RH1 5781 - Sermon
Shanah Tovah.
There is a story told of Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte, who, one August evening in the early 1800s, passed by a synagogue while walking through the streets of Paris. He heard the sound of people praying and weeping. Turning to one of his aides, a Jewish officer, the emperor asked, "What's going on in there?" "Tonight is Tisha B'Av," came the reply, "The Jews are mourning the destruction of their holy Temple." Napoleon Bonaparte was dumbfounded. "I pride myself in having one of the world's most sophisticated intelligence networks," he said. "If the Jews' temple was destroyed, surely someone would have told me.” Napoleon asked: “When did this happen?" The officer replied, "Over seventeen hundred years ago." Napoleon stroked his chin for a few moments, and then said, "If the Jews are still crying after so many years, then this must be a religion based in deep beliefs, tradition, and character. I am sure that the Jewish people will endure, and that one day their Temple will be restored.”
My theme for this morning’s D’var Torah is “history.” (And yes, I am aware that I have not yet told you the theme of the whole High Holiday season … patience, my friends.) Today, I want to talk to you about the power of history, of having a communal memory. It is a power that is not merely limited to feeling grounded, rooted, part of something larger and older than oneself, or “merely” cultivating a sense of pride. All of that would be forceful enough. But communal memory can also yield a better understanding and appreciation of the self RIGHT NOW, and may also serve as a catalyst for social change for both the short- and long-term future. How could anyone answer the question, “Do you know who you are?”, without a solid grasp of where you’ve been? In the song “Buffalo Soldier,” Bob Marley sings, “If you know your history, then you’d know where you’re coming from.”
As Jews, we know all this. History is what we do, it’s one of the things we’re particularly good at, and even known for in other circles. 4,000 years yields an awful lot of holidays, commemorations, rituals, traditions, songs, foods, and even jokes. EVERY one of our holidays is deeply connected back to when it started, how it was observed by some priest or rabbi long ago, and when explained, almost inevitably includes our own personal interjections about what my Bubbie or Savta used to do or cook, or how my Saba, Pop-pop, or Zayde would sing some prayer. We know this… but I don’t think we stop and acknowledge often enough the sheer power that it has afforded us - it is the glue that has held us together for millennia, despite some people’s very best efforts to try to tear us apart, outlaw our way of life, or outright annihilate us.
I am a fan of “our” history; whether the “our” is Judaism,my own family, the trials and tribulations of this wonderful congregation, or even the story of the city where Ohev Sholom was born, down the road in Chester, PA. I think the stories are fascinating, spell-binding, and sometimes mystical and otherworldly. But I am also a firm believer in the massive power of owning one’s history, taking pride in it, and using it as an active force - a weapon even - to affect the world around us for good. I find it tragic, and even painful, when I see or hear that someone doesn’t know their own past. I see how people robbed of their own stories are left shipwrecked, unmoored, and battling a constant sense of chaos. As history-experts, we Jews have a duty - I might even go so far as to say a Commandment from God - to share with others the ultimate importance and life-giving nature of having a history.
Our past is so important to me personally, in fact, that I spent the past year crafting a memorial to history and tradition… and I didn’t even realize that’s precisely what I was doing.
I need to pause here to talk to you about the art projects we’ve undertaken together at Ohev Shalom. Many of you are aware of, and some even participated in, the incredible collaborative efforts that have, in the last ten years, yielded a new Ark in our smaller Balin chapel, then a reader’s table to go with that Ark, then the massive undertaking of the Children of Israel Mosaic Art Project, the 14 panels that adorn our Main Sanctuary walls, that over 120 congregants participated in creating. We recently also added a gorgeous stained glass window in the Balin Chapel, in memory of Andrew Spector, and today I will begin to tell you about our brand new additions of the Ark curtain behind me, and the Amud, reader’s table cover that you all, via my iPad, are resting on right now.
I know that you know they took a lot of work to create. But I need you to truly understand, each one took TREMENDOUS effort to envision, fundraise, present to the board of directors, plan out, implement, install, market, teach about, and then retain in our communal memory somehow. Did we NEED these objects? No, I suppose not. We had tables, Arks, and windows that worked… decently enough.
But I would argue, forcefully, that these pieces represent the life-blood of our community. Just as art and music in schools, or museums and libraries in cities, can “seem,” to some people, expendable when budgets must tighten. But it’s dangerous. We eliminate these things at our own peril. Each of the creations that we have brought into the synagogue commemorate something, evoke something else, inspire in yet another way, and uplift our souls in countless additional ways still. (P) But maybe more than all of that, I also need you to know that they are my love-letters to you, my community. We’ve been through so much together, and you’ve stuck by me, as I have endeavored to always stick by you. Thank you.
So this memorial, my latest “letter,” has too many parts to share all of them in one sermon. So I’m going to share aspects of our new artwork with you throughout the holidays (but that’s not my central theme either; I still haven’t told you what that is…). The phenomenal artist, Siona Benjamin, who came to Ohev for a weekend not long before the pandemic (so, I guess, around 150 years ago???), agreed to let me pitch this Ark curtain/Table cover idea to her. The fourteen mosaics around the room represent the children of our ancestor Jacob, as well as the Twelve Tribes of Israel, but one name that was left out entirely, was Joseph. And Joseph played SUCH an integral role in our history; helping Pharaoh and Egypt prepare for a devastating famine, then bringing his own family down to Egypt to survive that famine. Thus, he also set us on the course to be enslaved in Egypt - a terrible thing, of course - but also the very thing that created our foundational story of the Exodus, followed by receiving the Torah at Mount Sinai. None of this would be possible without Joseph. As the gatherer of these tribal ancestors “hanging out” on our walls, it seemed to me wonderfully fitting for his famous Coat of Many Colors to adorn our Main Sanctuary Ark.
The life of Joseph actually occupies the bulk of the Book of Genesis. His story of betrayal, redemption, imprisonment, and rebirth mirrors the plight of our people throughout history. Understanding why he was beloved and hated, relied upon yet mistrusted, a bonafide insider… who would always remain an outsider - can help us understand the essence what it means to be Jewish. All of this, Siona and I tried to capture in this Ark curtain.
I will tell you more about it, and about the Table cover, in future sermons. But for now, I want you to just look at the curtain. In fact, what I really want is for you to Just Be. To exist. Stay in the moment, with me here. You see, that is actually my theme for the holidays. This first sermon is about history, the second will be the present, the third - future, and the fourth… well, you’ll see. In Hebrew, the words “was,” “present,” and “will be,” all come from one root, Lihyot. To Be. Was is Hayah, Present is Hoveh, Will Be is Yihyeh; all reworkings of a single word. At this precarious moment in our community, our country, and indeed the world, we are tempted to spend all our time reminiscing about what was, pre-pandemic, pre-climate disasters, pre-political schisms. Or we gaze longingly into the future; to a vaccine, a new climate agreement... an election. Interestingly, Hebrew doesn’t have a word for “is” or “am.” If you say “I AM walking” in Hebrew, it’s “Ani Holech,” “I walk!” We can use the word “Lihyot” to speak ABOUT being and existing, but there’s no Hebrew word for expressing that sentiment in real time - “I am.” Perhaps that is our work to do, it cannot be fashioned by another; we need to force ourselves, constantly, to exist in the present moment. To say - quoting a past High Holiday theme of mine - “Hineini,” “Here I am.” Right now.
Now, owning your history - individually, communally, collectively - is complex. It is NOT simple. If you turn your dedication into full-on worshipping your history, it can consume you. You become immobilized by it, and desperately try to move backwards, which is absolutely, positively impossible. But if you become TOO confident in your ownership, you may lose your humility, and you reshape, reconfigure, and mould what you still call “history” into whatever you want it to be, and then inevitably use it as a sledgehammer to beat others over the head with. This is NOT easy. But without history, we are like castaways, or like survivors of some horrific destruction. You want to see what that looks like? Read the Book of Lamentations. It is like you have no oxygen, and you’re left gasping for something to sustain you.
And you know where else you can look? This is hard to do, but we must witness the racial reckoning in this country through our Jewish lens. Imagine if our enslaved ancestors in Egypt were robbed of all the stories of what had come before? No Abraham, Isaac, or Jacob… no Joseph or his beautiful coat. Wandering off into the desert, what would freedom have possibly meant, if we didn’t have a destination in our mind’s eye, based on ancient texts, rooted in a land that we knew - with every fiber of our being - was out there, AND had been promised to our ancestors? Or fast-forward to the Babylonian exile, after the First Temple was destroyed. What if the Babylonians had set about systematically eradicating all memory of where we’d come from, what happened there, and who we had been… and they were successful? When the Persians defeated the Babylonians and set us free, where would we go? What would we do? Thankfully, we looked to our prophets, our books… and our history to lead us home.
This isn’t my one sermon on race. For better or worse, this is going to come up again and again. Because how we interact with the world, and especially how we treat those less fortunate than us, who have suffered similar fates to ours, is fundamental to who we are as Jews. Think about what I just said about our ancestors in Egypt and in Babylonia, and what it was that saved us, that allowed us to survive and THRIVE after escaping that trauma. Hold onto that, as I read to you a quote from an article from 1962. This was written by a woman named Rhobena A. Nelson for a publication called “Negro History Bulletin,” and the title of the article was “The Stolen Identity of the So-Called American Negro.”
Ms. Nelson writes: “ ‘Know thyself,’ two words with which the so-called American Negro must acquaint himself in order to find the real meaning for his very existence. Why is this necessary? For this very reason: He must regain his national identity, an identity stolen from him for some three hundred years. (Pause) The importance of an identity to a people is unlimited in its aspects. We find that we, as a Negro race, know less about ourselves than we are taught of other races. This in itself is detrimental to us. One can have no pride of self, unless one knows his heritage. One must become educated in his heritage in its true sense; look at it, be critical of it, tear it apart, and be able to record it intelligently.”
Folks, friends, family, dear congregants, and everyone watching and listening over zoom; this should make you feel like crying. “One can have no pride of self, unless one knows his heritage.” As Bob Marley said, “If you know your history, then you’d know where you’re coming from.” We know this to be true. We would not be here were it not for our history. It literally saved us. The cries today of “Black Lives Matter,” “Speak Her Name,” and “I Can’t Breathe,” they are actually all about an identity and a story that has systematically, and by design, been erased. Rhobena Nelson’s article explains how this happened, and it is ugly. I am sorry, but this is where I say that we need to bear witness to the stark and terrifying reality of why African-American history is missing. Nelson states: “Most of the slaves after reproducing were killed, and the story of their true heritage died with them. However, some of the slaves that were not murdered were here to tell of their heritage. This to the white man was detrimental. Laws were then set up. ‘They were especially forbidden to hold meetings or to teach one another to read or write.’ “ I know that’s hard to hear. But how can we look away? Not now. And you and I both know, we’ve been there! For 4,000 years, enemies have tried to erase our story, burn our Talmud, forbid us from teaching our children, ban our Kosher laws and restrict our ability to perform circumcisions. Not to mention all the atrocities done to our spirits and our bodies.
Two hundred years ago, a world-famous emperor, conqueror of many nations, walked by a synagogue and was awed by our ability to STILL cry over a destruction that had taken place 1,800 years prior. Napoleon understood, right then and there, that owning and retelling one’s history doesn’t just give you confidence and courage, it gives you a reason to live, something precious to pass along, and it can make you immortal. … or maybe that story never really happened. It could just be a made-up myth. But Napoleon is gone, and can’t dispute it, while that story remains, and has become solidified in our history. That, folks, is power.
We are not done here. I’ll conclude my sermon for today. But we will yet speak about being mindful of Hoveh, what is today, and clear-eyed about Yihyeh, what will be in the future. When you look at this Ark curtain, this table cover, and all the other artwork we’ve produced together, I hope you marvel in its beauty, share it with friends and family with tremendous pride, and also remember that it is meant to honor our history as a people and a community. And if you see all of that, and understand how vital and life-giving our history has been to us as a people for millennia, I hope and pray... and I implore you to make our story one that can benefit others, help someone else find their grounding, and bring us all together to fight, side by side, for a better shared future. THAT would surely be history worth passing on for generations to come.
Shanah Tovah.
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