Rosh
Hashanah, the start of a new Jewish year, should be a time of joy and
celebration. Yes, the weeks leading up
to this holy day, those of the month of Elul, slowly invite us to begin the
process of cheshbon ha-nefesh, that
introspective task of taking an inventory of our thoughts and actions that will
culminate days from now on Yom Kippur. Our
Slichot service held this past
Saturday evening formally ushered in our season of repentance and Rosh Hashanah
marks the start of the most intense period of that season, the ten Yamim Noraim, the ten Days of Awe and
Reflection; but, Rosh Hashanah is also a celebration of new beginnings. The apples and honey, the sweet cakes and
kugels that will be served at our holiday tables, they remind us that this day
is to be celebrated with sweetness and delight.
I have
always loved Rosh Hashanah and as a child eagerly awaited its arrival each
year. Getting “back to shul” outfits to
replace outgrown clothes, going to services where I met up with friends in the
youth lounge; singing along to the music of the liturgy; enjoying the Kiddush
in our synagogue’s courtyard, and then heading home for a festive meal with
grandparents and lots of honey, challah, apples, and my grandmom’s chocolate chip
oatmeal squares.
My holiday looks different now than
my childhood one did. The places where my
grandparents sat, all born in the first 5 years of the 20th-century, have long been filled with children of my own.
New clothes now mean an occasional update (perhaps new shoes) to a
well-worn suit or dress. Singing along
has been replaced with my taking a formal leadership role in worship, and I now
make the chocolate chip bars; but still, always, I have found simple and sweet
joy in Rosh Hashanah, the sound of the shofar, and the opportunity to start a
new year. The Jewish calendar has it
right: Fall is the perfect time to stop and take a moment to celebrate the
possibilities for renewal.
I must
confess, however, that the joyous anticipation I normally feel this time of
year has been elusive. One could argue that national and global
events have dampened the sweetness of this holiday. Indeed, there has been much in our world that
could weigh heavily on our hearts and minds.
Just since this past spring, our world has witnessed:
The
kidnapping of hundreds of school girls in Nigeria by the extremist Islamic
faction, Boko Haram, a group that has been wreaking havoc generally in
Nigeria. We have witnessed the erosion
of a woman’s right to access complete healthcare in this country. We continue to bare witness to a seemingly
unrelenting and intractable conflict in the Middle East. Earlier this week, we watched and listened as
our country and its allies began a proactive military response to the recent increase
in volatility (and inhumanity) of ISIS. And,
this past summer, we witnessed racial tension in our own country that elicited
a response that mirrors all too vividly other images from my early childhood that
are not nearly as sweet as my Rosh Hashanah memories.
But, as
difficult as such events as these are to comprehend and digest, what weighs
perhaps most significantly upon my heart and mind as we usher in 5775 are the
challenges and tensions we are feeling here in our own small congregation. Thankfully, our challenge is not a bloody one
(let’s keep it that way, please), but nonetheless, it weighs heavily on my
heart, and I expect on yours as well.
Deciding to sell this building evokes genuine
and legitimate feelings of loss and disappointment even as it is clear that it
is a good and thoroughly considered decision, arguably the best in the face of
our current circumstances. This sanctuary and building have been Temple
Emanuel’s home for 18 years. We can talk
all we want about how community is defined by people, not space (and I assure
you, I will continue to do so), but it is this physical space that has enabled
us – the people of this place - to gather easily for worship, for study, for
lifecycle events – baby namings,
Bar and Bat Mitzvahs, weddings, and funerals.
We have gathered here to celebrate
birthdays, anniversaries, and other special events; we have gathered here to
watch our kids master skills; we’ve gathered here for the most simplest of
needs: for food, for solace, for compassion.
Indeed, the building has served as a physical residence, a home, for our
congregation. So, sadness is
warranted. We – perhaps especially those
who were involved in building this space – have every right to name that
sadness and to mourn that this building didn’t house and will not house the
future imagined when it was envisioned and built.
At the same
time, let us be sure to mourn only the loss of the physical plant and the
specific vision that went into building it. Let us
be sure that we are not prematurely mourning the loss of Temple Emanuel. The building must not become our sole
identity.
We are far from the first Jews to be
in a position where we may lose our beloved building. Recall, the Jewish people of the first
century not only lost a physical plant that was their beloved Temple, but lost
it for good. This was a traumatic period
for that generation of Jews, far more traumatic than ours, but they were able
to seize upon a working vision – one painstaking worked upon by leaders in the
community – a vision that transcended space.
A vision that created a future that was no longer dependent on that
building that they knew so well, that building that had housed their worship
for generations.
Our prayer book and our holidays spend a good
amount of time and energy reflecting upon that Temple of old, but if we look
carefully at those prayers and the festive days that call us back to the
Temple, it is to the goings on within, not the structure itself that is deemed
significant.
For example, the Yom Kippur
Avodah. The Avodah is a lengthy rubric of prayer that we recite every year on
Yom Kippur afternoon It recalls, replays in a sense, the ritual of Yom Kippur
worship as it took place in the Temple that stood in Jerusalem and sets it
poetically into the context of Jewish history. One could argue that the Avodah is long, even tedious (it certainly has its repetitive
moments); but as poetry, it’s brilliant.
For, this Avodah worship
narrative of Yom Kippur provides a literary vehicle that has sustained itself
for over a millennium – even as it has evolved – while telling us about the
worship in which the community engaged inside the walls of the Temple. It doesn’t tell us much at all about the
structure. It tells us a great deal
about how the community functioned and what was valued. Versions of the Yom Kippur Avodah have been written in most every
era of Jewish history, and they continue to tell us not about our buildings,
but about us – the folks who make up the community. This worship narrative tells us about how we
act and pray.
Maybe we should write our own Avodah about our Temple. What
would it tell us of ourselves?
Chai
18
years of Torah
Have taken place here,
In these rooms
Life
Legacy
And Prayer.
Did the walls learn?
Did the rafters sing?
Can the emotions felt
Bar Mitzvahs,
funerals
Weddings,
namings
Can they be infused into concrete, dry wall,
into paint?
If they could, which would laugh?
Which
would cry?
Maybe that was it!
our roof emoting
Tears
rushing in
During
every rain?
The inquiry absurd
Of course
The building doesn’t care
Even as it has proudly stood
Labeled
Emanuel
At
our bequest.
The rabbis insist
Study
Worship
Justice
Al shelosha devarim,
These are the legs that sustain us.
For all the yearning for a Temple
I don’t ever recall
A demand
for any ceiling,
Door
Or mantle.
A structure – even Jerusalem’s Wall –
can’t satisfy
Such
a human call
That requires us,
To
engage
to comply
to the values
passed down through time.
Yet,
still we need
and desire
A
place to call home,
A place for
Emanuel
and Ha-Makom.
A
place for us to gather
and
fill more rooms
with Torah
worship
And lots more Chai
Proverbs reminds us
How
to build
With
pursuit of
chochmah,
Da’at
U’vitvunah,
They
are the gems
That
provide
For
length of day,
And
years of chai.
Seeking
Torah,
justice
and
compassion
Can we grasp
Can
we comprehend?
These are the tools
That
we must hold on to --
fast.
As we strive
To
keep Emanuel
And its legacy
Alive.
______
Considering our congregation’s next
steps into the future raises tensions among us that have the potential to
divide. We must remind ourselves that
these tensions reflect loyalty and love for our congregation. They are evidence that we care. As we begin this New Year, 5775, I challenge
all of us to refuse to let difference of opinion about our future to divide
us.
Our congregation’s, Temple Emanuel’s,
identity can survive without this particular building. It can’t survive without its people – without
you. I believe that the almost 60 years
of this congregation’s history can be sustained into the future. But, in order for it to do so, we must be
open minded and willing to change our tightly held views about just how it can
do so. We must guard against being too
inwardly focused in our thoughts about what a synagogue, what this synagogue,
must be while remaining committed to imagining what it can be. And perhaps, what it can be a part of.
This is the season for renewal. This is the season when we can commit
ourselves to seeing things differently.
In order to move forward, we must mourn the past. We must let go of unrealized goals and
vision. That is, for sure, a difficult
and critical part of cheshbon hanefesh,
of taking that internal tally that is so much a part of the process of teshuvah. But, it is required; for only then, can we
move forward embracing a revised vision that benefits us, that benefits those
who come after us seeking a place to nurture their Jewish identities, and that
benefits the broader Jewish community that this synagogue was founded to serve.
Copies of my Avodah for Emanuel are available in the lobby. I invite you to take one and consider what you would add to it.
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