Responding to the Moment
by Barrett Brick
Rosh ha-Shana 5758
2 Oct 1997
Shana tova. -- Today is the birth day of the world. This Rosh ha-Shana, this
beginning of the year, we celebrate the beauty of G-d's Creation, and we celebrate our lives as
part of this Creation. Last night, as the sun set and the night enveloped us, we celebrated the
world's creation. We recalled our tradition that as part of this aspect of Creation, vessels holding
G-d's light shattered, scattering their fragments and sparks of G-d's light throughout all of
existence. We spoke of our responsibility as partners with G-d in creation to uncover these
sparks of light and the shards of the broken vessels, and to repair them.
Today, in the light of the new day, this first morning of the year, we focus not just on the
creation of the world and the universe in which we live, but more particularly on ourselves as a
people -- on our birth as a people, on our birth day as part of G-d's Creation.
Our liturgy this morning has used powerfully stirring imagery to help us recall the story of
our people's birth, to lead us through the history of our developing understanding of our
relationship with G-d, of our partnership with G-d in Creation. We have relived our history
through desert . . . through water . . . to the words G-d spoke to us as we encamped in the
Wilderness of Sinai, opposite the mountain. We have just read the Torah's description of the
drama of the scene: "There were thunder-sounds and lightning, a heavy cloud was on the
mountain and an exceedingly strong shofar sound. . . . Mount Sinai smoked all over, since
had come down upon it in fire; its smoke went up like the smoke of a furnace, and all of the
mountain trembled exceedingly."
In recalling these events, our celebration today echoes our celebration of Pesach six
months ago, in Nisan, the first of the months. At that time, we rejoiced over our liberation from
Egypt, and over our setting out on the road to Sinai, through desert and water, to receive the
words of G-d at Sinai. It is appropriate on this first day of the seventh month that our focus
returns to these events. Just as Shabbat, the seventh day, is a day of rest, of prayer, and of self-assessment, Tishri, the seventh month, contains its own sense of sabbath -- a day of rest from the
ordinary pace of the world, a time for reflecting on our lives, our deeds, and our intentions for the
future. And, just as at Pesach we were reminded that each one of us should look upon ourself as
having been liberated from Egypt and having stood at Sinai, so, too, at Rosh ha-Shana should we
look upon ourselves as having lived our people's history -- through the desert, through the water,
to hearing the words at Sinai.
As we have experienced in our Torah reading, standing at Sinai was a powerful moment.
Yet are moments themselves enough to transform our lives? It is, of course, common -- and,
indeed, natural -- to think so. This is especially so when powerful emotions are bound up in that
moment, and the moment is shared with countless others. I still remember, for example, exactly
where I was and how it felt some 34 years ago to receive the news that President Kennedy had
been assassinated, and how this became a significant temporal marker for so many of us. It is not
inconceivable that we may have experienced a similar event just weeks ago, in the tragic death of
the Princess of Wales. On a more positive note -- perhaps even bordering on the miraculous --
many of us remember where we were last year when DC United won the Major League Soccer
Championship, and look forward (perhaps with some Divine intervention) over the coming weeks
to a repeat -- with apologies, in the spirit of the holy days, to those New England fans visiting this
week!
Nevertheless, I think it is fair to say that any powerful moment -- event the moment at
Sinai -- in and of itself is not necessarily life-transforming. A moment by itself does not transform
a life, much less create a people. Let us make no mistake. The moment is important. The words
of Torah unquestionably are important. But what transforms us from an embryonic mass into a
people is how we react to the moment -- what we do with the words. What transforms us into a
people is our response: "All that Ad-nai has spoken we will do!"
Sharing a moment -- no matter how emotional, no matter with how many others -- does
not make a people. A moment gives us a memory, but it does not itself transform a life. It is not
the desert itself that transforms, but how we react to and what we learn from our journey through
the desert. It is not the water itself that transforms us, but the faith of a Nachshon that leads him
and us to enter the water and accept its challenge. It is not the words of G-d at Sinai that
transform us, or make us a people, but rather our willingness truly to hear the words, and, in the
words of a translation of Ahavat Olam, to "weave [the words] into the texture of our lives."
As Gay and Lesbian Jews, our lives have our own unique textures. We have experienced
desert journeys and watery challenges in additional ways. "The desert, yes, the desert." We have
had our own needs to leave places too small for our growing souls, to journey in response to
growing visions of ourselves, seeking oases at which to nurture our lives. "The water, yes, the
water." We have faced crises in our lives, and found the faith and the strength to lead and support
each other through them. "The words, yes, the words." As Gay and Lesbian Jews, we recognize
that the words of Torah speak to us, too, as part of k'lal Yisrael. And we recognize that the
message of Torah is universal, speaking to all Gay men, Lesbians, Bisexuals, and transgendered
persons as well.
Our calendars today turn not only to the month of Tishri and the beginning of the new
year 5758. In the Gregorian calendar, it is the beginning of October, which has come for many to
be known as Gay and Lesbian History Month. As our celebration of Rosh ha-Shana has recalled
our history as Jews, it is also an appropriate time to recall our history as Gay men and Lesbians.
It is particularly appropriate to do so this year, as we have marked the centennial of the
establishment in Berlin in May of 1897 of the world's first known homosexual rights organization,
the Wissenschaftlich-humanitäres Komitee, the Scientific-Humanitarian Committee, one of whose
founders was Magnus Hirschfeld, a Gay Jew. This year, both the Goethe-Institut in New York
and the Schwules Museum in Berlin mounted exhibits on the theme of 100 Years of the Gay
Rights Movement in Germany, documenting and portraying this rich cultural and political history.
As Gay and Lesbian Jews in particular, we celebrated this year a quarter century of organized
community, marking the 25th anniversary of the founding in London and in Los Angeles of the
first Gay Jewish organizations. Today, Gay and Lesbian Jewish communities span the globe, and
their members are continuing to contribute to the richness of our Jewish people and of our Gay
and Lesbian people. The Nobel Prize winning poet Czcslaw Milosz has written of a "command to
participate actively in history," and it is clear that we are fulfilling this command both as Jews and
as Lesbians and Gay men.
To have a history, to recognize that a history exists, is an essential element of becoming a
people and growing as a people. In Isaac Asimov's novel Prelude to Foundation, part of his
prodigious classic series, a resident of the rather tradition-bound Mycogen sector of the planet
Trantor explains that sector's disdain for religion by saying: "We have no need of it. We have
something far better. We have history." But history alone is not enough. Of course, the
inhabitants of Mycogen may claim to have no need for religion, but they have one indeed, if by
another name, and it is one that withdraws them from their world, keeping them quite insular and
repressed. Their response to their journeys and challenges is to turn away from the world, to
become slaves to fears and to seek to create a stasis in their history, and to isolate their lives.
Not so us, neither as Jews, nor as Lesbians and Gay men. We have our history, we have
our words of Torah, and we have learned from our desert journeys and watery challenges to
accept our responsibilities as the people that we have become, performing the mitzvot, giving
ourself to G-d's service according to the guidance of the Torah -- to love
Ad-nai, to walk in the ways and to keep the commandments, laws, and teachings of our G-d,
committing ourselves to the path of bringing about a more just and inclusive society, as we hear in
the message of Isaiah today.
As Ursula LeGuin has written, "Freedom is not a gift given but a choice made." The
words are spoken to us as an offer. It is up to us to choose whether to accept them. Informed by
our history -- by our journeys and our challenges -- we know how to rise to them, to live the
words in our lives, and, as Isaiah exhorts us, not to hide ourselves from our people. For we are
the people who walked with Abraham and who laughed with Sarah, who followed with Ruth and
Naomi and who triumphed w/David and Jonathan . . . who thrilled to the poetry of Sappho and
who were inspired by the vision of Magnus Hirschfeld, who fought at Stonewall . . . and who, one
day, will marry in Hawaii!
The sound of the shofar, which we will shortly hear again, summons us this morning as a
people -- a people aware of our history and of our responsibility to G-d's creation. We are
summoned to gather the sparks of G-d's light, to repair the shattered vessels. We renew our souls
these days so that we may go forth refreshed and strengthened to continue to work to redeem the
world -- as a people, who have come through deserts and waters, who have heard the words of
G-d and who have woven them into the textures of our lives.
L'shana tova!
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