Rosh Hashanah 5782 (2021) - Second Day Sermon

RH2 5782 - Main Sermon

Shanah Tovah! 

I wonder if some people in the congregation were surprised when they first heard that our Scroll of Resilience, written about the miraculous journey of our Holocaust Scroll from the town of Lostice in Czechoslovakia to Wallingford, PA, was called “MEGILLAT Lostice”? Why Megillah? Isn’t there already another book called “The Megillah” And don’t we have expressions like “the whole Megillah,” meaning “everything,” that would make it particularly ironic to then write a totally *separate* Megillah? I said people were perhaps surprised, but maybe they - or you - were more accurately confused… and maybe a little suspicious.

Who writes a new Megillah anyway? Is that even allowed?? Ok, so allow me to explain. First of all, the word “Megillah” just means “scroll,” and there are officially five Megillot in the Tanach, the Jewish Bible: Ecclesiastes, Song of Songs, Ruth, Lamentations, and - most familiarly - the Book of Esther. Esther is of course the one that has come to be known as THE Megillah, which we read aloud on Purim and boo every time we hear Haman’s name. However, there is yet another Jewish concept, mainly established in the Middle Ages, that involves repurposing the word “Megillah.” And that is going to be the focus of my sermon here this morning. 

Going back as far as the 2nd century of the common era, we have historical examples of authors writing OTHER Megillot. The first such example is Megillat Antiochus a.k.a. Megillat Hashmonai, which was written to commemorate the story of Chanukah. Italian and Yemenite Jewish communities would read the scroll aloud - almost exactly as we do with Megillat Esther on Purim - for centuries… even some still do to this day! 

Subsequent to that, there are actually an impressive number of accounts - over the course of centuries and ALL around the world - of Jewish communities writing much more unique and unexpected forms of Megillot. The formula essentially goes like this: The Jewish community of a town or city is threatened with major violence, a conspiracy or plot, a natural disaster, or some other calamity. Miraculously, the crisis is averted, or at least mitigated, and in celebration of their survival, the rabbi or leader of the community would write or commission a scroll as a record of their salvation.

A few quick examples: The Purim of Narbonne, France, from 1236, involved the averting of a deadly riot. Purim Saragossa, Spain, 1380, the Jews were able to disprove slanderous accusations against them. Purim Cairo, Egypt, 1524, kidnapped Jews were released. Purim de Los Lodrones (Purim of the Bandits), Gumeldjina, Ottoman Empire, 1786, accusations of disloyalty. Purim Burghul, Tripoli, Libya, 1795, an anti-Semitic reign of terror abruptly ended. Others took place in Hebron and Tiberias in Israel, and still more commemorated communities surviving earthquakes, fires, and of course, the infamous blood libels of having killed Christian children. Additionally, there was a whole tradition of Family Purim celebrations, where a wealthy or revered community member would write a Megillah of his (not shockingly, these were all men…) escape from prison or other averted calamities. There are records from the 1600s and 1700s, from Poland, Czechoslovakia, and Bohemia, of several such family Purim celebrations.

It’s almost intriguing how common these were, for us to then have so little awareness of them today! What captured my interest and fascination about these communal and personal holidays, was how much they personalized the Jewish experience. As rabbis and educators, we work hard to try and make Judaism feel relevant and current, to show how our Tradition doesn’t just speak of ancient matters, but addresses what each of us is going through right now, today. These private Purims, with their individual Megillot, demonstrate how one can - even now! - use the vehicle of Judaism, the practices, trappings, and traditions of millennia of our ancestors, and channel them into something deeply personal, current, and meaningful. 

As you can probably tell, I’m a big fan of this practice. I never had a chance to implement it myself… until I learned the incredible story of our Holocaust Scroll, and how it was transported from Lostice to Prague to London to Wallingford, in a series of incredible stages along a most improbable journey. Now, there is a very serious pitfall that we risk falling into. Some of you might be teetering on the edge already. Yes, I told you about an interesting and unfamiliar Jewish practice of ritualizing personal history… but you may have gotten stuck on my rattling off riots, pogroms, kidnapping, blood libels, slander, and violent persecution after violent persecution. How depressing! 

But I want to strongly emphasize that it is a pitfall, a hurdle, a stumbling block, and even a distraction. You may know by now that my theme for this year’s High Holiday sermons is “resilience.” And what I’m about to say is going to be a central message of mine regarding building resilience in the face of all that has befallen us, both over the centuries as Jews… and even in the last couple of years, enduring the pandemic and climate change. We COULD focus on the very upsetting aspects of either our history or our current predicaments… or we can choose to celebrate our perseverance and endurance.

It isn’t just me saying this, by the way. I take my inspiration from perhaps the preeminent Jewish historian of the 20th century, Salo Baron. In 1963, Baron published a paper entitled “Newer Emphases in Jewish History,” where he presented what became known as his “Lachrymose Conception of Jewish History.” Lachrymose, meaning tearful or mournful. Baron’s contention is also the primary message of my sermon to you here today: “Jewish history is not to be seen simply as a series of persecutions, which determined its nature and its course, but rather as a process of ongoing engagement between the Jews and their surroundings.” In other words, when we look at our history and see all that we endured and survived, let’s actually talk about and praise how we endured and survived!

Let’s apply this notion to our Holocaust Scroll. 1,500 Torahs were saved from Czechoslovakia; the majority of which now live in Jewish communities around the world. Why are we calling them “Holocaust Scrolls”? Yes, of course, it’s because of what they were subjected to, and the main reason why they now live OUTSIDE the Czech Republic. But we are doing a great disservice to our history and ourselves, when we permit our hearts and minds to descend into this lachrymose conception. We are defining the scrolls by the worst thing that ever happened to them, and to their original owners.

We do this to Jewish history a lot! If I reference the Jewish communities of Europe around the year 1000 or 1100, you might envision how they were decimated by the crusades. Spain in the 1400s, you likely think of Inquisition and Expulsion. I say Russian Jews in the 1800s, pogroms. And of course, German Jews, murdered by Nazis. 

Now, of course we ALSO need to know our history of woe and oppression. We must study it, and then educate our children as well as our neighbors, so that we may learn from our history and not doom ourselves - and everyone around us - to repeat it. But too often that is ALL we learn. It is all we know. Yesterday I told you about the definition of resilience and how to fortify it, from the website of the APA, the American Psychological Association. The APA offered four tools for building up our internal resilience. Yesterday we spoke about connection and being part of a community. Today, we add the idea of Healthy Thinking. The APA states: “keep things in perspective…Accept that change is a part of life… maintain a hopeful outlook… and learn from your past.”

So much of this is absolutely essential for us; both in everyday life and when examining Jewish history. We should 100% learn about and from our past… AND we also need to keep the tragedies firmly in perspective, accept that change is and always will be a part of life, and as fervently and stubbornly as possible, insist on maintaining  at least SOME hopefulness in our outlook on everything. Let us keep both Baron’s directive against the Lachrymose Conception AND the APA’s vital recommendations about Healthy Thinking in mind as we return to our Lostice Megillah. 

This is hard, because the second chapter of the Megillah is indeed about the Holocaust. It is the darkest of the four chapters, as it describes the transporting away of all of the Lostice Jews to Theresienstadt, where nearly all of them were murdered… or shipped along elsewhere to their eventual deaths. Furthermore, the Nazis looted these communities, stealing just about anything they could get their hands on. It is an upsetting story, albeit sadly a familiar one. But even in this second chapter, I have chosen to emphasize the Jews of Prague who preserved and protected 1,800 scrolls, of which 1,500 were later rescued. And the artwork for Chapter Two reflects Siona Benjamin’s and my insistence on maintaining a  hopeful outlook… even in chapter two. 

The backdrop of the painting is the gate and barbed-wire-lined brick walls of Theresienstadt. It looks almost like an evil face, meant to consume and annihilate all who enter. But in this picture, the gates are on fire. Their sinister intentions are already being thwarted. And out of the mouth of these nightmarish gates, the stolen Jewish artifacts are bursting towards freedom. Nothing was supposed to EVER escape the concentration camps, but the Jewish spirit was NOT obliterated. The very same artifacts confiscated by the Nazis became damning proof of their crimes. Here, the items depicted are a pocket watch, rings, Torah finery, scrolls, personal Judaica items, a yellow star that says Jude on it, and a large menorah that Siona found in a very powerful photograph. In it, a beautiful menorah had been mangled, twisted, and deformed by fire and war… but it was unmistakably still a menorah. It is the central item in Siona’s captivating painting… and it has been lit again. 

It was also critical to me that along with these items, we also see light bursting forth. I mentioned yesterday, a source of light, glowing and indestructible, can be found in each painting, and it is perhaps most prominent in this one, as the immortal, RESILIENT spirit of our people pours out of the Nazi clutches. At the bottom of the painting, you see the Michle synagogue in Prague, where the scrolls were housed for decades. The building itself is on a slanted angle, seemingly close to collapsing into ruin. But it doesn’t fall. Like the Leaning Tower of Pisa, it bends but does NOT break. Like the Jewish spirit, it too bends - sometimes incredibly far over - but does not break. 

We have endured a lot. From Biblical times fighting Amalekites and Canaanites, to the Babylonians, Greeks, Romans, Ottomans, crusaders, inquisitors, Cossacks, and Nazis over the course of millennia. And we all know that fight is not over. Yet here we are. Not only have we persevered, but we have written about our survival and continued to read it to one another, generation after generation, Dor l’Dor va’dor. It CAN be depressing, I know. It is exhausting, disheartening, and frightening. 

But it is ALSO a story of an unbreakable spirit. Of a people that has endured everything imaginable, but through applying the principles of learning from our past, maintaining a constant sense of perspective, and stubbornly, even seemingly foolishly holding onto a hopeful outlook that redemption would come and God was on our side… we survived. For nearly two millennia, Jews have not just told and retold the old stories of resilience; they have added their own as well. This year, we submit our story to that canon. We remember what we’ve lost, but we refuse to remain lachrymose. Instead, we celebrate… and our light continues to burst forth. 

Shanah Tovah!