“How I spent my summer vacation” By Daniel Cohen

That’s the title of this sermon.

Now, I don’t typically give my sermons titles, but this morning’s sermon is far from typical. It is, in fact, different from any sermon I have previously given here at TSTI.

As many of you know, I had the opportunity to spend part of July in Israel as a participant and co-leader of the very first rabbinic mission for progressive rabbis sponsored by AIPAC’S educational foundation. There were twenty of us on the trip, with Reform, Conservative, and Orthodox rabbis represented. The goal of the mission was to give us — all committed Zionists in our own right — a broader understanding of and appreciation for Israel’s complexities and challenges.

We arrived in Israel on Tuesday afternoon, claimed our luggage, got on the bus, and headed toward Jerusalem. As we left the airport, our tour guide, Amy, told us that her home in Modiin had already experienced rocket fire from Gaza, and she and her children had been in their bomb shelter twice the night before. Because of the missile threat, she told us, we would be taking an alternate route into Jerusalem.

It was immediately clear to me that this visit to Israel would be different from any of the 16 trips I had taken previously.

Once we arrived in Jerusalem, we quickly checked into our hotel and were ferried off to a lovely meal and a discussion with Yossi Klien HaLevi, one of Israel’s leading thinkers. The original itinerary had us waking up at 5 o’clock the next morning to go to one of the crossings between the Palestinian territories and Israel. There we would meet with Israeli civil rights leaders who keep an eye on how Israeli soldiers treat the Palestinians who are coming into Israel. At the end of our meal we were told that, due to security concerns, the meeting was cancelled.

When we arrived at the hotel after dinner, we were all exhausted. It was then that we heard a Red Alert indicating that missiles were headed toward Jerusalem.

The hardened stairwell at the hotel doubled as a bomb shelter, and so there I stood for ten minutes, waiting for the “all clear.” When it came, I went downstairs and found my colleagues. We were all a bit shaken by what we had just experienced. And we had a new appreciation for the reality with which Israelis live each and every day.

The next morning, we were told that our itinerary had been altered yet again, and that a few of our speakers would not be able to make their meetings with us.

A quick check of social media drove the seriousness of the situation further home.

My friend Doron posted that he and his family had spent the entire night in a bomb shelter because of incoming missiles. Thankfully, each was intercepted by Iron Dome.

My friend Mike posted that his eldest son had called him to say goodbye. He would be out of contact for the next few days as he and his IDF unit prepared for a possible ground assault into Gaza.

Each time we entered a building, the people with whom we were meeting pointed out the location of the bomb shelter. We discovered an iOS application called [Red-Alert Israel] that had been created to let us know when missiles were fired and where they were headed. We all found ourselves constantly checking it on our cell phones and tablets.

“Surreal” is the best way to describe the experience.

But that was just the beginning.

The next day we were visiting the Foreign Ministry in Jerusalem, meeting with the Israeli Ambassador to Geneva. Suddenly the words “Zeva Adom- Red Alert” came over the PA system. The ambassador told us to stay put. We were already sitting in a hardened room. Staffers rushed in, and we pulled the heavy metal door closed. In typical Israeli fashion, the ambassador looked at us and said, “Okay, let’s continue.” And we did.

Such is the Israeli way.

The meeting ended. We walked outside and we looked up. And we saw that the solid blue sky was interrupted by two distinct white lines. They were the trails where Iron Dome had intercepted missiles that had been headed directly for us.

Things went from real to very real in a hurry.

The rest of our trip proceeded in the same basic manner. From minute to minute we didn’t know whether our itinerary would remain the same or have to be altered because of security concerns. And each time we entered a building, the first thing we did was locate the nearest bomb shelter.

We were supposed to begin our second to last day by visiting Tel Aviv. From there we would go to Haifa to visit people who are working to build bridges between Israeli Jews and Arabs. Unfortunately, there were multiple missiles fired toward Tel Aviv that morning, and that part of our trip, like so many others, was cancelled. My personal disappointment evaporated as I thought of my relatives in Ramat HaSharon, my friends in Rechovot, and the members of our congregation such as Andrew Giles who were in Tel Aviv at that very moment.

We made our way to the Golan Heights, and we stopped just shy of the Syrian border where our vantage point allowed us to see Lebanon and Syria and Israel in a single glance. It drove home just how small the Jewish State actually is. While we were there, our security detail had binoculars to their eyes and were scanning the other side of the Syrian border. I thought they were being overly cautious, but shortly after we left the Golan Heights we received a report that a missile fired from Syria had landed in close proximity to where we had just been.

The trip was going to end in very much the same way it began.

Now I know that none of this is what you expect to hear on Rosh Hashanah. And I apologize for the detailed description of the conflict. But all of that background becomes relevant when I tell you this…

As we were on the bus headed toward our last meeting, I became aware that mixed in with my exhaustion, my overwhelming sense of sadness for the Gazan civilians who were being killed, the deep sense of pride I was feeling for Israel and the IDF, and the intense anxiety that had been my constant companion that week, I was experiencing another emotion.

I’m embarrassed to admit it, but on the bus headed toward our last stop, I found myself feeling… angry.

I was angry that my Israeli family and friends had to live like this on a daily basis.

I was angry that Hamas was terrorizing the Israeli people.

I was angry that Hamas was terrorizing the Palestinian people of Gaza.

I was angry that Israel had established cease-fires so that humanitarian aid could make its way into Gaza, and Hamas had broken every. single. one. of. them.

I was angry that when a missile struck an Israeli city, there was celebration in Gaza and in parts of the West Bank.

I was angry that few in the media were reporting the reality I was experiencing, and that they were depicting Israel as an aggressor with no concern for human life. I knew the reality was the exact opposite.

I was angry that deaths were being reported as simple numerical graphics displayed on the television. No civilian death — be it Israeli or Palestinian — is simply a number.

I was angry that the media’s handling of the conflict was fueling the fire of anti-Israel sentiment.

And I was angry about the growing anti-Semitism throughout the world. Suddenly, it seemed to be okay to openly express hatred for Jews.

I was angry. And I was afraid.

I was afraid for the future of Israel.

I was afraid for the future of American Jewry.

I was afraid for the future of Judaism.

Then we reached our last stop – an Israeli hospital in the Galilee. We met with a vascular surgeon who told us that he and his colleagues had been giving up their days off to treat Syrians wounded in the Syrian civil war who had found their way to the Israeli border. The surgeon told us that he wasn’t sure how they were going to pay for the medical care they were providing, but they weren’t thinking about that. They needed to save lives and those details, as he put it, would have to wait.

And he told us that he and others were doing all of this good and important work because it’s the Jewish thing to do.

We went upstairs and spent some time with a three-year-old Syrian boy who had been shot in the leg by a Syrian sniper. The boy’s father had considered taking him to Jordan, but he was told that they would simply amputate the leg there. So father and son made their way to the Israeli border. They were allowed in, Israeli doctors operated, and the boy was going to make a full recovery.

Through a translator, we asked the boy’s father what he thought of Israel and Jews. He replied that he been told that Jews were the devil, but then offered that his opinion was “beginning to change.”

Think about it for a moment- Israeli surgeons had saved the leg of this man’s son, and Jewish doctors and nurses were treating father and son with care and respect. And the best this man could offer was that his opinion of Israelis and Jews was “beginning to change.”

There was, however, no possibility that the boy’s opinion would change. You see, he didn’t even know he was in Israel at all. The father was so concerned about what the boy would say when they returned to Syria that he had told the child they were still there. And out of concern for the boy’s safety, the Israeli doctors, nurses and orderlies weren’t telling him otherwise.

At the airport that night, we told one of the Israelis helping us about our experience at the hospital. One of my colleagues commented that he didn’t understand why there wasn’t more being said publicly about the amazing work that Israelis are doing to treat the Syrian wounded while the rest of the world looks on… and does nothing. The man smiled and said, “We don’t need anyone else to know. We know, and it is simply what we do.”

It’s the JEWISH thing to do.

A few weeks after my return from Israel, Yair Lapid, Israel’s finance minister and the chairman of the Yesh Aid party, delivered a speech at the Platform 17, Holocaust Memorial Site, Berlin. His words helped put everything I had experienced in perspective.

“The Holocaust,” he stated, “placed before Israel [and I would add before all Jews] a dual challenge:

On the one hand it taught us that we must survive at any price, and be able to defend ourselves at any price. Trainloads of Jews will never again depart from a platform anywhere in the world. [Our security] must forever be in our hands alone.”

But then he continued,

“On the other hand, the Holocaust taught us that no matter the circumstances we must always remain moral people. Human morality is not judged when everything is ok, it is judged by our ability to see the suffering of the other, even when we have every reason to see only our own.”

As the rabbis of old put it

I’m ain ani li mili – If I am not for myself who will be for me

BUT

oochsheani laatzmi mah ani – If I am only for myself what am I.

So going back to the title of my sermon, “How did I spend my summer vacation?”

I spent my summer vacation being reminded of why Judaism has survived for thousands of years and why it matters that Judaism continues.

I spent my summer vacation reaffirming my belief in the centrality of Israel to the future of Judaism and to the well-being of the world.

I spent my summer vacation witnessing first-hand the Jewish values that I hold dear.

I spent my summer vacation grateful to be an American Jew who is in a position to continue building Jewish life here as I also do my part to help to secure the safety of the Jewish State.

And I sincerely hope that you will join me in both endeavors.

Because now more than ever, we need a safe, secure Israel. And now more than ever Israel needs a strong, involved and committed American Jewish community.

When visionaries wanted to resurrect the Hebrew language after 2000 years, they faced a significant challenge. Taking a language that had only been used for study and prayer and trying to bring it back to life was no small task. So much had changed, and there were no words for many of the things that were now part of daily existence. For example… what should they call a train? How should they refer to ice cream? or a bicycle? or an omelet? or jelly?  None of these were items that had existed in Biblical or Rabbinic times.

As Eliezer ben Yehuda, one of the men responsible for the rebirth of the Hebrew language and perhaps the first person to speak Hebrew at home in almost 2000 years, wrote,

“If a language which has stopped being spoken… can return and be the spoken tongue of an individual for all necessities of his life, there is no room for doubt that it can become the spoken language of a community.”

Ben Yehudah understood that it wasn’t just about bringing Hebrew back to life… It was about bringing the Jewish community back to life, and the fact that a shared Hebrew language would help to make that possible. So he began inventing words.

rakevet (רכבת), he said, is “train”

glidah (גלידה), he decided, would be “ice cream”

bubah (בובה) became the Hebrew word for “doll”

ofanayim (אופניים) would be used for “bicycle”

And that naming process has continued.

Computer is machshev.

And, you’ll be shocked to know that, in Hebrew, the clutch of a car is referred to as “clutch.”

(I hope you are taking notes because there will be a test at the end of services.)

Ben Yehudah was successful. The Hebrew language, and along with it our community, was reborn. Each new Hebrew word is a symbol of the vitality of our people’s language, and a way for Jews to connect with one another.

The same holds true for English. Language is a living entity that changes and evolves over time. It allows us to connect to one another. New words are constantly being invented in order to address the ever-changing reality of life and to make sure that we can continue to communicate with one another. Many of these words eventually find their way into our dictionaries. On a quarterly basis, in fact, the Oxford dictionary formally adds words to the American lexicon.

Among the notable arrivals in recent years…

lockscreen

headcam

cyberespionage

Humblebrag

And, of course,

amazeballs

Now the words I just listed, each now an official part of the English language, are a bit obscure, to say the least. But there is one relatively new word that we all probably know. This word has been adopted by society so quickly that it is already used — and overused — by children, parents, grandparents, marketing companies, politicians and others.

This word reflects the current state of American culture perhaps better than any other. It also happens to reflect the challenge Judaism faces in the 21^st century.

The word is “selfie.”

According to the Oxford dictionary, a selfie is:

“A photograph that one has taken of oneself, typically one taken with a smartphone or webcam and shared via social media:

Yes, “selfie” is now an official part of the English language. More than that, however, it is a representation of the radical individualism that has become the cornerstone of life in America today. And while I believe that this is a universal problem, it is especially troubling for those of us who are committed to the future of Judaism. For Judaism is rooted in our relationships with one another.

Judaism is about creating covenanted community… in a world of radical individualism.

In Pirke Avot, Ethics of the Fathers, we read,

Al tiros min hatzibur-

do not separate yourself from the community.

But increasingly we do just that… even as we reinforce the illusion of being together.

The Talmud tells us: Shnayim Yoshvim V’Yesh Baynehem divrei Torah – When two people sit together and words of Torah pass between them –

Shchinah Shrooyah baynahem – the Divine presence is there as well.

When there is enough of a connection between us that we can learn from one another, Judaism tells us, it is a God moment.

There is a debate in the Talmud about when the dawn begins.

“How do we know,” the rabbi asks, “when the night is over and the day has arrived?”

One student replies: Rebbe, night is over and day arrives, when you can see a house in the distance and determine if that’s your house or the house of your neighbor.

Another student responds: Night is over and day arrives when you can see an animal in the field and determine if it belongs to you or to your neighbor.

Yet a third says: Night is over and day has arrived when you can see a flower in the garden and distinguish its color.

“No, no, no” thunders the Rebbe, “Why must you see only in separations, only in distinctions, and disjunctions. No. Night is over and day arrives when you can look into the face of the person beside you and you can see that he is your brother, she is your sister. Night is over when you can see that you belong to each other. That you are one. Night has ended and day has arrived when you can see God in the face of the other.” Source

 

Time and time again we are taught that Judaism and Jewish spirituality are rooted in the communal experience. It is why “One Jew is no Jew.”

And it has always been that way.

One of my favorite teachings suggests that everyone should have two pockets, each containing a slip of paper. On one should be written: “I am but dust and ashes,” and on the other: “The world was created for me.” I used to understand this teaching as suggesting a balance between self-confidence and humility. These days, however, I increasingly see it as call for each of us to strike a delicate balance between the individual and the communal – between focus on the self and focus on the whole.

One colleagues suggests that,

The greatest issue facing Judaism today… is that America is shifting from a culture of Membership and Belonging to a culture of Individualism.

“The difference,” he writes, “between Membership and Individualism is a matter of identity. There is a huge difference between being able to declare “I am Jewish” and simply saying “I have Religious school on Sundays and Tuesdays just like I have Karate on Mondays and Wednesdays”…

Judaism isn’t an extracurricular activity; it is an identity, a way to view the world and our place in it. Judaism is about elevating our lives and making them meaningful.

It is why Daniel Pearl’s dying words were not “I played soccer as a kid.” They were, “I am Jewish.”

It is why, when the Romans tortured Rabbi Akiva to death, the words he uttered with his dying breath were those of the Shema as he affirmed his commitment to the values and the principals of Judaism.

Tomorrow morning I will be speaking about my time in Israel this past summer, when I felt a connection to Judaism and my Zionist self that I have not felt so intensely in quite some time.

That feeling was and is powerful and it is what I want for all of you. I want for you to be able to see how rich our tradition is and just how important and how deep our connection to one another can be.

When I came back from Israel a few people asked me if I had a good time. Without even thinking about it, I heard myself respond, “I had a profoundly meaningful time, and I’ll take ‘meaningful’ over ‘good’ any day of the week.

Since then I have been trying to determine why my experience was so meaningful. And I keep coming back to one common thread- connection.

I returned home with a deep sense of connection to new friends.

I came home with a deeper connection to the land and people of Israel.

And I came home with a renewed connection to Judaism and an appreciation for the way in which Judaism can connect me to other people and to the world.

Such connections are profoundly holy… and a gift from God.

But they are challenged in a world of self-focus.

I had an interesting experience last Saturday. I came into the sanctuary and there were two people – adults – sitting together to one side and a group of about ten thirteen year-old boys sitting in the center of the sanctuary a few rows back. (I know…. It is an image that would strike fear in most rabbis’ hearts…) Both of the adults were looking down at smartphones. I watched for a few minutes as they sat together… Alone.

The thirteen year old boys, on the other hand, had no cellphones out. Instead, they sat there speaking to one another and occasionally laughing as one of them said something funny.

The difference was striking – and profound. And I realized that I need to work to be more like those boys.

Many of us do.

Last week, Elly Silverstein, a longtime member of our community, underwent major surgery. Elly’s husband Larry called another longtime TSTI member, Rabbi Arnold Zoref, and said, “Arnie, I need a mi shebeyrach for Elly, but I don’t want it over the phone. So do me a favor and at 8PM, just about the time the mi shebeyrach is being done at temple tonight, ask your wife Gert to say one with you. We’ll be listening.”

At 8:06pm last Friday night, Larry’s phone rang. “Larry,” Arnie said, “Did you hear it?”

It wasn’t just the words of the prayer for healing that were important to Larry. It was knowing that longtime friends, people who are part of their community, were thinking of them and caring for them… connected to them even from a distance.

Our ancestors understood the need for community. It is why we pray, mourn and celebrate with a minyan of nine other people. And current research suggests that our ancestors were on to something. Because nurturing deep bonds with others actually make us happier and, according to some studies, healthier.

According to one study, strong social connection leads to a 50% increased chance of longevity.  It strengthens our immune system, helps us recover from disease faster, and may even lengthen our life. People who feel more connected to others even have lower rates of anxiety and depression.

In other words, the lone-ranger mentality of “rugged individualism,” the idea that the most mature and the healthiest people are self-reliant, is simply a myth.

To quote a PBS program on the subject,

Humans are social creatures; we need social networks to survive and thrive. Even independent, self-reliant people need to connect with others. The happiest people are those with strong relationships with family and friends.

What better environment to forge and nurture those relationships than a place of shared values and commitment. A place where we have a shared history.  A place that elevates human interaction to a level of holiness. A place that teaches us that serving God begins with connection to others.

Judaism is rooted in our relationships with one another.

It is about creating covenanted community… in a world of radical individualism.

I am thankful to be here welcoming the new year with all of you, and I wish you all a Shannah Tova- a Good Year.

 

 

PBS

Psychology Today