Year in Review: 5755

Sermon on the 2nd day of Rosh Hashanah, 5756

Some months back, when I first began thinking about the High Holidays, I expected that Oklahoma City would so dominate the year, that it would be the subject. Today, thankfully, those tragic events appear to have been an aberration, and as time has gone on, the urgency to speak about them has diminished. When I, then, got to the point immediately before the High Holidays at which I started to put pen to paper, I could not immediately think of what to choose as the subject of this talk. There was always the Simpson trial, but that had turned into a caricature of itself, and did not seem worthy of the time.

I paused, then, to give myself a moment to think, when it suddenly became overwhelmingly obvious which subject I needed to address, and that it was only my personal pain at approaching the subject that was preventing me from doing so. The subject is, of course, the peace process, which dominates the thoughts and emotions of every Jew as we gather on this Rosh Hashanah.

My own personal block came, as I say, from the pain that I was feeling about the subject. But the source of my pain was not just the obvious source-- not just that which the opponents of the peace process point to-- meaning the bombings, the deaths, the injuries, and the violence of the past year. These things are certainly painful enough. However, what caused my hesitation was a different source of pain, and that is the meaning that the peace process has had for the Jewish community, and the things that the process has exposed.

We start with some of the statements that have been made as part of this process. As a lead-in to the High Holidays, advertisements appeared in the press suggesting that money not be given to the Israel Bond Appeal that is traditional on Rosh Hashanah, but rather that it be given to the opponents of the peace process or to no one. I remember several years ago, when the Reform movement suggested that it would withdraw financial support from Israel as a result of the "Who is a Jew" issue if it were to pass the Knesset, how correctly incensed we all were at that suggestion. Particularly opponents of the peace process, who claim that Israel is in dire straits, should recognize that if ever there was a time to be supportive of the State, this is it. Sadly, it is, nonetheless, my understanding that some synagogues did not hold a Bond Appeal this year.

It went beyond this. We witnessed an unbelievable scene this past year of at least one Jewish leader issuing a Jewish "fatwah." You may remember that word. It became famous after Salman Rushdie wrote his book and a "fatwah" indicating permission to murder him was issued. In similar fashion, this one Rabbinic leader publicly stated that it was all right for anyone to assassinate Rabin. Opposition is one thing, but to hear a Rabbinic leader speak of murder in this way, is terribly painful and very difficult.

The other side was not much better. In the camp of the supporters of the peace process, there were those dividing "true" Israelis from Americans, meaning the settlers who are, in so many ways, on the front lines. The entire process, in fact, has exacerbated the differences and driven a wedge into the divisions between the religious and the non-religious in Israeli society. We reached a point where it seemed as if being Jewish was no longer a unifying force, and that only a particular brand of Jewish nationalism was deemed acceptable for entry into the Zionist camp.

As the situation polarized, it seemed to me that two historically flawed doctrines emerged-- doctrines that, whenever they have appeared, have created great problems for our people.

On the one hand, the attitude of "niheyeh kechol hagoyim" (let us be like all the nations), that was Herzel's one great flaw, came to the forefront again. The idea that the Jewish state should be just one of many others in the Middle East, the idea that Jews be no different than any other nation, is one that flies in the face of Jewish history. G-d has assigned us as His treasured people, and we have survived precisely because we believed that we had a historic mission to fulfill. Without that sense of mission, I do not think we would be here today.

On the other side, there appears to me to be an excessive sense of knowing exactly how G-d wants history to play itself out. This "knowledge" seems to travel far beyond the line of Messianic speculation. It is one thing to hope for, pray for, believe in, and wait for the Messiah. It is quite another to determine that one knows exactly and specifically what the course of final redemption and salvation will be. Historically, we have had very troubling results from people making these kind of claims.

I said much of this during this past year from this pulpit. Now, however, we come to Rosh Hashanah. It is, therefore, time for a little deeper analysis. Such analysis suggests to me that there is an underlying disturbing element that both sides share. I suspect that both sides, deep down, struggle with a sense of helplessness, of futility, and of fear, and that in response to these feelings, each side engages in excessive bravado about its own position.

It is clear that the peace process is, as of today, no bargain. The terrorist danger is greater, and the lack of a feeling of security is very real. There are genuine and legitimate concerns as to what the other side really wants, and is really willing to deliver. If one speaks to defenders of the process privately, they will, in unguarded moments, admit to the shortcomings and the doubts.

On the other hand, the opponents are not really better off. Before the peace process began, there was a kind of low-grade intefada that had gone on for years. While it is true that there were no bombs, there was stone throwing and knives. Even if the violence was less dramatic, the constant feeling of oppressing and beating people had created a moral malaise that was truly painful to see, and that led most people to want to find a way out.

Returning to that is not a happy prospect. Further, I have spoken to many opponents of the peace process-- even some have stayed in our home-- and it is hard for me to see a clear plan of what they would do today if they were in control, given the fact that certain realities have been created that cannot easily be changed.

Obviously, this is a very depressing message to deliver and I generally do not like to deliver depressing messages on Rosh Hashanah, which is, after all, a holiday. However, I was not going to shirk my responsibility. My professional sense of integrity means in part that one has to be true to oneself and to one's commitment, and therefore, if a depressing message was the message that needed to be delivered then so be it-- it would be the message that I would deliver.

Then, a few weeks ago, I came across part of an Agnon story that changed my entire view of this subject, and made it clear to me not only that this issue had to be spoken about, but also the fundamental flaw that exists on both sides of the debate.

First, a moment to explain the use of Agnon as a source. All who have ever read or studied him know that Agnon writes from a perspective that is steeped in Biblical, Rabbinic, and Jewish mystical tradition. There are Ph.D.s waiting for those who will write scholarly editions of Agnon, citing the earlier sources which he is referencing. Perhaps the best way to say it is that, if Midrash were being written today, Agnon would be one of the authors. Finally, for those who are more traditional in their desire for sources, we will, before we conclude, speak of traditional Rabbinic Midrash, as well.

The Agnon story which I encountered is called "A Guest for the Night," whose first chapter is entitled "I Came to My Hometown." It incorporates one of those series of stories in Agnon that speak of his coming home just before a holiday, usually before Yom Kippur, as is the case here.

I always understood those returns home not just as a search for the lost spirituality and presence of G-d of the author's youth, but also as a quest to find out if the feelings of G-d's presence that he remembers from his childhood were real, whether they have any place in the modern world, or whether they were simply the fanciful memories of childhood. In this particular return, Agnon comes, I think, a good deal closer to answering that question than, perhaps, in some of his other works. The chapter is full of a very striking symbolism, in which Agnon lays out, and in a sense responds to, the modernist challenge. The symbolism he employs is that of two characters with prosthetic limbs. As dramatic as the image is for us, it would be particularly poignant in the 1930s when it was written, as there were many people wearing such devices in the aftermath of the First World War.

In the first paragraph of the chapter, with Agnon the autobiographical storyteller on a train heading for his hometown, we meet a character named "Rubberovitch." "Rubberovitch" is described as, "His left arm had been lost in the war and the new one they gave him was made of rubber." "Rubberovitch" seems to be a proud man who, in announcing the stations, carries out his task with a great deal of style. He also seems to be proud of the man-made contraption attached to him, and at one point in the story he even strokes his arm in, perhaps, an affectionate manner. Nonetheless, the name "Rubberovitch" is a derisive one. It and he are introduced by some laughing women who see him at a distance and call him by this name.

This foreshadows the end of the chapter, where a second such character introduces himself. This character is named Daniel Bach. Mr. Bach accompanies the author on his walk to the hotel where he will stay. Mr. Bach has a wooden right leg. The author notices the right leg, and begins to walk more slowly to accommodate Mr. Bach. Mr. Bach is not happy about this accommodation.

Before we get to that unhappiness, Agnon has here included yet another foreshadowing of what is to come. "Rubberovitch" had the prosthesis on the left side; Bach has it on the right. Agnon certainly knew that, in Rabbinic literature, the right side is the dominant side. In fact, any of you here today who think you are left-handed are not, at least so far as Rabbinic literature is concerned. Instead, your right hand is simply on the side of the body that everybody else's left hand is on-- at least, so Rabbinic literature sees it. In fact, one should appropriately translate the Hebrew words, "yamin" and "semol" not as "right" and "left" but as "dominant" and "submissive."

As previously mentioned, Bach is unhappy at this attempt to accommodate his leg, but despite his protestations, there is no indication that Agnon ever speeds up again. Nonetheless, Bach speaks of his leg in terms that reveal what has been foreshadowed, and directly challenges G-d's work of creation: "I walk like any other man. In fact, this man-made leg is better than the other which is the work of G-d. It doesn't have to worry about rheumatism, and it beats the other for walking."

Even this challenge to G-d's work of creation is itself yet another foreshadowing of the next and more serious challenge. When the author, at the end of their walk together, offers Bach his wishes for a successful Day of Atonement, Bach responds and says, "If you mean me, it's a wasted greeting, for I don't believe the Day of Atonement has any power to make things better or make them worse." Bach goes on, and concludes, "I don't believe the Almighty cares about the welfare of his creatures. . . but I shouldn't be clever just before sundown, so let me wish you a full atonement."

As always with Agnon, the master of metaphor, he reserves his best metaphors for the modernist challenge to tradition. The wooden leg is better than the G-d-made leg, says Mr. Bach, the modernist. Now, there is an obvious retort to that claim-- would Bach, particularly since his wooden leg is of 1930s technology, be willing to have the other leg amputated so that he could walk on two wooden legs? Even to ask the question is to suggest its absurdity. But the Bach character has been invested by Agnon with the modernist conceit that humanity controls everything, makes everything, builds everything, decides everything, and does everything. Bach has no need for atonement. In fact, even without denying G-d, he has removed G-d from the equation. He doesn't believe that G-d has any interest in what goes on here. It is simply up to the human being to decide how things are and what they should be. Whether one is talking about legs or atonement or morality, it is the human being who does it all and controls it all.

I believe that both sides in the peace process argument suffer from this same hubris and that, in fact, this hubris has increased over the course of the past year. "We can make Israel like all other nations in the Middle East." "We can determine the course that the final redemption will follow." "We can decide who are the true Israelis." "We can pronounce death sentences." And above all, "We do not need to consider that G-d may have at least a part in all of these decisions."

If I am right, that what underlies the bravado of both sides is the sense of helplessness and of fear, then what I am also saying is that each side has created its own wooden leg, is hobbling around on its "creation," and that because it is the wooden leg that "we" have made, neither side can see any other means of transportation as valuable. Everyone is so vested in his or her own side as the only solution, that as they encounter the weaknesses of their own position, while at the same time seeing the other side's case as being dramatically weaker, the only response they can muster is a false "Bachian" bravado that leads to the kind of statements that we have heard this past year as a tragic kind of overcompensation.

We come, then, to Rosh Hashanah, the day of Malchut, of G-d's rule, of G-d's more visible control of the world. It is the day on which G-d judges the world, and therefore, the day on which the possibility of new realities appearing, of new things yet unseen in heaven and earth emerging, comes to the fore. In fact, the entire focus of the day is on the potential for change, and the potential that what I see today as reality and within my control may be very different tomorrow.

All this, it should be understood, represents the great paradox of western civilization. The western world has given man great control over his environment through our science and our technology. Sadly, some have taken that to mean that we no longer need G-d as a hypothesis, and that G-d can simply be excluded. In this way, so the claim goes, by removing antiquated ancient superstitions, true human potential can emerge. The truth is exactly the opposite. When one excludes G-d from our technological and scientific society, one has effectively said that the horizon ends at the limits of man's present understanding, analysis, and capacity-- "if I can't control it, it can't exist." However, if you bring G-d back to this technological world, then the possibilities become much broader and truly unlimited. Once G-d is again part of the equation, whatever the present reality is, it still contains the possibility of change by the actions of the Divine player in the drama of history.

I want it to be understood that this is not a "rose-colored glasses" talk. I am not saying, "Think healthy thoughts, and there will be a good outcome." I am not even saying, "Trust in G-d and everything will be fine." Certainly, part of the Rosh Hashanah message is that actions have consequences, and that mistakes can lead to negative results. It is, however, to say that, as we debate and argue-- and we should debate and argue-- the part that is in our control, as important as that is, we need to understand that there are parts not in our control, that those parts are in the hands of G-d, and that G-d is a player here. We need to recognize, at some level, the truth of the claim that "man proposes and G-d disposes." We, in short, need to be less afraid of the future, and more confident that somebody else is involved. The wooden leg we wear is not the best thing imaginable simply because we made it or because it is the only mechanism of locomotion that we can see.

Perhaps if we adopt such an attitude, then as we argue these critically important issues with all of our effort and all of our strength, defending whatever side it is that we view to be correct, we can tone down the rhetoric. In this way, we can keep the fabric of our community more intact, so that we are able to face whatever comes as a unified people, instead of in the fragments and pieces that we are presently creating within our community.

Finally, some classical Rabbinic Midrash. No one should have had less hope, no one should have had more fears about the future, than Abraham and Sarah in the years leading up to the birth of Isaac. Told that they would parent a nation, the ticking of the years 60, 70, 80, 90 would surely have tested anyone else. Yet when G-d promised a child, "Vehe'emin Bahashem Vayachshevehu Lo Tzedaka" (Abraham believed in G-d and G-d thought it a great act of righteousness on Abraham's part).

When, then, the child Isaac was born, as we read yesterday, the Midrash says that the blind were made to see, the deaf to hear, and the lame to walk. Abraham and Sarah's hope in G-d in the face of easy despair led to all those without hope to find not only hope but healing. I suspect that even Daniel Bach, were he alive in Abraham and Sarah's day would have thrown away his wooden leg and walked normally and joyously. The Rabbis saw all of that occurring because at a moment of easy despair, at a time when Abraham was busy making his own attempt to solve the problem with Hagar and Ishmael, he left room for faith in G-d as a player.

So, too, today. All of us should be on the front lines arguing for what we believe in this matter. But all of us need to be strengthened in terms of our underlying fears and concerns to the point where we remember that G-d is a G-d of possibilities, and Rosh Hashanah is a day of new beginnings and new options. Maybe, in this way, as we enter the new year, and confront these very difficult questions, we can do it in a way that builds the community instead of tearing it apart.

Shanah Tovah.