Yesterday, I spoke of the unique “value added” that derives from being a community that shares experiences, history, rituals, and ideals. The intimate bonds which unite us empower us to achieve the high purpose of Jewish existence.
But what, exactly, is that purpose?
For me, the answer to that question was literally writ large on the streets of Manhattan. I was headed toward a doctor’s appointment. It was a beautiful day, or, at least, it looked like one. It was the kind of day when the great vibrancy of the city seemed to glow in the air, where you could almost feel the pulse of the vast multitude whose lives were intertwined like millions of cells in a massive body. I was in Manhattan that day for a reason. Sparing you the gory details, the doctors had found something that wasn’t supposed to be there. And that something could have been very, very bad. Very bad. As in, as bad as it gets.
On my way to the doctor’s office, on the day that I would find out exactly what I was facing—they insisted they had to talk with me face to face—I saw a message spray painted on to the sidewalk. It asked, “Is this the life we want?”
“Is this the life we want?” Well, yes and no. Yes, desperately yes, because facing what I was facing, this life was a lot better than the alternative. I’ll take it.
But then again, no. Because faced with the possibility of my life coming to an end, I had to reckon with the degree to which it had hardly begun. What was the legacy I would leave my children? It would be bad enough to be deficient in years. It would be worse still, adding insult to injury, to be deficient morally and spiritually as well. So I resolved at that very moment that if granted the years, I would devote myself, far more than ever before, to the improvement of my character.
As luck would have it—actually, it has nothing to do with luck, just like seeing the message that day had nothing to do with luck—Judaism is uniquely suited to address moral and spiritual deficiency. In fact, as my teacher Alan Morinis writes, “The central concern of Judaism is that you and I accomplish a personal spiritual transformation in our lifetimes.” Let me say that again: “The central concern of Judaism is that you and I accomplish a personal spiritual transformation in our lifetimes.”
You can be forgiven if you didn’t know that. To some great extent, until recently, I didn’t know it either. The reason is not hard to find. As Morinis writes,
“That core intention,” of personal spiritual transformation “can be lost in the welter of rituals, festivals, liturgy, and other performative aspects of the tradition. It becomes even less visible when buried under the weight of buildings, institutions, campaigns, and political struggles that are, for some, the face if not the totality of the Jewish world. But the fact remains that, at its core, the driving concern of Judaism is personal spiritual transformation.”
It isn’t perfectly clear to me whether Morinis is writing for actively engaged Jews, who are so caught up with legitimate institutional concerns, running from committee meeting to committee meeting, that they forget about their own spiritual life; or for people actively seeking a rich spiritual life but don’t see evidence of it in Judaism, and don’t bother to engage beyond the occasional bar mitzvah and a Philip Roth novel.
No matter where we stand on that spectrum, we in this room today sense that Morinis is right about the centrality of spiritual transformation. We know it instinctually, but often not consciously. The proof that we know it is the fact that we are here, today. Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are for us the “high” holy days, the must-go sacred times, distinguished from other sacred times, like Passover and Shavuot, as important they are. Obviously, these High Holy Days, with their long and complex and in certain ways unwieldy liturgies, would not seem likely candidates for “holiday most likely to succeed” in the yearbook. But here we are. All of us. Together.
And it is no coincidence that these are the days where personal spiritual transformation is the central focus. Our conscious minds may not be aware of that need. Our unconscious mind is absolutely begging for it. Part of that transformation is, of course, grappling with the sins and failures of our past. But another part, a crucial and neglected part, is the renewal of our life-affirming spirit. In a word, growth. In two words, spiritual growth. Ultimately, today is not about the past, it’s about the future. It’s about shaping the future based on our insights about the past.
We know this instinctually, but not necessarily consciously. Ask a hundred Jews what Jewish life is all about, and you’ll get lots of answers—having a good sense of humor, remembering the Holocaust, fighting anti-Semitism, espousing the appropriate liberal causes, supporting Israel, following Jewish law, and, of course, “eating Jewish”. It’s not clear that personal spiritual transformation would even be on the list.
And sociologically speaking, the desire for assimilation and integration in American life, as well as materialism and the valorization of affluence, crowd out almost completely the systematic development of a rich, constantly changing and growing internal spiritual life. Simply put: having it all gets in the way of having meaning.
In this context, these High Holy Days are a wake up call, a shofar blast, to remind us of the life we have neglected. We read today of the Akedah, the binding of Isaac, the greatest of the trials that our father Abraham faced. How interesting that we start the new year with a reminder that life is a series of trials. In fact, Rabbi Moshe Chayim Luzzato, a great kabbalist, suggested that every single day, G-d issues each one of us a different challenge. It could involve any aspect of our life, any aspect of our character. It could be a call to control our anger, or overcome our fear. It could be an urge to come closer to our friends or to face evil squarely. It could be a test of our ability to respect each of G-d‘s creatures or a call to listen more actively to the people we love the most. The list is as varied as the human experience, and Judaism has a great deal to teach about every single one of these qualities of character. The success or failure of any given day—the degree to which we really live a life, rather than stumbling blindly through it—is measured by how well we respond to that challenge.
For me, it took the threat of death—a threat which, thank G-d, turned out to be nothing that mattered—to shake me out of my spiritual lethargy. Who knew that that, too, could be a gift from G-d? I can be pretty thick when it comes to these things. I’m a slow learner. My wish today is that it shouldn’t take as much for you.
Judaism offers unique opportunities for spiritual growth. There is a vast array of Jewish concepts that are fundamentally untranslatable—like tzedakah, for example, which definitely does not mean charity (a free will gift of the heart) but instead an act of righteousness, a mandated act of support for the community. Judaism tells us at one and the same time to be a light unto the nations (or lagoim) and to surely correct your neighbor (hochiach tochiach). All religions have some array of commandments their followers are meant to obey. But only Judaism has the distinctive array of 613 mitzvot, with their utterly unparalleled internal dynamic. Judaism has its own concept of the relationship between body and soul—giving the body equal weight, something without comparison in the ancient world. The list goes on an on. When it comes to Judaism’s unique and incomparable gifts, we could talk about it all year long. In fact, we should talk about it all year long!
And when we focus in on the centrality of spiritual striving in Judaism, suddenly things all make sense. The meaning of our institutions becomes clear. The meaning of this institution becomes clear. We are meant to reinforce each other, to support each other in our respective searches. Our check-in-times are our rituals, our festivals, our Torah study, in this building and anywhere our congregational family gathers.
The Talmud tells a bizarre story about Rav Hammina Zuti, who was asked to sing a song at a wedding feast. The song he sang had the words, “Woe! We are dying! Woe! We are dying.” Obviously, Rav Hammina was not the life of the party. The baal mussar, the rabbinic ethical master, the Alter of Kelm explained this peculiar choice. This song, the Alter explained, was a reminder of our mortality. It was meant as a challenge to the bride and the groom, to enhance daily the depth of their simcha while they had the chance.
We are indeed dying. Slowly, hopefully, in a natural and unremarkable way, and after a meaningful life. But dying we are, and we will be dead, presumably, for a long time. In the meantime, let us live, and let us live a life of the moral and spiritual quality to which, Judaism, our Judaism, uniquely among the world’s cultures, can raise us.
Ken yehi ratzon.