Congregation Emanu-El of Westchester: Sermon Archives

ROSH HASHANAH - Saturday, September 15, 2004

This is a sermon about a gift I received over the summer. The gift of hope. The story begins in Afghanistan where I visited for 12 days in July. The impetus for the trip was Bruce Freyer who, together with his wife Dana, have founded a non-profit organization, The GPFA with the goal of reforesting lands devastated by decades of conflicts, years of draught. I should confess, the Transitional Islamic Republic of Afghanistan is not the typical locale for a Jew to visit. I realized that when I called the secretary at the Afghan Consulate and inquired whether there was a problem if Israel was stamped in my passport. His reply? He hung up --- Scrambling to obtain a new, clean passport I embarked for Afghanistan; flying through Dubai on Arab Emirate Airlines.

At the Kabul airport Bruce and I were held up for three hours because a bomb had been planted at the entrance. Along rural roads men with sophisticated technology knelt in the hot sun and searched for mines. Warlords have regained power; the Taliban have surreptitiously returned. Americans have been warned against visiting the country and even the courageous Doctors Without Borders have left. Our government, intent on invading Iraq turned their gaze away from Afghanistan, a country receptive to change. It is sad.

And yet, hope has never left the people of Afghanistan. They believe their country will blossom again. The orchards will give off fruit. The elderly who fled 25 years ago have returned. A multi-generational family, handsome men with chiseled faces and long beards, women, some in burkahs, some with heads covered by scarves stand next to wooden packing crates at the side of the road excited to return to their village of birth after exile in Pakistan. One Afghan, a sociologist, assessed the situation in his nation: "As an analyst, when I look at Afghanistan I have to be a pessimist but as an Afghan I am an optimist." As he spoke I heard echoes of our own history. The history of the Jew. And the miracle of our survival. The theologian Arnold Toynbee claimed that long ago Jews should have been fossils. We are anything but! In spite of pogroms, persecutions, the Holocaust we flourish. Why? Because we refuse to relinquish hope.

I did not travel to Afghanistan as a "Jew," I did not list my profession as "Rabbi" but in that troubled country I felt my Judaism surging forth --- ignited by the spirit of Afghanistan --- a spirit urging me to remember that, even in the darkest of times, if we hold fast to hope we will go on --- in spite of everything. Latent in every human being, deep within the hidden recesses of the soul, dwells an indomitable will. Or, as an analyst might say, "When I look at the world around me I have every reason to be a pessimist but as a Jew I am an optimist. The Jewish Russian poet Saul Tchernikowsky wrote, "laugh at all my dreams my darling, laugh but I repeat anew, that I still believe in man and I still believe in you."

It has been said , "All life is a narrow bridge. The challenge is to cross in spite of fear." I have been at the edge of the abyss. Many of you have been at the edge experiencing sickness, loss, expectations shattered --- you know how difficult it is to cross into a new beginning. How fraught with fear.

At the present time not only individuals but also our nation is seized by fear. America lives with the ubiquitous orange alert. Waiting. Waiting. And I am reminded of the bumper sticker: Start worrying. Details to follow.

Once we exported our hopes for the world. Now, too often, we export only our fear of the world. Some fear is justified. Some artificially created by those who would play the despicable game known as "The Politics of Terror." But over the centuries, when the psyche is besieged by the orange alerts Judaism strengthens its belief in tomorrow --- in the power of hope.

On August 3 two photographs appeared on the front page of the New York Times. One, a picture of the reopened Statue of Liberty. America, lifting her lamp beside the golden door. The second photograph focused on a policeman with a machine gun in front of a financial center in downtown New York City. Life and death. Life and death. Which picture will shape our psyche? The hope of the outstretched arm of Miss Liberty? "The Patriot's dream that sees beyond the years, (where) alabaster cities gleam undimmed by human tears."

Or the fear symbolized by the policeman with a machine gun.

Looking back on the history of the Jew I realize all life is a cycle. We fall. Only to rise. At the recent Olympics in Athens the flag of Israel was raised on the highest pole and the bittersweet strains of Hatikvah, the hope, drifted over ancient ruins. The victorious Israeli windsurfer, Gal Fridman, dedicated his victory to those who perished at Munich and poignantly said of his appearance in the Olympics, "I was not there for myself." We are part of the continuum of time - of those who went before; of those still to come. In moments of joy. In moments of sadness. That was the meaning of Israel's first gold medal. Urging us to rejoice when the heart is uplifted and when the heart descends, to hope, hope and make that hope a reality --- that the wind may catch your soul and carry you into a new dawn, waiting just over the horizon.

A personal reflection.

Some years ago I embarked on a private pilgrimage. To Heidelberg, Germany. Sitting by the banks of the river Neckar in Heidelberg I tenderly unwrapped a parcel of letters written by my father to his family when he was a student in Heidelberg in 1930. The return address on the envelope was a Pension in Heidelberg where he had stayed. On a whim I decided to search for the pension located just beneath the castle immortalized by Sigmund Romberg in "The Student Prince." To my amazement the pension still stood, untouched by war, at the top of a cobblestone road. A young man was leaving the pension and I imagined my father in 1930, descending for his studies at the University. For a moment I paused, before retracing my steps to Kornmarkt Square at the foot of the hill. When I arrived I discovered an attractive gray haired guide explaining the significance of Kornmarkt Square. "Here in this faded yellow building, is the center for the study of German culture." When the tour dispersed I approached the guide: "Excuse me, my father studied in Heidelberg in 1930. German Literature. Would he have studied here?"

She smiled, a sad smile. Remembering. "In 1930? Yes, he would have studied here. Probably Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe." She hesitated, "But if he were in Kornmarkt Square three years later, in 1933, this building was Gestapo headquarters." Then in a hushed voice she mused. "From Goethe to Gestapo." Her voice brightened. "But now the world of Goethe once again echoes in the halls."

Moments before he died Goethe whispered three words. "Light --- more light." Was this, perhaps a prayer for more light in his world, in our world, light for the future of humanity? A prayer of hope?

From Goethe, to Gestapo and back to Goethe again. From light. To darkness. To light.

And isn't this your story - and my story?
From confidence to insecurity --- then back to confidence?
From joy, to despair then back to joy?
Isn't this the way it has been, the way it is, the way it will be?
Only when we relinquish hope in the future does the spirit die.
In the lyrical masterpiece Stones From The River by Ursula Hegi a woman sits on a log by the river Rhein and observes the scene.

"She could see how the pattern of the water changed as it made its way past a rock that jutted from the river. The river did not stop at the base of the rock, wailing, blocking all the water coming after it. No, it continued to flow, parted, foamed, but then the river became whole again after it had passed the rock, leaving its impact on the rock. All at once she felt as if she were the river, swirling in an ever-changing design around the rock, separating and coming together again without letting herself get snagged into scummy pools. What the river was showing her now was that she could flow beyond the brokenness, and fuse once more."

As Jews we are an eternal people, blessed with the ability to endure and flow past the rocks time would place in our way.

As Americans, dwellers, in a great nation, we can mend the brokenness and fuse even in the darkest of times.

These were the thoughts I brought back from Afghanistan --- and this anthem of hope broke forth on my final afternoon in Kabul. I was sitting in the courtyard of our compound reading the poignant novel The Kite Runner. One episode describes the love of Afghan children for kites and kite flying contests. The Taliban prohibited flying kites. It was too frivolous but I had been told that in recent years, an occasional kite flew above the dusty streets of Kabul. In the 12 days of my stay I had searched for a kite --- but never saw one.

Suddenly, a little pink kite, thin as a paper membrane, fluttered over the wall of the compound before disappearing back onto the street. I ran, opened the locked metal gate and exiting the wall was engulfed by a circle of Afghan boys, approximately 8 or 9 years of age. For the moment they forgot about their kite and with the wonderful broad smiles of childhood studied their foreign visitor. One boy spoke. "My name is Ali." Then a second "My name is Samir," "My name is Mullah," "Omar," Now it was my turn. "My name is Dan." An older boy approached the children with a platter of Naan. Each child took a piece of the bread and then the tray was passed to me. Together we broke bread. I was part of Afghanistan. A rabbi, a Jew, but very much at home.

A child picked up the kite and sought out a current. The kite flew several feet then plummeted to the ground. Again. Again. Until finally, the kite caught the slightest of currents and soared above the walls of the compound. Higher, higher above the distant Hindu Kush Mountains then, slowly, gently it fell back to earth.

And that was when I knew: The kite would rise again. Not only over the torn landscape of Afghanistan but over the torn fabric of the human spirit throughout the world. Yes, that kite would rise for any man or woman or child willing to seek even the slightest breeze; willing to believe in tomorrow.

For you see, that kite was hope. It was my gift from Afghanistan.