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Rosh HaShanah 5785/October 3, 2024
Rabbi Daniel Gropper, Community Synagogue of Rye
Hey God? You there? I was wondering if we could have a little heart to heart? I hope so. I mean, isn’t that what we’re all doing here?
I must tell you God that this has been the hardest year of my rabbinate. It’s harder than the aftermath of 9/11 when I felt completely inadequate; harder than 2008 when so many in this congregation were rocked by the economic downturn and even harder than the covid years when we had to pivot and pivot and pivot again. This is harder God because, for the first time in our lives, those I minister to felt something they had never felt before, at least not as Jews in America. What they felt, God - and in many ways still feel - is vulnerable.
So God, on this holy day, this day when it says that heaven and earth are so close they almost kiss, I’m asking that we have a heart to heart. I don’t blame you for what happened on October 7th. I don’t blame you for the hatred and vitriol that boiled over towards Israel the world over. I don’t blame you for all those deaths or that 60 hostages remain in the tunnels of Gaza. No God, I don’t blame you or hold you accountable for this because I honestly don’t think you're omnipotent. That doesn’t mean I’m not angry or frustrated. Maybe, like a parent or a good friend you can just let me vent for a little while. I’m angry that 1200 beautiful souls were murdered, and not just murdered but brutally murdered in such grotesque ways, especially because they were murdered in your name. I hope you are also angry about that. I’m angry that so many Israeli soldiers and so many poor innocent Palestinans have died. I’m frustrated that we still can’t find a way to get the hostages home. I’m angry at how the world has seemed to turn on us, in what feels like an instant - at one moment I felt completely safe in this country as a Jew - now I think about whether or not to wear my Kipa in public. I’m angry that antisemitic tropes are becoming more acceptable in society - from Kanye West, Tucker Carlson and Candace Owens to University professors and former President Donald Trump--who peddle antisemitic statements, anti-zionist ones and insinuations, and get away with it! And as proud as I am of son choosing to make alliyah and join the IDF as a lone soldier - for to do so is an act of valor - I’m angry that it took his lacrosse teammate being murdered at the Nova festival for this long held desire to become real. While I remain inspired by the dozens of Israelis who lept into action to save their fellow countrymen, inspired by what has felt like a world-wide moment of Jewish unity, inspired by our government who has maintained its ironclad commitment to Israel, I am angry at so much of the world who either protested Israel or remained silent. Why hasn’t the rest of the world condemned these heinous acts instead of constantly condemning us?
Sometimes, God, I think that the death of 6,000,000 of our people in the Holocaust bought us 80 years of relative peace and prosperity. It was a dizzying price to pay, to be sure. What did the slaughter of 1200 Israelis bring us? Two weeks of sympathy?
In 1945, in the aftermath of the Shoah, Yiddish poet Jacob Glatstein penned “Without Address,” a poem I’d like to share with you now:
“Lord of the world,
I’m rolling up my sleeves
To argue with You face to face.
Look:
We’re both of us homeless,
Both of us wandering in foreign lands.
Both of us know what exile means.
We’re both proscribed persons,
Doomed to go from door to door
And beg for lodging,
And the world doesn’t want us.
Time was, You were the Almighty;
Now You’re a refugee, like me.
Let’s get together sometime
Over a glass of schnapps
And cry about the world,
Or maybe just laugh about it.”
If Glatstein were writing today, he might pen something like this:
God of my people,I’m rolling up my sleeves
To ask You—what now?
Look: We’re both on edge,
Both of us watching the shadows grow.
I used to feel safe here,
But now my identity marks me,
And I feel their eyes again,
As if I, too, am guilty for simply being.
Once, You were our Guardian,
But now I fear You’ve gone quiet,
As sirens wail and the land we love burns.
Let’s sit down,
You and I, Pour a glass,
And mourn the ones who are gone,
And if we end up trembling together
For what may come next,
Let us comfort each other.
Let us strengthen each other.
For together we can rise. (Daniel Gropper, 2024)
And so God, let’s do this (push up sleeves on robe to show bare forearms, take 2 glasses and pour some good Whiskey into them). Let’s have this drink together. (it’s a bottle of Crown Royal Canadian Whiskey, distilled by Seagram’s & Sons (Jews), “rescued” from my father-in-law’s wine cellar. Tax strip reads “1968,” year of my birth. Feels appropriate for a drink with God, right?) Maybe you’re angry too. The Talmud notes you do get angry for a moment every day and that you pray that your mercy overtakes your anger. But I bet you, like me, are also very sad. Sad for the loss of those 1200 beautiful souls; sad for the loss of the 346 IDF soldiers who would rather be at home with their lovers, their children, their parents; sad too for the deaths of the thousands of Palestinians who only wanted to live and let live, who have lived under the tyranny of Hamas since 2007, who only wanted to make a living, educate their children and go to the beach from time to time; sad because even when the war ends and Gaza is rebuilt, who is to say this won’t happen all over again? I am sure you are crying God, just as so many of us are here.
But there is something deeper, God, that I think needs to be acknowledged here, here on this day when we are told you listen to every whisper, every murmur of the human heart. Many of us are feeling invalidated, isolated, abandoned and often wounded; betrayed by comments or “initiatives” that communicate either blatant antisemitism or or labeled us oppressors and aggressors. Jews and Israelis have received such little acknowledgement from the world--and instead have been painted as having power and privilege. This bias leaves no room to see us as the victims of a heinous act of war. This bias makes us seem undeserving of support.
Something else has shifted God. We once felt a deep sense of security. I am a firm believer that this sense of security came because of Israel’s presence in the world. Israel gave us a confidence, a confidence as Jews that we hadn’t had for millenia. It allowed us to push for what we thought was right, for what we thought and felt we deserved. And lo and behold, despite the age-old antisemitism, this new feeling allowed us to apply, to get admitted and to ultimately feel accepted in places that would have never accepted us decades prior. Now, it feels like someone has jumped off a raft - leaving us feeling off balance and out of sorts. It makes me feel weary God, and let me tell you - as if you don’t experience this all the time with all those things done in your name - it’s hard to live your life if you feel vulnerable.
I know that feeling vulnerable is an outgrowth of fear. I know it’s part of that fight or flight response. But what might I do, God, to help myself? What might I do to help others overcome these feelings of vulnerability, especially those who have only known success and not hardship, who felt they could overcome any challenge, who were told to “man up,” “to tough it out,” to, “put on their big girl pants?” Please God, I’m looking to you for some real advice.
I recall once watching a Ted Talk on vulnerability by Brenee Brown. Brenee has spent her career studying courage, vulnerability, shame and empathy. She sees vulnerability not as a weakness but as a source of courage and connection. As she once said - but you probably already know this God - “Vulnerability is the birthplace of innovation, creativity, and change.” She tells us to embrace our vulnerability, and use it as a catalyst for growth. And here’s what’s amazing God, long before social science discovered both the power of vulnerability and how to turn it to our advantage, you gave us the tools to do this.
When Your Temple was destroyed in 70 CE, we called it the Hurban. Translated as destruction, Hurban is more than the razing of a building. Hurban describes the process leading to exile. But in the wake of that complete loss, in that place of deep vulnerability, we did something remarkable. We leaned into it. We invented the notion of minyan, a quorum, yes, to say certain prayers but really to create spaces where we could be open, honest and vulnerable with other members of the community; spaces where we mattered. We invented mitzvot to help us know how to behave and to give us some spiritual discipline in our lives, as routine helps overcome feelings of vulnerability. And we invented prayer, as an opportunity for self-reflection, where we could share our deepest fears with ourselves, with You and with others. Prayer was never meant to look to you as a cosmic butler. The name we gave to prayer reflects this. We call it t’fillah. It means self-judgment. To do that, to really do that soul work, you have to be willing to get vulnerable, to lean into discomfort.
What Brenee Brown learned in her research is remarkable: The moment we share our anxious or frightened feelings of vulnerability, we actually foster a culture of empathy and understanding. Empathy, Brenee says, is the antidote to shame. And showing empathy to another - instead of telling them to “get over it,” or “it’s not that bad” - actually helps others build resilience. When you name your emotions, you actually gain power over them. When you name your emotions you are able to process them and not feel overwhelmed by them. (Example: Arlene giving her capital campaign speech and her co-chair being afraid of public speaking, this being Naomi’s birthday. What she said and how he responded).
Imagine God, if everyone here opened up about what it means to be Jewish in America right now? What if people could sign up to meet with one another over a drink, a coffee or a nosh to share how they are feeling? No one would be expected to offer suggestions for how to feel better, or even try to fix the other, but each would just listen and offer empathy. Imagine how powerful that would be. It might help alleviate some of those fears. It will remind us God, of something You always say: We are not alone, we are never alone and that together, we will never be broken. God, do you think people would be willing to be vulnerable like that with each other and not only with their therapist?
God, I have to tell you how moved I have been over the past year with the outpouring of positive Jewish identity. Witnessing so many who found and polished and wore those Jewish stars long forgotten; who put on these dog tags; who gave till it felt good and who continue to give generously, both to this synagogue and to other Jewish causes; who went to rallies; who ran and walked for their lives every Sunday; who traveled to Israel to give back and to bear witness. All this strengthened us during this dark year. It gave us something to do. These were such important acts. Did these acts give us hope? I believe so but did they get to the root cause of what concerns us? We are worried God. We need to feel hopeful again. We can feel this way by joining hands, marching together. You said it yourself way back at the beginning when You said, “it is not good for a person to be alone.” I hope that Your people, Our people, will find it within themselves to show up and when they do, to speak with one another from a place of truth and authenticity and vulnerability. I hope they will be empathetic enough to say, “I see you. I hear you. You are not alone.”
OK. God, I hate to say it, but I have to go. We have a shofar service, Aleinu and Kaddish to get to. But if you’d be so kind as to stick with me for one more moment, I’d like to share a story of hope. Who knows God? Maybe it will give you some hope too.
Rabbi David Wolpe, one of America’s most famous rabbis, authors, and former leader of a large conservative synagogue in Los Angeles, is now a visiting scholar at Harvard's Divinity School. Last January, he famously resigned from Harvard's Antisemitism Advisory Group right after former Harvard president Claudine Gay testified before congress. He said he was frustrated with the "evil" ideology that had a "grip" on several of Harvard's students and faculty members.
The next month, Rabbi Wolpe found himself in Florida as a presenter on a panel at the BBYO international convention. At the conclusion of the panel, Wolpe was asked, “What gives you hope?” Rabbi Wolpe said his first instinct was to say, “These 4,000 young Jewish people attending the conference give me hope.” Unfortunately, that’s what the three people preceding him on the panel said. Instead, he said, “I’m in a conversation with my great-great- great-great grandfather, and I say to him, ‘You know, there are anti-Semites causing problems for the Jews at Harvard.’ And he says to me, ‘There are Jews at Harvard?’” “I say to him, ‘Yeah, but they hate Israel.’ And he says, ‘There’s an Israel?’”
Rabbi Wolpe concludes by explaining: “We’re at the crossroads again. But our ancestors would dream of having the problems we have. And that doesn’t mean there aren’t problems, and it doesn’t mean that we don’t have to address them and it doesn’t mean that it’s not crucial and it doesn’t mean that our future in different ways isn’t imperiled. All that may be true. But, boy, look at where we were and look at where we are.” Look where we are God!
In a moment God we are going to blow the shofar. I know you are well acquainted with it. We’ve been blowing the same sound to you for over 4000 years, trying to get your attention, trying to wake you up - trying to wake ourselves up - so that you forgive us, so that we forgive ourselves. Dear God, it has been a hard year yet we are here. We are vulnerable and we are resilient. We’ve been through hard times before and we will get through these hard times together. Please God, hear the sound of the shofar. Forgive our inequities and our sins. Write us in for goodness into the book of life. Let us hear its sound to shake us out of our fear, our anxiety or our malaise - if we are feeling that way. Indeed, may we hear the shofar so that we may embrace our vulnerability, and use it as a catalyst for growth. L’Chayim, Amen, Shana Tova.
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