Going Back: Yom Kippur Sermon 2002

Just before Rosh Hashana last year, two young women – Marla Bennett and Amanda Pogany - both of whom were learning at Pardes Yeshiva in Jerusalem, sat down together to look over and learn the famous Unetaneh Tokef prayer. They read and re-read its famous words together: mi yichyeh u-mi yamut – who will live and who will die?; mi v’kitzo u-mi lo v’kitzo – who will die at their predestined time, and who before their time? Of course, for both Marla and Amanda – two young women in their twenties - the text must have been pretty metaphorical – this time of year is all about self-reflection, and developing a consciousness of one’s own mortality is a key part of that process.

This year, however, when Amanda looked again at the Unetaneh Tokef, it was all too real. Her friend Marla, aged just 24, was murdered in the bomb that went off in the Frank Sinatra cafeteria at the Hebrew University a few weeks ago. For her, and for all too many others, mi yichyeh u-mi yamut – who will live and who will die – has taken on an entirely different, and frighteningly real meaning this year.

During the yamim noraim – Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur – we are meant to feel a sense of fear and trepidation about our own futures. Much of the imagery surrounding this time of year pushes us to consider our own frailties, and in light of our immense weaknesses and shortcomings, demands of us that we reflect on our own behaviour and resolve to do teshuva – to return to the ways of God. On Yom Kippur, our life almost depends on it – the imagery of the closing gates during the Neilah service tomorrow as we seek desperately to be entered into the sefer chayim – the book of life – is immensely powerful and deeply awe-inspiring. Today, our task is to take a good long hard look at our selves, and to resolve to do more, to be more in the year to come.

But when I look ahead at the year to come, I cannot but help to feel a sense of anxiety and apprehension about it. The past year has been so full of terror and tragedy that it has become increasingly difficult to see beyond the horrific images that have littered our television screens. Two particular events stand out for me: the horrifying attack on the seder at the Park Hotel in Netanya, in which 29 people were murdered including several survivors of the Shoah; and the more recent attack at the Hebrew University, in which eight people were murdered, including a friend of several people in the community this evening – Marla Bennett. For me, there was something about both of these incidents that was somehow even worse than the countless terror attacks on restaurants and buses. I think it was the fact that these incidents were not simply random terror attacks on innocent civilians; they seemed instead to have much deeper and more insidious motive behind them. In the case of the Hebrew University, it was the notion that this was not just an attack on innocent people, it was an attack on values – on the values of learning, on educational pluralism, on cultural diversity that the university is so well known for. And in the case of the Netanya seder, it felt like an attack on Judaism itself, and the very notion of being able to practice Judaism in freedom, in our own homeland. I’m not sure that it is appropriate to pass comment on the legitimacy of the Palestinian cause, but there is no doubt in my mind that all suicide attacks are the ultimate chilul hashem – the ultimate desecration of God’s name – and they can never, and should never be legitimised in any way, shape or form.

But, however wrong they may be, it seems almost inevitable that we’re not over this stage yet. In spite of the fairly sporadic coverage in the British media recently, incidents are still occurring on a daily basis. Perhaps most disturbingly, a couple of days before Rosh Hashana, the Israeli army intercepted a group of Palestinians attempting to bring a 600kg bomb into Israel. I don’t know a whole lot about bombs, but suffice to say, the controlled blast, when the bomb was detonated, was heard 25 kilometres away. So when I reflect back on all of this and then think ahead to the year to come, I cannot help but feel that we are standing on the edge of an abyss, almost waiting for the next tragedy to unfold. It feels like it is no longer a question of whether it will happen, but rather just a question of when it will happen.

As each one of the tragedies unfolded over the past year, it was difficult not to feel that sickeningly raw sense of shock, bewilderment and outrage that is becoming all-too-familiar. My questions are always the same. What is this? How do we get out of this mess? How can we stop the bloodshed? How can we ensure that Israel survives this wave of unprecedented terror, not to mention the impending threats from Hizballah, Iraq, Syria? Is there anything that can be done? Is there anything that I can do? The lack of vision that seems to exist at the moment is really frightening. Where on earth will we find the strength and courage required to ensure that the names of all those who ought to be inscribed in the Book of Life today, achieve their deepest and most profound wish?

These kinds of questions though, are not simply limited to the realm of Middle Eastern politics. They are also the kind of questions we ask in our personal lives – the kind of questions we often ask in times of personal and individual distress and tragedy. When we become seriously ill, when we lose a parent, a spouse, a sibling, a friend or a child, when our relationships and our marriages break down, we ask: what is this? How do I possibly get beyond this? How can I stop the suffering and the pain? How can I survive this? Is there anything that can be done? Is there anything I can do?

These are also the questions of Yom Kippur. What are we? How do we transform our selves from what we are, to what we ought to be? How do we make the changes we all know we need to make in our lives, to enable us to live the kind of lives we all know that we have the potential to live? How do we become the kind of parents, the kind of spouses, grandparents, siblings, friends that we should be, that, if we genuinely put our minds to it, we could be? Is there anything that can be done? Is there anything that I can do?

In thinking about these questions, I was drawn to the story in Bereishit, in the Book of Genesis, that we read in shul at the very beginning of this ten-day process, on the first day of Rosh Hashana. The story begins after Hagar, Avraham’s concubine, and Yishmael, Hagar and Avraham’s son, have been banished to the desert by Sara, Avraham’s wife. Before long, Hagar and Yishmael find themselves lost in the wilderness of Be’er-sheva without any water. In a state of utter desperation and despair, Hagar places her young son Yishmael in the shade of a bush, in the full knowledge that he will die of thirst there, and then she distances herself from him, so she doesn’t have to witness his suffering. And she sits down, completely resigned to the tragedy that is about to unfold, weeping and wailing, and crying desperately to God.

And then, in the midst of this tragic scene, God hears Yishmael’s weeping and He intervenes, and He calms Hagar down with the reassurance that Yishmael is not about to die. God tells Hagar that Yishmael’s destiny remains unchanged: he is to be the father of a great nation. And then the text relays that “God opened her eyes and she saw a well of water. And she went, and filled the skin with water, and gave to the boy to drink.”

I’m intrigued by this story. I’m intrigued because it’s a story that begins in a desperate place. There’s no hope. Death is imminent. There’s no way out. And yet, just a few pasukim later, just a few verses later, the story has changed to one that is infused with hope, optimism and the possibility of future greatness. It seems to me that this brief story may just have something to teach us about how to transform our own lives from a state of desperation to the possibility of future hope – both on an individual and very personal level, and on a collective, even global level.

Let’s look at the story a little more closely. At the beginning, Hagar is desperate. She is lost. Her son is about to die. She is weeping. There is no hope. Like the Netanya seder, like the Hebrew University cafeteria, like September 11, like those awful moments most of us have experienced in our personal lives at one time or another, it’s almost impossible to see even a glimmer of hope.

How does Hagar respond? She weeps. She wails. She beseeches God. From the text, Yishmael appears to weep too, although his crying is inaudible. So they both genuinely feel their pain and cry out to God. And it seems to me that this is an important part of the story – the tears, the expressions of genuine suffering, the physical and tangible images of pain, and the pleas for help. All of these things are important parts of the process of transformation – having the ability and the opportunity to express the pain that we feel when people are murdered in Israel, or when terror strikes at the heart of America, or when personal tragedies strike at the heart of our own lives, and then articulating our desperation in our prayers and our pleas for help. This appears to be stage one.

But of course the story doesn’t end there. It goes on. Hagar and Yishmael’s suffering is witnessed by God, and Hagar hears God’s voice. “What ails you Hagar? Fear not. For God has heard the voice of the child where he is. Get up, pick up the boy, and hold him in your hand, for I will make him a great nation.”

What’s happening here? For me, the critical factor is that Hagar is being reminded of God’s promise to make Yishmael a great nation. She’s being reminded that her life, that Yishmael’s life was not meant to end like this. She’s being reminded that the future could be different. That the future should be different. That the future will be different. Suddenly, there’s a vision, an alternative scenario, a new possibility. And now the tears dry up, as they often do when we begin to imagine new possibilities, when we begin to imagine new hopes and new dreams. So the second stage of the transformation process then, appears to be to recall the vision. To recall the idea on a collective level that when we think about the State of Israel, we’re not meant to instantly see images in our minds of tragedy, bloodshed and despair, but are rather meant to recall the beauty of the land, the vast achievements of our remarkable State, and the profound values and principles upon which it was built. We’re meant to recall the compelling and inspirational words of David Ben Gurion – that the State of Israel was to “prove itself not by material wealth, not by military might or technical achievement, but by its moral character and human values.” And, on a much more personal and individual level, it’s about reminding ourselves that our lives need not be as they currently are. That, at some point in our lives at least, we had real dreams for ourselves, we had genuine hopes and desires that we would be better people than we know we currently are. Recalling that vision of ourselves – a strong and compelling image of ourselves as the kind of people we ought to be – that’s the next step in the transformation process.

But then the visionary image alone isn’t enough. For Hagar, the vision enables her to see something that has been there all the time, but, in her despair, she has been unable to see thus far. She sees a water well. She sees a way out. She identifies a course of action that might just work. And for us, and for Israel, this too surely becomes a possibility from the moment we remind ourselves of the vision of what we could, of what we should, of what we must become. And the course of action that Hagar identifies is not complicated – all she has to do is get up, go to the well, draw some water, and give it to her son. So, I believe, it could be for Israel if the vision was a little clearer, and certainly so it can be in our own personal lives. The right course of action is often simple and obvious – in our heart of hearts we probably know what we have to do. It’s just that sometimes, even when the solution is staring us squarely in the face, we just can’t seem to take the small step that we know we need to take.

But that is what the fourth and final stage of the process demands of us. It wasn’t enough for Hagar to cry out to God in her despair. It wasn’t enough for her to recall the vision of Yishmael as the father of a great nation. It wasn’t even enough for her to, on the basis of that vision, to determine an appropriate course of action. To genuinely transform her situation, she had to do one more thing – she had to act. She had to actually get up, walk over to the well, draw the water, and give it to Yishmael to drink. And so it is with us. Israel needs to act, and we in our personal lives need to act. Until we do so, we have not completed the process. And yet this is often the hardest part – having the courage to act, when we are almost transfixed in fear by the possible implications of our actions – that’s really tough. Yet if we are to transform our situation, we have to do it. There is no other way.

At the end of the story, Yishmael is not a great nation. Actually, the Torah tells us simply that he grew up, lived in the desert, became a great archer, and got married. But the important thing about the story is that, in just five pasukim, in just five verses, we’ve witnessed a situation being transformed from one that is immersed in utter despair, to one that is infused with a profound sense of possibility. How did it happen? Hagar cried out to God in pain and anguish; Hagar recalled a different vision of an alternative future; on the basis of that vision she identified a course of action; and finally she took the critical steps that needed to be taken.

Put another way, Hagar used three devices that are extremely familiar to us. She prayed to and beseeched God – tefilla. She returned to the path and the vision that God had determined – teshuva. And she gave water to Yishmael to drink – tzedakah. And through these acts, she ma’avirin et ro’a ha-g’zerah - she averted the severity of the decree.

At certain times in our lives we can all feel a sense of fear or desperation, and perhaps more of us feel that at this moment than usual. For some, it may simply be a general sense of fear about the state of our world. For others it may be something small – the apprehensions associated with starting a new school, university, job, or life stage. For others it may be a much deeper sense of desperation – the fear of losing someone close to us, the fear of confronting a serious illness, the fear of a possible relationship or marriage break up. On Yom Kippur, all of these fears come into sharp focus, as we stand here in the presence of God, with all our frailties and weaknesses on display.

But the story of Hagar and Yishmael should remind us that we can transform our own lives. We need to cry and we need to pray. We also need to envision a different future for ourselves – a future in which we are part of a goy kadosh u-mamlechet kohanim – a holy nation and a kingdom of priests – and a future in which we are all, every single one of us, made b’tzelem Elohim – made in the image of God. And we need to identify, on the basis of the power of these revolutionary and visionary ideas, the small things that we can all do in our lives that will make a difference both to ourselves and to others around us. And then we need to act – to perform the type of simple and basic mitzvot that, over the course of time, have the power to change the world.

And perhaps this year, we are even more compelled to change our selves than usual. If we are standing on the brink of yet more destruction and devastation, it is surely even more incumbent upon us, every one of us, to repair our lives. Because if we don’t, who will? Our every deed matters, because our every deed has the potential, in its own small way, to affect change in the world.

I should add one final comment in parentheses. There is clearly something ironic about building a Yom Kippur message around a story about Hagar and Yishmael – two characters traditionally associated with Islam. And yet I do so unashamedly and unapologetically. I do so because the story teaches us both that we can learn from the texts of our own tradition, and that we can learn from individuals outside of our own tradition – even those we might regard as our enemies. Perhaps we can learn most from those who have been afflicted by tragedy. When a friend of Marla Bennett’s introduced herself to Marla’s mother at the funeral in San Diego, her mother, with great warmth in her words, said to her: “Go back to Israel next year. Don’t even think about not going back. Marla would have wanted you to go back. It would be a waste of Marla’s life and everything she stood for if you don’t go back.” If we are to transform our lives this year, we too must go back – to Israel, to Judaism, to our true inner selves – because that is the essence of teshuva – that is the true essence of Yom Kippur.