Seeing Connections, Making Community
by Alexandra G. Carter
Rosh Ha-Shanah Morning I, 5760
Shabbat shalom; good shabbas; hag samei-ach; l'shana tova. There are many possible greetings today. Because today we have much to celebrate.
Last night, we recalled and celebrated the creation of the world. God, the sole Source of Life, created the heavens and the earth by speaking "let there be," God said, and there was. Creation one whole glowing in beautiful, variety, mirroring the many facets of its Creator. Creation was "good," as God saw, but it was not perfect. Our tradition tells us that our task is to continue the work of creation by acts of tikkun olam by taking steps to repair what is broken in the world. We are not expected to finish the work. But neither are we free to refrain from doing it.
Today, we celebrate and commemorate the creation of the Jewish community. So I'd like to spend some time talking about community how it can be created, and how it can be strengthened. I realized while preparing for today that when I have led services over the past year, I have repeatedly returned to the idea of community and what it means.
Now, that says something about my own concerns. But it also says a lot about the importance of community in the Jewish mind, that the Torah deals with community so much that it's possible to talk about it, in one way or another, almost every week, with almost every parsha.
Take, for example, the traditional Torah reading for the first morning of Rosh Ha-Shanah. That reading recounts the birth of Isaac, and the exile of Hagar and Ishmael because of the threat that Sarah felt they posed to her son.
To me, this parsha shows us community building through exclusion. There is a clear demarcation made between Us and Them, between In and Out. This kind of community building runs the real risk of creating an opposing community, united in resentment of its outsider status. A community built through exclusion ultimately is very fragile both because of the threat that the opposing community can become, and because it is based on an identity created from what we are not, driven by the forces of division.
Isaac went on to become Israel, made a great nation as God promised. And the Torah tells us that God rescued Hagar and Ishmael from exile, and that Ishmael went on to become a great nation, too. Today, the children of Israel and the children of Ishmael continue an ancient enmity in the middle East. When I drashed on this parsha last fall, the Wye River agreements had just been concluded, and there was hope for reconciliation between the cousins.
In the time since, those agreements were repudiated, and an election was held in Israel. Now, there's a new Prime Minister, and an agreement was signed last weekend at Sharm el Sheik. The Wye accords seem to be back on track. But, as sure as night follows day, car bombs and death once again followed an attempt to bridge differences. The forces of division are very strong.
In contrast, the portion that we at Bet Mishpachah have chosen for today focuses on the giving of the ten commandments. This reading shows us community building through mutual commitment to each other, and to the laws of the Source of Life. And today's haftarah tells us that this covenental relationship is open to anyone willing to "preserve justice and do what is right".
Like the totality of creation we read about last night, the Jewish community created at Sinai was also a creation of speech. At Sinai, we heard the words of the covenant. And we gave voice to our acceptance we said, "all that God has spoken, we will do."
We accepted as a community, together. The entire community, shimmering in its unity and its diversity, reflecting the unity and diversity of its Creator. And, as with the rest of creation, we must continue and try to perfect this community through our actions.
So today our liturgy focuses on the creation of the Jewish community. But many of us consider ourselves to be members of more than one community. There are three communities that are a significant part of my life right now. And each of them is teaching me a lot.
Some of you are aware that I'm writing a dissertation. A few of you know that it's about nuclear non-proliferation policy. That sounds pretty political science-y. And it works to keep my dissertation committee happy. But my dissertation is really about a community a community that worked to prevent the spread of nuclear weapons after World War II. This community was created from the belief that nuclear weapons posed an enormous threat, not just to one nation, but to the entire world.
This community saw the connectedness of humanity, and the fragility of that connection in the face of atomic power. They hoped that, if nothing else would, this threat would be sufficient to make policy makers around the world realize how interconnected our security, our very survival, was.
The community thought that the best way to stop the spread of nuclear weapons was through strong international control. They worked hard to get that, but they didn't get it, or anything like it, for many years. Twenty-five years after the devastation at Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the Non-Proliferation Treaty was a pallid version of their hope.
The community's frustration was, in many ways, due to the strength of the forces of division. National leaders could not see human community across national boundaries, even when faced with an unprecedented threat.
This community occupies much of my mind or, what's left of my mind as I work on my dissertation. But there are other communities to which I give my heart and soul.
One of these is the gay and lesbian community. This community is united by beliefs, too that, as we used to say, "gay is good." That political, social and human rights for sexual minorities are not "special rights." That we must work for openness and acceptance.
But our community is frequently prey to the forces of division, and splits along many lines. There are, for example, those who support same-sex marriage, and those who think it's merely empty imitation of heterosexuality. Those who feel we should focus on state-by-state organizing for legal rights, and those who advocate a dramatic demonstration of our unity in a march on Washington. These differences sometimes threaten to turn into bitter divisions.
And then last, but certainly not least there's the Jewish community, united so powerfully by our history, our God, our commitment to Torah. And united by beliefs about the inherent dignity of every person, the supremacy of that one God, and much, much more. And, very importantly, we hold the belief that these beliefs require actions, not just words, to be realized in the world.
Those of us born Jewish, and those of us who have become Jewish, have made a choice. We have chosen to accept the challenge of living by the rules summarized in the ten commandments. Midrash says that we all stood together at Sinai the adults, the children, the swaddled infants, those not yet born, we here today. We all stood and promised to DO. To match God's commitment with our own.
So we have much to unite us. But the Jewish community fractures too. Orthodox versus Reform, Sephardim versus Ashkenazim. We value our diversity, and rightly so. But sometimes we let our differences become divisions. Even we, created as a community by the words of God, can forget the creative unity that lies behind the diversity.
So these three communities struggle with, and against, the forces of division. With greater and lesser success. Which raises the question: why does it seem so easy to fall prey to forces of division and separation?
Well, I'd like to propose two reasons. One is that recognizing our connection with others brings responsibility. Terrible responsibility. If we are indeed different facets of the same common whole, we cannot hide from each other. We cannot ignore the needs, the oppression, the pain, of others. We are charged to continue and perfect the work of creation, and that includes working to make the lives of others better. It's a big responsibility. It's easy to succumb to despair, and think that our efforts will make no difference. We may be tempted, then, to stay home with our own lives and comforts, and say, I've got mine, that's enough. It's hard to find a balance between taking on all the world's troubles and ignoring them completely.
A second reason is that recognizing our commonality means recognizing that we all, each of us, have within us the good, the caring, and the kind, but also the evil, the indifferent, and the cruel. It means that we have to acknowledge and appreciate the good within other people, and recognize and work to change the bad in ourselves. This is complicated, and can be difficult, especially when differences arise. It's hard to remember that we're all a mixture of some good, and some bad. It's simpler, and very tempting, to set ourselves up as the good guy, and someone else as the bad guy.
These are the tendencies tendencies we all have that we have to overcome, if differences are not to turn into divisions. And we Jews, especially, know how fatal division can be. We have seen the danger inherent in dividing the world into groups, into Us and Them, Friend and Enemy. Because we have been the "Them," the "Enemy," the "Other" too many times in our history.
And besides, overcoming divisions has a very positive side. When we feel those rushes of identification with others, it's thrilling. The exhilaration of realizing we are not alone, of finding commonality, of finding community, is priceless. Remember how it felt to come out?
I have been fortunate enough to be able to "come out" as a member of both the gay and lesbian community and the Jewish community. I wasn't born into either of them. The attraction to the gay and lesbian community is, I think, self-explanatory. But the matter of my conversion to Judaism is more complicated.
I have often said that the reason I converted was because of the women and the food. Now that's true, certainly. But that's not the whole truth.
The whole truth includes an attraction to a theology that recognizes the unity around us and celebrates our connections. After all, the central creed of our religion, the Sh'ma, says: Adonai is our God, Adonai is one. The Source of Creation is one. All of creation, all of us included, is one great, diverse, whole.
I was also attracted to blessings. Not merely the blessings of family and friends. But the practice of saying brachot, blessings. If done mindfully, this is a practice that keeps the unity of creation constantly before us, that gives us the opportunity to recognize and affirm our connection to the Source of Life when we wake up, when we eat, and at many other times during each day.
Our tradition even gives us a blessing to say when confronted with those who appear to be different from us. Baruch ata Adonai Eloheinu, Melech ha-olam, m'shaneh ha-b'riyot. "Blessed are you, God, who makes creatures different." This blessing affirms and celebrates diversity. And, more importantly, it reminds us that the diversity of Creation comes from a single Source, and reflects the infinite aspects of the Creator.
And I was attracted to a commitment to a community. To work together, to share each other's joys and pains. To celebrate with the betrothed, and to stand together in a house of mourning. I have had the opportunity recently to do both of these. It's easier to participate in the happy times than in the sad times. Probably because it's easier to think of myself as celebrating than as mourning. But both serve to remind me that I am part of a community, part of a greater whole.
For me, becoming High Holy Days co-chair was a way to try to give something back to this community that has given me so much. This community of Bet Mishpachah.
Lately I have been hearing from newcomers that they like the ruach, the spirit, of our Friday night services. These new friends have commented how welcoming and friendly we are. Some of us know that this has not always been the case that at some times in our history it's been hard to break in, to feel welcome. But over the past few years, the leadership of the synagogue has made a commitment to be more welcoming. That commitment has been taken up and made real by the actions of many individual members. And it's bearing fruit. This small example of trying to overcome the forces of division has strengthened and renewed our community.
So today we commemorate the creation of our community. But the work of creating community is never finished. We can always find new ways to recognize, and act upon, our connection to each other. Some of the work can be done by leadership. But a vibrant community starts with the individual's attitude and behavior.
For me the challenge of High Holy Days, going into every new year, is to keep the truth of our connectedness constantly in front, in all my dealings. To practice teshuvah, to turn my attitude and actions in a more positive direction. To overcome the fears that keep me focused on what separates us, rather than what connects us. It's an issue when I'm with my family, from whom I often feel estranged because my important communities are not theirs. Or with my dissertation committee, when I feel like they're out to get me. Or when I'm out driving on the Beltway, when I'm sure they're out to get me.
It can be overwhelming sometimes. Demands on time and energy make cocooning at home, ignoring or disparaging others, very, very attractive.
But I remember the words of the poet Pablo Neruda, who said, we never touch people so lightly that we don't leave a trace. Members of a community understand how our lives touch each other, and understand that we must be careful how we act, so that the trace we leave on each other is a mark of grace, and not a scar. And it is those marks of grace that redeem us, as individuals and as a community.
The Torah begins with the word b'reishit, "in the beginning". One sage noted that we can understand this as saying that God created the world "for the sake of beginning." All the Creator asks is that we make a beginning, a turn in the right direction.
We won't finish the work, but we can always begin. Each new day is an opportunity. Each new year is an opportunity. To take those actions that we must take, to turn our lives in the direction we, and God, want them to be going.
As the poet Rainier Maria Rilke said, "now let us welcome the new year, full of things that have never been." We are the ones who fill the year with the things, the actions, that have never been. Our yearly opportunity for beginning anew is here. How shall we take advantage of it?
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