Asking Hard Questions, Creating Holy Community
by Alexandra G. Carter
Rosh Ha-Shanah Morning I, 5761
Last night we celebrated the creation of the world, and God as the creator of all animals and plants, the lakes and rivers, and the bats. Today, the focus shifts to the creation of the Jewish people. Creation. Think a moment about creativity.
When we think of individual creativity, we tend to think of it as a gift, or a calling perhaps from God. The brilliant musician, the gifted sculptor, the visionary painter all have special gifts, we may think, which we mere mortals don't.
Well, maybe not all of us can be sculptors or painters (good ones, anyway), but we all are capable of being creative. And it's ironic that we tend to not think of ourselves as creative, because many of us here today have been quite creative.
As Jews, we draw upon our tradition, we respond to the flux and change of the modern world, and we create lives that, in many respects, bear little resemblance to the lives that our parents or grandparents knew. Many of us have come to Washington from places far away. All of us have traveled emotional or spiritual distances to be here, at Bet Mishpachah, the Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual and Transgendered synagogue of the nation's capital.
So each of us is, in some way, quite creative. In fact, since we are created b'tzelem Elohim, in the image of God, we all have echoes of divine creativity within us. And as Jews, we are obligated to be creative. Whether it's preserving a fragile ecosystem, working to eradicate poverty, writing a sonnet, or raising a child, we each in our own way have a role to play in furthering some part of the work of creation. We are not required to complete the task, but neither are we free to refrain from doing it.
Today I want to talk about how we can all be creative actors in the ongoing process of building and sustaining community in particular, the Jewish community. And more specifically, our community here at Bet Mishpachah. But first a bit more about creativity.
It may be that the best marker of the creative mind, whether artistic, athletic or scientific, is the willingness, the ability, the drive to ask questions. Questions like: Is the world really flat? What if I were to use a bunch of dots to represent swaths of color? Why can't a free people govern themselves? Such questions open new doors, new ways of thinking and being.
There is a Hasidic story about a young man who one night, after years of studying Torah and Talmud, ran out into the town square and began crying out, "what is the meaning of life? I can't study another verse of Torah until I know." His neighbors tried to calm him, but to no avail. Finally, they recommended that he go see the local rebbe. The young man entered the rebbe's house, and nervously asked, "rebbe, I cannot go on any longer, until I know, what is the meaning of life?" The rebbe rose from his seat, looked at the young man for a moment, then slapped him across the face. "Why did you slap me, rebbe?" the surprised and wounded young man asked. "You fool," the rebbe answered, "you have such a good question why exchange it for an answer? It is the answers which separate us, the questions which unite us."
Now, I find this teaching fascinating, but I would like to put my own spin on it. Last night we began asking ourselves a series of questions, hard questions, to focus our introspection and self-reviewuation. The answers we come up with are our own individual answers, and as such they can serve to separate us from others. But if we are asking holy questions, questions about how to become the holy community we are intended to be, the answers the actions we take to answer the questions can unite us in very powerful ways.
The hard questions we must ask about our community come in two types. The first kind is those which only each of us can answer for him or herself: when was the last time I did something concrete to help build and strengthen my community? At Bet Mishpachah, how long has it been since, for instance, I sponsored an oneg shabbat, or attended a shiva minyan? How has this state of affairs developed, and what can I do differently next year?
Then there are those questions which the community has to ask itself collectively, and whose answers require common effort: Should the congregation affiliate? How can we deepen and broaden our unique liturgy? How can we nurture our leaders and volunteers? What are we going to do about this baby boom? How can we support those who are ill, or care for our parents and aging members? How should we celebrate and strengthen our diversity of religious practice, of culture and ethnicity, of sexuality? How can we express our Jewish values in the larger Gay community, and our Gay values in the larger Jewish community? These questions guide our common direction.
The Torah portion we have just read (Yitro) shows us that the creation of the Jewish people, unlike the creation of the world, was an act of people as well as of God a partnership. Midrash says that God offered the ten commandments to many different peoples, but it was only the people Israel who agreed to accept them unconditionally. God asked a hard question (or perhaps ten hard questions), and the people Israel responded, not merely with a statement of faith, but by saying "we shall do." That individual and collective commitment to right action is the fundamental building block of the community formed that day at Sinai. And it must be central to our community today.
It must be central, because we need to counteract the strong tendency we have to think primarily in terms of the benefits that flow from a community to us. Whether it's High Holy Day services, support in a time of bereavement, education, spiritual renewal or social opportunities, we tend to think about what a community can provide for us.
And if the community disappoints us somehow, our impulse is to walk away to place the blame on the community and its shortcomings, and find someplace else that will feed us.
But the flow is not one way. In order to have a nurturing community, we each must put our creative effort into it. As Rabbi Burt Jacobson teaches, "you can't have community unless you have responsibility for each other in an ongoing way."
This is important, because community isn't just your family or your friends. Don't let our synagogue's name, Bet Mishpachah, the house of the family, confuse you. Community goes beyond family. It's not always those whom you choose to be with, not just the ones you have over for dinner or share a life with. To paraphrase the hard question of our sage Hillel: If we are only for ourselves, or for our friends, then what are we?
And community isn't just a group of people assembled in one place. We can all be in one room, as we are today, saying the same prayers, singing the same songs, and not really be a community. Communities need ongoing, creative attention from their members attention to important questions, large and small, individual and collective or they wither and die.
But here's the rub. Getting involved, with people who aren't our friends or our family, is complicated. We can have the most holy, most creative intentions in the world. We see a need we can address, a role we can play.
But then we'll run up against other people, whose answers to the questions of how to create the holy community don't mesh exactly with ours. People of good faith can, and do, disagree. But the willingness to get involved, to ask hard questions and to propose answers, to engage in disputes, is a vital part of the creative process.
So we need to be careful about the ends that disagreement serves. If we disagree just because we're committed to our own position, because we know we're right and everyone else is wrong, we're in trouble. Our own hubris, our desire to dominate, will make us deaf to the answers of others, and the creative potential of our questions will be lost. We will burn out from conflict and stagnate in bitterness. But if we disagree, as our tradition teaches, "for the sake of heaven," in the pursuit of our common goals of creating a better community, then we're on the right track. This focus makes it easier to see each other as partners, to keep our minds open, and to remain willing to ask the creative questions necessary to move forward.
Rabbi Wayne Dosick teaches that the quality we should strive for in our interactions is chesed. This is a small word that represents many qualities: loving kindness, mercy, compassion, decency, dignity. Remember our status as b'tzelem Elohim, images of God. It's interesting that in this formulation we use Elohim, the plural form of God. To me, this highlights the fact that a God that encompasses all we can think of, and more, can be reflected, or imagined, in an infinite number of ways. The image of God I see (or try to see) in the mirror may appear to differ significantly from the one I see across the sanctuary, or across the meeting table. But that shouldn't distract me from the fact that they are all images of the same Source, and equally deserving of chesed.
More than one teacher has noted that our most profound relationships are relationships of struggle and growth. Think of your relationships with parents, siblings, children, lovers. They are not always easy. Perhaps that's an understatement. In these relationships we engage each other, ask ourselves and each other difficult questions, and hold each other accountable for the answers, all while maintaining loving respect. And these relationships are the ones that can be the most rewarding, and can result in the greatest growth.
Perhaps this is where the "Mishpachah" part of our name applies the commitment to honor each other, and to struggle with each other, as if we were family.
Can we bring that commitment, that willingness to ask hard questions, to struggle compassionately with the answers, into our larger community? Isn't our community worthy of our effort? And if not, why not? And how can we change that?
And what can we do to make our commitment concrete? First, we must ask ourselves some hard questions about our roles in this community. Our answers should guide our next steps.
Actions that create, rather than destroy, community, don't have to be huge. You don't have to go from coming twice a year to serving on the Board. And you probably shouldn't, for a lot of reasons. You can take very small, but very significant steps. A few suggestions: Go beyond your circle of friends, and introduce yourself to someone new at kiddush later this morning. Or serve on a committee. Or come to a Shabbat service. Or just say thank you to a board member or a committee chair for the work they do to sustain this community, even if their answers aren't your answers.
These are all acts that create and sustain, the web of connection and positive energy that is necessary for a community to grow and thrive and to be able to help its members flourish.
During this past Hebrew month of Elul, we have had the opportunity to begin the intense self-reviewuation and reassessment that distinguishes the High Holy Days from the rest of the year. This process moves into high gear, or for some of us begins, today, and culminates at Yom Kippur. Similarly, on Shabbat we are not supposed to be doing acting in the way we normally do during the week.
Instead, on Shabbat we are given the opportunity to step away from the business the busy-ness of the week and think about what we have done, in an effort to do differently, to do better, in the week ahead. So today, which is both High Holy Day and Shabbat, is a doubled opportunity to take stock, to ask questions, to begin the work of re-creating ourselves and our community.
As Ghandi said, the work you are doing may seem unimportant, but it is very important that you do it. That is true for all the actions that result from our High Holy Day self-assessment, but particularly true for our efforts to create and sustain a holy community. The responsibility we have is undeniable. But as we read in the Torah a couple of weeks ago, and as Al reminded us in another context last night, our obligations are not above or beyond our capacity not in the heavens far away, not deep in the ocean, inaccessible. There are things we each can do. The steps we take may be small, but it is very important that we take them.
So even if we can't sculpt in clay, let's shape a community that nurtures all. Even if we can't paint in oil or watercolors, let's try to see each others' true, divine colors as we work together. Even if we can't produce the great American novel, let's write ourselves, and our community, in the Book of Life for the coming year. Hard questions animate us, and can yield creative and holy answers.
Shana tova u-m'tuka, may you have a good and sweet year.
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