Rosh Hashanna Sermon, 5785: The Path of Courage
A few weeks ago, Rabbi Jordan and I went on a walk in the woods behind his house to talk through High holidays. I was stoked because it’s an old growth forest and I am a budding mushroom forager, so I was on the lookout for one of the few species I can identify. And I was also excited to be doing this with Jordan who has also been known to forage from time to time, and played a key role in my homesteading journey - he taught me how to bake naturally risen sourdough from a yeast starter, which has since perished due to neglect (would love another one, Jordan!). Our first phone call, during Covid, I was standing in my kitchen, flour and water in hand, a smelly yeasty baby in front of me, with Rabbi Jordan coaching me on how to feed it. From there a lasting friendship was born.
So we’re walking through the forest, chatting about little things like the meaning of this entire year and the destiny of the Jewish people, and ahead of me I see some promising white fungi, which I think are oyster mushrooms, and so I run up the path to a row of oysters sprouting out of the side of a rotting log. But I had never IDed Oysters before, and I wasn’t 100% sure. And if you’re not 100% sure what a mushroom is, do you eat it? No!
But we harvested some anyway, and I figured I could ID them when I got home. And I did get confirmation from an expert, via a photo, that these looked like oysters - but i also found out from google that there is a dangerous look alike that mostly grow sin japan, but can can grow here too, and they eat it in japan in very very rare cases, might kill you. So every time I looked at my oysters and contemplated eating them, it was as if I could see the shadow of my own mortality rising into the ether. A few months ago, I would never pick a mushroom and bring it into my kitchen. But here I was, 99.99% sure these mushrooms were safe, but too scared to risk it, too aware of my own vulnerability.
Because In the early stages of learning, we are more likely to misstep, and more exposed. Growing my knowledge about mushrooms actually made me more vulnerable to harm. This is part of every human journey.
When the first earthling — an androgynous being — is created in the Garden of Eden, G!d separates the earthling into two. And from this separation the first human relationship forms. We meet Adam, who holds a vast inner knowing from which he names every animal — partnered with Eve, who searches for greater wisdom from the natural world, leading her to taste the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge. In the moment that Eve and Adam eat from the tree, they awaken to a new reality. They understand a deeper truth of the world.
But with this truth, comes vulnerability. They now see that they are naked. They are cast from their innocence, from their ignorance, out of the garden and faced with the realities of life and death, of love and hatred, of nurturance and of violence. Tasting the fruit of knowledge is the first act of human bravery.
Bravery because revealing a truth requires a loss. Bravery because the truth can bring pain.
I’ve had many moments in my life that left me reeling with a new reality. When Hilary lost the 2016 election; my first justice trip into the West Bank of Israel; When Roe v Wade was overturned. And when I became a mother. My firstborn needed three surgeries in the first three months of her life, and I was thrust into an absolute vulnerability that many parents come to know. As I sat in the waiting room through each of her surgeries, my control and power fell away, and all that was left was my prayer, the prayers of others, and a single line from psalms I said over and over again:
יְהֹוָ֤ה ׀ פֹּ֘קֵ֤חַ עִוְרִ֗ים יְ֭הֹוָה זֹקֵ֣ף כְּפוּפִ֑ים
The Holy One restores sight to the blind; makes those who are bent stand straight.
Those prayers alone carried me from breath to breath, until my newborn was returned to me. And I realized that I do not control the fate of my children, my most beloved, but rather their lives are beyond me in a way that I cannot grasp but must accept.
When we are pushed to digest a new truth, we have a choice: we can adapt and expand, or we can shut down and reject it. It is only because our ancestors chose the former, that Judaism exists today.
When the Second Temple was destroyed in 70 CE, it shattered an entire way of life. The center of worship, the priestly rituals, the pilgrimage festivals were all gone in an instant. The Jewish people could have despaired and retreated into fractured communities, or assimilated and disappeared as many other ancient peoples did. But instead, the rabbis of the time embraced a radical reimagining of Jewish practice: Temple sacrifices transformed into prayers, study, and acts of loving-kindness, and the synagogue and the home became the hubs of Jewish life. In a moment of devastating loss and an unknown future, our ancestors chose openness to change alongside commitment to community.
Do you remember a moment when your concept of reality was shattered? When you discovered a new truth about the world?
Did you feel pieces of your old world slipping away? Did you feel vulnerable at that moment?
Take a breath and try to recall that experience in your own body.
That feeling - the vulnerability of that moment - is a superpower. Knowing that the flooding and destruction that happened in North Carolina could happen here, that a chlorine plant can just, out of nowhere, explode and dirty the air we breathe - it creates a feeling of vulnerability that is uncomfortable. But this awareness of our interconnectedness and interdependence is what enables us to reach wisdom beyond our current understanding. It is the foundation of every relationship, and of the process of Teshuvah.
Teshuvah is most often translated as repentance and apologizing for our mistakes. But I prefer to translate Teshuvah through its Hebrew root lashuv, which means to return. Teshuvah is a process of returning to a vulnerable state within ourselves. By acknowledging the ways we’ve done wrong, by owning our mistakes and opening ourselves to growth, we repair and invest in all of our relationships.
It is no coincidence that we conclude the season of teshuvah by sitting in the Sukkah, a temporary dwelling where we are vulnerable to the elements of the outdoors. In the Ma’alot community we often seek spiritual connection in nature - and thus are vulnerable to the whims of the weather. But sukkot calls for committing to eight full days of living outdoors - to eat and sleep and pray in the sukkah - to bring you closer to that vulnerable state that allows deeper connection to nature’s wisdom. Who here remembers last Yom Kippur, when it started drizzling during services? We sheltered beneath this pavilion, and magic happened. We became more connected because of our shared vulnerability.
That moment, like the time spent in a sukkah, gifts us with the Jewish practice of embracing uncertainty so that it can unfold into vulnerability. From the beginning of Elul through Simchat Torah, amidst the changing seasons, we watch the sun set and rise, and the moon wax and wane, and liminality invites in the unknown. When we hear the broken blasts of the shofar from the call truah, we acknowledge our own brokenness, our own vulnerability, and in the next breath - tekiyah - we call in wholeness, life and peace.
We ritualize our own vulnerability because Jews, throughout human history, have been one of the most vulnerable people on earth. We’ve been persecuted and exterminated, forced to convert and packed into ghettos, and less than 100 years ago, lost 1 out of every 3 Jews to the holocaust. And so our tradition tries to help us remain open despite fear, despite pain and suffering. And this year has tested us – with the most aggression towards the Jewish people since I was born. We experienced the largest massacre of Jews since the holocaust, a hostage abduction, in a region full of leaders that wish to expel and exterminate all Jews. And since then we’ve watched Israel’s military kill thousands of innocent Palestinians in pursuit of violent terrorists, watched children starve to death in Gaza. It is all so painful to live through. These two horrifying realities frighten us and cause us deep heartache - and for many feel like too much to hold at once.
This has led to polarization within our own community. As Jewish vulnerability increased, the American Jewish community split at the seams. People have been blacklisted and fired from their jobs; congregations have lost members, and families have torn apart. Anger and fear is too often directed inwards.
My uncle David once heard the famous Israeli writer, Etgar Keret tell a story. Etgar tended to get into political conversations with cab drivers - which, if you don’t know, is a classic Israeli quality - and if the conversations got heated, he would ask the driver two questions, which I now will ask to you:
Who do you love most in the world?
Who makes you most angry in the world?
And Etgar would respond: do you notice that everyone you love is personal, and everyone that angers you is on a screen?
Humans are created for intimacy. We are meant to navigate through the trials of life on the foundation of deep relationships. That is what marriage is, what parenthood is, what the covenant of the Jewish people is – that is what it means to be part of a community. To enter into a relationship of intimacy so that loving kindness can guide you through confrontation and growth. So that you see each others goodness and see them b'tzelem elohim - in the image of God. From this foundation, we navigate through disagreement and misunderstanding, we learn from each other and in love, we grow. And as we grow together we strengthen. When we commit to vulnerability together, we become powerful.
This is the kind of community I have always wanted to be a part of. Where people deeply know each other. The philosopher Martin Buber describes two kinds of interactions between people: I-it , when you encounter someone as a means to an end, like you might with a cashier, trying to get your groceries and go. And I-thou , a complete encounter of another’s soul, beholding their humanity and connecting with the divine in them and that flows between you. There are some that say that this in fact is God – what arises between two people who are fully encountering one another, saying “Hineni, here I am.”
This is why we have circles at Ma’alot, that help create spaces of intimate connection and learning, and why this year we held a series of conversations - chatting and noshing in folks' living rooms - to talk about our feelings and questions around topics such as Israel’s right-wing governance, anti-semitism in the American justice world, ways we dehumanize our enemies, and our evolving understanding of our ancestors' hopes and dreams. And to share in our grief, as we did at our community vigil last October. Although there was a diversity of opinion in these spaces, we validated the emotional burdens that each of us brings. We reached toward the truth beyond our ideas, fears, hopes, and our own beautiful messiness.
Our ancestors who innovated the Judaism we live today modeled exhaustive debate within the pages of the Talmud. Disparate voices from the past and the present argue forcefully and rarely reach a consensus. Yet instead of seeing things in black and white, the Talmud invites us to see how opposing arguments are both valuable, even simultaneously true. During one argument between the study halls of Beit Hillel and Beit Shamai, the Bat Kol, a feminine voice of God, declares; eilu v’eilu divrei Elohim chayim, both these and these are words of a living God.
God herselves acknowledges that there can be multiple truths. But in the end, the Talmud sides with Bet Hillel’s opinion. Why? Because Hillel would state the opposing arguments before asserting their own. They listened to those who thought differently and honored their perspective, even as they chose differently. They made themselves vulnerable to the other, because they were committed to a deeper truth.
And this is one of those deeper truths - we depend on the knowing of the other. And in order to open up to one another’s wisdom, we must make ourselves vulnerable. This is how we build our communal power. This is how we grow a community of care and of wisdom.
This summer I flew to Boston for a retreat with a group of young Jewish entrepreneurs in the Beloved Builders network. Each of us, in different ways, are pursuing a new vision of jewish life, and we took turns leading sessions for each other. Halfway through the retreat, a new song emerged for me. It began:
Will you take my hand
And help me understand?
Don't judge me, don't leave me
Just help me understand.
And then a quote from Mishnah Pirke Avot:
Ezehu chacham - who is wise?
Halomed mikol Adam - one who learns from every person.
I was in awe of the deep vulnerability I found in my colleague’s sessions. I felt that I was part of a broader community that shared my passion and values and cared enough to share deep feelings. Many of these entrepreneurs had, like myself, felt outside of Jewish life at some point. But each had stayed open hearted and committed to building the kind of community they could be a part of.
Adam and Eve were separated from one being into two. They ate from the tree so that they could reunite. Because only through vulnerability can we truly connect with another. All you must do is commit to journeying in relationship with the one before you.
I’d like to conclude by singing this song with you - please join in:
Will you take my hand
And help me understand?
Don’t judge me, don’t leave me
Just help me understand.
Please tell me the truth
In words sweet and brutal
Open my eyes, to the lies
And help me understand.
Eze hu chacham? (who is wise?)
Halomed mi’kol adam (one who learns from every person)
I’m not afraid to change
Release the fear and shame
Can you see me? Can you believe?
And help me understand.
There is something new
That I can teach to you
Come, let's transform
Let’s leap together into the unknown.
Eze hu chacham? (who is wise?)
Halomed mi’kol adam. (one who learns from every person)
Come, let's transform
Let’s leap together into the unknown.
Shanah Tovah. May this year bring us closer to wholeness, to understanding, and may we leap together into the unknown. Amen.
