Rabbi Michael Adam Latz Shir Tikvah Congregation Rosh HaShanah 5771

Transcription

1 Rabbi Michael Adam Latz Shir Tikvah Congregation Rosh HaShanah 5771 SOUND THE SHOFAR T ka b shofar gadol l cheiruteinu, v sa neis gadol la-ashukeinu, v kol dror yishama b arba kanfot ha-aretz. T ku va-chodesh shofar, bakeseh l yom chageinu. Sound the great shofar to proclaim our freedom, raise a great banner for our oppressed and let the voice of liberty be heard in the four corners of the earth. Sound the shofar in the seventh month, at the beginning of our renewal festival. The hour of the New Year is upon us. Each year, at this moment, Eternity calls forth three angels to different places in the world. Shofar in hand, they set out on their journey. The first arrives at the shores of the sea. Tekiah she is called. Her name flows off the tongue like a ballad. Tekiah. Her job is to awaken. She might have an inflated ego with the last name G dolah the great one but she is resolutely humble, uncomplicated, some might say, melodious. Next is Shevarim, who limps along, his foot broken during that hurried night they fled Egypt. He carries the shattered remnants of slavery and torture inside. You cannot see his wounds, though they consume every twisted sinewy knot of his body. But brokenness fails to stop him. He is gritty and unsentimental, with an equanimity born from intimate sorrow. T ruah, the final one, finds a place in the heart of the city, on a street corner where busses screech past and workers hustle from their jobs to carpools and meetings and the gym. They race ahead blankly, expressionless; forward without soul, moving, but

2 2 not feeling. T ruah laments, Will the shofar be sounded in the city and the people not tremble? [Amos 3:6]. They gather beneath the faint shadows of the new moon. In the tiny shtiebls of Poland and the Great Synagogue in Jerusalem, quietly in Russian basements and the Iraqi underground and the tented villages of the Yemenite desert and on the shores of Lake Harriet, Tekiah, Shevarim and T ruah enjoy a moment of solitude before their work begins. At the break of dawn, in the seventh month, on the first day of the month, they will proclaim a day of commemoration, a sacred assembly, by the sound of the shofar [Lev. 23:23]. In the 9 th Century, the great sage Saadia Gaon offered several reasons for sounding the shofar on Rosh HaShanah. One reason suggests that the shofar sounded at Sinai; each year, we are to re-experience the piercing moment of revelation. Another reason contends that horns are blown for the coronation of a King; Rosh HaShanah is the coronation of God as King or Queen in the Heavenly court. Still another idea hearkens back to Akedat Yitzchak, the binding of Isaac. We sound the shofar to remind ourselves that it was a ram sacrificed in Isaac s stead; that our Awesome God is compassionate and just. There are several other reasons for sounding the shofar on Rosh HaShanah, as varied as they are evocative. The essential and most profoundly spiritual reasons we sound the shofar are to stir our conscience, to confront our past errors, and ultimately, to return to wholeness and holiness. To stir our conscience, to confront our past errors, and ultimately, to return to wholeness and holiness.

3 3 We turn to each of them this morning, in preparation for hearing the shofar in a few moments. Listen as they lift their voices. Tekiah is small and slight; you d never know by looking at her that she belts out the high notes like a grand diva from Broadway; her job is to wake people from their spiritual slumber. Like anyone with purpose, she takes her job seriously. We all live with incongruities, and Tekiah has embraced the nuance of who she is and longs to be. She is first to rise. Her lips touch the ancient horn. She breathes in and exhales. From ocean shores to mountain peaks, her stunning voice brings silent pause to the beasts of the fields and the tillers of the soil; even the wind stands at attention by her command. Tekiah! Does that first blast of the shofar startle you? It seems that it does many of us. Why is that? It isn t as though we re strangers to loud noises. For who among us is not assaulted daily with the blasts of car horns, loud music, construction equipment, emergency sirens, cell phones ringing, children screaming, television blaring? It isn t just the noise that is so disturbing, but what that unrelenting din represents: A world in rapid motion. The song tells us that New York is the city that doesn t sleep. But let s face it: despite the fact that we can t get take out here at 2am or our dry cleaning delivered, we Minnesotans might be wireless, but we are connected all the time. The information age has evolved into an era of information addiction, with people obsessing more and more about being available and up-to-date by-theminute about everything that is going on everywhere with everyone. This relentless pursuit of constant availability takes its toll on our lives. Often in subtle ways, sometimes in those more profound. , for example, is a great way to communicate. But how many of us, in a moment of anger or sadness or frustration, hit the send button, when, if we had waited a mere five minutes, we d have realized that delete was a better option? This constant connection runs the risk of distracting us

4 4 from doing the work we need to do, not just this holy day, but all year long. What is that work we must do? On Rosh HaShanah, Tekiah calls us to stir our conscience. What does it mean, to stir the conscience? Stirring the conscience is like stirring a pot of soup that has simmered on the stove for several hours. [We ve learned a thing or two from the Food Network in our house!]. We take the ladle and scoop the burnt and crusty food from the bottom. A good cook knows that if you don t stir for several hours, the bottom is hard and often tastes bitter. If you stir frequently, the chance of getting burned is significantly reduced. So too with us. Stirring the conscience means taking the time to evaluate the deepest promptings of our heart. It means asking the big questions of life: Am I living a life of integrity? Do I act in ways that are moral, ethical and life affirming? Do I work to build meaningful and healthy relationships? Am I a contributing member of my community? How can I grow in my relationship with God? How do I discern what my life demands of me? The obvious reason to stir our conscience regularly is to be a healthy and moral person. It is demanding to examine the soul, to stir up what we might prefer to keep hidden or buried at the bottom of the pot. Let s face it: the heavy stuff always sinks to the bottom. But it never stays there, hidden, at the bottom. For we read in Deuteronomy, Lo tuchal l'hitaleim (Deuteronomy 22:3) you must not remain hidden to yourself. You must not remain hidden to yourself. No matter how we might resist, how much we put into the pot, inevitably, it will get stirred. Practically, emotionally, spiritually it is better to stir the pot with kavannah, with thoughtful intention. If we do not, we run the risk of our hearts growing calcified, of becoming

5 5 blocked, of the noise covering up our brokenness and being a obstacle to living fully. Stirring the conscience is serious spiritual work. It is meaningful and life affirming. And it is fundamentally necessary if we are to have a relationship with God, if we are to live lives of wholeness and holiness. Stirring the conscience means taking the time away from all the noise and distractions to focus on the longing of our hearts and souls: to sit quietly in prayerful contemplation; to walk around one of the lakes or sit with a book; to unplug one day each week so that we might recharge our souls and refocus our intentions towards that which matters most. Tekiah s cry is deep and soulful, for truth and for honor. As we stir our conscience, we recognize those times we missed the mark and we confront the painful mistakes of the past year. Shevarim always wondered if he and Tekiah were called in the wrong order. Not that he had the ego need to go first. It just made sense to him to face one s own brokenness the errors and the sorrows, the hurt and disappointment and sadness and then examine where to go in life. Still, Shevarim follows hurriedly after Tekiah there is nary a pause between their voices and you would need to listen closely to hear the space between them. Shevarim has perfect pitch. The sad fact is that no one much cares for him. Oh, we treat him politely and try not to be rude. But let s face it most of us are either too busy or too scared to spend too much time with Shevarim. He can drop by occasionally for coffee, but we don t invite him for dinner and we certainly don t want him as a house guest overnight! Shevarim knows that when people spend time with him and hear the story of his brokenness, he might persuade them to examine their own. Still, Shevarim raises the shofar. He aims it directly at the heart. The staccato blasts erupt in waves of broken fury. Will you feel them this year? Or are they empty, signifying nothing?

6 6 Stirring our conscience compels us to reflect upon our past errors. Where have we done wrong in the past year? Whom have we hurt? How did we neglect our highest selves? Admitting that we ve done wrong, that we ve caused hurt or pain, taking responsibility for ourselves is countercultural and risky business. President Obama is regularly excoriated by his political opponents if he dares to admit that the United States has ever been wrong on anything, at any time, in anyway. In fact, one of the people likely to run against him in 2012 has penned a book, intended to challenge the President as weak for taking responsibility and the challenger framing himself as a man of principle, fortitude, and strength. The book s title: No Apology. I get it. It is often draining to look inward, to admit when we have missed the mark. It can be so embarrassing to admit our wrong doing to ourselves, let alone someone else. But we re no strangers, you and I, to hard work, to integrity, to the growth of the human spirit. And we ve all witnessed the consequences of refusing to accept responsibility for our mistakes: from the loss of personal relationships to an international lack of trust and respect, everyone suffers when we fail to accept responsibility for our mistakes. Shevarim is an encounter with the truth. According to the rabbis, the confrontation of our errors means we acknowledge our wrong doing; we apologize sincerely to those we ve hurt; we make appropriate restitution when possible; and when confronted with the opportunity to transgress again, we refrain from doing so. As painful as it can be to take genuine responsibility, it is an act of moral courage and spiritual sustenance. It is an act of tikkun hanefesh healing our souls. Shevarim compels us to accept responsibility for our actions that we may not be defined by our brokenness, but by our pursuit of shalom, of wholeness and peace! What an extraordinary gift, to

7 7 ourselves no less: the openness and the opportunity to discern God s presence in our lives. Shevarim concludes his staccato harmony as T ruah raises the shofar and points it toward the heavens. T ruah has learned, amidst life s chaos, to find quiet moments of refuge. As the Psalmist whispered many centuries ago, To You Eternal One silence is praise [Psalm 65:2]. T ruah reflects humbly, Often people hear my sound as awkward, anguished. To me it is the sound of ecstatic joy, a release from life s burdens and suffering. From out of the depths, I call to You [Psalm 26]. T ruah has learned that no matter how far we wander off the path, there is always opportunity to return, to live a life of holiness. With shofar raised, T ruah croons a languid song of return. Before the journey was a quiet moment to reflect upon the water s edge; before Torah at Sinai was stillness of earth & trembling of heart; before reaching the Promised Land, a moment of renewal in the River Jordan. Tradition teaches that God called Elijah the prophet. Come out and stand on the mountain before Me. And behold, the Holy One passed by. There was a great and mighty wind, splitting mountains and shattering rocks by the power of the Eternal. But God was not in the wind. After the wind, an earthquake; but God was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake fire; but God was not in the fire. And after the fire, kol d mamah dakah, a still small voice. When Elijah heard it, he wrapped his mantle about his face and went out and stood at the entrance of the cave. [1 Kings 19:11-13 ].

8 8 If you re at all like me, hearing quiet voices is near impossible! Especially with all the noise in our lives. But Rosh HaShanah compels us to wonder: How can we hear the stillness? How can we discern the voice? What does a life of holiness look like? The answer is the very question itself: A life lived in covenantal partnership begins when we, with honest effort, attempt to discern the still, small voice. Not wind, nor quaking earth, nor scorched flames. Kol d mamma dakkah. God is in the still small voice. How do we create the space in our lives for stillness, to experience silence? Perhaps it is rising each morning and reciting a blessing or reflecting upon a Psalm or a verse from Torah. Or a quiet walk along the shores of one of many lakes. Maybe it is making the commitment to attend Shabbat worship or making Torah study a fixed part of your life. It could be offering a small prayer of gratitude each night before sleep descends, reflecting upon our blessings. Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel explained that the result of stillness is the cultivation of a sense of radical amazement. Radical amazement," wrote Heschel, "is the chief characteristic of the religious [person ]s attitude toward history and nature. One attitude is alien to the spirit: taking things for granted, regarding events as a natural course of things. As civilization advances, the sense of wonder declines. Such decline is an alarming symptom of our state of mind. [Hu]mankind will not perish for want of information; but only for want of appreciation. The beginning of our happiness lies in the understanding that life without wonder is not worth living." Life without wonder is not worth living.

9 9 We find the Eternal when we make the time each day to find quiet amidst the noise, when we honestly confront our errors, and we reaffirm our desire to live in holy relationship with the earth, one another and the Divine. We re like those angels, you and I. We gather the dawn of this new year, some in our brokenness, with the desire to awaken, letting go of ancient hurts, pursuing wholeness, transcendence, even grandeur. We arrive here a cacophony of texture and sound. Diversity is our blessing. Living in community, struggling with our place, learning to live in covenant with the Eternal and one another. This is our work. This is our wonder. Heschel diagnoses the reason for our spiritual malaise. The beginning of our happiness lies in the understanding that life without wonder is not worth living. The Psalmist provides the antidote, Happy are those who know the joyful sound of the shofar; Adonai, we walk in the light of Your presence. [Psalm 89:16] Happy are those who know the joyful sound of the shofar; Adonai, we walk in the light of Your presence. The shofar is sounded: Tekiah. To stir our conscience. Shevarim. To confront our past errors. T ruah. To return to wholeness and holiness. And soon, we rise. You shall go forth in joy and in peace shall you be led. The mountains and hills shall burst into song before you, and all the trees of the field applaud [Isaiah 55:12]. Tekiah G dolah. Our great work begins!