Congregation Emanu-El of Westchester: Sermon Archives

EREV ROSH HASHANAH - Friday, September 26, 2003

This is a sermon on hope. It begins in a cemetery. Each summer I visit a rural cemetery in the countryside outside of Albany, New York --- next to a meadow where young colts gambol and late summer paints the grass a pale brown. A headstone reads WOLK. My name. The footstones are my parents names: Rabbi Samuel Wolk. Mary Wolk. My parents names. Both born in 1899. I visit out of a sense of respect --- of memory.

This year, as I stood on the pebble driveway in front of the stones I reflected on memorials. On names written in stone. Are you aware 57,000 names are inscribed on the polished black marble of the Vietnam Memorial. 5,200 artists have submitted designs for the memorial at Ground Zero --- designs that, in almost every case, allow space for the 2,792 names of those who perished on September 11th. We live in an age of commemoration. And as I stared at my own family name, on the stone in a cemetery near Albany I wondered: What is in a name? Why are we so intent on fixing the past in stone? To remember those we loved, and still love? Of course. But we can't dwell in the past. Those who do only squander their lives. Why? Why? All these names on stone?

And then a strange phenomena occurred. The sun pierced the branches of an ancient oak tree behind me, shot rays of sunlight over my shoulders and, suddenly I saw my silhouette emblazoned on the tombstone beneath my family name. Wolk. I saw my image. Was I filled with a sense of foreboding? Not at all because, as I moved, my reflection moved --- in whatever way I wished. I had control over the actions. Of my arms. My legs. My self. I was very much alive and thoughts of death dissolved in the bright summer sun. Then I remembered the phrase in our liturgy that the purpose of grief is to send us back to bless the living. In other words, to bless life. The sun had burned an indelible image on my mind and on my heart. I was at the cemetery not to focus on names memorialized in stone but to celebrate life. My life. For as long as I can. As fully as I can. This visit was about me, about the potential of the years that still stretch across the horizon of time.

And in the midst of a cemetery I was rejuvenated by hope.

My first congregation, a student congregation, was in a white wooden temple in the sleepy town of Danville, Pennsylvania. On Yom Kippur afternoon, a Saturday, the time arrived for Yizkor services and I read the list of those who had died in the past year, as we will do in slightly more than a week. At the letter O I read the name of Joseph Orlovsky. Embarrassed laughter rose from the congregation. Undaunted I concluded the service but with a vague sense that something was wrong - very wrong. When the service had ended a little man with silver hair approached me. "Rabbi," he said, "I really enjoyed your services and want to thank you for reading my name as part of the list of those who died in the past year. But, as you can see, I am here. My name is Joseph Orlovsky."

I was 22 years old and on my initial foray into the Rabbinate had just pronounced a man dead who was very much alive. Flustered I replied. "But Mr. Orlovksy, your name is right here. On the list. See!"

And it was. On the list of those who had donated the pulpit flowers. That Saturday, not far from Danville, PA the mighty Nittany Lions of Penn State had just completed another victory but I felt I had been tackled by their entire front line. Except it was only a little man with silver hair.

Fortunately Mr. Orlovsky, a twinkle in his eye, picked me up off the playing field.

"Son," he said, as I quickly lost my rabbinical status. "Son, since I have died I have a suggestion. Let's you and I write my eulogy. You see, when I really do die and they say all those nice things about me I won't be around to hear them. Or maybe some of the thoughts they share, to themselves or in public will not be what I want to hear. And I still have time to change those final words. I mean, the verdicts still out --- or as we say here in Penn State country, I could still have winning seasons. What do you say?"

So, together we sat on a pew, in the sleepy town of Danville, Pa. And worked on Mr. Joseph Orlovsky's eulogy. An interim eulogy since he thrived for an additional twenty years. Until the age of 90. He described his life and I wrote. Like the Biblical scribes of old. Sometimes he would say in a loud voice "That was really good. What a memory!" And, at other times he would mutter. "A waste. A real waste." After some time we had summarized his 70 years and he pronounced the verdict. "Not bad. Over all not a bad life. Considering."

"Well?" I ventured. "What next." Joseph ran his fingers along his moustache and said. "I would have liked to have changed certain aspects of my life. Especially those on page 3. But I can't rewrite the scenario of what has gone before. However, in the years that lie ahead, just watch the way I live!" And he pronounced this last line with such gusto that I was certain that the next week he would be playing wide receive for Penn State; receiving all that the joy of life sent his way.

The movie icon Katherine Hepburn mused, "Being alive is a tremendous opportunity --- its what you do with it that matters." Only an opportunity. And on that day in Danville, the Yom Kippur day of my somewhat bumpy initiation into the Rabbinate Joseph Orlovsky was reassessing what he had done with the opportunity granted to him at birth.

And since that first congregation I have dedicated this High Holyday period to writing what I term, a partial life eulogy. Appropriate whether we are young, and the sun is first rising, or the middle years when the sun is stationery overhead or those inevitable years when the sun begins to slowly descend. A partial life eulogy. Not a lamentation. A reassessment.

The 15th century philosopher Don Batista Alverti wrote, "It is not life only to wait for the evening. It is life to exert oneself continuously and it is the best life to exert oneself in the best endeavors."

There are those among us who have a tendency to only wait for the evening. To permit daylight to drift away. Each year I ask myself how have I used time.

Have I lived the way I would choose - the way that will bring me fulfillment --- in harmony with myself and with others.

How would I change my life, if I could, because I can.

And then, hopefully, in the year that lies ahead I will act on my conclusions, inspired by Joseph Orlovsky from Danville, Pa.

A word of warning. Partial life eulogies may be frightening. Dante said, "in the midst of a dark woods I came upon myself." To be honest with yourself, to enter that dark woods implies courage. Many of us do not want to come upon ourselves. It seems safer to deny, to run, to construct taller walls. But, I believe that if I enter the dark woods, the far country of who I am I may gain a richer life in the future. What form will that future take? I can not know. The iminitable Mark Twain philosophized, "The act of prophecy is difficult. Especially with regard to the future." But the future is an opportunity. Only the past is sealed tightly in the Book of Life.

Over almost four decades as a Rabbi I have been touched by sadness. Some personal. Some within the congregation. Separation. Loss. Death. But one of the saddest moments occurred several years ago on a windswept October day at one of the myriad of cemeteries off the Jackie Robinson, then the Interboro, Parkway. A young woman was burying her mother. Mother and daughter had had a strained, almost indifferent relationship but, as the coffin descended, tears flowed from the daughter, tears absorbed by the already damp ground. When the service ended the daughter, still crying, approached. "Rabbi," she said "You must think it strange after all I told you about my mother. That her life was unfulfilled. That we were not close. You must think it strange that I am crying."

I remained silent.

"Well, Rabbi, I am crying for what might have been. Rabbi, I am crying for what might have been. For my mother. For us."

How often do we cry for what might have been. In our personal life. As parents, as partners. As lovers. We cry. External tears. Internal tears - some heard by others. Some heard only by ourselves.

Think of Joseph Orlovsky. Write a eulogy. Then shape your life as you desire. Each moment. Each day. We have far more control than we often imagine. Today overflows with hope.

The saintly Rabbi Abraham Heschel believed: "Just to be alive is a blessing. Just to live is holy." You and I have been granted that blessing. How will we infuse it with holiness?

This was a sermon on hope. A sermon that began in a cemetery. But a sermon on life. Not on death. The life bequeathed to each one of us as we enter a new day. A New Year.

Shanah Tovah.