By now you have begun to familiarize yourselves with our wonderful new Mahzor, the Mahzor Lev Shalem. This production, more than a decade in the making, represents a great leap forward in the realm of spiritual publications created by the Conservative movement and intended for modern Jewry as a whole. Not only is it replete with scholarly explanations, spiritual kavanot, traditional and modern poetry, and a new, refined translation; but it is also brutally honest.
What do I mean by that? Well, take notice of the name that was chosen for this Mahzor, Mahzor Lev Shalem, the Mahzor of a Complete Heart. What’s so special about the name you might ask; but take a moment to glance at what lies just behind this title, and I think you will understand what I mean. To speak of a Complete Heart is to recognize the existence of a broken heart. To speak of wholeness, is to give credence to the reality of brokenness. To make mention of the possibility of healing is to admit the existence of intolerable pain.
And ain’t that the truth.
We all come to Temple on Yom Kippur from different perspectives. Some of us are soaring on the wings of recent successes, new life in our families and auspicious new beginnings in our professional lives. We come here to reflect, to give thanks, and to praise God for the many blessings in our lives.
But others of us, many of us, come here with the burden of our broken hearts. We ache from the stings of our shortcomings, we painfully grieve over the loss of loved ones in the year that was; we are frightened of our failing health, cognizant of cancer, fearful of the specter of painful diagnoses. For those of us who feel this way, we are still here to try to give thanks, to praise God for the relative blessings in our lives; but we also come here to cry, to scream, to beat our chests as though they were an extension of God’s own presence. Our hearts are broken, and we worry that they may never be complete again.
And sometimes it feels as though it is not only our hearts which are broken, it is our world as well.
In January the earth split and shattered from beneath the people of Haiti; killing nearly a quarter of a million people, and leaving many more homeless, harmed and in danger of disease and despair.
During Pesach, our own community here in Rhode Island suffered epic flooding, destroying homes, wiping out retirement nest eggs, further crippling our already stagnant economy.
At the very same time a deep-water oil rig exploded in the Gulf of Mexico, killing eleven workers and beginning what would become the single largest ecological disaster in the history of our country, with the end result being an estimated 205 million gallons of oil released into the once blue waters of the gulf.
This summer unprecedented wildfires raged in Russia, while a deluge of biblical proportions left twenty percent of Pakistan underwater.
Yes sometimes it truly feels as though the very heart of our natural world is breaking in two.
And finally, it seems as though our great country is broken as well.
Our economy continues to teeter on the edge of the dreaded double-dip recession. Some two years after the stock market’s collapse and the outrageous sins of Mortgage companies, Wall Street and Bernie Madoff, many of us are still struggling to make ends meet. We work harder for less money, we pay more for less, and we worry about the soundness of our financial futures.
In our political realm, things seem more broken than ever before. Hatred and intolerance abound, threatening to permanently bury pious concepts such as statesmanship, discourse and respectfully agreeing to disagree.
And the numbers reflect this sense of brokenness. In a recent poll, some 61% of respondents believe this country is heading in the wrong direction. Only 11% will admit to having faith in Congress, only a third will state their trust in our public school system, and less than half of Americans feel confident about their religious institutions.
So, with the pain of loss and the burden of our worries, with trepidation about a broken world and a broken country we sit here together on Yom Kippur and we ask ourselves a timeless, universal question: What is the cure for a this sense of brokenness? How can we learn to feel whole again? How can we hope to once again reassemble the pieces of a shattered faith, a shaken confidence, a broken heart?
Well, I believe the first thing that must give us hope is the knowledge that we are not alone. Friends, tonight and tomorrow we sit in the world’s largest support group. Almost a thousand in this room alone, nearly two thousand in the entire building, 14 million world-wide will take the time over the next twenty-five hours to sense their brokenness and yearn for a time of wholeness and holiness for the entire world. You must remember this as we strain, and cry and allow ourselves to feel the grief, the loss, the worry of the year that was; you are not alone. We are here with you.
Secondly, and just as importantly, this holy Jewish tradition of ours feels your pain. It has the vocabulary and the conceptual power to speak these words of brokenness with you! It comes from the power of our Torah: as Rivka Imeinu, Rebecca our foremother cried out from amidst the pain of her family’s conflict:
אִם-כֵּן לָמָּה זֶּה אָנֹכִי
“If this is how my life will be, then why do I even exist?”
It comes from the cries of the Prophet Jeremiah:
לָמָּה הָיָה כְאֵבִי נֶצַח וּמַכָּתִי אֲנוּשָׁה֙
“Why must my pain be endless, my wounds incurable?”
It comes from the poetry of our Psalmist:
וְאַתָּ֥ יְהֹוָה עַד-מָתָֽי:
“And You God, how long can you ignore my suffering!”
Yes, search your Bible and you will find the words which speak to your pain, which testify to the truth of the human condition: that we are not alone in our sufferings, no, our foremothers, our prophets and our poets know the song of the broken heart.
Now I suppose we could stop here and say; see you are not alone, not only does everyone in this room share your brokenness right now, but there are words from our sacred texts which also echo your pain, your suffering, your loss. But something tells me that still wouldn’t be enough.
You see no matter how many times we reach out to a friend and say, I know how you feel; no matter how often we are offered platitudes and canned responses to our pain, it does not bring us closer to the only answer which can ever hope to please us: God’s answer; God’s response to our own personal suffering and to the suffering that exists in our world.
For this answer we will need to search deeper.
There is a famous Hasidic story which tells of a conversation between an illiterate tailor and the renowned Master, Rabbi Levi Yitzhak of Berditchiv.
The great Rebbe is curious as to what the tailor, who cannot read, does during the Yom Kippur services since he can not recite the prescribed prayers.
The tailor reluctantly replies: Each Yom Kippur I speak to God, and I tell God that the sins for which I am expected to repent are minor ones, they are relatively inconsequential: I may have kept leftover cloth instead of returning it to the patron, I may have over-charged from time to time, and certainly I am guilty of forgetting to say my prayers with regularity.
But You God, You have committed truly grave sins. You have removed mothers from their children and children from their mothers. You have let thousands starve, others be struck with debilitating illness, and you have let countless prayers go unanswered.
So let’s make a deal. If you pardon me, I am ready to pardon you as well.
Rebbe Levi Yitzhak paused for a moment as he contemplated the wisdom of the tailor’s teaching. But then his anger overtook him. “Indeed you are not only an illiterate but you are a fool as well! You were too lenient with God,” said the Rabbi, “You should have insisted that God immediately bring redemption to the entire world. For surely God would have been forced to oblige.”
This story is at once supposed to be heretical and theologically liberating; it is meant to be funny as well as enlightening. Here the tailor teaches us the ultimate lesson in the piety of hutzpah. The truth is that our sins are relatively minor in the grand scheme of things. Surely we should reflect upon them and try to do better in the year to come, but few if any among the sinners of the world are guilty of the egregious acts the tailor ascribes to God in this legend.
As audacious as this story might sound to us, it too speaks a truth to the human condition: Many of us can’t help but ask, and just where has God been through all of this? Where was God this year as our hearts were breaking due to the crumbling of our most sacred relationships or as we teetered on the edge of financial ruin? Where was God this year when the earth split and swallowed the people of Haiti? Where was God this year when a baby was made an orphan, or a mother was made childless due to cancer?
Well, I am here to offer up a deal to you on this Kol Nidre night. If we can find it in our hearts to learn to forgive: to forgive God for the imperfection of our world, to forgive our religion for its frailty, to forgive those around us for the harm that they have caused: then like Rebbe Levi Yitzhak before me I am willing to offer nothing less than salvation for the world.
So tonight, it is time for us to forgive God. We must forgive God for God’s silence in the face of our heartfelt prayers, and we must learn to recognize that silence does not always indicate absence. We must forgive God for our flawed world, the disasters which befall us without warning, the harshness of inexplicable disease and the sudden finality of death.
But we must not let ourselves entirely off the hook either. There is enough food in the world so that no one should go hungry, if only we could learn how to use it effectively, instead of feeding our insatiable need for luxury. We must recognize that natural disasters are happening with frightening frequency in part due to our own addiction to warming the atmosphere with greenhouse gasses. Let us remember that perfecting a world is a partnership between divinity and humanity and while we must learn to forgive God for not creating a flawless world we must also take responsibility for our own failures as stewards of this precious gift.
Also, tonight, as a cure for our broken-heartedness it is time to forgive our religion. It is time to let Judaism off the hook for its shortcomings.
For all the times it failed you in your moments of crisis. For the moments of disconnect you have felt when confronted by an anachronistic law, a chauvinist concept or a text which feels embarrassing in the rosy light of modernity: Forgive it. Recognize that Judaism, like any religion is by its nature a frustratingly flawed attempt at reifying and ritualizing a holy relationship with an ineffable God, but as Jews, it’s the one we’ve got. And in my opinion, and in the opinion of our generations, it represents the best attempts ever offered at defining the indefinable.
And since we are forgiving Judaism, why don’t we forgive the Synagogue as well. Forgive Temple Emanu-El, forgive us for the times we have not always met your needs, and forgive your rabbis and cantor too. Forgive us, for that time we didn’t call, or for not immediately remembering your name. Pardon us, for we are only human; and being human, we are limited, imperfect and prone to personal and interpersonal failings. Forgive these things tonight.
But you must not let yourselves off the hook so easily either. I hope that you will take the time to examine over this next day the amount of effort you have invested in learning about your religion, in experiencing the daily rhythms of your Temple, in calling your clergy and getting to know them, and allowing them to get to know you. Let this year be a year of forgiveness, but also a year of rededication as we work together to build newer, stronger relationships with our Jewish tradition.
Finally, if we really want to heal our broken hearts, and this is the hardest one, I know, we must forgive each other. The neighbor who wronged you somehow – forgive them. The old friend who disappeared in a time of need – forgive them. The family member who slighted you, who disappointed you, who broke your heart in the first place – forgive them. Because these things can never be replaced: a good neighbor, an old friend, and our own flesh and blood. The time for forgiveness has come.
There is a famous teaching by the Hasidic master the Kotzker Rebbe who said: That in this world, “There is nothing as whole as a broken-heart.” What I take this to mean is that from within brokenness comes the potential for wholeness, from amidst loneliness hides the potential for communion, within pain there is the possibility of healing once again.
Let this be the year when we mend our hearts through the power of forgiveness: Forgiving our God for the fragility of our world, forgiving our Judaism for its flaws, and forgiving our friends and our families for their imperfections.
And so I pray this year for a world of forgiveness. For a world of forgiveness is by definition a redeemed world. And like Rebbe Levi Yitzhak before me, I can guarantee you that the power of forgiveness is such that it will ascend to the very throne of heaven, God’s holy seat of judgment on this Yom HaDin, and it will ensure salvation for the Jewish people and the entire world.
The only question is, will we actually have the courage to do it?
Monday, September 27, 2010
Towards a Religious Zionism RH2: 5771
Allow me to begin this morning with a quote taken from an article I was reading just the other day:
“There is a story told of a German Jew of the older generation that when his friends came to him . . . and asked what he thought of the new attacks on the Jews, he looked rather astonished, and said, “They are not new; they are the [same] as the old ones.”
The author of this article then continues:
“I must say with equal justice that the attacks on Zionism which have come lately from press and pulpit are not new. They have been refuted ever so many times, and have been as often repeated. Lest, however, my ignoring direct challenges . . . be taken as proof that I have at last become converted by the arguments of our opponents, I will state here clearly the reasons for my allegiance to Zionism.”
He makes a good point you know. These arguments which attempt to impinge the legitimacy of the Modern State of Israel, the manifestation of the Zionist endeavor are not new. Indeed they have been around for quite some time. In fact, the article I just quoted was written by one Solomon Schechter, that’s right the Solomon Schechter, in a piece entitled Zionism: A Statement, published in 1906.
Yet, here we stand 104 years later and it is as if his words were ripped from this morning’s newspaper, Time Magazine to be precise, whose cover this week outrageously and irresponsibly claimed to answer: “Why Israelis Don’t Care About Peace.” But these are not the new attacks; they are the same as the old ones.
Let’s be honest, the year 5770, was not an easy one for Israel. With last October came the release of the Goldstone Report, the United Nations sponsored document which levied allegations of war crimes against both the terrorist organization Hamas and the Israeli Army during the Gaza War of 2009.
Then, in March of this past year Vice President Joe Biden arrived in Israel, and was greeted with the announcement of new construction underway in a disputed neighborhood beyond the Green Line in East Jerusalem. Vice President Biden and the Obama administration made their insult extremely plain, prompting several commentators to wonder if we had reached an unprecedented nadir point in Israeli-American relations.
Then of course there were the events of May 31st of this past year, in an incident which has become known to many of us by one infamous word: Flotilla. A Turkish ship bound for the shores of the Gaza Strip in an effort to break Israel’s naval blockade ended in deadly violence, as nine passengers were killed when activists on the ship attacked Israeli combat troops.
In the political realm there was the ill-conceived Conversion bill put forth by Member of Kenneset David Rotem. Not only would this bill have officially handed over conversions to the ultra-orthodox rabbinate, making it nearly impossible for some 300,00 Russian immigrants to convert; it also would have estranged non-Orthodox converts living in the Diaspora, thus imperiling the tenuous bond of Klal Yisrael, the notion that all Jews are part of the same family.
Oh, and all this while Iran, a country whose population seems held hostage by a theocracy of radical extremists, builds a nuclear bomb aimed directly at Tel Aviv.
Like I said, the year 5770 was not an easy one for Israel.
Now many would call me crazy for even talking about Israeli politics from the pulpit given the current climate. Usually it’s a lose-lose situation: you are bound to offend someone no matter what you say.
Well you’re right, so I will not be talking about politics on this Rosh HaShanah. Because one of the most important lessons you can learn in life is to always know who you are, and who you aren’t: so let me start by telling you who I am not.
I am not a political scientist. I am not a politician. I am not a diplomat. I am not an Israeli. And perhaps most importantly I am not a miracle worker, so I will not be able to solve the Israeli-Palestinian conflict before Musaf.
And simply because I am committed to Israel, have been there numerous times, lived there for a year, studied its history, and I keep the Israeli newspaper HaAretz as my internet homepage, doesn’t mean I am any greater of an expert in the intricacies of the modern social and political landscape of the State of Israel as anyone else in this room.
But let me tell you who I am. I am a Jew and I am a rabbi. This is something I take very seriously, a commitment to inspiring my community to consider their Jewish tradition as an integral and meaningful part of their lives, directing them through the modern thicket of life. I am in the business of doing mitzvot, perfecting the world through the observance of God’s commandments, and I am interested in having you join me on this journey. The time has come to re-affirm our support of the State of Israel, regardless of our political perspective; a support that should be born from our religious commitments. So, as I stand here today, 104 years after Solomon Schechter first penned his words, allow me an attempt at delivering my own statement: a statement on my religious commitment to Zionism.
For me it is a simple equation; my connection to the modern political State of Israel is born from my spiritual attachment to the Jewish religion and its teachings. In short: I am a Zionist because I am a Jew, I am commanded to love Israel, because I am commanded to love my fellow human being, and certainly those who share the destiny of the Jewish people. But now the salient question to explore, is from where exactly in our rich tradition flows our commitment to a specific land, to a specific city, to a specific mountain?
For me the answer is clear: It does not come from our Bible. Yes, you heard me correctly. I believe that our truest attachment to the Holy Land must not be derived from the text of our Torah, or the visions of our Prophets, or the writings found in our scrolls. For certain, there are a myriad of references in our Tanakh, to the Holy Land, the Promised Land, the Land of Canaan, the Judean hills, the Holy City of Jerusalem, or in this morning’s Torah reading: the peak of Mt. Moriah, the bedrock of the Beit HaMikdash. Sure, thumb through the pages of your Bible and the references are all there. But nonetheless it is important for us to recognize that the Bible is not a land deed. You cannot present the text, no matter how sacred, and claim that it contains sufficient historicity to justify modern facts on the ground.
Moreover I believe to read the Bible this way as a modern Conservative Jew is intellectually inconsistent. I was trained very well by my Seminary, the cornerstone of the Conservative movement, that the Bible is not meant to be read literally. And lest you think me a radical, I will remind you that the rabbis of the Mishnah and the Talmud, Hazal, Hachamim Zichronam Livracha also choose the path away from literalism towards a refined interpretation of our Holy Torah. To read the Torah literally is to be a Karaite, a heretic according to the Rabbis; but to read it through the lens of midrashic, interpretive understanding is to be a dutiful Jew.
Finally, the last danger we encounter when we use the Torah as a land deed for the State of Israel is we open the door to the dangers of Bible thumping. You know what I mean, I quote Genesis 15 when God promises the Land to Abram and his ancestors, and you may return fire with Isaiah 1, God’s promise to lay waste to the Holy Land and to exile her children to the corners of the earth. In other words, of course my Torah matters to me, and of course I am inspired by thoughts of our biblical forefathers and mothers roaming the very same hills I have come to know and love in the Land of Israel, but I do not want to bring my Tanakh with me into peace negotiations. For, as Baruch Spinoza once warned:
Every heretic has his prooftext.
No, for me my religious connection to the modern experiment of Zionism does not stem from my reading of the Bible; but it most certainly is born between the pages of my siddur. Next time you are in shul, count the number of times our prayer books mention the words Yerushalayim, (a dozen in Shacharit alone), Tzion, (seventeen times), or Yisrael (I lost count). In the Western Hemisphere, when we pray, and when the sanctuary space allows for it, we face east towards Jerusalem; in the East they face west, directing the entirety of our national prayers towards Eretz Yisrael, Yerushalayim Ir HaKodesh.
The truth is that the Bible is not a historical document but the siddur is. It reflects the poetic history of a people yearning for a return to their homeland. It demonstrates how the land has always been in our thoughts and our prayers, indeed, for generations it has brought tangibility to the ethereal act of prayer itself.
Allow me to tell you a story which illustrates this connection between our kevah, the consistency of our daily prayers, and the kavanah the connection to the land which lies behind them.
Shortly after Eliana and I were married in May of 2005, we decided to go on a year long honeymoon. A week in Montreal, followed by two months at Camp Ramah, capped off with ten heavenly months living in a sun-blessed apartment in Jerusalem. Eliana was studying at Pardes, with classes beginning in early September, but I was studying at the Schechter Institute, whose semester did not begin until after the Jewish holidays, which in that year meant the end of October. Not bad huh? So I spent much of our first two months in Israel, reading stories by S.Y. Agnon, going to the local florist to by herbs and flowers for our garden and exploring the streets of Jerusalem. It also meant that I got to sleep in each morning.
One such morning, excited by the possibility of getting a luxuriously late start on the day, my blissful dreams were interrupted by the obnoxious sounds of Shiputzim, of construction on the Apartment next door. There must have been a thousand workers simultaneously pulling up tile, hammering in nails and using sledgehammers on the opposite wall of our bedroom. Needless to say, I awoke in an ornery mood, put up a pot of coffee and grabbed my tallis and tefillin for what was bound to be a spiritually heartless davening.
I was praying by rote, eyes barely open, mind wandering to far-away places. That is until I reached a certain paragraph of the Amidah, the central prayer of the morning service:
וְלִירוּשָׁלַֽיִם עִירְךָ בְּרַחֲמִים תָּשׁוּב,
In Your mercy God, return to Your city, Jerusalem.
וְתִשְׁכּוֹן בְּתוֹכָהּ כַּאֲשֶׁר דִּבַּֽרְתָּ,
And dwell there as You have promised,
וּבְנֵה אוֹתָהּ בְּקָרוֹב בְּיָמֵֽינוּ בִּנְיַן עוֹלָם,
Rebuild it permanently, speedily, in our day,
וְכִסֵּא דָוִד מְהֵרָה לְתוֹכָהּ תָּכִין.
And establish the throne of David in its midst.
בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יְיָ, בּוֹנֵה יְרוּשָׁלָֽיִם.
Praised are You Adonai, who rebuilds Jerusalem.
In that singular moment, cradled by the cool Jerusalem stones, prayer became real for me.
This is my definition of Religious Zionism. The recognition that my Judaism is so many things: it is a religion, an ethical standard, a way of thinking, a culture and a passion, but in each of its definitions there is a solid, unshakable core: the poetic love between a people and a land.
So now, as a rabbi, it is my duty to explain what this mitzvah of experiencing the love for the State of Israel means in our day, how can we learn to embrace the religious aspects of our Zionism despite the political maelstrom which roars around us.
Firstly, we must go to Israel. If you have not ever been, I want you to seriously explore the possibility that this is the year for you to experience Israel first hand, see its beauty, taste its complexity and make your prayers reality in her embrace. If you have been to Israel before, I want you to go back. I want to go back. It has been far too long since that honeymoon and I want to make excuses no more. Let this be the year we go back to Israel. And most importantly, if you have the ability to send your child on a trip to Israel this year, I urge you to do so. I have seen it with my own eyes: our fabulous teenagers who go to Israel on programs like Ramah Seminar, Alexander Muss High School in Israel, or The March of the Living; they return as changed people. Their maturity strengthened, the connection to Judaism strengthened and their commitment to the Land of our prayers is deepened. There is no greater expression of your willingness to fulfill the mitzvah of v’shinnantam l’vanecha, of teaching your children, then by giving them an Israel experience in their youth.
Secondly, if we want to fulfill our religious obligation of loving Israel, we must commit ourselves to loving its language. We must embrace Hebrew as the national language of the Jewish people, as a link in the chain of the generations and not simply the language of the Bar Mitzvah, or the arcane sounds of the siddur. Ours are the luckiest Jewish generation in history, seeing as we have the ability not only to study our ancient texts, but also to read a newspaper, to write poetry, to philosophize, to invent cures for diseases in a modern Hebrew which is thriving and vibrant. This is precisely why we have added a Modern Hebrew requirement to our religious school at Temple Emanu-El, to instill the love of our national language in each of our wonderful students. Furthermore, I think that when our children go off to college, we should encourage them to study Hebrew, knowing that to learn Mandarin, or Arabic are worthy endeavors for certain, but studying Hebrew and connecting to our fellow Jews who speak it, this is our religious obligation.
Lastly, to love Israel does not mean that we must agree with her every political move. It must not mean that we are to be silent with our critique, uttering not a word of concern. No, this too is love. As Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel wrote in his masterpiece Israel: An Echo of Eternity, “In this world there is no gem which is not in need of refinement, no wheat without chaff, no vineyard without weeds, no roses without thorns. Light and shadow are mingled. There is need of refining, rethinking.” Indeed loving Israel means believing that she loves us in return. That like America, Israel is in need of our love, our support, and yes, our thoughtful challenges as well.
And so I close this statement on my religious commitment to Zionism with one final plea. The time to re-affirm our religious commitment to Israel is now, lest as Schecther said ‘our ignoring direct challenges . . . be taken as proof that we have at last become converted by the arguments of our opponents,’
We should feel free to argue about the details: the value of settlers vs. pioneers, AIPAC or JStreet, Likkud or Labor, or how many states our solution ought to have. But let us not argue with the larger picture which reveals to us that this land and our people are inexorably linked throughout generations of thoughts and prayer, and the Jewish people, the Hebrew Language and the love of the land are our religious heritage, a legacy we now, more than ever, must see ourselves as obligated to maintain.
Shanah Tovah, and B’Shanah HaBa’ah Biy’rushalayim
“There is a story told of a German Jew of the older generation that when his friends came to him . . . and asked what he thought of the new attacks on the Jews, he looked rather astonished, and said, “They are not new; they are the [same] as the old ones.”
The author of this article then continues:
“I must say with equal justice that the attacks on Zionism which have come lately from press and pulpit are not new. They have been refuted ever so many times, and have been as often repeated. Lest, however, my ignoring direct challenges . . . be taken as proof that I have at last become converted by the arguments of our opponents, I will state here clearly the reasons for my allegiance to Zionism.”
He makes a good point you know. These arguments which attempt to impinge the legitimacy of the Modern State of Israel, the manifestation of the Zionist endeavor are not new. Indeed they have been around for quite some time. In fact, the article I just quoted was written by one Solomon Schechter, that’s right the Solomon Schechter, in a piece entitled Zionism: A Statement, published in 1906.
Yet, here we stand 104 years later and it is as if his words were ripped from this morning’s newspaper, Time Magazine to be precise, whose cover this week outrageously and irresponsibly claimed to answer: “Why Israelis Don’t Care About Peace.” But these are not the new attacks; they are the same as the old ones.
Let’s be honest, the year 5770, was not an easy one for Israel. With last October came the release of the Goldstone Report, the United Nations sponsored document which levied allegations of war crimes against both the terrorist organization Hamas and the Israeli Army during the Gaza War of 2009.
Then, in March of this past year Vice President Joe Biden arrived in Israel, and was greeted with the announcement of new construction underway in a disputed neighborhood beyond the Green Line in East Jerusalem. Vice President Biden and the Obama administration made their insult extremely plain, prompting several commentators to wonder if we had reached an unprecedented nadir point in Israeli-American relations.
Then of course there were the events of May 31st of this past year, in an incident which has become known to many of us by one infamous word: Flotilla. A Turkish ship bound for the shores of the Gaza Strip in an effort to break Israel’s naval blockade ended in deadly violence, as nine passengers were killed when activists on the ship attacked Israeli combat troops.
In the political realm there was the ill-conceived Conversion bill put forth by Member of Kenneset David Rotem. Not only would this bill have officially handed over conversions to the ultra-orthodox rabbinate, making it nearly impossible for some 300,00 Russian immigrants to convert; it also would have estranged non-Orthodox converts living in the Diaspora, thus imperiling the tenuous bond of Klal Yisrael, the notion that all Jews are part of the same family.
Oh, and all this while Iran, a country whose population seems held hostage by a theocracy of radical extremists, builds a nuclear bomb aimed directly at Tel Aviv.
Like I said, the year 5770 was not an easy one for Israel.
Now many would call me crazy for even talking about Israeli politics from the pulpit given the current climate. Usually it’s a lose-lose situation: you are bound to offend someone no matter what you say.
Well you’re right, so I will not be talking about politics on this Rosh HaShanah. Because one of the most important lessons you can learn in life is to always know who you are, and who you aren’t: so let me start by telling you who I am not.
I am not a political scientist. I am not a politician. I am not a diplomat. I am not an Israeli. And perhaps most importantly I am not a miracle worker, so I will not be able to solve the Israeli-Palestinian conflict before Musaf.
And simply because I am committed to Israel, have been there numerous times, lived there for a year, studied its history, and I keep the Israeli newspaper HaAretz as my internet homepage, doesn’t mean I am any greater of an expert in the intricacies of the modern social and political landscape of the State of Israel as anyone else in this room.
But let me tell you who I am. I am a Jew and I am a rabbi. This is something I take very seriously, a commitment to inspiring my community to consider their Jewish tradition as an integral and meaningful part of their lives, directing them through the modern thicket of life. I am in the business of doing mitzvot, perfecting the world through the observance of God’s commandments, and I am interested in having you join me on this journey. The time has come to re-affirm our support of the State of Israel, regardless of our political perspective; a support that should be born from our religious commitments. So, as I stand here today, 104 years after Solomon Schechter first penned his words, allow me an attempt at delivering my own statement: a statement on my religious commitment to Zionism.
For me it is a simple equation; my connection to the modern political State of Israel is born from my spiritual attachment to the Jewish religion and its teachings. In short: I am a Zionist because I am a Jew, I am commanded to love Israel, because I am commanded to love my fellow human being, and certainly those who share the destiny of the Jewish people. But now the salient question to explore, is from where exactly in our rich tradition flows our commitment to a specific land, to a specific city, to a specific mountain?
For me the answer is clear: It does not come from our Bible. Yes, you heard me correctly. I believe that our truest attachment to the Holy Land must not be derived from the text of our Torah, or the visions of our Prophets, or the writings found in our scrolls. For certain, there are a myriad of references in our Tanakh, to the Holy Land, the Promised Land, the Land of Canaan, the Judean hills, the Holy City of Jerusalem, or in this morning’s Torah reading: the peak of Mt. Moriah, the bedrock of the Beit HaMikdash. Sure, thumb through the pages of your Bible and the references are all there. But nonetheless it is important for us to recognize that the Bible is not a land deed. You cannot present the text, no matter how sacred, and claim that it contains sufficient historicity to justify modern facts on the ground.
Moreover I believe to read the Bible this way as a modern Conservative Jew is intellectually inconsistent. I was trained very well by my Seminary, the cornerstone of the Conservative movement, that the Bible is not meant to be read literally. And lest you think me a radical, I will remind you that the rabbis of the Mishnah and the Talmud, Hazal, Hachamim Zichronam Livracha also choose the path away from literalism towards a refined interpretation of our Holy Torah. To read the Torah literally is to be a Karaite, a heretic according to the Rabbis; but to read it through the lens of midrashic, interpretive understanding is to be a dutiful Jew.
Finally, the last danger we encounter when we use the Torah as a land deed for the State of Israel is we open the door to the dangers of Bible thumping. You know what I mean, I quote Genesis 15 when God promises the Land to Abram and his ancestors, and you may return fire with Isaiah 1, God’s promise to lay waste to the Holy Land and to exile her children to the corners of the earth. In other words, of course my Torah matters to me, and of course I am inspired by thoughts of our biblical forefathers and mothers roaming the very same hills I have come to know and love in the Land of Israel, but I do not want to bring my Tanakh with me into peace negotiations. For, as Baruch Spinoza once warned:
Every heretic has his prooftext.
No, for me my religious connection to the modern experiment of Zionism does not stem from my reading of the Bible; but it most certainly is born between the pages of my siddur. Next time you are in shul, count the number of times our prayer books mention the words Yerushalayim, (a dozen in Shacharit alone), Tzion, (seventeen times), or Yisrael (I lost count). In the Western Hemisphere, when we pray, and when the sanctuary space allows for it, we face east towards Jerusalem; in the East they face west, directing the entirety of our national prayers towards Eretz Yisrael, Yerushalayim Ir HaKodesh.
The truth is that the Bible is not a historical document but the siddur is. It reflects the poetic history of a people yearning for a return to their homeland. It demonstrates how the land has always been in our thoughts and our prayers, indeed, for generations it has brought tangibility to the ethereal act of prayer itself.
Allow me to tell you a story which illustrates this connection between our kevah, the consistency of our daily prayers, and the kavanah the connection to the land which lies behind them.
Shortly after Eliana and I were married in May of 2005, we decided to go on a year long honeymoon. A week in Montreal, followed by two months at Camp Ramah, capped off with ten heavenly months living in a sun-blessed apartment in Jerusalem. Eliana was studying at Pardes, with classes beginning in early September, but I was studying at the Schechter Institute, whose semester did not begin until after the Jewish holidays, which in that year meant the end of October. Not bad huh? So I spent much of our first two months in Israel, reading stories by S.Y. Agnon, going to the local florist to by herbs and flowers for our garden and exploring the streets of Jerusalem. It also meant that I got to sleep in each morning.
One such morning, excited by the possibility of getting a luxuriously late start on the day, my blissful dreams were interrupted by the obnoxious sounds of Shiputzim, of construction on the Apartment next door. There must have been a thousand workers simultaneously pulling up tile, hammering in nails and using sledgehammers on the opposite wall of our bedroom. Needless to say, I awoke in an ornery mood, put up a pot of coffee and grabbed my tallis and tefillin for what was bound to be a spiritually heartless davening.
I was praying by rote, eyes barely open, mind wandering to far-away places. That is until I reached a certain paragraph of the Amidah, the central prayer of the morning service:
וְלִירוּשָׁלַֽיִם עִירְךָ בְּרַחֲמִים תָּשׁוּב,
In Your mercy God, return to Your city, Jerusalem.
וְתִשְׁכּוֹן בְּתוֹכָהּ כַּאֲשֶׁר דִּבַּֽרְתָּ,
And dwell there as You have promised,
וּבְנֵה אוֹתָהּ בְּקָרוֹב בְּיָמֵֽינוּ בִּנְיַן עוֹלָם,
Rebuild it permanently, speedily, in our day,
וְכִסֵּא דָוִד מְהֵרָה לְתוֹכָהּ תָּכִין.
And establish the throne of David in its midst.
בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יְיָ, בּוֹנֵה יְרוּשָׁלָֽיִם.
Praised are You Adonai, who rebuilds Jerusalem.
In that singular moment, cradled by the cool Jerusalem stones, prayer became real for me.
This is my definition of Religious Zionism. The recognition that my Judaism is so many things: it is a religion, an ethical standard, a way of thinking, a culture and a passion, but in each of its definitions there is a solid, unshakable core: the poetic love between a people and a land.
So now, as a rabbi, it is my duty to explain what this mitzvah of experiencing the love for the State of Israel means in our day, how can we learn to embrace the religious aspects of our Zionism despite the political maelstrom which roars around us.
Firstly, we must go to Israel. If you have not ever been, I want you to seriously explore the possibility that this is the year for you to experience Israel first hand, see its beauty, taste its complexity and make your prayers reality in her embrace. If you have been to Israel before, I want you to go back. I want to go back. It has been far too long since that honeymoon and I want to make excuses no more. Let this be the year we go back to Israel. And most importantly, if you have the ability to send your child on a trip to Israel this year, I urge you to do so. I have seen it with my own eyes: our fabulous teenagers who go to Israel on programs like Ramah Seminar, Alexander Muss High School in Israel, or The March of the Living; they return as changed people. Their maturity strengthened, the connection to Judaism strengthened and their commitment to the Land of our prayers is deepened. There is no greater expression of your willingness to fulfill the mitzvah of v’shinnantam l’vanecha, of teaching your children, then by giving them an Israel experience in their youth.
Secondly, if we want to fulfill our religious obligation of loving Israel, we must commit ourselves to loving its language. We must embrace Hebrew as the national language of the Jewish people, as a link in the chain of the generations and not simply the language of the Bar Mitzvah, or the arcane sounds of the siddur. Ours are the luckiest Jewish generation in history, seeing as we have the ability not only to study our ancient texts, but also to read a newspaper, to write poetry, to philosophize, to invent cures for diseases in a modern Hebrew which is thriving and vibrant. This is precisely why we have added a Modern Hebrew requirement to our religious school at Temple Emanu-El, to instill the love of our national language in each of our wonderful students. Furthermore, I think that when our children go off to college, we should encourage them to study Hebrew, knowing that to learn Mandarin, or Arabic are worthy endeavors for certain, but studying Hebrew and connecting to our fellow Jews who speak it, this is our religious obligation.
Lastly, to love Israel does not mean that we must agree with her every political move. It must not mean that we are to be silent with our critique, uttering not a word of concern. No, this too is love. As Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel wrote in his masterpiece Israel: An Echo of Eternity, “In this world there is no gem which is not in need of refinement, no wheat without chaff, no vineyard without weeds, no roses without thorns. Light and shadow are mingled. There is need of refining, rethinking.” Indeed loving Israel means believing that she loves us in return. That like America, Israel is in need of our love, our support, and yes, our thoughtful challenges as well.
And so I close this statement on my religious commitment to Zionism with one final plea. The time to re-affirm our religious commitment to Israel is now, lest as Schecther said ‘our ignoring direct challenges . . . be taken as proof that we have at last become converted by the arguments of our opponents,’
We should feel free to argue about the details: the value of settlers vs. pioneers, AIPAC or JStreet, Likkud or Labor, or how many states our solution ought to have. But let us not argue with the larger picture which reveals to us that this land and our people are inexorably linked throughout generations of thoughts and prayer, and the Jewish people, the Hebrew Language and the love of the land are our religious heritage, a legacy we now, more than ever, must see ourselves as obligated to maintain.
Shanah Tovah, and B’Shanah HaBa’ah Biy’rushalayim
The Year of the Hallelujah RH1: 5771
Sometimes I find myself flipping through the channels at night, and I will stumble upon a Christian television preacher. Now maybe it is out of a sense of curiosity for the other, or perhaps it is due to a feeling of shared purpose, or maybe it is just an attempt to pick up some tips of the trade, but often I will tune in for a while. No matter how often I watch, I am always surprised by a few things which impress me. First off, I notice the sets. Elaborately constructed sets, with a giant rotating globe in the background, a handsome lectern adorned with the brand of a particular preacher of the logo of a particular church, a robed choir perched on risers, waiting to raise their voices in praise. But more than anything, I notice the crowd. The awesome crowd of tens of thousands who come to hear the power of Scripture, whose hearts are open to the possibility of being moved, who have no qualms about shouting the famous refrain: Hallelujah!
Now don’t get me wrong. For the most part, I’m not jealous. I don’t crave an elaborate set to frame the experience of our prayer; and I learned long ago that it is not the lectern that matters, but rather the words which emanate from the lecturer. And as I look out this morning on this soaring crowd of nearly a thousand, I do not envy those who must try to connect personally with their congregants across miles of rows, or through the stale space of the television broadcast.
But since the Jewish New Year is the time for honesty, allow me to share with you what does make me envious of these Christian preachers. I am jealous of that singular word, so often ringing from the lips of their congregants, that word which for millennia has given voice to the indescribable song of the soul: Hallelujah.
I know, some of you might cringe when you hear this word…and I understand why. Too often the word is seen as a cliché call and response to a preacher’s rhythmic rant. For many of us, this word Hallelujah feels a bit like the calling card of the hyper-faithful; those who attend tent revivals and are prone to speaking in tongues. In other words, this Hallelujah doesn’t feel rational, it doesn’t feel authentic, and it certainly doesn’t feel Jewish.
But the truth is, this couldn’t be farther from the truth. I must admit that I have a bit of fun when I ask our children here at Emanu-El, what is the Hebrew word for Hallelujah? And I watch as their brains begin to work overtime. It doesn’t even occur to them, and perhaps not to many of us that this word Hallelujah, the word which has become so ubiquitous among our Christian friends, is truly a Hebrew word, and what’s more, it is an authentically Jewish concept.
Yes, that’s right, the word Hallelujah is ours, and it always has been.
And today, on this New Year’s Day, it is time for us to take it back!
First let us begin with some important facts. The word Hallelujah is a hybrid, containing the Hebrew root, Hey Lamed Lamed, Halal, meaning to praise with the word Yah, the yud and the hey borrowed from the Divine name of Yud Hey Vav Hey, which we now pronounce as Adonai. Put together, Hallelujah simply means: Praise God! In fact, the Hebrew word Hallelujah appears 24 times in the Book of Psalms, especially in a series of Psalms we use as part of our davening each morning.
These poems, Psalms 146-150, are the final five poems found in the Book of Psalms, and they each begin and end with the word Hallelujah. And if you come to our morning minyan some time, you will discover one of the greatest sounds in the world: the sonorous tones of one Louie Yosinoff, age 92, as he articulates for the entire chapel to hear: Hallelujah! Praise the Lord.
So just what are we trying to express when we invoke the power of the Hallelujah? Let’s take a look at one of those Psalms we read each morning to lend us its guidance. Do me a favor, please turn to page 62 in your Mahzorim. Here at the bottom we find Psalm 148, a poem which creates for us a litany of praise. First we begin by exalting the architect of our universe, the heavenly Creator who designed the sun and the moon, commanded the stars to shine in the night sky. Next, however, the Psalmist changes direction, heaping praise unto God for the wonderful diversity of experience which exists in our word. Fire and hail, snow and smoke, mountains and hills, wild and tame beasts, creeping creatures and winged birds, men and women, young and old, Let all praise the glory of Adonai: Hallelujah!
So the first thing we are trying to achieve through the power of the Hallelujah, is a sense of holiness and a sense of wholeness, a recognition of the Godliness that can be found in our world, when we only take the time to notice it. Think to those moments in life when you have been overwhelmed with a sense of the world’s perfection: on that cruise to Alaska with your loved one, hiking through the forests of Yellowstone with your wide-eyed child, counting the countless stars in the sky as you sat alone near a Bedouin tent in the Negev, sitting beneath a wide-branched willow with a father who has long since passed away, or looking out on the blue waters of Block Island Sound from atop your bicycle as your daughter’s sleeping head bobs on your back. Have you ever had moments like these? If you have, then right now I encourage you to close your eyes, take yourself back there for just a moment and allow yourselves to speak the holy word: Hallelujah.
And now, like Psalm 148, let us pause to take notice of the profound diversity which lends life its balance. Because life is not simply about living in neutral, but rather it is about experiencing the poles, recognizing that our world is made whole by appreciating the opposites. What can we say to God for the comfort of the warm sun on our faces in July; as well as the soft licking of a New England snowflake in December? What should be our response to the spider’s web and the eagle’s soaring? How do we give thanks for the calm of the seas or the raging of the thunderstorm? How can we ever annunciate our praise for the difference of the sexes, for the nervous excitement of the first date and for the comfortable ease of finishing each other’s sentences? How should we give thanks for the vigor of youth and the wisdom of old age? For the potential of new life, and the comfort that comes with a life well-lived? There is only one word which dares cross our lips as an answer to the perfection of God’s dichotomous designs: say it with me now: Hallelujah.
Now if you would be so kind as to do me another favor, please turn to page 63 in your mahzorim as we read responsively in the English of Psalm 150, the final poem in the Book of Psalms:
Halleluyah! Praise God in the sanctuary, praise God in the powerful heavens.
Praise God for the mighty deeds, praise God for infinite greatness.
Praise God with the shofar call, praise God with harp and lyre.
Praise God with drum and dance, praise God with flute and strings.
Praise God with crashing cymbals, praise God with resounding cymbals.
Let every breath of life praise ADONAI, Halleluyah!
This famous Psalm is not only recited as part of our daily liturgy, it will also make an appearance during our Rosh HaShanah Musaf, as part of the Shof’rot service.
In his beautiful commentary to the Book of Psalms, entitled Our Haven Our Strength, my colleague Rabbi Martin S. Cohen beautifully explains the theological import of Psalm 150, when he writes:
The great goal of human existence, the poet implies, is to praise God by becoming lost in a web of exultation . . . For most of us, language will fail miserably as a vehicle for conveying the deepest of our spiritual feelings even to ourselves, let alone to God. The poet suggests, therefore, that we abandon the notion that human speech is the sole acceptable vehicle for prater and praise and we should instead seek to communicate our most profound thoughts outside the realm of language: with blasts of the shofar and with the gentle music of the lyre.”
Rabbi Cohen points out an important lesson for us. This Psalm teaches us that the true meaning of the word Hallelujah is that we are placed here on earth with the simple task of giving praise to our Creator, and yet we do not have the verbal tools to succeed in this task. Our words and our actions fall painfully short: Or as the siddur say it best:
Were our mouths to fill with song as the sea,
Our tongues to sing endlessly like waves,
Our lips offer praise like the limitless sky . . .
We would still be unable to express our gratitude to You, Adonai our God and God of our ancestors or to praise Your name for even one of the myriad moments of kindness with which You have blessed us.
What Psalm 150 has to teach us, is that despite the shortcomings of our language, the overwhelming power of the Hallelujah can nonetheless be found in one of our earthly tools; through the unshakable power of music.
Music allows us to transcend our mortal limitations and stretch onward and skyward with our gratitude for the gift of life. Whether it is Mozart’s inspiring horn concertos, a Puccini aria, or the Beatles’ White Album, music reminds us that there is so much more to life than our jobs, our portfolios and our to-do-lists. Listening to a great piece of music shows us that there is majesty in this world, there is meaning, there is reason to live at all. In a word, music is the ultimate: Hallelujah.
For me personally, no popular song demonstrates the spiritual power of music more than Leonard Cohen’s masterpiece entitled: Hallelujah. Now, Leonard Cohen is certainly no Pavorati, and although his version of the song should be valued for its originality and its authenticity, I am nonetheless grateful that other artists have leant their voices to this song, such as Jeff Buckley, Rufus Wainwright, KD Lang and Brandi Carlisle. Of course, the younger people in attendance this morning will best recognize the Rufus Wainwright version from the movie Shrek.
But no matter who sings it, the results are viscerally the same.
And the last verse perhaps puts it best:
I did my best, it wasn't much
I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch
I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool you
And even though
It all went wrong
I'll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah; Hallelujah, Hallelujah.
And although the verses are each inspiring, borrowing from Biblical allusions to King David and Samson, the true power of the song comes in its one word chorus: Hallelujah.
Simply singing this word, combining the emotion of our souls with the power of music magically transports us. Can you feel it? That serendipitous moment when you first met your love? Hallelujah. That time of overwhelming joy as you first held your newborn child? Hallelujah. The peace that comes with the recognition that life is too short to be burdened with worry or complaint? Hallelujah. The stunning realization that we are but a collection of complex carbon, and yet we can see, we can sing, we can think? Hallelujah.
Which brings me to the last line of Psalm 150, the closing line for the entire Book of Psalms and one I want to encourage us to take with us as a mantra for the coming year:
כֹּל הַנְּשָׁמָה תְּהַלֵּל יָהּ הַֽלְלוּיָֽהּ:
Let every breath of life praise Adonai, Hallelujah.
In these modern times it is too easy to live our lives in a uninspiring rush. We are numb to moments of meaning. We hurry past our children as they grow old before our eyes. We take for granted the support of a spouse, the devotion of a friend. We rarely take the time to notice the nature which surrounds us, even as it disappears from our lives. We are living in a state of spiritual narcolepsy, choosing to sleep though days, which turn into weeks, which turn into lives.
This year I want us to take seriously the challenge of the Hallelujah. I want us to reclaim this word, break it free from the cliché of the call and response, and incorporate it into our lives as a pathway towards meaning. And let me tell you how.
As I wrote this sermon I received an email from a congregant who was on a vacation visiting the majesty of Arcadia Park in Maine. “I am sorry I won’t be able to attend the meeting on Monday night she said, but please fill me in when I get back.” I replied to her email using five simple words: Say a Hallelujah for me.
So this year I am challenging you to make a change, one that will help to bring purpose, praise and peace into your lives: I implore you to practice saying Hallelujah.
When you see beauty in the natural world, with the changing of the leaves, the first snow of winter or the courage of the crocus: say it: Hallelujah.
When you take pride in your children, watching their first steps, celebrating their ascension into maturity, or rejoicing at their becoming parents themselves: say it: Hallelujah.
When you feel loved in your life, the warm grip of your partner, the supportive hug of your friends, the embrace of your community: say it: Hallelujah.
And finally, when you notice God’s fingerprints in this world of ours, the sun on your face and the stars in the sky, when you slow down to notice the rhythm of your beating heart, the strength of your muscles, the song of your soul; and when you pause to reflect upon the countless sea of breaths in our lives: then take the time to stop, dedicating that one breath to the singular purpose of praise and say:
כֹּל הַנְּשָׁמָה תְּהַלֵּל יָהּ הַֽלְלוּיָֽהּ:
Let every breath of life praise Adonai, Hallelujah.
Let every breath of life praise Adonai, Hallelujah.
Now don’t get me wrong. For the most part, I’m not jealous. I don’t crave an elaborate set to frame the experience of our prayer; and I learned long ago that it is not the lectern that matters, but rather the words which emanate from the lecturer. And as I look out this morning on this soaring crowd of nearly a thousand, I do not envy those who must try to connect personally with their congregants across miles of rows, or through the stale space of the television broadcast.
But since the Jewish New Year is the time for honesty, allow me to share with you what does make me envious of these Christian preachers. I am jealous of that singular word, so often ringing from the lips of their congregants, that word which for millennia has given voice to the indescribable song of the soul: Hallelujah.
I know, some of you might cringe when you hear this word…and I understand why. Too often the word is seen as a cliché call and response to a preacher’s rhythmic rant. For many of us, this word Hallelujah feels a bit like the calling card of the hyper-faithful; those who attend tent revivals and are prone to speaking in tongues. In other words, this Hallelujah doesn’t feel rational, it doesn’t feel authentic, and it certainly doesn’t feel Jewish.
But the truth is, this couldn’t be farther from the truth. I must admit that I have a bit of fun when I ask our children here at Emanu-El, what is the Hebrew word for Hallelujah? And I watch as their brains begin to work overtime. It doesn’t even occur to them, and perhaps not to many of us that this word Hallelujah, the word which has become so ubiquitous among our Christian friends, is truly a Hebrew word, and what’s more, it is an authentically Jewish concept.
Yes, that’s right, the word Hallelujah is ours, and it always has been.
And today, on this New Year’s Day, it is time for us to take it back!
First let us begin with some important facts. The word Hallelujah is a hybrid, containing the Hebrew root, Hey Lamed Lamed, Halal, meaning to praise with the word Yah, the yud and the hey borrowed from the Divine name of Yud Hey Vav Hey, which we now pronounce as Adonai. Put together, Hallelujah simply means: Praise God! In fact, the Hebrew word Hallelujah appears 24 times in the Book of Psalms, especially in a series of Psalms we use as part of our davening each morning.
These poems, Psalms 146-150, are the final five poems found in the Book of Psalms, and they each begin and end with the word Hallelujah. And if you come to our morning minyan some time, you will discover one of the greatest sounds in the world: the sonorous tones of one Louie Yosinoff, age 92, as he articulates for the entire chapel to hear: Hallelujah! Praise the Lord.
So just what are we trying to express when we invoke the power of the Hallelujah? Let’s take a look at one of those Psalms we read each morning to lend us its guidance. Do me a favor, please turn to page 62 in your Mahzorim. Here at the bottom we find Psalm 148, a poem which creates for us a litany of praise. First we begin by exalting the architect of our universe, the heavenly Creator who designed the sun and the moon, commanded the stars to shine in the night sky. Next, however, the Psalmist changes direction, heaping praise unto God for the wonderful diversity of experience which exists in our word. Fire and hail, snow and smoke, mountains and hills, wild and tame beasts, creeping creatures and winged birds, men and women, young and old, Let all praise the glory of Adonai: Hallelujah!
So the first thing we are trying to achieve through the power of the Hallelujah, is a sense of holiness and a sense of wholeness, a recognition of the Godliness that can be found in our world, when we only take the time to notice it. Think to those moments in life when you have been overwhelmed with a sense of the world’s perfection: on that cruise to Alaska with your loved one, hiking through the forests of Yellowstone with your wide-eyed child, counting the countless stars in the sky as you sat alone near a Bedouin tent in the Negev, sitting beneath a wide-branched willow with a father who has long since passed away, or looking out on the blue waters of Block Island Sound from atop your bicycle as your daughter’s sleeping head bobs on your back. Have you ever had moments like these? If you have, then right now I encourage you to close your eyes, take yourself back there for just a moment and allow yourselves to speak the holy word: Hallelujah.
And now, like Psalm 148, let us pause to take notice of the profound diversity which lends life its balance. Because life is not simply about living in neutral, but rather it is about experiencing the poles, recognizing that our world is made whole by appreciating the opposites. What can we say to God for the comfort of the warm sun on our faces in July; as well as the soft licking of a New England snowflake in December? What should be our response to the spider’s web and the eagle’s soaring? How do we give thanks for the calm of the seas or the raging of the thunderstorm? How can we ever annunciate our praise for the difference of the sexes, for the nervous excitement of the first date and for the comfortable ease of finishing each other’s sentences? How should we give thanks for the vigor of youth and the wisdom of old age? For the potential of new life, and the comfort that comes with a life well-lived? There is only one word which dares cross our lips as an answer to the perfection of God’s dichotomous designs: say it with me now: Hallelujah.
Now if you would be so kind as to do me another favor, please turn to page 63 in your mahzorim as we read responsively in the English of Psalm 150, the final poem in the Book of Psalms:
Halleluyah! Praise God in the sanctuary, praise God in the powerful heavens.
Praise God for the mighty deeds, praise God for infinite greatness.
Praise God with the shofar call, praise God with harp and lyre.
Praise God with drum and dance, praise God with flute and strings.
Praise God with crashing cymbals, praise God with resounding cymbals.
Let every breath of life praise ADONAI, Halleluyah!
This famous Psalm is not only recited as part of our daily liturgy, it will also make an appearance during our Rosh HaShanah Musaf, as part of the Shof’rot service.
In his beautiful commentary to the Book of Psalms, entitled Our Haven Our Strength, my colleague Rabbi Martin S. Cohen beautifully explains the theological import of Psalm 150, when he writes:
The great goal of human existence, the poet implies, is to praise God by becoming lost in a web of exultation . . . For most of us, language will fail miserably as a vehicle for conveying the deepest of our spiritual feelings even to ourselves, let alone to God. The poet suggests, therefore, that we abandon the notion that human speech is the sole acceptable vehicle for prater and praise and we should instead seek to communicate our most profound thoughts outside the realm of language: with blasts of the shofar and with the gentle music of the lyre.”
Rabbi Cohen points out an important lesson for us. This Psalm teaches us that the true meaning of the word Hallelujah is that we are placed here on earth with the simple task of giving praise to our Creator, and yet we do not have the verbal tools to succeed in this task. Our words and our actions fall painfully short: Or as the siddur say it best:
Were our mouths to fill with song as the sea,
Our tongues to sing endlessly like waves,
Our lips offer praise like the limitless sky . . .
We would still be unable to express our gratitude to You, Adonai our God and God of our ancestors or to praise Your name for even one of the myriad moments of kindness with which You have blessed us.
What Psalm 150 has to teach us, is that despite the shortcomings of our language, the overwhelming power of the Hallelujah can nonetheless be found in one of our earthly tools; through the unshakable power of music.
Music allows us to transcend our mortal limitations and stretch onward and skyward with our gratitude for the gift of life. Whether it is Mozart’s inspiring horn concertos, a Puccini aria, or the Beatles’ White Album, music reminds us that there is so much more to life than our jobs, our portfolios and our to-do-lists. Listening to a great piece of music shows us that there is majesty in this world, there is meaning, there is reason to live at all. In a word, music is the ultimate: Hallelujah.
For me personally, no popular song demonstrates the spiritual power of music more than Leonard Cohen’s masterpiece entitled: Hallelujah. Now, Leonard Cohen is certainly no Pavorati, and although his version of the song should be valued for its originality and its authenticity, I am nonetheless grateful that other artists have leant their voices to this song, such as Jeff Buckley, Rufus Wainwright, KD Lang and Brandi Carlisle. Of course, the younger people in attendance this morning will best recognize the Rufus Wainwright version from the movie Shrek.
But no matter who sings it, the results are viscerally the same.
And the last verse perhaps puts it best:
I did my best, it wasn't much
I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch
I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool you
And even though
It all went wrong
I'll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah; Hallelujah, Hallelujah.
And although the verses are each inspiring, borrowing from Biblical allusions to King David and Samson, the true power of the song comes in its one word chorus: Hallelujah.
Simply singing this word, combining the emotion of our souls with the power of music magically transports us. Can you feel it? That serendipitous moment when you first met your love? Hallelujah. That time of overwhelming joy as you first held your newborn child? Hallelujah. The peace that comes with the recognition that life is too short to be burdened with worry or complaint? Hallelujah. The stunning realization that we are but a collection of complex carbon, and yet we can see, we can sing, we can think? Hallelujah.
Which brings me to the last line of Psalm 150, the closing line for the entire Book of Psalms and one I want to encourage us to take with us as a mantra for the coming year:
כֹּל הַנְּשָׁמָה תְּהַלֵּל יָהּ הַֽלְלוּיָֽהּ:
Let every breath of life praise Adonai, Hallelujah.
In these modern times it is too easy to live our lives in a uninspiring rush. We are numb to moments of meaning. We hurry past our children as they grow old before our eyes. We take for granted the support of a spouse, the devotion of a friend. We rarely take the time to notice the nature which surrounds us, even as it disappears from our lives. We are living in a state of spiritual narcolepsy, choosing to sleep though days, which turn into weeks, which turn into lives.
This year I want us to take seriously the challenge of the Hallelujah. I want us to reclaim this word, break it free from the cliché of the call and response, and incorporate it into our lives as a pathway towards meaning. And let me tell you how.
As I wrote this sermon I received an email from a congregant who was on a vacation visiting the majesty of Arcadia Park in Maine. “I am sorry I won’t be able to attend the meeting on Monday night she said, but please fill me in when I get back.” I replied to her email using five simple words: Say a Hallelujah for me.
So this year I am challenging you to make a change, one that will help to bring purpose, praise and peace into your lives: I implore you to practice saying Hallelujah.
When you see beauty in the natural world, with the changing of the leaves, the first snow of winter or the courage of the crocus: say it: Hallelujah.
When you take pride in your children, watching their first steps, celebrating their ascension into maturity, or rejoicing at their becoming parents themselves: say it: Hallelujah.
When you feel loved in your life, the warm grip of your partner, the supportive hug of your friends, the embrace of your community: say it: Hallelujah.
And finally, when you notice God’s fingerprints in this world of ours, the sun on your face and the stars in the sky, when you slow down to notice the rhythm of your beating heart, the strength of your muscles, the song of your soul; and when you pause to reflect upon the countless sea of breaths in our lives: then take the time to stop, dedicating that one breath to the singular purpose of praise and say:
כֹּל הַנְּשָׁמָה תְּהַלֵּל יָהּ הַֽלְלוּיָֽהּ:
Let every breath of life praise Adonai, Hallelujah.
Let every breath of life praise Adonai, Hallelujah.
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