Statement for Black Lives from Rodeph Shalom Board of Directors and Rodeph Shalom Clergy

Who here still has one of these? [middah bracelet] Last year, in conjunction with my Erev Rosh Hashanah sermon, we gave out these middot bracelets. Middot are the character virtues taught by mussar, a values-based approach to Jewish ethics and character development. The bracelets were meant to serve as simple reminders, like a string around your finger, to work on a middah/a particular character trait. Last year we gave out three bracelets: binah/seeking meaning, nitzachon/perseverance, and rachamim/compassion. 

For those who took a bracelet last year, a few questions to reflect on: Which bracelet did you choose? Why? How long did you wear it for? What effect did it have on you?

Last year, I shared stories from our Reform movements overnight camp, Camp Harlam. Stories of campers living out these middot; showing kindness, perseverance, and understanding. This summer, there was no camp; there is a pandemic. And so, this year, I want to share some stories from the pandemic, examples of middot/character traits to help us get through 2020 and beyond. 

I reached out on social media and asked what middot have been most important during this pandemic? In your responses, three middot really stood out: savlanut/patience, hakarat hatov/gratitude, and achrayut/social responsibility.

Have you seen the viral video of Israeli comedian Yonatan Gruber helping his mother learn Zoom? Have a quick look at this clip.

The first time I saw this video, I could not stop laughing. But what really got me was at the end when Yonatan and his mom could finally see each other face to face. They were getting frustrated but they didn’t give up; their patience paid off with a beautiful moment of connection.

I imagine many of you can relate to our first middah, savlanut/patience. Maybe you’ve also had to persevere through the impatience of learning a new technology. Or maybe you had to push through the impatience of teaching it. 

Related to the Hebrew words lisbol/to suffer and sovel/a burden or load, Jewish tradition teaches that patience is the ability to bear the burden of your feelings without reacting. Savlanut does not mean that you are always in a completely calm and unruffled state of mind, but rather that you are aware and conscious enough of your emotions that you do not allow them to get the best of you. 

The cause of our impatience is usually not the situation itself, though that is how it might appear to us. A situation that perhaps infuriates us might not cause the slightest bit of concern to another person. We experience impatience only when we strain against a situation we cannot control.

Earlier in the service, when we took the Torah from the ark, we sang the words, “Adonai, Adonai, El Rachum, v’Chanun, Erech Apayim…” Quoting from the story of the golden calf, we describe God as merciful, compassionate, loving, and erech apayim/slow to anger. 

Can you imagine?! God parted the sea, freed the Israelites from slavery, gave them manna and how did they show their graittude? By building an idol! 

Talk about patience?! It must have taken a lot for God to bear a burden like that without losing it. But here’s the thing — God does lose it. So much so, that in a moment of impatience, God almost wipes out the entire nation of Israel. And then Moses gently reminds God of our covenant; God’s promise to us, v’yanichem Adonai/and God is merciful and spares the people.

We are created b’tzelem Elohim/in the image of God. We seek to emulate God’s erech apayim, God’s slowness to anger, God’s savlanut, God’s patience. But even God needs help sometimes in this hard work. So what will be your Moses? What will help you to be mindful in those moments of frustration? What image, phrase, or other prompt might remind you to bear the burden of your feelings of impatience? How will you cultivate savlanut this year?

Our next middah is gratitude. In his book, Flourish, University of Pennsylvania professor Dr. Martin Seligman encourages readers to try the “What Went Well” or “Three Blessings” Exercise. Here’s how it works:

Every night for the next week, set aside ten minutes before you to sleep. Write down three things that went well today and why they went well. Here are a few examples:

“I’m thankful for the chance to walk around outside this afternoon.”

“Thank you, God, that my family is healthy.”

“I’m thankful for that phone conversation with my parent, spouse, partner, friend, sibling, child, or grandchild today.”

Our Jewish tradition guides us to say 100 blessings a day. That might seem like a lot right now – but three blessings a day is certainly doable, and I think you’ll find it comforting and empowering. Simply spend a moment during your day reflecting on three things that went well or that have blessed you in some way.

Research suggests that this simple gratitude practice will increase your well-being and decrease anxiety and sadness because it focuses your attention and awareness on the good in your life. It cultivates emotions like joy, love, hope, awe, and serenity. Judaism calls this spiritual practice hakarat hatov, literally, “recognizing the good.”  

Often translated simply as gratitude, hakarat hatov, is a middah that I witnessed first hand this summer during Breaking Bread on Broad, our program that provides free educational activities and nutritious meals to the children of our neighborhood. This year, with social distancing requirements, we offered a contactless, outdoor, weekly pickup for families in lieu of our in-person program.

I expected families to be disappointed at the change. To be frustrated. To grieve another loss of normalcy. Instead, all I heard was gratitude. 

One immigrant family from Honduras timidly asked one week if we had any diapers and menstrual products. We didn’t, but our volunteers picked some up the following week and when the family arrived and saw what we had for them, they had tears in their eyes. The profound sense of gratitude from this family for such necessities that many take for granted is a model for us all. 

These families, our neighbors, understand the power of hakarat hatov. How will you cultivate hakarat hatov in this coming year? How will you be grateful? How will you recognize the good?

Our final middah is achrayut/social responsibility. Coming from the Hebrew word, acher/other, achrayut is the moral belief that we as individuals, have a responsibility toward the other and toward society as a whole.

Many of you have probably heard the phrase: My mask protects you and your mask protects me. This is achrayut/social responsibility. When you wear a mask, you are practicing achrayut.

There is even a blessing for putting on a facemask:

Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu, Melech ha-olam, asher kid’shanu b’mitzvotav, v’tzivanu al sh’mirat ha-nefesh.

Blessed are You, Eternal our God, Sovereign of the universe, who has sanctified us with commandments, commanding us to protect life.

We are compelled by our tradition to think beyond ourselves in order that we might preserve life. The Holocaust survivor and Jewish theologian, Viktor Frankl understands achrayut to mean, “Being conscious and being responsible. By becoming responsible agents for social change we actualize not only our humanity but also our mission as Jews.” This is not just about doing something nice for others. This is our very mission in life.

I was speaking with a recent Bat Mitzvah student in our congregation. She told me about the loss in celebrating her Bat Mitzvah during a pandemic: no big party and, more importantly, none of her extended family could travel to be here. But she also told me about how making these sacrifices made her proud that she was doing a mitzvah. By putting the health and safety of others first, she was taking her place as a Jewish adult in fulfilling the mitzvah of achrayut/social responsibility.

How will you cultivate achrayut this year? How will you think of others and practice social responsibility?

That Bat Mitzvah student, the Honduran Family, Yonatan Gruber and his mom, they aren’t super heroes. They don’t have some secret, magic ability that makes them more socially responsible or grateful or patient than the rest of us. It’s hard and they have to work at it just like the rest of us. 

It’s difficult enough to change in normal circumstances, let alone during a pandemic. But it’s worth it. The world feels overwhelming right now. We can become paralyzed to the point of inaction by the enormity of the problems in our lives and across the globe right now. But if we can just work on one piece of ourselves this year, we have done a small part to repair the world. 

Mindfulness, working to repair our inner character flaws not only helps us, it helps the world. We do this work because we want to be the best version of ourselves for our friends, neighbors, family, and community.

We practice savlanut/patience to be a more caring friend, parent, child, or spouse. 

We practice hakarat hatov/gratitude to be a more appreciative member of our community. 

And we practice achrayut/social responsibility to repair our broken world. But achrayut also helps repair our own brokenness; it gives meaning to our days and our lives. Helping others allows us to see beyond ourselves.

These are the middot that are going to get us through the rest of 2020 and beyond. Being grateful for what we have, finding meaning in our lives by thinking of others, and having the patience to understand that there is only so much we can control and that sometimes we just need to bear the burden.

We can do it. We can be our best selves. We can get through this together. 

I don’t have any middot bracelets to give out this year to help you. But you don’t need them. You already have the capacity for change inside of you. That is the very basis of t’shuvah —  repentance or return — the belief that every person has the ability to change for the better. This is the greatest gift we are given; the opportunity for renewal each year, the chance to reevaluate our lives, and to be the person we are meant to be. 

This New Year, may we have the strength and determination to make real change in our lives, to practice patience, gratitude, and social responsibility, to repair our lives, and to repair our broken world. 

Ken y’hi ratzon/May this be God’s will. Amen. Gut Yuntif.

Who shall live and who shall die? Who will be tranquil and who will be troubled? Life’s profound uncertainty is embedded in our ancient High Holy Day words.

The Unetaneh Tokef prayer on Yom Kippur asks the hardest, deepest questions of our lives and leaves us without answer. We do not claim to know. Yet, about one thing we are clear. In response to the hardest questions, Unetaneh Tokef concludes, proclaiming these words to God: “You urge us to return from our ways and live. Until the day of death You wait for us.” 

Amid the mystery, in this we believe: Human beings have the capacity to change. To do better. And God is waiting.

Even in this unprecedented time, when massive numbers of people are ill or dying, when livelihoods are at risk, when societal injustices reveal tragic impact to the most vulnerable, when we feel the pain of distance, when nearly everything is out of our hands… even in these times, when I need to pre-record this sermon, not knowing precisely, what the reality or news headlines will be, when you hear my words… I have faith, that our tradition’s timeless wisdom was written, for just this moment.  For every moment.  We are pre-recording.  And it does not matter.  Because the wisdom of our tradition is eternal.

From cradle to grave, across time and space, from the beginning.  Tradition teaches: when human beings were created, God did not start with a city, or even start with one household—or one bubble, as it were. God creates a single person first. Why? The Talmud declares: For the sake of peace among humankind that one should not say to the other, “My parent is greater than your parent / my lineage is greater than your lineage / my race is greater than your race.” The entire purpose of the creation story could be to teach us this message of equality: We all come from the same.  

But, we have yet to shape a world that honors oneness. And God is waiting. 

For the sake of peace among humankind that no one should say, my race is greater than your race, as individuals, as a community, and as a society, we must be compelled by the Unetaneh Tokef’s faith that we have the capacity to change.  For our world needs change.

And that change needs us. Holocaust survivor Elie Wiesel taught: Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim; We must take sides.  The injustice of systemic racism violates our tradition’s teaching of equality, and pervades every element of our society—a society that has yet to address seriously, or attempt to redeem itself for the enslavement of millions of people.  2020 has been our tragic teacher, shining a light on generations of racial inequities. 

Let me tell you the story of my grandfather. First generation American, a proud patriot, Grandpa Sol returned from the Second World War and fulfilled his two dreams. He married his beloved, my grandmother, and he built his business.With a GI Bill loan, Grandpa Sol purchased a home, acquired equity, and positioned himself as an entrepreneur.  Grandpa chose Montauk, the small fisherman’s town at the eastern end of Long Island, where he was captivated by the most beautiful beach he had ever seen. There, Grandpa picked up his hammer and — an incredibly hard worker — with his own two hands he built the motel, that would become the family business. 

His life tells the story of the American Dream; and his life tells the story of more than one kind of bigotry. While my grandfather built his motel, he had to physically stay there all night long, to protect his property from local anti-semitic vandals. And that same grandfather who was an ongoing target of antisemitism, that same grandfather had returned from the War, to a mortgage no black man could have accessed, and it probably didn’t even occur to him, that this was the case. My grandfather grew his business, and his wealth, and I had a college fund, before I learned how to spell my name. That’s my white privilege. Antisemitism and white privilege within my one family’s story. 

Some of us have unearned privilege, because we are white or male or straight or with physical ability.  So, if we work very hard we are more likely to attain success, than is a person who works very hard but lacks that particular privilege.  Privileges on the surface benefit us.  

But if I am entitled to a college fund, in a society originally built on the enslavement of human beings, does that really benefit me? What does that do to my soul?  To our soul?  How can we be whole, in our privilege, how can we be whole, if others are not?  The inequity does not only damage the underprivileged groups; it infects our entire society and all of us who exist within it. It damages our souls.

Tonight in our vidui/our confession we prayed to make atonement as we spoke the words: Al chet shechatanu lifanecha b’zadone uvishgaga/The ways we have wronged You deliberately and by mistake. I do not believe members of my family were deliberately racist, or that members of our congregation are intentionally racist. Still our participation in racist structures, deliberately or by mistake, damages our souls, and makes us responsible for repair.  For repentance.

God urges us to return from our ways and live. Human beings have the capacity to change. To do better. And God is waiting.

In his consequential book, How To Be An Anti-Racist, Dr. Ibram X. Kendi of Boston University teaches: The only way to undo racism is to consistently identify it and dismantle it… Being an anti-racist requires persistent self-awareness, constant self-criticism, and regular self-examination.”  Naming his own racism as he describes his journey of change, growth, responsibility and repair, throughout the book, Kendi teaches: the good news is racist and anti-racist, are not fixed identities.  We have the capacity to change.  

What Kendi calls self-examination and change, you and I call t’shuvah/repentance and Cheshbon hanefesh/the accounting of the soul — our rigorous work of change, growth, responsibility, and repair. The Talmud instructs: repent the day before your death. Every day potentially the day before our death, every day we repent. 

God urges us to return from our ways and live. To do better. And God is waiting.

Together, let us ask: What does racism do to our soul? As a congregation, let us commit to persistent self-awareness, constant self-criticism, and regular self-examination, that we may consistently identify racism and help to dismantle it.  

In our congregational work, we will focus on African Americans’ experiences; we will center brown and black voices—both from within the Jewish community and from the greater community.

I invite you to participate in learning and action with our Anti-Racism Work Group where we discuss racism in a trusted space, and strive for difficult conversations in order to understand more deeply how racism pervades our world, and what specific actions we can take next. 

Let us commit together, to the sustained work of anti-racism in ourselves and in our world. 

I was moved by Ibram Kendi’s journey and by his bold conviction—that we need to consistently identify racism and dismantle it.  He lets none of us off the hook. Such a strong message could offend his audience, his readership. Yet Kendi takes his message all the way. What is the source of his courage?

At first, while Ibram Kendi was working on his book, he felt afraid to write his deepest truths.  He feared his personal storytelling would feel too vulnerable, and his stance, too bold.  And then, Kendi was diagnosed with stage 4 colon cancer, at the age of 35.  All of a sudden, nothing was stopping him. This book was his last chance. He no longer worried about how it would be received; by the time readers consumed it, he would probably be dead anyway. He became fearless, and he said exactly what he meant.  It was death—the scariest thing of all, that urged Kendi to take his purpose all the way, to not be held back by fear—it was facing mortality that revealed Kendi’s greatest courage.

What will facing mortality reveal in us?  Yom Kippur—its question: who shall live and who shall die — Yom Kippur is our diagnosis. Our near-death experience. All of a sudden, nothing is stopping us; nothing is coming between us and our truth. This is our last chance. We no longer worry about how we will be received.  So we become fearless, we do and say exactly what we mean.  Only intensified with pandemic, mortality scares us into an honest, unmasked investigation of our lives, demanding we ask: what is possible, what is at my essence, how can I have an impact, what are the hardest truths I need to see, from what can I no longer avert my eyes. Facing our mortality–the scariest thing of all, that we may reveal our greatest courage. All year, God has been waiting.

A great shofar will cry and a still small voice will be heard; and it is telling us: 

God urges us to return from our ways. 

Until the day of our death, God will wait for us. 

Amid the mystery, we know we have the capacity to change. To do better. 

May our mortality, reveal our greatest courage.  

God is waiting.

A Berkman Mercaz Limud class was studying the Akeidah, or “Binding of Isaac,” one of the traditional Torah readings for Rosh Hashanah morning. In the story God commands Abraham to sacrifice his son, Isaac. As Abraham lifts his knife for the sacrifice an angel stops him at the last second; Abraham having proved his faith in God. When the class came to the arrival of the angel, one child burst out crying. “Why are you crying?” asked the teacher. “Didn’t the angel come, and wasn’t Isaac saved?” “Yes,” sobbed the child, “but what if the angel had been late?”  

In the original telling, this conversation was actually between Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel and his father. In recounting this story later in life, Heschel would often add that although an angel cannot come late, we, made of flesh and blood, can. Angels are never late, but we can be. How many times have we all said, “I’ll call them tomorrow…” or, “that can wait another day,” only to discover we were too late. Heschel is imploring us not to wait, not to put off what we need to do, because tomorrow might be too late.

This past spring, I was too late. Worried like many of you about going to my local polling place in person, I chose to apply for a vote-by-mail ballot. I meant to fill out the online form back in March but I was a little preoccupied. Then came April, and before I knew it, it was May and the deadline to apply had arrived. I submitted my form in just the nick of time and awaited my vote-by-mail ballot. I kept checking the mailbox, everyday, excited to cast my ballot. Monday, no ballot, Tuesday, no ballot. The election was fast approaching and it still hadn’t come. I called the city office for help, no answer. I emailed, no response. And so I kept waiting. Before I knew it, it was June 2, Election Day, and my ballot still had not arrived. My ballot arrived the next day. It was too late. Angels are never late, but humans can be. 

I don’t know whether it was the postal service, the state, or city offices, but somewhere, someone was too late and I was disenfranchised as a result. 

There are over ten million people eligible to vote in our state. In 2016, nearly four million of those people didn’t vote — some by choice, and many because they faced barriers to the ballot box. Barriers like too few polling places, a lack of interpreters, and inaccurate voting records. One of the most important races on the ballot in 2016, the presidential race, was decided here by 44,000 votes. Pennsylvanians votes matter—and not enough of them are being cast or counted. 

We have an opportunity to do something. But in 46 days it will be too late. It is our moral obligation to ensure that every Pennsylvanian who is eligible to vote on November 3 has that right afforded to them. There are no angels coming; it is up to us. 

Rodeph Shalom is proud to be a part of the Reform Movement’s 2020 Civic Engagement Campaign. It is grounded in our belief that democracy is strongest when everyone participates. 

This is not a partisan issue. Our goals are to ensure that our Reform Jewish values are present in the public square – all within
501 (c) (3) guidelines. This means that we will advocate for issues like equal access to the ballot and that we will not endorse candidates or parties. Voting rights may have been politicized – but they are not partisan. This is rooted in our most basic Jewish value of standing with the oppressed in our society and ensuring equality and justice.

Poor, minority, and geographically isolated communities are typically the most at risk for disenfranchisement and voter suppression. We have an obligation to stand up for their right to vote because all people are created b’tzelem Elohim/in God’s image; everybody has a spark of God’s Divine light inside of them. Every voice needs to be heard and every vote needs to be counted.

So here’s what we’re going to do about it!

Our first goal is to have 100 percent voter participation within our congregation. This is the low hanging fruit. I am proud to say that we have a highly engaged voting congregation already but we are not going to rest on our laurels. October 19 is the last day to register before the election. Please make sure you and your friends and family are registered and commit to voting in November. Studies have shown that people are more likely to vote if they commit to voting ahead of time. We will post a link at the end of the service with some commitment cards for you to fill out. Think about your voting plan now: Are you going to vote by mail? In person? Do you know where your polling place is this year? What time are you going to vote?

I am excited to share that teen members of our congregation are already working hard to get out the vote among their peers. If you are a teen, or maybe someone who can’t yet vote but wants to make a difference, please also fill out a commitment card and one of our teen leaders will reach out — probably on Snapchat or Instagram or something!

The second goal in our campaign is to combat voter suppression. According to an article in The Philadelphia Inquirer, tens of thousands of Pennsylvania voters were disenfranchised in the primary elections last spring. When I first thought of voter suppression, I imagined goons standing near a polling place and threatening you if you didn’t vote for the right candidate. I learned that voter suppression can come in many forms, including what happened to me last spring. Voter ID laws, a lack of polling places, poll workers, and interpreters, restrictions on vote-by-mail; these are all forms of voter suppression.

Voter suppression is not new. Just over 100 years ago, women in our country finally gained the right to vote with the ratification of the 19th amendment. Countless women worked tirelessly for their right to vote. Women like Harriet Forten Purvis, an African-American abolitionist and first generation suffragist from Philadelphia, who knew how important it was to count every voice and every vote. Standing on the shoulders of Harriet Forten Purvis and countless others who have worked for universal suffrage, we too must commit ourselves to this righteous work. 

Angels are never late, but we can be. This year, in this upcoming election, we can’t be late. Are you ready to stand up and be counted? Are you ready to help ensure that every eligible Pennsylvanian has the chance to cast their ballot. Are you ready to say hineini/here I am.

When God called out to Abraham at the beginning of the Akedah story, Abraham said, “hineini/here I am.” As they were walking up to the sacrificial altar and Isaac grew scared, he called out to his father, and Abraham said, “hineini/here I am.” And when the Angel of God came down to stop the sacrifice, yelling, “Abraham, Abraham,” Abraham once again said, “hineini/here I am.”

Are you ready to say hineini/here I am? According to Rashi, “Hineini is the answer of the pious. It is an expression of readiness.” God called to Abraham to prepare him to do something difficult. Abraham understood this; this is why he said hineini/here I am.

Are you prepared to do the work? Are you ready to say hineini/here I am?

At the end of the service, please follow the link to fill out your commitment card. Commit to:

Registering to vote

Creating a voting plan

Doing voter outreach within the congregation

Or joining in our advocacy campaign to combat voter suppression

Ten days from now, on Yom Kippur, we will read the words of the prophet Isaiah: 

“Is such the fast I desire, a day for people to starve their bodies? Bowing your head like a reed and lying in sackcloth and ashes? Do you call that a fast, a day that the Eternal wants? No, this is the fast I desire: to unlock fetters of wickedness, and untie the cords of the yoke; to let the oppressed go free; to break off every chain. It is to share your bread with the hungry, and to take the wretched poor into your home; when you see the naked, to clothe them, and not to ignore your own kin. Then shall your light burst through like the dawn and your healing spring up quickly; your Vindicator shall march before you, The Presence of the Eternal shall be your defense. Then, when you call, the Eternal will answer; When you cry, God will say hineini/here I am.”

When we say hineini, God says hineini. We are partners in the ever unfolding work of creation. Tikkun olam/repair of the world is built on the premise that God created this world incomplete for us to finish the work. When we show up, when we stand ready, declaring hineini/here I am, we bring God’s presence into this world. When we say hineini, God says hineini.                                                                                                                                        
Angels are never late, but we can be. This New Year, may it be your will, God, that we are not late. This New Year, may we all say, hineini/here I am. 

Ken Y’hi Ratzon/May This be God’s Will. Amen.

There is a new four-letter word in my household — plan. 

In these past months, we have essentially banned the word plan. We have hopes, we have scenarios, but when it comes to school, work, spending, visits with family, my daughter’s Bat Mitzvah, there is no plan. 

The Jewish philosopher Solomon ibn Gabirol wrote: “Clear understanding means realizing what is and what cannot be, and the consoling of what is not in our power to change.” In other words, uncertainty.

Obvious now, but always present, uncertainty is embedded in our ancient High Holy Day words of prayer.

A great shofar will cry and a still small voice will be heard. Who shall live and who shall die? Who will rest and who will wander? We do not claim to know. The Unetaneh Tokef prayer from this morning, and this season of pandemic life, and really, any season of our lives, compels us to face uncertainty.

Uncertainty leaves us on shaky ground. Yet, as I try to maintain solid footing on what feels like an earthquake, the cracks in the foundation are not only brokenness, they are space.  Uncertainty leaves a space — space to ask the big questions that do not otherwise captivate our full attention. What are my essential needs? What is my responsibility in a society where we do not all have the resources to stay at home or to survive? How do I run a business or classroom or little league team or household during isolation, in a way that reflects my values? If I am hospitalized, what are my wishes for care, and are my loved ones aware? If my life were to end, what do I need my loved ones to know. What gratitude and forgiveness do I need to express? What are the absolute priorities of my life?  

Today, in that space of uncertainty, we ask the profound questions of our lives. Even in this unprecedented time, when massive numbers of people are ill or dying, when our livelihoods are at risk, when societal injustices reveal tragic impact to the most vulnerable, when we feel the pain of distance, when nearly everything is out of our hands… even in these times, when I need to pre-record this sermon, not knowing precisely what our reality or news headlines will be when you hear these words…I have faith, that our tradition’s timeless wisdom was written for just this moment.  For every moment. We are pre-recording. And it does not matter. Because the wisdom of our tradition is eternal.

When we ask: Who shall live and who shall die? Who will rest and who will wander…our timeless Jewish wisdom, in the words of Unetaneh Tokef, proclaims this response:

The essence of the High Holy Days and of all Jewish life: t’shuvah, t’filah, tzedakah. Repentance, prayer, and justice.  

T’shuvah, t’filah, tzedakah, Jewish wisdom’s answer to the uncertainty that abounds, cannot exist in isolation.  Judaism cannot imagine any of this holy work, absent from community. The work of repentance, or relationships…of prayer, or deeper consciousness…and of justice, or righteousness, drives home the ultimate Jewish message: we are not alone in this world. T’shuvah, t’filah, tzedakah are tradition’s way of saying: We are a part of something greater than ourselves.  

To miss that message—that we are a part of something greater than ourselves—to miss that message is to miss Judaism.  But circumstances out of our control can distance us.  

In whatever are the most challenging struggles you face right now—health, income, boredom, missing friends at a Bat Mitzvah, missing family at a wedding, missing neighbors at a funeral, missing a loved one in a hospital bed, isolation from friends and even from strangers, or close quarters with a roommate, close quarters with a partner who is wrong for you, or with loved ones whom you’re loving a little less—Perhaps you’ve felt alone in it.  Separate, cut off, and distant. Even if stuck in the house, not quite at home.

Years ago, during shiva—the immediate period of mourning—during shiva for her husband, a grieving widow said to me: “I am not isolated. I am surrounded by family and friends, but I am lonely.  I feel unseen. I feel no sense of belonging.”

The profound experience of grief is unique, but still, anyone can feel what she felt: you can be with other people, yet still lonely.  

I believe what our Jewish community has learned in these past 19 weeks is that the reverse is also true! Together, we are discovering: you can be isolated, yet not alone. Still, part of something greater than ourselves. In this pandemic that demands we live separated in a way humans should not

be. A Jewish life of t’shuvah, t’fillah, tzedakah—of tightly bound connection—remains possible. 

In his book, Together: The Healing Power of Human Connection in a Sometimes Lonely World, former Surgeon General Vivek Murthy teaches: Solitude can be constructive; isolation is not the same as loneliness. But isolation is a risk factor for loneliness. Loneliness serves as a signal to attend to human connections. 

Loneliness is the shofar sounding, “Awake!”

A wake up call— to reach out to others, to lean into community. Dr. Murthy teaches, when we share ourselves, we aren’t sacrificing; we are strengthening ourselves. He submits: We are wired, to deepen our sense of belonging with the sharing of stories, feelings, concerns. Bill Wilson, co-founder of Alcoholics Anonymous, wrote: Almost without exception, alcoholics are tortured by loneliness. That understanding was his basis for the notion of sponsorship—trusted mentors whose own sobriety is strengthened through relationship.  

It takes a lot of energy to connect, but I believe it is what sustains us. When we hear the shofar call of loneliness, it is time to check in with ourselves, and reach out to others, for a dinner over Zoom or a masked meet-up in the park.

Ultimately, Dr. Murthy teaches: To be home— to feel at home— is to be known. Loved for who you are. It is to share a sense of common pursuits and values with others who care about you. 

No matter the news headlines, no matter the current crisis, this wisdom of Dr. Murthy, this truth in Judaism, remains eternal. To be home is to be known.  The shofar that awakens us to our loneliness, returns us to the connections that sustain us.

In congregational life, it has been so moving to see the way you have sustained community-building in virtual gatherings, deepening our closeness and shared purpose. 

Over 100 years ago, the 1918 Flu epidemic caused Rodeph Shalom services to be suspended for a month. They may not have had Zoom, but old-school, they connected. The Sisterhood helped needy families obtain coal and transport family members to hospitals. So in a way, we’ve been here before.  

Today, too, congregants reach out, especially to our most isolated members. You make mitzvah calls; you provide Mitzvah Zoom tech-support.  

Your Rodeph Shalom Do it Yourself kit for these Ten Days of Repentance suggests for today, Day One, you reach out and call someone you think might be lonely.  

So much interaction used to take place in large group gatherings. Yet, truth is, even before pandemic restricted our large events, the extraordinary power of small group gatherings had become clear. And so, we are creating a network of small groups within the congregation—smaller than our wonderful connection groups—where we will gather regularly. There, we will nurture relationships where we are truly known. 

For me, a high point of “virtuality,” has been those moments on Zoom each Friday evening, just before and just after our Shabbat service. During the business day, Zoom may be another four letter word; but what a blessing it has been for our congregation. As one newer member recently said in the chat, “I never knew I could be comforted on a computer by 200 people I barely know.”

The expressions of warmth from one congregant to the next reflect genuine care and uplift me.  In fact, when we engaged our High Holy Day film crew, they were touched by our answer, when they asked: what was our highest priority for virtual services? A chat feature, and breakout rooms!  

As much as I want your soul to soar in awesome words of prayer, glorious music, and deep contemplation, the relationships we nurture in precious virtual moments, the way we ensure that others are seen and known, the way we plant seeds for further conversation, the way, even for just a moment, we can fill each other with joy and gratitude, the way we lift each other out of the separateness, to a place of home…these connections have become an essential part of what Rodeph Shalom is—our identity, our values, our purpose.  It is undeniable: we are a part of something greater than ourselves.

Amid uncertainty, and on ground that has always been shaky, tradition’s eternal wisdom was written for just this moment:

A great shofar will cry and a still small voice will be heard! 

As the shofar awakens us to sacred community, 

Deep in our souls, may we know:

We are not alone in this world. 

We are a part of something greater than ourselves.

A Commentary on Gen. 22:1-19 by Carl Schneider

The Bible tells us Abe and Ike
To Mount Moriah took a hike,
To do the sacrificial bit.
Who was the victim?  Ike was it!

This was no simple weekend frolic.
The whole event was quite symbolic.
Abe was the subject of a test.
Did he love God or offspring best?

Ike asked a question on the way:
“Where’s the lamb we plan to slay?”
He saw the firestone and the knife.
Abe did not say:  “God wants your life.”

Abe chose the Lord, his son was bound.
Abe built an  alter on the ground.
He raised the knife for fatal stroke.
Ike soon would go to God as smoke!

A voice yelled “Abe” from in the sky.
He answered it with: “Here am I.”
At hour eleven, an angel called.
He said: “I want this slaughter stalled!”

“You passed the test, Ike need not die.”
The angel made a ram stand by.
So Ike was taken off the pyre,
And in his place, the ram set fire.

For showing God his boundless love,
Abe got a promise from above.
To pass God’s test brought great reward —
A covenant, a grand accord.

Abe’s seed was blessed through generations,
To be a light for other nations.
But Ike’s reward was less exotic.
It’s said he grew up quite neurotic.

FROM PSALM 11 – A SUKKOT PRAYER FOR BREAKING BREAD ON BROAD FAMILIES
INSPIRED BY RABBI ELI FREEDMAN’S SUKKOT SERMON FOR 2020

There is a catastrophe happening.

The foundations have crumbled and lie like broken bricks on the sidewalk.

Every Wednesday morning, a line of families straggles from the door of Rodeph Shalom to Green Street.  They arrive on foot, pushing empty carts.

Parents with babies and young children, grandmothers and grandfathers, patiently waiting for food, diapers, and menstrual pads. The occasional toy.

We ask them to please wait longer, we are still filling bags, loading the tables with bags of food.  Please don’t sit on the curb we tell them because cars are coming through.

Children in line for a bag of food.

A single mother of a disabled child says she is about to lose her apartment and has no money.

A smile stretches wide on a young girl’s face in delight at receiving a toy, but there are no toys for next week.

Where fathers hold up fingers, one through six, to tell us what size diapers they need for their children, because we don’t understand the languages they speak.

When we choose on Tuesday how much food to put in the bags they receive on Wednesday.

Where no one in line speaks English.

When the people leave their carts to mark their places in line and come to help us unload the food from the truck.

A mother and daughter have driven from Delaware to Philadelphia to deliver menstrual products from their small non-profit and stay to help pass out food.

Each precious one created in Your image, those in need and those who help.  HaShem, may I see that sometimes those in need are passing out the food and those who help are in the line. Hosha na.

HaShem, please give me the spine to stand with our guests, the vision to see the divine spark shining in each one, the words to speak with them, or to find someone who can. Give me the heart of a repairer of the breach. Hosha na.

May Rodeph Shalom be a place of shelter. Hosha na.

May the foundations be rebuilt, may no one experience food insecurity, and may light break forth as the dawn. Hosha na.

From Psalm 11 – a Sukkot Prayer for Breaking Bread on Broad Families
Inspired by Rabbi Eli Freedman’s Sukkot sermon for 2020

There is a catastrophe happening.    

The foundations have crumbled and lie like broken bricks on the sidewalk.

Every Wednesday morning, a line of families straggles from the door of Rodeph Shalom to Green Street.  They arrive on foot, pushing empty carts.

Parents with babies and young children, grandmothers and grandfathers, patiently waiting for food, diapers, and menstrual pads. The occasional toy.

We ask them to please wait longer, we are still filling bags, loading the tables with bags of food.  Please don’t sit on the curb we tell them because cars are coming through.

Children in line for a bag of food.

A single mother of a disabled child says she is about to lose her apartment and has no money.

A smile stretches wide on a young girl’s face in delight at receiving a toy, but there are no toys for next week.

Where fathers hold up fingers, one through six, to tell us what size diapers they need for their children, because we don’t understand the languages they speak.    

When we choose on Tuesday how much food to put in the bags they receive on Wednesday.

Where no one in line speaks English.

When the people leave their carts to mark their places in line and come to help us unload the food from the truck.

A mother and daughter have driven from Delaware to Philadelphia to deliver menstrual products from their small non-profit and stay to help pass out food.

Each precious one created in Your image, those in need and those who help.  HaShem, may I see that sometimes those in need are passing out the food and those who help are in the line. Hosha na.

HaShem, please give me the spine to stand with our guests, the vision to see the divine spark shining in each one, the words to speak with them, or to find someone who can. Give me the heart of a repairer of the breach. Hosha na.

May Rodeph Shalom be a place of shelter. Hosha na.

May the foundations be rebuilt, may no one experience food insecurity, and may light break forth as the dawn. Hosha na.

—

For information on Breaking Bread on Broad, click here.