My Kol Nidre Sermon: The importance of Vulnerability

This year, I stood alongside my wife Julia Katz, as the two of us were ordained. I became a Rabbi and she a Cantor. Notability, we couldn’t have had two different paths to ordination. I was always going to be a Rabbi. I loved religious school, lived for Jewish Camp, and craved the weekends, when I would escape to Jewish youth group events and even as a kid, I Bar Mitzvahed my sister’s dolls.

Julia grew up with a very different story. Coming from an interfaith household, Julia was exposed to certain Jewish practices. However, outside of Hannukah and Passover, Julia’s family did little to celebrate or observe anything Jewish. Raised to become a spiritual person, Julia’s Jewish knowledge was patchy at best. There’s a wonderful family video of a young Julia standing up at the holiday table and promptly telling the Hanukah story…completely wrong!

As she grew, music would become her religion and spiritual outlet. She went to a special arts High School then to New England Conservatory. Graduating from college, Julia was a seeker, trying to find where she could connect music to her broader goals and values. Then one Yom Kippur, a family friend offered to take Julia to services. Hearing a female cantor for the first time in her life, Julia was smitten.

A few weeks later she walked into the Cantor’s office in her locale Boston Synagogue and announced that she wanted to become a Cantor. Then she asked the obvious question, “Can you tell me what a Cantor is?”

Julia quickly learned that becoming a clergy member is much more than having a good voice. To become a cantor, she would first need to learn to become Jewish. With tenacity of spirit and grit, Julia enrolled in Hebrew class, introduction to Judaism, and began singing with local Jewish choir.

However as she pursued her dream, she ran up against obstacles. Many questioned her dedication to Judaism. They didn’t understand how someone who barely did anything Jewish as a child would want to become a Cantor. Because she came from an interfaith household, many in her own community told her that she needed a formal conversion before they would see her as an equal. While I had a pleasant interview at the Hebrew Union College, talking about my views about God and the Jewish people, the committee grilled Julia for almost an hour, making her prove time and again her resolve for her dreams.

People’s comments about her Jewish identity hurt Julia. They were painful precisely because they cut to the core of who she was and who she wanted to be. Julia was excited that she has found a meaningful career, but by choosing to be on this path, she made herself vulnerable. True she opened herself up to new experiences, values, and outlooks but in opening herself up she also left herself exposed to the harsh stings of others comment.

Julia is fine now. She made it past this rocky patch and is a cantor at Central Synagogue, a huge Manhattan synoaguge and is singing Kol Nidre at Avrey Fisher Hall as we speak. However, as the High Holy Days arrived his year, I found myself fixated on her story because of what it teaches about the tension inherent in her vulnerability.

On the one hand, pursuing her dream put her insecurities at the forefront and left her incredibly vulnerable to other’s criticisms. In truth, she felt more pain that she would have, had she not pursued this dream. This is not unique. Leaving oneself vulnerable is frightening because it exposes our weaknesses. We fear sharing our wishes because we worry that others will tell us they are untenable. We silence our dreams because if we fail to achieve them, our failure reflects badly on our character. We are reluctant to learn a new skill because in the interim it means we may be bad at it. Then instead of saying that we are bad at the guitar or Spanish or basketball, we worry that our mistakes, which are a natural part of learning, will just mean that we are bad. We spin stories in our heads: if I can’t learn to strum the guitar does this means I’m incapable of learning things, and if I can’t learn new things does this mean I’m not smart anymore? There is little question that the safest route we can take is to avoid anything that may leave us feeling vulnerable and exposed.

Yet, making herself vulnerable left Julia open to fulfill her dreams. For her, it was worth the struggle. And she’s not alone:

The Torah teaches that 3,500 years ago, when the Jews were enslaved in Egypt, God appeared in a burning bush to Moses and charged him with freeing the Israelites. Yet, no sooner does God finish telling Moses his task than Moses replies, “Mi Ani…who am I that I should go to Pharaoh and free the Israelites from Egypt?”

As God and Moses talk more, it becomes clear why Moses is reluctant to go. He fears failure. He worries that when the time comes to perform miracles he will be unable to do them. He is frightened of his weaknesses. He knows he lacks all the answers. He has a speech impediment that he fears will get in his way of advocating for the Israelites.

In worrying about being exposed as the powerless, inexperienced, inarticulate, prophetic novice that he sees in the mirror, Moses almost passes up the opportunity to be the Jewish people’s greatest leader and teacher. Moses knows that he will certainly struggle and fail during his mission to Egypt and the pain from this is almost too great to bear.

What Moses doesn’t realize when he is about to reject God’s offer is the flip side. By exposing himself to the potential for pain, he will get the chance later to speak with God, panim el panim, face to face. He will teach generations of his people to love God and one another. Vulnerability opens the door for the fulfillment of our spiritual and emotional ideals even if sometimes it is accompanied by feelings of doubt. fear, and shame.

In her recent book, “Daring Greatly” Dr. Brene Brown discovered something odd while researching the subject of vulnerability. She asked her patients for a list of the things that made them feel the most vulnerable. At first they answered in the obvious ways, citing things like sickness, loss of a loved one, loss of a job, and divorce. But when pushed harder, this is what she found:

Standing over a sleeping child

Loving my job

Spending time with my parents

Going into remission

Getting promoted

And

Falling in love

It took a good year of therapy for Dr. Brown to embrace this paradigm shift in thinking. True, being vulnerable means risking failure, but it is also directly tied to happiness.

Each item expressed brings with it a great deal of baggage and fear. The more we love someone, the more that is on the line if that relationship were to fail. The more we let someone in to who we really are, the more fodder they have access to if they were to try to hurt us. The more a parent loves a child, the harder it will be when that child seeks independence. If an addict gives up his drug habit, it means he will be healthier and happier but it also means he may have to face the inner demons he was hiding by using.

As I learned more, I found myself agreeing about the tie between vulnerability and happiness, especially as it pertains to getting promoted. When I began officially as a Rabbi at Congregation Beth Elohim a few months ago, I was incredibly scared. I had been the Rabbinic intern for three years and I knew how to do my job. Getting the title of Rabbi meant that I could expect a higher level of scrutiny to my actions. In truth, this fear was my own invention.

This summer, I performed the first four funerals of my rabbinic career, but I almost postponed them all by nearly refusing to perform my first one, which by the way was seven days into the job. I was so worried that I wouldn’t live up to the perfect image of the Rabbi that I had created for myself that I almost said no. I feared little things like forgetting the words to the prayers and bigger things like saying the wrong name of the deceased or God forbid, falling into the grave. I like many others, could only picture two scenarios: I would either need to be perfect or I would be disastrous.

During that funeral, I absolutely made mistakes. I got to the subway only to realize I had forgotten my eulogy on my kitchen table. I misjudged how long the funeral and burial would take and had to catch a ride home to Brooklyn in the hearse. However, these mistakes did not matter. That funeral, and the other three, would become the most meaningful part of my summer. Through the vulnerability created by my becoming a Rabbi, I would enter people’s lives in ways I would never imagine and be inspired more than I knew possible.

In a way, our ancient ancestors knew the tie between vulnerability and positive emotions like joy, creativity, fulfillment, and love. There is an ancient Talmudic teaching that the only way to truly become a scholar of Torah is to stumble over the words (Talmud Bavli Gittin 43a). True we want to be right, but our ancestors knew that the embarrassment felt by not knowing something was the first step to knowledge. If we failed to make mistakes in the classroom we would never improve our skills.

The Rabbis also relate vulnerability to leadership. They ask the question: why is it that King Saul, ancient Israel’s first king, did not warrant his children to be king after him. Why instead does David and his line become the kings of Israel? Their answer is telling. Saul sinned by trying all the time to be to perfect and wasn’t genuine. He never let himself be vulnerable and therefore wasn’t an open enough leader. A real leader, our tradition teaches, must wear his flaws like a coat (Yoma 22b). Only then would he understand those he leads and they him.

Perhaps the most famous acknowledgment about the power of vulnerability appears in the prayer Hineini, which is recited during Musaf services on both Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Called affectionately the “Hazzan’s prayer” Cantor’s around the country, like Julia, are called upon to stand publically before their Congregation and express their fears in song. The liturgical poem expresses the fear they may feel in being a prayer leader, the paradox in asking for forgiveness when they themselves are imperfect. They even have to acknowledge, on Yom Kippur of all days, that they could be better looking and have better voices. Yet, the prayer continues, in spite of these and other imperfections. God should accept their prayers. In a way, reciting this prayer and publically acknowledging their vulnerability makes them more human, more humble, and gives them the honor of leading a community in prayer. And it also makes them more open to God.

This is because vulnerability isn’t just the seat of joy and creativity but also of spirituality. Two generations ago, Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel came up with the idea of radical amazement, the feeling one gets when he stands in awe of the natural world. Standing before a mountain or a vast expanse of water is powerful, precisely because it makes us feel so small and human. In feeling this awe, Heschel teaches, we feel God. Those who reject weakness, who refuse to feel small, may miss significant experiences with the divine.

Radical amazement is tied to vulnerability in another way: both are surprising. We don’t always know how we will feel. Julia had no idea when she started her journey to the cantorate that it would end up being painful. I had no idea when I decided to stay at CBE that I would be as frightened of my first funeral. Not even Moses knew how hard advocating for the people would be. The important thing is not that you know how you will feel in a given situation but that you don’t run from those feelings.

Since so much good is tied to vulnerability, my challenge for you this year is to embrace it. Be open. Take risks with your heart. Embrace mistakes. Let yourself love deeper. Laugh harder. If you do, you’ll be more present, more available, and more engaged with the people around you, with yourself, and with God. Then you might live out the ideal of our ancient author of the Hineini prayer:

Kol tzarut v’ra’ut, hafach na lanu…k’sason u’lisimcha. L’chayim u’lishalom.

That through our fears and affliction we find joy, life, and peace;


Ha’emet v’hashalom e’havu.

May truth and peace be precious to us


B’A’A Shomei Tefilah

Blessed are you God who hears our prayers.

Fundraising- when giving money be clear (temurah 31b)

I haven't written in a while but this is too good.

Does someone have control over what happens to their money when they donate to their shul? There is an analogy in today's daf that speaks to this question. The answer is maybe...

Here it is. There are two ways one can donate to the ancient temple. On the one hans they can make a bedek habayit. This is a donation fore the upkeep of the temple. The other is called kodshei hamizbeach which means a donation that will be used for a sacrifice to God. According to the Mishnah if someone donates something but does not say to which category he wants his sacrifice to go it becomes bedek habayit and can be used to fix the leaky roof.

I wonder if this is a useful paradigm for temple fundraising today. A plain gift to a temple can be used for anything. But if one expresses a programmatic initiative or specific service one should honor this request (provided it fits the vision for the community). This idea is not novel. Plenty of communities have this policy. However it is interesting that one can find a precursor for it in our tradition.

Please excuse typos. I wrote this ont iPhone.

A religion of deed

Just finished Tractate Chullin! It's my 14th complete tractate! Now onto the post...

One reason I love Judaism is that it is mainly a religion of deed. That's why I was surprised today when I came across a teaching that one can be punished for his thoughts - if that thought was about idol worship.

The teaching come in the context of an incident where a child sends away a mother bird before fetching eggs for his father. Based on the Torah, one is promised a long life if he does either of two commandments (sending away a mother bird before taking their young and honoring one's parents). However, on his way down the child falls to his death, and the text must struggle with the question of theodicy: how can such a bad thing happen to such a meritorious boy?

In debating what went wrong the Talmud suggests that he was punished for his sinful thoughts. However that is quickly dismissed because "The holy one does not consider a sinful thought to be in the realm of deeds." Therefore the child would not be punished on account of this.

However, the text continues, if he was thinking about idol worship that warrants punishment. So what's different about idol worship?

The Meiri has an interesting answer: Idol worship at it's core is a belief in one's heart.

When I pray to God I do a lot. I read words. I bow. I stand. However, my real prayer comes from my intention. That's different than say eating pork because I can think about the other white meat till the cows come home but until I eat it I haven't done anything wrong. Thinking about Baal or any other gods, is in a way akin to actually worshipping them.

So what does this text teach us? There is something special about prayer that nothing else has and it's the fact that we can do it even while others are watching. Prayer is inner and personal. Prayer is sui generis which makes it all the more powerful.

Podcast Parshat Noach

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Temporary Wilderness - A Sukkot Sermon

The News of Gilad Shalit's release after 5 years of captivity prompted me to change my Sukkot sermon last minute. I'd love to hear your thoughts about it.

בַּסֻּכֹּת תֵּשְׁבוּ, שִׁבְעַת יָמִים; כָּל-הָאֶזְרָח, בְּיִשְׂרָאֵל, יֵשְׁבוּ, בַּסֻּכֹּת.

You shall sit in sukkot for seven days, all the citizenry of Israel shall sit in sukkot.[1]

And so we do. We sit in these sukkot, the next verse tells us, so that the generations may know that God made the children of Israel dwell in booths, when God brought them out of the land of Egypt. Sukkot and the sukkah remind us of the wilderness, of the wandering. The sukkah itself symbolizes impermanence. The rules regulating its size and construction, the materials which can be used, even the hole-y roof, all these requirements signify this dwelling’s temporary nature. Even our visitors, the famous ushpizin only come in for a day. They join us for a part of the holiday, and then make their exit. The festival of Sukkot and its booths suggest the transient nature of life, the ebb and flow. To every thing, there is a season.[2]

Why live in these temporary dwellings? Yes, the verse says that we are to remember the exodus from Egypt, but isn’t every other holiday also a time to recall the exodus from Egypt? After all, Shabbat asks us to remember the exodus; it’s right there in the Kiddush! Whereas in other chapters of the Torah, different festivals and Shabbat are tied to the exodus, in our chapter of Leviticus, there is only one mention of the exodus, and that is connected to Sukkot. Only Sukkot, so that future generations will know that God made us dwell in booths when we left Egypt. Why the special significance here? Yes, we lived in booths, but it is also more than that. It all comes back to impermanence, but not of the dwellings, per se, rather of the experience.

For it is also the wilderness which is temporary. Isolation and separation from our land is temporary. The hard days and nights, the tough work of getting to know God and understanding God’s power: that won’t last forever. One day, we will cross the Jordan. One day, there will be one God whose name is one.[3] So, we remind ourselves of that, every year for a week. We come together to build sukkot and celebrate with the Lulav and Etrog. Each year, we string the autumnal colored decorations, repurposing Halloween and Thanksgiving knick-knacks for our temporary dwelling to remind us of the days when we were in the wilderness. We bring with us a recollection of our redemptive journey to freedom and hope for our ultimate redemption. All thanks to the little, temporary structure.

Sukkot asks that we bring the wilderness with us, but sometimes we may choose to highlight the wilderness on our own. How interesting, then, that this year, we are all paying attention to temporary dwellings in a new way. We are called to take note of the wilderness of those isolated and separated. Summoned to see those working hard and not getting ahead. This summer, thousands of Israelis moved to tents in every major city and many not-so-major ones. They were young people looking to establish themselves in their land, though all they found was wilderness. They found rising costs of food, no mannah to gather. They found inaccessible housing, they couldn’t even afford an apartment the size of a sukkah. And so, they built cities of temporary dwellings. All to call attention to their wilderness. They came together in their tents and huts to highlight the wilderness of their present, not to remember the wilderness of their past and hoping for a brighter future.

In this country as well, the Occupy Wall Street movement shines a light on those mired in a wilderness. The wilderness of low wages and high prices for food, fuel and health care. The wilderness of a tax code considered overly beneficial to corporations and the wealthiest. The wilderness of disenfranchisement from representative government, feeling like they don’t have a voice, because they can’t afford a lobbyist. These protestors, whether we agree with them or not, even in part, call to mind a perceived wilderness in this nation through their tents. They are attempting to focus our attention toward the majority who had until now not spoken up, who had not, until recently, reached its breaking point. They call to mind those who are the most vulnerable when left out in the elements. And they do it all from their tents in the financial district, promising not to go home until something changes.

And sometimes, things do change. A little over a year ago, one family set up their own temporary dwelling, outside the Prime Minister’s residence in Jerusalem, on Azza Street. This tent, modest in stature, recalled another wilderness. This time, the wilderness of one. One soldier, who as of today has been in captivity 1936 days. The Shalit family set up this tent saying that until their son was brought home, they would not go home. While their son was in the wilderness, they would brave it with him, and remind people that there was still someone out in the desert. This year, the festival of Sukkot will be remembered not only because of the Shalit family’s temporary dwelling, but because of the redemption that followed. It will be remembered as the time when Gilad Shalit was freed from his captivity and brought forth to freedom. When he crossed back into his homeland. He is due to be transferred to Egypt and then to Israel early next week.

And it is Gilad Shalit’s freedom that ultimately reminds us of the joy that we are meant to feel on Sukkot. For even though the dwellings are temporary, reminding us of the difficulties of the wilderness, the mere fact that we build them means that we have prevailed. We were rescued from Egypt. We have made it through the wilderness in the past, we will do it again.

Whether reminding us of the difficulties in our past, revealing the wildernesses of our present, or serving as a symbol of making it through the desert, our modest huts resonate in impressive ways. The schach on the roof will fade from the green of freshly cut bows to a pale brown. The paper garlands will fade in the sun and be ravaged by the wind and the rain. The gourds will wither. Yet each year we build again. Each year we decorate again. Each year we invite our guests in. We know that the wilderness is only temporary.

May we all recognize the wildernesses these sukkot represent, both past and present. May we rejoice that freedom has been achieved and another of the citizenry of Israel can look back on wilderness rather than forward to more days in the desert. And, with these sukkot all around us as we gather in this holy community, may we all pray for the Sukkat Shalom, the Sukkah of peace to prevail over us, over all of Israel and over all of humanity.

Ken Yehi Ratzon.

---

[1] Lev 23:42

[2] Eccl. 3:1

[3] Zecharia 14:9

Honoring Your Parents - only gains (Chullin 110b)

I've always wondered why so few laws in the Torah have rewards attached to them. Honoring parents (Kibud Av v'Em) is perhaps the most famous. Here's the text:

Honor your father and your mother, that you may long endure on the land that the Lord your God is assigning to you. (Ex. 20:12)

According to the daf from a few days ago there is an interesting reason for this. The text reads:

 Any positive command whose reward is written in the verse alongside its command, the lower (earthly) court is not admonished with respect to it

We know that in the Talmud, a court can compel someone to obey a law, even a positive command like building a sukkah, by punishing them (usually with lashes). However, as the above text teaches, if the Torah gives a reward for doing a commandment, the court cannot compel them to obey the command. That's because the punishment for not obeying the commandment is simply that they will not receive the reward.

In other words: the only thing one has to lose by not obeying his parents is the "reward" of a longer life! Should they mess up, their life expectancy stays what it always would be.

So what's so special about obeying one's parents? I imagine the tradition knows just how hard it is to truly honor one's parents. How do you care for them when they are old? How do you take their advice when you think you are correct?

Like everything we make mistakes with our parents, but knowing what's on the line and that it's easier to mess up here (as opposed to simply not putting up a sukkah), the tradition creates a fail safe. We can only go up from here!

My Rosh Hashanah Sermon - would love to hear your thoughts!

In Marc Foster’s “Stranger than Fiction” Howard Crick’s life is turned upside down when he realizes he might be a character in novel. Immediately, Crick, played by Will Ferrel, seeks out a literature professor to find out what to do. His instructions are clear, figure out whether he is a character in comedy or a tragedy. As the narrative continues we find Crick carrying around a notebook. On one side, he has written the word, comedy. On the other side, he has written the word tragedy. As he lives his life, he begins tallying up moments of tragedy and comedy until he looks his love in the eyes and says, in perhaps the funniest moment of the movie, “I think I’m in a tragedy!”

Howard Crick is not the only person in history to divide stories into comedies and tragedies. Since Aristotle, literature has been placed into one of these two categories. Comedies begin in disarray but over the course of the narrative, they move toward unity until they finish with a final act of unity, usually a marriage. Think “Taming of the Shrew” or even “The Hangover.” Tragedy on the other hand, begins well but because of some fatal flaw everyone ends up dead on the floor. These range from “Hamlet” to Scorseese’s “The Departed.”

It seems today people are still using these classical definitions to debate the present state of the Jewish community. Open the newspaper and you’ll find many arguing that we are living in a tragedy. The Jewish population is shrinking, young Jews lack engagement with Israel, hostility toward religion is more accepted than it ever has been in America, the future of many of our greatest Jewish institutions is in question, including the future of the synagogue. Some view these as fatal flaws and fear that they spell the tragic death of the American Jewish community and perhaps the Jewish people.

Then of course, there are those who feel that we are living in a comedy. Look at the Jewish Meditation Center of Brooklyn and other similar organizations and you’ll see a renewed commitment to Jewish spiritual connection. Pray with Altshul or any other independent minyan and you’ll see an intense and powerful connection to Jewish prayer and community. Anti-Semitism is at an all time low, and in fact, we might actually be in a period of Philo-Semitism, a love of Jews. And of course, the current generation of Jews is the most secularly educated in history and this creates stronger leaders and brings to the table new ideas. Follow the comedy paradigm and the Jewish future has never been more sound than it is today.

In a way, the tragedy / comedy dichotomy is a false one. Jewish narratives do not function as one or the other. Like good postmodern movie, Jewish time combines moments of comedy and tragedy. Let me give you two examples:

Each week, the Jewish calendar relives the story of creation. Just as the world was created out of chaos and emptiness, tohu v’avohu so too does our week begin is disarray. However, our sages teach us that like any good comedy as our week progresses it moves toward wholeness. Monday is less broken than Sunday, Thursday less than Wednesday, until Shabbat arrives and our comedy ends like most, with a wedding as we welcome the Shabbas bride during the singing of L’cha Dodi. This wedding ushers in a 24 hour period where we gain an extra soul, taste the world to come, and experience wholeness unlike any other time during the week. It’s the ultimate happy ending.

However, our story doesn’t end there. Humanity has a fatal flaw. We haven’t brought about redemption. Our world, because of hunger, hate, injustice, and fear cannot sustain the unity of Shabbat. Saturday night arrives, Shabbat crumbles and we need the smells and sounds of the Havdallah services just to survive. Our comedy ends in tragedy. Our world is again in chaos and we must start our comedy narrative anew.

Like the Jewish week, the Jewish year bounces between comedy and tragedy. Each year, during the month of Elul we engage in a sacred drama with God. God, who according the Abraham Joshua Heschel is in search of humanity, goes looking for us. At some point right before Rosh Hashanah God finds us and in an act of love we unite with God. In fact, our tradition teaches us that at this time every year, humanity is so close to God, that God cannot tell the difference between humanity and the angels. For the rabbis who developed this doctrine, the month of Elul isn’t just a 30-day before the High Holy Days; it is an acronym for this process. Elul means ani l’dodi, v’dodi li, I am my beloved and my beloved is mine. God and humanity are intertwined and unified. The Holy Days are the last scene in the Jewish comedy, as God and the humanity are wed.

However, over the course of the year, we begin to fade. Humanity moves further and further from God. Again, humanity has let the flaws of hate, anger and materialism get in the way and we experience tragedy anew. Each summer as a reminder that our world is not whole, we arrive at the 9th day of the month of Av, Tisha B’av and are forced to relive the destruction of the Temple and God’s exile from our midst. But like our Jewish week, time moves in cycles. The month of Elul starts again and our tragedy turns to comedy anew.

Both the Jewish week and the Jewish year are microcosms of Jewish history. These narratives tell us many things about our relationship to God and to the Jewish story. However, most importantly, they tells us that Jewish time is neither tragedy nor comedy but the inextricable linking of the two.

Those who look at Jewish history can certainly make a reasonable argument that we live in a tragedy. I often look around at hostility toward Israel or see the shrinking demographic data and I feel the fear and regret I do when I say goodbye to Shabbat on Saturday night. However, I can also make a reasonable argument that we live in a comedy. I observe the energy in the Brooklyn Jews community, I hear a high-school student say that he’s never experienced anti-Semitism, I see how liberal Judaism has accepted fully the notion of gay marriage and I feel much like I do on Friday night when the Shabbas bride enters.

Throughout time, the Jewish world has contained pessimists and optimists. To steal a phrase from Simon Rawidowicz, Judaism is the “ever dying people.” Yet, we are also the ever-thriving people! Saul Bellow described Jewish literature (as a representation of Jewish life) as “a curious intermingling of laughter and trembling” because the tragedy narrative and the comedy narrative depend on one another. Just as Shabbat is so much sweeter because we experienced the chaos of the week, and Saturday night is so much harder because we’ve experienced the peace of Shabbat, our tragedy narratives make our comedy narratives stronger and visa versa.

A brit milah of a newborn baby has added meaning in light of the narrative of shrinking demographics. Anyone who joins Congregation Beth Elohim or goes to a Federation program proves wrong those who say that our age cohort does not care about Jewish institutions. And it works the opposite way. The narrative of non-affiliation forces congregations and organizations to avoid staleness and self-gratification. The narrative of lack of Israel engagement empowers us to create innovative programs and experiences like Birthright to educate our community about the richness of the state of Israel.

Tragedy and comedy narratives may seem mutually exclusive but they are not. A rich Jewish future is built on mutual interdependence of these stories. As Jews, we must laugh in the face of our greatest fears and view our greatest successes with a bit a fear. That’s the only way to avoid complacency.

However, Jewish time is not an endless cycle of bouncing between comedy and tragedy. Although the two are intertwined, the idea of redemption has always remained a foremost hope of the Jewish people. For some this is called the Messianic era. For others it is called peace, security, or stability. We may live today in both a comedy and a tragedy but it’s been the hope the Jewish people for millennia that we end up well. One day Shabbat will begin and it not end. Then life will be “yom shkulo Shabbat—the perfectly actualized Shabbat day. One day we unite with God at the High Holy Days and we don’t lose that connection. Maimonides’ famous statement, “ani mamamin, b’emunah sh’lemah,” I believe with perfect faith in the coming of the messianic age is statement of faith that we live in a comedy.

Time may vacillate between comedy and tragedy but it doesn’t function like a ferris wheel. We aren’t stuck in a perpetual and inescapable cycle of ups and downsbetween good and bad, joyshope and fears. Jewish time differs from those in say a Greek novel because history has a direction. Jewish time looks less like a hamster wheel and more like a…well a Shofar!

[hold out long, curved shofar]

The shape of the Shofar reminds us that we live in the interplay between the high’s and low’s but more importantly that one day the tragedy narrative will dissolve and we will end our story in a comedy. Yes, a shofar loops around, but it also ends up somewhere a little further ahead than where it began. One reason we blow the shofar is to remind us that there is a better place. We sound the horn to rouse us from our pessimism, to collect up our feelings of exile, pain, and fear and to acknowledge that the “ever dying people” will continue to thrive.

We live in a scary time. However, we also live in a hopeful time. Both narratives are important and both are crucial a whole Jewish story. Whether we see our current reality as a comedy or tragedy is really up the individual. There are enough elements of both to make a strong case for either. But Jewish history and faith teach us that no matter how many checks we put in the tragedy or comedy box we are a link in a history that is always moving toward betterment and self-actualization. There’s nothing more hopeful and entertaining than that!