TBE Bulletin, December 1994

 

An Age-Old Problem (Jewish Week)

The Jewish Week, Novemebr 10, 1994

Of all the fault lines separating Jew from Jew, perhaps no division is more severe and less acknowledged than that lingering holdover from the '60s, the Generation Gap. With all that separates the political right from the left, the world of Orthodoxy from liberal Judaism and the Jews of the diaspora from their Israeli cousins, none of these divisions rips apart Jewish communities from within as the war between the elders and those insolent upstarts.

Most synagogues are relatively homogeneous philosophically and politically, yet most are also multigenerational. And the screaming that goes on at congregational meetings from coast to coast rarely has to do with "those crazy radical Marxists who sit in front of me on the High Holidays"; it's all about "the kids" who show no respect and just can't pray like you're supposed to pray. Or it's about "those old people" who live in a prehistoric world that just doesn't exist anymore and who insist on inflicting it upon a new generation.

More often than not, the first bit of information sought from me by potential new members is the average age of our membership. Once that matter is resolved, only then are other factors considered (does the rabbi juggle, does the kiddush include Entemanns, etc.). Honestly, how many are actually searching for a place that offers an intergenerational ambiance? And at how many intergenerational synagogues do the generations actually interact?

If synagogues are supposed to be the surrogate families of the post-Ozzie and Harriet '90s, then why can't we all just get along, no matter when we happened to be born? We need a new version of CLAL simply to span this apparently insurmountable age gap.The problem goes much deeper than simple intolerance, cutting straight to the root of our continuity crisis. There is a fundamental difference between how older and younger Jews look at the world, especially when it comes to religion. For the pre-boomers, religion is the bastion of stability in a rocky world. But for those weaned on Woodstock, what resonates most is precisely the opposite -- religion as the agent of change.

Each group seeks a different Judaism, each prays to a different God. The elders are comfortable with the Father/King model of divinity, while my generation prefers the brand popularized by the Havurah movement, influenced by Buddhism, kabbalah and neo-chasidism. One group lived through the Holocaust and rebirth of Israel, but never saw the need to crystallize those experiences in its liturgy. The other locates Holocaust-Israel at the core of its Jewish identity, but the ghosts of anti-Semitism are less able to motivate it philanthropically.

The two age groups live in completely different worlds and they come to me seeking things that are diametrically opposed. One wants comfort and security, the other wants challenge and discontinuity; one seeks a priest, the other a prophet. To which group do I tailor my message? How can I be, simultaneously, a balm of consistency to one and a catalyst for change to the next?

These are times of upheaval in institutional Jewish life. The Jewish world is groping for the right formula to confront a new era that is only beginning to take shape. Prayerbooks, which used to need modification every other century or so, now become dated after a decade. The language of approaching God has changed so drastically in recent years that all major movements are redefining themselves with greater frequency than presidential candidates. Change itself has become our primary mode of Jewish expression.

That's why I'm taking this opportunity to appeal to my respected seniors not to hold back the train. Please come aboard. The ride is bumpy, to be sure, and this is not the Judaism you bought into those many years ago. The new books you are praying from might upset you at times; yes, the "valley of the shadow of death" might now be called the "valley of deepest darkness." But it is through that valley that we must walk together.

I appeal for your patience and understanding, you who have been so loyal for so long. There are thousands of lost and lonely souls out there, primarily from my generation, who have never found a home in Judaism, and without at least trying to bring them in the future looks dim indeed.

Join us -- and step aside, too. This country only recently elected its first baby boom president. How many synagogues, federations and other organizations have yet to do so? And "young blood" makes no difference if the ideas are still the ones that have been tried so many times before but are failing so miserably now.

Jewish renewal will be meaningless if it is based on the repudiation of a previous generation, for such activity goes against the grain of our tradition as expressed explicitly in the fifth commandment. It can only work if the older generation buys in. You must not simply tolerate change, you've got to be its chief endorsers, even if it makes you so uncomfortable.

Don't force us to do what Jews have been doing all too often since the days of Abraham: seeking God by leaving their parents in the dust. Please, don't insist only on what makes you most comfortable, please don't bemoan every slight innovation in liturgy, agenda and leadership style. If the Abrahamic route is forced upon your children, we'll never realize our dream of creating a model community where all generations can drink from the same cup.

And whether that "cup runneth over" or our "drink is abundant" (as that upstart newfangled JPS Bible translates it), we'll all be nourished by the same elixir, the fulfillment of our common quest for a renewed and vibrant Judaism to hand down to the next generation -- from which they might drink abundantly and renew again.

It's time for Washington to recognize Jerusalem as capital. (Advocate)

 

In Search Of the Perfect Sermon

The Jewish Week, October 13, 1994

I bumped into Jonah the other day. Jonah and I are old friends, especially when I'm preparing my sermons for the High Holidays. You don't have to be a rabbi to relate to Jonah. Everyone who contemplates a flight from responsibility meets Jonah somewhere along the way.

As I approached the Days of Awe, I was afflicted once again with what some rabbis call "Elulitis," but which for me is an annual, if not daily, re-enactment of Jonah's basic choice -- the path of anonymous, burdensome responsibility or a speedy descent into the abyss.

In 1978, fresh out of college, I chose to become a rabbi. My route was rather elliptical; it was almost a process of elimination that brought me to the seminary. There was no calling, no summons from On High; I was opting into a profession, one like all others, or so I thought.

Yet here I was, on the eve of a new year, about to utter the words that, if done properly, could change hundreds of lives and have a profound effect on my community. Here I was, once again, being drained of every ounce of energy, pouring out my soul in order to save theirs.

As my story unfolds in this column, doubtless there will be ample opportunity to share my more embarrassing moments and mundane frustrations. But for the most part I hope to share the sublime with you, to cut through the trivialities that prevail all too much in relationships and have also come to cheapen my noble profession.

A rabbi can either be irrelevant or of ultimate relevance to people. I choose the latter, even if the burden is so much greater. That means the sermons must stretch toward perfection.

I'm not talking about perfect length. If a sermon is perfect, neither speaker nor listener can recall what day it is, much less the length. The perfect sermon transcends time and it transports the listener far from any place a watch can dare wander (but try to be reasonable and keep this bliss to around a half-hour on the holidays).

When the high priest emerged from the Holy of Holies, I wonder how many Levites looked up at him saying, "Too long, let's cut down on the blood sprinkling next year." We've lost the Temple, but why must we also lose the grandeur of the moment?

I'm not speaking about pace, the placement of jokes, all the techniques we learn and hone. None of this matters if the message isn't there, and the passion behind it. And there has to be a real, honest-to-goodness person, not a mask, behind the passion. I receive tons of sermonic material from worthy organizations prior to the holidays. Most of it goes straight into the trash. If it doesn't come straight from my heart, it will never reach theirs.

The perfect sermon has to leave both sides in a state of exhilarated exhaustion. It's possible for the listener to feel like a participant even as she or he sits in supposed passivity. There is a place for today's trend toward Donahue-style dialogues, but on the Days of Awe nothing can duplicate an old-fashioned sermon if it is done properly.

Finally, to deliver a perfect sermon the rabbi has to love people. There's where I've had my greatest problem in the past.

These are the people, after all, who wake my wife on Sunday mornings with silly phone calls, who spread unfair rumors about me snubbing the "old-timers" or avoiding Uncle Joe at the hospital, or who rag at me for daring to take a position on controversial issues. These are the ones who ensnare me in an ever-tightening net of obligation as they draw ever closer and demand more flesh.

I look out at them some years and understand why Jonah didn't want to save Nineveh. They drain me of all my strength. They can be shallow. They can be callous. They can be cruel.

This year I looked into the mirror and said, "Who am I?" which allowed me then to look out at them and say, "They are human." Then, it was as if we looked at each other and said, "You know, we're not so bad. Let's work on this thing together."

This year, I got it right, and I've done enough clinkers in the past to know the difference. All the sleepless nights (sort of an Elul ritual for me) added up to four nearly timeless and virtually sleepless half hours for the majority of those assembled.

But I wanted more.

Athletes call it the Zone, that place where we all want to be, where every jumper swishes and every fastball looks like a watermelon. For a rabbi, the Zone is entered when you can sense exactly how the congregation will respond to every comment and you then respond instinctively to them. It is a feeling of utter control combined with the funny sensation that you are not really the one doing the speaking, that the words are coming from somewhere deep within you, not from the printed text. Just as a good actor becomes the part, a good rabbi becomes the sermon and a good sermon transcends the rabbi. Somewhere between the first taste of apple in honey and the final Neilah blast, I came as close as I've ever been to becoming the message.

The holy and human intersect when we, like Jonah, come to accept our burdensome destiny. This year, for whatever reason, I not only accepted my magnificent affliction, but I embraced it. And as I enfolded it in the spoken word, I was able to inscribe, in indelible ink, the name of one congregation into the Book of Life.

High Holiday Sermons for 1994: "Tav Shin Nun Hey - A Year for Change"

 Click here to see pdf of these sermons

Trying to reach ancient goals could lead to fulfillment (Advocate)

 

Setting Our Clocks To Jewish Time (Jewish Week - first article)

The Jewish Week, September 8, 1994

How often have we been hearing that familiar refrain lately: "My, the holidays are early this year." Ever since Passover snuck in like a lamb last March, the crescendo has been building. With Rosh HaShanah linked to Labor Day and Chanukah set to begin on Thanksgiving weekend, the cry is sure to continue for another few months, until, mercifully, the month of Adar replicates itself next winter and we get back to normal. Except then, everything will be deemed "late."

With our brains and bodies stuck on the monotonous, relentless tick of secular time, it's natural to wonder if the Jewish holidays ever fall on schedule. But when life sways to the rhythms of the Jewish calendar, the question never arises. For most, the idea of Jewish time has more to do with tardy board meetings than an intricate system of ritual, emotion and instruction affixed to the cycles of nature. The hour has come for Jews to begin living on Jewish time. That venerated goal of Jewish continuity can hardly be served when our peak religious experiences are always being measured in secular seconds. Until we begin thinking of Rosh HaShanah as neither early or late, but right on target -- two months after Tisha b'Av and half a year from Passover -- we're grafting Judaism artificially into a corner of our beings. For Judaism to breathe, it must be lived on its own terms, on its own schedule.

That said, so nu, why is the holiday so early this year?

Since you asked, yes, it's true, Rosh HaShanah hasn't fallen this early on the secular calendar in quite some time; 19 years to be exact. It was 1975 when it last began on Sept. 5, and here's why. The rabbis calculated the lunar month to be 29 days, 12 hours, 44 minutes and 3.33 seconds (and they were less than a half a second off).

The year consists of 12 of those months, or approximately 354 days. With the secular, solar calendar lasting 365 days, the lunar calendar falls 11 days behind the solar -- one each year. The rabbis figured that an additional month should be added seven times in each 19-year cycle in order to keep agricultural festivals in their seasons. Passover must come in the spring and Sukkot in the fall (unless you live in the Southern Hemisphere, but let's not complicate things). The sages actually were a little off in these calculations, or Passover would be celebrated in June. Fortunately, that's one of those problems we can afford to leave to subsequent generations, like the national debt and the identity of Deep Throat.

The extra month is added during the winter of the third, sixth, eighth, 11th, 14th, 17th and 19th years of the cycle. Notice that leap years are usually three years apart, but occasionally two. Since we're now entering the 17th year of the cycle, we've gone nine years since the last two-year interval (years 6 and 8). That means we've had fewer leap years recently, therefore we've been losing more days to the secular calendar. The 17th year always has the earliest Rosh HaShanah, and the ninth year (because it's preceded by the greatest frequency of leap years) the latest. Get it? Sorry you asked?

Now isn't it so much easier just to live on Jewish time rather than trying to understand it? How often do we ask ourselves about the logic of the secular calendar, which has a new year that occurs when nothing at all is changing and new days begin at an arbitrary hour when few are awake to appreciate it? Give me a calendar that asks us to turn inward just as the weather outside is nudging us precisely in that direction, one that expels us from winter's hibernation to the pulsating poetry of "Song of Songs" and the drama of national release, and one that always promises the moon's return to ripeness, no matter how dark things seem.

To those living within the Jewish time frame, this summer's bombardment of Jupiter wasn't just a cosmic peep show; it was serious theological stuff. Why, after all, did it commence on the eve of Tisha b'Av, a day of great reckoning for the world? Next year, when the fast day coincides with the 50th anniversary of Hiroshima, the same questions will be asked again. What does it all mean?

For inhabitants of secular time, the only dilemmas occur when July 4 doesn't create a three-day weekend or Christmas falls on a Sunday. When do they collect garbage? When can they play football? When can we shop?

Speaking of football, the only thing that compares to the rhythm of the Jewish year, with all its rituals and pageantry, is the American sports calendar. As a young boy growing up in the Boston area, fall meant three things: playing football, stuffing those delicious marble cake slices from the synagogue sukkah into my jacket pocket and watching someone other than the Red Sox win the World Series. Spring meant sneaking out of school to attend opening day at Fenway, usually with a matzah sandwich crumbling in my book bag.

But this year, the sports world has upset the rhythm. With baseball on strike, one of the great rituals of autumn might be fortified, one that has always been there. Seasonal rituals don't normally die easily -- they still have May Day parades in Moscow -- because we need them as a constant by which to measure our years. We need the seder table as a gauge of how the family has evolved, to see who is sitting where this year. Our lives spin around these sacred moments. We need the World Series for precisely the same reason. Baseball -- the myth, not the business -- has never changed. The Series has always been there. The Red Sox have always lost. We need that certainty, and now we may not have it.

But not to fear. If we can trade in our bats and balls for lulavs and etrogs, the rhythm of fall can be salvaged, maybe even enhanced. In Judaism, we are all both owners and players. There are no strikes. Our festivals will always be there for us when they are expected, at least for a few thousand years. Betrayed by the gods of baseball, Jews have a chance to return to a different kind of pageantry this year, one with all the sweet smells and cool breezes of an autumn afternoon at the ballpark, complete with a ceremonial circling of the bases -- seven of them on Simchat Torah. And since Sukkot isn't controlled by the TV networks, the festivities don't always drone on past midnight, that random divider of days. They are tied not to the ratings clock but to the miraculous dance of the sun and moon. Sukkot is also cheaper than baseball. A decent lulav set costs $35, much less than a World Series ticket.

It's really not so difficult to convert over to Jewish time. It's not like Celsius or kilometers or changing dollars to shekels. There's a very easy way to integrate the Jewish calendar into the rhythm of your life: Go out and buy one.

When you do, and live by it, something remarkable will begin to happen. Your moods will shift and undulate, responding to events that occurred centuries ago. Holidays will arrive neither early nor late, and each week will flow into Shabbat none too soon.

And what is Jewish continuity but the transmission of the cadences of Jewish life from one generation to the next? I am often asked, will the American Jewish community be around in the next century? To which I respond: Who can predict? The next century is still 46 years away. There is only one thing that is certain. As long as there are any Jews left on this planet, meetings will still begin 15 minutes late.

Query Letter to Gary Rosenblatt, starting my 25 years as a columnist for the New York Jewish Week

 

Politics and ther Pulpit: A Volatile Mix (Forward)

 

Running for the Lord's Pleasure

 

Shelach Lecha Jewish Voice

 

From the Archives: TBE's Bulletin, 30 Years Ago

At the conclusion of each programming year, I used to lay out my "State of the Synagogue" with a focus on religion and education, youth and social (the president would give the financial report).  Here is one from exactly 30 years ago.  You can see some of the dreams we had then and assess how those dreams have withstood the test of time.  To see a clearer pdf of these pages, click here. 

And as a bonus, click here for another bulletin from earlier that same year.  And check out a few pages from that one on the bottom of this page, including a very timely article by a certain 12th grader who is set to become TBE's next president. 

 

The Inclusion of the Matriarchs in the Amida (Bulletin Article)

 

See full packet from 2007 Synaplex session