One of the great mysteries of life is why we become ill.  People can be living a perfectly normal happy life, when all of a sudden they fall sick, seemingly out of the blue.  We often wonder if there is anything Judaism can do to make us well, to bring us healing.  Perhaps there is no magic cure Judaism can offer, but our tradition teaches us that there are a number of ways to find comfort in our sacred texts.

I would like to recommend the Book of Psalms in our Bible to anyone who is ill and in search of comfort, insight or healing.  Anyone who is down or grieving or sick at heart could find the writer of the Psalms understands you and offers solace.  It has been said that the Psalms are a travelling companion for those in pain.

For centuries, people have turned to the Book of Psalms for solace, comfort and guidance, as these sacred words offer us meaning, hope and reassurance.  They help us find spiritual healing.  Our tradition has designated ten of the 150 Psalms as “healing Psalms.”  The first one of these is one that is familiar to us at Rodeph Shalom because the first four words of Psalm 16 are inscribed upon the ceiling of our magnificent sanctuary, “Shiviti Adonai L’negdi Tamid,”  “I have set the Eternal before me always.”

“I have set the Eternal before me always;

Surely God is at my right hand,

I shall not be moved.

Therefore my heart is glad, and my glory rejoices’

My flesh also dwells in safety;

For You will not abandon my soul to the nether-world;

Neither will You suffer your godly one to see the pit.

You make me to know the path of life;

In Your presence is fullness of joy,

In Your right hand bliss for evermore.”         [Psalm 16]

The message of this Psalm 16 is that God grants us life, but we are afraid of death or illness.  And we are afraid that if God were to leave us alone, and if our bodies had to operate on their own, subject to its physical laws and those who know how to minister to it from a solely scientific perspective, then our body might give out.  But the Psalm says that there is more to life than the physical body.  God gives us life and adds an additional, spiritual strength that may help us through whatever trial we are suffering.

This is at the very heart of the Jewish concept of healing.  Our tradition has long believed that prayer and healing can go hand in hand.  Even though there seems to be a renewed interest in “healing services” in Judaism, this is not a new trend at all. 

Today, we are seeking ways to connect to God for a higher purpose.  This may be a result of a breakdown of values in society, which is creating more anxiety than ever before.  Many believe this anxiety leads to illness, and we seek a way to heal ourselves through a renewal of our spiritual selves by asking God to give us health.

But, of course praying to God for health has been an essential part of Judaism since biblical days.  One of the most powerful healing prayers of all occurs in our Torah in the Book of Numbers, Chapter 12.  Moses’ sister Miriam becomes ill, and Moses pleads with God to heal her, “El na Refa na la,” “Oh God, please heal her, please!“  It is a desperate cry for help, profoundly moving in its plaintiff cry, and it goes right to the heart of what a healing prayer is.  It is a recognition that we are only human, and when we are faced with the tragedy of serious illness, we are overcome with grief, and we are helpless to do anything on our own to heal ourselves.  Then we realize that we must appeal to a higher power for help, and we ask God for the power of healing:  “El na Refa na la,”  “O God, please heal her, please.”  This is not just something separate in Judaism, but an essential part of our religion and an essential part of our services.

I have been amazed over the past year by the overwhelming response to the healing prayer of our Shabbat services.  Recently, we have given the congregation the opportunity to call out the names of loved ones who are ill, and for whom they would like to pray the “Misheberach” healing prayer.  At each service, before we join together to sing the “Misheberach” healing prayer, we ask if anyone would like to call out the name of someone of whom they are thinking and praying.  The first time we did this last year, we did this as an experiment, as several people had requested the opportunity to do this.  When we asked for people to call out the names of their loved ones, I was absolutely astonished by how many people responded.  Ten names, twenty names, more and more names were called out.  No one shouted out a name, but quietly and almost under their breaths, people called out the names of loved ones who are ill and in need of God’s healing power. 

What does this say about our congregation?  I believe it says that we come together at Shabbat services to help support each other in times of need, or grieving, or concern for our loved ones who are ill.  During the Misheberach prayer, we feel as though we are wrapped in a blanket of love and caring by our fellow congregants.  We are a family, and we care for each other in times of need.

The Misheberach prayer is a prayer asking God for health.  The prayer is:  “May God, who blessed our ancestors, our patriarchs and matriarchs, source of blessing, bless our loved ones with a refuah shleimah, a complete healing, a renewal of body and a renewal of spirit.”  The wonderful singer and composer Debbie Friedman, of blessed memory, wrote the version of this lovely prayer that we sing at our congregation.

But the question still remains, is it effective to pray for healing?  I believe each of us has an answer, and it is intensely personal.  We probably ask for God’s help many times in our lives especially at times of illness or pain.  But do you believe prayer can help.   What effect does it have on us, as individuals and as a community?  I believe it does.  Also, Judaism believes that there are other actions that may help, such as doing good deeds, study of Torah, giving to charity, helping people, having a positive outlook.  I believe all of this helps, because Judaism is holistic religion; it is a religion of action, and of the total person. 

There are even some studies that say religious people live longer.  Studies prove that people for whom religion is important are less likely to contract heart disease, cancer or mental disorders.  It is so importat that one-half of the nation’s medical schools now offer a course on the subject of the effect of religion on health.

But we already knew this in Judaism.  We have known it for thousands of years, just as Moses knew it when he prayed that God heal his sister and just as the Psalmist knew it when he prayed to God out of the depths to help him.  And just as we know it when we sing the Mishebeirach or when we sit with a loved one in a hospital room and try to give strength and spirit to them in a way that no shot or pill ever could. Sometimes ill health or serious injury comes upon us in a mysterious way.  We don’t know how we got sick and we don’t know why it happened to us or to our loved one.  But it happened, mysteriously.  Perhaps through an appeal to God, it can be lifted mysteriously too. 

As these beautiful words of our prayer book say, “Eternal Spirit, make Your presence felt among us.  Help us to find the courage to affirm You and do Your will, even when the shadows fall upon us .  When our own weakness and the storms of life hide You from our sight, teach us that You are near to each one of us at all times, and especially when we strive to live truer, gentler, nobler lives.  Give us trust, O God; give us peace, and give us light.  May our hearts find their rest with you.” L’shalom,

by Rabbi Bill Kuhn

The Union for Reform Judaism’s (URJ) Biennial Convention took place in Washington, DC  December 14-18,  2011 with a record attendance of over 5,000 Reform Jews from around North America. Founded in 1873 by Rabbi Isaac Mayer Wise, (originally named the Union of American Hebrew Congregations), the URJ is the umbrella organization of all of the congregations in the Reform Movement.  Rodeph Shalom has been a member of the URJ since the very early days, and has been a proud leader of the Reform Movement ever since.

The two other founding organizations of the Reform Movement are our seminary Hebrew Union College – Jewish Institute of Religion (HUC-JIR), and the Central Conference of American Rabbis (CCAR), the rabbinic group.

After a long and distinguished career, Rabbi Eric Yoffie is retiring as president of the URJ.  He was honored at the Biennial Convention, as the entire movement owes him a debt of gratitude.

Rabbi Rick Jacobs was welcomed as our new president on Sunday, December 18 at the convention.  A good friend of mine, Rabbi Jacobs, presented his outline for a visionary process for the URJ that will reinvigorate and enrich the mission of our movement.  I have been impressed with his ability to lead a transformation in his former congregation, Westchester (NY) Reform Temple, which has put them in the forefront of visionary congregations.  I am hopeful that he will be able to use this experience in change management at the URJ to make it more relevant and helpful to all of our Reform Congregations.

One of the reasons I am excited about Rabbi Jacobs leadership, is that the vision he expressed for his own congregation, and for the URJ, is similar to the vision we have expressed for Rodeph Shalom.  Here are a few highlights of his address.

“To be a Jewish spiritual home for all who are hungry does not require a minimalist Jewish vision, but rather an engaging, demanding and elevating approach to Jewish living.”  This approach is based on several key Jewish values: “Service” (“Avodah”), an obligation to serve and to become “vessels of divine compassion and righteousness…by giving strength and healing to those ailing, frail and mourning among us; feeding the hungry, sheltering the homeless; involvement in synagogues or in the community; and partnering with challenged communities in Israel and around the globe.”

The second Jewish value is “Learning” – (“Limmud“) “The doorway to a Jewish life of depth and purpose is lifelong and soul-enhancing learning.  Nothing nourishes the soul more than delving deeply and often into the sacred texts of our people.  The goal of a lifetime of Jewish learning is to attain a heart of wisdom.”

The third value of the foundation of Rabbi Jacob’s vision is “Practice” (“Derech Chayim”) “Living a life that matters means cultivating a disciplined, spiritual practice with an awareness of the holy in everyday living.  From the way we eat to the observance of sacred time and holy days to the ethical rigor by which we conduct our business, all are gateways to holiness.  Meditation, prayer, mindfulness, yoga, menschlichkeit, and gratitude are just some of the daily practices of holy living.”

The fourth Jewish value of his vision is “Justice” (“Tzedek”).   “A deep commitment to social change through shaping more just social policies in North America and in Medinat Yisrael.  By digging deeper than political platforms, we must mine Jewish sources for values and guidance in responding to the critical issues facing our country and our world.  Building on the rich Talmudic culture of respectful debate, we can offer a better way forward: away from the vicious demonization of opposing views toward common ground upon which we can heed the Jewish imperative to heal brokenness and injustice wherever we find ourselves.”

By basing the future of the Reform Movement on these essential Jewish values, I believe we will be able to navigate the difficult waters of the world today.  The Jewish community faces many dramatic challenges, yet we also have an opportunity to recreate the very meaning of Reform Judaism.

I am committed to help Rabbi Jacobs and our URJ with the renaissance of American Judaism.  If we employ the same kind of creative visioning for the Reform Movement that we are able to use at our congregation, I know we can succeed.

To read Rabbi Jacobs remarks go to: http://blogs.rj.org/blog/2011/12/18/at-the-end-of-two-years/

We need a wonderful cantor who can provide visionary leadership in all aspects of the life of our congregation. We are looking for someone to be involved in the planning, intentionality and spiritual leadership of our prayer services,  as well as the visioning and strategic planning of the entire congregation.

We seek a cantor who will be a musical and spiritual leader who is deeply and holistically connected with the life of our community in every area of congregational life, including teaching adults and children and B’nai Mitzvah, conducting life-cycle events, pastoral counseling and participating in social action efforts.

We hope to find someone who is visionary, personable, caring and compassionate in working with congregants and in teamwork with fellow clergy.

Finally, our ideal cantor is someone who is highly skilled, with a voice strong enough to fill our Sanctuary yet humble enough to help facilitate participatory song and worship, so that congregants will feel a part of their own prayer experience.

Professional dancer, Liz Lerman teaches:  “Rehearsal is a period of time that is set aside for exploration, testing, learning and repetitive practice.  Rehearsals give us a place to make mistakes.  I imagine the experience of prayer in just that way.  I am rehearsing a set of ideas.  I allow myself to go into it with all my attention, recognizing that I can step back, reflect, and rethink – and in the spirit of the best rehearsals, report to myself what I have learned.”

If prayer is a rehearsal for the dance of life, then prayer experience and prayer leadership cannot be limited to the moments we share in the sanctuary.  Prayer is our community’s time to contemplate what matters to us and to move ourselves to live in a way that reflects our highest ideals.  During prayer, we bring the gratitude and struggles of our everyday lives and begin to work through them spiritually.  We weigh ethical dilemmas, we cultivate compassion, we confront our tempers, our transgressions and our potential downfalls.  We set priorities and we experiment with ideas.

May the leaders who guide us through prayer guide us not only through the rehearsal, but also through our very lives.

Before I tell you about a profound moment that I had, let me give you some context.  As some of you know, my connections to Judaism for most of my life were weak at best.  I left Hebrew school, which I hated, at 10 years old and barely stepped in a synagogue for the next 25 years.  I occasionally went with my parents for the High Holy Days, but really didn’t understand or engage in the service.  The word and concept of God made me very uncomfortable, still does.  Our Rosh Hashanah dinners, Yom Kippur breakfasts and Passover Seders were occasions I enjoyed as family gatherings, and to a much lesser extent, cultural events.  For me, there really was no spirituality or deep religious context to these holidays.  I joined Rodeph Shalom in an effort to find some Jewish connection for my children.  We are an interfaith family and my Jewish foundations were simply too shallow to provide relevant content and meaning for my family.  I share this background because the moment that I want to tell you about occurred in the sanctuary here, at Rodeph Shalom, at a time when my connections to Judaism and to the synagogue were very superficial.

For the first few years we were here, my involvement was very limited.  I was a class parent and attended High Holy Day services, but that was about it.  About 10 years ago I was here for a Shabbat service – I must have been here for a Yahrzeit, because I can’t think of any other reason why, at that time, I would have been in this building on a Friday evening.  This was also about six months after I had been diagnosed and treated for thyroid cancer, one of the less insidious and more treatable cancers.  Nonetheless, I was frightened of the disease, especially since I had two small children.  So back to the Shabbat.  These were the days when, as a community, we were not so welcoming.  I came alone, no one said hello to me, I sat by myself, in the middle section on a center aisle seat.  I sat through the service, not having much idea about what was happening, being an observer, not a participant.  The cancer diagnosis was always in my thoughts – increasingly moving to the back of my mind, but always there hovering, threatening to take over anything else I was thinking about.  I’m not sure what I was thinking about that night as I sat through the service.  In fact, I can’t even remember who was leading services that evening.

Eventually, the congregation began singing the Mi Sheberach.  I had heard it before, thought it was pretty, but hadn’t thought much about it, nor had it ever invoked any particular feeling for me.  That night however, as the congregation sang I began to feel the most incredible sensation.  I literally felt myself wrapped in what I can only describe as ribbons of warm energy.  As I sat there, alone, I absolutely felt that I was being hugged, swaddled, wrapped, not sure, but I was engulfed in warmth and comfort.  At that moment, I felt for the first time since my diagnosis that things would be ok.  I didn’t know what that meant; I didn’t know if my treatment would be successful, if I would have recurrence?  I just knew that whatever the outcome, we, my family would be ok.  I have seen Rabbi Maderer smile when I tell this story as I go on to say that I am uncomfortable with even the broadest concept of God.  I suppose if I weren’t so worried about what I have sometimes considered the intellectual implications of believing in God, I would let myself believe that the magic I felt that moment could only be explained by a force that is present, intense, relevant and deeply valued, but inexplicable.  Sort of the way some people describe God.

While I have never felt that spontaneous sensation again, I can and often intentionally recall the memory and find comfort in it.  It’s one of the reasons the sanctuary is so important to me.

The profound moment I just attempted to describe was not a catalyst for my engagement here.  It was the religious school, the path to my adult bat mitzvah; work on the alternative high holy services and many other opportunities and people that inspired me to be more involved.  The moment that I just described was unique in my experience, and as far as I can tell independent of anything in what at that time was my weak Jewish foundation, even though it occurred in our sanctuary, which makes it that much more inexplicable.

Shabbat Shalom

A man was walking along, minding his own business, doing his job on a day just like any other ordinary day.  When out of the corner of his eye, he saw a fire.  He didn’t really think anything of it, as he sees little fires all the time in his line of work.  But this fire was different, it would not go out.  Eventually he turned and noticed this extraordinary fire, and his life was changed forever.  For the longest time, Moses stared at the bush that was burning unconsumed in the desert.  And when God saw that he had turned and noticed, God called out to him, “Moses, Moses.”  And Moses answered, “Hineini,”  “I am here.”  [Ex. 3:1-4].

This was Moses’ profound moment, the turning point in his life, when he understood his purpose, but only after he saw something extraordinary in what was an ordinary occurrence.

The lesson of this story is that we must be open to understanding profound moments in our lives.  The burning bush is, of course, a metaphor that we must try to discover and feel the burning desire within each of us to discover who we really are.  What is our purpose?  Why do I walk this earth?  Why do I exist?  How can we use our God-given talents to the fullest extent possible, to fulfill our potential to be the best we can be.

Moses saw the fire within himself, and he went on to change the world.   He confronted Pharaoh, helped free the Israelites, and led the people to the Promised Land.

Now, not many people have accomplished what Moses did, but what a role model.  He searched his soul, found that he had a purpose in life, and he went on to change the world forever. On Yom Kippur, we search our souls and examine our lives and we determine what is our purpose in life.  What can I do to fulfill my promise to help others and to make a difference in this troubled world.

This search for meaning and purpose in life is one of the most important recurring themes in the Torah and in Jewish tradition.  But in today’s world, this search is often confused with a search for “happiness.”  There is so much emphasis on being “happy.”  There is no shortage of books, websites, seminars and institutes that teach you how to be happy.

But the “happiness” journey is a trip to nowhere.  We keep telling ourselves that it’s just over the next hill, just a little more time or a little more money or a little more struggle will get us there.  [Golf in the Kingdom, Michael Murphy, Open Road Publishing, N.Y. 1972].

But in the Torah, there is no word for “happiness.”  Judaism emphasizes “purpose.”   Our purpose is to enter into a covenant brit with God, a partnership to repair the world.  [from a sermon by Rabbi Stephen Pearce, 2009].

What is the Jewish prescription for happiness?  To be on a spiritual journey to find some connection with others.  And together we search for profound moments which give meaning to our lives.  We yearn to find something within ourselves that gives us an understanding that we are part of something greater than ourselves.  We need to be part of a sacred quest that transcends our isolation and helps our lives become part of the lives of others.

This isolation is called the “bowling alone” syndrome, from the  excellent book by Robert Putnam, [Bowling Alone, N.Y. Simon & Schuster, 2000].  He describes how Americans are living lives more isolated from our neighbors, retreating from friendships, neighborhoods, churches and synagogues.  People, if they go outside at all, sit on their decks in the back yard, not in sight of neighbors, rather than on the stoop or the front porch.  These are signs that our neighborhoods and our sense of community are in decline.

The search for meaning can also help remove us from the solitary life symbolized by the i-pod  – Rabbi Michael Holzman taught us a few years ago in a sermon:  small “i” (me) in a pod (alone – separated from the world – in my own little pod).  Who could perceive the burning bush in our own lives in today’s world, set up to isolate us from each other?

This is the purpose of our congregation, to help everyone get out of our own pod, and to create profound connections, to search for meaning and connection to counter the feelings of loneliness, despair and dislocation in our world.

And tonight, on Kol Nidre, we are certainly not alone.  Our Prayer Book says, “we pray as one on this Night of Repentance…saint and sinner alike communes with the Most High.  We are at one.”  [Gates of Repentance, p. 251…].  This is the night of ultimate community, as we stand here together to experience the magical moment of the Kol Nidre prayer.  We ask God to forgive us for our sins, our vows not kept, but this prayer is much more than words.  It is about the power of the music, the haunting melody of Kol Nidre, the rhyming words, which come in an ancient mysterious rhythm – the prayer is like a magical incantation.  There is nothing rational about it, which is why the founders of the Reform Movement tried to take it out of the service, but the people wouldn’t let them.  The mystery of the experience, the magic of the moment expresses feelings that cannot be put into words.  We lose ourselves in the music and in the spirit of the experience, and we become at one with each other and with God.

And we all become connected here, profoundly.  Connected with each other in this sacred sanctuary.  Connected with our family who could not be here.  They are all in our hearts tonight.  As are our parents and grandparents who are no longer with us, but we tenderly recall the many times we stood at their side and were deeply moved by the haunting melody of Kol Nidre, just as Jews have done for so many centuries.

We are also connected to Jews everywhere in the world tonight.  Kol Nidre, a whisper of wings, whether in the land of Israel, or anywhere else on this globe.  Tonight we are as one.

No solitary i-pod or isolated Bowling Alone syndrome tonight.  We are community, we are connected profoundly, we are family.  We are as ONE.  And as I stand before the open ark during the singing of Kol Nidre, I look out at all of you and I see how deeply moved you are by this awesome and magical moment, and I am inspired by your faith and your strength, and I am lifted up by the power of the spirit of our community.   We stand on holy ground.  [Rabbi David Stern, All These Vows, Jewish Lights Publishing]

In the darkness of this night, we search for light within.  This is the meaning of the Psalm we sing just before the Kol Nidre prayer, from Ps. 97, Or zarua la’tzaddik…  “Light is sown for the righteous…”  (Ps. 97:11).

For in this light we try to “see ourselves more clearly…this night, unlike any other, will bring both the freedom of darkness and the capacity for illumination, the urgent insistence upon seeing.”  [David Stern, ibid].  In this light, we do the hard work of Yom Kippur.  We shine a light upon the inner recesses of our soul, as we examine our lives, and we engage in the ancient Jewish tradition of cheshbon ha nefesh  “taking an accounting of our soul.”  And instead of pursuing happiness all the time, we should seek to find the real purpose of our lives.  And when we take an honest accounting of our soul, may we find our purpose, the meaning of our lives.  May we find the bush, which burns unconsumed – waiting for us to notice it.

But too often, the hard work of Yom Kippur gives us an opportunity to beat ourselves up and tear ourselves down – to dwell only on our sins.  We recite the confessional prayer of Al Cheyt…  “For the sins we have sinned against You O God…”  In this prayer is a recitation of 44 sins, as we beat our breast and take communal responsibility for each others’sins.  This is an essential part of Yom Kippur and the process of tshuva, repentance.

However, this year, let us be more positive.  Let us look at what we did right, and thank God for the ability to do good work in the world, with the prayer that we may be able to recognize the good in ourselves and do more of these acts in the coming year.  In addition to Al Cheyt for our sins, let us also say:

Modim anachnu lach  Thank you O God:

For the good we have added to the world.

For the people we have helped.

For the peace we have made between people.

For the relationships we have repaired.

For the times we have stopped and noticed the beauty in this world.

For the times we have said I love you to those closest to us.

For the times we have lived up to our highest values.

For the times we have studied Torah and Jewish wisdom.

For the times we have made an effort to ensure the future of the Jewish people.

For offering thanks for the many gifts of our lives

For coming together with our congregation to be a part of this sacred community.

For working for a just and compassionate society.

For finding the good in every person.

For all these blessings, Eternal our God, we offer our thanks to You.

In the dark of this night, with the haunting strains of Kol Nidre still fresh in our hearts, we make these vows.  We promise to improve ourselves in the coming year.  This is the meaning of our lives.  This is our purpose:  to improve the world, one fulfilled promise at a time.

Would that we could keep this magical spirit of Kol Nidre with us always. All of us, no matter our backgrounds, we are all together as one during the singing of Kol Nidre.   We eagerly anticipate its coming again each year.  It raises us to heights unattained all year long.  And then we are saddened as it is over far too soon.    But while it lasts we are in a heightened sense of awareness.  I imagine a world in which we would not save this feeling only for Kol Nidre.  A world in which we work to recapture this sense of oneness and to make it a part of our everyday life – where we plead with God to take us back in mercy and love.  Asking for God to show us the Promise.

But we know that God has already shown us the Promise.  Implanted deep within each one of us is the bush that burns unconsumed.  It is there burning inside of all of us.  I know, because I have seen it.  It is why I decided to change careers at the age of 42.  To leave our life in Nashville because something was missing.  I knew that I had something different to give, to the extent that I had any God-given talents, I was not using them to the fullest extent possible.  I saw the burning bush and I looked right into it and said “Hineini.”  “I am here.”

I tell you this personal story not because what I did was so great, but because you can do it too.  I don’t mean you need to do anything quite so meshuggenah as I did.  But you can find inside yourself many God-given talents and gifts that you can develop and nurture no matter how old or young you are.  And you can do something to improve our world, to get outside of your self and find a way to help others and to give to society.  To think about the next generation and what sort of world you will be leaving them.

Let this be our work on this Yom Kippur.  That each of us may open ourselves up to understanding profound moments in our lives.  That each of us may say, like Moses said upon seeing the bush, “I must now turn aside and see this miraculous sight.”

What would it take for each of us to notice what is most important in our lives?  To open our eyes and be receptive to profound  moments.  I have a friend who told us her story this summer about a time she went on a routine shopping trip to the local CVS drug store.  She was in a hurry, so she ran into the store and grabbed what she needed and she was on her way to the checkout, when she encountered an old woman who looked like she was in distress.  My friend slowed down when she saw the woman.  She noticed her, she stopped. She turned her head toward the woman.  And then she asked if she could help her.  That simple act of reaching out, led the woman to open up to my friend and tell her all about her problems with her family and soon they were both in tears, and my friend helped her and hugged her.  What started out as an ordinary errand turned into a profound moment for my friend as she was able to extend her hand and an act of kindness to someone in need.  She stopped and noticed the bush burning unconsumed, and she said, “I must now turn aside to see this extraordinary sight.”

What would it take for us to notice what is most important in our lives, to open our eyes to those who are in need.  To be receptive to profound moments – extraordinary occurrences in the ordinary acts of everyday life.  How can we have a heightened sense of awareness.  We need to train ourselves to open our eyes and to be turned on (naturally) to the world, every day.  And if we do, we will see our neighbor or our loved one who is in need.  We will see a world that needs our help.

On this sacred night, let us pray for the inner vision to understand that God has given each of us talents, skills, understanding and abilities to make the world better.  The bush does indeed burn unconsumed deep within each of our souls.

At the end of Moses’ life, knowing that he would not be allowed to lead his people into the Promised Land, God grants Moses the great gift of spiritual vision.  God shows Moses the Promised Land and Moses is able to see what his long life of struggle and suffering was for.  [Dennis Shulman, Jewels of Elul, Craig & Co., 2011].

On this sacred night of Yom Kippur, may God grant each of us the gift of spiritual vision, so that we may see what we do in this life matters.  How we choose to live our life is important, and it is up to us to act in such a way that we can change the world.

AMEN.

Material gathered from:  Ex. 3:1-4. “The Pursuit of Happiness,” sermon by Rabbi Stephen Pearce, 2009, “The American Rabbi, 2010, Isaac Nathan Publishing, L.A., CA.  Golf in the Kingdom, by Michael Murphy, Open Road Publishing, N.Y., 1972.Bowling Alone, by Robert Putnam, N.Y. Simon & Schuster, 2000.  Psalm 97:11.  “Night Vision,” Rabbi David Stern, All These Vows, Ed. Rabbi Lawrence Hoffman, Woodstock, VT. Jewish Lights Publishing, 2011.  “Seeing the Bible,” Dennis Shulman, “Jewels of Elul,” Craig & Co. Elul, 5771.

A couple of months ago, I met with a small group of some of the top Jewish leaders Philadelphia, and one of them said that he really wondered if the Jewish community in America would exist in another generation.  I have thought a lot about that statement, and I must agree that there are threats to the very existence of our Jewish community, but actually, the threat to our existence comes from the fact that conditions have never been better for Jews in America.  We are totally accepted into American society as never before.

In their important new book about religion in our country, American Grace,the authors study how Americans feel about all the different religious groups in our country, and they found that Jews are the most popular religious group in America. [American Grace,Robert D. Putnam and David E. Campbell, Simon & Schuster, 2010, New York].  This news may come as a surprise to us because our people have suffered from thousands of years of persecution, oppression and exile from virtually every nation in which we have lived – in spite of all of this – we have finally found a home in America where we can worship as we please and be an equal partner in this wonderfully diverse and religiously pluralistic nation.

Yet, how are we dealing with our success?  We are disappearing!

The entire landscape of Jewish life in America is changing in ways few people understand.  We are several generations removed from our European ancestors, who came to this country, and whose roots are barely known by most American Jews today.  Our numbers are declining:  our birthrate is not replacing our losses; the American Jewish community is growing older; we are losing people simply due to lack of interest.  And then there is the generation of 18-35 year olds, many of whom have very different attitudes about religion in general and Judaism in particular.  [Rabbis Alan Henkin and Paul Kipnes, CCAR Journal, The Reform Jewish Quarterly, CCAR, New York, Spring 2011].

Yes, the rapidly changing landscape of the American J.C. poses many challenges to us as a people.  The good news is that we are totally accepted into the mainstream of American society.  We got what we wished for. But now that we are not faced with much anti-Semitism, how will we maintain our identity?  And in this changing world, what is Jewish identity?  I believe this is the essential question, because the very definition of Judaism is changing, and how we define Judaism will determine whether we continue to exist.  Will we keep our Jewish community intact, strong and vibrant?  Or will we meld into the great fabric of American society and disappear?

I believe we are at a pivotal moment for the Jewish community in America.  We are at a crossroads.  We can shrie and complain about how much things have changed, or we can recognize the challenge and seize the moment.  And I believe it is the duty of Congregation Rodeph Shalom to take the lead in showing the world what the future of Judaism in America can be.  If you want to know where our community has been in the past, go to the magnificent new National Museum of American Jewish History on Independence Square.  But if you want to know what our future will look like, come to Congregatopm Rodeph Shalom, and join in our vision, as we stand on the shoulders of our historic congregation’s founders and dedicate ourselves to ensuring the future of the Jewish people.

But before we can envision a future, we need to understand where we are now.  Changes in the landscape of the American Jewish community are affecting the way Jews relate to synagogues, Israel and all of our institutions.  A recent Pew Forum on Religion and Public Life concluded that the U.S. is a nation of “religious drifters,” where denominations and labels like Reform and Conservative do not mean as much as they once did.  Americans are attempting to “invent new ways of describing and participating in a faith that often does not seem to respond to the changes in society…Today, instead of religion defining Jews, Jews are defining religion.”  [paraphrased from Rabbi Stephen Pearce, “Shifting Landscapes:  The Response of Modernity to Faith, Social Advocacy, and Demographic Change.”  CCAR Journal, New York, Spring 2011].  And if the Reform Movement does not recognize it, we will soon be relegated to a nice exhibit case in the National Museum of American Jewish History.

This congregation has changed a lot since the days when we were composed mostly of German Jewish families, classical Reform, homogeneous in background and belief.

But today, Rodeph Shalom is as diverse as any congregation in America, reflecting the beautiful patchwork quilt of the future of American Judaism.  We are not all on the same page, regarding our background, our views on Israel, on worship style or in our belief or non-belief in God.  All of us together are seekers, all of us together:   Jews by birth and Jews by choice, Interfaith families, Black, White, Asian and Latino Jews, straight or gay, people from all socio-economic backgrounds and family constellations,Reform, Conservative, or Orthodox backgrounds,  Believers,  Atheists or Agnostic …we are all seekers.  We are all on a spiritual journey, searching for profound moments which give meaning to our lives.  We yearn to find something in ourselves that gives us an understanding that we are a part of something greater than ourselves.  We need to be a part of a sacred quest that transcends our isolation, takes us away from the “bowling alone” syndrome and removes us from the solitary life symbolized by the i-pod.  And we do this by connecting with others who are on a similar journey.

This is the vision of our Congregation: to create profound connections and to be as a sacred family to each other.  This past year, a number of our Board of Trustees members did some in-depth work to try to seriously analyze our congregation and where we are going in the future, and they wrote a beautiful vision statement which you will see and hear much about it in the coming months, as this vision will infuse everything we do.  The very purpose of our congregation is to create profound connections which add meaning to our lives – connecting us to each other, to Judaism and to the Divine.

The great 20th century Jewish thinker Martin Buber described these connections as being the only way to really understand what God is. When we enter into a genuine relationship with another, we also discover God.  And we can feel God’s presence, or as Buber calls it, we can “meet” God in the ordinary activities of daily life, if only we would enter into  genuine dialogue with others.  As a result of this “meeting,” we can become more sensitive, more responsive and more human.  We become more spiritually enriched by creating profound connections.  [Finding God.   Rifat Sonsino, Daniel Syme, UAHC Press, New York, 1986].

This is the search most American Jews are on now, and this must be the vision of our congregation, to help everyone find meaning and purpose in life.  On the dawn of this New Year, let us commit ourselves to take the lead in creating a renaissance of Reform Judaism.  Now is the time to recreate Judaism in America, and we must be on the cutting edge of this effort.  We can light the path to the future of liberal Judaism, as I believe it is up to you who are here today to take up the obligation to ensure the very survival and vibrancy of the Jewish people.

And we do this by radically altering our thinking about the very nature of who we are and for what we stand.  Everything we do should be viewed through the lens of our vision.  Every prayer service, every learning opportunity, every social justice effort, every meeting, every social event – everything we do should be for the purpose of creating profound connections. Everything we do should be an opportunity to engage with each other so that we may develop stronger relationships with each other, so that we may be a family.

Our vision will be reflected in everything we do, and it must begin with Shabbat, our “Palace in Time” [The Sabbath, Abraham Joshua Heschel. Farrar, Straus & Giroux, New York, 1951]. All week long, we busy ourselves with a routine that takes our hearts and minds away from that which is most important.  During the week, in our congregation we break up into various “connection groups” according to our interests and our demographics.  But on Friday night, we come together as one congregational family to welcome Shabbat, to pray together, to support each other in times of need, to celebrate with each other in times of joy, to socialize together and to build a strong sense of community.

On Friday night we lift our voices in prayer, embracing the faithful as well as the skeptic.  We do this by creating the kind of uplifting and transformative worship experience that will attract all of our diverse congregation, a service that is participatory, accessible, warm, inclusive, welcoming, spiritual and meaningful.  A service that will help us to create profound connections among each other and with the soul of Jewish prayer.  As Martin Buber said, the purpose of Jewish prayer is to connect people in community, so they may know the mystery of feeling the presence of God among us.  This is how you create the miracle of community.

I believe more and more members of the Rodeph Shalom family feel that it would be unthinkable to begin their weekend without participating in Shabbat services, every Friday night at 6:00, your “Palace in Time.”

But if we are to be a truly visionary congregation, each of us must accept the obligation to learn more about Judaism.  In his new book Empowered Judaism, Rabbi Elie Kaunfer wrote “Jews of all ages are thirsting for a meaningful engagement with critical life questions and want to open up the texts of our past to deepen that engagement.”  [Empowered Judaism, Rabbi Elie Kaunfer, Jewish Lights Publishing, Woodstock, VT. 2010].

Our congregation takes this challenge seriously.  We are expanding our offering of opportunities to learn from important scholars and transmitters of Jewish knowledge on Sunday mornings, 1st Wednesday evenings of each month, Friday night speakers, Saturday morning Torah Study, Introduction to Judaism courses, and much more. Our vision is to engage all of our members in the lifelong transformative study of Judaism.

What does it mean for Jewish studies to be transformative?   I have a friend who told me I had ruined his life (I hope he was kidding).  He used to play golf every Saturday morning, until a couple of years ago, he started coming to our Saturday Morning Torah Study Class.  He found it so meaningful and stimulating that he comes to Torah Study  every Saturday now.  I’m sure he still finds time to play golf, but he reached a “tipping point” in his life, and in his attitude about what is most important.  Now that’s transformative study!

This is really what our vision is all about.  It is about helping people “move from being apathetic and cynical about Jewish life to being passionately engaged in building a new community.”  [Kaunfer, ibid].  Our vision is about transformative innovation.  We are at a turning point in Jewish history, and if we do not change, Judaism in America will die.

In fact, we may be at one of the most pivotal moments our people has ever known – we may be at a “Johanan ben Zakkai” moment.  When the ancient Temple in Jerusalem was destroyed by the Romans in the year 70, this disastrous event marked the end of the Israelite religion as they knew it. But Johanan ben Zakkai, one of the greatest sages of that era reinvented the religion.  He inspired the people to create a new way of being Jewish – he was responsible for the creation of the synagogue  system, which allowed Judaism to flourish in the diaspora.  So radical were his changes, that he is still known today as the man who saved our religion.  He inspires us still today, as one who preserved much of the sacred traditions, but was not afraid of transformative innovation.

I believe we are at another “Johanan ben Zakkai” moment today.  And we, in our congregation can lead the way to a new understanding of what it means to be Jewish.  And it is all about the search for meaning.  In everything we do, we will help people answer life’s essential questions:  Why do I exist?  Why do I walk this earth?  What is my purpose?  We will be the place where people can find meaning and purpose, because we are grounded in values.  The values of community, the values of uplifting and meaningful prayer services, the values of transformative learning, the values of social justice and urban engagement, and of advocating for change in our city and in our world.  The values of welcoming interfaith families with open arms.  The values of drawing inspiration from the beauty of the musical and visual arts.  The values of welcoming all who come to explore and deepen their connection to God and Judaism, where it is okay to be a skeptic – to wrestle with the many faces of the Divine in our journeys of growth and spirituality.  We will wrestle with God on Broad Street.

We will be a congregation which encourages Jews to search for meaning, community and connection, to counter the feelings of loneliness, despair and dislocation in our world – a place where people can tell their stories and be valued – and not be judged.  We will be a Congregation of Conversations, a Congregation of Relationships, a congregation where all of us are passionate about Judaism.

And if we do, we will become the most dynamic, vibrant and meaningful Jewish congregation in America – the beacon of light to those who are longing to learn new ways to be Jewish.  These must be more than words.  Please join us in this mission, for we must do this for our children and our grandchildren, and for the future of Judaism in America.  There is much at stake.  It is up to us to accept this challenge, and to awaken our human spirit to all of the possibilities that lie deep within us.

AMEN.

Material gathered from:

American Grace, Robert D. Putnam and David E. Campbell, Simon & Schuster, 2010, New York.  Rabbis Alan Henkin and Paul Kipnes, CCAR Journal, The Reform Jewish Quarterly, New York, Spring 2011.  Rabbi Stephen Pearce, “Shifting Landscapes:  The Response of Modernity to Faith, Social Advocacy, and Demographic Change,” CCAR Journal, New York, Spring 2011.  Finding God, Rifat Sonsino, Daniel Syme, UAHC Press, New York, 1986.  Empowered Judaism, Rabbi Elie Kaunfer, Jewish Lights Publishing, Woodstock, VT. 2010.  Ideas from Rabbi Peter Rubinstein, Rosh HaShana sermon, 2010. Rabbi Lawrence Hoffman Rodeph Shalom scholar in residence and consultant and ideas from Sacred Strategies, Transforming synagogues from Functional to Visionary, by Isa Aron, Steven Cohen, Lawrence Hoffman, Ari Kelman,  Alban Institute Press, Herndon, VA., 2010.  Ideas fromRabbi Karyn Kedar.The Sabbath, Abraham Joshua Heschel, Farrar, Straus & Giroux, New York, 1951.  Many quotes from the Congregation Rodeph Shalom Vision Statement.

I’m not Thomas Friedman.  Yes, we have the same last name, although he spells it wrong, but that is the end of the similarities.  Why do I say this?  Because Pulitzer Prize winning, New York Times “Foreign Affairs” Correspondent Thomas Friedman can tell you about the political situation in Israel better than I ever could.  So, what can I tell you about Israel that Thomas Friedman can’t?

I can tell you about what it feels like to see the sunrise over Mt. Masada.  I can tell you about the sights and smells from the shuk in Jerusalem.  I can tell you about walking in the footsteps of Abraham, Deborah the Judge and King David.  I can tell you about my love for the Land of Israel.

Let’s engage in an intellectual exercise.  Let us try to separate in our minds the Land of Israel vs. State of Israel (Eretz Yisrael vs. Medinat Yisrael).  The Land of Israel is the biblical home of our ancestors, the place that we turn to in our prayers, the country that gave us the hypnotic music of HaDag Nachash, and the culinary prowess of Chef Moshe Basson.  The Land of Israel is Ahad Ha’am’s Cultural Zionism, the idea that Israel can be the spiritual center for all of Jewish life in the world.  The Land of Israel is the Land that I love unconditionally.

The State of Israel is AIPAC and JStreet, the Knesset, the Green Line, and the current conflict in the Middle East; political pundits each offering their own solution to centuries old problems; roadmaps, Camp David and international sanctions.  The State of Israel is a government of which I am not sure how I feel sometimes…

Now, I understand that in real life, we can no more separate the Land of Israel and the State of Israel than we can separate our heads from our bodies, but I believe by engaging in this exercise we learn something powerful about how we deal with the complex relationship that is our connection to Israel as a Diaspora community.  Yom Kippur is a time for inward reflection, a time to think about how we related to the world around.  Let’s take some time this year to think about how we engage with the Land of Israel.

In the summer of 2007, while getting ready to spend a year in Israel, I felt fairly ambivalent about my upcoming adventure.  I remember thinking to myself, “It will be fun to go to Israel, spend time learning about another culture.”  But I really could have been going to Italy, China or any other country for that matter – there was nothing special in my mind that separated Israel – this was just another year abroad in a foreign country.

This ambivalence to Israel is fairly consistent with many Reform Jews from my generation and earlier.  Unlike today at our Mercaz Limud and Confirmation Academy, I did not grow up with Israel as a part of my Jewish education.  Synagogue trips to Israel were few and far between and Israel was not a strong piece of my youth group life either.

Historically speaking this is no surprise.  Reform Judaism deemphasized the Jewish connection to Israel early on for quite practical, political reasons.  In the late 18^th/early 19^th century, during the revolutions of Europe, the humanism of the Enlightenment, and the rise of nationalism, Reform Judaism took shape.  In 1789, Napoleon convened a group of Jewish leaders in West Phalia called the Sanhedrin.

At this gathering, he asked the Jewish leaders of his empire, “Are you Jews or are you Frenchmen?”  For the first time in European history, Jews were no longer relegated to a subclass status and were no longer a nation unto themselves.  For the first time in history, Jews were asked to be a part of the emerging nations of Europe.

This rise in nationalism and new level of acceptance in society lead to the removal of Israel from Reform Jewish language.  How can you say you are a true German, Frenchman, American, if you pray towards Jerusalem, if you constantly speak about the restoration of Israel in your prayers, if you pray that one day all Jews will go back to the land of our ancestors.  Faced with skepticism of having a dual allegiance, many Jews chose their country of birth over Israel.

Only in recent years, with major events like the publishing of the new Reform prayer book, “Mishkan T’fillah,” do we see Israel making its way back into our religion and our prayers.   In the prayer, Yotzeir Or (a prayer we say on Shabbat morning celebrating the creation of light) an important line was reintroduced, “Or hadash a tzion tair – Shine a new light unto Zion.”  We have an Israeli flag, alongside our American flag on the bima.  We are taking our high school students to Israel in December on an amazing 10-day adventure.  We have adult education sessions where we bring in speakers with a varied view of the current political situation in Israel.  As a congregation and a movement, we are reengaging with Israel.

So what was it that turned an average American Reform Jew with no connection to the Land of Israel into someone who could not possible imagine being a Jew, let alone a Rabbi, and not have lived in Israel, engaged with the country and its people and eventual come to love the Land?

I took a Biblical Hebrew class while living in Israel for the year.  In the class, we not only learned Biblical Hebrew syntax and grammar but also learned to read ancient Hebrew script, which looks quite different to the font that is in your prayer book.  I initially thought this endeavor to be quite useless, not really understanding when in life, I would use ancient Hebrew script.

One day, our professor said we were taking a trip.  We walked about 20 minutes from Hebrew Union College on King David Street, around the old city over to ir david, the City of David, and entered Hezekiah’s Tunnel.  In the book of Kings, we learn about the great King Hezekiah; the 14th king of Judah whose reigned from 715 to 686 BCE.  He was most famous for fending off an invasion by the Assyrians that ultimately destroyed the Northern Kingdom.

We read in the Bible (2 Kings 20):

And when Hezekiah saw that Sennacherib was coming, and that he was purposed to fight against Jerusalem, he took counsel with his princes and his mighty men to stop the waters of the fountains which were outside the city, and they did help him.  They said, ‘Why should the kings of Assyria come, and find much water?’  This same Hezekiah also stopped the upper watercourse of Gihon, and brought it straight down to the west side of the City of David.”

We were standing in that very tunnel that Hezekiah had dug over 2500 years ago to divert water from outside the walls of Jerusalem, so that his people could withstand the Assyrian siege.  Walking down the slightly inclined floor, damp with tiny puddles, we came to the center of the tunnel where there was an inscription written in ancient Hebrew:

…and this is the story of the tunnel…

the axes were against each other and while three cubits were left to cut…

the voice of a man… called to his counterpart,

for there was crack in the rock, on the right…

and on the day of the tunnel (being finished) the stonecutters struck

each man towards his counterpart,

ax against ax

and flowed water from the source to the pool…

We were suddenly transported back 2500 hundred years to the time of King Hezekiah.  We could imagine the two separate teams of diggers from either ends, working furiously to complete the tunnel before Sennacherib’s army arrived.  And that moment, when the two parties met, at first just a distant voice, then the sound of axe against axe, and the water began flowing, we imagine the men embracing one another, relieved to have completed their holy task.  This is the Land of Israel, where our history comes alive.

We can connect to the Land of Israel in more modern mediums as well.  If you’ve ever seen the Adam Sandler movie, Don’t Mess with the Zohan, you may be familiar with the band, HaDag Nachash.  Their name which literally means Snake Fish, is a Hebrew spoonerism of the phrase Nachag Chadash, a new driver.  Through mixing hip hop and rock, western and eastern music, HaDag Nachash bring to light some of the most important issues in Israel today.  One song that particularly touches upon what it means to be in Israel is, Henei Ani Ba, Here I Come.  The song tells the tale of the dichotomy between Jerusalem and Tel Aviv:

Jerusalem, a city of explosions
walking the street feels like the ingathering of the exiles
a thousand cultures, everyone has a brother and 9 sisters
Arabs in order, ultraorthodox in the yeshiva
and all are receiving God here – at a frequency
from day to day Tel Aviv sparkled more
friends left or got closer to the creator of the heavens
gray, boring, there’s no sea
thoughts about leaving
three years it took me to get to the decision
I pack my belongings into the suitcase
from the village to the city in the direction of descending

I went in the direction of the shore

and now that I’m in Tel Aviv finally
I mix in with the scenery all is fresh and it’s good

my eyes got burnt
after two years of Sodom and Gomorra
I don’t recognize myself in the mirror
I know, I mix, I fuse, I embrace with
all the owners of the clubs
Now that I’m in, I know that it doesn’t sparkle
how much noise, how much soot,

I had paradise in my hands
thoughts about leaving
three years it took me to get the decision
I pack my belongings into the suitcase
from the city to the village in the direction of ascending

According to HaDag Nachash and many Israelis, Jerusalem is a city of holiness, mystery, and ancientness, while Tel Aviv is a modern European beach town that parties all night.  The Land of Israel is an amazing country because it is simultaneously, the umphalos of the world, while still being one of the world leaders in new technology.  In the book, Startup Nation, authors Dan Senor and Saul Singer describe how Israel is leading the way in microchip technology, electric cars and so much more.  With the highest number of startups per capita of any nation in the world and massive venture capital investment, Israel is one of the world’s entrepreneurship hubs.  This is the Land of Israel, where you can pray at the 2500 year old Western Wall and one hour later be on the beach in one of the most modern Mediterranean cities.

Food can also tell us a lot about a culture, a people and their history.  One of the top restaurants in Jerusalem is Chef Moshe Basson’s Eucalyptus.  For culinary inspiration Basson looks to the Bible, the Mishnah and the Talmud.   For salad greens he heads into the fields around Jerusalem or the hills of the Galilee. For some of his supplies, he seeks out a cadre of village women who bring fresh mushrooms, herbs and eggs to sell at the city walls where they come to pray.

Eucalyptus is a kosher meat restaurant so for dessert, Basson makes one of the most delicious puns I’ve ever eaten.  The Land of Israel is known as the Land of Milk and Honey, in Hebrew, Halav (milk) and Dvash (honey).  As no dairy products are served at Eucalyptus, the signature dessert is Halva and Dvash, a delicious combination of homemade sesame paste and local Jerusalem honey.  This is the Land of Israel, the sweet taste of milk and honey.

On a hot Wednesday morning in April, I remember walking into my Israel seminar class and being posed with an interesting task.  In our Israel seminar class each week we learned about a different aspect of Israeli history, cultural and politics; often taking day trips around the country and meeting with thought leaders, politicians and artists.  This week, however, we were split into groups and given a quite peculiar task.  Our professor explained that he wanted each group to go out to various neighborhoods in Jerusalem and knock on a random door and ask for a glass of water.  What?!  Can you imagine walking around your own neighborhood and stopping at a random door and asking for a glass of water.

We approached the first house and gentle knocked.  An old Yemenite woman came to the door.  In broken Hebrew we asked if we could please have a glass of water.  She immediately and rather briskly ushered us in to her home.  The cool of her stone home was a refreshing break from the hot spring day.  She brought all three of us glasses of water and we sat in her living room.  We then explained that we were doing an assignment for school and for the next hour or so we had the most amazing conversation.  She told us about flying to Israel from Yemen on “Operation Magic Carpet.”  She told us about growing up in Nachla’ot, the neighborhood near the shuk, with winding alleyways and narrow cobblestone streets.  She showed us pictures of her family and told us about her grandchildren.

When we returned to class to debrief our missions, our professor explained, especially 30 years ago before bottled water, this was not a strange thing to do in Israel.  We are talking about a country that is over 50% desert.  The hospitality of desert culture is still alive in Israel.  Since the times of Abraham and Sarah, the notion of hospitality as a sacred act has been a part of the Land of Israel.  In Genesis 18 we read:

Abraham looked up and saw three men standing nearby. When he saw them, he hurried from the entrance of his tent to meet them and bowed low to the ground.  He said, “If I have found favor in your eyes, my lord, do not pass your servant by.  Let a little water be brought, and then you may all wash your feet and rest under this tree.  Let me get you something to eat, so you can be refreshed and then go on your way—now that you have come to your servant.”

From our nomadic desert roots until today, the Land of Israel is a place where the genuine hospitality of Abraham and Sarah still exists.

The food, the music, the language, the prayers, the people – this is the Land of Israel.  And this is the Israel that Ahad Ha’am, the founder of Cultural Zionism imagined.  Born Asher Ginsberg, he took the name Ahad Ha’am, literally meaning, “one of the people.”  With his vision of a Jewish “spiritual center” in Israel he confronted Theodor Herzl. Unlike Herzl, the founder of political Zionism, Ha’am strived for “a Jewish state and not merely a state of Jews.”

Ahad Ha’am’s idea was to emphasize the importance of reviving Hebrew and Jewish culture both in Israel and throughout the Diaspora.  Herzl did not have much use for Hebrew, and many wanted German to be the language of the Jewish state. Ahad Ha’am played an important role in the revival of the Hebrew language and Jewish culture, and in cementing a link between the proposed Jewish state and Hebrew culture.  Ha’am believed that the Diaspora could and should still exist but Israel could be the spiritual heart of the Diaspora pumping Jewish culture and spirituality throughout the world.

Mark Twain once wrote, “…the true patriotism, the only rational patriotism, is loyalty to the Nation ALL the time, loyalty to the Government when it deserves it.”  Twain uses the words Nation and Government; I use the words Land and State.  Just as I am proud to be an American but sometimes critical of our government when I do not agree with what they are doing, I will always love Israel but am critical of their government when I do not agree with what they are doing.  Built right into the very word Israel is the Hebrew root, sarah – to struggle.  To love Israel is to love the Land and to struggle with the State.  Anat Hoffman, head of the Israeli Religious Action Center, says that she loves Israel by suing her.  We all have different opinions of the current government in Israel and the most important opinion is one of interest and not apathy.  It is so easy in today’s 24 news cycle to become barraged by political pundits and to turn completely shut off but engagement with Israel can be a truly spiritual act.

As a congregation, we have been thinking a lot in recent months about profound moments; moments whether in our control or not, we found a sense of holiness, of sacredness.  Moments that have changed our perception of the world and changed our life’s path.

The anecdotes that I relayed to you today were all profound moments in my life where I believe God was present.  These profound moments are what have shaped my love for the Land of Israel.

This New Year, we should all engage with Israel – read the New York Times and Thomas Friedman, but also visit the Land, taste the food, meet the people, experience the culture.  We are all entitled to our own opinions on the current political situation in Israel.  But no matter how you feel about the State, I hope that you connect with the Land.  If you have not already, I hope you are able to have a profound connection to the Israel that I have come to love and find a place in your own heart for the Land of Israel.

As many of you know, this summer I got married.  Laurel and I decided to take a road-trip to and from our wedding in Texas.  While leaving Asheville, NC and heading into the birthplace of Rabbi Bill Kuhn, I saw a large welcome sign.  On that sign it read, “Tennessee: The Volunteer State.”  I usually do not place much stock in state mottos.  I come from the Bay State and now live in the Keystone state, neither of which names deeply resonates with me, however, for some reason I was struck by Tennessee: The Volunteer State.  I assume it is because, as a synagogue community, we have been thinking a lot about what it means to be a part of congregation in recent months.

Being a child of the 21st century, I immediately reached for my iPhone to look up the root of this interesting state motto.  According to the official web site of the state, Tennessee first earned its nickname as the volunteer state during the War of 1812 due to the large numbers of Tennesseans who volunteered to serve in battle against Great Britain. Although the men never faced battle, General Andrew Jackson brought the soldiers home at his own expense. Later, Jackson led 2,000 Tennessee volunteer soldiers in a successful battle against the British in 1815 at the Battle of New Orleans. Following such success, as many as 30,000 Tennesseans again volunteered in the Mexican War.  Most of you are probably familiar with the legend (popularized by Disney), of the fateful day when Davy Crocket, born on a mountaintop in Tennessee, who killed a grizzly bear when he was only three, drew a line in the sand to see who would come fight with him at the Alamo.

I apologize in advance to all of you from the great state of Tennessee, but I do not like your state motto.  I think it is actually incorrect.  The Volunteer State.  What does it mean to be a volunteer?  In general terms, volunteering is the practice of people working on behalf of others or a particular cause without payment for their time and services. Volunteering is generally considered an altruistic activity, intended to promote good or improve human quality of life, but people also volunteer for their own skill development, to meet others, to make contacts for possible employment, to have fun, and a variety of other reasons that could be considered self-serving.

In my opinion, what is missing from the word ‘volunteer’ is a sense of obligation and weight.  The word volunteer lacks the sense of responsibility we have for those that we view as family.  One can not volunteer to be a son or daughter but we all know that a familial relationship contains certain inescapable commitments.  30,000 Tennesseans didn’t risk their lives fighting in the Mexican-American war because they wanted a warm fuzzy feeling inside.  They fought because, as Wilfred Brimley once said, “it’s the right thing to do.”  They fought because they felt an obligation to protect their family and friends from harms way.  They fought because they could not have possibly imagined doing anything else other than fight.

This concept of sacred obligation is rooted in our tradition.  In Judaism, we have an important concept called tzedakah.  When asked what this Hebrew word means, most people would say that tzedakah means charity.  I do not think this is actually a very good definition.  Charity comes from the Latin word caritas which originally meant preciousness, dearness, high price. From this, in Christian theology, caritas became the standard Latin translation for the Greek word agapç, meaning an unlimited loving-kindness to all others, such as the love of God.  This is much different from the Jewish concept of tzedakah.  The word tzedakah comes from the Hebrew root, tzedek, which means righteousness or justice.

Tzedakah is an obligation and not a voluntary act.  Tzedakah, although perhaps spurred on by our love for our neighbors and strangers in our midst, is rooted in justice and obligation.  As Jews, we engage in tzedakah because it is the right things to do.  And so it is the same with our relationship to our synagogue.  As Jews, we do not volunteer to be part of a task force or volunteer to come to services or volunteer to visit the sick and elderly of our congregation because it makes us feel good or because it’s a nice gesture.  We are obligated to engage in these righteous acts because we are a family.  We come to Friday night services because we could not imagine beginning our weekend without them.

What is the one aspect of Judaism that separates it from other religions?  All religions contain theologies that espouse making the world a better place and loving your neighbor.  They all contain their own unique rituals and traditions. All religions have special foods, dances, language, etc…  But what makes Judaism truly unique is our focus on this life.  What is the Jewish view of the afterlife?  Ask two Jews and you get three answers.  So why does Judaism have such a varied, vague definition of the afterlife – because our focus should be on this world.  While for other religions, the goal of life is to live justly in order to achieve some ultimate reward, be it heaven or reincarnation, for Judaism, we engage in acts of loving kindness in this world because it’s the right thing to do.

This concept of sacred obligation also inspires our own congregation.  We no longer have an annual program guide; we have an ‘Invitation to Engage.’  We no longer have a volunteer choir; we have a congregational choir.  At Rodeph Shalom, we do not have volunteers; we have family members.  This may seem like semantics but language matters.  Language is one of the key defining characteristics of who we are as human beings.  It is what separates us from animals.  One of the first tasks that God assigned Adam in the Garden of Eden was to name each and every animal.  As we continue to grow as a visionary congregation, we will continue to use language that reflects that vision – language of family and obligation as opposed to volunteering.

Many of you will remember, back in March when Rabbi Larry Hoffman joined us for a weekend of congregational visioning.  During his time with us, Rabbi Hoffman spoke at Friday evening services about the changing nature of congregational life.  Specifically, he spoke about the idea of civic obligation.  60 years ago, if you were Jewish, you would have belonged to a synagogue.  Why?  Because you really like the religious school?  Because you had a lot of friends in the Men’s Club?  Because you loved the sound of the cantors voice?  Because you longed for the rabbi’s sermons?

According to Hoffman, all of these may have been perks to belonging to a synagogue, but Jews belonged to synagogues because that was what you did.  There was a greater sense of civic obligation in the bygone era that ended with the revolutions of the 60’s.  And not just in the Jewish world; across religions and into the secular world, people belonged to communities because it was the right thing to do.

Today, we no longer live in a world ruled by civic obligation.  Some may pine for the days when this obligation was as mandatory as paying your taxes or brushing your teeth.  However, I believe that this new age where civic obligation no longer applies allows us to have a more meaningful relationship with God, Judaism and our community.

Rabbi Irving Greenberg, a well known post-Holocaust Jewish theologian, wrote an article a number of years back entitled “Voluntary Covenant.”  In his article, Greenberg refers to three main epochs in Jewish history.  The first, the Biblical Period, was marked by an unbalanced relationship between God and the Israelite people, with God as senior partner holding more power than the Israelites.  We see this relationship reflected in the covenantal language of Deuteronomy – if the Israelite people obey God, they will be prosperous but if they disobey they will face harsh consequences.

The second epoch, according to Greenberg, is the Rabbinic Period where the covenantal relationship between God and Israel changes significantly.  In this new brit or covenant, the Rabbis have become the senior partner, with God no longer capable of revelation. Decisions are now placed in the hands of mankind.  A prime example of this relationship can found in such texts like the ‘Oven of Akhnai.’  This famous Talmudic story begins with a debate between Rabbi Eliezer and the Sages as to whether this certain type of oven is kosher or not.  Rabbi Eliezer is so sure that the halachah (or Jewish law) agrees with him that he calls forth numerous miracles including a flying carob tree, a backwards running river and ultimately the voice of God to prove that he is correct.  The Sages do not except Rabbi Eliezer’s supernatural proofs and retort, quoting parashat Nitzavim, saying, “The Torah is not in Heaven.”  According to the Sages, the age of prophecy is over and it is up to human beings to make decisions for themselves.

Greenberg’s final time period is the current post-Holocaust world.  The old idea of covenant was shattered once and for all at Auschwitz.  Greenberg quotes Elie Wiesel, “When God gave us a mission; that was all right.  But God failed to tell us that it was a suicide mission.”  There can be no question of reward and punishment or Divine providence any longer.  There can be no sense of shared loyalty and mutual love or responsibility between God and Israel.  God sent us on a “suicide mission,” thus permanently revising the terms of the covenant.

With his theology that the covenantal relationship formed at Mt. Sinai is no longer valid, does Greenberg then choose to abandon Judaism?  On the contrary, Greenberg suggests that any relationship we now have with Judaism, God and our congregation is that much more powerful because it is based on a voluntary covenant.  We are no longer held to the covenant made for us so long ago at Mt. Sinai when in parashat Nitzavim God said, “I am making this covenant, with its oath, not only with you who are standing here with us today in the presence of the LORD our God but also with those who are not here today,” the future generations.

I love everything about Greenberg’s theology except for the name of it – Voluntary Covenant – and what that implies.  For the same reasons that I find the Volunteer State to be a name lacking in a sense of obligation, sacredness and familial connection, the voluntary nature of Greenberg’s theology could be improved.  What Greenberg touches on in his entire article is a sense of partnership.  In each of his three epochs he speaks about a changing partnership between God and Israel; a sacred partnership that begins with God as the senior partner, then moving to a relationship where the Jewish people run the show and finally coming to a point in our time where we are equal partners with God in this world.

An image from our tradition that does speak to the juxtaposition of the voluntary and obligatory nature of our relationships is the nazirite.   Numbers, chapter 6, presents the laws of the nazirite, an individual who has, by means of a vow, taken on a special sacred status.  For the period of the vow, the nazirite may not have contact with any dead body, or consume any wine, or cut his/her hair.

Many have observed that these restrictions are similar to those of the kohanim, the priests. But, in fact, the nazirite’s restrictions are even greater than the priest’s.  A priest is permitted contact with the dead of his immediate family.  Priests are prohibited from drinking intoxicants only while “on duty” and priests were not allowed to shave their heads but were required to trim their hair.

Often we think of the biblical period as a time in which God dealt out sanctity and special status on a rather arbitrary basis.  The Israelites were chosen from among all peoples; they had no choice.  The priests inherited their priesthood; they had no option.  Even the prophets felt compelled to speak in God’s name.

But in the nazirite, we have a model of sacred status – with increased responsibility – entered into voluntarily, by any man or woman willing to accept the terms of the challenge.  Such voluntarism in accepting responsibility for kidushah, holiness, is a valuable model for our age, when all coercive elements have faded from our Judaism and our participation and commitment are strictly a matter of choice.

Now, I am not advocating for us all to shave our heads and abstain from grape products, but I am saying that we can learn quite a bit from the model of the nazirite.  We can all take our own unique vow this year that will elevate us to a more sacred status.

My friend Rev. Linda Noonan, a UCC pastors, always says, “Never place a period where God has placed a comma.”  This witty aphorism is meant to convey the idea that God still has more to say to us than just that which was written in the Bible.  So too, in Reform Judaism, we believe in a continual process of revelation.  Revelation was not a onetime event at Mt. Sinai but is an act that we engage in every time we come to services, every time we occupy ourselves with the study of Torah, every time we light Shabbat candles or say the Kiddush on Friday night.  Every time we choose to be Jewish, we are re-experiencing revelation.  As Reform Jews, we are modern day nazirites.  When we choose to connect with God, each other and Judaism, we are entering into a sacred vow.

This New Year let us all become nazirites.  Let us engage with our community on new levels and have profound connections with our Rodeph Shalom family.  Let us all be present for each other, ourselves and God because we want to, because we need to and because it is the right thing to do.

There is only one law about how a synagogue needs to be built.  It can have any kind of seating, any kind of ark, a balcony or not.  But it says in the Talmud that a synagogue must have windows.  Why, ask the rabbis?  In order that what we do in here should be reflected in what we do out there.  Everything I have talked about tonight relating to sacred partnerships, obligation and family is not just true of our relationship with God, Judaism and this community; it should inform our relationship with all others, the entire world and our fair city of Philadelphia.

Last Sunday, POWER which stands for Philadelphians Organized to Witness, Empower and Rebuild held its founding convention.  Over 2,000 congregants from over 40 congregations across the city came together along with the Mayor, city councilmen, and business leaders to advocate for change in our city.  This interfaith community organizing group, of which Rodeph Shalom is a founding member, is entirely volunteer run.  But just like those 30,000 Tennesseans who fought with Davy Crocket, those involved with POWER are much more than volunteers, they are modern day nazirites.  They’ve spent time meeting with elected officials and policy analysts, having face-to-face conversation with those in our community mired in poverty because of an obligation that they feel to help their neighbors.  So, this New Year let us all make a sacred vow, let us all become nazirites – not just in our own community but for our entire Philadelphia family.

The great state of Tennessee has their Volunteers.  But perhaps a better word, to fully describe the obligation, holiness and justice rooted in volunteerism, could be the nazirite.  I am not sure if this would have the same ring for the football team – the Tennessee Nazirites, but it does capture the true meaning inherent in Tennessee’s rich history of doing what was right.

Whether it is through community organizing, coming to Friday night services or having meaningful conversations, let us all become modern day nazirites this year.  Let us choose to take upon ourselves the sacred obligation of being partners with God, our city and our synagogue family.

A boat filled with travelers sails in the ocean, when suddenly one passenger begins to drill a hole in the floor.  His fellow passengers plead with him to stop, but the man says, “Mind your own business.  This is my seat, and I can do whatever I want to the floor under it.  Am I telling you what to do?  No.  So why don’t you leave me alone?”

This midrash—this classic Jewish legend– of course, is not about a boat.  It is about how different parts of one entity can make or break the integrity of the whole.   Inspired by this midrash, the 16^th century mystic Isaac Luria imagined that the Jewish community is a body, each of us, a limb.

Take a walk and feel your left arm swing forward as your right leg takes a step.  Injure just your pinky toe and feel your entire leg strain from the physical compensation.  As we move through life, each of our limbs makes a constant and lasting impact on our whole body.

We can see this connectedness at Rodeph Shalom every day.  As we move through congregational life, each limb, each member, has the potential to make a lasting impact on the whole community body.  As limbs of a whole body, we are connected.

This interdependent vision of true community is not easy.  And so, as sociologist Robert Bellah argues, instead of forming communities, people form lifestyle enclaves.  A lifestyle enclave is a group, such as a country club or soccer league that is composed of people with similar backgrounds, ages, political views, interests, even appearances.  What characterizes a lifestyle enclave is homogeneity and independence.  For instance, when families grow out of commercial play-spaces, such as the Please Touch Museum, we move onto the next activity.   It’s not a permanent relationship.   In a community, we share responsibility; we share a past and we share a future.  What differentiates a community from a lifestyle enclave, Bellah explains, is that community commitments run deeper and the diversity of the members is much greater.

Jewish tradition challenges us to move past the enclave in religious life.  Countercultural and yet deeply relevant, Isaac Luria’s image of limbs of the body reminds us that we are bound together, that interdependent community transcends the individual.  This morning, as we confessed our transgressions to God, we recited our prayers in the plural form.  Ashamnu, bagadnu, gazalnu—that suffix “nu” means “we.”  Al chet she’chatanu—for all these we sinned.  We pray in the plural in an effort to support one another.  We also confess in the plural because we live in the same community where we enable sin to exist, even when it is not directly our own.  With the plural voice, we proclaim our shared responsibility and our shared destiny.  As limbs of a whole body, we are connected.

From singing in the Congregational choir, to greeting at the door, to reading Torah, there are many ways for us here to participate in the interdependence of community.  Some of the most profound connections in our congregation occur when we accompany each other through life’s most intense experiences.  Jewish tradition offers a prescription for us to support each limb in our community body.  It comes in the form of the daily prayer, Elu Divarim, which we recited this morning.  The Elu Divarim prayer reads: These are obligations whose worth cannot be measured: honoring one’s father and mother, engaging in deeds of compassion, arriving early for study, dealing graciously with guests, visiting the sick, providing for the wedding couple, accompanying the dead for burial, being devoted in prayer, and making peace among people.  In order to transform a group of people into a true community, Elu Divarim submits, we need to become what synagogues now call a Caring Community.  We need to comfort each other in times of loss, celebrate with each other in times of joy.

Elu Divarim demands action.  You know the bumper sticker that reads “Do random acts of kindness”?  It’s sweet, but it’s not Jewish.  There is nothing random about mitzvot.  We are bound to one another as limbs of a body.  When we comfort the mourner, when we visit the isolated, when we celebrate a wedding blessing, when we reach out and draw one another in, it is with intention.  And I would go so far to say that it is with responsibility.

True, Reform Judaism offers individual choice rather than obligation to Jewish law.  Yet, as Rabbi Freedman taught on Rosh Hashanah, some choices require commitment.  If we choose to have a caring and binding community, rather than just an enclave, then the mitzvot: to comfort, to visit, to celebrate –compel each of us to share the responsibility and to bring ourselves to the whole.  Our congregation is proud of a growing effort whereby members take care of one another with intentional acts of kindness, in our own growing Caring Community network.

Elu Divarim forges a path of what we can bring and what we can receive in order to foster a bond of belonging.  The text teaches us a model for a Caring Community network, in which we touch each other in our most intense life experiences and in our moments of deepest need.

Sometimes, the greatest obstacle to heeding the call of Elu Divarim is the challenge of vulnerability.  Intense life experiences force us to face mortality and to see each other when we are not at our best.

I understand the temptation to separate from others in vulnerable moments.  Last year, I underwent emergency surgery.  It’s behind me now and I’m fine.  But at the time, I looked and felt so fragile that I wanted to hide.  As I know many of you have experienced in your own health challenges: I could barely stay awake.  I could not cough out a sentence much less a conversation.  I did not want anyone to encounter me as weak.  I did not even let Rabbi Kuhn visit me in the hospital.  That was a mistake.  There’s nothing wrong with a little vanity and a little privacy.  But I allowed it to get in the way of connection and support.  Finally, while I recovered at home, I let Rabbi Kuhn, as well as a few others, visit me.  As challenging as it was to set aside some pride, and accept that people would see me at my weakest, not to mention see toys strewn all over the living room and dirty dishes all over the kitchen, the visits pulled me back into a world where I am not alone, and my family is not alone.  I do not live in isolation, nor do the people who reached out to me.  It took me those few days to remember that relationships are more important than privacy and that connections are more healing than isolation.

In order to participate in each other’s lives, we need to open the door and let each other in.  Those of us who need a visit, need company, need presence, are typically not at our best—not at our social best or our physical best or our cognitive best.  We know it and we feel exposed.  We are broken and we do not want to be seen.  Privacy becomes our crutch, isolation, the unintended consequence.

In my work as a rabbi, I am more typically on the other side of the hospital bed, or of the home visit.  I find deep meaning in my visits with congregants who are experiencing loneliness, pain or fear.  Still, as I know many of you have experienced when making visits, sharing company with those experiencing such vulnerability often requires us to confront uncomfortable realities of mortality, of weakness, of diminished capabilities.

The Talmud, a 5^th century Jewish text, instructs: “Be careful to respect an old man who has forgotten his knowledge through no fault of his own.” For it is said, “When the Israelites carried the Torah through the wilderness, both the whole tablets and the fragments of the tablets were placed in the Holy Ark.”

In lifestyle enclaves, we want to be seen as our best.  In our community, we need to be seen, even in our brokenness.  And as we visit others in need, we need to respect them in their brokenness.   Indeed, the fragments, too, were placed in the Holy Ark.

Many members of our congregation have exposed their brokenness and many of you have accompanied others in their times of need.   Last year, a fairly new member who was a regular at our Shabbat services, found that his cancer became more aggressive.  At times, he needed to be hospitalized and eventually he became homebound, in the care of hospice.  His wife spent part of her days at work and part of her days sitting with him.

This couple did not have family living in the area.  Meals were not getting cooked and another night of delivery pizza was not appealing.  When another member of the congregation asked if there was something she could do to help it became clear that a nutritious meal was in order.  One meal turned into a whole schedule and congregants signed up to deliver.  Someone who didn’t cook instead offered rides from the airport for family and friends coming into town to visit their loved one in his last days.

I remember visiting with this sick member in those final days.  Every breath was so labored and he was exhausted enough to pause for rest in between sentences.  And yet, he devoted some of that precious remaining breath to words of gratitude for his community.   He could no longer travel to the synagogue and participate in Shabbat services; but, he appreciated how the synagogue came to him.

Community support could not lengthen his life, but it created a profound connection and transformed the end of his life.  After the man succumbed to his cancer, these congregants attended the funeral and shiva.  Each brought something of himself—a meal, a card, some company.  Each brought something of herself—a ride, a memory, a presence.  As they brought themselves, not only did they comfort the mourners, they saw one another investing in the whole.  To deliver a meal was to feel a part of a greater effort to bring solace.  To offer a ride, was to feel keenly that they did not live in isolation from their congregant’s needs.  To bring their presence was to be uplifted by the reward of touching someone’s life.  And so, these people who were trying to help a congregant found that their own connections to the community deepened.

This group of congregants could not cure cancer.  But they could create profound connections.  We cannot fix each other’s problems, but we can transform each other’s lives.  As limbs of a whole body, we are connected.

So many of you here at Rodeph Shalom are bringing yourselves to important efforts to deepen the profound connections of this community.  You comfort one another in times of sorrow and rejoice together in times of joy.  Right now, our leadership is reimagining and reorganizing our Caring Community network so that its efforts will touch more congregants, especially in this time of congregational growth.  This network will develop our communications system so that your efforts to care for one another are better supported.

Our Caring Community leadership team has chosen to first concentrate on reaching out and visiting our homebound members.  Many of these members have spent their lifetimes engaged at Rodeph Shalom and now find themselves isolated from the community where they once brought so much of themselves.  Some of our b’nei mitzvah students have already taken the lead here, visiting our elderly and listening to the wisdom they share, born out of the experiences of their long lives.  To add to this effort, we will develop our network of visitors and of congregants who can be visited.  Please let me know if you are ready to sign up to visit or if you know a member who should be visited.  We will hold a Caring Community Homebound Visiting orientation on October 25 and I hope you will feel compelled to participate.  I welcome you to flood my inbox with your interest on Monday morning.

These are obligations whose worth cannot be measured: honoring one’s father and mother, engaging in deeds of compassion, arriving early for study, dealing graciously with guests, visiting the sick, providing for the wedding couple, accompanying the dead for burial, being devoted in prayer, and making peace among people.

We share responsibility; we share a past and we share a destiny.   Parts of one entity can make or break the integrity of the whole.  As we move through congregational life, each limb, each member, has the potential to make a lasting impact on the whole community body.

As limbs of a whole body, may we be connected.

Amen.