Yom Kippur, 5765, Rabbi Kelman
Yom Kippur
5765
Rabbi Kelman
A Home of Our Own
A Home of Our Own -- that's the slogan we've been using for the last few years as we've all worked to bring our dream of a new building to fulfillment. Well, we're almost there! The folks charged with the construction project indicate that March will be our move-in date. Personally, I'm hoping for just before Pesach! -- so we don't have to kasher the place twice!! Tonight, I want to talk about one word in that slogan -- since we've all been using it so much. The word is 'home' and I want to look at four 'homes' that we each own.
You all know me well enough by now to know that I like to start with a traditional text. But tonight, I'm going to depart from that usual starting place, and instead, begin with what I understand for many of you is another primary 'text' in your lives, particularly at this time of year -- baseball!!
There's a wonderful book that Vicky, the baseball addict in the family, owns. It's called: Baseball Philosophy -- Thinking Outside the Batter's Box -- edited by Eric Bronson. The first chapter is entitled "There's No Place like Home" by Joe Kraus. The concept of "home" in baseball, it turns out, has some valuable lessons for us:
"Home is always wherever the plate is -- it's always in the same spot where you hit -- but there is something arbitrary about even that. You score when you return to where you started, when you manage to get home safely. 'Home' counts only after you leave it and return. It's not so hard to imagine Jerry Seinfeld saying something like: So, why leave! Why not stay at home in the first place and forget about first, second, and third base. The answer, of course, is that "home" doesn't count until you've left it and returned. For that matter, why do we call it "home" at all?... "Home," whether we're talking about baseball, the house where you grew up, or your town or city of residence, is surprisingly difficult to define on its own terms. With your own house, it's the place where other people cannot bother you, the place where you get to apply your own rules or, at least, know the rules that your parents, landlord, or mortgage-lender have made for you. Nobody can interfere with you or even criticize you there.
This evening, I'd like to think with you about 4 "homes": our personal home, the place in which we each dwell; America; Israel; and our new home, our synagogue building. Two caveats: First, a home is wherever you live -- it doesn't matter whether you live alone; you're single, gay, lesbian, three college roommates, friends -- wherever you live, that's your home. Second, we have four homes -- and each home stands in a complementary relationship to the other three. A strong relationship with each of them strengthens the whole. Tonight, I want to focus on the last, but I'd like to say a few words about each of the other three
The first is our personal home. I want to begin by asking a question: if people were to walk into your home, how would they know it's a Jewish home? How long would it take? Many years ago, I directed a program for eighth graders at the Los Angeles Hebrew High School. As part of that program, the kids went to Jewish homes. I asked them when they went into a home, what made it Jewish? So, quite naturally, their focus of attention was on objects -- a mezuzah, a Kiddush cup, a chanukiah, Shabbat candlesticks, artwork, perhaps a shofar. But almost every child who entered these Jewish homes commented on the number of books that were visible. From this they drew the conclusion that learning -- secular and Jewish, was a hallmark of a Jewish home. Since then, I've had a lot of opportunity to reflect on that experience, and have come to the conclusion that that which seemed primary was really secondary, and that which appeared to be secondary was primary. The objects faded from first position; but a home where learning of all kinds was primary, was a Jewish home. And more than even the books, were the relationships between people that were apparent. Since then, I've also understood better the concept of a home as a 'mikdash me'at' -- a miniature sanctuary -- that's how Jewish homes are described -- in comparison to The Temple, the Jewish home was supposed to be a replica. It was to be a sanctuary, a place where one could feel safe. Temple in Hebrew is Mishkan -- the place of sanctuary, of safety -- the place where one could be with others who hold shared values -- where visitors felt welcomed. Pouring a little salt on a piece of bread at the table was a way of catapulting you back into the experience of the offerings at the Temple -- of the experience of being together with one's people, of celebrating with family and community, of participating together in ritual.
America -- our second home. It is the 350th anniversary of Jews in America. 350 years since the first Jews set foot in the new world. America is now home to an estimated 6 million Jews. On November 11, we will have the pleasure of hosting and hearing from Jonathan Sarna -- whose book American Judaism -- A History will undoubtedly become the definitive history of Jews in America. How far we've come in this country. Almost every major university or college now teaches something about Judaism or has a course in the Holocaust or Hebrew or has a major in Jewish studies. The sheer number of Jewish books published each year way outstrips the productivity in the Golden Age of Spain and even, if I'm not mistaken, Israel. Jews are fully involved in the highest echelons of government and business. True, we hear stories about the rise of Anti-Semitism, of having to hire security guards in order to worship. But we have achieved a remarkable degree of safety and freedom in this land of ours and our obligation to vote this November should not be lost on any of us. I consider voting to be our American mitzvah. I know that patriotism is not so stylish three years after 9/11, especially when we are deeply mired in a messy war. It is hard for 60's people and for Berkeley people to speak openly of love of country, but America has been a home for us - a wonderful home. We love it and we need to care for it.
Israel -- our third home. When I say Israel is our home, I don't mean that Israel is a refuge for us if things go sour for us in America. As Americans, we don't experience ourselves as living in exile, in the galut. I mean fully a second home. Every day we search the newspaper for articles about Israel. And every day we weigh in with our opinions about the country we love. We struggle with that love much the same way that families struggle with important issues: arguing and defending positions and behaviors, but knowing, in the end, that we love and care passionately about this place even when we disagree with its government. Israel is a crucial part of the bedrock of our identity and our very being as Jews. Each of us has to find a way to visit if and when we can. We were proud to send a congregational trip last year and I was prouder still when our Board of Directors voted unanimously to encourage such a trip every year. Because of the timing of our move into the new building, we can't provide that opportunity this year. But, individually, try to find a way to visit -- and if not this year, plan for next year. Each of us must find a way to express our connection to this home of ours. Remember the words of Reb Nahman: "Everywhere I go, I'm going to Jerusalem."
And our fourth home: our building on University Avenue. In the story I told earlier of those eight graders as they walked into Jewish homes. I asked them: How do you know this home is Jewish? I want to ask a parallel question: when people walk into our new building, how are they going to know who we are? What we stand for? Or, to put it differently, what exactly is it that we want to be known for? That is the question we, collectively, need to address in the coming months -- before we move into our new facility.
This evening, I'd like to offer some of my thoughts in response to that question and I want to frame my response in terms of our synagogue as our 'home' -- both in theoretical as well as practical terms. I believe that our shul needs to be:
- A home of the spirit
- A home of the intellect
- A home of a kehilla kedosha -- a caring, holy, community
A home of the spirit. Psalm 127:1 says it best: "im Adonai lo yivneh bayit, shav amlu vonav bo - Unless God builds the house, its builders labor in vain on it." A few years ago, on this very evening, I remember being quite cynical about the use of the word 'spirituality' in Judaism -- because I could never quite understand what it meant. I still don't fully understand the word, but I think I understand better the people who use that word. It's about people who are seeking a higher level of being, of consciousness. James Lovelock, the British scientist who developed the Gaia Hypothesis, called spirituality a 'momentary contact with some entity larger and greater than the mind.' That is precisely what the verse in Psalms describes: not the physical building, but a place which can help a person experience something grander than the ordinary. It is a place where the path to that experience may be one of struggle as well as one of calm. It is a place where wrestling with God and God's word as understood by generations who came before us, is what takes place. What defines us, first of all, is that our home is suffused with the presence of the Divine. The verse from our Yom Kippur liturgy sums it up: "ki veyti veit tefillah yikara lechol haamim - My home shall be called a home of Tefillah, of prayer, for all people."
A home of the intellect: Our mission statement is a quote from the Talmud [Shabbat 127a]: "These are the deeds which yield fruit in time to come: honoring parents, doing deeds of lovingkindness; attending the house of study punctually, morning and evening; providing hospitality; visiting the sick; helping the needy bride; attending the dead; probing the meaning of prayer; making peace between one person and another and between husband and wife. And the study of Torah is the most basic of all." Study IS the most basic because it is fundamental to action as well as understanding. I want to make the claim that study is also a form of worship -- perhaps even equal to worship. That's how important it is. To paraphrase what Heschel once said: "When I pray, I talk to God; when I study Torah, God talks to me." When we first began this congregation, 15 years ago, worship and adult study were at our core and this is still the case. And yet, each of us, each year must find an appropriate way to continue to study, to stretch, to grow. Some of you may wish to learn Hebrew; others Talmud, Jewish history, Bible -- whatever it is, find it in our home. And if it's not being offered, we'll try to create a class or a hook you up with a tutor, or a buddy system to make it happen. Talk to Robin Braverman or Michelle Wolfson. We are, and continue to be, a learning community, a home of the intellect.
A home of a kehilla kedosha -- a caring, holy community. One of the first things we did as a congregation was to establish a Chevra Kadisha, a group to provide for all the needs of families who are grieving. This group now numbers more than 60. I was invited to another city recently to talk about our Chevra -- and I realized that people who came to my session there were looking to find out about a new program for their synagogue. I tried to explain to them, that our Chevra Kadisha was not a program -- it was a core value expressing how members of our congregation take care of each other. And part of that core value of how we treat each other is how we welcome others, hachnasat orchim - not only those from outside our community, but those within our community as well. Each and every action that we perform, overtly or covertly, has to say: you are welcome here. We hope you find this to be your home, too. And if you have a family, they're welcome, too. Walking over and shaking hands and greeting someone you don't know takes energy -- but that's exactly what is required. When someone joins, we need to assign a 'buddy', a mentor, who will brings that person or family fully into congregational life; when someone walks into our shul, we need to greet them and help them get situated; when a regular Shabbat morning person hasn't been seen in a while, we need to call; when someone doesn't renew a membership, we need to call and listen and learn. Similarly, when someone is in need, we need to institutionalize the providing of relief; when someone is unemployed, we need to help them find a job; when someone is ill, we need to call and visit -- regardless of whether we know the person or not; when someone needs a minyan to say kaddish, we need to provide it; when someone marries, we need to celebrate with them for 7 days. Etzleynu bashechuna, our neighborhood groups must regain the importance they once had. When we move into our new home, we become owners, not renters -- and it becomes our obligation to put our commitment to social justice into action in our new neighborhood. As members of this congregation, we have the obligation to find a way to make these values live. "Gadol hachnasat orchim mikabalat penei shechinh -- greater is the mitzvah of welcoming guests than that of receiving the face of the Almighty, the Shechinah." For the rabbis to have made such an exaggerated statement, merely expressed the strength with which they held this value. "Gadol hachnasat orchim mikabalat penei shechinah -- greater is the mitzvah of welcoming guests than that of receiving the face of the Almighty, the Shechinah." Through our actions, we can become a holy community, a kehillah kedosha.
- A home of the spirit
- A home of the intellect
- A home of a kehilla kedosha, a caring, holy, distinctive community.
How do we do this?
First, we need to recognize that we are a Shabbat-centered community. At the moment, we are a Saturday-morning-centered community. There is a big difference. I believe that we have to reclaim those 25 hours for ourselves -- and make it possible for members and non-members alike to enter into a Shabbat observance at different times in that day. Our sanctuary in space now needs to also become a sanctuary in time. Friday evenings, Shabbat mornings with study AND tefillah, Shabbat afternoons -- early and late, and well into the evening. The ritual committee, the board and I have begun discussions on this idea, which will open for everyone to be part of shortly. I invite you to be part of the process both in talking about it as well as making it happen.
Second, we need to become a bridge to others -- inside and outside our congregation - first of all by reaffirming our identity as an egalitarian, participatory, empowering, inclusive, and yet Conservative congregation. We've taken great strides to be inclusive. But there is another verse that forces us to stretch. "yehi betcha patuch lerevacha - May your home be open wide." This suggests that our home is not only for ourselves, but it needs to become a place where others in the Jewish community can feel they have a somewhere to go; and where members of the larger Berkeley community can find some form of 'place' and sanctuary as well.
Third, there is a wonderful verse which we all sing and know: "hashiveinu Adonai aleicha venashuva, chadesh yameynu kikedem" -- usually translated as "Help us turn to You, Adonai, and we shall return, Renew our days as of old." That's the usual translation. But Sim Shalom translates the end of the verse differently and, I believe, more accurately: "Renew our lives as in days of old." We can't go back to what we had. This is not a call to repeat what we have done. This is not a call for nostalgia. This is a plea, an urgent plea, to recapture the excitement, the energy that was there at the beginning of this congregation -- and to reinfuse it into our communal life today.
This is not an easy task. The challenges are many. Another lesson from baseball: Listen to the words of Gaston Bachelard: "We need a sense of home in order to understand who we are because our home is 'our first universe'. It is the secure, comfortable place from which we experience the world, either by looking out the window or through our reflections and daydreams on our outside experiences."
Anne Lamott has a wonderful paragraph about in her book, Traveling Mercies. "When she was about seven, her best friend got lost one day. The little girl ran up and down the streets of the big town where they lived, but she couldn't find a single landmark. She was very frightened. Finally a policeman stopped to help her. He put her in the passenger seat of his car, and they drove around until she finally saw her church. She pointed it out to the policeman, and then she told him firmly, 'You could let me out now. This is my church, and I can always find my way home from here.' And that is why, [Lamott continues], I have stayed so close to mine -- because no matter how bad I am feeling, how lost or lonely or frightened, when I see the faces of the people at my church, and hear their tawny voices, I can always find my way home."
"Ashrei yoshvei veytecha -- happy are those who dwell in Your house." That's the other verse we've been using in our campaign. All who are in Your house need to feel safe just to be there and to be able to speak freely and honestly. Our new collective, communal home must be a place where, like one's own residence, you can express views that differ knowing that the value of kevod haberiyot, respect for others, holds -- not that you have to agree with someone else's views, but you must respect the right of that person to hold a divergent view. My colleague, Rabbi Margaret Holub said it well: "I find myself reflecting on how fragile our safety really is. And I'm not talking about terrorism or anti-Semitism. I'm talking about the fears of being shouted down, walked away from without a hello, being mocked or gossiped about, being put down or just not cared for. I'm talking about the fear of chilly looks and clenched teeth, sighs or rolled eyes. ...safety is a kind of a covenant. It is more than civil behavior, though civil behavior is a good beginning. It is a decision. It is intentional regard for the other person's well-being. It is holding that other person in our own circle of concern, so that their fate matters to us. And in a circle of friendship or community this covenant is mutual. For us to be in community together, it still has to matter to us how others are feeling and doing... In Hebrew, when one greets another, the greeting is "ma shelomcha" how is your shalom? Are you feeling whole? Are you at peace with me?"
Four "homes": our personal home, the place in which we each dwell; America; Israel; and our new home, our synagogue building. Each of these presents a personal challenge for us to explore in the coming year. How is each of these our 'home'? In the spring we will have a chanukat habayit, a dedication of our communal home. What will it be for each of you? What will it be for all of us? When someone asks me about our synagogue, what I want Netivot Shalom to be known for: Here's my response: we are
- A home of the spirit
- A home of the intellect
- A home of a kehilla kedosha, a caring, holy, distinctive community.
This is what I want for myself, for you and for the coming generation. I think you do, too. That's myresponse: what's yours?
G'mar hatimah tova.