Monday, September 06, 2010
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Rabbi Harold Kushner Sermons

WHAT MAKES LIFE WORTH LIVING?

Temple Israel of Natick - Rabbi Kushner's Rosh HaShanah 5760


Rabbi Harold Kushner
Rosh HaShanah 5760

I was going to write another sermon, something about the millennium and what this century has taught us about human nature. But before I could do that, I began to hear voices pulling me in another direction, speaking with an urgency that I could not ignore, saying that there were problems I had to talk about. So I put that other sermon aside for some future millennium, and listened to those voices.

I was studying the Torah reading for Rosh HaShanah, and I heard the voice of Hagar, Abraham's concubine and the mother of his first child Ishmael. Hagar is rejected by her husband, thrown out of her home. Her child is desperately ill. She feels alone, abandoned, friendless, and she's ready to give up on life, because after all, hasn't life given up on her?

Then I read the Haftarah for Rosh Hashanah morning, the story of Hannah, driven to tears and despair because she longs to have children and she can't. Her husband tries to comfort her, but that only deepens her despair when she realizes that even people who genuinely love her can't understand what she is feeling and what she is going through.

And even when I put the prayerbook aside and read the morning paper, I continued to hear voices of despair --desperately ill people turning to the likes of Dr. Kevorkian because death seemed more alluring than life; desperately angry people suddenly exploding in murderous rage -- Columbine High School in Colorado was perhaps the most horrifying example but it seemed every week brought a new instance, from one city or small town after another.

I would finish the paper and go out into the community, and the voices would be less urgent but their stories would be distressingly similar: the sick, the afflicted, people growing older and not looking forward to it; people disappointed in the way their lives had turned out, the way their careers had turned out, the way their children had turned out.

And I realized that, although these people were all different from one another and the sources of their pain were so different, they were all saying essentially the same thing. They were saying "How can you gather in your synagogues and pray for life? Life is no bargain. Life is pain, life is rejection. The longer you live, the more life becomes a story of things being taken away from you. Who wants another year if it's going to be more of the same?"

In the Bible, on the news, in the community, people cry out that they are on the verge of giving up on life. The difference is that on the news and on the streets of Natick and Framingham, you only hear the despair, the fear, the anguish. In the Bible, God answers the cry of the desperate. And it's because there are so many people in our midst who are hurting, who are crying inwardly if not aloud, that I knew I had to put aside that other sermon and share the Bible's answers with you this morning.

Do you know the story of the student who goes up to his rabbi one morning and says "Rabbi, you've got to help me. I couldn't sleep all last night worrying about this. Tell me, what makes life worth living?" And the rabbi looks at him and says "That's such a wonderful question. Why would you want to exchange it for an answer?"

But on a day like this, on Rosh HaShanah, at the beginning of the High Holy Days and the commencement of a New Year, we want to bring our questions to the Temple and exchange them for answers. There are people here today asking that question "what's the point of going on living?", not as an abstract philosophical question but in the desperate hope that somebody can give them an answer and save their lives. And our tradition, as if it anticipated that one day people would bring their doubts and their fears to the synagogue on Rosh HaShanah, chose Biblical readings for these first days of the year that give us answers.

Let's begin with the story of Hagar. When Abraham and Sarah confront the fact that, after many years of marriage, they haven't had children, Sarah suggests that Abraham take the servant girl Hagar as a second wife and have a child with her. It works, they have a son, but then Sarah resents Hagar for being able to do what she couldn't do, and prevails on Abraham to get rid of the maid and her child, Abraham's first-born son. They are sent out into the desert. After a few days, they are out of food and water. The child is at the point of death, and Hagar is so depressed by her situation that she doesn't even have the energy to comfort him. She just puts him down and goes off by herself and cries because her life has become a story of loss and pain and unrelieved misery.

And then we read that God sends an angel who says to Hagar, s'i et ha-na'ar v'hachaziki et yadech bo, Go to the child and take him by the hand. That's the answer. That's the magic bullet. The cure for that sense of futility, that sense that life has lost its savor and there is no point in getting up in the morning, is not pills or years of therapy. The cure for the feeling that life isn't worth living can be summed up in four words: find somebody to help.

There will be some people whose depression is caused by a chemical imbalance, and for them fortunately there are medications to help them. But for those people whose depression results from what has been happening to them, the cure is Hagar's cure: find somebody to help.

When Hagar stops feeling sorry for herself and reaches out to someone who is worse off than she is, the Torah tells us that "her eyes were opened" and now the world looks different to her. It's the same world it was an hour ago, but it looks different to her. Now she can see all sorts of life-enhancing resources that she wasn't seeing before.

Find somebody to help - not because it will make you feel better to know that somewhere there is someone worse off than you, what I once referred to as the Suffering Olympics. Find somebody to help, so that you can begin to think of yourself as a giving person, a person who makes a difference, not just a receiving person, somebody to whom things happen. Reach out to someone else because your own experience has taught you how important that is, because your experience has given you the hard-earned wisdom to know what to do and what to say. The angel's words to Hagar "take him by the hand", in Hebrew hachaziki et yadech bo, literally mean "make your hand strong in his hand." When you reach out to help someone, it makes you feel strong.

The psychoanalyst Erik Erikson has charted the stages that a person goes through in the course of growing up and growing old. He says that late in life, there comes a moment when we have to choose between Stagnation and Generativity. Stagnation, says Erikson, is thinking only about yourself, and at any age but especially for the elderly, that can be a depressing process. Generativity is thinking about the next generation and what sort of world you will be leaving to them.

It reminded me on something that happened in our family some nine years ago. When Ariel and Isaac told us that they wanted to get married, we started calling all our relatives and sharing the good news with them. I called one elderly relative of mine in New York and said "Have you heard the good news? Ariel is getting married." Instead of saying 'Oy, Mazal tov! I'm so happy for you," instead of saying" I should only be well enough to come to the wedding," she said "How could I hear? Nobody ever calls me." (And I think I know why.)

The cure for loneliness, for rejection and abandonment, the cure for that dreaded feeling that your life is pointless, is Hagar's cure: find someone to help. Don't stay home and wait for others to rescue you from your loneliness. You be the one who rides to other people's rescue.

It's not only a prescription for the elderly, the widowed, the divorced, the unemployed. It works for everyone. It works for the middle-aged businessman who realizes he's gone about as far as he is going to go in his company, and instead of resenting people who are promoted over him, instead of taking his work less seriously to spite the company, with all the corrosion of the soul that that leads to, he becomes a mentor to the new young staff.

It works especially well for young people. One day this summer, someone wrote to Ann Landers about the twin epidemics of teen violence and teen suicide. He wrote that "young people who are involved in service programs are less likely to be engaged in destructive social behavior. Teens who help other people are 50 percent less likely to use drugs, join gangs or get pregnant. Their dropout rate is lower and their grades are higher." And you know, that makes a lot of sense. Rationally, it makes no sense for a teenager who drives his own car to high school to listen to rap music because he identifies with the kids growing up in the inner city ghettos. But emotionally it makes sense. He shares that same feeling of powerlessness, of other people being in control of his life. We all recognize the stereotype of the teen-age boy or girl moping around the house because of problems with self-image, with grades, with their social life. Is there a way to lift them out of that mood? Their cure is Hagar's cure: Find someone who needs your help, and help them. See how much better you feel about yourself and your life.

 

Let's turn now to the second Rosh HaShanah story, the Haftarah for the first day of the year, the story of Hannah who becomes the mother of the prophet Samuel. If you're not familiar with the story from the Rosh HaShanah service, if you're not here early enough to hear it read, you may have come across it in an article in the Sunday Globe about a month ago, about religion and infertility.

Hannah is despondent because she longs to be a mother and she hasn't been able to have children. She becomes so depressed that she can't eat, and the combination of stress, depression and not eating probably makes her fertility problems worse. It comes to a head at the New Year's festival when she and her husband go to the Temple at Shiloh. She sees all the families there, women carrying babies, parents leading their young children by the hand, and it's too much for her. She can't go to the service. Instead she goes to the shrine alone, after services are over. She breaks down and cries and prays. The High Priest Eli sees her and asks what she is doing there. She tells him her story, and we read that when she leaves the Temple, she's not the same person she was when she walked in. Like Hagar in the first story, her problems haven't changed, but she has changed. She feels, differently about them, about her ability to cope with them. They don't overwhelm her the way they did an hour earlier.

Why? What happened to her to remove that black cloud from over her head and let her feel differently about life? Let me suggest that what happened was: somebody took her seriously.

I can imagine that Hannah had a lot of friends who tried to help her, who said things like "other people have it worse," "there are lots of other things you can do with your life," "I know plenty of people whose children make them miserable," which is like saying to the man who loses his job and doesn't know how he'll support his family "boy, I wish I could sleep late in the morning the way you'll be able to." Even Hannah's husband, who genuinely loves her, says to her "What do you need children for? You've got me." And Hannah has the sense that nobody understands how terrible she feels.

Eli does. Eli listens to her. He doesn't try to minimize her anguish. He doesn't interrupt her and tell her what to do. He doesn't tell her it's God's will. He listens to her, and when she's done, he blesses her. And it turns out that is exactly what she needs. When she leaves, she is a different person because somebody took her seriously.

My friends, what the ancient Temple at Shiloh offered Hannah, this contemporary Temple in Natick offers you. We can't make your problems go away. If you need a job, we can't find you a job. If you're looking to get married, we have a sanctuary and the clergy for a ceremony, and a few open Sundays, but we can't find you a mate. What we promise is to take you seriously. This isn't a place where cripples leave their crutches and colostomy patients leave their drainage systems and walk out miraculously cured. This is a place where people leave their pain, their loneliness, their fear that God has abandoned them,and walk out knowing that someone truly cares about them.

There are so many institutions in our lives that don't take us seriously, that exploit our innocence, that answer our phone calls with a recording and our correspondence with a form letter. We desperately need this one place that exists for the purpose of caring about us.

I'm often invited to speak at educators' conferences about the spiritual dimensions of education. I tell them that I come out of a tradition that sees a classroom as a sacred space, because in Judaism, learning is a sacred enterprise. And one of the things that makes a classroom a sacred space is the sense that every child is taken seriously, that no child ever comes home with the feeling "the teacher doesn't care about me."

We know how to appreciate the bright child, the attractive child, the athletically gifted child. Do we know how to appreciate the kind child, the sensitive child, the unconventional child? Do we know how to respect the vulnerability of the shy child, the child whose experiences at home have left him or her terrified of being criticized for being wrong?

When two teenagers in Colorado exploded in an orgy of murder, it was horrible and it inflicted pain on families who didn't deserve it, but it was understandable. At an age when young people are so achingly vulnerable to issues of acceptance and rejection, they had been rejected so consistently that they lashed out, as I suspect the skinheads and members of hate groups and residents of dangerous neighborhoods you wouldn't want to walk in at night are young people who have tasted little but rejection in their lives. Even as a hungry man will be driven to steal food, a soul starved for recognition will do desperate things to be taken seriously.

For some time, I have been fascinated by the development of the Victim Impact Statement system in criminal trials. After a defendant has been found guilty but before sentencing, the victims are invited to address the judge and jury about what the crime has done to them and their families. The original intention was to put the severity of the crime in context so that the sentence would be appropriately severe. But it has turned out to have another unanticipated effect. Once the victims were given a chance to make their statements, it didn't matter to them nearly as much what the punishment was. They had experienced Hannah's cure. They were listened to, their anguish was taken seriously, and it turns out that that, not revenge, was what they really needed.

My friends, what can we pray for today? We come to shul on Rosh HaShanah and we pray for a year of health. And the prayerbook answers us: I can't guarantee you good health. But I can offer you the courage and the support system to sustain you even in times of illness. We pray for a good year, a year without any major misfortune. And again the prayerbook warns us: No guarantees, but I can offer you the resiliency to survive and transcend whatever bad news the year may have in store.

We are the students who come to the rabbi in the morning and ask him "Please tell me, what makes life worth living?" And the answer he gives us is Hagar's answer: Find someone to help. Know that somebody needs you, someone is grateful for your being there, and life will mean something."

He gives us Hannah's answer: Find someone, one person, who cares about you, who listens to you, who takes you and your pain seriously, and you can live through anything. Zachrenu l'hayyim melech hafets b'hayyim. Remember us unto life, O Lord who cherishes life. Remind us of why we want to live, and inscribe us in Your book of those who live. AMEN.

YEARNING TO SEE GOD

Rabbi Harold Kushner
Rosh HaShannah 5763

Those of us who are here early enough on these two mornings of Rosh HaShanah are treated to stories from the Torah that parallel each other in some interesting ways. The reading this morning tells of how Hagar, Abraham's concubine, was sent away with her young son Ishmael because Abraham and Sarah were afraid that Ishmael was having a bad influence on Isaac. They lose their way in the desert, they are out of food and water and the boy is about to die of thirst when an angel appears and points Hagar to a nearby well. Their lives are saved and Hagar names the well Be'er L'Hai Ro'I, the well of the living God who sees me, or as I would interpret it, "at the bottom of the well, at the lowest point of my life, when I felt helpless and abandoned, I met God and learned that God cares about me."

Then tomorrow we read that story that defies all understanding: God commands Abraham to take his beloved son Isaac, born to him after years of yearning, and offer him as a sacrifice on a nearby mountain. Abraham is about to comply when, at the last moment, an angel intervenes and tells him to stop and not harm the child. God tells Abraham that because he has shown such faith, he and his descendants will play an important role in the religious history of the world. Abraham calls the place where that happened Bahar Adonai Yera'eh, the mountain where God is seen, or as I would interpret it, "at the high point of my life, the day when my child was returned to me safe and unharmed and I learned that I would be successful in my dream of changing the world, I felt I had seen the face of God."

Why did the Sages of two thousand years ago ordain those particular stories to be read year after year on Rosh HaShanah? Maybe they did it because they understood something about why people come to today's service.

Why do we come? Why are these the services for which we set out six hundred extra seats and set up a tent in the parking lot? Some of us come, I'm sure, because these prayers mean a lot to us. The words, the music, the memories, the experience of being in a large throng of Jews gathered for worship, -- that reaches us at a deep part of our souls.

Some of us come out of a lingering sense of obligation, a feeling that this is something we ought to do whether we enjoy it or not, what my teacher Mordecai Kaplan described as "observing the yahrzeit of our parents' religion."

Some people, I suspect, come because they are afraid that something bad will happen to them if they don't come. Let me explain that I mean by that. I would hope that no member of this congregation literally thinks that if you are marked absent on Rosh HaShanah, you won't be inscribed in the Book of Life and as a result, something terrible will befall you during the year. I hope you don't believe that

But for some people, being Jewish is a marginal part of their daily identity. It doesn't really flavor their lives that much, but they understand that if they went to the office on Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur, they would be making a statement to themselves and to the people around them about the utter insignificance of being Jewish, that they are not prepared to make. So they come.

But all those reasons cover only a part of the congregation. There is another reason why many of us come year after year. We come because we are hoping to meet God here. We want to meet God the way Hagar and Abraham met God. We want something to happen during these hours that will convince us that God is real beyond any doubt and that God cares about us.

Sometimes, every now and then, it happens and we walk out inspired. But most of the time we go home kind of disappointed. The service was fine, the rabbi and cantor did their tasks well, but where was God? I met my neighbors, I met the leaders of the congregation, but I'm not sure I met God. Why not? For one thing, Hagar and Abraham met God at the high points and low points of their lives, days when their children were in danger, days when their most desperate prayers were suddenly answered. At times like that, it's not hard to believe that God is real and cares about you. In much the same way, it's not that hard to sense the holiness, the religious dimension of a wedding, a birth, even of a funeral when religion works to heal even people who are not religious. But most of us don't live on mountaintops or at the bottom of wells in the desert. Most of us live most of our days at sea level, and our lives are marked by few triumphs and few dangers. We never seem to run into God there, and so we come to shul on these High Holy Days hoping something extraordinary will happen and we'll be able to walk out of the synagogue seeing the world differently than we did when we walked in.

It's not a new story. People have always longed to come face to face with God, to banish all doubts that God was real and not just something the authorities made up, like Santa Claus or the tooth fairy, to make us behave. Four months after the Israelites left Egypt and crossed the Red Sea, forty days after God gave our ancestors the Ten Commandments, the Israelites felt a desperate need to see God, to have tangible proof that God was still with them and had not abandoned them after leading them into the desert. Remember, these were people who had spent every day of their lives in Egypt, a highly visual, highly materialistic culture, with its pyramids and treasure houses. In Egypt, if something was real, you could see it. Dead people weren't simply remembered; they were kept around as mummies. The branch of mathematics in which Egypt excelled was not algebra or calculus or quadratic equations but geometry, the measurement of real things. No wonder the Israelites had trouble absorbing the idea that something can be real but you can't see it.

As long as Moses was around, they could look at Moses as an embodiment, an incarnation of God. For them, Moses was God in human form. He told them what God expected of them. He worked miracles, the Ten Plagues, splitting the Sea. But Moses was gone. He was on Mt. Sinai getting the details of the Torah beyond the Ten Commandments. So you remember what the Israelites did. They fashioned a Golden Calf to represent the power and the glory of God. God was no longer an intellectual abstraction. Now they could see the God they were praying to. They could see that God was present in their midst.

God gets angry at them for turning Him into a thing, an idol. Moses is so upset that he breaks the tablets of the Law. These people don't deserve the revelation, one of whose commandments was not to fashion an image of God. And Moses has to plead with God to give them a second chance, reminding God that they had been raised in Egypt where representations of the gods were all around.

About twelve hundred years after that, there was another case of people feeling they needed to see God in order to believe that God was real and that God cared. When I was about eleven years old, I asked my Hebrew teacher at the Brooklyn Jewish Center "If our religion is true, how come there are so many more Christians in the world than Jews?" He answered, "Because it's a lot easier to be a Christian. You don't have to keep kosher, you don't have to keep Shabbos, you don't have to eat matzo on Pesach. And people like to take the easy way." Only years later did I realize what a bad answer that was. First, I think it's a mistake to describe Judaism primarily in terms of how hard it is, how much you have to give up. Secondly, I'm not sure that when it comes to religion, people want to take the easy way. Often people are attracted by a religion that takes itself seriously enough to make demands on them. But mostly, I can appreciate that, as an orthodox Jew, he didn't understand the appeal of Christianity. He could only see it in Jewish terms. Christianity is spiritually attractive to a lot of people because it lets you see God. Christianity began at a time of great turmoil, a time when hope and faith were in short supply. Like the Jews enslaved in Egypt, people of the first century suffered the cruelties of the Roman Empire at its worst. It was hard for them to believe that God was anywhere in their world. So Christianity offered to show them God in human form. You're not sure that God exists? Here is God come down to earth in the form of this young man. You want to know what this God looks like that you're praying to? Here's what He looks like.

The trouble is, that approach solves some problems but raises others. I once heard a lecture by a Roman Catholic nun who was a psychotherapist, about the spiritual problems of religious women. One thing she said was that, if you picture God as a man, as Christianity does, it becomes nearly impossible for a woman to pray without bringing into her prayer life all the baggage of her relationships with powerful men. Trying to pray, she will be suspicious, flirtatious, resentful, anything but reverent.

Picture if you will a fifty-year-old man, a Roman Catholic computer programmer, who has just lost his job. His company has let him go and replaced him with a thirty-year-old Jewish man, wearing jeans and sporting a beard, who can do his job better and cheaper. The man is distraught. How will he pay his bills? How will he send his kids to college? On the way home, he stops off at his church looking for solace. He tries to pray, looks up at the altar and there he sees God portrayed as a thirty year old Jewish man with a beard. How can he believe that God is on his side?

So, if God is not a thing, if God has no form or shape, not male or female, not young or old, not white or black or yellow, how can we see God? And if we can't see God, how can we know that God is real? Right after the incident of the Golden Calf, Moses confronts God with that problem. He says to God, in effect: I've got a bunch of people down there who are having trouble believing that You are real because they can't see You and they don't know how to believe in something they can't see. If it would prevent future Golden Calf incidents, could we just have a tiny peek at what You look like?

God answers, "You don't get it. The reason you can't see Me is not that I'm hiding, and it's not that you're obtuse. You can't see Me because I have no form or shape. I'm not a thing." But then, rather than send Moses away empty-handed, God utters what may be the strangest, most puzzling verse in the entire Torah. He says, "Wait here in this cave while I pass by, and then look. You won't be able to see My face, but you'll see My back."

How can that be? God has just insisted that He has no form or shape. God has just severely punished the Israelites for portraying Him in physical form. And now He tells Moses "You can see My back!" Let me suggest that what it means is this: we can't see God but we can see God's after-effects. That's what the reference to seeing His back implies. All we can see of God is the difference that God makes as He passes through our lives, just as you can't see wind; you can only see things being blown around by the wind. Hagar didn't see God. She saw a well that saved her life, she found the world sustaining her when everyone else had rejected her, and that was enough to persuade her that God was real. Abraham didn't see anything on that mountaintop. He got the message that it was wrong to sacrifice his child on the altar of his beliefs, and he understood, the way a person will say "Oh, I see", - he understood what it meant to follow God's ways. And the Israelites in Egypt didn't see God either. They saw God's impact. They saw the gates of freedom swing open, and they knew that God was at work.

In a way, we ought to be able to understand this concept better than previous generations could, because of advances that have been made in subatomic particle physics. No scientist has ever seen an electron. No physicist has ever actually seen a quark. But they are absolutely convinced that quarks and electrons exist, because when they look through their microscopes, they see things happening that could only happen if quarks and electrons were real. And that's what I'm saying, and that's what the Torah is saying, about God. You and I can't see God, but we see things happening that could only be happening because God is at work.

When a doctor saves a life through surgery or cures an illness with antibiotics, he is entitled to feel that he has seen the hand of God at work. When a person is ashamed of herself for something she has done and is afraid that people will shun her but she discovers that there is forgiveness in the world, or when she finds the power within herself to love people close to her who have disappointed her, she can feel that she has met God in her life, not God's face but God's back. Working invisibly, imperceptibly, God has made something happen, because forgiveness doesn't come naturally to people. We can forgive and we can love only when God stirs our souls. When a person finds himself alone, through bereavement or through rejection, and feels utterly abandoned, the way Hagar did in the desert, and friends rally to his or her side, that is God in action, God making things happen.

Seven years ago, some of you may remember that I went to Oklahoma City to conduct a workshop for clergy and psychologists who were dealing with families who had lost loved ones in the bombing of the Federal Building. After the workshop, I met the bereaved families. I said to them, "It's been a month since that tragedy. What one thing more than anything else has helped you deal with your loss?" And remarkably they all gave me the same answer, using the same word: community. Neighbors, strangers coming up to them to hug them, to express sympathy, to bring them food to fill the emptiness inside them. And I realized that they were giving me a profoundly religious answer. A 19th Century Hassidic rabbi, Menahem Mendel of Rymanov, once said "human beings are God's language." That is, when you cry out to God, God responds to your cry by sending you people. I would paraphrase that sentence to say that human beings, reaching out to others in need, doing good things when they don't have to do them, are as close as we will ever come to seeing the face of God. And it happens all the time.

Any time we find ourselves stirred to be more generous, more courageous, more self-disciplined, more grateful, we may not have seen God face- to-face but we will have caught a glimpse of God's back and seen the difference God can make in our lives.

Any time a Jew does something that calls for a blessing, we are asserting that God is present. Can you see the difference between saying "Praised are You O Lord our God who brings forth food from the earth" and saying "Praised is God who brings forth food from the earth"? To say "You" in a prayer is to claim that God is there with you. God is not in the place; God is in the moment, in the spark of gratitude for food expressed in a Jewish religious idiom. When you light the Shabbat candles, when you say Kiddush over the wine, and you say "Barukh Attah Adonai", you are recognizing the invisible presence of God in your home at that moment. You are saying, I am doing this because God is real and God is stirring me. God is teaching me to create a moment of holiness.

Three thousand years ago, a band of Israelites yearned to see God so desperately that they fashioned a Golden Calf and told themselves "That's what God looks like." And God got very upset with them and said to them "You don't get it. I'm not an object. I'm not a thing you can draw a picture of, or make a statue of. I am the Power that liberated you and guided you for the last few months and will continue to liberate and guide you, even if you can't see Me as I do it."

Two thousand years ago, some people felt they needed to see God, so they came to believe that a young Jew from Nazareth was God in human form. And God said "No, I'm not incarnate in one person any more than I am incarnate in every person, young and old, black and white, male and female, plain and attractive. They are all My image."

And we today yearn to see God. We come to services on Rosh HaShanah and we virtually challenge God: Reveal Yourself! Make something happen so I'll know that You're there. And God says to us "Forget about it. You're not going to see Me. Nobody can see Me. I'm not a person and I'm not a thing. I'm not a calf and I'm not a carpenter's son. You want to see Me? Go out and do godly things. Help the poor and comfort the grieving, make your community a better place, and then go home and look in the mirror. That's as close as you will come to seeing what God looks like. Watch the things you say and control you behavior, and you will feel Me as a living presence in your life. Write a check to tzedakah and you will feel God guiding your hand as you sign it. Light the Shabbat candles, make your table an altar and your home a sanctuary, and you will feel My presence so strongly that you will say "Barukh Attah Adonai Eloheynu Melekh HaOlam Asher Kidshanu B'mitzvotav...", Praised are You, O Lord, who by Your presence has shown me how to bring holiness into my home and into my life. AMEN

THE BOOK OF LIFE

 

Rabbi Harold Kushner
Rosh HaShanah 5761

One of the most destructive myths, one of the most dangerous beliefs that a lot of people insist on holding on to is the notion that the movie of our lives has already been shot and all we can do is keep watching to see how it turns out and pray that it has a happy ending. People assume that the future has already been determined, that it’s hidden somewhere over the time horizon and if we only had a big enough telescope, we could take a peek at it. After all, if time is a fourth dimension of space, why can’t we go forward and backward in time the way we can go up and down, right and left?

This idea that the future has already been determined is why people take horoscopes seriously. It’s captured in the Yiddish word besherrt and in the Buddhist notion of karma, the idea that something is fated to happen and there is nothing you or I can do about it. We don’t cause it; we can’t prevent it.

We may think this idea is found in the High Holy Day prayerbook, when we read that "it is decided on Rosh HaShanah and confirmed on Yom Kippur, who shall live and who shall die, who shall prosper and who shall fail." And this past year, it received what looked like scientific endorsement when geneticists finished mapping the human genome, the DNA code that makes us who we are. It is clearly one of the great scientific achievements of all time. It has been compared to the discovery of fire or the invention of the wheel. As Dr. Francis Collins of the National Human Genome Research Institute put it, "we have caught the first glimpse of our own instruction book, previously known only to God." It would seem that with just a little more work, we will be able to peek ahead in God’s Book of Life and know things that until now only God could know: who shall live long and who shall die young, who by stroke and who by cancer. It’s all written in our DNA, our Book of Life. And that is what scares me.

Three things scare me. Some people are concerned about the decoding of the genome because they are afraid it will lead to insurance companies denying coverage to people whose genetic heritage makes them more likely to get sick, or employers not hiring people who might miss work for reasons of illness. My concerns are different. I’m afraid that learning to read our DNA will strengthen the tendency of some people to say "Why should I change my behavior? My future is determined by my genes, and there is nothing I can do about it."

If it has been written in a book somewhere, whether it’s in God’s Book of Life or encoded in our DNA, that we are destined to live a certain number of years and then come down with certain health problems, then why bother to live healthier lives now? Whether we’re talking about life-threatening behavior, smoking, driving after having something to drink, not wearing seat belts, or whether it is deciding that "there‘s no point to trying to lose weight; it’s in my genes. I can’t control my weight anymore than I can control my height", I’m worried about our coming to believe that matters of health and wellbeing are out of our hands.

It’s like the Persian fable of the man who sends his servant to the market. A half hour later, the servant comes back, pale and agitated. He tells the master "I saw the angel of death in the market. He looked at me, looked at his list, and looked at me again. He’s come for me. I’m going to run away. I’ll run to the big city of Samarra. He’ll never find me there." The man now has to do his own marketing. He goes to town and sure enough, sees the angel of death. He asks him "Why did you frighten my servant?" The angel of death answers "I didn’t mean to frighten him. I was just surprised to see him here. I have an appointment with him tonight in Samarra."

The moral of the story would be that you can’t escape your fate. It’s like the novel I read in which a man travels back in time to try to prevent the Titanic from sinking (in order to spare millions of people from having to see the movie.) He warns the captain that there are icebergs ahead. But the captain dismisses him, saying "Don’t worry about it. We’re professionals and we know what we’re doing." In desperation, he gets his girl friend to distract the captain for a few minutes, and changes the steering wheel of the ship a few degrees to the right. What he doesn’t know is that the captain told him not to worry because he had already been warned about the iceberg and had adjusted the ship accordingly, and our hero had just moved the ship back into line with it.

I can understand that this is in many ways an attractive notion, that everything has already been determined. For one thing, it relieves us of responsibility and guilt. Nothing that happens is ever our fault. It had to happen that way; that’s what the script called for. For another thing, it lets us believe that Somebody smarter than us is writing the script and there is a good reason for whatever happens.

But Judaism rejects that way of looking at things. It refuses to absolve us of responsibility. On the contrary, the glory of a human being is his or her sense of responsibility. The next chapter has not been written; it’s waiting for us to write it, based on our choices, our priorities, our decisions. Despite what you may think the Rosh HaShanah prayer says, the insistent message of Judaism is: Choose Life! You choose life. Nobody else is doing the choosing for you. You choose between good and bad, between healthy and unhealthy, between sensible and risky.

What are these High Holy Days about if not the possibility of change, so that next year doesn’t have to be a repeat of the past year? We can change our behavior, we can change the way we relate to the people around us, and our lives will change.

So what do we do with that prayer: God decides who shall live and who shall die? Realize first that prayer is poetry and the one thing you can’t do with poetry is take it literally. Next, realize that the verses we sing so intently are only the second half of a two-part prayer, Netaneh Tokef. The first half says that when the Book of Life is opened, the entries are in our own handwriting. I put the two halves together and I get the message that some of the things that will happen to us in the coming year will be the result of things we have no control over. We are born with certain strengths and certain vulnerabilities. No matter how hard we wish, no matter how hard we work, most of us will never grow up to be opera singers or professional athletes, and we can blame our genes for that.

But the first half of the prayer insists that a lot of what is going to happen to us will be the result of choices we make. The entries are in our handwriting. We may not be able to choose the cards we’re dealt, but we decide how we play them. We can choose wise over self-indulgent, we can choose sensible over risky. We can choose generous over selfish. We get to write at least part of our own Book of Life.

Not only that. Not only does the Mahzor tell us that we are not prisoners of our genes. The scientists who have decoded the genome tell us the same thing. Deciphering the human genome means that we can not only read the Book of Life, we can edit it. We can not only identify what health risks we are born with. We will one day be able to do something about them. One prominent theologian put it this way: Some people are saying, Don’t play God. The bodies we are born with are the ones God intended for us to have, and if we try to change them, we are violating God’s Creation. But I don’t believe that God wants some kid to be stuck with the gene for cystic fibrosis and it is somehow immoral for us to go in and try to select it out.

I agree with him. I don’t believe God put a "Do Not Touch" sign on human biology. I believe God wants us to be partners with Him in finishing the work of Creation, overcoming the tyranny of our genetic endowment, finding cures and vaccines for diseases, helping infertile couples have children and giving those children every prospect of a full and satisfying life, and to feel that we are not replacing God when we do that. We are doing God’s work. God wants us to be co-authors in writing the Book of Life.

There is another area where we run the risk of seeing ourselves as prisoners of our genetic code. Some scientists are claiming that not only our physical health but our personalities are inherited at birth. Any of us who have raised more than one child know that children are born with their own personalities. They are not blank slates for us to write on. There is a theory that there is a gene for shyness, a gene for the propensity for violence, a gene for the tendency to manipulate people. Some claim that men are genetically driven to chase as many women as they can, to insure the survival and immortality of their DNA, and women are genetically programmed to do whatever is necessary to give their children advantages over other people’s children, and that can mean anything from pulling strings to get their child into the best teacher’s class to hiring someone to injure their daughter’s rival on the cheerleading team. To pass laws prohibiting that, they tell us, is as futile as passing a law against cold winters. It goes against Nature.

To that, Judaism proclaims "You’re right and you’re wrong." You are right that Nature is not moral. Nature is selfish. Nature rewards the strong and punishes weakness. But there is more to a human being than what is natural. We are the only creatures who have eaten the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, the only creatures who can understand that some things are morally wrong. And that lets us rise above the confines and impulses of Nature to the level of human nature.

Nature says, Take whatever you need to prosper because the good things of life belong to the strong. Watch the animal programs on public television. Lions hunt zebras, cheetahs hunt antelopes. Scavengers try to grab part of the kill but the stronger animals drive them away until they have finished. That’s Nature.

Human nature tells a different story.Human nature says, share your bread with the needy. Leave the corner of your field for the hungry. The Talmud tells us that there is more to keeping a kosher home than two sets of dishes and only the right foods. A kosher kitchen means sharing your food with those who don’t have enough to eat. That’s not natural, but it’s human nature at its best.

If your neighbor is having problems, help him because you really don’t want to live in a society where some are rich and others are poor. You’ll have to spend too much of your income on security guards and burglar alarms if you do.

Human nature asks, What kind of person keeps everything he has for himself? A mensch gives ten percent of his income to tzedakah. And only a human being can understand that question. The person who says "Why should I give it away? I worked hard for it" doesn’t understand what it means to be human.

So much of the Torah is intended to subordinate Nature to human nature. We don’t have to do everything our genes tell us to do. The Jewish dietary laws are not about protecting you from trichinosis, and they’re not about the danger of meat spoiling in the heat of the Sinai desert. They are about taking something we share with animals, the need to eat regularly, and elevating it to a human level by saying "There are some foods I choose not to eat, and there are some days I choose not to eat at all, to proclaim that I control my instincts. They don’t control me."

In much the same way, there are people who insist that, because the attraction of a man and a woman for each other is natural, it must be wholesome; otherwise, why did God build it into His world? And anyone who tries to impede it is life-denying. That seems to be the message of just about every movie that Hollywood makes, - love wins out over all other considerations, whether it’s the age, the religion, or the marital status of the other person. And at the other extreme, in reaction to that, there are religions that are frightened by the power of sexual attraction, to the point of seeing it at best as a concession to human weakness and at worst as something to feel guilty about.

What does Judaism say? It says that yes, sexual attraction is natural. It will drive dogs to jump fences and break down screen doors to mate with a female dog in heat. But we expect human beings to rise above Nature, above the siren call of the lustful gene, and reach the level of human nature. Honor the legitimacy of sexual attraction, indeed the holiness of sexual attraction, but humanize it, as we humanize greed and hunger. Make it kosher. Sanctify it with commitment, with fidelity, with mutuality.

There is one other thing that scares me about this wonderful scientific achievement of decoding the human genome, and those of you who know me will understand why this is an issue for me. Yes, God wants us to be His co-workers in writing the Book of Life, and yes, God wants us to do His holy work in fixing what’s broken in a person’s flawed DNA. But there is a real danger hidden in our ability to do that.

I quoted Dr. Francis Collins earlier about catching the first glimpse of our instruction book – we can think of it as the Book of Life that the Mahzor speaks of – a book previously accessible only to God. But listen to what he said right after that: "and we can use it to design and redesign human beings any way we want to."

That frightens me, that we will use our breakthrough knowledge of the genome not only to cure cystic fibrosis and other inherited conditions, but we will use it to manipulate genetics to produce perfect children, to make sure that every child is born gifted, - bright, athletic and good-looking.

Do you know the story of the actress who wrote to George Bernard Shaw suggesting that they get married. "After all," she wrote, "think of the advantages our children will have with my looks and your intelligence." Shaw wrote back saying "But what if they had my looks and your intelligence?"

In today’s haftarah, Hannah prays for a child. She asks God for zera anashim, a human child, interpreted by the commentators to mean a child subject to all the frailties and problems of a normal human being, so that out of his own problems, he will learn compassion and empathy for other people’s problems, and by learning to cope with his own issues, he might become a leader.

It scares me that we might render children who are flawed, children who are different as extinct as passenger pigeons, and at what loss to art, to science, to creativity? We would create Garrison Keilor’s Lake Woebegone, where all the children are above average, and eliminate the possibility of a Michaelangelo who was gay, of a Beethoven who was hearing-impaired, of the child who could come along and change the world because he or she saw things a little differently than the rest of us did. What if, for example, scientists learned how to eliminate the gene that makes some children restless in school and causes others to daydream in class? It would make it easier to be a teacher, but what books would never be written, what inventions would never be thought of, in that brave new world?

One of my favorite passages in the Talmud reads: The emperor stamps out coins bearing his image and everyone of them is identical, but God creates human beings in the divine image and no two are alike. Every one is an individual. What will we lose when we learn to play God and minimize those individual differences, the surprise involved in seeing a child grow into someone who has never existed before.

It scares me that, in a brave new world like that, we would lose our ability to love people who were not perfect, -- already some scientists are talking about handicapped children no longer having a right to be born, because of the burdens they impose on their families and on medical resources—and what is love if not the readiness to accept and cherish other people with all of their imperfections and be grateful that they put up with you and all of yours.

A year or two ago, there was a thoroughly forgettable movie called "Gattaca" with Ethan Hawke and Uma Thurman. It was about a society of the future that was run by an elite who had been genetically engineered to be physically and intellectually perfect, while the menial work was done by less-than-perfect people conceived in the old-fashioned way and known as "love children." I imagine that they were called "love children," and in the movie it is meant as a put-down, because of the manner of their conception. But it occurred to me that they deserve to be called love children because, by their imperfection, they inspire love.

There are people here this morning who have known the experience of learning to love a physically or emotionally handicapped child. It’s a very different experience than loving a straight-A student who is headed for the Ivy League. There are husbands and wives here who have had the experience of seeing a mate come down with a chronic, debilitating illness and who chose not to walk away from that daily experience of pain and helplessness but to stay and lessen the pain by sharing it. It’s a very different kind of love than what you felt for each other under the wedding canopy. It’s nothing you would have chosen, and it’s certainly nothing you would have asked for in your prayers, but look at how it has deepened you as a human being. Look at what it has taught you about love, something you would never have learned at the movies.

My friends, I don’t know how many of the biologists working on the human genome project are in shul today. I suspect that more than a few are. If they are, I hope they are hearing the message of these High Holy Days, the message that "I’m not OK but that’s OK." We don’t come to shul on Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur and say to God "Love me because I’m wonderful, love me because I’m perfect." We say "Love me because I need to be loved. Accept and forgive me because I need to be accepted and forgiven for everything I’ve done wrong this past year. Love me because I’m human, and I’m trying so hard to become more human."

I don’t know very much about the decoding of the human genome, and most of what I do know about it, I don’t understand. But I’ll venture a prediction. When scientists get to the point of decoding an individual’s Book of Life, when they are able to look at his genetic inheritance and read from it what kind of person he or she will be, I predict that they will find something surprising. I suspect that they will find that our inherited DNA fills only the first page or two, and the rest of the pages in a person’s Book of Life are blank, waiting for us to write on them, waiting for us to determine the rest of the story.

Our genes can only take us so far. They can endow us with certain possibilities and they can impose certain limits. What we do with those possibilities, how we operate within those limits, -- we get to decide that.

We don’t come to shul and say to God "While You’ve got the Book of Life open, could I peak at the last chapter to see how it comes out? And if not the last chapter, can I at least peak at next Thursday’s stock tables?" But if we did, I suspect that God would tell us that there is really nothing to look at. The next chapter of our lives hasn’t been written yet any more than next Thursday’s stock tables and sports results have already been set in type. The only pages in our Book of Life that have been filled are the ones we already know about, the ones we’ve already written.

We don’t come to shul to grovel and beg God for a good year. We don’t come for a hint as to what is going to happen to us next. We come to hear the message that the Book of Life is waiting for us to fill in. We come to hear the message "Choose Life!" Choose what kind of life you are going to have. And we come to gain the strength and the courage to make the right choices.

Our fate is not in the stars, and our fate is not in our DNA. Our fate is in our own hands, to choose and to cherish. May God grant that we choose well.

WE ARE ALL ISRAELIS NOW

Rabbi Harold Kushner
Rosh HaShannah 5762

I had another sermon I was going to give this morning. It was a good sermon too, but you'll have to wait till next year to hear it because of the events of last Tuesday. Last Tuesday, just a week ago, September 11th, a date whose numerical value ironically is 9-1-1, when enemies of America inflicted on this nation the worst act of terrorism we have ever experienced. Before last week, it would have been hard for us to imagine anything more cruel than the bombing of the Federal Building in Oklahoma City with 168 dead. The casualty numbers out of New York City and Washington will probably be thirty or forty times as great, the equivalent of an Oklahoma City bombing every day for a month.

Last Shabbat in synagogue, we read the opening words of the Torah portion Nitzavim. Moses addresses the Israelites for the last time and tells them his words are meant "for those who are here today and for those who are not here today." And as we read those words, I found myself wondering in how many synagogues and churches, thoughts will be turning to "those who are here today and those who are not here today."

So we have to talk about it this morning because it is on everyone's mind and lies so heavily on everyone's soul, because it has been hard to think or talk about anything else for the past week. We have to talk about it thought it's hard to find anything to say except how much it hurts and how angry we are.

I remember when I was a boy growing up in Brooklyn, that every year our beloved old rabbi (who was probably younger then than I am today) would begin the Rosh HaShannah service with a prayer whose opening words were:

TICHLEH SHANAH UK'LALOTEHA, TAHEL SHANAH UVIRCHOTEHA,

May the old year end with all of its calamities, and may the New Year begin with all of its blessings.

And I remember that that prayer always made me uncomfortable. I would say to myself "That prayer belongs back in Europe where life was hard and every year brought more trouble. But here the years are good." Yet yesterday and today, I found myself praying that all the killing, all the hatred, all the tears and bloodshed of these past twelve months vanish along with the old year, and that the coming year be free of all that.

But what is there to say? How does one make sense of a senseless tragedy? How does one come to terms with the knowledge that some people hate other people so much that they would kill themselves in order to kill thousands of strangers?

After the terrible events of last Tuesday, a number of colleagues I spoke to had all independently come up with the same insight: We are all Israelis now. Now all Americans know the feeling of vulnerability, of uncertainty, that Israelis feel when they go shopping, when they send their children off to school in the morning, when their sons and husbands leave for military reserve duty. And if we are all Israelis now, maybe we can learn something from Israel's fifty-three years of hard-won experience dealing with the threat of terrorism.

How do Israelis handle the danger? They go on living. They continue to shop, they continue to ride the buses, they continue to send their children to school. There is always an element of concern, which is why they compulsively listen to the news every hour on the hour. But they understand that if they ever stopped going on with their normal lives, they would be conceding the field to the bad guys, and they are not prepared to do that.

You know the story we read from the Torah on Rosh HaShannah, the story of how God commands Abraham to offer up his son as a sacrifice and then intervenes to save the boy at the last moment. In the Torah, though we don't read this far on Rosh HaShannah, the very next thing that happens is that we read of the death of Sarah, Abraham's wife and Isaac's mother. Though the Torah never makes the time frame explicit (it could have happened years later and probably did), Jewish commentators have always suspected a link between the two events. They imagine Sarah dying immediately after and as a result of Isaac's near death experience. One midrash has Satan telling Sarah that Isaac has been killed, and Sarah dying of grief. Another pictures Satan telling Sarah what really happened, that Isaac was almost killed but was spared, and Sarah dies anyway. Why? The midrash doesn't try to explain it, but Aviva Zornberg, a brilliant Israeli Bible scholar, understands it in this way: Sarah dies of despair because she can't stand living in a world that random and unreliable, a world where life hangs by a thread every day. How can you live in a world where you say goodbye to your loved ones in the morning and you can't be certain you will ever see each other again? All that uncertainty is too much for her.

This week I suspect a lot of people are feeling like Sarah. They are saying to themselves, "How do you live in a world like this?" They are asking "Where can I move to, how can I change my way of living so that I don't have to be in danger?"

To those questions, Israelis, I think, have given us the answer. For the most part, they have rejected Sarah's reaction to the threat of terror. They have squared their shoulders, summoned up their courage and gone on with their lives. And I would hope that all Americans, now that we know the vulnerability that Israelis have been living with, will do the same.

I intend to get back on airplanes when airports re-open and my schedule calls for me to fly somewhere. I was on a plane at Logan last Tuesday, planning to travel to Toronto, when we got word that all flights had been cancelled everywhere, and I will be back flying again after the holidays. I will not let the terrorists tell me how I can live. I will not let them keep me from doing the things I want to do, not my business travel and not my traveling to visit family. I will act prudently and carefully but I will refuse to let them control my life or shrink the boundaries of what I feel safe doing.

I understand the Torah's admonition "Choose Life" to mean "Don't be afraid of living." Don't be afraid to live, even though living may be painful or precarious. Do you want to get even with the people who did that to us last week? You know how to do that? I would paraphrase F. Scott Fitzgerald who said "Living well is the best revenge." My adage would read "living normally, living bravely is the best revenge."

In the same way, as I have listened to callers on talk radio and read the letters to the editor, I have heard a great deal of anger and a desire to get even with whoever has done this to us, which is understandable but problematic in its own way. But occasionally I have heard or read people suggesting that maybe we should moderate our support of Israel so that we'll no longer be a target for terrorist hatred. And I want to say to those people that that is so totally wrong. Muslim fanatics don't hate us because we're pro-Israel and they won't stop hating us if we were less pro-Israel. They hate us because we stand for democracy, for gender equality, treating women as full human beings, for freedom of speech and worship, values that they are terrified of. But more than that, to change our foreign policy because of terrorist acts is to reward and encourage more terrorism. It is another form of yielding power to the bad guys. I would urge anyone who thinks that way to read the history of the 1930's, when world powers decided that Czechoslovakia was being selfish and stubborn by not sacrificing itself so that Hitler would no longer threaten the rest of us, and you know what that led to. Appeasing terrorists has been compared to feeding your friends to the tiger in the hope that the tiger will eat you last. It is what weak, powerless countries do, not strong independent ones. And I pray that our government, like the government of Israel, never shrinks to the point where it would do that. Don't let the bad guys win.

A second concern is how we as a nation will respond to what was done to us. Ever since Tuesday, we have felt hurt and angry and most significantly we have felt helpless. There seemed to be so little we could do to help the victims or to hurt the perpetrators. And when a person feels helpless, there is an almost irresistible impulse to do something to reclaim power, to restore a feeling of being in charge. That's why the most sobering comment I heard all week was from a caller to a radio station who quoted the adage "Be careful whom you see as an enemy for you will become like them." Last week the danger to America was from stolen airplanes and falling buildings. Today the danger to America is that, out of our pain and rage, we will forget what we stand for as a people. We will betray precisely those values that our enemies hate us for. The perpetrators of last week's atrocities earned our contempt by killing innocent people in what they believed was a just cause. It's important that we never become contemptible ourselves by becoming like them, by scapegoating innocent Muslims or American Arabs who share our values not theirs, by raining bombs or missiles on somebody, anybody, just to feel powerful again. I would hope that we will identify and punish the people and the governments behind last week's event, and punish them thoroughly. I'm old enough to remember how we did that after Pearl Harbor. A movie about Pearl Harbor puts these words in the mouth of the Japanese admiral: "I fear we awakened a sleeping giant and filled him with a terrible resolve." And I expect that the same thing will happen again. But I hope that America never stops being America in the process of bringing people to justice.

We learned another lesson on Tuesday, one that maybe we should have known before but we needed last week's terrible tragedy to make clear to us. After we heard of the horrific events in New York and Washington, we cancelled Religious School classes and sent your children home. We weren't entirely sure why we were doing it. The prospect of a terrorist attack on the Temple was fairly remote. After terrorists had struck the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, nobody really believed that Temple Israel of Natick was next on their list. But somehow it seemed like the right thing to do. And when we called you to tell you what we were doing, you thanked us for it.

Only later did I understand why. At a time like that, we want our family around us. We want to know that they are safe, and we want them to know that we are safe. At a time like that, we don't want to be alone. We want to be able to hug somebody, to talk to somebody, even just to watch the news on television with somebody rather than be alone. We learned something about why we need our families.

And then on Wednesday and Thursday, the stories began to come out about some of the people who died in the plane crashes or in the office buildings, and now there were faces and stories to go with the names and numbers. And just as many people can't comprehend the Holocaust when they only hear the number Six Million, they have to read The Diary of Anne Frank, we began to understand just what was lost last week. Many of the people were from the Boston area. Some of them were prominent businessmen, founders of high tech firms, executives of major corporations. But nobody talked about that. People spoke only of what loving husbands and wives, what special fathers and mothers they were, how much they gave to the community. And if we are desperate to find something good and redemptive in this shattering tragedy, that might be it: that is what all of us will be remembered for. Not our accomplishments, not our successes, but the love we shared with the people abound us.

This, after all, is the season for confronting our mortality, for facing up to the unsettling truth that none of us knows how long we have to live. B'ROSH HASHANNAH YIKATEVUN UV'YOM TZOM KIPPUR YEHATEMUN, It is decreed on Rosh HaShannah and confirmed on Yom Kippur, MI YICHYEH UMI YAMUT, who shall live and who shall die, who by sword and who by fire. I don't think the prayer asks us to believe that God decided last September that these thousands of people would not live to see another autumn, and that the terrorists were doing God's will. I think the prayer comes to warn us that, because life is precarious, make sure you start doing the things that really matter, the things that will ultimately win you your immortality.

As many of you know, I have a new book out and that's what it's about: how do we make our lives matter to the world? And the answer is, we do it by loving the people around us. If you have known the feeling of loving someone and being loved by someone, you have changed someone's life and by so doing, you changed the world.

There is another prayer we recite on Rosh HaShannah. We say it several times in the course of the first and second Amidah prayers. We say it individually and then we go back and say it with the congregation. It begins: UV'CHAN TZADDIKIM YIR'U V'YISMACHU VIY'SHARIM YA'ALOZU …V'CHOL HARISHA KULA KE'ASHAN TICHLEH. May this coming year be a year in which good people will have reason to rejoice, a year in which wickedness will be silenced and evil vanish like smoke, for God will remove the dominion of arrogance from the world.

And that, perhaps more than any other single line from the Mahzor, is our prayer today: may this year give good people reason to rejoice for what happens in the world, when we see God's world cleansed of hatred and wickedness. AMEN

WHAT MAKES LIFE WORTH LIVING?

 

Rabbi Harold Kushner
Rosh HaShanah 5760

I was going to write another sermon, something about the millennium and what this century has taught us about human nature. But before I could do that, I began to hear voices pulling me in another direction, speaking with an urgency that I could not ignore, saying that there were problems I had to talk about. So I put that other sermon aside for some future millennium, and listened to those voices.

I was studying the Torah reading for Rosh HaShanah, and I heard the voice of Hagar, Abraham's concubine and the mother of his first child Ishmael. Hagar is rejected by her husband, thrown out of her home. Her child is desperately ill. She feels alone, abandoned, friendless, and she's ready to give up on life, because after all, hasn't life given up on her?

Then I read the Haftarah for Rosh Hashanah morning, the story of Hannah, driven to tears and despair because she longs to have children and she can't. Her husband tries to comfort her, but that only deepens her despair when she realizes that even people who genuinely love her can't understand what she is feeling and what she is going through.

And even when I put the prayerbook aside and read the morning paper, I continued to hear voices of despair --desperately ill people turning to the likes of Dr. Kevorkian because death seemed more alluring than life; desperately angry people suddenly exploding in murderous rage -- Columbine High School in Colorado was perhaps the most horrifying example but it seemed every week brought a new instance, from one city or small town after another.

I would finish the paper and go out into the community, and the voices would be less urgent but their stories would be distressingly similar: the sick, the afflicted, people growing older and not looking forward to it; people disappointed in the way their lives had turned out, the way their careers had turned out, the way their children had turned out.

And I realized that, although these people were all different from one another and the sources of their pain were so different, they were all saying essentially the same thing. They were saying "How can you gather in your synagogues and pray for life? Life is no bargain. Life is pain, life is rejection. The longer you live, the more life becomes a story of things being taken away from you. Who wants another year if it's going to be more of the same?"

In the Bible, on the news, in the community, people cry out that they are on the verge of giving up on life. The difference is that on the news and on the streets of Natick and Framingham, you only hear the despair, the fear, the anguish. In the Bible, God answers the cry of the desperate. And it's because there are so many people in our midst who are hurting, who are crying inwardly if not aloud, that I knew I had to put aside that other sermon and share the Bible's answers with you this morning.

Do you know the story of the student who goes up to his rabbi one morning and says "Rabbi, you've got to help me. I couldn't sleep all last night worrying about this. Tell me, what makes life worth living?" And the rabbi looks at him and says "That's such a wonderful question. Why would you want to exchange it for an answer?"

But on a day like this, on Rosh HaShanah, at the beginning of the High Holy Days and the commencement of a New Year, we want to bring our questions to the Temple and exchange them for answers. There are people here today asking that question "what's the point of going on living?", not as an abstract philosophical question but in the desperate hope that somebody can give them an answer and save their lives. And our tradition, as if it anticipated that one day people would bring their doubts and their fears to the synagogue on Rosh HaShanah, chose Biblical readings for these first days of the year that give us answers.

Let's begin with the story of Hagar. When Abraham and Sarah confront the fact that, after many years of marriage, they haven't had children, Sarah suggests that Abraham take the servant girl Hagar as a second wife and have a child with her. It works, they have a son, but then Sarah resents Hagar for being able to do what she couldn't do, and prevails on Abraham to get rid of the maid and her child, Abraham's first-born son. They are sent out into the desert. After a few days, they are out of food and water. The child is at the point of death, and Hagar is so depressed by her situation that she doesn't even have the energy to comfort him. She just puts him down and goes off by herself and cries because her life has become a story of loss and pain and unrelieved misery.

And then we read that God sends an angel who says to Hagar, s'i et ha-na'ar v'hachaziki et yadech bo, Go to the child and take him by the hand. That's the answer. That's the magic bullet. The cure for that sense of futility, that sense that life has lost its savor and there is no point in getting up in the morning, is not pills or years of therapy. The cure for the feeling that life isn't worth living can be summed up in four words: find somebody to help.

There will be some people whose depression is caused by a chemical imbalance, and for them fortunately there are medications to help them. But for those people whose depression results from what has been happening to them, the cure is Hagar's cure: find somebody to help.

When Hagar stops feeling sorry for herself and reaches out to someone who is worse off than she is, the Torah tells us that "her eyes were opened" and now the world looks different to her. It's the same world it was an hour ago, but it looks different to her. Now she can see all sorts of life-enhancing resources that she wasn't seeing before.

Find somebody to help - not because it will make you feel better to know that somewhere there is someone worse off than you, what I once referred to as the Suffering Olympics. Find somebody to help, so that you can begin to think of yourself as a giving person, a person who makes a difference, not just a receiving person, somebody to whom things happen. Reach out to someone else because your own experience has taught you how important that is, because your experience has given you the hard-earned wisdom to know what to do and what to say. The angel's words to Hagar "take him by the hand", in Hebrew hachaziki et yadech bo, literally mean "make your hand strong in his hand." When you reach out to help someone, it makes you feel strong.

The psychoanalyst Erik Erikson has charted the stages that a person goes through in the course of growing up and growing old. He says that late in life, there comes a moment when we have to choose between Stagnation and Generativity. Stagnation, says Erikson, is thinking only about yourself, and at any age but especially for the elderly, that can be a depressing process. Generativity is thinking about the next generation and what sort of world you will be leaving to them.

It reminded me on something that happened in our family some nine years ago. When Ariel and Isaac told us that they wanted to get married, we started calling all our relatives and sharing the good news with them. I called one elderly relative of mine in New York and said "Have you heard the good news? Ariel is getting married." Instead of saying 'Oy, Mazal tov! I'm so happy for you," instead of saying" I should only be well enough to come to the wedding," she said "How could I hear? Nobody ever calls me." (And I think I know why.)

The cure for loneliness, for rejection and abandonment, the cure for that dreaded feeling that your life is pointless, is Hagar's cure: find someone to help. Don't stay home and wait for others to rescue you from your loneliness. You be the one who rides to other people's rescue.

It's not only a prescription for the elderly, the widowed, the divorced, the unemployed. It works for everyone. It works for the middle-aged businessman who realizes he's gone about as far as he is going to go in his company, and instead of resenting people who are promoted over him, instead of taking his work less seriously to spite the company, with all the corrosion of the soul that that leads to, he becomes a mentor to the new young staff.

It works especially well for young people. One day this summer, someone wrote to Ann Landers about the twin epidemics of teen violence and teen suicide. He wrote that "young people who are involved in service programs are less likely to be engaged in destructive social behavior. Teens who help other people are 50 percent less likely to use drugs, join gangs or get pregnant. Their dropout rate is lower and their grades are higher." And you know, that makes a lot of sense. Rationally, it makes no sense for a teenager who drives his own car to high school to listen to rap music because he identifies with the kids growing up in the inner city ghettos. But emotionally it makes sense. He shares that same feeling of powerlessness, of other people being in control of his life. We all recognize the stereotype of the teen-age boy or girl moping around the house because of problems with self-image, with grades, with their social life. Is there a way to lift them out of that mood? Their cure is Hagar's cure: Find someone who needs your help, and help them. See how much better you feel about yourself and your life.

 

Let's turn now to the second Rosh HaShanah story, the Haftarah for the first day of the year, the story of Hannah who becomes the mother of the prophet Samuel. If you're not familiar with the story from the Rosh HaShanah service, if you're not here early enough to hear it read, you may have come across it in an article in the Sunday Globe about a month ago, about religion and infertility.

Hannah is despondent because she longs to be a mother and she hasn't been able to have children. She becomes so depressed that she can't eat, and the combination of stress, depression and not eating probably makes her fertility problems worse. It comes to a head at the New Year's festival when she and her husband go to the Temple at Shiloh. She sees all the families there, women carrying babies, parents leading their young children by the hand, and it's too much for her. She can't go to the service. Instead she goes to the shrine alone, after services are over. She breaks down and cries and prays. The High Priest Eli sees her and asks what she is doing there. She tells him her story, and we read that when she leaves the Temple, she's not the same person she was when she walked in. Like Hagar in the first story, her problems haven't changed, but she has changed. She feels, differently about them, about her ability to cope with them. They don't overwhelm her the way they did an hour earlier.

Why? What happened to her to remove that black cloud from over her head and let her feel differently about life? Let me suggest that what happened was: somebody took her seriously.

I can imagine that Hannah had a lot of friends who tried to help her, who said things like "other people have it worse," "there are lots of other things you can do with your life," "I know plenty of people whose children make them miserable," which is like saying to the man who loses his job and doesn't know how he'll support his family "boy, I wish I could sleep late in the morning the way you'll be able to." Even Hannah's husband, who genuinely loves her, says to her "What do you need children for? You've got me." And Hannah has the sense that nobody understands how terrible she feels.

Eli does. Eli listens to her. He doesn't try to minimize her anguish. He doesn't interrupt her and tell her what to do. He doesn't tell her it's God's will. He listens to her, and when she's done, he blesses her. And it turns out that is exactly what she needs. When she leaves, she is a different person because somebody took her seriously.

My friends, what the ancient Temple at Shiloh offered Hannah, this contemporary Temple in Natick offers you. We can't make your problems go away. If you need a job, we can't find you a job. If you're looking to get married, we have a sanctuary and the clergy for a ceremony, and a few open Sundays, but we can't find you a mate. What we promise is to take you seriously. This isn't a place where cripples leave their crutches and colostomy patients leave their drainage systems and walk out miraculously cured. This is a place where people leave their pain, their loneliness, their fear that God has abandoned them,and walk out knowing that someone truly cares about them.

There are so many institutions in our lives that don't take us seriously, that exploit our innocence, that answer our phone calls with a recording and our correspondence with a form letter. We desperately need this one place that exists for the purpose of caring about us.

I'm often invited to speak at educators' conferences about the spiritual dimensions of education. I tell them that I come out of a tradition that sees a classroom as a sacred space, because in Judaism, learning is a sacred enterprise. And one of the things that makes a classroom a sacred space is the sense that every child is taken seriously, that no child ever comes home with the feeling "the teacher doesn't care about me."

We know how to appreciate the bright child, the attractive child, the athletically gifted child. Do we know how to appreciate the kind child, the sensitive child, the unconventional child? Do we know how to respect the vulnerability of the shy child, the child whose experiences at home have left him or her terrified of being criticized for being wrong?

When two teenagers in Colorado exploded in an orgy of murder, it was horrible and it inflicted pain on families who didn't deserve it, but it was understandable. At an age when young people are so achingly vulnerable to issues of acceptance and rejection, they had been rejected so consistently that they lashed out, as I suspect the skinheads and members of hate groups and residents of dangerous neighborhoods you wouldn't want to walk in at night are young people who have tasted little but rejection in their lives. Even as a hungry man will be driven to steal food, a soul starved for recognition will do desperate things to be taken seriously.

For some time, I have been fascinated by the development of the Victim Impact Statement system in criminal trials. After a defendant has been found guilty but before sentencing, the victims are invited to address the judge and jury about what the crime has done to them and their families. The original intention was to put the severity of the crime in context so that the sentence would be appropriately severe. But it has turned out to have another unanticipated effect. Once the victims were given a chance to make their statements, it didn't matter to them nearly as much what the punishment was. They had experienced Hannah's cure. They were listened to, their anguish was taken seriously, and it turns out that that, not revenge, was what they really needed.

My friends, what can we pray for today? We come to shul on Rosh HaShanah and we pray for a year of health. And the prayerbook answers us: I can't guarantee you good health. But I can offer you the courage and the support system to sustain you even in times of illness. We pray for a good year, a year without any major misfortune. And again the prayerbook warns us: No guarantees, but I can offer you the resiliency to survive and transcend whatever bad news the year may have in store.

We are the students who come to the rabbi in the morning and ask him "Please tell me, what makes life worth living?" And the answer he gives us is Hagar's answer: Find someone to help. Know that somebody needs you, someone is grateful for your being there, and life will mean something."

He gives us Hannah's answer: Find someone, one person, who cares about you, who listens to you, who takes you and your pain seriously, and you can live through anything. Zachrenu l'hayyim melech hafets b'hayyim. Remember us unto life, O Lord who cherishes life. Remind us of why we want to live, and inscribe us in Your book of those who live. AMEN.

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Friday Night Services...

are held at 7:45 p.m. on the first week of the month and feature the "First Friday Speaker Series." On other weeks, an early Kabbalat Shabbat service is held at 5:45 p.m.

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