Sermons

Kol Nidre September 27, 2009

Over these High Holydays, as Congregation Emanu-El of Westchester anticipates the exciting passage into a new era I have reminisced. Tonight I wish to share the story of the building of this beautiful sanctuary where, since 1967, I was granted the privilege of leading you in worship. And in the years to come, on a day when the sanctuary is silent and only a single ray of sunlight enters through a glass prism I will approach this pulpit and envision each of you ----- As you are now. Once again I will see those advancing in years, grateful for the harvest of time and those still young, waiting to blossom. And I will give thanks for the many ways you have enriched my life as I have been inscribed in one chapter of the Book of Life of our congregation.

But that is for tomorrow.

Tonight I dwell on the beginning. The year 1970 and an architect named Joseph Salerno, a resident of Westport, Connecticut who created this space – with whom I fashioned an indelible bond of friendship.

Joe had an impressive resume when he met with our Building Committee. But when the Committee interviewed him they were skeptical. 'How," they asked," could an Italian Catholic design a Jewish temple?" Joe was prepared for the question. "I understand your concern" he said, "but I wonder if you could tell me, what is there about a temple that signifies Jewish architecture?"

As Joe spoke and the committee pondered his challenge my memory drifted back to Cincinnati, Ohio. It was my second year at Hebrew Union College, our Rabbinical Seminary, and I had the honor of being an usher for that years' ordination of young Rabbis. In those days only men became Rabbis.

Fortunately we have moved beyond that phenomenon. The service was to be held in Plum Street Temple, also known as Wise Temple, built in the mid 1800's by Rabbi Isaac Mayer Wise, the founder of American Reform Judaism. It was a temple modeled after a Gothic cathedral with Byzantine domes. As the ordination service was about to commence a carefully groomed woman, gray hair tied in a bun, entered and asked: "Excuse me, which side is the bride's side?"

I was perplexed.

"What?" I asked.

"Well, I'm here to attend the wedding," she continued. "Susan Grady and Paul Sweeney. I'm a friend of the Grady's. Isn't this St. Peter's in Chains?"

I soon understood that St. Peter's in Chains was the Catholic church across the street but Plum Street Temple, built with a nave in front, really resembled a church. St. Peter's in Chains and Plum Street Temple appeared interchangeable. And, from that point on, I asked each guest, "Excuse me, are you seeking Isaac Mayer Wise or St. Peter?"

Yes, Joe Salerno was correct. Temples are modeled after their environment. Jewish architecture does not exist. For instance, the Temple in Norwalk, Connecticut adopted the form of a house in a Polish village, Central Synagogue resembles a Moorish structure. Joe had made his point and gently suggested "I cannot give you a Jewish Temple, whatever that means, but if you desire a spiritual house of worship I believe I can succeed." And he did.

For almost a year Joseph Salerno studied Judaism. Once a week we met for lunch at Manero's restaurant in Westport and, at the end of that period, Joe had decided on a concept. Our Temple would be a Tent in the Wilderness, similar to the tent where Moses spoke with God. It would be constructed out of giant beams, soaring into the heavens. Passersby pulled off Interstate 287 and stopped on Westchester Avenue to witness a giant crane, brought in from Michigan, lifting the beams.

As the beams reached higher eventually joining at the peak, and the roof took shape, I was extended a rare invitation from the foreman. "Dan, it's great up here. What a view! Why don't you climb onto the roof?" How could I refuse? I scurried up the various levels of ladders until I too reached into the sky. Then suddenly, when I reached the highest point, I remembered, remembered with an onslaught of what Soren Kirkegaard called fear and trembling --- I am afraid of heights.

Santayana philosophized: "If we don't learn from history we are doomed to repeat it." I bear testimony to his words. I never learn. I could compile an endless list of the summits I have surmounted, acting before thinking. There was that time, as a teenager, when the treacherous black diamond seduced me to ride the chair lift to the steepest trail on Mt. Bromley. Up, up, up, but, when I reached the top of the ascent and looked down, down, down, I summoned the ski patrol and convinced them to tuck me onto a toboggan and pull me to the ski lodge at the bottom of the mountain. First Aid met me and asked what was broken. Embarrassed, I answered "Only my spirit." Then there was the time, on an archeological quest in Turkey, that I climbed the ruins of an ancient structure but the climb down resembled a nightmare out of Indiana Jones. Now, as the Temple roof reached completion I had succumbed once again. Why did I always wish to rise higher than was natural?

I did not need to apologize for my fear. I am vulnerable. That is what it means to be human and just because I am a Rabbi I don't have any special terrestrial rights in the sky. What if God isn't around that day, to hold me? But I was young then and, when you are young you are less inclined to admit you are fallible. How could I confess I was afraid of heights and might live forever on the rooftop of our Congregation ---- projecting sermons downwards through the skylight!

Then, grabbing onto a scaffold for support I was struck with a spark of inspiration, either from God or from my overly active imagination. Yes, at that moment I realized I was not really afraid of going up. It's coming down that causes fear. Ah, there's the rub. Coming down. That first step on the ladder.

And, since I am a Rabbi, always searching for profound meaning I realized the message behind my mid air suspension was simply this. Life should be lived in the heights. We should always be climbing, seeking higher goals. Don't descend from who you can be. How many of us compromise our years, watching dreams drift away, somewhere in the sky, because we did not go up to meet them? I do not suggest that striving for the heights is an easy task. Sometimes we cling precariously to the edge of the roof, like the fabled Fiddler on the Roof, poised to fall at anytime --- but what wonderful melodies we may evoke from life's fiddle if we at least attempt to climb. A Hasidic Rabbi counseled, "Let me not die while I still live." "Let me not die while I still live." Let me be aware of each day, awake to the morning. Or, in the words of a past president of the United States: "Life is one fast moving train and you have to jump aboard and hold on to your hat and relish the sweep of the wind as it rushes by. You have to enjoy the journey, its unthankful not to." (R. Reagan.)

One of the more interesting movies of the past year, based on a short story by F. Scott Fitzgerald, was The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. The protagonist, born as a shriveled old man slowly reverts to childhood as his years pass; reversing direction from old to young. This is a delightful fantasy for the movie implies that the innocence of childhood should never leave us. Many of us, although not born as old men and women do grow old before our time, lose the spark early on, the excitement of life in which children revel. We settle into a fixed pattern, and grow old too early.

Too early.

One passage in Benjamin Button struck an especially responsive chord. "It's never too late, or in my case, too early, to be whoever you want to be. There's no time limit. Start whenever you want. You can change or stay the same. There are no rules to this thing. We can make the best or the worst of it. I hope you make the best of it. I hope you see things that startle you. I hope you feel things you never felt before. I hope you meet people who have a different point of view. I hope you live a life you're proud of, and if you're not, I hope you have the courage to start all over again."

In contrast it has been said, "All happy people have self protective memories but if we would rather be miserable we can choose to carry along with us the tears of betrayal, missed chances and lost lives."

What approach defines your years? Descending or ascending.

And so, on this Yom Kippur, as I prepare, in a way, to leave you, yet know you will always accompany me in the inner recesses of who I am, I find myself re-evaluating my life, speculating on the future. Moving on --- to a new stage – aware of the words of Ecclesiastes.

To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:

A time to be born, and a time to die;
a time to plant, and a time to harvest that which is planted;
a time to weep, and a time to laugh;
a time to seek, and a time to lose;

To everything there is a season – and who can tell what the next seasons may bring? Sometimes I wonder. I cannot help but wonder, what will occur in the years to come.

This past May I returned to Brown University as a member of the class of 1959 for my 50th college reunion. In keeping with tradition the classes march down College Hill, the 50th reunion class receiving singular applause. Since I doubt I will be at Brown for my hundredth reunion this was worth waiting for. At a certain point on the Hill the class fans out to either side and the more recent classes pass through.

When the class of 1969, the 40th reunion class, ten years my junior, marched by, one man wearing a seersucker suit, his hair not yet totally gray, turned my way and with a delightful twinkle, called to me. "So you're the 50th reunion class and I am the 40th. Can you tell me what my next 10 years will be like?"

And, before I could reply he had vanished. Down College Hill.

What if he had waited for my reply? What would I have said? I might have quoted from Ecclesiastes "To everything there is a season" but that is the response a Rabbi would give and at that moment, perched on College Hill, I was only Dan Wolk, a member of the class of 1959 who 50 years ago, tremulously faced the world wondering how I could extend college for another dozen years, already romanticizing the uneatable cafeteria food, longing to once again smoke my pipe and fall asleep in English Literature 101. So how could I answer the query "What will my next 10 years be like?" I could not answer him then. I cannot answer for myself, now. Since, as Mark Twain mused "The art of prophecy is difficult, especially with regard to the future."

True, Mr. Twain. True. "The art of prophecy is difficult, especially with regard to the future." 10 years.

But I envision that graduate of the class of 1969, still standing there, waiting for my reply. And I feel compelled to respond. "Well," I begin, hesitating somewhat "Well, I can not foresee the path that lies ahead. Who among us can? But of this I am certain. The next 10 years will bring moments when the magnificent light of day illumines a world waiting to be explored. And there will be days when dark storm clouds threaten to linger for ever. There will be joy and happiness, love which knows no age --- but also trials and misfortunes. I will be tested for that is the fate of each of us. Loss, to which I am no stranger will intrude upon my life but I will hold fast to the conviction that if we lose we can also find. "You ask me of the next ten years. I hope, I pray, that I may have the insight to embrace those closest to me even as I reach out to the stranger in my midst. I hope, I pray that I will move forward, my spirit never wavering."

This is what I might have said that day on College Hill to my companion from the class of 1969, a decade younger than I. What I might have said. But suddenly I notice he has not moved. He waits. He is not satisfied. He deserves more. His eyes penetrate.

"And?" he whispers. "And?"

At first I am silent. Then my words flow. "Yes! Yes! And --- I will seek a sanctuary, a space I will consider holy because the beams soar into the heavens. A structure erected on dreams, buoyed up by opportunity and promise. And when I behold that setting I will ascend. Unrelenting I will climb. For I am the architect of my future. Yes, I will climb that I may embark on years of fulfillment, contentment and love.