Martin Luther King, Jr. Celebration

at Troy Athens High School

January 15, 2007

How many of you were born after the tragic death of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. in 1968? We are blessed to have gathered here today the young . . . and the young at heart.

So many parallels exist between Dr. King’s time and our own that I have to ask myself in which era would he have preferred to live. Dr. King flourished during the heart of the Cold War and saw the onset of Vietnam; today we know of 9/11, Afghanistan and Iraq. Dr. King witnessed the start of the drug culture: marijuana and LSD; today we have crack-cocaine and Ecstasy. Dr. King could listen to Motown or the Beatles; today we have Justin Timberlake, Eminem, and Snoop Dogg. Dr. King could watch movies like the Sound of Music, Exodus, or James Bond; today we still have James Bond, in addition to Rockys 1-6, and Snakes on a Plane. Dr. King battled for religious and racial justice; today we wrestle with Proposition Two and affirmative action. In 1963 Dr. King called on Americans to make justice a reality for all God’s children; today we hear calls from men of religion to discriminate against gays and lesbians and to fear Muslims and others who may look or act differently than we. Dr. King conferred with John Kennedy and campaigned for Lyndon Johnson; how would he address today’s politicians? How would Dr. King counsel us regarding Iran or the Israeli-Palestinian conflict? How would he guide us in re-building social security, ensuring universal health care, improving our school systems? If given the choice of the mid-20th century or the early 21st century, in which era would Dr. King have preferred to live?

I was not alive when Martin Luther King’s mission was so sadly interrupted. But I heard about him when I was a child at Barnard Elementary. I read about him while I was a student at Baker Middle School. I was inspired by him during my teenage years in these halls of Troy Athens High School. And today, today I think I know what he would say to us if he were alive. Today I think he would share with us a legacy that transcends time: "Have hope," he would say. "Have faith. Believe that you can make a difference." As we gather together as a community in memory of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., we look not to the old for advice. We must look to the young for strength of spirit.

In 1963, Dr. King encouraged us:

We have . . . come to this . . . spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of Now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood. Now is the time to make justice a reality for all of God's children.

There were great problems in the mid-twentieth century when Martin Luther King lived, and there are great problems today. On this, what would be Dr. King’s 78th birthday, let us act as if he were alive today. Let us work toward racial justice. Let us work toward world peace. Let us work toward understanding among the religions. Let us work to feed the hungry and to clothe the naked. Let us work to forge a brotherhood of humanity. And finally, let us work to have faith, to hope, to believe that if each of us: black or white, Jew or Gentile, young or old—can truly make the world a better place.

We pause for a moment of silent prayer or reflection.

May the Source of peace strengthen us as we work together toward wholeness and brotherhood, and may our steps be guided this day and every day toward peace. Amen.

Yom Kippur Morning, 5767

Gut Yuntif. 

"If a person has a stubborn and rebellious son," the Torah (Deut. 21:18-21) tells us, "who will not obey his father or his mother . . . then shall his father and his mother lay hold of him, and bring him out to the elders of his city, . . . and all the men of his city shall stone him with stones, that he die; so shall you put evil away from among you." I see parents all over the room smiling at each other, whispering "Great idea! Maybe we should try that!" Lest any children here worry, though, the rabbis tell us that never has such a Jewish child been born, and this law has never been put into effect.

Of course, in today’s day and age, we sometimes handle things a little differently than what the Torah prescribes. The story is told of a mother having a very tense relationship with her 14-year-old son. Screaming and fighting are constantly going on in the house. In good 21st century form the mother finally brings her son to a psychoanalyst. After two sessions, the doctor calls the mother into his office. "Your son," he tells her, "has an Oedipus complex." "Oedipus, Shmedipus," the woman answers. "As long as he loves his mother."

For those of you who are parents, and for each of us who is someone’s child, we affirm the role of the parent as the rule-maker and disciplinarian, but also as the one who kisses boo-boos and tucks children in with a hug and a bedtime story at the end of the day. But you can’t have one without the other. We’ve all witnessed undisciplined children who yell when they should whisper and run when they should walk, but whom their mom or dad never corrects. I’ve watched enough of those Super Nanny shows on TV to know this is true . . . and disastrous. But we’ve also seen children who are over-disciplined and, sadly, even abused—missing out on the warmth of a parent’s embrace. Parents have the awesome responsibility of trying to balance discipline and compassion, justice and mercy—all in the name of loving their children.

Judaism has always placed great importance on the relationship between parents and children. Twice the Torah tells us to honor our father and mother, and once to revere our mother and father. The Talmud goes to great lengths to enumerate the responsibilities of a parent toward a child, and at each Friday night meal our tradition tells us, parents should bless their children. Equally, our sages instruct us as children of all ages on how to fulfill the mitzvah to honor our mother and father. I’d like to invite the congregation now to rise. One of the ways Judaism instructs us to fulfill the commandment to honor our parents is to rise whenever one of our parents, grandparents, or even teachers enters the room. As we stand here this morning, we welcome into the synagogue our parents, grandparents, and ancestors who came before us: whether still alive or in the spirit world. Abraham and Sarah; Rebecca and Isaac; Jacob, Leah and Rachel; your mother; your father; your grandparents—whether Jewish or non-Jewish-- they all join us this morning. Whenever we engage in Jewish prayer, Torah study, or acts of loving-kindness, we stand on the shoulders of those who came before us. And, especially on Yom Kippur, we honor the presence of our beloved ancestors who are with us here today in memory, in love, and in spirit. Please be seated.

Many of us spend the better part of our reflection during these Ten Days of Awe using the values taught to us by our parents to evaluate our deeds over the past year. Among the most important lessons our parents taught us is how we treat other people, and upon this many of us focus exclusively. Have we given enough to tzedakah? Have we fought for the rights of the poor and oppressed? Have we stood up to hatred, bigotry, and prejudice? Have we fed the hungry and clothed the naked? We wonder, "Have I acted in a way that would make my parents proud?"

No matter how old we get, how learned or wise we become, we remember the sound of our parents’ voices and the expressions on their faces when we helped out a friend, or when we failed to do so. In Judaism, these ethical lessons are called mitzvoth bein adam l’chavero, sacred obligations regarding the way people treat each other. Don’t kill. Don’t steal. Don’t withhold pay from an employee. Love your neighbor as yourself. They are all found in the Torah and are central to our never-ending struggle to become a holy nation of good, decent individuals. Yet, these principles are also found in the notes written on napkins tucked into lunch-bags that say, simply, "Be good today" or "Say something nice to a friend." They’re reflected in conversations around the dinner table when parents ask about their child’s day at school or about a friend’s well-being; and these ethical principles are reinforced at times when a mother makes her child sit down to watch the Oprah Winfrey show with her because Oprah is talking about teens and sex, or children who smoke, or abusive relationships, or anything else that Mom feels is an important parent-child conversation and that Oprah is a good vehicle for those discussions. Oops, maybe that last one about Oprah was just my mom and I.

These lessons taught to us by our parents are meant to serve us throughout our life and, perhaps intentionally or unintentionally, these same ethics remind us of our obligations toward our parents as they begin to age. Without doubt, each of us honors our parents when we treat others with kindness and when we try to make the world a better place. But imagine if, as children, we never once said thank you to mom or dad for a good meal or for a new toy. Imagine if, as adults, we stopped visiting our parents or calling them, if we never joined them for dinner or invited them to a celebration, or if, when their time comes—we never visited their grave. We do it out of appreciation for our parents, out of love, out of respect, out of a desire to fulfill the mitzvah to honor our father and our mother—and we always do it with humility.

On Yom Kippur, in addition to contemplating whether we’ve acted in a way in which our parents would be proud, we must look beyond the expectations of our earthly parents to stand in judgment before Avinu Malkeinu, our Heavenly Parent and Creator. We reflect on the past year, grateful for God’s presence in our lives during the difficult moments, just as a parent who holds us and says that everything will be all right. We remember that, like a parent, God balances discipline and compassion, justice and mercy—all in the name of loving us: God’s children.

We gather here today, individually and as a community, to reflect on how successful we were in following God’s laws, set forth like a parent would: out of love and compassion. And, like the mitzvoth bein adam l’chavero—the commandments regarding interpersonal behavior, our sacred Scripture provides for us lessons on our relationship with God: mitzvoth bein adam l’makom, sacred obligations between each of us and God.

We know how to show our respect for our parents. We act justly, like they taught us; we behave compassionately, like they taught us; we rise when they walk in a room; we say "thank you;" we visit, we call; we join them for dinner once in a while; we invite them to share with us in celebrations. We tolerate constructive nagging; we put up with their bad jokes and we speak at the top of our lungs so they can hear us; we say kaddish at Yizkor or Yahrzeit. And we do it because it’s the right thing to do. But, how then do we show our similar respect for Avinu Malkeinu, our heavenly parent? Just as we honor mom by cooking for her a favorite meal, so too do we show our love for God by engaging in daily prayer, by utilizing traditional ritual objects such as wearing the tallit and putting a mezuzah on our doorposts, by teaching Torah to our children, and by making blessings over our food. Just as we honor dad when we—consciously or not—wash our cars just the way he taught us, so too do we honor God by circumcising our male children, by preparing sons and daughters to become bar or bat mitzvah, by observing kashrut--the Jewish dietary laws, by using the mikveh Jewish ritual bath, and by not worshipping other gods. Additionally, by a show of hands, how many of you would love to take a ten-year sabbatical from your work to eat good food, drink good wine, to rest and to spend time with your family? By honoring God through a lifetime of Shabbat observance—each of us can enjoy such a sabbatical, just in one-day-a-week increments.

Now, I’ll let you in on a secret about myself. According to the Meyers-Briggs personality test, I am an INTJ. In other words, my brain is hard-wired to think of all the worst-possible scenarios, and to develop back-up plans should any of those scenarios pop up. This type of thinking works well if you teach high school students or, frankly, pre-schoolers. But as a child, this meant that I had a way-too-overactive imagination and had a hard time falling asleep. I remember my childhood nighttime rituals very clearly. First, my parents would read to me from the book Mr. Happy. Then they’d lift me up and together we’d look out the window and go through everyone on the block who was going to sleep. "Tommy’s asleep. Stephanie’s asleep." And so on. Then they’d put me into bed, kiss me, and my dad would say in Yiddish, Hebrew, and English, "Gut t’nacht, Schlav da gunta hayes, laila tov, make it a good night sleep." And they’d leave the room. No more than 30 seconds after they were gone, I would take the pillows on my bed and build them up as a wall between me and the window. After all, I figured, if someone were to break in, surely they wouldn’t see me behind this wall of pillows! 5 minutes would go by and, at this point, I would have so freaked myself out about a burglar breaking in that I would leave my bedroom to tell my parents that I couldn’t sleep. So, each time, my father would pick me up, put me on his lap, and together we’d sit down in this rickety old wooden rocking chair we used to own. And he’d rock me, back and forth, back and forth: me on dad’s lap and his arms around me, as together we counted each rock until we hit 60. At 60, I knew it was time to go back to bed, and sure enough, I was asleep often even before my head hit the pillow.

Another childhood memory. I used to tease my mom about how short she is. Not very nice, you see, but my mom is short, and it didn’t take long before I was taller than she is. Of course, it’s not exactly like I’m a giant either. But, whenever I would tease my mom, she would always say, "No matter how big you get, you’ll always be my baby." We all look back on these memories fondly now, and each of us here has similar memories as a child or as a parent. But more than just memories, these experiences have become metaphors for my relationship to God. Whenever I am sad, scared, or hurting, I feel God embracing me as we rock on that rickety old wooden rocking chair, back and forth, back and forth, counting to 60. Whenever I am feeling arrogant or head-strong, I picture God telling me, "No matter how big you get, you’ll always be my baby." So it is with our parents, and so it is with God too.

Judaism has always held sacred the relationship between parents and children. The mitzvoth, holy obligations, demand that parent and child each takes care of the other and, in turn, we remember God in the process. Similarly, all of us are commanded to reach out to the poor and needy, to the sick and old, to our fellow Jews and to the strangers who dwell among us. When we fulfill the mitzvoth bein adam l’chavero, the commandments regarding interpersonal behavior, we honor our parents and we honor God. Moreover, when we fulfill mitzvoth bein adam l’makom, the sacred obligations required us of us in our relationship with God, so too do we show our love and respect to all our parents: those on this earth, those in the spirit world, and to our heavenly parent: God above.

During the season of repentance we read from Psalm 27; if you’d please take out your pink sheets and join me (Psalm 27, adapted): "Mizmor l’David. A Psalm of David. God is our light and our salvation. Whom shall we fear? Adonai is the strength of our life. Of whom shall we be afraid? Our fathers and mothers will not always be with us, but God will take us up. Teach us your way, Adonai, and lead us on a level path. Look to the Lord; be strong and of good courage. Look to Adonai." This Yom Kippur, dear God, we turn our hearts back toward you. May our prayers and our actions be acceptable to You, our Heavenly Parent and Creator. Amen.

Erev Rosh HaShanah Sermon 5767

[Eli starts singing Ani Ma’amin]

Peace. Religious Freedom. A place to call home. For 2000 years, this is all that we Jews have wanted. This is all that our brothers and sisters in Israel ask for now. Peace. Religious Freedom. A place to call home. "Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has."

Once upon a time, a little more than 100 years ago, there lived a man, a captain in the French Army, named Dreyfus. One day, as Captain Dreyfus attended to his work, the French military police broke open his door, arrested him, and, out of the blue, accused him of passing military secrets to the German Embassy in Paris. But by the time the French realized that they had very little evidence against Dreyfus, and poor evidence at that, it was already too late to stop the trial. Public opinion had already rendered the verdict on this poor Jew. Thus, in 1894, Captain Alfred Dreyfus was convicted of treason and imprisoned on Devil's Island. Dreyfus suffered there for 12 years until he was formally exonerated on July 12, 1906, when the French appeals court annulled his conviction and declared his innocence. Historians call this important case the Dreyfus Affair.

But why do historians and we Jews of the 21^st century care about the Dreyfus Affair? Is it not more than just another example of Europe’s anti-Semitic tendencies? Well, by chance, a young Hungarian journalist was there to cover the trial for the press. His name was Theodor Herzl. In France, the home of the French Revolution and its promise of liberty, fraternity and equality, Herzl witnessed firsthand the mobs shouting "Death to the Jews." Theodor Herzl, a non-religious, tenuously affiliated Jew, resolved then and there that there was only one solution to anti-Semitism: the mass immigration of Jews to a land that they could call their own. Because of Herzl, the Dreyfus Affair became one of the determinants in the genesis of Political Zionism.

Based on these experiences, Herzl concluded that anti-Semitism was an unfortunate reality in human society, and that history has proven that assimilation cannot solve the problem. Herzl declared that the Jews could gain acceptance in this world only if they ceased being a people living within other nations and, instead, created one of their own. Due to his superhuman efforts and the blood and sacrifice of those who followed after, Theodor Herzl is buried today on Mt. Herzl: the military cemetery of the State of Israel, located in Jerusalem. Herzl may have begun his career, by all accounts, as a lousy journalist; but he ended his life as a statesman who gave birth to a national homeland for his people. In fact, every time we sing HaTikvah, the Israeli National Anthem, we sing his words. "If you will it, it is no dream," Herzl promised us, [Eli starts singing, from HaTikvah, lih’yot am chofshi . . .] "to be a free people in our land, the land of Zion and Jerusalem." Herzl and the small group of people who heeded his rally cry to seek a political solution to the problem of anti-Semitism are testimony to the truth of anthropologist Margaret Mead’s famous words: "Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has."

Theodor Herzl and those who answered his call to begin Zionist meetings in Europe were not the only ones committed to bringing about a real and lasting solution to the problem of anti-Semitism. Once upon a time there was a young boy named David Green. David was a Polish Jew whose mother died when he was eleven. His father ran a religious school, and David helped out by serving as a madrich, a teenage teaching assistant. David was saddened and scared by the anti-Semitism he saw around him, and vowed that, when he was old enough, he would move to a place where he could live proudly as a Jew. Sure enough, when he turned 19, David Green made the move to the Land of Israel. But first, he changed his name to something that sounded a little more Hebraic, a little more ancient, something that sounded like a Jewish hero’s name should sound: David Ben-Gurion. What does "Ben-Gurion" mean, you ask? Absolutely nothing. He made it up. It just sounds strong.

Quickly Ben Gurion rose to prominence in the growing Chalutzim-Pioneer movement, in which young Jews risked everything to move to the Land of Israel. Once these chalutzim-pioneers arrived, they found that the lush forests and rich fields described in the Bible had been decimated, turned into swamps and desert. [Eli starts singing Zum Gali Gali.] Despite the tragic situation, however, the will and perseverance of these young pioneers—like David Ben Gurion—began to rebuild a homeland. "Work is for the pioneers," they sang, and "pioneers are for the work."

During the Second World War, while millions of Jews were rounded up and murdered by the Germans, denied asylum by almost all nations and barred by the British from finding a home in Eretz Yisrael, Ben Gurion orchestrated a complex strategy: he inspired tens of thousands of young Jews from Israel to join the British army in fighting the Nazis, but at the same time he authorized an underground agency to ship Jewish refugees into Israel. As the British were locking away these survivors of the Nazi inferno in barbed-wired detention camps, world opinion grew more and more sympathetic to the Zionist prescription for the plight of the Jews. This strategy helped bring about the favorable atmosphere that led to the 1947 U.N. resolution that partitioned Eretz Yisrael into a Jewish state and an Arab state. In 1948, as Israel declared its independence, Ben Gurion was elected its first Prime Minister: a position to which he would be elected several more times before retiring from politics in 1970. Time Magazine named David Ben-Gurion, among the likes of Martin Luther King and Nelson Mandela, one of the top 100 people who shaped the 20th century. Not bad for a Polish kid who used to teach at his father’s religious school.

In 1906 Dreyfus finally became a free man, European Zionists mourned the second yahrzeit of Theodor Herzl’s death and, in that same year, David Ben Gurion’s soul was set free as he moved to the historic homeland of his people—our people. "Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has."

Unfortunately, history has a way of repeating itself, and we all know that the more things change, the more they stay the same. Just this summer we heard virulent anti-Semitic statements throughout our own country: from Los Angeles during Mel Gibson’s drunken tirade, to Dearborn where Hizballah supporters rallied, calling for the destruction of the Jewish state. Yet, like 100 years ago, we need not look far for individuals committed to our 2000-year-old dream to be a free people in our own land.

There lives now a man named Jeremy Jutkowitz. Actually, I grew up here with Jeremy at Congregation Shir Tikvah, just like any of our children. "Most of my good friends to this day were made in Hebrew School, TATY, or NFTY," Jeremy remembers. He goes on: "TATY and NFTY are where I really became involved in Israel, however, by no initiative of my own. All I ever wanted was to go to [the Union for Reform Judaism’s] Kutz Camp in New York, but Rabbi Arnie would not have it. He told me going to Israel on the Summer Teen Mission was a much better idea." Rabbi Arnie was right. Jeremy traveled to Israel that summer of high school, then returned [to Israel a year later] for half of his senior year: this time on EIE, the Eisendrath International Exchange Reform High School program in Israel.  Two years later, Jeremy again returned to Israel, for his sophomore year of college. "This was a big year for me," Jeremy relates. "I learned a lot about what the Jewish State meant to me and the Jewish people on a whole. . . I think it was during this time that I finally made up my mind that I was going to make Aliyah."

In 2003 Jeremy fulfilled his dream and moved to Israel, enlisting in an artillery unit in Israel’s Defense Forces. For the past year he has been working at a high tech company in Jerusalem, where he lives with Joy, his wife of one year. In his letter to me, Jeremy concluded, "My story is not so different or spectacular. It's actually pretty standard - at least for Jerusalem immigrants.  However, if you’re writing a sermon about making a difference," Jeremy told me, "there is one thing I am certain of: if it were not for Rabbi Arnie—his guidance, support, and encouragement, I would not be where I am today."

Maureen Bayer, daughter of Joyce and Art Bayer and former Shir Tikvah member and teacher in our Family Education program, recalls a similar journey. On her second visit to Israel, Mo recalls, "I fell in love with the land; with the people; and with the ideology of Jews coming back to the land we were given thousands of years ago and making it a real place to live."

Mo asked that I pass on a message to everyone tonight. "Can it be dangerous here?" She asks, referring to Israel. "Yep. No doubt. Yet when I get to go on a bus and see a woman hand her baby to a complete stranger, so she can walk up and pay the bus driver, I remember why I'm here. When I see someone fall down on the street, and I see 10 people run, not walk, to help the person who fell down, I remember why Israel is my home. People don't have to agree with Israel's policies, but they need to understand that as Jews, they are going to be seen as representatives of Israel, no matter what they do. As much as the anti-Semites who say they're "not anti-Jewish, but just anti-Israel" want to convince people it's that, the fact is that they ARE anti-Jewish."

With Maureen, with Jeremy, and with Rabbi Arnie in mind, we remind ourselves again tonight, "Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has."

In 1906, a small group of thoughtful, committed individuals hoped to create a state in which our people could live freely, in our own home, the Land of Zion and Jerusalem. They changed the world. And in 2006, 100 short years later, that hope for freedom, for safety, is again threatened by the forces of anti-Semitism from Iran and Syria, Dearborn, L.A., France and elsewhere. That dream remains on shaky ground because terrorist regimes like Hamas and Hizballah murder Israeli civilians and kidnap Israeli soldiers. The right of Israelis to live in peace is in peril because the world powers hold Israel to unfair standards and try to prevent this sovereign nation from engaging in defensive wars. Yet, there are still people striving to make a difference in this world: people like Jeremy Jutkowitz, Mo Bayer, and Rabbi Arnie; people who support AIPAC, the American-Israel Public Action Committee, or the JNF Jewish National Fund. People who donate to the Jewish Federation of Metro Detroit’s Israel Emergency Campaign and people like my in-laws who, in their retirement, joined an organization called Sar-El to make pilgrimages to Israel to work as volunteers.

We too can be among the small group of thoughtful, committed citizens who can change the world, but only if we act now. Not all of us can or want to make Aliyah; in fact, sometimes it’s doing the small things that make a difference. So, what can we do living here in the Detroit area? We can support Israel by visiting as often as possible. Not only did Janet and Don Schenk visit Israel last December, they brought with them their children and Janet’s parents. Audrey Shapiro and Tom Caldwell brought their grandson, Danny. Sam Wolson and Mark Harris, two of our own teenagers, went on Detroit’s Teen Mission to Israel this summer. A year ago Daniel Heinrich celebrated his bar mitzvah in the Holy Land. If you’ve ever supported the State of Israel by visiting, please stand up. That is an impressive statement. What else can we do to support Israel? We can go on-line Monday to buy Israeli products such as Judaica, food, wine, and Ahava creams and lotions. Sending a present to a friend? How about Israeli wine? It’s among the best in the world and no, I promise that it doesn’t all taste like Manischewitz. To show our support for Israel we can write letters to our president, our congressman, and our senators. We can educate ourselves about Israel, and then educate others. We can attend rallies—just this summer Gary and Jan Dembs brought their son A.J., and Michael Silverstein brought his son Eric to a pro-Israel rally to join with a score of other Shir Tikvah congregants who stood up for Israel. We must speak out and speak up.

"Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has." This Rosh HaShanah 5767 as we renew our commitment to the Land of Israel and to the people of Israel, let us be among those working to change the world.

Shanah tovah u’mitukah. May this new year provide us, Israel, and all the world with peace, religious freedom, and a place to call home.

[Eli song: Od Yavo]

Blessings and Challenges: The Faith Communities of Troy

Faith Community Prayer Breakfast, May 5, 2006

Father Ducey, a famous clergyman, was the resident priest at St. Leo’s, one of the most widely-known Catholic churches in New York.

In the spring of 1919, Father Ducey became gravely ill, as did many others during the flu epidemic that claimed so many victims that year. His assistants had also fallen before the rampaging virus, so, out of desperation, he sent an emissary to the equally famous Rabbi Stephen Wise, pleading for Rabbi Wise to conduct Sunday confession in his stead. The good rabbi, possessor of a sharp and cultivated wit, saw the humor as well as the urgency of the situation, and consented to sit in his friend’s place.

Early the next Sunday morning, a woman entered the cathedral and coughed nervously. From the other side of the confessional she heard a friendly and inviting voice:

"Well, my daughter, what have you to tell me?"

"Father Ducey??" sputtered the lady, "I’m embarrassed to say this—I’ve always been a good Catholic . . ."

"I absolve you of that," interrupted Rabbi Wise. "Go on with your confession."

But the horror-stricken penitent had fled.

It is quite special when clergymen from different faiths have such a relationship that they can count on each other in times of crisis, even if the results aren’t always as originally intended. It is more special when men and women from a variety of faiths and traditions can sit together to enjoy breakfast, share in fellowship, to gather behind the mission of an organization in which they all believe: such as the Troy Community Coalition.

I am honored that the Coalition invited me today to share a few thoughts with you and, since the invitation, I have been thinking long and hard about exactly what I wanted to say. After all, we are united in our dedication to improving the quality of life for all those who live or work in Troy, by promoting a lifestyle free from the abuse of alcohol and drugs. Yet sadly we know also that Troy’s religious diversity does not always add up to unity and respect for the other.

So, as I reflected on the blessings and challenges of my childhood here in Troy and on my decision to return to this community as a married adult, a number of memories and emotions flooded my mind. Should I talk about my experiences at Barnard Elementary in 1^st and 4^th grade when I watched as all the other students make Christmas tree ornaments while I was "permitted" to make my tree ornament in the shape of a Jewish star? Never mind the fact that my family had no Christmas tree to begin with! Should I talk about my 3^rd grade teacher’s invitation to all the other students to stay after class to engage in Bible study, leaving me—the only Jew—out of the loop? Should I talk about my best friend at Troy Athens who told me quite seriously one day that he believed I was going to Hell because I am a Jew?

Certainly there were many challenges growing up a religious minority in Troy, but there were many blessings too. I could tell you about the incredible secular education I received from the Troy Public Schools. Or all the fun I had and friends I made in the Troy Baseball Boosters, the Troy Parks and Rec Basketball League, and on the Troy Athens Tennis Team. Maybe I should share with you how growing up as one of only a few Jewish kids in Troy strengthened my Jewish identity, my commitment to Congregation Shir Tikvah, and the value I place on Jewish tradition. Or, if we are talking about blessings, I could tell you about my more recent experience of standing together with Troy citizens of every faith to protest—albeit unsuccessfully—against nativity scenes on Troy public property and Christian-only prayer services on the front steps of our City Hall: a topic that divides many of us in this room as well. It appears, that while my experience as a child in Troy was full of challenges as well as blessings, my adulthood in Troy will be full also of the potential for bridge-building in the face of the challenges that divide us.

Many of us were taught that, in order be polite, we should never talk about religion and politics. But, as we gather for this interfaith breakfast, we know that religion and politics make us who we are. Our religion shapes our identity; provides us social outlets; and associates us with a broader, international community. Religion links us with our ancestors and the Higher Power—a Higher Power in which each of us believe, yet conceive of so differently. And religion shapes our worldviews and the way we desire civil society to look. As a Jew, I believe that our country has an obligation to protect the poor and orphan, to be pro-active in preventing genocide abroad and to curing disease around the world. As a Reform Jew, I believe that humanity has an obligation to right the wrongs of racism, misogyny, and homophobia. Religion leads to politics; politics influences religion; and politics and religion divide us from each other over and over again.

Sometimes, disagreeing with each other is healthy and necessary. But if we look at many of the basic teachings of our religions, we can all agree that those disagreements should not and cannot stop our conversations or our respect for each other. Good fences make good neighbors, but there are times when we must reach over those fences to shake hands and to work together for worthwhile causes—as the Troy Community Coalition and each faith group represented here is dedicated to doing—to strive toward the continued betterment of the Troy community.

The story is told of a priest, a Pentecostal preacher and a rabbi who served as chaplains at Northern Michigan University in Marquette.

They would get together two or three times a week for coffee and to talk shop.  One day, someone made the comment that preaching to people isn't really all that hard. A real challenge would be to preach to a bear.  One thing led to another, and soon the three had decided to conduct an experiment:  They would go out into the woods, find a bear, preach to it, and attempt to convert the bear to their own religion.

Seven days later, they all got together to discuss the experience.

Father Flannery, who had his arm in a sling, was on crutches, and had various bandages, went first.

"Well," he said, "I went into the woods to find a bear.  And when I found him, I began to read to him from the Catechism.  That bear wanted nothing to do with me and began to slap me around.  So I quickly grabbed my holy water, sprinkled him and, lo and behold, he became as gentle as a lamb.  The bishop is coming out next week to give him first communion and confirmation."

Reverend William spoke next.  He was in a wheelchair, with an arm and both legs in casts, and an IV drip.  He laughed painfully and explained, "Well brothers, I went out and I found a bear.  And then I began to read to my bear from God's holy word. But that bear wanted nothing to do with me.  So I took hold of him and we began to wrestle.  We wrestled down one hill, up another and down another until we came to a creek.  I quick dunked him and baptized him.  And just like you said, he became as gentle as a lamb.  We spent the rest of the day praising God."

They both looked down at the rabbi, lying in traction in a hospital bed across the room

The rabbi looked up and said, "Well, looking back on it, circumcision may not have been the best way to start."

Each faith tradition represented here today—Jewish or Muslim; Christian or Hindu; Seik or Buddhist or others, takes a different approach to the world. But this diversity, the uniqueness of each of us, only strengthens our city. And, as we go forward together as one city, there will no doubt be times when each of us feels the sadness and frustration of being the outsider. Democracy, for better and for worse, ensures that. Yet, as members of communities of faith, we have an obligation to act as bridge-builders too, by focusing on the areas and organizations in which we find consensus. May we unite to strengthen continually our public schools and our youth organizations. May we unite to care for the elderly residents of our community and to support those in need. And, this morning, may we all unite behind the Troy Community Coalition and its mission to improve the quality of life for all those who live and work in our city. Thank you again for the opportunity to speak this morning. May our Creator bless each of us, the City of Troy, and the entire world with shalom: wholeness and peace.

Rosh HaShanah Morning 5765

One can only imagine. It’s 2000 years before the Common Era. You are having a lousy night sleep. It’s 3 o’clock in the morning, and the chill of the desert night has you struggling to stay warm. You’ve been traveling for years and there’s no end in sight. Suddenly, lying in bed, your ears begin to ring. "God, is that You . . . again?" Instinctively you yell out the word, Hineni! Here I am. You’ve had this sensation before. The first time, God commanded you to leave your father’s house and go on a long journey. Hineni. The next time you heard that ringing, that still, small voice commanded you to listen to your wife: to kick out your housekeeper Hagar and the child that you had with her, Ishmael. Hineni. And now God is calling again. What could God be commanding this time? No, not the unthinkable! How could God . . .

Nevertheless, you know what you have to do. Hineni. By 5am, well before your wife Sarah is awake, you jump out of bed. You take your son, your only son, the one that you love, Isaac, out of his sleeping bag, and rush out the door. Just down the road your servants are already awake, so you yank the toothbrushes out of their hands and tell them to go get ready. Hineni. Meanwhile, you grab a knife and some firewood, saddle your donkey, and tell your servant boys to follow you. "Bring the beef jerky," you mutter, "this could be a long trip."

After three days of wandering and wondering, you know you’ve finally arrived. You climb off the donkey, and help your son Isaac to do the same. Hineni. You begin your climb up the mountain, preparing to do the unthinkable. Hineni. Just before you bring your knife down into your son Isaac . . . God tells you to stop. Hineni. Miraculously, you see a ram caught in the thicket. You offer that ram as a sacrifice instead of your son, and keep the ram’s horn to use as the shofar. Hineni.

Hineni is a powerful word. Our rabbis teach us that there are 613 divine commandments to which we should we should respond by saying, "Hineni, Here I am, God." 248 of those commandments, corresponding to the number of bones in the body, are positive commandments, such as "Love Adonai your God with all your heart" and "Teach the words of the Torah diligently unto your children." 365 of those 613 commandments, corresponding to the number of days in the year, are negative commandments: the "Thou shalt nots." These include "You shall do no work on Shabbat," "Thou shalt not kill," and "Thou shalt not steal."

Of these 365 negative commandments, many of them are used to separate us as Jews from other people in the world. For example, while many people believe that kashrut and the Jewish dietary laws are designed for health purposes, the truth is that the laws of kashrut are designed specifically to prevent us from eating with non-Jews. Similarly, the Torah contains laws against what is called Shatnez—the mixing of wool and linen in one’s clothing—because that is what the ancient high priests of idolatry used to wear. The Torah contains laws on how to shave, so that at one glance a Jewish man can be told apart from a non-Jewish man. Traditionally, in both our eating and our dress we are supposed to differentiate ourselves from non-Jews; we are supposed to separate ourselves from gentiles. Since the beginning of Judaism, commandments perceived as divine have been used by Jews to keep us separate from everyone else.

Perhaps, then, it should come as no surprise that nearly 220 years ago, in an effort to become part of mainstream American society, Reform Judaism rejected most of these ritual commandments and accepted as binding only the Torah’s moral code. While we no longer had to say "Hineni" to commandments regarding Jewish rituals, we did have to say "Hineni" to moral obligations. Thus, in the 1885 platform of Reform Judaism, the early Reformers wrote, "In full accordance with the spirit of the Mosaic legislation, which strives to regulate the relations between rich and poor, we deem it our duty to participate in the great task of modern times, to solve, on the basis of justice and righteousness, the problems presented by the contrasts and evils of the present organization of society." In other words, for Reform Jews during the 19^th and 20^th centuries, the only "real" commandments were those that told us to fight for the cause of equality and social justice. The only laws that we believed were divine were those that told us to join a protest rally or to listen to Pete Seeger records. Ritual commandments were seen as a thing of the past: old world rules designed to prevent us from participating fully in modern society. Following ethical commandments made us part of the new world; following ritual commandments made us segregationists.

A generation ago, the story was told of a newly ordained rabbi who is brought to speak before a congregation that is seeking to hire a new spiritual leader.

"What will you be talking about?" the president asks the rabbi as they walk to the synagogue.

"Sabbath observance," the rabbi responds, "the need for Jews to make this day truly holy, without shopping, without spending money."

"I wouldn’t do that," the president warns. "The people here have very little free time; they must go shopping when they have the chance. Isn’t there something else you could speak about?"

"Kashrut, the Jewish dietary laws," responds the rabbi.

"I wouldn’t get into that, Rabbi. Don’t you realize how difficult keeping kosher is out here? Kosher meat is much more expensive. Then each family has to keep two sets of dishes and silverware, and constantly worry that they don’t get mixed up. Can’t you speak about something else?"

"Okay," the rabbi says, "I’ll speak about Jewish education, the need for day schools—"

"Are you crazy, Rabbi? The people here don’t want to segregate Jews from everybody else. Besides, day-school hours are so long, it won’t leave the kids any time for music lessons, dance classes, karate, basketball."

"I don’t understand," the rabbi says. "If I can’t speak about the Sabbath, about kashrut, about Jewish education, what do you want me to speak about?"

"Well," the president replies, "speak about Judaism of course."

So what is going on here? Why does this story make us laugh a little uncomfortably? Have we Jews done such a good job of participating in the modern society that we have forgotten what it means to be Jewish? On the contrary, perhaps we Reform Jews have sought to re-define who and what a Jew is. After all, Reform Judaism has come a long way since 1885. In our most recent platform, approved in 1999, the Reform Movement declared that there are still divine commandments in which we can find meaning. If we listen to our hearts and engage in study of our Jewish texts, Reform Judaism tells us, there are still rituals that we can believe come from God. Moreover, Judaism upholds rituals that are not necessarily divine in origin, but those that contain the wisdom of 4000 years worth of Jewish thought and experience. It is to these actions—like Tikkun Olam, repairing the world—to which we turn once again. It is to these rituals, like kashrut or Sabbath observance, to which we look with a new eye: not because God commanded them to us, but because through these commandments we can link ourselves to 4000 years worth of Jewish history. It is through these commandments that we become part of the Jewish people today.

"I found God," writes Rabbi Mary Zamore, "while eating a lobster in Maine. When I was a kid, my family would go on vacation every year in Maine and enjoy the natural beauty of the Northeast—rocky cliffs, green forests, sandy beaches, and, yes, yummy lobster. A true crustacean lover, I looked forward to pulling apart my dinner and dipping it in hot drawn butter. Well, one summer at age eleven in the middle of eating my meal, I became transfixed by the mechanics of the lobster’s shell. I bent and straightened its legs and claws, examining the workings of this lobster’s exoskeleton. The construction of its joints just awed me. In that very moment I knew for sure there is a God. Who else could be behind such an elegant, brilliant design? The whole time I rejoiced in God’s handiwork, I enjoyed my favorite dinner wholeheartedly.

As of today," Rabbi Zamore continues, "I have been keeping kosher for twelve years. I found God while eating treyf; I honor God by keeping kosher [and] I decided to keep kosher because it infused the most basic instinct of putting food into my mouth with thought. Every time I eat, I must think about what is going into my body and, hopefully, that moment of thought reminds me of my connection to God and Judaism."

As Rabbi Zamore teaches, we Reform Jews no longer have to keep kashrut or any other commandments because the Torah tells us so. We can pick and choose Jewish rituals that add meaning to our lives and to the lives of our children, such as lighting the Shabbat candles, coming to services, or building our own sukkah in the backyard. Furthermore, we can pick and choose Jewish rituals based on study, based on experimentation, and based on the idea that through Judaism and Jewish culture we can come closer to God: wearing the tallit, wearing the yarmulke, saying blessings before meals. Finally, and most importantly, we can observe these Jewish rituals in a way that will bring together parents and children, Jew and gentile. This too is a divine commandment.

It all comes down to one word: Hineni. We Reform Jews say "Hineni" when we use the rituals and customs of the Jewish people to bring meaning to our lives. We Reform Jews say "Hineni" when we use rituals to unite us as a family and to unite us with the Jewish community. We Reform Jews say "Hineni" when our actions bring us closer to God and closer to the world community. When we hear the shofar this year, that ancient ram’s horn, let it remind us of our ancestors Abraham and Isaac who were brave enough to say Hineni. When we hear the shofar this year, let us remember as well our most basic obligations as Reform Jews: to say Hineni to lifelong Torah study, to say Hineni each time we pray, and to say Hineni when performing deeds of loving-kindness for all humankind. May this be our challenge and our opportunity in this new year 5765: for our own sake, for our children’s sake, and for the sake of generations yet to come. Hineni, here I am God. And let us say, Amen.

Kol Nidre 5765

"I am starting to write today, because of my age. I am now 84 years old and I went through a lot during those years. I remember a lot from my younger years. I know I will not be here forever. I would like my children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren to know a little about my life. I will try to write everything to my best recollection. I want my children and everybody who reads this autobiography to know that everything in it is true." So begins the autobiography of my grandfather, Wolf Gruca, a concentration camp survivor from Poland. For several years now we have been encouraging my grandfather to tell us more about his childhood, and what happened to him during the Holocaust. My grandmother passed away over four years ago, and with her went many untold stories. So it was with great excitement and relief that I found out just recently that my grandfather decided to put his life-story down in writing. While his story is unique, it is inextricably bound with the eternal narrative of the Jewish people. I set out encouraging Grandpa to write a history. The result: my grandfather’s autobiography, just like all our parents’ and grandparents’ stories, as well as our Torah, is more about memory than history. It is more about the experiences that find a place in our hearts, than about the specific places, times, and events that drift easily into and out of one’s mind. Wolf Gruca’s autobiography stands not to teach us about a history of the twentieth century. Rather it reminds us that what we will remember when all is said and done is the love of our parents, our love for our children, and the kind acts performed for us by others. When all is said and done, what truly matters are the moments we spent together, and the memories we share.

As people, we have a need for a sense of history. We know where we are today, but we wonder how we got here. This need for history is ancient. Our Bible is—on one level—an attempt to provide such a history. Put together by Jews living in Israel roughly twenty-four hundred years ago, the Bible represents a collection of stories that essentially answers the question, "How did we get to where we are today?" It is this question, "How did we get to where we are today?" that initially drove us to ask my grandfather for his autobiography. "I was the youngest in the house," Grandpa wrote. "My name is Wolf. My father had three brothers and one sister, all who were married and had families. My mother had four brothers and one sister, also; all were married and had families. When I could count all the relatives from both of these families I would say there were between sixty and seventy members. Most of the relatives the Germans sent to the gas chambers." My grandfather goes on to recount being forced into the ghetto where two of his brothers died fighting the Germans. He tells about being sent as slave labor to the Hasag Peltzer factory. From there the Germans took him from once concentration camp to another: Buchenwald, Dora, and Oste-Rhoda. His autobiography tells us about a death march, about how he navigated his way through war-torn Germany to an American DP camp, and then how he and my grandmother went on to the United States. For me, this history answered the basic question, "How did we get to where we are today?" just like the biblical books of Joshua, Judges, Samuel, Kings, and Chronicles represent a collection of stories that attempted to answer the same question for our ancestors.

However, we don’t read those books of the Bible every week, year in and year out. In fact, while some sense of history is important, it is not what drives us as the Jewish people. Rather, the Torah is our central text. These Five Books of Moses do more than recount a history of events; they attempt to explain the meaning behind those events. It is this meaning that gives us hope that a deeper purpose exists beyond the mundane facts of life. Nine times our Torah commands us to remember the exodus from Egypt—not as an abstract history lesson—but so that we remember the role that God plays a role in our lives. And the Torah goes on to command us that, because of our memory of Egypt, we have an obligation to help others as well. We, as Jews, have an obligation to affect people’s lives and memories. "I would like to tell you a story," my grandfather writes, "about a name that I will never forget for the rest of my life. This happened two or three years before the war started. I was fifteen years old and I remember this name like this incident happened today. My father, rest in peace, started to become sick. He went to a lot of doctors that practice in our city in each of the two hospitals. None of the doctors could tell what was wrong with my father. My mother, rest in peace, went with my father to Krakow University in Poland, which had one of the largest hospitals. Even there, none of the doctors could diagnose what was wrong with my father. After two weeks my father and mother came back home and the doctors told my mother to watch out because soon my father’s life would come to an end. Day by day, my father’s health went down hill, ‘til one day my uncle thought he was dead. My uncle had already lit candles for my father. At the same time, a cousin of my father’s, who was from a different section of the city, was visiting my dying father. She told us that a new doctor from Russia came to the city.

I remember like it was yesterday," Grandpa wrote. "My two brothers ran to this doctor and begged him to come to see our father. He said he would come as long as we provided and paid for a horse and buggy to bring him to our house and to take him back home. We provided his wishes. After a few minutes with my father the doctor came out and said that if my father could live through the night, he would come back the next morning with a surgeon and reexamine my father. The next morning the doctor and surgeon came and examined my father. They opened the door to my father’s room and asked for a dish. My older brother, Shlomo, grabbed a dish, which in the Jewish home we used to wash our hands with. The dish had two handles and we gave it to the doctors. When the doctors came out of the room, the dish was full of blood and water. They never told us where this blood was taken from. When the doctors left and the family went in to see our father, we could see a different person. In the first few days we could see a lot of improvement. It took a year for my father to return to his full health. The name of the doctor was Dr. Blagowidow. The name of the surgeon was Dr. Mikulski. After this miracle the whole neighborhood took them for their doctors." As this story suggests and as the Torah commands us, we remember the kind acts done for us by others, and we use these memories as motivation to practice such deeds in return.

In the end, our strongest memories are created by those whom we love: our family and friends. When our children grow up, they will not remember scores from little league baseball; they will remember whether or not we helped coach the teams. Our children will not remember running around the local playground, but they will remember running around their synagogue. Our children will not remember Friday night dinners from the closest fast food restaurants, but they will remember the Shabbat and holiday dinners with family and friends. When our children grow up, they might not even remember every detail about Sunday school; but they will remember whether or not we walked them to class, whether or not they saw us at prayer alongside them, and whether or not we continue to study as well. "First I would like to acknowledge my parents," Grandpa begins his autobiography, "because everybody has good parents, but I had special parents . . . My parents did a lot of things especially for me because I did not eat dairy. They would buy special, for me, a piece of herring, sour pickles, salami or smoke fish, all of which were luxuries in Europe before the war. When I did not have these special foods, all I ate during the day was dry bread or bread with a little bit of chicken or goose fat spread on it.

When I finished public school," my grandfather writes, "my parents sent me to learn a trade. I remember what I ate from morning ‘til I came home from school, day after day five days a week. In the house next to us lived a baker whose name was Lazer Stern, a man with a long beard. I went into his bakery every day and he gave me one Kaiser roll and a piece of cake . . . My parents paid up every week for my Kaiser roll and a piece of cake." Unlike my grandfather, I don’t think that our children or we would necessarily appreciate the piece of herring or bread with chicken fat on it. But we remember the times our parents went out of their way for us. We remember when our parents put forth that extra special effort to be with us or to be there for us. So too does our Torah instructs us the same way to remember what God did for us in days of old: how God brought us out of Egypt with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm.

At 84 years old, reflecting back on his life, my grandfather writes nothing about the forty years he put in at the Chrysler assembly plant. He writes little about the horrors of World War II, or how he came from Poland to Germany to America. Instead, he writes about the love of his parents; he writes about his love for his children; and he writes about the people who went above and beyond by performing acts of true loving kindness toward others. What will our children write about when they are 84? What will we write about? Not about the 60 hours a week we put in at work. Not about the house, or the car, or the bills that often dominate our minds. We and our children will write about the time spent together at that synagogue, at baseball or around the family table. We will write about holiday dinners with family and close friends. We will write about Rabbi Arnie’s singing and the friendships made at Shir Tikvah. We will write about that one tv show we always watched together with our parents or with our children. And we will write about how we took some time to help those in need, and how others did the same for us.

The High Holy Days are known in Hebrew as Y’mei Zicharon: the Days of Remembrance. As we begin our fasts this evening, let us ask ourselves: what do we want to remember about our lives in thirty, forty, or fifty years? And what do we want our children to remember? Then, as we leave the sanctuary later tonight, let us begin to work to create those memories: for the sake of our children, for our own sake, and for the sake of the Jewish People. On this Yom Kippur, may we all be blessed with long life, and may we be blessed with the awareness of that which matters most in the short lives we lead. G’mar Chatimah Tovah, may we all be sealed in the Book of Life for goodness, for blessing, and for happy memories. Amen.

Rosh HaShanah Morning 5766

Two brothers lived on two different sides of a mountain. One was rich but had no children; one had many children but was very poor. The rich brother thought, "I have so much and my brother has so little, let me secretly cross the mountain in the middle of the night and bring my brother extra crop." The poor brother said, "I derive so much happiness from my children, let me secretly bring my brother some of my crop so he could have a little extra joy in this world."

And so it went every night: each of the brothers secretly crossed the mountain to bring his brother food. Every morning the brothers would inspect their stock to learn nothing was missing. Neither could explain the phenomena but they thanked God for such kindness and continued in their good will.

After years of this routine a schedule change occurred. Instead of the two brothers missing each other in the night, there on top of the mountain the two brothers met. They looked at each other in surprise and then simultaneously realized what had been happening for all the years. They embraced one another there on top of the mountain as they cried for joy.

Who these two brothers were we do not know. But, according to Jewish legend, it was on that mountaintop that God created Jerusalem, and on that spot where the two brothers embraced is where God decided the Holy Temple should be built.

A similar story is told of two brothers who lived on two sides of a mountain. One was rich but had no children; one had many children but was very poor. In this story, however, instead of each brother providing for the other, the brothers stole from one another. "I have many children to feed," thought one brother, and my brother is rich. "Let me take food from him since he will not miss it." "My brother has many children," thought the other brother. "He has lots of hands to help him farm. Let me take food from him because I have no one to help me out." Yet, as each brother took stock of his crop in the morning, it was no larger than it had been the day before. And so it went for years, with each brother stealing from the other, until one day a schedule change occurred. Instead of the two brothers missing each other in the night, there at the top of the mountain the two brothers met. They looked at each other in surprise and then simultaneously realized what had been happening for all the years. Instead of embracing, though, they got into a big fight about who owed whom and who was to blame. It was there on top of that mountain that God decided to build Capitol Hill.

Traditionally, it is the shofar call that we hear on Rosh HaShanah that wakes us from our slumber. But this year it was the loud blasts of the damaging winds and collapsing levees across the golf coast region that caused us to stir. This year it was the sight of white people able to flee the impending hurricane and the poor blacks who were unable to that causes us to reflect on our actions and behavior. This year it is the call of the thousands who are homeless, impoverished, and wanting for food and water that causes us to look inward and to reflect on our souls. Hurricane Katrina blew away the veil covering the wide-spread classism that exists in our society: the gap between rich and poor is wide and only getting wider. We all joke and complain about our inept leaders in Washington D.C., and certainly it is easy to point fingers at this administration or the previous ones, as the list of their blunders is both impressive and disturbing. But we cannot blame politicians for all the ills of our society. Our seats of government are only a reflection of the society they govern. No, blame for institutional racism, poverty, and injustice rests squarely at the feet of every American—including those of us who sit here this morning. Like many of you, the sadness and loss on the face of Katrina’s refugees has touched me deeply and, as we begin this season of repentance, I feel remarkably guilty.

I know that it is hard to hear that we bear responsibility for the results of one of the greatest natural disasters to hit this country. We live in Michigan, but the tragedy we see on television is down south. We are all good people, devoted to our families, our religion, and to making the world a better place. We believe in individual autonomy and that each person has the free will to break the cycles of poverty and violence. We believe in democracy and freedom, and support the great institutions and ideals of our country. We recognize that natural disasters occur; as liberal Jews we even hesitate to call them "acts of God" and we blame neither the victims nor ourselves for these disasters.

Yet, the situation in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina is not simply the result of a natural disaster. As author Robert Tracinski writes, "If [Hurricane Katrina was] just a natural disaster, the response for public officials is obvious: you bring in food, water, and doctors; you send transportation to evacuate refugees to temporary shelters; you send engineers to stop the flooding and rebuild the city's infrastructure. [However] public officials did not expect that the first thing they would have to do is to send thousands of armed troops in armored vehicles, as if they are suppressing an enemy insurgency." We all watched the looting and heard of the rapes, murders, and suicides. We questioned the desire of so many to stay in their homes only to find out that most had nowhere to go. We wonder about their future as we learn how few of the refugees and survivors have home insurance, bank accounts, or employable skills. As Senator Barack Obama reminds us, "the people of Hurricane Katrina weren’t just abandoned during the hurricane. They were abandoned long ago—to murder and mayhem in the streets, to substandard schools, to dilapidated housing, to inadequate health care, to a pervasive sense of hopelessness." Though poverty in America has grown by more than a million people in the last year alone, how many of us today have written letters of disgust to our senators and congressman? I haven’t. Instead, how many of us have hardened our hearts to the plight of those less fortunate than us? How many of us have wondered aloud whether the poor have brought their plight upon themselves? How many of us have secretly thought that if the poor only worked harder they would be in better shape? How many of us have committed ourselves to reaching out to the poor and hungry in our own local neighborhoods—through financial donations, investments, and through action—on a regular, on-going basis? Hurricane Katrina was not merely a natural disaster; it was a man-made disaster. It was a failure on our part to demand of Republicans and Democrats alike to take real action, and it was a failure on our part to reach out ourselves to those less fortunate than us.

I know that I speak harshly and critically. But also I know all-to-well how easy it is to go about our daily lives, worrying only about ourselves and our family. It is time now for us to shake loose from our ardent individualism and to reach out to the world community. It is time for us to shout at politicians from the local level to the national level to rise up to become statesmen, not gamesmen. Whether it is the war in Iraq, poverty in the south, racism in the north, violence in Detroit, complacency, disrespect, anti-Semitism, nuclear proliferation, or abuse of our right to bear arms, we must stand up and shout, "This is not okay. Things must change." We must remember those with no voice, even if they cannot afford to donate to political campaigns and especially if they cannot take time off of work to vote. My mother-in-law, God bless her, is a perfect example. An outspoken critic of the current social situation, she has had more letters-to-the-editor published in her local newspaper than probably anyone else who has ever lived. And in the Upper Peninsula where she and my father-in-law live, people actually read letters to the editor!

In addition to shouting at our local, state, and national government, we must bring change with our hands and with our feet. Shir Tikvah’s own Steve Reina is doing it. Steve is running for Troy City Council himself in an attempt to make a difference in this world. Many other adults, children, and teens are stepping up as well. If you participated in SOS this summer, will you please rise? These people standing took time out of their summers not just to raise money, but to spend hours setting up and helping to provide for our impoverished guests through the South Oakland Shelter. [Thank you, you may be seated.] They, and all others who devoted themselves to helping those less fortunate, deserve much praise. Yet, despite out great efforts this year, we all must remember that we cannot rectify the injustices in this world through stupendous efforts once every two years. Each of us—and we as a congregation—must do more.

Our tradition is very clear on where we ought to stand with regard to those less fortunate than us. Deuteronomy challenges us, "Justice, justice shall you pursue" and it mandates from us, "You shall open your hand to your brother: to the poor and needy in your land." We are told to treat with fairness and respect the orphan and the widow, and to provide them with food. We are to respect the stranger because we too were once strangers. "What is it that God demands of us?" asks the prophet Micah. "Only that we do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with our God." These are not suggestions, however, for a path to a better world. These mitzvoth are what our tradition teaches us are sacred obligations from God.

Hurricane Katrina has allowed us to look at our country with eyes opened. It has given us a glimpse into the reality of poverty in America. It has shown us the vast divide between rich and poor, between the haves and the have-nots. But on Rosh HaShanah, Hurricane Katrina should also force us to look at ourselves through a new lens. Maybe, maybe we should complain a little less about this or about that. Maybe we should be a little less jealous of what someone else has. Maybe we should look around, take stock, and realize that we have so much. We have our lives and hope in the future. We still have our houses or apartments. We still have the photos of our children or of our own childhood. We still have Grandpa’s tallis or mom’s china. We still have our synagogue and our torahs. Or, more importantly, we still have each other and our families. If you had only one hour to grab up your most important possessions, pack them in a car and flee, what would you take? Other than your loved ones and your pets, maybe some photographs—would the rest truly matter? Our rabbis ask, "Who is rich?" The answer, they teach us, is one who is happy with his or her own lot in life." One who appreciates what he has. One who knows that which is most important when it all comes down to it.

In the first story of the two brothers, each is grateful to God for his blessings in life and each is willing to share what he has with one who is in need. In that spot where those two brothers met, our ancestors built the Holy Temple. As 21st century Jews, we too have an obligation to be our brothers’ and sisters’ keeper. We have an obligation to speak out against injustice. We are required to stand up to protest immorality. We are commanded to provide for those in need and to treat everyone equally. Hurricane Katrina was not only a natural disaster, but a national disaster: the result of society’s failure to take care of the poor, the widows, and the orphans.

On Rosh HaShanah, we have an obligation to perform three acts: prayer, charity, and repentance. We pray that those afflicted by the hurricane will maintain their strength and dignity, and we pray for the wisdom to know how we can help. Second, we must be charitable in both money and deed. Finally we must repent, which, in Judaism, means to never to repeat the same mistake again. This year, 5766, let us work actively to break through the bars of institutional racism and to heal the divide between the classes. This year let us reach out on a regular basis to those who are impoverished and malnourished. This year let us move beyond jokes about Capitol Hill and let us proclaim with e-mails, letters, phone calls and more to our government that our world is not okay. Our country is not satisfactory. Finally, let us be grateful this year for the presence of friends and family, satisfied with our lot in life. May the sound of the shofar stir us to renewed action: to do justice, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with our God. Kein y’hi ratzon, May this be God’s will.

Kol Nidre 5766

By a show of hands, how many people here are news junkies? I am: NPR as I get ready in the morning; the Detroit Free Press over breakfast; MSN news whenever I open my computer; the Jerusalem Post over lunch; MSNBC when I get home at night; and the New York Times on Sundays. Sound familiar? Of course, there are times when I shut off the news. On Shabbat and the holidays—especially Yom Kippur—I try to shut out the outside world in order to focus on my inner world. But with the news I’ve heard recently, I can be quiet no more.

Like many of you, Hurricane Katrina affected me deeply and I spoke about it at Rosh HaShanah. But what was the reaction of other religious leaders to the hurricane? Rabbi Ovadia Yosef, former chief Sephardic rabbi of the State of Israel and current spiritual leader of the ultra-Orthodox Israeli political party Shas, announced to his followers: "There was a hurricane and there are terrible natural disasters, because there isn’t enough Torah study… Black people reside there. Blacks will study the Torah? (God said) let’s bring a hurricane and drown them . . . because they have no God." When similar statements came from Islamic extremists, I’m guessing few of you were surprised. If I told you that these words came from Christian evangelicals you would probably be surprised, but not shocked. But in knowing that this statement: "There was a hurricane and there are terrible natural disasters, because there isn’t enough Torah study" came from a Jew, you should be shocked, astounded, and angry. Rabbi Yosef, obviously a Jewish fundamentalist, went on to say that Hurricane Katrina was "God’s punishment on George Bush" for having supported the Israeli withdrawal from the Gaza. This Yom Kippur I cannot block out the events of these last few years, and it makes me want to ask, "What kind of world are we living in?"

In America, Christian fundamentalists are playing an increasingly large role in politics. They are are putting up Christian symbols on city properties across the country. They are demanding that the Bible’s Ten Commandments be displayed in governmental courthouses. They call for prayer in public schools. Claiming authority from their Bible, they bomb abortion clinics and threaten the lives of doctors and their young female patients. They violently attack gays and lesbians. Many of us remember the murder of Matthew Shepherd in Wyoming several years ago, and even now the Anglican Church’s first openly homosexual bishop is under 24-hour protection from the FBI after receiving death threats from Christian fundamentalists. What kind of world are we living in?

As if that’s not enough, Islamic extremists blow themselves up on a daily basis in Iraq as fundamentalist Islamic leaders encourage new generations of faithful devotees. They threaten the world repeatedly with terrorist attacks, kidnappings, and assassinations. They declare jihad, holy war—as if this weren’t an oxymoron, against the west and justify each of their horrible actions by declaring it to be God’s will. What kind of world are we living in?

Fundamentalism, the disease that has taken over parts of the U.S. and the Middle East, is a reaction against the scientific revolution that has become the institution in the West and is spreading rapidly throughout the rest of the world. Through science and modern technology, the world has rapidly shifted from focusing on the primacy of the past—that which came before is better than that which is today—to a near worship of the future. In our love for modernity we constantly throw out the old and bring in the new. "Tradition" is a word to be laughed at. The scientific revolution teaches us that through reason, logic, and secularism, we can gain control of our lives and our destinies, our earth and our universe. In other words, through science, we have little need for God. The fundamentalist reaction, therefore, is an "embattled form of spirituality" that has emerged as a response to this perceived tension between science and religion. As scholar Karen Armstrong teaches in her book The Battle for God, "Fundamentalists do not regard this battle as a conventional political struggle, but experience it as a cosmic war between the forces of good and evil. They fear annihilation, and try to fortify their beleaguered identity by means of a selective retrieval of certain doctrines and practices of the past."

Fundamentalists—whether Jewish, Christian, or Muslim—hold to a three-part worldview. First, they share a belief in the perfect, divine origin of their Sacred Scripture. Every word of the Bible or Koran, they believe, came directly from God to His prophet. As such, these fundamentalists are hostile toward modern theology and to its methods, such as a critical study of the Bible. Additionally, fundamentalists teach that those who do not share their religious viewpoints are not true believers and must be held "accountable" for their actions. This is true of the ultra-Orthodox Israeli who throws rocks at people who drive on the Sabbath; the Muslim imam who preaches hate on the Al-Jazeera television station; or the Christian evangelist who explains that the attacks on the World Trade Center were punishment for taking religion out of public schools. Fundamentalists are afraid of a separation between religion and politics; they are afraid that science and technology will render religion a thing of the past; they are afraid of change, of choice, and of challenges. They are afraid and so they are working actively to gain the upper hand in government offices and religious communities across the world.

We, as Reform Renewal Jews, might assume then that the answer to fundamentalism is progressivism. After all, both the Reform and Renewal Jewish movements are based on the premise that we have to combine Jewish tradition with modernity in order to create a viable religion for today. Science and reason add to our Judaism. Both movements have looked to traditional Jewish texts to justify our modern commitment to environmentalism and to social welfare. Both movements have cast off traditional prohibitions against women and against gays and lesbians because our modern sensibilities tell us that God does not discriminate so we shouldn’t either. As Reform and Renewal Jews we are open to a critical study of the Bible. We relish our interaction with other cultures, and we take pride in our belief that the individual retains the ultimate authority to decide how his or her religion should be practiced. We, as opponents of fundamentalism, let the principles of truth, thoughtfulness, and kindness, guide our every action.

Yet, just as the beauty of religion can be perverted into fundamentalism, progressivism is taken to the extreme as well. Thus, unlike Reform and Renewal Judaism’s call for moderation between tradition and modernity, the modern day American liberalism we see on television has come to mean extreme individualism and a rejection of the importance of organized religion. It has come to be a belief that tomorrow is always better than today, and that change is inherently better than tradition. Additionally, modern day American liberalism is quick to forget lessons of history, to dismiss the wisdom of our ancestors, and to take a shortsighted view on world events. This distortion of progressivism has come to mean blindly supporting anyone who calls himself oppressed and castigating anyone called the oppressor. Just as fundamentalism represents an overly extreme respect for the past and for tradition, so too does modern day American liberalism represent an overly extreme emphasis on self-importance, modernity, and short-term memory.

Let me give you an example. About two weeks ago there was a protest in Washington DC against the Iraq War. Cindy Sheehan, the bereaved mother who staged her own personal sit-in against President Bush at his ranch in Crawford, Texas, was the keynote at this rally. What did she say? "You get America out of Iraq and Israel out of Palestine and you'll stop the terrorism." This is a message of the liberal extreme. Though I am not an outspoken supporter of this war effort, I do know that if the Americans left Iraq tomorrow it would not mean an end to terrorism there. Moreover, you can only imagine how much the second part of Sheehan’s statement—you get "Israel out of Palestine—bothers me. These protesters look at pictures of the Palestinian people and assume that Israelis must be their oppressor. After all, it is true that Palestinians live in horrible conditions with little infrastructure and many can barely afford food. So, in a shortsighted understanding of history, what was Sheehan’s conclusion? "You get America out of Iraq and Israel out of Palestine and you’ll stop the terrorism."

Of course, a moderate would answer Sheehan by saying, "To a certain extent you are correct." The Israeli presence in land heavily populated by Palestinians has caused much strife and anger. When people feel that they have nothing to lose they are willing to kill themselves for a cause that seems worthwhile. Were the Israelis to cede all of Gaza and the West Bank to the Palestinian authority and the PA instituted security efforts, it would lessen the number of terrorist attacks against Israel, though let’s be mindful that in no way would these terrorist attacks end. On the other hand, let’s remember that Yasser Arafat stole from the Palestinians over 5 million dollars in foreign aid and that when he died his personal fortune amounted to over one billion dollars. If the Palestinians spent as much time fighting their own corrupt leaders as they do Israel, the Palestinian people would be in a very different situation today.

But there are few moderates in this world willing to express the voice of reason. In fact, when I first heard the words "Israel out of Palestine" my reaction was—shall we say—a little more extreme. It went along the lines of: Last I checked there was no such country as Palestine and hasn’t been for 2000 years. Palestinians depict themselves as the oppressed while they rain down bombs on Israeli cities. While Israel performs targeted assassinations of terrorist leaders, Palestinian religious figures send suicide bombers to blow up innocent Israeli children. This summer Israel peaceably dismantled Jewish settlements and removed Jewish settlers from the disputed territories. What, though, is the response of the liberal world? The American leftist Green Party, whose platform calls for environmentalism, non-violence, and social action, declared: "Green Party leaders strongly criticized Israel's 'disengagement plan', calling it a disingenuous attempt to bypass peace negotiations based on international law." When Israel offers concession after concession at the negotiation table it is criticized for moving too slowly. When Israel decides to act quickly and decisively it is criticized for bypassing peace negotiations. Liberals cannot blindly support anyone who successfully plays the media game and it cannot continue its narrow, uneducated view of world events.

While I feel much better after sharing my initial reaction with you—out loud, publicly, for everyone to hear—that response gets us nowhere closer to solving any problems. It simply exacerbates the conflict between extreme liberalism on one hand and fundamentalism on the other. When both sides of an argument resort to the extreme view, there is no chance for reconciliation. Instead, the moderate view—which in this case is the truth—is the best path to take. Recognizing that both sides are at fault will lead more quickly to a solution. Through moderation we get a step closer to solving the world’s problems and we communicate better with friend and foe alike.

So, what should those of us trying to avoid either extreme do? How do we balance our desire for peace with our expectations of a secure, free society? How do we balance our modern commitment to science and reason while maintaining a devotion to our ancient religion? What is the middle ground between fundamentalism and extreme liberalism? The answer, I believe, actually comes from the Mishnah (Avot 6:5)—the 2000-year-old book of Jewish law. In it our rabbis tell us that the answers to life’s great questions are not found in absolute religion or in absolute secularism. Rather, the Torah teaches us the importance of study, attentive listening, reverence, humility, patience, and generosity. The rabbis of the Mishnah tell us that these qualities will lead to moderation in business, moderation in sleep, moderation in gossip, moderation in worldly pleasures, and moderation in worldly pursuits. In other words, how do we confront the extremism present in our world today? Through thoughtfulness, through kindness, and through moderation, moderation, moderation.

Recently at Family Education, a young child came up to me and said, "Rabbi Aaron, there’s something I can’t figure out."

"What’s that?" I answered.

"Well according to the Bible, the Children of Israel crossed the Red Sea, right?"
"Right."
"And the Children of Israel beat up the Philistines, right?"
"Er--right."
"And the Children of Israel built the Temple, right?"
"Again you're right."
"And the Children of Israel fought the Egyptians, and the Children of Israel fought the Romans, and the Children of Israel were always doing something important, right?"
"All that is right, too," I agreed, "So, what's your question?"
"What I wanna know is this," the young child demanded. "If the Children of Israel were busy doing all that, what were the grown-ups doing?"

While children live in a world that appears black and white, we grown-ups must be able to navigate the gray. In order to solve real problems we must make a stand that is neither completely religious nor completely secular; that is neither completely conservative nor completely liberal. We must respond to extremist arguments with moderate ones, and we must react to extremist movements by further embracing our own commitment to Reform Renewal values. We live in a world where the moderate voice can make a difference, and we must provide that voice.

This Yom Kippur, this Day of Atonement, we repent for permitting fundamentalism to dominate our world. This Yom Kippur we repent for allowing the liberal reaction to travel too far to the extreme. This Yom Kippur we repent for not searching our hearts and minds for a balance between secular pursuits and religious commitments; we repent for spending too much time at work and not enough time with our families; we repent for spending more time at the athletic field than at synagogue; we repent for blindly demanding peace and blindly supporting war; and we repent for comments we have made in supporting too firmly the cause of the Conservative or the cause of the Liberal. This Yom Kippur let us repent by demanding an end to extremism and by practicing moderation in every aspect of our lives. In this New Year 5766 let us focus on the principles held highest by Reform and Renewal Judaism: truth, thoughtfulness, kindness, and moderation. Amen.