Sermons

Kol Nidre
September 21, 2007

The following passage is from Albert Camus: The Myth of Sisyphus

The gods had condemned Sisyphus to ceaselessly rolling a rock to the top of a mountain, whence the stone would fall back of its own weight. One sees the whole effort of a body straining to raise the huge stone, to roll it, and push it up a slope a hundred times over; one sees the face screwed up, the cheek tight against the stone, the shoulder bracing the clay-covered mass, the foot wedging it, the fresh start with arms outstretched. At the very end of his long effort the purpose is achieved. Then Sisyphus watches the stone rush down in a few moments toward the lower world whence he will have to push it up again toward the summit. But there is no sun without shadow, and it is essential to know the night. The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.

Have you ever encountered a time in your life when you wondered how you would move forward, confront the heavy stone weight of a loss, a sickness, a defeat --- wondered how you would climb the mountain and once again see the sunrise? Have you? If so you are Sisyphus. If so you are human.

This year, at High Holy Day services I have indulged in nostalgia and shared three personal numbers, milestones that occurred for me this year. Tonight the number is 50.

For me 50 represents the most poignant number of all the numbers that converge in this year when I turn 70. It reawakens a memory of the one person who has had the greatest influence on who I was, on who I am --- although he vanished from my life five decades ago.

The story began about a year ago with a phone call from Scott, a call I referred to last year at the High Holy Days. Scott is the Rabbi at Temple Beth Emeth in Albany, the congregation where I was raised and where once my father was the Rabbi.

"Dan, please come and speak at Sabbath services in May. It is time. It is time. 50 years."

Scott did not have to explain. 50 years. 50 years ago, on May 29th 1957 my father died. He was only 58 years old. And 50 years ago on May 29, 1957 the congregation had planned to dedicate my father's dream --- a new temple, for which he had labored over many years. The summit of the sanctuary would rise into the heavens, a place of worship for generations still to come. But, instead of a dedication, the first service in the new sanctuary was his funeral. This May I had been invited to commemorate a yahrzeit, and a dedication. Both had occurred on the same date.

If I were to ask you, what two candles symbolize your life your might answer, with a smile, "a birthday candle" and, with a tear, a "Yahrzeit, a memorial candle." Flickering lights marking birth and death, beginnings and endings. For me, as I prepared to journey to Albany the two candles fused as one.

Driving along the Taconic Parkway where the lush green of springtime welcomed a new season I reflected on that time 50 years ago. There was my father, his face beaming with the joy of a future that would be the culmination of his years as a Rabbi, placing the first spade into the earth for the ground breaking. The day was a Sunday. Monday he learned he had an incurable blood disease.

There was my father driving our ancient brown Plymouth Coupe to the site of construction every morning until, strength quickly ebbing, it was impossible for him to drive. But he insisted on overseeing the project. Members of his congregation carried him into his car and he was driven to the temple. Both the sanctuary and his life were almost complete.

And there was my father knowing he would not be present to deliver the dedication remarks, dictating his thoughts from his bed at the Albany Hospital, his weak voice wavering as it struggled to escape through the maze of IV tubes. Yes, on the Taconic I remembered -- remembered that at any juncture in time he could have said: "Why go on? It is enough. It is enough." But he never did. Even in the midst of his tragedy he would continue to plan, continue to dream, exalt his life. There was no other alternative. He would claim victory from defeat. He would push his stone up the mountain. He would not linger at the bottom. To climb, always to climb until, once again, he saw the sunrise. For he believed that only those who remain at the bottom are lost. Yes, only those who remain at the bottom are lost.

"There is no sun without shadow, it is essential to know the night --- the struggle itself toward the heights is enough. One must imagine Sisyphus happy." The surge of reflections burned within me on that Friday night this past May as I joined the congregation entering the sanctuary. Some people recognized me although I had not seen them for many years. You know what happens when you return to that one home that will always be your home. First there is the informal poll. Eight people said I looked like my father. Seven said I looked like my mother. Allowing for a margin of error of five it is still too early to publish official results.

Then there were the two women, over 100 years of age, who cut me off at the entrance, their walkers blocking my path. "Danny" one asked, "Do you know who I am? You probably don't remember me." She was totally correct. Since I love to please it was a pleasure to agree with her.

As the Temple filled I ascended the pulpit. In the middle of the liturgy a rasping sound filled the sanctuary --- The voice of my father. --- His words were the words he would have said if the dedication had proceeded as planned --- they were words not previously heard. He was struggling for breath.

What were those words? First, Dad expressed "the regret I have at the inability to be with you here in person, at the culmination of a dream" but then, his voice stronger, he added. "The gratitude I feel is also more profound than I can profess."

Is my sermon tonight a memorial to my father? I hope not --- at least not that alone. I hope it is a tribute to the indomitable spirit that exists, when we are forced, through no choice of our own, to roll that rock to the top of the mountain. It is a testament to the indomitable will that, even at the very end, can still express gratitude for all that was. For the profound blessing of life. "The gratitude I feel is more profound than I can profess." Isn't that the beauty of life? To rise from defeat, from despair. To push that stone to the top of the mountain over and over again --- no matter what may happen at the very top. For you see, my father was not a leaf blown precariously by the wind, not a meteor dislodged from its position in space, not a mere moment in eternity. No, at the end, as through his life, he always lifted himself up, believing nothing ends unless something else begins. From his childhood in an orphanage to his years with the extended family of his congregation, he affirmed the verse in our Yom Kippur afternoon liturgy: "Weeping may tarry for the night but joy cometh in the morning." And with that affirmation we go on as individuals. We go on as Jews. And always have.

The crackling of my father's voice had ended. There was a silence in the sanctuary in Albany. Soon I would speak but, for a moment, I closed my eyes and let myself drift back to happier times when, as a child, I would attend High Holy Day services in the old Temple in Albany - long before the new sanctuary was even a dream. There was my father, his head already devoid of hair, sitting in his chair on the pulpit next to the President of the Congregation. At a pre-arranged moment the President, his name was Charles Stern and he was president for 43 years --- Tim there's a role model for you to follow! --- the president would surreptitiously leave the pulpit and, upon his return, hand my father a carefully folded piece of paper --- Permit me a word of explanation. My father was an avid baseball fan and in the 1940's the World Series usually coincided with either Rosh Hashanah or Yom Kippur. Those were the good old days when each sport had a separate season or, to paraphrase the words of the Biblical book of Ecclesiastes.

To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under the heavens
A time to be born, a time to die,
A time to weep, a time to laugh
A time for silence, a time for speaking
A time for baseball and a time for football

Yes, in those days every sport knew its season and the High Holy Days were a time for baseball.

So my father would take the note from Charles Stern, unfold the paper and during the announcements proclaim: Yankees 4 - Dodgers 3. Half the congregation would applaud. Half would moan.

But my father's real love was neither the Yankees nor the Dodgers. When I was a child my father and I idolized the Albany Senators, stalwarts of the minor Class A Eastern League, famous for the deft shortstop Frankie Staucet and the incredible knuckleballer Orrie Arntsen --- renowned names in Albany, but only in Albany - well, maybe also in Troy.

Every morning I would race downstairs and turn to the sports page to learn the results of the most recent Albany Senators game. And, when the Senators lost, to Williamsport, or Wilkes-Barre or Elmira my father would put his arms around me.

"What can we do, Dad?" I lamented. "What can we do?"

And my father would console me: "Wait for tomorrow, Daniel. Wait for tomorrow. It's a long season."

In those days I believed my father was only speaking about baseball but, as I sat on the pulpit in Albany this past May I understood he was really speaking about life. As long as there is a tomorrow today's loss can be tomorrow's victory. We may suffer defeat. Who among us, at one time or another, does not suffer defeat but the challenge is to look at our life, the games won, the games lost --- and not despair. Then we triumph within the limits of reality. "The gratitude I feel is more profound than I can profess." Gratitude for life, each day, in spite of everything. To give thanks for the miracle of birth, of living --- even when time is too brief --- and the journey difficult. Departing Albany I took with me the indelible imprint of my father, memories from my childhood, memories of the way he lived out his final days. And I realized he was not gone but endures in the example he left behind - the ability to fulfill his years even when challenged.

That choice is given to each one of us. To each one of us.

And, once again, I imagined Sisyphus, "his body straining to raise the huge stone, to roll it and push it up a slope. At the very end of his long effort the purpose is achieved --- one must imagine Sisyphus happy."

It is time.
50 years.
Dan, it is time. It is time.
50 years.