October 5th: Forgiving Abraham

The following is a transcript of the Sermon given on Rosh Hashanah morning by Austin Zoot at his student pulpit in Kokomo, Indiana.

We just read olne of the most intriguing passages of the Hebrew Bible, the Akedah, or the Binding of Isaac. In this episode, Abraham is told to take Isaac, his son, and sacrifice him before God. So the next day, Abraham gets to work. They journey to Mount Moriah, where Abraham binds Isaac and begins to ritual of sacrifice, only to be stopped by an angel of God, telling him that he has demonstrated his faith and that Isaac is not actually to be sacrificed.

When I was in Sunday school as a child, we discussed this narrative as the ultimate test of faith. Abraham believed so completely in the notion that God would look out for him and for his family that he was willing to do whatever he was asked, regardless of the gravity of the situation. Imagine that for a moment: a man who was willing to sacrifice his only son to a God who had promised him offspring as numerous as the stars.

This level of faith, unyielding and blind faith, seems foreign to many of us. And that’s because it should. A willingness to throw away even one’s own family for a belief in God is something that, today, would seem outrageous, too dramatic to be stomached comfortably. And there is evidence that while God was pleased with Abraham’s faith, God was also disturbed by it. According to the text, this was the last time that Abraham and God conversed, and the divine relationship passed to Isaac from that moment on. God asked Abraham to do something as a test, and seems almost disturbed by Abraham’s willingness to follow through with it.

What are we supposed to do with this? Abraham is our very first patriarch, a figure of honor and respect from which all of Jewish tradition derives. What do we do with a flawed patriarch? How do we come to terms with an individual who we know has flaws, who we know has tendencies of extremism, and yet is supposed to be a role model for us?

First, we are asked to look at what it means to be asked for actions based on faith. During the High Holidays, a time when we talk about who shall live, who shall die, who will be inscribed in the Book of Life, it is easy to say that blind faith is the way to go. Let go of the wheel and let God take over, so to speak. And yet, this story tells us to stop, to reconsider. We are told that, in this instance, Abraham’s willingness to do what is asked of him is acknowledged with a promise for a rich and blessed future, but it also comes with it the departure of God’s connection, a loss of direct communication with the almighty. The Torah is, in essence, warning us about the potential ramifications of what a total and blind commitment to divine decree can lead to if it goes unchecked by reason and understanding of context.

This is especially complicated when we take a look at an earlier story in the Bible. When God tells Abraham that he is about to destroy Sodom and Gomorrah, Abraham argues with God, negotiating exactly how many good people need to be present in the cities in order for God to spare them from destruction. In this case, Abraham isn’t blindly trusting in God’s decree; he is demanding that God do what is right, even if that means being willing to put his own standing as God’s chosen emissary at stake. Why is it that Abraham was so willing to compromise in one narrative, while so singularly focused in another?

We read this text on Rosh Hashanah for a number of reasons. One is to show us what it means to have faith in God’s plan, to know that, as we are about to be inscribed in the book of Life, that there is some notion of faith in what God has assigned to us. Another is the notion of coming to terms with a flawed character in our lives. During the ten days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, we set out to ask forgiveness from those in our lives against whom we have sinned, those who we have hurt and those who we have not fully appreciated. At the same time, we are asked to forgive others, allowing them the full repentance that we ourselves seek in our own work to be better than we were a year ago.

In that regard, Abraham continues to be a role model for us, although in a decidedly different way. Abraham as a flawed character allows us to see what it means to both be the best we can be, as well as to struggle in certain areas. We are able to see Abraham in a moment of faith, doing what God has asked him to do without question and without compromise. That is a huge act of commitment, and a worthy virtue for us to embody. And yet, his unyielding determination, and his refusal in that moment to look thoughtfully at the consequences of the matter show to us the humanity of our ancestors, of our leaders, and to remind us that if Abraham was able to make this kind of mistake, then certainly we, too, may err and make a full return to goodness.

As we begin the ten days of awe, we first are asked to forgive Abraham for his blind faith. We see what it means to believe in God, what it means to be willing to go to great lengths to do what is asked of us, and yet we are forced to come to terms with what happens when we get carried away, when we go too far in our pursuit of our own selfish desires. Once we have started the process with Abraham, we turn our attention to those in our own lives, those far more complicated situations of virtue and sin.

It can be difficult to forgive those in our lives who have made mistakes. We are hurt, we are angry, we are struggling to figure out how to find those values of forgiveness and understanding in ourselves. Sometimes it is loved ones who hurt us. Sometimes, we struggle to forgive ourselves, to let ourselves off the hook for the mistakes we have made. The Torah gives us Abraham as a guide, a model by which we are to understand our own inclination to extreme behavior. If we have it within ourselves to forgive our patriarch for his actions, and still see the virtue in him, then so too must we be able to find within ourselves the values and good intentions that sometimes lead us to misdeeds and mistakes.

Over the next ten days, it is our responsibility to go through our lives and take stock of the moments where we missed the mark. We are meant to improve ourselves as people, to ensure that we learn something from where we messed up, and to find the places where we can improve ourselves the next time around. But I am not a believer in the wrath of God, the notion that humans are inherently sinners. I’m not a believer in T’shuvah as a forced admission of guilt. It is, rather, an opportunity, a chance to look back and discover parts of ourselves that we like, and that we cherish, and to ensure that our misdeeds do not overshadow the good things that we do for ourselves and for the world.

The Torah portion gives us the chance to see this in action. We are able to see what happens when our virtues go to extremes, to see when we go beyond what is healthy in terms of devotion. It helps us to establish the line, to learn where goodness begins and ends. And, as a result, it also teaches us a valuable lesson about what it means to forgive, to overcome character flaws and continue to serve as a role model, as a leader. If we can learn this morning from Abraham, learn to forgive him and to understand him, we have already begun the process of forgiving one another and ourselves.

Shana Tova.

October 4th: Fresh Commitment to Justice

The following is a transcript of the sermon given by Austin Zoot at Temple B'nai Israel in Kokomo, Indiana on Erev Rosh Hashanah.

When I look at the news, I often find myself checking the date. I want to make sure that I’m reading the news for today, not from months ago, and it is getting harder to tell. I feel as though every day I’m finding similar stories, repeated over and over again. Race rioting in Charlotte. A shooting at the University of Illinois. An ISIS motivated attack at a mall in Minnesota. The details change each time, the locations, and, of course, the lives affected. But the ills that plague our country persist, over and over again, a seemingly endless stream of terror and fear, fighting and strife.

I find myself growing frustrated, growing tired of feeling hurt, confused, and sad. Worse, I find myself growing disengaged. I find myself feeling less, resigned to the fact that we continue on, doing exactly what we’ve always done, knowing better than to expect any different results until we are willing to change something.

And the problems in America don’t stop with rioting and murder. We, as a nation, are struggling with anger and resentment that has found a home in the hearts of nearly all Americans. During this, an election year, we are finding more and more hostility about the very basic elements of what it means to be Americans. When, since Abraham Lincoln, have we ever disagreed so profoundly on the direction of our nation? When have we ever struggled so mightily to know who we are and, more importantly, who we want to be? It used to be that it was impolite to talk about politics. Now, it seems we can’t possibly talk about anything else. And we can’t help but be angry, be upset. Last month, when I was in town for Shabbat, we had a text study, during which we discussed the notions of justice, and our role in pursuing it. Within 15 minutes of the discussion, we were discussing politics. You want to know something: I bet it didn’t matter what the Torah portion was that week, what we were using to frame our conversation. We are constantly and profoundly disturbed by what we see going on around us.

And that is because America is at a formative point in our existence as a nation. Racial tensions are, arguably, as bad as they have been since the 1960s, with riots in Charlotte, Baltimore, St. Louis, and many more in just the last two years. Gun violence has turned into a daily occurrence. According to the Religious Action Center in Washington, DC, an average of 30,000 Americans are killed each year killed by gunfire. CNN released a report stating that for every 100 citizens in America, there are 88 guns, and the number of background checks requested per month is on the rise dramatically since 2012. In other words, guns are a major problem in our country, but they are getting more popular, rather than less. And the threat of terror is becoming very real, with many incidences of growing concern, including the New York City bombing earlier this month.

This is, I will admit, not the happiest of starts to a sermon. Luckily for us, a Jewish lens affords us the ability to find some hope.

We, as Jews, are given an opportunity, once a year, to start over, to wipe the slate clean and start again. Rosh Hashanah is the time on our calendar that we are absolved of everything that happened in the past year, and allows us the chance to start again. Our New Year is not like the January 1st secular version, in which we often get two days off to party, then return to the mundane normalcy of daily life. In our version, there is a built-in notion of introspection. In the ten days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, we are expected to take stock of our lives, to make amends for the mistakes we’ve made, and to lay out a plan for how we are to be better people in the world. In that regard, Jews have perfected the notion of a New Year’s resolution.

Our task is to apply that to the world around us. In the book of Isaiah, we read that we are meant to be a “light unto the nations,” serving to guide the world toward a better future. It is our job to use our new beginning to look at our world with fresh eyes, to guide our discussion as a nation and to remind others why these issues are important. We don’t talk about gun violence prevention in terms of statistics, we talk about it in terms of lives we are able to save. We don’t talk about racial tensions in our hopes of returning to a status quo, we do it to ensure that every American, every PERSON has the right to live with respect and integrity. We don’t work to banish terrorism and hate because of fear, but rather in spite of that fear, working to ensure that the values of America are maintained in every corner of our country.

I have been accused of being an idealist when it comes to an individual’s role in making the world a better place. I didn’t come up with that on my own, though. Our tradition teaches us that to save a single life is as if you have saved an entire world, and to destroy a life is to destroy the entire world. We, as Jews, have the opportunity to use Rosh Hashanah, the beginning of our Jewish year, as a launching point, recharging our desire to make the world a better place, and to do so even on the most micro level.

In 37 days, we will be voting for the new leadership of our country. But decisions are made by those who show up. We have the right and the obligation to vote, to have our voices heard in terms of who we wish to represent our best interests. Not only do we get to vote, but we also have the chance, in the next 37 days and well beyond them, to use our voices to make a difference. It can be in a post on social media. It can be through donations of time, money, and attention to political and social activities we find meaningful. It can be through engaging in meaningful dialogue with our friends, family, and coworkers, to ensure that we do not sit idly by and continue to let the challenges that face our nation plague us.

Not all action needs to be political in nature either. Much of our challenge is that we are surrounded by sadness, surrounded by conflict and strife. The simple act of bringing a little joy into the world can go a long way toward making a difference on a communal level. A smile here, a pleasant conversation there. We often forget how profound a difference we can make on others by remembering the humanity in one another, even when we may be going through our own challenges. It costs nothing of us to take a moment to wish someone well, to pause and offer someone some care, and yet it has the power to significantly impact another person’s life.

It is easy to get discouraged by all that is wrong with our world. It is easy to forget what hope feels like. Which is why we take the time to celebrate Rosh Hashanah, to start anew. One of my favorite readings from Mishkan T’filah, our Reform Jewish prayer book, says “Disturb us, O God, and vex us; let not your Shabbat be a day of torpor and slumber; let it be a time to be stirred and spurred to action.”

When we come to Yom Kippur, known as the Great Shabbat, may we also be called once again to action. May we be propelled to make the world a better place. And may we be inspired, rejuvenated to ensure that we may bring fresh eyes and fresh passion to the work that needs to be done for the world.

Shana Tova.

September 29th: Awesome and Full of Dread

“Let us proclaim the sacred power of this day; it is awesome and full of dread.”

These are the words that we read on Rosh Hashanah, marking the ten day period between the Jewish New Year and Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement.

We read a passage that describes God as the Judge and Arbiter, Counsel and Witness. The imagery describes a King, sitting upon a throne, determining “who shall live and who shall die.”

I find this writing both hauntingly beautiful and deeply troubling. There are equal parts safety and helplessness in the notion that God gets to decide our fates in the coming year.

On the one hand, we are taught that, through repentance and good deeds, we have the opportunity to be inscribed in the Book of Life. On another level, though, we are at the mercy of a God who gets to choose our fate, rather than having the chance to create our own way.

Throughout the Rosh Hashanah liturgy, we look at the power God has over our fate. We are confronted by the reality that we are but small pieces in a larger world, with little understanding of how we come to live the experiences we encounter every day. Sometimes this can be comforting, while other times it can lead to a sense of false security.

What I find most difficult, though, is the notion that our actions are pre-determined. Are we to believe that the loved ones we lose from one year to the next are the result of a failure to “make it into the Book”? How do we come to terms with a piece of our faith that is so unsettling?

The reality is that, at the time that this piece was written, we needed a God who would protect, provide, and judge. We believed in these lofty personifications for God, and they brought us comfort, knowing that our actions would lead to good judgement and, hopefully, a promise of another year of life. It also allowed us to rationalize those who we lost, knowing that, for whatever reason, they had been put on the “Who Shall Die” list, rather than the “Who Shall Live” one.

Now, though, we live in a time where faith needs to lead to accountability. We cannot hide behind the false comfort of a God who makes the decisions for us. We must hold ourselves accountable for our choices, and the results of them.

This is not a burden we must bear, but an opportunity to take control of who we are and what we do. We get to use the ten days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur to evaluate our behavior, to think of how we can do better in the coming year. But that betterment needs to be for our own benefit, not as an opportunity to get into the good graces of God.

What, then, is the value in a religious practice such as this that focuses so wholly on an area that we don’t find immediately meaningful?

There is hope to be found in the words from our liturgy. We read, in the Gates of Repentance, “Freely we choose, and what we have chose to become stands in judgement over what we may yet hope to be. In our choices we are not always free. But if only we make the effort to turn, every force of goodness, within and without, will help us, while we live, to escape that death of the heart which leads to sin.”

We have the unique opportunity, as Jews, to evaluate our choices, to make an attempt to be better. Judaism never calls for perfection. Rather, Judaism calls for the pursuit of being better. We want to be better people, find more meaning, seek more happiness. Through our observance of these ten sacred days, we are able to better come closer to the divine presence within each of us. We become just a little more Godly.

Shanah Tovah.