The stage is set. Act 2 Scene 2 of the most famous play in the history of Western literature. A love-struck Romeo hides in the shadow-laden orchard of the Capulet’s waiting for a glimpse of his newly-found love Juliet. Juliet, herself smitten by her first encounter with the young and handsome Romeo, walks as though in a daze, gently pacing the cold, stone balcony adjoining her room.
As she steps into the light, Romeo is taken aback
“But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.”
Juliet, unaware of his presence, begins to speak aloud, lamenting the unfortunate reality that Romeo is a Montague, the sworn-enemy of her father.
“O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?
Deny thy father and refuse thy name;
'Tis but thy name that is my enemy.”
“What's Montague?” She asks,
It is nor hand, nor foot,
Nor arm, nor face. O, be some other name
Belonging to a man.
What's in a name? That which we call a rose,
By any other word would smell as sweet.
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called.”
She’s got a good point there you know. What is in a name? After all, isn’t a name only a moniker, a label, an arbitrarily chosen word which eventually becomes eternally attached to the thing it means to label? Shouldn’t the very essence of the thing itself be what is most important? In the end, a name is really just a garment, covering that which truly matters.
But wait a minute, I remember the rest of the play, and it doesn’t turn out so good. In the end, despite their love for one another, Romeo and Juliet simply cannot seem to escape the destiny of their names, Montague and Capulet, and ultimately this is what makes the play’s final lines so tragic: “For never was a story of more woe, Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.”
Yes, the truth is that names do matter. A rose by any other name simply would not smell as sweet. “Honey, happy anniversary, I bought you a dozen ‘Road Kills’!” It just doesn’t work, does it?
Yes, names do matter; and our own names perhaps matter the most. The fact is that our names help to shape who we are and how we relate to our world. Allow me to tell you two quick stories which will help to explain what I mean. The first is about a young girl whose parents chose to name her a particularly ‘Jewish’ sounding name. It is a beautiful Hebrew name, one which hearkens back to a female Biblical figure of great strength and beauty; it is a good, Jewish name. Unfortunately, this young girl lived in a town without many Jews, and so the result was people were constantly mispronouncing her name. Her earliest years were filled with memories of teachers, friends and neighbors constantly butchering her beautiful name. Finally she had it. She came home one day and said to her parents, “that’s it, from now on I want you to call me Christina!” It’s a funny story, one that her family now looks back on with fondness. But the experience of living her life with a unique, and decidedly ethnic name became the foundation for her college entrance essays; that’s what’s in a name!
The second is about the Chancellor of the Jewish Theological Seminary, Chancellor Arnold Eisen. Growing up in Philadelphia, everyone knew him as ‘Arnie.” But, when his doctoral studies brought him to The Hebrew University in Jerusalem, many knew him by his Hebrew name “Hanan.” He once told an interesting anecdote about a profound moment in his life, the moment when he had to decide, was he an Arnie, or was he a Hanan? Even though he knew that his personal essence would be the same regardless of whether he was known by one name or the other, nonetheless, he questioned the subtle differences. Arnie, was from Philadelphia, was an American-Jew and had his own set of personal priorities which may in fact have differed slightly from those of Hanan, who was an Israeli student, speaking and thinking in Hebrew, living in Jerusalem. That’s what’s in a name!
These two stories help to show us that our names deeply matter to us. They help to shape us as individuals and it is not a stretch to imagine that our lives could in fact be drastically different had we been named Christina, or Hanan instead.
This brings me to this morning’s parasha, Lech Lecha: the narrative starting line for the stories of our Patriarch Abraham and his wife Sarah. But at the beginning of our parasha, they are each called by a different name. Avram and Sarai are just a boy and girl from the Old Country of Haran in Upper-Mesopotamia, far from their destiny in the Land of Canaan. But this morning we read the seminal moment when their names and therefore their destinies were forever changed.
Just like in the covenantal scene found in Chapter 15, known as Brit Bein Ha’itarim, here in Chapter 17, God again offers a covenant to our forefather Abram, but this time, the covenant includes a name change. God says:
וְלֹֽא-יִקָּרֵא עוֹד אֶת-שִׁמְךָ אַבְרָם, וְהָיָה שִׁמְךָ אַבְרָהָם, כִּי אַב-הֲמוֹן גּוֹיִם נְתַתִּֽיךָ:
“And you shall no longer be called Abram, but your name shall be Abraham, for I make you the father of a multitude of nations.”
Just a few verses later, God extends the dramatic name change to our foremother Sarai as well:
וַיֹּאמֶר אֱלֹהִים אֶל-אַבְרָהָם שָׂרַי אִשְׁתְּךָ לֹֽא-תִקְרָא אֶת-שְׁמָהּ שָׂרָי, כִּי שָׂרָה שְׁמָֽהּ:
“And God said to Abraham, ‘As for your wife Sarai, you shall not call her Sarai, but her name shall be Sarah.’”
I know, at first glance, it doesn’t seem like such a big deal. Sure there names were changed, but only slightly, in actuality, it wasn’t as much of a name change as a ‘name adjustment.’ Avram, gets an extra ‘hey’, becoming Avraham, and Sarai, also gets an ‘hey’ becoming Sarah. What’s in a name, you may ask, surely an Avram by any other name would smell as sweet? So what’s the big deal about a little ‘hey’?
Well there are a few traditional answers offered by the Biblical commentators. Firstly, Rashi explains that what we have here is not merely the case of a slight ‘name adjustment,’ in fact with the addition of a simple ‘hey,’ their very essences were changed forever. Rashi, [15:5] writes: “Avram has no son, but Abraham does, and so too, Sarai cannot give birth, but Sarah can, therefore God is saying to them, by calling you a new name, I am giving you a new destiny.” This comment reflects a later concept popularized by the Rambam, Maimonides who explains that the process of T’shuvah, of repentance involves an actual or a metaphorical name change, a declaration that I am no longer the person who did that egregious thing; I am not the same individual who committed that sin. By changing our names, we may indeed change our very essence.
But a question we still need to answer is not the colloquial query ‘what the hey?’ but instead we must ask ‘why the ‘hey’’? The most commonly heard answer is that the ‘hey’ that is added to the names of Avram and Sarai, is a piece of the Divine name, yud, hey, vav, hey, the Tetragrammaton, the mysterious four-letter name for God. By enacting this name change, God is giving a piece of the Divine spirit to our foreparents Abraham and Sarah. For the rest of their lives, through the trials of Sodom and Gomorrah and the Akedah, the Binding of Isaac, they bare the weight and perhaps the burden of the Divine Name.
Another explanation comes from the Hasidic master the Degel Machaneh Ephraim, who quotes the Zohar as saying that they ‘hey’ that is given to Abraham and Sarah is representative of the number five, its designation in Gematriah. Therefore the ‘hey’ stands for the Hamisha Humshei Torah, the Five Books of Moses. Thus by mandating a name change, God is essentially rewarding Abraham and Sarah with the legacy of Torah, the lifeblood of the Jewish people. With the addition of a simple ‘hey’ they cease to be the Mesopotamian wanderers they once were, and instead they transform into the teachers of the entire Jewish people for thousands of years. Hence our desire to bless ourselves by their holy names; our God is Magen Avraham u’Foked Sarah, the Shield of Abraham and the Guardian of Sarah.
Finally, I want to conclude this morning with one final thought about the power of names. Ultimately, whether your name is Christina or Hanan; Avram or Sarai, Joel or Yosef, our tradition tells us that there is a power to our names which is truly exponential: The Keter Shem Tov, the power of a good name. In the 4th chapter of Pirkei Avot it reads:
רבי שמעון אומר שלשה כתרים הם.
Rabi Shimon says: There are three crowns that one can wear:
כתר תורה, וכתר כהונה, וכתר מלכות. וכתר שם טוב עולה על גביהן:
The crown of Torah, the crown of the Priesthood and the crown of the Kingship; but the crown of a Shem Tov, a good name, is above all of them!
So friends, let us go out and try to bring the incredible honor of a tiny ‘hey’ to our own names: we do so by living our lives with God’s holy name on our tongues, by constantly learning and teaching the lessons of God’s glorious Torah, and by solidifying our ultimate legacy to our family and our community: the crown of a good name. Shabbat Shalom.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Walking with God: B'reishit 5770
You know that feeling you get when you think about your favorite book? It is the sensation of comfort, of feeling at home. It is the touch of the worn binding, the smell of the soft pages that can magically transport you through the time and space of your life. It doesn’t matter how many times you pick it up, it is always worth a read; and were you destined to live out your days on a deserted desert Island, you would most certainly bring this book along.
Well the Jewish people certainly know this feeling, and amazingly we each call this book by a single name: The Torah. Well here we go again. No sooner had we put this great book down, exhausted the final inch of our sacred scroll, we find ourselves so moved to go back to the beginning and start all over again. But the truly amazing thing, what is simply remarkable is that we always manage to find something new.
This year’s reading of the Torah is especially exciting seeing as we are now reading the final shlish, the last third of our triennial cycle of readings. This means that with each passing week, we complete the portion we began reading three years ago. Although the merits and the drawbacks to the triennial cycle are up for debate, I must say that as a rabbi, I enjoy the discipline it takes to create divrei torah, words of Torah, from only one third of the parsha. Even though you might initially be drawn to that big story, that well-known verse that famous rabbinic midrashic interpretation; you must exert some will power and find that nugget of wisdom from within the confines of particular chapters and verses.
Which brings me to this morning’s words of Torah for Parashat B’reishit; which will not be based on the opening chapters of the Book of Genesis, nor upon the account of God’s creation of the first human beings, nor even on the stories of Adam and Eve, Cain and Abel, no, instead I wanted to drash on the juiciest topic of all: The list of genealogies found in Chapter Five.
You know the kind of genealogy I am talking about, a list of generational familial relationships beginning with the life of Adam and his third son, Seth. Seth lived 912 years and he begot Enosh, who lived to 905 years and he begot Keynan, who lived to 910 years when he begot…well, you get the point. This list continues for ten generations, marking the passing of time between Adam and Noah, and generally, people don’t have much else to say about it.
But I, and many others are fascinated by one of these little-known characters in this sea of generations, one whose name will sound familiar to many of us, even though we may not know why. That’s right, sandwiched between a guy named Jared and a kid named Methusaleh is the persona of Enoch, or Chanoch as he is known in Hebrew. So what is it about this guy Enoch that stands out? Well there are a few things actually. First off, Enoch only lives to a young age of 365 years, far less than anyone else on this list, a mere one-third the length of his son Methusaleh’s lifespan. Secondly, the Torah twice uses a very interesting phrase when describing Enoch’s life, it reads:
וַיִּתְהַלֵּךְ חֲנוֹךְ אֶת-הָֽאֱלֹהִים אַֽחֲרֵי הֽוֹלִידוֹ אֶת-מְתוּשֶׁלַח שְׁלֹשׁ מֵאוֹת שָׁנָה
“After the birth of Methusaleh, Enoch walked with God for 300 years.”
Then just a few verses later it reads:
וַיִּתְהַלֵּךְ חֲנוֹךְ אֶת-הָֽאֱלֹהִים וְאֵינֶנּוּ כִּֽי-לָקַח אֹתוֹ אֱלֹהִֽים
“Enoch walked with God; then he was no more, for God took him.”
All right! Now this is getting exciting! What happened to Enoch? Why was his lifespan so much shorter (relatively) than anyone else’s in the genealogy? And what does it mean that he walked with God for three hundred years and that instead of dying like the others, Enoch “was no more, for God took him.”? Friends, what this means is that we have a door that was left wide-open for rabbinic interpretation, and I would like to walk you straight through that door.
First of all, let’s explore what it might mean for Enoch to have walked with God. This question was first answered by the ancient apocryphal text, The Book of Enoch, which is a collection of apocalyptic legends that were composed between the fourth century B.C.E. and the arrival of the Common Era. The beginning of this extra-biblical work is essentially a midrash, a commentary, explaining what it means for Enoch to have walked with God for 300 years.
This Book imagines that the character of Enoch was given a personal tour of the heavens by God. While on this walking tour of Heaven, Enoch sees incredible sights, such as the storehouses where rain, wind and snow are kept, the place where lost souls wander, as well as receiving visions of the End of Days. Given its science-fiction feel, it is not surprising then to note, that the Book of Enoch is not part of the Biblical Cannon in most Judeo-Christian circles, but you do have to admit it does do a pretty good job explaining what Enoch was doing while he was walking with God for 300 years.
Now let us explore for a moment the question of Enoch’s abbreviated lifespan. Rashi, the most famous medieval commentator certainly picks up on the brevity of Chanoch’s lifespan. Quoting a midrsah, Rashi explains that:
“Tzaddik Haya! Chanoch was a saint, a pious man who nonetheless was easily convinced to sin, therefore God chose to take him and remove him from the earth before his time, and this,” as Rashi explains, “is why the text says ‘v’einenu,’ that Chanoch ‘was no more,’ because he was no longer on the Earth to complete the fullness of his years.”
As always, Rashi adds to the fullness of our picture. The reason for Chanoch’s brief lifespan was not because he was in some way less righteous than his brethren on this list, adarabah, quite the opposite; it was because he was more righteous than the others. He was the Tzaddik, the pious one, and being so pious, he did not deserve to be subjected to our imperfect and sinful world. For a man like Chanoch, trying to do good in an evil world, it would have been torture for him to fulfill the length of his days, so instead, God took him from the earth, as a reward for his righteous ways.
But I do not want this to be our final word on the important subject of Enoch. Now, in my opinion that honor should go to the 19th century European Torah scholar the Hatam Sofer, Rabbi Moses Schrieber. In a beautiful and insightful comment the Hatam Sofer writes:
“Chanoch may indeed have walked in the path of the good,” as Rashi says, “but unfortunately he did not concern himself with the fellow children of his generation!” “He was not like Abraham, whose life’s desire was to bring others under the wings of the Shechinah, the presence of God!”
“Therefore” the Hatam Sofer explains, “The Torah says ‘v’einenu,’ ‘and Chanoch was no more’; meaning that when he was taken and removed from the world – he was no more – meaning he was forgotten since he had no one who could walk in his footsteps. Whereas with Abraham, since he was concerned with his fellow human beings, Abraham memory will live on forever!”
Alas, isn’t this often the case in our world? Isn’t it unfortunate that righteousness, or more correctly put, self-righteousness, breeds contempt and not compassion for the outside world. Religious communities, Jewish and otherwise, build high walls and tinted windows in order to keep the imperfect world at bay. They maintain a false monopoly on piety by denigrating their fellow human beings and by rejecting others as dangerous.
But this is the model of Enoch, not of Abraham. Abraham’s tent was open to one and all. Abraham and Sara greeted visitors with kindness regardless of their background. When confronted with the unenviable task of bringing God’s prophecy of destruction to the wicked cities of Sodom and Gomorrah, Abraham does not wash his hands of the people. Adarabah! Quite the opposite, Abraham is ready to get his hands dirty, to care about them, to try and win them back to God. This is true righteousness; and this is why we ask God to bless us bizchut Avraham Avinu, by the merit of Abraham and not according to the piety of Enoch.
Let this be our lesson here this morning. We should strive to be like Abraham and not like Enoch. Because Abraham understood that the true definition of righteousness is to be engaged with our fellow human beings and the world around us. He knew that the true meaning of longevity is to teach, to mentor, and to guide others along the just and holy path, this is what guarantees us a long life, a rich life, a full life. Through the example of Abraham, and not through that of Enoch, we can learn what it means to ‘hitalech et haElohim,’ ‘to walk with God’; Simply put, to walk with God, means that we should never, never walk alone.
Well the Jewish people certainly know this feeling, and amazingly we each call this book by a single name: The Torah. Well here we go again. No sooner had we put this great book down, exhausted the final inch of our sacred scroll, we find ourselves so moved to go back to the beginning and start all over again. But the truly amazing thing, what is simply remarkable is that we always manage to find something new.
This year’s reading of the Torah is especially exciting seeing as we are now reading the final shlish, the last third of our triennial cycle of readings. This means that with each passing week, we complete the portion we began reading three years ago. Although the merits and the drawbacks to the triennial cycle are up for debate, I must say that as a rabbi, I enjoy the discipline it takes to create divrei torah, words of Torah, from only one third of the parsha. Even though you might initially be drawn to that big story, that well-known verse that famous rabbinic midrashic interpretation; you must exert some will power and find that nugget of wisdom from within the confines of particular chapters and verses.
Which brings me to this morning’s words of Torah for Parashat B’reishit; which will not be based on the opening chapters of the Book of Genesis, nor upon the account of God’s creation of the first human beings, nor even on the stories of Adam and Eve, Cain and Abel, no, instead I wanted to drash on the juiciest topic of all: The list of genealogies found in Chapter Five.
You know the kind of genealogy I am talking about, a list of generational familial relationships beginning with the life of Adam and his third son, Seth. Seth lived 912 years and he begot Enosh, who lived to 905 years and he begot Keynan, who lived to 910 years when he begot…well, you get the point. This list continues for ten generations, marking the passing of time between Adam and Noah, and generally, people don’t have much else to say about it.
But I, and many others are fascinated by one of these little-known characters in this sea of generations, one whose name will sound familiar to many of us, even though we may not know why. That’s right, sandwiched between a guy named Jared and a kid named Methusaleh is the persona of Enoch, or Chanoch as he is known in Hebrew. So what is it about this guy Enoch that stands out? Well there are a few things actually. First off, Enoch only lives to a young age of 365 years, far less than anyone else on this list, a mere one-third the length of his son Methusaleh’s lifespan. Secondly, the Torah twice uses a very interesting phrase when describing Enoch’s life, it reads:
וַיִּתְהַלֵּךְ חֲנוֹךְ אֶת-הָֽאֱלֹהִים אַֽחֲרֵי הֽוֹלִידוֹ אֶת-מְתוּשֶׁלַח שְׁלֹשׁ מֵאוֹת שָׁנָה
“After the birth of Methusaleh, Enoch walked with God for 300 years.”
Then just a few verses later it reads:
וַיִּתְהַלֵּךְ חֲנוֹךְ אֶת-הָֽאֱלֹהִים וְאֵינֶנּוּ כִּֽי-לָקַח אֹתוֹ אֱלֹהִֽים
“Enoch walked with God; then he was no more, for God took him.”
All right! Now this is getting exciting! What happened to Enoch? Why was his lifespan so much shorter (relatively) than anyone else’s in the genealogy? And what does it mean that he walked with God for three hundred years and that instead of dying like the others, Enoch “was no more, for God took him.”? Friends, what this means is that we have a door that was left wide-open for rabbinic interpretation, and I would like to walk you straight through that door.
First of all, let’s explore what it might mean for Enoch to have walked with God. This question was first answered by the ancient apocryphal text, The Book of Enoch, which is a collection of apocalyptic legends that were composed between the fourth century B.C.E. and the arrival of the Common Era. The beginning of this extra-biblical work is essentially a midrash, a commentary, explaining what it means for Enoch to have walked with God for 300 years.
This Book imagines that the character of Enoch was given a personal tour of the heavens by God. While on this walking tour of Heaven, Enoch sees incredible sights, such as the storehouses where rain, wind and snow are kept, the place where lost souls wander, as well as receiving visions of the End of Days. Given its science-fiction feel, it is not surprising then to note, that the Book of Enoch is not part of the Biblical Cannon in most Judeo-Christian circles, but you do have to admit it does do a pretty good job explaining what Enoch was doing while he was walking with God for 300 years.
Now let us explore for a moment the question of Enoch’s abbreviated lifespan. Rashi, the most famous medieval commentator certainly picks up on the brevity of Chanoch’s lifespan. Quoting a midrsah, Rashi explains that:
“Tzaddik Haya! Chanoch was a saint, a pious man who nonetheless was easily convinced to sin, therefore God chose to take him and remove him from the earth before his time, and this,” as Rashi explains, “is why the text says ‘v’einenu,’ that Chanoch ‘was no more,’ because he was no longer on the Earth to complete the fullness of his years.”
As always, Rashi adds to the fullness of our picture. The reason for Chanoch’s brief lifespan was not because he was in some way less righteous than his brethren on this list, adarabah, quite the opposite; it was because he was more righteous than the others. He was the Tzaddik, the pious one, and being so pious, he did not deserve to be subjected to our imperfect and sinful world. For a man like Chanoch, trying to do good in an evil world, it would have been torture for him to fulfill the length of his days, so instead, God took him from the earth, as a reward for his righteous ways.
But I do not want this to be our final word on the important subject of Enoch. Now, in my opinion that honor should go to the 19th century European Torah scholar the Hatam Sofer, Rabbi Moses Schrieber. In a beautiful and insightful comment the Hatam Sofer writes:
“Chanoch may indeed have walked in the path of the good,” as Rashi says, “but unfortunately he did not concern himself with the fellow children of his generation!” “He was not like Abraham, whose life’s desire was to bring others under the wings of the Shechinah, the presence of God!”
“Therefore” the Hatam Sofer explains, “The Torah says ‘v’einenu,’ ‘and Chanoch was no more’; meaning that when he was taken and removed from the world – he was no more – meaning he was forgotten since he had no one who could walk in his footsteps. Whereas with Abraham, since he was concerned with his fellow human beings, Abraham memory will live on forever!”
Alas, isn’t this often the case in our world? Isn’t it unfortunate that righteousness, or more correctly put, self-righteousness, breeds contempt and not compassion for the outside world. Religious communities, Jewish and otherwise, build high walls and tinted windows in order to keep the imperfect world at bay. They maintain a false monopoly on piety by denigrating their fellow human beings and by rejecting others as dangerous.
But this is the model of Enoch, not of Abraham. Abraham’s tent was open to one and all. Abraham and Sara greeted visitors with kindness regardless of their background. When confronted with the unenviable task of bringing God’s prophecy of destruction to the wicked cities of Sodom and Gomorrah, Abraham does not wash his hands of the people. Adarabah! Quite the opposite, Abraham is ready to get his hands dirty, to care about them, to try and win them back to God. This is true righteousness; and this is why we ask God to bless us bizchut Avraham Avinu, by the merit of Abraham and not according to the piety of Enoch.
Let this be our lesson here this morning. We should strive to be like Abraham and not like Enoch. Because Abraham understood that the true definition of righteousness is to be engaged with our fellow human beings and the world around us. He knew that the true meaning of longevity is to teach, to mentor, and to guide others along the just and holy path, this is what guarantees us a long life, a rich life, a full life. Through the example of Abraham, and not through that of Enoch, we can learn what it means to ‘hitalech et haElohim,’ ‘to walk with God’; Simply put, to walk with God, means that we should never, never walk alone.
There isn't a Season for Everything: Sh'mini Atzeret and Yizkor 5770
A short while ago we read excerpts from the Biblical Book of Ecclesiasties or Kohelet as it is called in Hebrew. Kohelet is an example par excellence of the tradition of Near Eastern wisdom literature. In our wisdom tradition, we find two main types of literature: Practical Wisdom: for example, the Book of Proverbs; and Skeptical, Stoic Wisdom: such as the Book of Job. In the case of Ecclesiastes, the choice is very clear. What we have here is the paradigmatic example of skeptical wisdom, and it is easy to see why!
The Book of Kohelet is officially attributed to Kohelet Ben David, Melech Biy’rushalayim, or Kohelet the son of David, King in Jerusalem. This led the traditional rabbinic commentators to explain that this is one of three books written by Melech Sh’lomo, King Solomon.
When I read Kohelet, I am struck by how much it reminds me of the opening lines of Albert Camus’ existential classic The Stranger: “Mother died today. Or, maybe it was yesterday; I can't be sure.” In a similar vain, our Book of Kohelet opens with the famous,
: הֲבֵל הֲבָלִים אָמַר קֹהֶלֶת הֲבֵל הֲבָלִים הַכֹּל הָֽבֶל
“Utter futility – said Kohelet – Utter futility! All is futile!”
And indeed much of this book echoes this theme that the only morsel of consistency in our world is that everything is impermanent.
But interestingly enough, the most famous section of our book this morning, is familiar to us as a message of comfort in moments of melancholy. In chapter three we read the famous verses:
“A season is set for everything, a time for every experience under the heaven:
A time for being born and a time for dying,
A time for planting and a time to uproot the planted,
A time for tearing down and a time for building up,
A time for weeping and a time for laughing,
A time for wailing and a time for dancing;
A time for throwing stones and a time for gathering stones,
A time for embracing and a time for shunning embrace,
A time for seeking and a time for losing,
A time for keeping and a time to let go,
A time for silence and a time for speaking,
A time for loving and a time for hating,
A time for war and a time for peace.”
Many of us are familiar with this selection from its use at funerals, more of us are know these verses by their other title “Turn, Turn, Turn,” the popular song written by Pete Seeger and made famous by the Byrds; but all of us, can relate to its central message.
Sometimes it feels as though we live in a binary world, a world filled with dichotomous truths. We are all born, yet we will all pass away. We experience happiness, but we also experience the pangs of suffering. We know from peace and war, brotherhood and bloodshed, cooperation and destruction. We find love, we lose love. We laugh, we cry. We dance, yet we also collapse in grief. Such is the nature of our world: There is a time and an experience for everything under the heavens.
But often I wonder if it is really this simple? Are we human beings really comprised of zeroes and ones? Are we destined to experience only highs and lows, the zenith and the nadir, with no area for confusion or complication? I don’t think our lives are really this simple, truly comprised of only black and white. In reality, we experience a hurried jumble of emotions on a daily basis, often struggling to sort the good from the bad.
I would like to turn your attention now to a poem by the great Israeli poet Yehudah Amichai, who like Kohelet, sat on a throne in Yerushalayim. Amichai was the King of Israeli poetry while he lived, and he often sat, perched on a chair in his favorite café, watching the people below.
This poem, entitled “A Man in His Life” reads as follows:
A man in his life has no time to have time for everything.
He has no room to have room for every desire. Kohelet was wrong to claim that.
A man has to hate and love all at once,
With the same eyes to cry and to laugh
With the same hands to throw stones and to gather them,
Make love in war and war in love.
And hate and forgive and remember and forget
And order and confuse and eat and digest
What long history does in so many years.
A man in his life has no time.
When he loses he seeks
When he finds he forgets
When he forgets he loves
When he loves he begins forgetting.
…..
In autumn, he will die like a fig,
Shriveled, sweet, full of himself.
The leaves dry out on the ground,
And the naked branches point
To the place where there is time for everything.
This is clearly Amichai’s attempt at his own brand of wisdom literature and I think he is right. In reality, our world does not allow for us the safe space to fully experience both the good and the bad, joy and sorrow, laughter and tears. In truth, we only have one pair of eyes, which must cry tears of joy and tears of sorrow alike. We have only one set of hands which sometimes build up and tear down simultaneously. We have only one life; and in it, we simply do not have the time to experience every emotion ke’she’l’atzmo, in and of itself.
In 1969 Dr. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross wrote a book called On Death and Dying, and with it she helped to change our perceptions of the both the act of dying and the art of mourning. Her most famous contribution to our modern vocabulary is what is now known as the Kubler-Ross Model, commonly referred to as The Five Stages of Grief. They are: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression and Acceptance. And for many years it was assumed that these stages were part and parcel of the experience of most anyone dealing their impending death, or with mourning the loss of a loved one.
As the stages go: first we deny the inevitable, and then we grow angry with God, with fate and with those around us. This eventually gives way to bargaining, thoughts of “if only I were to get better I would promise to…” or “please God if you make my mother survive I will surely…” This leads to moments of sheer depression when we realize that our prayers will not be answered, when there is nothing that can be done; and finally we reach a stage of acceptance, and hopefully with it, the inner-peace that comes with coming to terms with the inevitable.
But in actuality, Kubler-Ross went to great lengths to explain to us that this is most certainly NOT the way things go. She explained that these stages do not always occur in a strictly linear fashion, nor do they occur one at a time. In actuality we can feel angry and depressed; we can have moments of acceptance followed immediately by utter denial. In fact, some of us may skip over denial and head straight to anger, and unfortunately, some of us may never reach the promised land of acceptance. In short, Kubler-Ross teaches that we are not machines who can be programmed in binary code; who are taught to move swiftly along a series of appropriate reactions.
In truth we are a complicated mess of emotions. Upon losing someone dear to us we can at the very same moment experience feelings of anger, sadness, relief and guilt for feeling a sense of relief. We can feel the sudden urge to rush under the covers and hide from the world while at the same time the need to move forward and go on with our lives. We have all been to houses during the week of shivah where laughter and tears become one and the same; where sobbing and smiles exist in harmony. This is what it means to be human; it means that we simply don’t have the time to experience everything under the heavens in neat and tidy increments.
In a moment we will recite the Yizkor prayers. I am conscious that some of you are saying Yizkor in memory of a loved one who passed away recently, and that you may currently find yourself caught in the tangles mess of denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. I am also aware that some of you are consciously marking the years and the decades that have passed along with your beloved. I hope you too will remember that we are too human not to cry. We are too complex not to feel the pain afresh, experience the pangs of sorrow we otherwise tightly pack away beneath the surface of our smiles. Finally let us recall the closing lines of Yehudah Amichai’s poem and remember that ultimately, each of us is like a fig, full of sweetness yet destined to shrivel away; let us remember to make the most out of our lives, to pledge Tzedakah and justice in the name of those who have left us, and let us live our lives according to the holy ethics of our God in Heaven as we rise and we ask:
“Adonai, Ma Adam Va’tae’da’ayhu, Ben Adam Va’t’cha’sh’veyhu”
“What are humans that you should know us, Eternal God; who are mortals what you should be mindful of us?”
The Book of Kohelet is officially attributed to Kohelet Ben David, Melech Biy’rushalayim, or Kohelet the son of David, King in Jerusalem. This led the traditional rabbinic commentators to explain that this is one of three books written by Melech Sh’lomo, King Solomon.
When I read Kohelet, I am struck by how much it reminds me of the opening lines of Albert Camus’ existential classic The Stranger: “Mother died today. Or, maybe it was yesterday; I can't be sure.” In a similar vain, our Book of Kohelet opens with the famous,
: הֲבֵל הֲבָלִים אָמַר קֹהֶלֶת הֲבֵל הֲבָלִים הַכֹּל הָֽבֶל
“Utter futility – said Kohelet – Utter futility! All is futile!”
And indeed much of this book echoes this theme that the only morsel of consistency in our world is that everything is impermanent.
But interestingly enough, the most famous section of our book this morning, is familiar to us as a message of comfort in moments of melancholy. In chapter three we read the famous verses:
“A season is set for everything, a time for every experience under the heaven:
A time for being born and a time for dying,
A time for planting and a time to uproot the planted,
A time for tearing down and a time for building up,
A time for weeping and a time for laughing,
A time for wailing and a time for dancing;
A time for throwing stones and a time for gathering stones,
A time for embracing and a time for shunning embrace,
A time for seeking and a time for losing,
A time for keeping and a time to let go,
A time for silence and a time for speaking,
A time for loving and a time for hating,
A time for war and a time for peace.”
Many of us are familiar with this selection from its use at funerals, more of us are know these verses by their other title “Turn, Turn, Turn,” the popular song written by Pete Seeger and made famous by the Byrds; but all of us, can relate to its central message.
Sometimes it feels as though we live in a binary world, a world filled with dichotomous truths. We are all born, yet we will all pass away. We experience happiness, but we also experience the pangs of suffering. We know from peace and war, brotherhood and bloodshed, cooperation and destruction. We find love, we lose love. We laugh, we cry. We dance, yet we also collapse in grief. Such is the nature of our world: There is a time and an experience for everything under the heavens.
But often I wonder if it is really this simple? Are we human beings really comprised of zeroes and ones? Are we destined to experience only highs and lows, the zenith and the nadir, with no area for confusion or complication? I don’t think our lives are really this simple, truly comprised of only black and white. In reality, we experience a hurried jumble of emotions on a daily basis, often struggling to sort the good from the bad.
I would like to turn your attention now to a poem by the great Israeli poet Yehudah Amichai, who like Kohelet, sat on a throne in Yerushalayim. Amichai was the King of Israeli poetry while he lived, and he often sat, perched on a chair in his favorite café, watching the people below.
This poem, entitled “A Man in His Life” reads as follows:
A man in his life has no time to have time for everything.
He has no room to have room for every desire. Kohelet was wrong to claim that.
A man has to hate and love all at once,
With the same eyes to cry and to laugh
With the same hands to throw stones and to gather them,
Make love in war and war in love.
And hate and forgive and remember and forget
And order and confuse and eat and digest
What long history does in so many years.
A man in his life has no time.
When he loses he seeks
When he finds he forgets
When he forgets he loves
When he loves he begins forgetting.
…..
In autumn, he will die like a fig,
Shriveled, sweet, full of himself.
The leaves dry out on the ground,
And the naked branches point
To the place where there is time for everything.
This is clearly Amichai’s attempt at his own brand of wisdom literature and I think he is right. In reality, our world does not allow for us the safe space to fully experience both the good and the bad, joy and sorrow, laughter and tears. In truth, we only have one pair of eyes, which must cry tears of joy and tears of sorrow alike. We have only one set of hands which sometimes build up and tear down simultaneously. We have only one life; and in it, we simply do not have the time to experience every emotion ke’she’l’atzmo, in and of itself.
In 1969 Dr. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross wrote a book called On Death and Dying, and with it she helped to change our perceptions of the both the act of dying and the art of mourning. Her most famous contribution to our modern vocabulary is what is now known as the Kubler-Ross Model, commonly referred to as The Five Stages of Grief. They are: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression and Acceptance. And for many years it was assumed that these stages were part and parcel of the experience of most anyone dealing their impending death, or with mourning the loss of a loved one.
As the stages go: first we deny the inevitable, and then we grow angry with God, with fate and with those around us. This eventually gives way to bargaining, thoughts of “if only I were to get better I would promise to…” or “please God if you make my mother survive I will surely…” This leads to moments of sheer depression when we realize that our prayers will not be answered, when there is nothing that can be done; and finally we reach a stage of acceptance, and hopefully with it, the inner-peace that comes with coming to terms with the inevitable.
But in actuality, Kubler-Ross went to great lengths to explain to us that this is most certainly NOT the way things go. She explained that these stages do not always occur in a strictly linear fashion, nor do they occur one at a time. In actuality we can feel angry and depressed; we can have moments of acceptance followed immediately by utter denial. In fact, some of us may skip over denial and head straight to anger, and unfortunately, some of us may never reach the promised land of acceptance. In short, Kubler-Ross teaches that we are not machines who can be programmed in binary code; who are taught to move swiftly along a series of appropriate reactions.
In truth we are a complicated mess of emotions. Upon losing someone dear to us we can at the very same moment experience feelings of anger, sadness, relief and guilt for feeling a sense of relief. We can feel the sudden urge to rush under the covers and hide from the world while at the same time the need to move forward and go on with our lives. We have all been to houses during the week of shivah where laughter and tears become one and the same; where sobbing and smiles exist in harmony. This is what it means to be human; it means that we simply don’t have the time to experience everything under the heavens in neat and tidy increments.
In a moment we will recite the Yizkor prayers. I am conscious that some of you are saying Yizkor in memory of a loved one who passed away recently, and that you may currently find yourself caught in the tangles mess of denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. I am also aware that some of you are consciously marking the years and the decades that have passed along with your beloved. I hope you too will remember that we are too human not to cry. We are too complex not to feel the pain afresh, experience the pangs of sorrow we otherwise tightly pack away beneath the surface of our smiles. Finally let us recall the closing lines of Yehudah Amichai’s poem and remember that ultimately, each of us is like a fig, full of sweetness yet destined to shrivel away; let us remember to make the most out of our lives, to pledge Tzedakah and justice in the name of those who have left us, and let us live our lives according to the holy ethics of our God in Heaven as we rise and we ask:
“Adonai, Ma Adam Va’tae’da’ayhu, Ben Adam Va’t’cha’sh’veyhu”
“What are humans that you should know us, Eternal God; who are mortals what you should be mindful of us?”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
