My Midrash on the Akedah: Rosh Hashanah Day 2 Sermon, 5775

Intro:

Every Rosh Hashanah, I struggle with the Akedah, the story of the binding of Isaac. On first inspection, it seems to be about ideas that do not speak to my Jewish Identity: blind faith and ultimate sacrifice. Like Jacob wrestling with the angel, I must wrestle this text to the ground and hold it there until I can extract from it a blessing: some kind of meaning for the day.

The Akedah is a terse story with very little detail. So much is left unsaid. What was Abraham thinking? What was Isaac thinking? What was Sarah thinking? The spaces in the text are enormous. They are shadows that we must fill with light if we are to see our way through.

Midrash is the ancient tool for filling in these spaces. It’s an interpretive process for fleshing out the story, filling in the gaps between the words with the truths of our own lives.

One of my favorite examples of Midrash comes from Pirke Avot. The Rabbis believed firmly that all the disparate stories in the Torah were actually connected. So they imagine that in the twilight of the 6^th day of creation, in the hour before the first Shabbat, God made 10 mystical items that would serve the Jewish people later on. For instance, in that hour God created Moses’s staff, which he would use to split the sea, and Miriam’s well, which provided the Israelites with water in the desert. And, apropos for today, the ram, which would replace Isaac in the Akedah sacrifice. Thus, the Rabbis use the tool of midrash to weaved their own truth into the text.

Each year when I approach the Akedah, I write my own Midrash in my head to demystify the text. What I would like to do with you today, is share the story I’m telling myself this year. Some of it comes from traditional sources, and some comes from my own imagination. I will tell it as one coherent story, but I have placed an annotated version in the library, if you are interested to know the sources for these stories.   What I present from here is my own understanding of the Akedah – The binding of Isaac – that speaks to me on this Rosh Hashanah.

My Midrash:

Abraham sits alone outside his tent. His wife and son sleep inside but Abraham is restless. He thinks back over the last 25 years of his life, since first he was called by God. In the beginning, he had so much hope. The gods of the people around him were angry and vengeful, fickle and cold. They required constant devotion and sacrifice, sometimes even the sacrifice of children. [1] But God’s promise to Abraham was a different kind of relationship, a covenant, a ברית. Adonai would take Abraham and his descendants to be God’s people, and Adonai would be their God.[2] God would bless them and keep them.[3] This would not be a covenant of fear and trembling, but rather a covenant of אהבה רבה – of everlasting love on both sides.

But the last few years had seemed different. Abraham feels like he has been testing God, and God is barely passing. Abraham’s God had once again chosen to be a destroyer, leveling the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah. Abraham had argued on their behalf. He had stood in front of the Divine and convinced God to choose mercy, to believe in the possibility of change. But when God could find nothing redeeming in those cities, God laid them to waste. Only Abraham’s nephew had escaped God’s wrath, but even his niece had died, when she turned to see her city one last time. Abraham still wept for her sudden end. Salty tears on his cheeks.

All his life, he had wanted a child, a son whom he could teach to love God as he did. And finally, when he had that son, a treasured child, God had allowed the boy to be exiled. The Eternal assured him that his younger son, Isaac, would carry on his name and his faith, and that Ishmael, too, would grow up to father his own nation. But still, Abraham was distressed.[4] Was this God’s reward for his faith?

After all these things, Abraham sits alone and thinks. What has become of the promise that God made to him? Was this the God who was forging a new path? Had Abraham smashed his father’s idols for this?

God watches Abraham curiously. He is God’s prophet, God's pride and joy. God had tried different types of relationships with humanity before, but they had all failed. Adam and Eve’s expulsion from the Garden, Noah and the flood: examples of God’s inability to keep humanity from sin. So God tried a new approach. God set out to be a teacher, and not just a master, to lead the people towards a righteous life. And this began with Abraham, whose charisma was matched only by his kindness, who was gregarious and generous. Abraham embodied the spirit of the new way, the way of faith and hope that God desired. So God made a covenant with Abraham and the generations to follow him, to love them and care for them if they would love God in return.

And things had been going so well since then. Nine times, God gave Abraham tests. Not to prove anything to God, but to prove to Abraham, and to the rest of the families of the earth, that Abraham was a true prophet, and a man of faith. And Abraham had passed each of these tests with flying colors. When God told Abraham that God was going to destroy Sodom and Gomorrah, God was so proud to see Abraham argue back, to hear him say, “You told me that you were the God of Justice and Mercy, and if that is true, then have mercy here.” What a proud moment, to hear him stand and declare firmly what was right. And it had caused God great agony to find that there not even 10 righteous people in the cities. If only Abraham had argued for a lower number!

So now, it pains God to see Abraham acting so despondently, to see his faith and his hope wavering. A final test was needed, to prove once and for all that this lonely man of faith would start a people. God had always known that this test would come, and now it was time.

The Torah Says:

Chapter 22, Verse 1: Now after these events it was that God tested Abraham and said to him: “Abraham,” and he [Abraham] said, “Here I am.”[5]

Verse 2: [God] said, “Pray take your son, your only-one, whom you love, Isaac, and go forth to the land of Moriah. Bring him up there as an offering upon one of the mountains that I will show you.”

Abraham says nothing. Why doesn’t he argue for his son? What has become of the brilliant orator who defended Sodom and Gomorrah?[6]

This is it, Abraham thinks. My last test of God. I thought You were the God who would not demand such a thing. I thought you were the God who was more merciful than wrathful. I’ll do as you ask, this last time. Perhaps you have a plan, and my beloved son will survive. And if not, then your promise of a great nation will die with him. I will go to this place you send me, not as a test of my moral fiber, but of Yours.[7]

The Torah Says:

Verse 3: Abraham rose early in the morning and saddled his donkey, he took his two serving-lads with him and Isaac his son… and set out towards the place that God had told him of.

They walk in silence. Abraham and his family were encamped in Hebron, and God sent them to Moriah, modern-day Jerusalem. It should only take about eight hours to walk there, but the Torah says it took three days.[8] Abraham is dragging his feet. He looks down at the sand, considering his situation carefully.

But as he walks, he makes a subtle choice. It happens gradually, over the course of those three days. He barely even notices it, but slowly, he decides to have faith. God will be what God had promised to be. His God would not be the kind of God to demand such a sacrifice. Abraham cannot imagine how it will work out, but slowly, surely, he becomes more certain that it will. Even in the face of unspeakable fear, the threat of unfathomable tragedy, Abraham has hope.

The Torah Says:

Verse 4: On the third day Abraham lifted his eyes and saw the place from afar.

On the third day, Abraham is feeling better, and moving faster. And for the first time, he lifts his eyes. In that moment, he sees before him the mountain, and at the top of the mountain, he sees the presence of the Eternal waiting for him.[9] When Abraham speaks to his servants, there is hope in his voice:

The Torah Says:

Verse 5: Abraham said to his servants, “You stay here, and I and the lad will go yonder. We will worship and we will return to you.”

He says, “We will return to you.” [10] I think Abraham is being honest. He really does believe that Isaac will return with him, that they will both survive this ordeal. Even in the face of all the evidence to the contrary, he believes that there is goodness and mercy to be found in God. Abraham and Isaac leave the group and ascend, together. They go up, to see what kind of God they will find there.

The Torah Says:

Verse 6: Abraham took the wood for the offering [and] the fire and the knife. And the two of them went together.

The two of them “went together.”[11] The time has come to talk. Abraham is nearing the end of his life. He wants to impart to his son his hopes and dreams for the future. He wants to pass on his relationship with God. But he does not know how to do it in a way that does not feel compulsory. How can he bestow his faith without Isaac feeling bound?

But it is Isaac who speaks first:

The Torah Says:

Verse 7: Isaac said to Abraham his father, “Father”, and he [Abraham] said, “Here I am, my son.” He said “Here is the fire and the wood, but where is the lamb for the offering?”

Verse 8: Abraham said, “God will see to the lamb for the offering, my son.” And the two of them went on together.

Isaac is no fool. His father’s answer sounds evasive, and it leaves him troubled. Isaac starts to sense that he may be the lamb. To a younger generation, a parent’s faith can seem impossible, fanatical even. How can you worship a God who would ask such a thing of you?

But Abraham really means it. As he walked those three days, he decided to believe that an answer would come. And when he lifts up his eyes to the mountain and sees the presence of God, he knows that God will be his help and Isaac’s salvation.[12] Abraham says, “God will see to the lamb.”[13] He is growing more confident that God will see them and remember God’s promise to grant them life. As Isaac’s faith falters, Abraham’s resolve becomes strong.

The Torah Says:

Verse 9: They came to the place that God had told him of. There Abraham built the altar and arranged the wood and bound Isaac his son, and placed him on the altar on top of the wood.

Abraham finds there an Altar. It had fallen into disrepair. As Abraham rebuilds it, he thinks of the history of this place. Our tradition says it was the same altar on which Adam and Eve had made sacrifices when they were expelled from the Garden of Eden. It was the same altar on which Noah had made sacrifices after the flood.[14] This was a place where people worshipped a God who had taken from them everything. People had made sacrifices here after seeing God’s mighty and merciless hand. Now Abraham stands in front of the altar and wonders, will God again choose destruction, or will God choose faith in the future? Abraham’s resolve flickers. Will God keep faith in my family as I have kept faith in God? Or will God again make this a place where God demands ultimate sacrifices?

The Torah Says:

Verse 10: Abraham stretched out his hand, and he took the knife to slay his son.

Abraham moves slowly. He raises the knife. In each passing second, Abraham thinks he will hear God call out to him and say, “This has gone far enough,” but no voice comes. He looks down in to his beloved son’s eyes, tears streaming from his face and falling onto Isaac’s.[15] The whole world stands still. Life and death hang in the balance. He offers this prayer:

              מקור חיים וברכה – Oh Source of Life, and Blessing

              Master of all things.

              You, who sees all, and knows all,

          הִנֵּנִי – here I am.

              I am your faithful servant.

              I have given so much for you.

              I left my parent’s home and journeyed with you to a new land.

              I changed my name. I became a new person.

              I circumcised myself, and my sons.[16] 

              I offered them up. Not for a sacrifice, but for a covenant.

              A promise for our future.

But now, my beloved Ishmael is banished. My firstborn sent away.

              And Isaac, whom I love dearly, lays beneath the knife.

              I do not know what I have done to offend you,

That you would ask of me such a thing.

But I beg of you forgiveness, and that you will overturn your decree.

              I will do this awful thing, this unspeakable deed, if you ask.

              So I beg of you not to ask.

              Let the boy live!

              So that he can continue to build after I am gone.

              Let my children be a sign of my faith in you,

And a sign of your faith in me.

              Please, be the God of forgiveness.

              Be the God of life.

As Abraham offers his prayer, the angels in heaven also present themselves before God, weeping in a bitter voice. They say, “Master of the universe, You are called merciful and kindhearted. Have mercy. You promised Abraham that he would have many descendants through Isaac. What will be of the destined nation Israel? Who will accept Your commandments?”[17]

Abraham gazes into Isaac’s eyes. Isaac, however, looks upward and sees the angels as they beg God to invest in the future.[18] In that moment, as he sees the kingdom of heaven standing in his defense, Isaac’s faith grows. The seeds of faith that one generation plants for the next, blossom into new relationships with of God.

God responds to the angels: “When I created the world you begged me not to create human beings. You told me they would be sinners.[19] Would you have said this if you had you known then that there would be people like Abraham?

“I put Abraham through this ordeal to prove to the world, and to you, that man is more than just sin. Humans have free will, and look, they want to choose righteousness. Even in the face of certain death, they choose to hope for the future. And they demand of me the same, that I choose life, and allow them to turn from their evil ways.[20] From the very first moments of creation, I knew that people would choose life.[21] I have always known, and I will prove it to you!”

The Torah Says:

Verse 11: Then out of heaven, an Angel of the Eternal called to him, saying, “Abraham! Abraham!” He [Abraham] said, “Here I am.”

Verse 12: He said, “Do not stretch out your hand against the lad, or do anything to him! For now I know that you are in awe of God – You have not withheld your son, your only-one, from me.

At the last moment, the voice of an angel screams out of the heavens.[22] Abraham’s prayer is answered. God choses life. But in Abraham’s relief, there is also anger. “After all I have done, how could you have even asked for such a sacrifice? You are the God of promises. Now, I stand here, knife in hand and ask you for one final promise:

“There may come a time when Isaac’s descendants sin and are worthy of punishment. Promise me that at such times, you will recall this day. Remember that in this moment, we stayed our hands. You and I both. Just as you have released me from this sacrifice, promise that you will forgive them, on account of our faithfulness to each other today.” [23]

God says, “Let this day be known as Rosh Hashanah, the New Year. On this day I will judge everyone in the world, great and small alike. I will set a decree for each, depending on his or her deeds. If your descendants want me to seek out merit for them and recall the binding of Isaac, let them sound this shofar, and it will be benefit them greatly.”[24]

Abraham is confused. “What is this shofar?”

God answers him, “Turn around, and you will see it.”[25]

The Torah Says:

Verse 13: Abraham lifted his eyes and saw a ram caught behind the thicket by its horns! Abraham went, he took the ram and offered it up as an offering in place of his son.

Again, Abraham lifts his eyes, in hope and faith, and sees the ram caught in the thicket.

God continues, “There may come a time when your descendants are entangled in sin, just as the ram is entangled in the thicket. If they repent, I will forgive their sins on the merit of this moment, on the merit the Akedah.”[26]

God says, “I have known, since the very beginning that humanity would sin. But I have also known that humankind would return to me in repentance, and that I would forgive them. As the sun set on the 6^th day of creation, after I had created human beings, I created a symbol of this day, and of my eternal forgiveness. In that twilight, I created this ram.[27] I gave you this test Abraham because I always knew you would pass. That your faith, your hope, and your desire to return to me, would shine like a beacon, a sign to all the nations.”[28]

And Abraham takes the ram and sacrifices it on the altar in his son’s place.

The Torah Says:

Verse 14: Abraham called the place Adonai Sees. To this day, people say, “On the mountain of the Eternal, [God] will be seen.”

The place is called “Adonai will see” but also “Adonai will be seen.” This mountain is the place where God and humanity truly saw each other. Where each peered into the other’s soul, and saw reflected back, their own hopefulness, their own belief in the power to do better, not to destroy, but to create, to return and repent, and to forgive.

The Torah Says:

Verse 19: Abraham returned to his lads, they arose and went together to Beersheba, and Abraham stayed in Beersheba.

וַיָּשָׁב אַבְרָהָם – And Abraham returns. Yashav. From the same Hebrew root as T’shuvah – To return, to repent. After his crisis of faith. After he loses hope, and finds it again, Abraham returns, to walk again with God. That very first Rosh Hashanah ends with Abraham performing t’shuvah, repentance; returning to walk in his path with the Eternal.

The Akedah begins by saying that God tested Abraham. So what was Abraham’s test? Rabbi Bradley Artson suggests that “Abraham’s test was whether, in trying times, he would still insist on his Jewish identity, would still retain confidence that God’s promised covenant would survive. By refusing to abandon hope in the face of a bleak reality, Abraham remained true to the brit, to the covenant.”[29] In this last test, Abraham finally becomes the first Jew. A Jew chooses hope. A Jew chooses faith in the future. A Jew chooses life. Even in dark moments, a Jew believes in the power of T’shuvah, the power of our ability to return. A Jew believes in a God who believes in them. Not the God of blind faith, but the God of covenant. A God who wants us to stand up like Abraham did for Sodom and Gomorrah. And the God who will stand up for us when we cannot. The God who renews God’s faith in the covenant each year. The God who knows that however far we wander, the mighty sound of the shofar will bring us back.

---

[1] Rabbi Joshua Heller in Rosh Hashanah Readings, edited by Rabbi Dov Peretz Elkins, p125

[2] Exodus 6:7

[3] Numbers 6:24

[4] Genesis 21:11

[5] Translation based on The Five Books of Moses, translated by Everett Fox and The Torah: A Modern Commentary, edited by Gunther Plaut

[6] Yalkhut Me’am Loez. P320

[7] Ed Levin in Rosh Hashanah Readings, edited by Rabbi Dov Peretz Elkins

[8] Yalkhut Me’am Loez, p314

[9] Yalkhut Me’am Loez, p325 (based on Pirkey Rabbi Eliezer)

[10] Yalkhut Me’am Loex, p314

[11] Yalkhut Me’am Loez, p327 (based on Yafe Eynaim)

[12] Psalm 121

[13] Rabbi Bradley Shavit Artson in Rosh Hashanah Readings, edited by Rabbi Dov Peretz Elkins, p141

[14] Yalkhut Me’am Loez, p332 (based on Targum Yonatan)

[15] Yalkhut Me’am Loez, p334 (based on Bereshith Rabbah)

[16] Yalkhut Me’am Loez, p334 (based on Sanhedrin 89b, Bereshith Rabbah, and Targum Yonatan)

[17] Yalkhut Me’am Loez, p334 (based on Pirkey Rebbi Eliezer and Yafe Toar p335)

[18] Yalkhut Me’am Loez, p335 (based on Targum Yonatan)

[19] Bereishit Rabba 8

[20] Yalkhut Me’am Loez, p335 (based on Tanchumah)

[21] Deuternonomy 30:19

[22] Yalkhut Me’am Loez, p336 (based on Yafe Toar p335)

[23] Yalkhut Me’am Loez, p339 (based on Tanchuma)

[24] ibid

[25] ibid

[26] Yalkhut Me’am Loez, p340

[27] Yalkhut Me’am Loez, p340 (based on Yalchut Shimoni

[28] Concept of Maimonides as explained by Gunther Plaut in The Torah: A Modern Commentary, p142

[29] Rabbi Bradley Shavit Artson in Rosh Hashanah Readings, edited by Rabbi Dov Peretz Elkins, p141

Oh How the Mothers are Weeping: Rosh Hashanah Day 1 Sermon, 5775

Shira spent her summer ordering pizzas. It was not what she planned for the summer, but this summer did not turn out how anyone expected. So she made the best of it. Shira’s children were supposed to go to summer camp, but camp was canceled. It was not safe to go outside, so they spent the summer with their mother, ordering pizzas. Shira, and her family live in southern Israel, not far from the Gaza Strip, and the threat of rocket fire kept them confined to their home for much of the summer. So they did a lot of ordering pizzas. But not for themselves. Or, at least, not only for themselves. Shira’s daughter volunteered for a project organized by their community where they would call women whose husbands and sons were on milluim – reserve service, and offer to have a pizza sent to their house for dinner. Judaism teaches us that when someone is having a hard time, friends and neighbors should bring them a meal, but if we can’t leave our house, then we order them a pizza. Shira and her daughters called women from all over the country, women who were losing, at the very least, sleep as the violence continued and their husband’s and son’s service stretched on. They sent dozens and dozens of pizzas. In an e-mail a few weeks ago, Shira told me that the remarkable thing was how the women responded. She wrote, “They were all so grateful, but they were also sure that there were other people more needy or deserving than they.” She was also awestruck at their determination and grit, and selflessness. Shira and her children didn’t take no for an answer. They sent pizzas.

Wassam lives in Canada, with her husband, and her three children. Wassam is a pharmacist and her husband is a pediatrician at a hospital in Ontario. This past spring, Wassam’s husband planned a trip to Gaza, where he grew up, to renew his medical license. He thought he would bring his youngest, his daughter, 8-year-old Salma, to meet her grandmother. They arrived in early June. When the hostilities broke out, the doctor volunteered in a hospital emergency room, helping children wounded in the airstrikes. Soon, he was working 24 hour shifts. Salma stayed with her grandmother.

Wassam sat at home in Ontario, watching the news and fearing the worst. Once the war started, travel out of the Gaza strip was next to impossible, even for foreign nationals. What’s more, Wassam’s husband felt like he could not miss even one shift at the hospital to transport Salma to the border. He was one of very few qualified pediatric emergency physicians in Gaza. There were children there who needed him. So Salma remained inside with her Grandmother, while Wassam, on the other side of the world, watched and prayed, and mobilized a network of supporters and government officials to help her get her daughter home.

When Israel and Hamas agreed to a short-term ceasefire for international aid workers to enter Gaza, Wassam’s network seized the opportunity. Canadian officials worked with the consulates in Tel Aviv, Ramallah, and Amman to extract her. Wassam’s husband drove her to a bus, where she joined other Canadians leaving Gaza. Then he returned to the hospital to continue to help the children there. Salma and the others were driven to Jordan, where they were safely put on a plane. On Friday, August 8, Salma was reunited with her mother, after more than a month away.

Two mothers. Shira and Wassam. A world apart. United by conflict, united by hope, united by care for others and fear for their children. Today, I think of them. But not just these two mothers. The mothers who Shira called, who prayed for their husbands and sons to be safe. The mothers of the children who lay injured in that Gaza hospital, while Wassam’s husband tried to heal them. Mothers praying, and mothers wailing, and mothers having, and losing, and finding hope again. Mothers calling out for their children.

The imagery of the Torah and Haftarah readings on Rosh Hashanah is all about mothers. Sarah and Hagar, Rachel, and Hannah. And not just about mothers in general, but about their pain and struggles, their prayers, hopes, and tears. So many mothers call out to us on this day.

Today we read from Genesis 21, the story of Sarah, and the birth of Isaac. When Sarah finally gave birth, she became jealous of her maidservant Hagar and the son that Hagar had borne to Abraham. She wanted her own son to have the birthright, the inheritance of God’s promise, so she asked Abraham to banish Hagar and Ishmael from their home.

Hagar and Ishmael were sent out into the wilderness. When their water and food ran out, and Hagar could not go on, she placed her son under some bushes and walked a bit further. She thought to herself “let me not look on as the child dies.” And the Torah says וַתִּשָּׂא אֶת־קֹלָהּ וַתֵּבְכְּ “And she raised her voice and wept” (Gen 21:16 WTT). Out in the wilderness, Hagar cries out for her son.

In our Haftarah, we read from the book of Samuel the story of Hannah. Hannah was married to a man named Elkanah. Elkanah had two wives, Hannah and Peninnah. Peninnah had several children, and Hannah had none. This distressed Hannah greatly, especially because Peninnah would tease her mercilessly. Yearly, Elkanan, his wives and children went to the alter at Shilo to make sacrifices and on this family outing, surrounded by Peninnah and her children, Hannah would become acutely aware of her situation. At the annual festive meal, the Haftarah saysוַתִּבְכֶּה וְלֹא תֹאכַל , she wept and did not eat (1Sa 1:7 WTT). Up in the shrine, Hannah cries out for a son.

For tomorrow’s Torah portion, we will read Genesis 22, the Akedah –the story of the binding of Isaac. God commands Abraham to take Isaac and offer him as a sacrifice on mount Moriah. The Torah tells us nothing about Sarah in this story, we have no idea how she felt. Did she know it was going to happen? Did she learn about it afterwards? Did she try and stop it?

Responding to Sarah’s silence, the rabbis wrote a number of midrashim, stories to fill in the gaps in the text. Many pick up on the fact is the next thing that we hear about Sarah, in the section that follows the Akedah, is that she has died. The Rabbis wonder if the news of what Abraham did, or almost did, caused her so much grief and agony that she actually let go of life. Alone in her tent, Sarah cries out for her son.

In tomorrow’s Haftarah, we will read from the book of Jeremiah, written at the beginning of the Babylonian Exile. In it, the prophet writes, “A cry is heard from Ramah – Wailing and bitter weeping” -- רָחֵל מְבַכָּה עַל־בָּנֶיהָ (Jer 31:15 WTT) “Rachel weeping for her children”. Our tradition imagines Rachel, buried near the road from Jerusalem generations before, could “see” as the Israelites went into exile, and she wept for them, praying to God to remember them. Even from beyond the grave, Rachel cries out for her children.

Two days, four readings, and four wailing mothers. Hagar, Sarah, Hannah, and Rachel. Three of the readings explicitly use the world לִבכּוֹת – to weep. The only outlier is the Akedah, where so much pain is implied that the rabbis created a whole library of midrashim. So many tears are shed in our text, on this great and awesome day. Too many mothers cry out for their sons.

It’s been a summer of too many tears. Too many mothers crying out for their sons. Like many Jews around the world, I spent my summer in a haze. When I turned on the news, I was inundated with images of war and destruction, pain and death. My Facebook feed was a constant barrage of posts about conflicts. But I did not see a lot of weeping mothers on the news. Not as many as you would think. I saw a lot of talking heads and pointing fingers. I saw a lot of analysis and punditry. Stories about people like Wassam and Shira were drowned about by the din of body counts and rocket tallies, by the noise of sirens and politicians.

And it was not just abroad. Here at home we had our own share of conflict. Watching the news from places like Ferguson, Missouri was painful, too, and there were so many moments that called on our conscience. I was struck by how quickly the conversation turned from one about a community grieving to a conversation about race in America, about police funding, about wealth and poverty and class. And somehow, in our quickness to put the events in Missouri into their broader context, I worry we lost sight of the pain and the needs of the people involved. Just like in our Torah cycle for today, there were wailing mothers in Missouri, mothers calling out for their children. Rosh Hashanah calls us to respond to them, and not just to the politics of the moment.

I'm not saying we don't need analysis. On the contrary. Clearly a conversation about context is crucial to creating the conditions for change. And perhaps it is also true that the wails of mothers can be overwhelming and hard to hear, and it is all too easy to block out the realities of their pain with the persistence of our rhetoric. Our instinct when we hear reports of suffering individuals on TV is to respond to their pain with analysis. How could this have happened? Who is right? Reports of the fighting in Gaza quickly turn into debates about Israel’s right to defend itself and about the morality of war. Conversations about Ferguson quickly evolved into conversations about race, and class, and privilege. But even as each of the mothers in our holiday readings was situated in a larger context, each one’s pain was real. Ironically, it’s easier to talk about the big picture than to listen to the stories of people in pain. Perhaps it is easier to see the context than to hold in our hearts the sometimes contradictory emotions that come with empathy. Empathy compels us to say, “Even if I don’t agree with you, I feel for you.” The annual reading of the stories of Sarah, Hagar, Hannah, and Rachel call us to check if our inclination to analyze makes us deaf to the wails of mothers.

In today’s Torah portion, God says to Hagar, even though I have chosen to side with Sarah and Isaac, this does not mean I will ignore you in this moment of need. God has chosen Isaac. By the God’s reckoning, Sarah is right to kick out Hagar and Ishmael so that Isaac can be guaranteed the birthright. And yet our tradition also focuses on Hagar’s pain. Even if Sarah is right, or justified, this does not mean that Hagar has to be wrong. In the story, God never speaks to Sarah, but God does speak to Hagar, saying, “Fear not, for I have heard the cry of the boy where he is. Come, lift him up… for I will make a great nation of him.” Hagar cries out for her son, and God answers her.

It always surprises me that the Torah and Haftarah we read on Rosh Hashanah are not about the big picture, about the rhetoric of the day. Today is the birthday of the world, we could read Genesis 1, the story of creation. Many Reform congregations do. But instead we spend these days reading deeply powerful stories of personal petition and divine intercession. We don’t read about the creation of the cosmos or the need for repentance, we read about the wailing of mothers.

Let’s look more closely at the story of Hannah for a minute. Hannah is wracked by pain. The pain of feeling incomplete, the pain of being teased by Peninnah. And so one night, she goes into the sanctuary at Shilo. The Torah says that with the bitterness of her soul she offered a prayer to God. She prays fervently, but silently. She rocks back and forth and weeps. She is alone in the building, though the Priest Eli sits just outside the door. Eli looks over at her and thinks that she is drunk. He approaches her and says, "How long will you make a drunken spectacle of yourself? Sober up!"

Eli cannot see Hannah. He sees her only in the context of the temple, for which he is responsible. It’s sacrilege to be drunk in this sacred space! He does not see her pain, he only sees how she appears in this context, as he perceives her to be defiling the house of God. He sits at the doorway of the shrine, literally he is outside, looking at the whole. He only sees Hannah as a small piece inside this larger puzzle. His concern for the integrity of this institution blinds him to the woman who sits before him in tears.

Hannah turns back to him and says "Oh no, my lord! I have drunk no wine… I have only been speaking all this time out of my great anguish and distress." Suddenly Eli sees her. She is not only a woman in his shine, she is a woman in pain. When he acknowledges her pain, she is no longer just an “other,” now he sees her as a mother, calling out for a son.

It’s not that Eli should not be concerned with his shrine. It is his job to sit at the gate. But until his concern for the bigger picture is balanced against empathy for the individual, he lacks the ability to hear Hannah’s story. We must all be like Eli, who balances a concern for the shrine with compassion for the people who sit within it.

Why do we read about so many wailing mothers on Rosh Hashanah? To remind us that these next ten days are not just about ideas like the birthday of the world, the nature of the universe, the power of repentance and forgiveness. Rather these stories of wailing mothers remind us that these ten days are about people. Sarah and Hagar, Hannah and Rebecca are crying out, begging us to remember them. And not just them, but the real people in our lives. Who are the people we have hurt this year? Who are the people who are crying out to us, who we do not hear? And when we see the people around us hurting, we must resist the urge to be right, and instead, we must be sensitive. Our job is not to justify our actions or react defensively, but instead to help them feel heard. Just like Sarah and Hagar and Hannah were heard. This is our call for the next ten days. To reach out to the people we might have hurt this year and begin to make peace. So when we stand here together at Yom Kippur, we can focus again on the big picture of our lives and our souls, having first heard the call to compassion for those around us.

The stories we read today are not just the stories of mothers who call out for their children, they are also the stories of mothers being answered by God. Sarah prays for a son and is answered. Hagar prays that she and her son be saved, and God hears them. Hannah calls out to God in pain, and God blesses her with a child. We are challenged to be like God, to hear the mournful call of the people around us and ask ourselves how we might answer them. Like Eli, we must first recognize that they are in pain. When we see a person’s agony on TV, we must resist the urge to change the channel or dial up the rhetoric. We must respond to them in their pain.

The Talmud says that the 100 blasts of the Shofar on Rosh Hashanah are related to the wails of the mother of Sisera, the Canaanite General, enemy of the Jews. According to the book of Judges, Sisera’s mother stood on her balcony and wailed at the news of the death of her son. The midrash says she cried out 101 times. Tradition says we blow the shofar to counteract any affect that her crying might have on the heavenly hosts, so that our T’shuvah might not be discredited on her account. Yet we don’t blow the shofar 101 times to cancel out every single tear. Instead we honor that fact that even the mother of our biggest enemy mourns for her son. When we hear the shofar today, let it be a call to hear the cries of pain that come from near and far. The sound of the shofar reminds us of the cries of mothers in pain, and calls us to hear their stories.

About a week after Michael Brown was shot to death in Ferguson, his mother Lesley and their family received a letter from a person who recognized her pain all too well, Sabrina Fulton, mother of Trayvon Martin. In this letter, Sabrina models for us balancing the need to have larger conversations with our obligation to acknowledge the individual. She speaks to Lesley as the leader of The Travon Martin Foundation, an organization whose mission is both to end violence that claims too many children in America, and also to provide support to the families effected by that violence. But she writes to Lesley primarily as a mother. A mother who recognizes her pain. She says:

Michael is much more than a police/gun violence case; Michael is your son. A son that barely had a chance to live. Our children are our future so whenever any of our children – black, white, brown, yellow, or red – are taken from us unnecessarily, it causes a never-ending pain that is unlike anything I could have imagined experiencing.

This Rosh Hashnah, let us be like these mothers. Let us balance the cosmic and the global against the human and the personal. Let us hear the blasts of shofar, not just as a call to action, but a call to listening. Let us be responsive to those around us and those on TV who cry out to us in pain, so that we can be better neighbors, better friends, and better citizens. Let us make this year a year of empathy and listening. A year when we take to heart the message of the Shema: Listen, Israel.

From the Yeshivah Shel Malah: The View from the Heavenly Academy: Erev Rosh Hashnah Sermon 5771

My Jewish Identity was formed two miles above sea level. Up where the air is thin, that’s where my identity took shape. Up in the clouds, I learned how Judaism works in the real world. My Jewish heart beats at 10,200 feet.

Let me explain. I owe my Jewish identity to so many things. When I was here a few weeks ago, I talked about the impact of weekly Shabbat dinners at my grandparents’ house in my hometown of Denver, Colorado. To this I would add a stimulating religious school experience, close relationships with a number of rabbis, and participation in youth group. I was also particularly influenced by my college experience at the University of Maryland, where I discovered a Jewish community that was larger and more diverse than anything I had encountered before. Hillel there was a lesson in Jewish pluralism and the myriad of ways that Jewish identity can be expressed. In particular, in my four years singing in a Jewish a cappella group, with people whose practiced ranged for Orthodox to secular, I learned the power of Jewish communities to create beautiful harmony together. Each of these environments played an important role in the formulation of my Jewish identity.

But one special place stands out as having had more of an impact on my Jewish identity than any other. One unique, magical place that made me the Jew I am today: Summer camp. Not just any summer camp, a Jewish camp, high in the mountains of Colorado, nearly two miles above sea level. A place called Shwayder Camp. There, in the woods, in rustic cabins and an aging dining hall, I first discovered a Judaism that spoke to me. If I were to point to one experience that led me on the path towards being a rabbi more than any other, it would be Shwayder camp.

I spent seven summers as a camper at Shwayder and two as a counselor. And this past summer, after exactly a decade away, now a “grown up,” I went back to summer camp, to serve as the senior educator. At 29, I was the second oldest person in camp. I got to be the veteran, coming home again after a long time doing battle in “the real world.” And it was an incredible blessing to be back. An opportunity to appreciate how much that place had meant and still means to me, and to try and build that experience for others. And I came to better understand how much my identity is informed by my time at Shwayder. The Jew I am today is a camp Jew, a Shwayder Jew, a mountain Jew. And I want to share this Judaism with you. We may not be able to pray at two miles above sea level, but I hope that my camp Judaism will rub off on you a little over the course of my time here in North Carolina. I’d like to bring some Rocky Mountain High to High Point. So tonight I thought I’d share with you the top seven things I learned when I went back to summer camp:

Number 7: What you say matters

When I got back to camp I had the terrifying realization that most of the rest of the staff were my campers 10 years ago. Nothing makes you feel old quite like seeing your former campers take your old job. A few days into camp, I was talking to a member of the senior staff who had been a camper of mine, and she told me that when she was a camper, she and I had had a conversation which had stuck with her all these years. She remembered exactly where it had happened. We had been walking on the path out to the ropes course, and I had told her that Jewish tradition says that if you ask someone for forgiveness three times and they do not forgive you, then you are considered forgiven and you don’t have to ask again. She said that she often thought about that conversation and the Jewish obligation to forgive others and to let go.

Now I have no recollection of this conversation. But it was meaningful to her, and hearing it relayed back to me stuck with me all summer. Not only is the message of what I taught her appropriate for this holiday season, but so too is the fact that she remembered it. Our words have a profound impact on others, even in moments that do not feel significant to us. Something you say to someone this week might be a thing they are still thinking about a decade from now. What an incredible power and responsibility. As we move through these days of repentance, as we make our apologies and rekindle old friendships, let us remember that our words have the power to hurt and to heal, and that they might be remembered, not just today, but in the weeks, years, and even decades that will follow.

Number 6: Prayer is more powerful in the woods.

We have a unique beit knesset, an outdoor sanctuary, at Shwayder. We sit on benches that are carved out of old trees, facing the forest, with a stone alter. The ark is carved from this hundred-year old tree. The creek that runs through camp passes just beyond the sanctuary, so when you close your eyes for Sh’ma, you can hear the gushing water. The roof of the sanctuary is just the blue sky, edged by the mountains that surround our valley. Each night, when I said the Ma’ariv Aravim in this sanctuary, and thanked God for the wonders of creation, it was easy to find meaning in the words. Prayer can be powerful and meaningful indoors, but there is something incredible about praising God while surrounded by the beauty of creation.

There is a Chasidic story about a girl who left the synagogue each morning during her daily prayers to go into the woods. One day her grandfather followed her and watched as his granddaughter prayed amid the trees.

“Why do you go outside to pray?” he asked.

“When I am in nature I feel closer to God,” the girl replied.

“Don’t you know that God is the same everywhere?”

“I know,” said the girl, “but I’m not.”

I know that God is everywhere, but I feel blessed to have places in my life where I am more attuned to God’s presence.

Number 5: The power of return: Or, why it’s not true that you can’t ever go back.

It was strange to go back to camp, to my old stomping grounds. But it was also wonderful. I got a unique chance to give back to a place that meant so much to me as a child. And in doing so, I got to examine who I am and how I came to be me.

The Hebrew word for repentance is T’shuvah, which literally means return. We are reminded that this time of year is an opportunity: not just to return to God, but also to return to ourselves. I have a teacher who each year during the עשרת ימי תשובה, the ten days of repentance, calls one person who has had an impact on his life and thanks them. Each year he picks someone new, and in doing so he gets to reflect on who has contributed to his development. In this way, the Ten Days become days not just of T’shuvah – repentance, but T’shuvah, return.

Today I scheduled a meeting to talk to my high school English teacher next week. She taught me more about writing in one year than anyone else, before or since. She was the hardest teacher I ever had, but only because she had high expectations of us. Expectations she knew we could live up to. And she also cared about us deeply. I remember that before the first weekend of the school year, she wrote her home phone number on the board and told us that if we ever got in trouble and didn’t want to call our parents, we should call her and she would come get us, no questions asked. I cannot wait to call Mrs. McInerney and tell her what a profound impact her teaching and her compassion had on me, both educationally and personally.

Who is a person who told you that you mattered? Have you ever thanked them? What about finding 10 minutes sometime in the next 10 days to track them down and say thank you. Maybe it was recently. Maybe it was long ago. But now’s the time to go back and say thank you. Think what it might mean to them to know what they mean to you.

Number 4: Shabbat comes alive

Shabbat at camp is intense. We sing and dance late into the night. Most of the songs are the same as when I was a camper, sung in the same order and with all the same hand motions. It’s like a giant, two hour choreographed dance number. One of the non-Jewish staff members told me it was like being in a real life Broadway musical. But Shabbat is not restricted to Friday night. The entire 25 hours feels different from the rest of the week. Our schedule changes, our meals are different, our services are more creative. Each week, we set aside a whole day to be different and full of joy.

Abraham Joshua Heschel described Shabbat as “a sanctuary in time.” Human beings feel compelled to mark time, to measure our lives in months and years, to celebrate birthdays and anniversaries. But we Jews also see the value in sanctifying time, in building sanctuaries in time where we and God can dwell, together. The thing I miss most about camp is this pervasive sense of Shabbat, not just as an evening for going to services or having a family meal, but a whole day set aside as a sanctuary to God. My new year’s resolution is to work hard in my own life to create a stronger sense of Shabbat this year, to do more to sanctify the time.

Number 3: Shutting off

When was the last time you spent more than a few hours in a place where there was no cell phone service and limited internet? The biggest blessing of Shwayder is that, because we are so high up and so secluded, we do not get reception. It’s a blessing in disguise. I found it as hard as anyone else to unplug. I had a few days of withdrawal. But its impact on the campers is profound. Other camps fight a constant battle with kids about when it’s appropriate to use their cell phones. But at Shwayder, the kids don’t even bother bringing them up to camp, because they know they will not work. And so, when the kids are outside playing, they are untethered (unless they are playing tetherball). When the staff are interacting with the campers, there are no screens to distract, no buzzes or jingles to call them away from the moment.

I am not on an anti-cell phone crusade. Far from it. I think that cell phones are a great tool for connection. They allow us to draw close to people who are far away. But sometimes, it comes as the expense of the relationships or the experiences around us, and this summer taught me to appreciate the experience of having places where you make it a rule to shut off. My challenge to myself, and to all of you is to think of one or two times and places where you choose to be untethered. A place where you decide to shut off, and disconnect, so that you can reconnect with the people and experiences you treasure most. Maybe it’s an hour every day, or at the dinner table, or even when you are in this building. What are the places and times when you choose to set aside the outside world so that you can be present for those around you?

Number 2: Dor L’dor

Shwayder camp taught me the power of the Jewish value of Dor L’dor, passing tradition from one generation to the next. When I was a camper at Shwayder I had a remarkable time. But I was also sometimes teased. I was a nerdy kid, and an easy target. One night, I had my fill of being taunted by one particularly difficult cabin mate, and I went out on the back porch to get away. One of my counselors, a guy named was Jason, was walking through camp, and he saw me. He came up and said, “Hey, you need to be in the cabin. It’s late.” But I said I couldn’t go inside. Not yet. He saw, in that moment, that I was in need, and he sat down on the steps with me. He told me I mattered, and he told me I was special, and he told me it would get better. And soon, I was able to go back in the cabin, knowing that there were people in the world besides my family who really got me and cared about me.

My first summer as a counselor, Jason was the Assistant Director. A few days into the summer I pulled him aside and told him what that moment meant to me. I told him that I hoped that I would be able to do for a camper what he did for me. “Don’t worry,” he said, “you’ll get your chance.”

One evening, a few weeks later, I was walking through camp when I saw a kid sitting on the steps of his cabin. I kid you not, it was the exact same cabin. I went over to him and he looked up at me with tears in his eyes. So I sat down next to him and told him that he mattered, and that he was special, and that it would get better. I told him all the things that Jason told me, until he was ready to go back inside. Afterwards, I ran to find Jason and tell him that I had just had my porch moment.

Being back this summer and being on senior staff like Jason, I had a lot of time to reflect on this moment, and how I might help counselors to have their own “porch moments.” It made me appreciate the great chain of tradition that we as Jews participate in in. Pirke Avot says, “From all those who taught me, I have gained understanding.” Each influential teacher in my life opened me up to new possibilities, and I feel luckiest in the moments when I get to share what they taught me with others. What is one important thing someone taught you or told you that changed your life? On the drive home, I encourage you to share that one thing with a loved one. Pass on that wisdom and understanding to the people you care about, and they will keep passing it forward long after you are gone. Someday, the young people who were comforted in times of need by the counselors this summer will themselves be counselors who comfort others. And so the chain will continue.

Number 1: Magic is real

At camp, we have something we call Shwayder Magic. It’s those little moments that you realize that you are in a special place. Maybe it’s the moment when everyone is singing together at services and the harmony sounds perfect. Maybe it’s when you are dancing and jumping so hard on Shabbat that pictures fall off the wall. Maybe it’s when a cabin full of middle school girls sneaks up behind you to smother you in handfuls shaving cream (two times!). Maybe it’s a quiet moment on a horseback ride, or a game of cards with your bunkmates. Maybe it’s a late night talk on the steps of your cabin. There is so much magic in every moment. When people tell me that Judaism is struggling in America or that the profession I have chosen is anachronistic, I just want to fly them up to 10,200 feet, to show them Shwayder magic. Call it magic, call it miracles, call it Jewish living, but something special is going on there, and it informs every Jewish decision I make. My dream is to create magical moments like these in as many ways and as many places as I can. That, more than anything, is why I want to be a rabbi. To share that magic with you.

On Kol Nidre, we will read a prayer that speaks of the Yeshivah Shel Malah and the Yeshivah Sel Matah – The heavenly academy and the earthly academy. Our rabbi likes to say that Shwayder Camp is the Yeshivah Shel Malah – The academy on high. There is so much to be learned in that sacred space. So many lessons for the Judaism I hope to live. And my job is to take what I learned up at that academy in the sky, and bring it back down to earth. To teach it here at the Yesivah Shel Matah, our academies back down on the ground, so that everyone can know a little bit of that incredible place that formed my Jewish identity. So that everyone can experience a little bit of that Shwayder Magic. On Yom Kippur we will pray that the Yeshivah Shel Malah and the Yeshivah Sel Matah be engaged in the same task.  My work this year is to bridge the gap, to bring a little bit more of the Yeshivah Shel Malah to you.