: we who loved him in our own way, got to know him as best we could through his talents and diversity, in roles covering the entirety of the acting spectrum; making us laugh, making us cry, sometimes interchangeably, sometimes even in the same moment; in the iconic moments of mania and hysteria in James Lipton interviews on the Actors’ Studio; in his tireless charitable efforts to combat poverty and homelessness and cancer, just to name a few.

I remember someone at camp when we were 12 years old having a Robin Williams stand-up comedy cassette tape and how hilarious it was to us, though we knew our parents probably wouldn’t want us to be hearing that kind of stuff.

I remember how hard I laughed when I saw Aladdin in the movie theater, thinking Disney could never top that and, in my opinion, they still haven’t; I still remember so many of the fantastic lines he uttered as Genie, and the words to the songs; I even had that entire soundtrack on tape as well, not something too many 12-year-old boys would publicly admit. “10,000 years will give you such a crick in the neck!”

I remember cracking up with my brother when we went to see Mrs. Doubtfire, all the while marveling at his acting ability; that the role is incredibly complicated and deep and challenging and there was no one else who could have done it like he did.

I remember when I was finally old enough to see Good Morning Vietnam, and to this day, my brother and I will still say, “And if you doooo…and if you doooo…!”

I remember crying my eyes out when I first saw Dead Poets Society, at the beauty of life he taught them, to carpe diem, seize the day and answer his channeling of Whitman, “What will your verse be?”

And I remember knowing, even as I watched it, that his role as therapist Sean Maguire in Good Will Hunting was one that would change my life and stay with me forever.

Mostly I am heartbroken for him; how all of the love and support and treatment and medical attention in the world couldn’t overcome the demon, the disease that is depression. And make no mistake, that’s what it is: a disease, a sickness. It is not a flaw of character, a shortcoming, a funk someone can just “snap out of.” It is a disease, an illness that overwhelms the body and mind, sometimes ravaging both, whittling them down until there is nothing left.

And I was struck by a verse near the beginning of this week’s portion, Parashat Eikev, where God reiterates the promises that will be fulfilled upon adhering to the mitzvot, including these words:

“The Eternal will ward off from you all sickness; God will not bring upon you any of the dreadful diseases of Egypt.”

Well we know that one of the most dreadful, the most physically and mentally paralyzing of those diseases was the plague of darkness upon the Egyptians. Depression is both that palpable darkness, and the ongoing struggle and battle to not let it consume you totally.

While there can be little consolation, if any, upon the loss of Robin Williams, it is that, God willing, we can lift the taboo and erase the stigma associated with depression. His passing already has created conversation around the topic, already brought people out of hiding, out of suffering in silence, to share their struggles and know that they don’t have to go it alone any longer.

The World Health Organization estimates that some 350 million people worldwide suffer from some form of depression. If you are one of them, if you know someone who is, what you need to hear is this:

You are not alone. You don’t need to suffer in silence. There is no shame or embarrassment, no shortcomings or flaws. There are ways to treat it, ways to combat it, and you don’t have to go it alone. You are not alone. Don’t bear the burden yourself. Reach out to your family, your friends, your rabbis and cantors. Allow us to share it with you. Please. You are not alone.

Perhaps then we may lighten the load, even just a little bit, and shine a ray of light into the terrifying darkness.

Then perhaps, in this way, as in so many others, will his memory be a blessing to us all.        

AMEN.  

The Waiting Place - Parashat Chukat 5774

(This sermon was delivered from notes on Friday, June 27th, 2014 during Shabbat Unplugged at Temple Shaaray Tefila. To listen to it, please click here.)

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.    

Talkin' Bout Our Generation / Our Redemption? - Parashat B'shalach 5774

To hear this sermon as it was delivered from notes on the evening of Friday, January 10th, please click here.

Looking Back - Parashat Vayera 5774

(To listen to this sermon as it was delivered from notes at Temple Shaaray Tefila's monthly Shabbat Unplugged service for 20's & 30's, please click here.)