Congregation Emanu-El of Westchester: Sermon Archives

ROSH HASHANAH
SEPTEMBER 23, 2006

This is a sermon replete with questions. Not all can I answer.

First question: Why didn't Isaac run?

I mean, if you had a father who heard voices from God commanding him to sacrifice you on an altar wouldn't you get out of there? Fast as possible? Abraham almost sounds like one of those fundamentalists in today's Middle East sacrificing their sons on the altar of suicide bombing.

Yes, if I were Isaac I would jump off the altar, wave to my father, and say, "Dad, I'm outta here. I only have one life --- too little time as it is. It's been nice."

Sure, Isaac was saved at the last moment. Abraham saw the light and sacrificed a ram, but poor Isaac, that little trauma on the altar probably consigned him to a lifetime of therapy. Five days a week.

So why did Isaac, aware that he had only one life, and, no matter how many years, they would never be sufficient permit himself to almost be sacrificed? That was question 1.

Question two. How many of us sacrifice the time granted to us, laying our life on an altar of wasted days, spurious values, empty endeavors.

Question three. Why, especially on this Rosh Hashanah am I so concerned with the use of time? That question I can answer: It began with a telephone call I received from the Rabbi at Temple Beth Emeth, the temple in Albany where once my father was Rabbi.

"Dan," the voice said, "This is Scott at Temple Beth Emeth. I would like to invite you to come to Albany in May of 2007 to speak at Sabbath Services." I knew why he had called. May will mark the 50th anniversary of my father's death. He was only 57 when he died. I was a teenager. He wanted to live longer. He expected to live longer but then he contracted a disease with a life expectancy of 1 to 13 years. He drew the wrong card and survived for a single year. After the phone call from Albany I was brutally aware, once again, of the precarious nature of life and I remembered a wonderful story about my father; a story, no doubt, partially apocryphal as all really good family stories are.

It begins with a peddler named Mr. Martin who in the 1950's made periodic visits to our home on South Main Avenue. He was a collector of discarded objects. Approximately once a month the legendary Mr. Martin would knock on the door, announce: "It's Mr. Martin," and wait for my mother to appear, her hands filled with old clothes, a chipped porcelain plate, maybe a tarnished and dented piece of silver. Referred to affectionately as "the throw away man" Mr. Martin would toss his catch into a burlap bag and wait for the weekend flea market.

My father had heard of Mr. Martin, but had never seen him. Now it happened that one day, walking home from the temple in mid-afternoon, Dad spotted a pudgy man wearing glasses (one half of the frame was missing) with a burlap bag slung over his shoulder and my father knew immediately, this was Mr. Martin. After proper introductions my father asked, "Has it been a good day?" Mr. Martin beamed. "Excellent. I'll show you" and emptied his bag on the petunias bordering Rev. Klees house, two doors down from ours.

Dad rummaged through the pile before focusing on a dull gold Elgin wristwatch.

"What is the cost of this watch?" He inquired.

Mr. Martin hesitated. "You can have it for three dollars. A bargain." The deal completed, my father waved goodbye to the peddler and continued home where my mother had placed a tray of chocolate drop cookies in the oven. "Dear, look at the watch I bought from Mr. Martin. Only three dollars," my father said. And he proudly presented the watch.

Mother laughed. "Sam, you bought your own watch. I found it under your collars in the dresser. Since you never wear it I gave it to Mr. Martin!"

My father grinned then, rising to Rabbinical proportions, said, "Dear, you can give Mr. Martin any of my possessions but not the watch. Please, don't give away time."

And climbing the stairs to his bedroom Dad opened his dresser and tenderly tucked the watch under his starched collars.

So now I have been asked by the temple in Albany to go back 50 years and reflect on my father and his time in this world. And how can I do that without examining my own approach to time. How have I lived? Have I abandoned too many hours on false altars? And where I answer "yes," how can I change? The Buddhists believe there are two ways to measure time. The first is by counting the years, the second by weighing the years. One considers duration, the other considers worth. Or, in the words of Abraham Lincoln, "it is not the years in your life, it is the life in your years."

Do you feel your lives have been worthwhile? And what is of worth? To you. We live in an age when worth is often measured by financial success. Certainly we should enjoy our material acquisitions but in the process of accruing do we sacrifice what might give our lives greater meaning and those closest to us greater love? And do we improve the world in which we live?

In a recent interview on NPR a well known poet was asked when he chose his profession. The poet chuckled. "I remember when I was a young and already writing poetry. My father asked that typical father question. "Well, son, what do you want to be when you graduate?"

I answered, "A poet."

My father, a successful businessman, attempted to control the note of disapproval in his voice but he could not restrain himself.

`But son, surely you know there is no money in poetry.

`And I replied. `But Dad, surely you know there is no poetry in money.'" Do you follow your passion? As an anonymous quote suggests: "Success is getting what you want, happiness is wanting what you get."

That quest for success begins almost at birth. Not from the child. From the parents. Recently friends in New York have asked me to write reference letters for their two year old children. For pre-school. To assure the future. At two the child's time is already sacrificed to external pressures.

Incidentally, for those who might wish to solicit my help in these matters I would like to report that at present I have failed in every attempt. I just don't have the right hook!

Isaac, Isaac get off the altar! No matter what your age.

My next question. How fully do we use our time exploring the richness of Judaism? Is our heritage wasted on the altar of a superficial and cursory identity?

For instance, this summer I saw the movie "Keeping Up With The Steins." Please don't ask me why. Perhaps, when you are a Rabbi, you have to see movies dealing with a Bar Mitzvah. Any movie. It is like reading the Wall Street Journal if you are in the investment business. For those of you who may not have seen "Keeping Up With The Steins" the film pits one Jewish father against another, each trying to throw a more outrageous bar mitzvah party for his son. Arnie Stein rents a cruise ship to create a "Titanic" theme party for his son Zachary. Benjamin's father plans to hold his bar mitzvah at Los Angele's Dodger Stadium.

Finally, the timid Benjamin rejects the display of consumption and the mockery of religious ritual, and invites the congregation to his home to eat his grandmother's brisket. The theme of his Bar Mitzvah has reverted to an old theme ---- called Judaism --- not nearly as dramatic as the Titanic or Dodger Stadium --- unless you realize the drama of our history and traditions.

In that spirit, this past year, preceding Passover, a Two Minute Haggadah appeared on the Internet. The Haggadah was sub-titled "A Passover service for the impatient." Many of us can empathize with that sentiment. I will read the entire Haggadah.

Opening prayers: thanks, God, for creating wine. (drink wine.) Thanks for creating produce. (Eat parsley).

Overview: Once we were slaves in Egypt. Now we're free. That's why we're doing this. Four questions. 1) What's up with the matzoh? Answer: 1. When we left Egypt we were in a hurry. There was no time for making decent bread. 2. What's the deal with horseradish? Answer: 2. Life was bitter, like horseradish 3. What's with the dipping of the herbs? Answer: 3. It's called symbolism. 4. What's this whole slouching at the table business? Answer 4. Free people get to slouch. (Heat soup now.)

The four kinds of children and how to deal with them: Wise child - explain Passover. Simple child - explain Passover slowly. Silent child - explain Passover loudly. Wicked child - browbeat in front of the relatives. Speaking of children: we hid some matzoh. Whoever finds it gets five bucks. The story of Passover: It's a long time ago. We're slaves in Egypt. Pharoah is a nightmare. We cry out for help. God brings plagues upon the Egyptians. We escape, bake some matzoh. God parts the Red Sea. We make it through; the Egyptians aren't so lucky. We wander 40 years in the desert, eat manna, get the Torah, wind up in Israel, get a new Temple, enjoy several years without being persecuted again. (Let brisket cool now.)

The 10 plagues: Blood, Frogs, Lice - you name it.

(Remove gefilte fish from refrigerator now). Eat matzoh. Drink more wine. Slouch. Thanks again, God, for everything. Serve Meal.

Actually that rendition of Passover Lite, the two minute Haggadah, wastes two minutes --- as empty ritual always does. It is a Haggadah that sacrifices a heritage.

In a recent issue of the magazine Reform Judaism a father who converted to Judaism, those we call Jews by choice, wrote a letter to his sons in which he cautioned:

I don't want either of you to ever take Judaism for granted. Though you may not understand it as such now, being a Jew is a gift. An absolute gift. As a man who has been stunned wide awake by Judaism, by Torah, I want the two of you to know soul-deep that real Judaism can suffuse each moment of each day p if you let it.

Sure, it can be frustrating to be a man of faith in this culture of hollow desire. It is easier to obsess over how the Knicks and Lakers are going to do this season. To ooh-and aah over the latest sleek idols made by BMW and Porsche. I know some would write my deep feelings off as the zeal of a convert. But, boys, there's one last thing you need to understand: In this day and age, we're all Jews-by-choice.

How do we wish to spend the time devoted to that choice?

Well, I suppose I have strayed rather far from Abraham and Isaac, from sacrifice and my father's fiftieth yahrzeit. But not really. They simply inspired me to delve into how we live our lives as Americans and as Jews. What is of worth and what is wasted? What is the real music of our lives?

And speaking of the music of our lives. When I remember my father I still hear the echoes of his favorite symphony. It was Beethoven's 9th, the majestic choral symphony, and occasionally when he would drive me home from school he would sing excerpts from the fourth movement, Schiller's Ode to Joy. Eventually I learned that Beethoven composed the 9th Symphony when he was deaf. He could not hear the orchestra. He could not hear the chorus. It was not necessary. He heard the beauty of his composition within himself, and that was sufficient. He did not need to hear the outside voices to judge the masterpiece of his life.

There is a voice planted within each of us. In the midst of our cacophonous world only we can hear the notes, the chords, the movements of our life. Only we can hear the resonance that assures us we are living well or sounds a note of caution. Only we can remove ourselves from the altar. God will not do it. We will not see a ram. Only we can fashion the time remaining to us before our lives slip away. May we act in such a way that we will be a credit to our world, to our loved ones and, most importantly, to ourselves --- as Jews, as human beings made in the image of God.