Good morning. Hag samei-ach. Shana tova. We began a journey this morning which started in the desert. We then cleared a water hazard at the Sea of Reeds and landed in another sand trap in the wilderness of Sinai. And it took forty years to get out of the sand! Sounds like my golf game. But what went on during those forty years? What was the point of chipping and chipping and chipping and getting nowhere? What must that have felt like to Moses and his entourage? One of the things that happens to me when I'm standing there in the hot sun, Washington humidity dripping off me, facing that little white ball that looks like it's relaxing on the beach in Rehoboth, is I feel pressure. "Oh no, I'm not gonna make this shot," "I'm going to hold up the game", "the group behind us is breathing down our necks" and on and on and on, beating myself up before I even approach the ball. But I need to stop and remember I'm not out there alone. I'm with friends, all of whom have been in the sand before. If
I can quiet the voices in my head, I can even hear their support, the support of those who have been there just like me. The support of my community. It may only be a foursome, but it is a community, and for right then, the only one that matters.
What makes that foursome a community? What makes any group a community? We're joined together by a common interest, an agreed purpose, a mutual responsibility and shared memories. Some of those memories may be happy, others not, but we have provided support for each other regardless. Just as a minyan creates support for individuals to come together to pray, to celebrate special events and holidays, the minyan also is required to say kaddish. The mourning process takes place within the community. Sorrow, no less than joy is a communal responsibility.
We have come together today as a community, the community of Bet Mishpachah. Yet, we are also part of a larger community, that of the Jewish people, the community that really coalesced at Sinai in a collective agreed purpose. As we read in today's Torah portion, kol asher dibeir Adonai na-ase, all that God has said, we will do. This is really the first time the multitude that left Egypt collectively agreed to a positive goal. But it took a while for the sense of mutual responsibility to take hold. We may have been given the Ten Commandments at Sinai, but learning to live by them required a period of adjustment. Remember, just forty days later, they built the golden calf. Forty years in the wilderness was only the beginning. Forty years for the generation raised in Egypt to die or adjust. Forty years may have eliminated the physical obstacles to acceptance, but the psyche of the people needed much longer. It takes a long time to unlearn habits ingrained over many years, a long time to effe
ctively make a change, turn in a different direction. Yet turn they did, toward the Promised Land. It took the once-slaves forty years to turn away from Egypt, the narrow place, and face the promise of a land flowing with milk and honey. How long does it take us to let go of people, places, experiences that constrict us? How long before we can face the promise of a new land, let alone cross over the Jordan River?
There's a passage in the Passover haggada that reminds us we can be enslaved in more ways than one. The passage explains we can be enslaved by poverty and inequality, laziness and cowardice or harmful habits and emotional hurts. Some of these enslavements are beyond our control, but we can have an impact on many of them. We have a choice as to how we behave, how we relate to ourselves and others. And, if how we are doing that, puts us in a box, enslaves us, we have the ability to change, to turn in a different direction.
But how do we know what direction to turn? How do we decide which is the right way? "Two roads diverged in a wood and I - I took the one less traveled by". That's a possibility. It worked for Robert Frost. But even he went through a process to make that decision. Whether it takes five seconds, five minutes, or five months -- or a lifetime, whether I go through it once or over and over again until I get it right, there is a process I have to go through, a process we have to go through in order to change. That process for me is part of t'shuva. Or more accurately leads to t'shuva. T'shuva is the culmination of a series of processes.
First, I need to figure out there's a problem. Something will alert me. It could be a major crisis like a job loss or a relationship wreck, a car accident or the death of a friend. But it could also be just a nagging feeling that "something is not right". Maybe I can't sleep or can't stay focussed at work. Maybe I have no tolerance for my boss's inconsiderateness even though he's not doing anything any different than he ever does. Maybe I just want to be home alone and not talk to anyone or do anything. For me, they are all signals that something's going on I need to deal with.
OK, so I know something's up. Now what? This is the part called chesbon ha-nefesh, literally, accounting of the soul. Rabbi Wayne Dossick in Dancing with God calls it soul inventory. And it is very much like taking inventory of what's in the warehouse. Just like many businesses take an annual physical inventory, the High Holy Days give us the opportunity to do an annual inventory, even if we haven't been taking stock throughout the year. Cheshbon, accounting, comes from the same root as chasheiv, think. Without going into the Hebrew etymology, let's just say soul searching gives us a lot to think about. A lot to think about and a lot to pay attention to, for if we don't pay attention, what is the point of all that work? As we read earlier, "May we hear within ourselves the yearnings that are struggling for expression." How then do we find the time, find the quiet space to hear those tiny voices?
Some people use meditation, not necessarily the transcendental variety, but the Jewish form of meditation, as Dossick says, striving for kavana which he defines as "the directing of consciousness; ... true deep spiritual intention; the highest spiritual connection." Through meditation, he continues, "[w]e come into God's energy field; ... we open ourselves to be a conduit to God and a clear channel from God." He maintains that through Jewish meditation we can reach the ultimate closeness and unity with God. That's not really what I'm after. I'm not looking for a mystical or prophetic experience. I just want a way to figure out what's going on in my life. As we read in our Shabbat evening siddur, "How shall we begin the search to reach the sacred part of ourselves where rests the essence of all that is good?"
The answer for me is prayer. Not just standing in shul davening, reciting someone else's words, but finding that place of solitude where the whisperings of my soul can emerge, where I can hear the still, small voice. As far as I'm concerned, how you define that voice is a personal choice, but for the sake of a common terminology, let's just call that voice God, whatever image of God works for you. And if you don't have one that works, perhaps our Yom Kippur morning liturgy can supply you with one. We have an entire section devoted to images of God. Harold Schulweis in For Those Who Can't Believe, contends that the purpose of prayer is a means to an end, a reflexive encounter with God. The individual is both the target and the recipient of the act of praying. "Prayer is more than something to be asked for. Prayer is the constant search for the means of repair of the self and the world." A two-way interaction, but not ultimate unity.
For me, the purpose of prayer is to access that part of myself that already knows where I am and where I need to go. Some might consider this "talking to God". I actually feel it's more like talking to myself, which I do anyway, but this is talking to a different part of myself. Being able to hear that voice, is for me the key to t'shuva, to changing direction. When I take the time to hear, to listen, I know what to do. The following quote from a daily meditation book echoes my feeling. "Courage and strength, ability and resourcefulness are never lacking when we follow the guidance within and trust in its direction. All the wisdom necessary for succeeding at any task, completing any goal, charting any desire, is as close as our attention to God."
So now that I've had this conversation with myself and have all this "wisdom" about who and where I am, what do I do with it? What's the next step? I can't just ignore all I've learned. (Well, I could, but that wouldn't be paying attention, or t'shuva.) How do I pay attention to what my soul cries out for? Rav Abraham Isaac Kook, the first chief rabbi of Israel said, "When one forgets the essential nature of the soul, when one averts one's thought from the quality of introspection, everything becomes confused and in doubt. The principle of t'shuva, which illumines the dark places, is the return of the individual to the self, to the source of the soul." This return to the source creates an internal unity, a wholeness of spirit or sh'leimut, a reuniting with the Creator. In this way, we can join in the creation process. As it says in Pirke Avot, The Ethics of the Fathers, it is not our job to complete the work of creation, but neither are we free to r
efrain from it. As we read last night, one of the ways we continue the work of creation is by gathering the sparks of light that abound in the world.
This process of tikkun olam, healing of the world, can take place on a personal level as well as a universal level. Before I can tackle the world, even my tiny piece of it, I need to integrate what I learned in my inventory-taking and heal the parts that were signaling me there was a problem. I have to trust what my heart and soul have shown me. I have to act on that information, using it to turn, to face God, to face myself, to be centered within myself. As Melody Beattie says, "Our best work, our finest moments, our joy happens when we're centered, listening to and trusting ourselves, allowing our hearts and souls to guide us. They happen when we allow ourselves fully, completely, and in love, be who we are." Fully and completely. The unity of the soul, the wholeness of spirit, peace and serenity.
Easier said than done. I have prayed in order to hear what I need to do, but now that I know what that is, how do I do it? One of the ways for me is through ritual. Ritual and routine. Routine creates the space to function without spending too much time making new decisions. Ritual provides the emotional comfort that allows me to be open. Our souls long for connection through ritual. Connection to our childhood, connection to our history, connection to each other. For me, ritual includes communal davenning. Being part of a community as it celebrates and mourns, performing the traditional rituals. As some of you know, I'm involved with a small Jewish Day School in Annapolis. At least three mornings a week, I go to morning t'fila at school. These kids may only be 7 -10 yrs old, but the ruach, the energy, that fills that room, could rival the Lubavitch. I get to wear my tallit; I get to gather the fringes and remember the covenant; I get to sing and chant and b
e part of a community. And feel the arms of that community wrapped around me. Bet Mishpachah provides me a similar community. It is rare that I miss a Friday night service and even though my parents are just up the road in Baltimore, this is where I choose to spend Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur. But I will go to Baltimore tomorrow because I want to hear and sing the music I grew up with, a different ritual connection than that which I get at Bet Mishpachah, but a strong connection, none-the-less. The Kol Nidre prayer, chanted in its three-fold legal formula is probably the most widely practiced ritual of the Jewish people. We don't have six to seven hundred congregants for that service because ritual doesn't mean anything to them. It's the ritual that brings them here, that has brought you here, that brings me here. It's the ritual that creates a community out of strangers. And it's the ritual that helps transform the intent of t'shuva into action, fostering tikkun olam and universal sh'leimut.
Ten days ago, the president of the United States quoted our High Holyday liturgy. In his struggle to find wholeness, t'shuva provided a vehicle. That passage from the machzor concludes, "turn us toward each other, Adonai, for in isolation there is no life." And so we gather here today, together, as a community, the community of Bet Mishpachah, as well as part of Klal Yisroel, the community of Israel. Having followed our ancestors' route to Sinai and reviewed our covenant with God through the Ten Commandments, we are now ready to face the rest of the Yamim Noraim, the Days of Awe, secure in our sense of self and community. The journey has just begun. I hope the ride isn't too bumpy.
Shana tova u-m'tucha. May you have a good and sweet year, filled with light and joy and peace.