There Are no Accidents: Don’t Be a Stranger

Kol Nidre 5768/2007

Rabbi Joshua S. Taub

Temple Emanuel

St. Louis, Missouri

There are no accidents in the universe.  You’ve heard me say this before; you’ve read it in my writing.  This isn’t the last time you’ll hear me say it.  There are no accidents in the universe.  I live by this statement, but what does it mean?

To say there are no accidents in the universe means that everything that happens in our lives, everything, has meaning.  It doesn’t mean everything is predetermined; and it doesn’t mean that everything in our lives happens for a reason.  To say there are no accidents in the universe means we don’t live our lives in a vacuum, disconnected from the world.  There are no accidents in the universe means we are deeply interconnected with all that exists.  Our lives are interconnected with people we will never know, events about which we were never aware or will ever be aware.  To say there are no accidents in the universe means that we are not the center of the universe.  Simply put its not about “me;” it’s not about “you.”

In the Book of Deuteronomy we read, “… beware lest your heart grow arrogant and you forget the Lord your God… and you say to yourselves, ’by my own power and the might of my own hand have I won this wealth for me.’” Being successful in life, wildly or modestly, is not the meaning or purpose of our lives.  The purpose of our lives is far greater than our own personal fulfillment, our peace of mind, or even our happiness.  It’s far greater than our families, our careers, or even our wildest dreams and ambitions.  Being successful and fulfilling your life’s purpose are not the same thing. You can reach all your personal goals; become a raving success by the world’s standard and still miss the purpose for which God created you.  Our purpose is found in serving God.

The prophet Micah, a contemporary of Isaiah, suggests well-worn but often unheeded words about living a life directed at serving God.

“I have no use for the things you give to Me says God.  This is what God requires from you: only to do justice and to love goodness and to walk humbly with God; then will your names achieve wisdom.”  [Micah 6:8 – 9]

Our purpose is found in serving God, and serving God manifests itself in serving others. 

In the Talmud, the rabbis spell out 10 behaviors, 10 obligations, 10 paths of service that may help us find meaning in and understand the purpose of our lives.  “These are the obligations without measure whose reward, too, is without measure.”  These are things that Jews do; these are our paths toward meaning and purpose.  We value family.  We value worship. We welcome the stranger.  We take congregational community seriously.  We go out into the community and do acts of righteousness and loving-kindness.  We are committed to religious education for adults and for children.  And we study and we learn so we can know what we are supposed to do and why we are supposed to do it.

I believe there are serious Jews in this congregation and I know that there are Jews who are not serious enough.  Life is short my friends.  Too many of you know that life can change in an instant and can end with no warning at all. It is time to get more serious about being Jews. This evening I want to focus on our obligation to welcome the stranger.  Some recent events have highlighted for me just how much we have lost touch with the heart of the stranger, a heart we should know all too well.

There are strangers in our congregation that we need to do a better job of welcoming.  Each of us has traveled a unique path to get here.  It makes no difference if you are a Jew by chance or a Jew by choice.  It makes no difference your sexual orientation.  It makes no difference if your family situation is single, single-parent, conventional, unconventional or blended.  If you are committed to living a Jewish life, establishing a Jewish home, or perpetuating the Jewish community, you are always welcome in this house of study, worship and assembly.

For those of you who married into the Jewish world, we welcome you and we embrace your decision to join us, to cast your lot with the Jewish people and to learn and experience the beauty of Jewish life.  What an extraordinary way to serve God. May you hear only words of inspiration and support.  If anyone enters this sacred place seeking to be a part of this community and feels unwelcome, we have failed in our obligation.

For too long we have been a congregation of strangers.  I know some of you would be willing to admit it, but let’s be honest; there are many more members that do not know one another than members who do.  We are not so large a congregation that we have to accept this reality.  This is why I endorsed the name tag project.  We claim to be an intimate congregation.  We strive to be a connected community and yet some of us chose to slip in and slip out of this building unnoticed and undetected.  There are no accidents in the universe.  Each of us is meant to be here; the purpose of our lives is experienced here.  Don’t hide, from us or from yourself.  We are all in this together; we shouldn’t be strangers.

In his book, Religious Literacy, Stephen Prothero argues that we need religious literacy in order to be effective citizens.  Religious literacy refers to our ability to understand and use the religious terms, symbols, images, beliefs, practices, scriptures, heroes, themes and stories that are employed in American public life.  In conforming ourselves to American culture, Protestantism and Catholicism and Judaism have become little more than parallel paths up the mountain of the American dream. 

Not only are “the others” in our community strangers, we are strangers to our own Judaism.  In the name of choice and personal autonomy we have accepted and even nurtured our own ignorance and undermined every attempt to acquire basic Jewish knowledge.  Our Jewish illiteracy breeds general religious illiteracy.  Religiously illiterate people can easily confuse service with success; confuse the purpose driven life with the success driven life.  Religious knowledge is the key that unlocks the door to a purpose driven life. 

Success may be about you but life is not about success; life is about purpose and life’s purpose is not about you.  We need to know something about the world’s religions in order to be truly educated, and the first religion on our list must be Judaism.  This isn’t about religious practice; this is about basic religious knowledge.  There are no accidents in the universe; you are here for a reason and you have a purpose.  Don’t be strangers to yourselves and think it is okay.  God doesn’t need strangers, God needs partners.

In closing I want to share a story called, “the rabbis gift.”  It brings home the fact that it is no accident that you are here, and that God needs partners with purpose driven lives. 

There was a famous monastery that had fallen on hard times.  At one time its many buildings were filled with young monks and its big church resounded with singing, but now it was nearly deserted.  People no longer came there to be nourished by prayer and teaching of the monks.  All that remained were handful of old monks shuffling through the cloisters and praising their God with heavy hearts.

On the edge of the old monastery woods, a young rabbi had built a little hut.  He would come there from time to time to fast and pray.  And for as long as he was there, the monks would feel sustained by his prayerful presence.

One day the abbot of the monastery decided to visit the rabbi and open his heart to him.  As he approached the hut, the abbot saw the rabbi standing in the doorway, his arms outstretched in welcome.  The two embraced like long lost brothers and entered the hut together.

Sitting together at a small table, the abbot began to cry.  Soon the two of them sat there like children filling the hut with their sobs.

After the tears had ceased, the rabbi leaned in toward the abbot and said, “You and your brothers are serving God with heavy hearts. You have come to ask a teaching of me.  I will give you this teaching but you can only repeat it once.  After that, no one must say it aloud again.”

The rabbi looked straight at the abbot and said, “The Messiah is among you.”  For a while all was silent.  Then the rabbi said, “Now, you must go.” 

The next morning, the abbot called together his monks and he told them he received a teaching from “the rabbi who walks in the woods,” and that this teaching was never again to be spoken aloud.  Then he looked at each of his brothers and said, “The rabbi said that one of us is the Messiah!”

The monks were startled by this.  “What could it mean?”  Is Brother John the Messiah?  Or Father Matthew?  Or Brother Thomas?  Am I the Messiah?  What could this mean?  They were deeply puzzled by the rabbi’s teaching.

However, as time went by the monks began to treat one another with very special reverence.  They lived and worked together as men who had finally found a purpose in life.  Before long, people were coming from afar and wanted to be nourished by the prayer life and teaching of the monks, while young men were asking, once again, to become part of the community.

By that time, the rabbi no longer walked in the woods.  His hut had fallen into ruins. The old monks however had taken the rabbi’s teaching to heart and continued to be sustained by his prayerful presence.

Ladies and gentlemen, there are no accidents in the universe.  It is no accident I am here; it is no accident that each one of you are here.  It is no accident that this congregation is here and it is no accident that many of you are apart of this sacred community.

We cannot fulfill our purposes in this world if we are strangers to ourselves, strangers to each other, and strangers to who we are.  We cannot serve God if we cannot and do not serve others.

From now until the sun sets at the end of our Day of Atonement consider the possibility that among us is the Messiah; that one of you is the messiah.

May your fast be easy.

And may God’s purpose for you be revealed.

Amen                     Amen

Our Modern Tribe at 60

Yom Kippur Morning 5768/2007

Rabbi Joshua S. Taub

Temple Emanuel

St. Louis, Missouri

Fran Drescher, the actor who created "the Nanny" was asked recently what it means to her to be Jewish.  "It means to be a member of a tribe," she responded, "a very warm blooded tribe, full of life and tenacity and ideals.  And it makes me proud.  It's not always easy.  But what is?"

Being MOT, a "member of the tribe," has serious meaning to many of us.  I would argue that the word tribe, when defined through a Jewish lens means we are a group, a global group with a common story and common experiences.  I think what keeps the tribe in tact is our story.  Until I grew tired of the statement, I always said to my bar mitzvah students “Today you are hammering your link into the chain of Jewish tradition.”  Regardless of how well we know our story, we know we are a part of it.  Even those who consciously and intentionally erase their name from the book and walk away have trouble claiming they are no longer members of the tribe.

Every Yom Kippur, every Yom Kippur, we read the following text from Deuteronomy.  I read it to you just moments ago:

You stand here this day, all of you, before the Lord your God … to enter into the covenant of the Lord your God, which the Lord is concluding with you this day…; to the end that God may establish you this day as God's people and be your God, as promised to you and as sworn to your ancestors Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.  I make this covenant… not with you alone, but with those who are standing here with you this day before the Lord our God and with those who are not with us here this day.  [Deuteronomy 29: 9 -- 15]

Moses spoke these words not at Mount Sinai, not at the beginning of the journey, but at the end of the journey.  The people to whom he spoke were poised to enter the Promised Land.  God was making good on a promise made generations before and at the same time God is entering into a sacred contract with all of the generations to come.  This is our story; we were there in spirit.  It is no accident that our names are inscribed in that book.  This is how we define our tribe: a contract and a promise; a path to live by and a geographical location where that path begins. The people of Israel and the land of Israel are inextricably linked in our tribal story. 

The modern state of Israel represents the Third Commonwealth of our tribe.  It symbolizes the fulfillment of the dreams and prayers of a people who for nearly 2000 years lived and hoped that the path that led us out from Jerusalem would once again lead us back.  Israel is a part of our tribal reality, and in 5768 she will celebrate her 60th year.  On the one hand it is hard to fathom that after all these centuries we as a people could and did re-enter history.  On the other hand, this re-entry into history has come at a cost.

The words of the national anthem of Israel, a poem entitled Hatikvah, "the hope" reflects Israel's definition of herself as the state of the Jewish people or as a Jewish state:

As long as the Jewish spirit is yearning deep in the heart

With eyes turned toward the east, looking toward Zion,

Then our hope -- the 2000 year old hope will not be lost:

To be a free people in our land;

The land of Zion and Jerusalem.

What makes Israel a Jewish state?

• Hebrew is the first official language.
• The Jewish holidays are the official national holidays.
• The state sees itself as responsible for Jews everywhere.
• Jews have preferential treatment in immigration law.
• The Army keeps kosher.

At the same time however, over 20% of the citizens of the State of Israel are not Jewish.

The challenge in Israel today, writes Mark Rosenstein, "There is no ethnically neutral territory.  What is Israeli culture?  What is the context of Israeli identity?  So much of our lives," Rosenstein continues, "are lived in contexts that are separated and defined by ethnicity and language; it often seems impossible to identify any cultural elements that are common to all of Israel’s citizens.  We've been debating "who is a Jew" for years.  But what exactly, is an Israeli?"²

Israel is often referred to as "a messy miracle."  On the one hand, Israel is a world leader in science and technology.  Israel is now home to some world-class athletes.  Israel has redeemed refugees, Jewish and non-Jewish, from all over the world.  Israel has signed peace treaties, and is one of the United States’ most loyal and trusted allies.  Israel is one of the most modern, sophisticated and up-to-date countries in the world.

And yet, Israel is a divided nation.  There are divisions within the Jewish population.  There are divisions between Jewish and non-Jewish populations, particularly with the Arabs and Palestinians.  There are serious divisions between the wealthy and the poor; the Orthodox and the liberal; the religious and the secular.

Israel’s security realities and policies complicate the situation even more.  Israeli author Amos Oz once said that nationalism is a necessary evil for Israel, a tool to be used with wisdom.  Zionism is the Jewish preference for power over weakness and self-pity.  But power is power, and we should never think with our muscles.  Israelis must always be in a position to protect their bodies and their families, but they must also remain committed to being a light unto the nations.

How do we respond to all of this?  Comedian flip Wilson, when asked about his personal faith, described himself as a "Jehovah's bystander."  He said he had been asked on numerous occasions to be a witness for God, but chose to be a bystander instead because "he didn't want to get involved."  Is this an appropriate response for us?  Should we be bystanders in our own story?  That certainly seems to be the response of young Jewish Americans. 

In a study titled: "Beyond Distancing: Young Adult American Jews and Their Alienation from Israel," the major findings are that younger American Jews feel increasingly distant from Israel, and that this trend has been increasing steadily for decades. 

Interestingly however, the overall slide in attachment to or interest in Israel does not mean that young American Jews are less "Jewish."  The study suggests that we are seeing the growing phenomenon of Jews who have no problem saying the Shema, but won’t sing Hatikvah.  Israel is just not as much a part of the picture, and that should concern the greater community, the report warns.

Our tribal story has always rested on a three-legged table: God, Torah and Israel.  Two of these legs are strong enough; the Israel leg is growing weak.  Without the third leg, the table cannot stand.  Without a connection -- real, intellectual and emotional -- without a real tribal connection to Israel, I believe Jewish tribal identity cannot survive in the long run.

It should come as no surprise that the report finds that young Jews’ attachment to Israel increases dramatically when they spend time in Israel.  While 19% of young Jews who have never been to Israel exhibit a "high" level of attachment to the country, the number jumps to 34% after a first trip and 52% after two or more trips to Israel.

The solution is right in front of us.  Trips to Israel matter, more trips are better than fewer, and trips of longer duration have more impact than those of shorter duration.  Taking young American Jews to Israel is a powerful tool in building Jewish identity.  Ask any young Jewish adult who has participated in a summer trip to Israel or a birthright Israel program if the experience had an impact on their Jewish identity and the answer is an emphatic "yes!"  One of our own confirmands said that her experience on the birthright Israel program made all of the heretofore disconnected Jewish pieces in her Jewish life come together.  Religious school, confirmation, Jewish summer camp, Jewish youth group participation ... with one carefully organized trip to Israel, what it meant to be a Jew began to make sense.

Israel is a messy and complicated miracle.  Our tribal story kept the idea of Israel alive for nearly 2000 years with little more than a prayer book and a Bible.  We tried to isolate and separate the reality of Israel from our own experience, but to no avail.  Israel, the people, the story and the land, are a part of who we are and are a part of whatever we shall become.

Rabbi Eric Yoffie, president of the Union for Reform Judaism says:

"Jewish life, I believe, cannot be sustained without Israel at its core.  The Torah spells out for us a way of life and a religious destiny and it also binds us to a land.  And in a world capable of infinite evil, the establishment of Israel restores to a segment of the Jewish people control over its own destiny. With the memory of the Holocaust fresh in our minds, the absence of power is a curse, and the state of Israel has removed that curse by returning power to Jewish hands.

"The religious significance of the Jewish state lies in the fact that it provides a framework in which Torah is to be observed and a holy community is to be created.  [Nearly 60 years] old and located in a hostile neighborhood, Israel until now has focused its attention on saving Jews and ensuring the security of its citizens; yet the day will come, I know, when Israel will not only save Jews but will also save Judaism.  The day will come when the state of Israel will become the classroom of the Diaspora, providing ongoing seminars in Jewish identity and restoring to Jewish life its public dimension and collective pulse.  To be Jewish means not only to support Israel's security concerns but also to join in partnership with the Israelis in strengthening Jewish religious civilization where ever Jews are found."³

We are bound together by a sacred contract and a promise; by a story and a land of origin.  It has become clear to me that whatever our tribal struggles may be, Israel is vital to the future of our existence.  Israel feeds our souls, our imagination and our faith.  And we feed Israel with our faith and our support as she struggles to define herself at the age of 60.

It is no accident that we are here participating in this moment in history.  From this Yom Kippur to the next, may we be blessed with the courage, the passion and the wisdom to be witnesses to history and not bystanders; to be proud members of the tribe and assure our future. 

May God bless us in every way as we set about our task.

Amen            Amen

1. Abigail Pogrebin, The Stars of David: Prominent Jews talks about being Jewish, Broadway Books, New York: 2005, pp181-186.

2. Marc Rosentstein, Galilee Diary: Culture & Identity II, Ten Minutes of Torah: Union for Reform Judaism, www.urj.org, August 22, 2007.

3. Judea & Ruth Pearl, ed., I Am Jewish: Personal Reflection inspired by the last words of Daniel Pearl, Jewish Lights: Vermont, 2004, pp.114 – 117.

Soaring on Coattails

Yom Kippur Yizkor 5768/2007

Rabbi Joshua S. Taub

Temple Emanuel

St. Louis, Missouri

 A poem written by contemporary poet Marge Piercy entitled

“Yom Kippur, Late Afternoon."

Always I visualize great metal gates

hung over the rumpled ocean, char-

coal as thunderstorm clouds

looming in skyscraper pillars.

I feel a rush of all my dead ones

to be remembered, their names

floating in my mind like tattered

ribbons of silk, some bright,

Some of faded, some worn almost

to separate threads.  I try

to touch each gently, trying

to hear lost voices, to see once

again the loved faces.  Sometimes

a friend who died withered, snapped

like a broken twig found under

snow, returns for that moment

full fleshed and gleaming.

I lift each one up to the light

that still streams in, orange rust,

then let go, offering only me

as darkness closes those gates

Marge Piercy understands these moments of Yizkor/memorial at the end of this Day of Atonement.  Having experienced the powerful cleansing force of forgiveness; and preparing to end our daylong journey through fasting and prayer; we witness the closing of the day, and we pause to recall and to visit with loved ones and friends present to us through the gift of memory.

With eyes closed and hearts open by this time of day, we can see their faces, perhaps hear their voices, or perhaps even feel their touch as we remember living life with them.  For some of us those days were fuller days, days when life seemed more complete and less complex.

These loved ones were our partners, our mentors, our guides or our friends.  They knew when to speak and when to keep silent; they knew how to listen and make us feel like we were the only ones that mattered.

For some of us, however, these loved ones were more human and struggled with their human limitations.  Their partnerships were challenging, rigorous, or perhaps even painful.  Guidance and encouragement were lacking; their words or their silence were difficult for us.  Nevertheless, they are woven into the fabric of our lives; above all else, or at an absolute minimum, they gave us life.

Some of our loved ones were our charges, our students, our mentees, our children.  Their departure was out of order, their learning unfinished, their opportunity to blossom, achieve and excel cut short.  They too are woven into the fabric of our lives.  And through the gift of eternal possibility we stand on their shoulders as well.  All of our loved ones, our grandparents, our mothers and fathers, our husbands and wives, our sons and our daughters, our aunts and uncles, our partners, our lovers and our friends, are lights that light up our darkest skies and a lead us through the night and back into the light of day.

I came across a story that expresses the meaning of Yizkor/memorial in a collection of Chasidic Tales of the Holocaust.  The story took place on a cold dark night at the Janowska Road Camp.  In the middle of the night and extremely loud and powerful shout pierced the air; "you are all to evacuate the barracks immediately and report to the vacant lot.  Anyone remaining inside will be shot on the spot!"

Pandemonium broke out in the barracks.  In a panic stricken stampede, the prisoners ran in the direction of the big open field.  Exhausted, trying to catch their breath, they arrived at the edge of two huge pits.  It was then that the inmates realized where they were rushing on that cold dark night.

Once more the cold, healthy voice roared into the night: "each of you dogs who values his miserable life and wants to cling to it, must jump over one of the pits and land on the other side.  Those who miss will get what they rightfully deserve."  Imitating the sound of a machine gun, the voice trailed off into the night followed by a wild coarse laughter.

The prisoners standing at the edge of the pits were skeletons, feverish from disease and starvation, exhausted from slave labor and sleepless nights.  Though the challenge that had been given them was a matter of life and death, they knew that for the S. S. and the Ukrainian guards it was merely another devilish game.

Among the thousands of Jews on that field in Janowska was the Rabbi of Bluzhov, Rabbi Israel Spira.  He was standing with a friend, a free thinker from a large Polish town whom the Rabbi had met in the camp and with whom he had established a close friendship.

"Spira, all of our efforts to jump over the pits are in vain.  We only entertain the Germans and their collaborators.  Let's sit down in the pits and wait for the bullets to end our wretched existence," said the friend to the Rabbi.

"My friend," said the Rabbi, as they were walking in the direction of the pits, "Man must obey the will of God.  If it was decreed from heaven that pits be dug and we be commanded to jump, pits will be dug and jump we must.  And if, God forbid, we fail and fall into the pits, we will reach the World of Truth a second later, after our attempt.  So, my friend, we must jump."

The Rabbi and his friend were nearing the edge of the pits; the pits were rapidly filling up with bodies. The Rabbi glanced down at his feet, the swollen feet of a 53-year-old Jew ridden with starvation and disease.  He looked at his young friend, a skeleton with burning eyes.

As they reached the pits, the Rabbi closed his eyes and commanded a powerful whisper, "we are jumping!"  When they opened their eyes, they found themselves standing on the other side of the pit.

"Spira, we are here, we are here, we are alive!"  The friend repeated over and over again while warm tears streamed from his eyes.  "Spira, for your sake, I am alive; indeed, there must be a God in heaven.  Tell me, Rebbe, how did you do it?"

"I was holding onto my ancestral merit.  I was holding onto the coattails of my father, and my grandfather and my great-grandfather, of blessed memory," said the Rabbi as his eyes searched the black skies above.  "Tell me, my friend, how did you reach the other side of the pits?"

"I was holding on to you," replied the Rabbi's friend.

In the darkest of nights and in the brightest of days we hang onto the coattails of our loved ones as they carry us and escort us through the days of our lives.  At times we hear their voices, at times we see their faces at times we feel their presence and we find ourselves better able to navigate the challenges we face in the special moments we celebrate.

At this time of Yizkor/memorial we remember our grandmothers and grandfathers, our mothers and fathers, our sisters and brothers, our husbands and wives, our sons and our daughters, our partners, our lovers and our friends; the tattered pieces of silk and thread that are permanently woven into the fabric of our lives.  They are with us every day; they bless us with the blessing of their spirit.  And on the coattails of their spirits, they allow us to soar.

May the lives and the memories of every single one of them be a blessing, today and every day. 

Amen            Amen