Sermons

Last week, sitting at a dinner following a wedding blessing, a fellow guest turned to me and asked, ‘What keeps you awake at night?’ Anxious about the future of Leo Baeck College, the progressive rabbinical seminary, where Rabbi Igor and I and over 170 Liberal and Reform Rabbis have been ordained since it was founded in 1956, I was bending the ear of my neighbour, an art historian and trustee of a significant academic library collection of Judaica and hoping he might offer some pointers for the precarious future of the College.

But I have been reflecting on his question all week. What keeps me awake at night? And wondering, too, what is it that might keep many of us awake at night?

Since the beginning of the pandemic in March 2020, when we closed the synagogue and conducted services from our homes, gradually returning to the Sanctuary over the succeeding months, speaking to a virtual congregation, introducing recorded music from loyal and devoted musicians who stayed with us throughout Covid-19, hoping, praying that as things became a little easier, people would be encouraged to return to live worship rather than livestream, I have felt discomfited repeatedly by the close-to-the-bone words of one of the evening prayers that forms part of our daily, Shabbat and festival liturgy. It touches on what keeps me awake at night.

The prayer is formulated as a blessing - the second blessing following the Shema and immediately preceding the Amidah.  It begins with these words, sung so beautifully just a few moments ago to a Sephardi tune: 

Hashkiveinu, Adonai Eloheynu, l’shalom, v’ha’amideynu Malkeinu, l’chayyim - ‘Grant, Eternal God, that we may lie down in peace, and let us rise up to life renewed’ (Machzor Ruach Chadashah, p. 61)

The blessing is part of what the Talmud calls ge’ulah arichta - ‘a long Redemption’, implying that this blessing is an extension of the previous blessing, in which we refer to the Exodus from Egypt:

‘You have freed us from oppressors and delivered us from tyrants; You led us out of Egypt for ever to serve You in freedom’ (MRC, p. 60).

But merging these two blessings into one long blessing is to misunderstand their full import: one is a blessing of praise for redemption in the past – a reference to coming out of Egypt, the crossing of the Sea of Reeds - God’s redemptive activities with Israel. While the second blessing, known simply by its opening word Hashkiveinu – ‘Cause us to lie down’ is a supplication to guard us from those things that keep us awake at night and to help us fall into a deep and undisturbed sleep, free from anxiety.

[The precise origin of all our prayers is something of a mystery, but we can discern a biblical reference that might have been the inspiration for this longer prayer.  It is a single verse in Psalm 4, which perhaps served as a simple prayer on going to bed at night:
B’shalom yachdav esh’k’vah v’ishan, ki-attah Adonai l’vadad la-vetach toshiveyni -‘Safe and sound, I lie down and sleep, For You alone, O Eternal One keep me secure’ (Psalm 4:9).]

The blessing is mentioned in the Mishnah of Rabbi Judah the Prince, edited at the beginning of the 3rd century (m.Berakhot 1:4), and again in the Talmud, yet scarcely merits any kind of discussion or analysis. And this is surprising, because unlike the blessings of praise, thanksgiving and acknowledgement of God as Creator, Giver of Torah and Redeemer that are recited either side of the Shema, this blessing is a prayer of petition.

As its opening words indicate, we ask God to protect us through the night, to ‘spread over us the shelter of [God’s] peace’ and to ‘be our help.’  But it is the middle of the blessing that makes us tremble; and I am grateful to Rabbi Tony Bayfield who, in a recent talk, articulated exactly what this part of the prayer means to him and what I have long felt about its words.  The blessing continues with this entreaty: V’haseir mé-aleynu oyeiv dever v’cherev v’ra’av v’yagon.  The translation in our Machzor says simply: ‘Shield us from sickness and war, from famine and distress…’ But the literal translation gives us a little more: ‘Remove from us [the] enemy, [the] plague, [the] sword, hunger and sorrow.’

Here is how Rabbi Bayfield interprets these ‘close-to-the-bone’ words using another translation:

‘“Disease” simply screams pandemics: the Black Death, the Great Plague, the ‘Spanish’ flu pandemic that carried off my great-grandfather in 1918 and COVID 19 which carried off my own father in 2020. 

‘“Violence” howls equally loudly war - not just the war in Ukraine but the appalling cloud of terminal weaponry hanging over Taiwan, China and the West.

‘“Famine”, equally loudly and equally insistently, points to the terrifying crop failures and devastating floods resulting from climate change’ (Talk on Personal Theology, given at a joint meeting of the Liberal Conference and Reform Assembly of Rabbis on 13 September 2022).

Each time we recite these words – ‘sickness and war…famine and distress’, it is as though the prayer holds up a mirror to our own world. And even now, with the threat of Covid less acute than it was one and certainly two years ago, the mirror frightens me yet again.

Hilary Mantel, whose premature death just last week, has left us bereft of a highly intelligent, imaginative artist of words, writes this on loss:

‘The pattern of all losses mirrors the pattern of the gravest losses. Disbelief is followed by numbness, numbness by distraction, despair, exhaustion. Your former life still seems to exist, but you can’t get back to it; there is a glimpse in dreams of those peacock lawns and fountains, but you’re fenced out, and each morning you wake up to the loss over again’ (‘Rereading C.S. Lewis,’ The Guardian, 27 December, 2014).

Here Mantel is speaking of grief in her rereading of C.S. Lewis’s slim volume A Grief Observed, written after the death his wife. But as Lewis observes in his opening line, ‘No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.’

Covid-19 left us both grief-stricken and fearful, grieving the loss of loved ones, mourning our own lost pre-pandemic lives, those former lives that Mantel says, ‘you can’t get back to’. Even before we can process those lost years and what they meant to us personally, we find ourselves confronted repeatedly with an absence in our world of imagination, compassion, empathy, understanding, a deficiency of justice and equity. And in their place: there is war, famine, hunger and the appalling wedge of inequality that has been driven further between rich and poor in our own country. 

These are the things that keep me awake at night, that sicken me and paralyse all good intentions, all ambition to reclaim a world that might bring peace, blessings and hope for those most in need.

I said that this is the blessing that discomfits and holds up a mirror of dark reality to our moral sickness, to the war waged by Russia, to hunger, food banks, homelessness, and the wretchedness of people’s desperation and sorrow.

And yet, it is also a blessing that offers us comfort. It asks that we may lie down in peace, but also that we may rise up to life renewed. For each day is a new day, and each year, like this year whose threshold we have just crossed, a new year. It is this prayer, more than any other in our daily, Shabbat and festival liturgy, that also gives us a quiet hope.  It is a blessing that nurtures faith in a Presence that is gracious and merciful; it makes us believe that our existence matters, that we must look forward to ‘life renewed’, it stills our anxious spirits and steers us away from wrongdoing. It is a blessing of spiritual comfort and moral responsibility. 

As we enter this New Year of 5783, may we open ourselves to the discomfiting purpose of prayer when we are too complacent, to prayers that will inspire us to use our gifts for the good of all humanity. May we derive comfort and hope from this act of coming together as a community in prayer, reflection, and determination not to lose hope in the future. Let us place our trust in God’s presence ha-poreis sukkat shalom aleynu v’al-kol-yoshvey tevel – ‘whose sheltering peace descends on us and all who dwell on earth.’ Amen.

Rabbi Alexandra Wright

There is little cause for celebration of the ceasefire between Israel and Gaza that took effect early on Friday morning, although we are thankful that the killing has stopped.  A cessation of military operations is not the same as a political resolution for what remains an intractable problem between two peoples with the same claim to land and sovereignty.  Until the Occupation of the West Bank comes to an end, the conflict between Israel and Palestine will remain a festering sore with further outbreaks of hostilities, endangering innocent populations, uniting Palestinians and depriving both sides of the security they need and yearn for.  Last Sunday, on Erev Shavuot, we witnessed despicable acts of antisemitism and misogyny here in St John’s Wood, in Hampstead and Golders Green, when a convoy of four cars, draped in Palestinian flags, drove through north-west London, broadcasting messages of incitement and hate through a megaphone.  In recent days, there have been a series of antisemitic messages and hostile statements posted on social media as well as threatening language used against students and others. Such acts are serious and fearful triggers for many in the Jewish community and must be condemned, as must anti-Muslim hatred and Islamophobia.  They are repulsive acts, but we need to be careful not to detract our attention from the fundamental need to support movements in Israel and Palestine, working collaboratively for peace, that seek to end inequality and injustice between Arabs and Jews.

It is perhaps of symbolic significance that your beautiful reading this morning, Nora, included the Priestly Blessing.  I think many of us heard it not only as part of the instructions from Moses to Aaron as High Priest in the Book of Numbers, but as a heartfelt prayer for peace.  I know that you have family in Israel and over the past eleven to twelve days, there has been huge concern for all those deeply affected by the thousands of rockets that have pounded parts of Israel.  One of the most moving, almost unbearable-to-watch videos I saw this week, was the Israeli progressive rabbi, Galit Cohen-Kedem, giving a sermon via Zoom to the North Western Reform Synagogue, Alyth Gardens last Shabbat.  Abandoning her desk and her sermon notes, she had taken refuge from rockets landing in a bomb shelter in Holon. Those listening could hear clearly the sound of explosions nearby as she was speaking.  How significant, she said, that the Torah teaches us nothing about sovereignty.  We come out of Egypt, we wander for forty years in the desert, we end up on Mount Nebo, but we never make it into the Promised Land. And she ended her D’var Torah with these words: ‘I am asking for your spiritual support, empathy and sympathy for the pain that is outside my bomb shelter and to be attentive to the various voices and not just the ones that shout the loudest. There are so many beautiful attempts here in Israel these days to keep this fragile coexistence together and it seems like hate is almost winning…  We have been told by our ancestors that God is love and that the biggest choice is having love in our lives. And I choose to love.’  She told us about the 1000 Arab and Jewish women who attended a spontaneous event via Zoom with prayers for peace, as well as other endeavours that are countering the voices of hatred.  ‘I am asking you to be part of the commitment to be part of these voices that aren’t giving up on peace and hope.’

At the end of last Shabbat, Liberal Judaism organised a Zoom gathering for its congregations all over the country.  In small break-out groups, there was an opportunity with a facilitator to express our anxieties and worries about the most recent outbreak of violence, the mortality rate in Gaza and Israel, the numbers wounded, and the resulting effect on social media and on the streets here in the UK.  

In the group I attended, one man confessed, ‘I am ashamed of being Jewish. The killings, the destruction of homes and hospitals in Gaza, the disproportionate attacks against civilians make me ashamed.’  I think many of us may share such painful feelings of distress and deep anxiety about the effect of the Occupation on Palestinians and the cost to Israelis. But do I feel humiliation and shame for being Jewish?  Shamelessness would be a poor response to the events of the last eleven days: brazen, arrogant and untruthful.  So perhaps I do feel a sense of shame and dishonour that the politicians who lead the Jewish State do not seem willing to interrogate themselves in the light of Jewish values: the saving of human life, truth, humility, justice, compassion.  Perhaps I am ashamed that I have hidden myself from certain truths that lie within the complexity of the conflict, that I have colluded in remaining silent when I should have spoken out. But I am not sure that I feel the self-hate that is the root of shame. 
But to feel ashamed of being Jewish?  To lose my respect for our Jewish heritage, for its values and the texts from which we can learn so much?  I cannot feel shame for these, for what we have brought to the world through traditions and texts such as the Priestly Blessing with its prayer for peace that you have just read to us, Nora, with such reverence and beauty.  

It is a source of wonder that the words of this blessing go back at least to the sixth century BCE, towards the end of the First Temple period, and perhaps even earlier. We know this because in 1979 archaeologists discovered two tiny silver rolled amulets in a burial cave at Ketef Hinnom in Jerusalem.  When the amulets were unrolled in laboratories in the Israel Museum, one measured 9.7 by 2.7 cms, just a little bit longer than the length from my wrist to the top of my palm and in breadth less than the span of two of my fingers held together.  The second one is less than half its size.  The words are incised with a sharp, thin stylus, no thicker than a hair’s breadth which can only be deciphered under a microscope.  The inscriptions on these minute silver scrolls are almost identical to the priestly blessing which you read this morning, Nora.  

This invocation to God for a blessing of peace found its way into the Torah; it migrated into our Siddur and Machzor and became a significant part of our prayers: in our home ritual on Erev Shabbat with our blessing for each other, as a blessing at the end of services, in our festival prayers, our ceremonies of brit milah, baby blessings, marriage and other significant life cycle moments.  

In ancient times, it was not uncommon to find the blessing on amulets for protection, and its structure seems almost magical: the three-line formula, the three repetitions of the divine name, a line of three words, then five, then seven, its musical rhythm and repetitions.  But beyond the magic of numbers lie the significance and value of its message: blessing, protection, favour, graciousness, and peace.  That is what we seek from God for our own lives and for the lives of all human beings.  I cannot feel ashamed of being Jewish, when these are the values that lie at the very heart of our Jewish heritage; these are the words that call out to us from the pages of the Torah, from our liturgy, from two tiny amulets two and half or more thousand years ago.  They testify to the eternal value of our Jewish teachings, not as some ideal, but as attributes to be embodied in our own lives.  May we aspire to be worthy of God’s graciousness and love in our courageous partnership with others, in our shared experiences and words and in our willingness to build bridges of hope.  And in time, perhaps we will merit the ancient blessing of shalom – wholeness and peace.  Keyn yehi ratzon.  Amen.

Rabbi Alexandra Wright

You can also click HERE to view the amulets

Leo, I know that your Bar Mitzvah comes a year after your thirteenth birthday and that, because of the pandemic you, like many of our other students, chose to postpone the date.  And so tomorrow you will read, not our weekly parashah which is B’Midbar, but your original parashah Shemini, the story of the death of Aaron’s two sons. They died in a tragic conflagration inside the Sanctuary soon after their ordination as priests.  This story and its repercussions seem particularly relevant in the light of the tragic events we are witnessing in Jerusalem, throughout Israel and in Gaza this week.

Last night, I watched a briefing from our sister movement, the Israel Movement for Reform Judaism.  Progressive Israeli colleagues who serve communities spoke about their experiences of living under constant rocket fire and as witnesses to the riots and violence in cities throughout Israel.  And I was struck, not by their despair and hopelessness, but by the very real questions they raised and a sense of empowerment to bring about change: how does one deal with the trauma of this latest round of hostilities without falling into the pit of hatred, asked Rabbi Galit Cohen Kedem from Holon?  Others spoke about a sense of solidarity between the progressive communities Israel, northern congregations reaching out to those in the southern and central parts who are coming under rocket fire, offering them invitations to stay with them and so give them some respite from the constant threat of danger and the noise of rockets and sirens.  In many cities, Arab and Jewish mayors have come together in reconciliatory and peaceful ways to ask for calm and to show how it is possible to live peacefully together, striving for the same outcomes.

In Haifa, Rabbi Ofek Meir, Principal of Leo Baeck Education Centre, two of whose students joined us for a special service marking Yom Ha-Atzma’ut – Israel’s Independence Day - a few weeks ago,  issued a joint Arab-Jewish statement on behalf of Arab and Jewish head teachers in Haifa, acknowledging the ‘voices of hatred, polarisation and division in the social fabric of [the] country’ but re-affirming their commitment to building an educational system which has the power to produce a different kind of discourse in Israeli society, ‘one of mutual respect and pluralism.’  ‘The role of education,’ they wrote, ‘is to remind students and communities of our shared destiny, and the power and beauty of living together.’

In three days’ time, we will be celebrating the festival of Shavuot – z’man mattan torateinu – the season of the giving of the Torah.  In ancient times, Shavuot was a harvest festival of indeterminate date, known as Chag Ha-Katzir – the Feast of the Harvest – and a festival of first fruits.  In the Torah, the rituals of this sacred occasion are linked with our moral responsibilities towards the poor and stranger: ‘When you reap the harvest of your land, you shall not reap all the way to the edges of your field, or gather the gleanings of your harvest; you shall leave them for the poor and the stranger: I the Eternal One am your God.’

This commandment which is found in several passages in the Torah informs another book in Tanakh which is read at Shavuot, the Book of Ruth.  Ruth, a Moabite woman who has been left a widow by her Israelite husband in the land of Moab, follows her mother-in-law Naomi back to Judah.  Destitute, widowed and a foreigner, dependent on the kindness of others, Ruth gleans in the fields of a kinsman of her late father-in-law, Boaz, and following the gleaners, picks up the fallen sheaves they have left behind for her in accordance with the laws of the Torah.

But what is so interesting about the Book of Ruth is the underlying attitudes towards the land of Moab and the Moabite people that exist in the Torah.  As the descendants of an incestuous union between Lot and his daughter, a people who refused to allow the Israelites to traverse their territory as they were making their way through the desert, and Moabite women who enticed Israelite men to idolatry, the Torah is not well-disposed towards Moab and its people.  Deuteronomy forbids any marriage to take place between Israelites and Moabites with the words: ‘No Moabite shall enter the assembly of the Eternal One…’ (Deut. 23.23.)

And yet, along comes Ruth, a woman from Moab, a country that Israel regards as its arch enemy, who is treated kindly and generously by Boaz, the Israelite man whom she marries.  And more remarkable is the fact that she becomes the great-grandmother of no less a figure than king David.

I am comforted by this book, by the way its author, whoever he or she was, subverts the traditional Torah narrative and transforms enmity into friendship and even love.   I imagine those first encounters between Ruth and Boaz, the way he offers her protection against the interference of his young men in the fields, his open hospitality, sharing food and water and her response: ‘You are most kind, my lord, to comfort me and to speak gently to your maidservant…’

These are such small steps: physical protection, food and water, friendship and then kinship. In the cities of Israel, where Jews and Arabs live side by side, let us pray for the continuation of solidarity and friendship.  And, between Israel and her Palestinian neighbours in Gaza and the West Bank, we pray too that small steps of acknowledgement of pain and hurt may come soon.  May fear be transformed into trust and enmity into kinship and may God’s presence dwell on both peoples, Arab and Jewish, and bring them security and peace. Amen.

Rabbi Alexandra Wright

In his book “Man’s Search for Meaning”, Viktor Frankl explores his own personal response as a prisoner in Auschwitz. Frankl was a professor of neurology and psychology and observed his own experiences and those of his fellow camp mates to understand the meaning of suffering, hope and survival.

The first half of his book is a retelling of his time in Auschwitz. In his memoir he shares this powerful account of an experience he had while on a march:

“My mind still clung to the image of my wife. A thought crossed my mind: I didn’t even know if she were still alive. I knew only one thing—which I have learned well by now: Love goes very far beyond the physical person of the beloved. It finds its deepest meaning in his spiritual being, his inner self. Whether or not he is actually present, whether or not he is still alive at all, ceases, somehow, to be of importance. I did not know whether my wife was alive, and I had no means of finding out… but at that moment it ceased to matter. There was no need for me to know; nothing could touch the strength of my love, my thoughts, and the image of my beloved. Had I known then that my wife was dead, I think that I would still have given myself, undisturbed by that knowledge, to the contemplation of her image, and that my mental conversation with her would have been just as vivid and just as satisfying.”

The image of his wife and his love for her, gave him meaning and gave him the will to survive.

The second half of his book explores his philosophy named logotherapy. According to his theory the purpose of life is to make meaning.  Unlike many of his contemporaries who were focused on life being a means to fulfillment or happiness, to Frankl the end goal must be meaning. His philosophy is complex but the approach that he prescribed to meaning making is three fold:
One must invest themselves in accomplishing a work or a task.
One must experience and give love.
One must find their own approach to unavoidable suffering.

Meaning making through sacred work, love and finding strength in suffering.

I found myself thinking about meaning making as I approached this season of repentance and teshuva. During these ten days of repentance we do the hard work of self-reflection. Where have we missed the mark? Who have we wronged intentionally or unintentionally? How have we been ungrateful to those who have given of themselves to us, how have we been callous with the feelings of others? We focus our energies on thinking of how we can be better in partnership with our loved ones, with those closest to us and with those we pass along the street. We may think about specific errors and how we could have gone about them better, what we would do differently next time.

Yet, I think this framework of meaning making can provide deeper engagement in this Day of Atonement that we are entering. Perhaps we need to not think only about our specific behaviours but instead use this next day, this day of the opening of our souls, to think about the narrative that we are writing for ourselves. To think big picture, and to set intentions for the coming year. Not just what we have done wrong but how we can better focus our time and our efforts for meaning making, how we can better focus ourselves so that our actions are reflections of the story we are writing about ourselves. What is the framework we use to understand ourselves and how does that need to be tweaked?

This meaning making is different for each of us. As Frankl writes:

“As each situation in life represents a challenge to man and presents a problem for him to solve, the question of the meaning of life may actually be reversed. Ultimately, man should not ask what the meaning of his life is, but rather he must recognise that it is he who is asked. In a word, each man is questioned by life; and he can only answer to life by answering for his own life; to life he can only respond by being responsible.”

Put simply, Frankl argues that rather than asking “What is the meaning of life?” We must instead ask “What is the meaning we want to put into our own life.”

There is a chassidic story of Rabbi Zusya, who died and went to stand before the seat of judgement. He grew nervous thinking about his life and imagined God asking him, “Why weren’t you Moses? Why weren’t you Solomon? Why weren’t you David?” But Reb Zusya was surprised by God’s question, “Why weren’t you Zusya?”

This approach begs us at this time of year to ask ourselves: What have I been responsible for? Is this a reflection of my priorities, if not how can I better frame my time and efforts so that I am responsible for that which is meaning making and important to me? How am I answering for my own life, this life that only I can uniquely live?

Rabbi Simcha of Bunim, a leading chassidic theologian of the 18th century, taught that every person should hold in their pocket a piece of paper with the words Bishvili nivra haolam; for me the world was created.

We inhabit this earth and are responsible for one another, but each of us has our own lived experiences and our own meaning making that are unique to us.

Bishvili nivra haolam.

I want to take this question further and ask how can Judaism play a role, uniquely, for each of us in our meaning making? My guess is that most of us, myself included, make resolutions at the end of December as we start a new secular year. But the resolutions we make on Yom Kippur are different, because they are made within our community, using our traditional rituals and are made in relationship with God.
And so I challenge each of us, this Yom Kippur, to ask ourselves: how can I better set my priorities to make meaning in my life and how can Judaism play a role? As we all know, the Jewish identity is one of complexity and nuance and it looks different for each of us. We share a text and a communal history and an ethical framework, but each of us has our own unique relationship. Probably once a week in conversation with someone I hear them say, “I’m a bad Jew…” The start of the sentence is followed by many varying responses. “I’m a bad Jew…I don’t attend synagogue. I’m a bad Jew….I don’t believe in God. I’m a bad Jew…I don’t keep Kosher.” I want to break down this notion of being a bad Jew because one doesn’t connect in traditional ways.

There are so many beautiful ways that Judaism can play a role in your meaning making. Rather than feeling guilty for not being connected enough I would hope that this Yom Kippur you can see greater connection as a means to meaning making, and you can think creatively about it. This community that we share is a passionate, compassionate community with so many ways to engage. If you find meaning by supporting those in need, volunteer in our refugee drop-in centre, volunteer in helping to serve meals for our Restaurant Tuesday, volunteer for Phone a Member and reach out to other members who aren’t as able to come and attend synagogue. If you find meaning through spiritual experiences, come and be a part of our regular worship. If you find meaning through learning about our sacred text, the same text that we have been struggling with and challenging and finding meaning in and meaning from, come and participate in our adult education programming. If you find meaning in passing on our traditions to future generations then get involved with Rimon, our Shabbat morning religion school.

There is the joke told about the two friends Ari and Ethan who attend synagogue. Ari attends to speak to God, and Ethan attends to speak to Ari. And both are equally sacred and can be a part of a framework of meaning making. 

Bishvili nivra haolam, the world was created for me.

However, this is only half of Rabbi Simcha’s teaching. He actually taught that we should keep two pieces of paper in our pockets at all time; and take out the one that we need to be reminded of. Bishvili nivra haolam- for me the world was created” and V’anokhi afar v’efer - I am nothing but dust and ashes. A reminder of our importance and also a reminder of our insignificance.

In this season we think not only of the importance of our own existence but our liturgy also encourages us to think about our finiteness, our mortality and our insignificance. Each of us is a world within ourselves, and yet we are a speck on please God a long history of humanity, and a significantly longer history of this world. We must live in a way where our meaning making does not come at the expense of others, in a way that allows for us to be comforted by knowing that when we are but dust and ashes, that our life will have paved the way for others to be more free to make meaning, to engage in sacred work, to share in love and to find comfort in suffering.

In Pirkei Avot, Rabbi Hillel shares the often quoted framework of caring for self and others with his teaching “If I am not for myself, who will be for me? If I am only for myself what am I? And if not now, when?”

When our sacred texts were written, there is no way they could have conceived of a time like the one we are living in now. A time when the lucky on this earth are living in a way that is making the world inhospitable for the rest of the world, where the privileged of today’s world are making their meaning and living their lives in a way that threatens the world that our children and children’s children, will live in.

In his book “The Uninhabitable Earth”, journalist and author Wallace-Wells shares these words:

“It is worse, much worse, than you think. The slowness of climate change is a fairy tale, perhaps as pernicious as the one that says it isn’t happening at all, and comes to us bundled with several others in an anthology of comforting delusions: that global warming is an Arctic saga, unfolding remotely; that it is strictly a matter of sea level and coastlines, not an enveloping crisis sparing no place and leaving no life undeformed; that it is a crisis of the “natural” world, not the human one; that those two are distinct, and that we live today somehow outside or beyond or at the very least defended against nature, not inescapably within and literally overwhelmed by it; that wealth can be a shield against the ravages of warming;  that the burning of fossil fuels is the price of continued economic growth; that growth and the technology it produces, will inevitably engineer a way out of environmental disaster; that there is any analogue to the scale or scope of this threat, in the long span of human history, that might give us confidence in staring it down.”

We are living in unprecedented times. We see storms that were once rare occurrences ravaging parts of our world, regularly, forest fires destroying sacred trees and land, water levels rising, drought, hunger, famine. The facts are all there. We can no longer turn a blind eye to the very real damage we are causing to our world and to all those who inhabit it now and in the future. Our children and our children’s children will want to know what we did to stand up against the destruction that we are causing to their world.

In Midrash Rabbah, we are given this chilling story:  A group of people were travelling in a boat. One of them took a drill and began to drill a hole beneath himself. His companions said to him: “Why are you doing this?” Replied the man: “What concern is it of yours? Am I not drilling under my own place?” Said they to him: “But you will flood the boat for us all!”

In what ways are each of us holding a drill and making a hole in our boat? We have no other boat to move to, and this boat holds everything and everyone, and our future.

Pikuach nefesh, saving a life, is the greatest moral obligation. In Leviticus 19 we are taught that “You shall not stand idly by the blood of your neighbour.” In Deuteronomy we are given the obligation to care for future generations in the Torah text we will read tomorrow. “Choose life, that you and your descendants may live.” In a few weeks we will read Bereishit, the story of creation. In our Genesis narrative God creates the world and reflects on it saying it is tov meod; very good. The waters, plants, air and animals were all in balance. Midrash Ecclesiastes Rabbah shares that God showed Adam around the Garden of Eden and said to him. “Look at my works! See how beautiful they are…see to it that you do not spoil and destroy my world; for if you do, there will be no one else to repair it.”

We cannot be like the ostrich, burying our head in the sand. This is terrifying, and hard to comprehend and easier to ignore than to combat…but there is nothing more important than this. This is the ethical call of our day and we must listen. There are so many actions that we can take as individuals and as a community. Each of us must do our own research and decide how we will combat this. But here are some ideas:
Significantly decrease or eliminate your consumption of meat, especially beef. The meat industry contributes more greenhouse gasses than cars. Compost your waste. Use public transport whenever possible. Minimise the number of flights you take. Reduce home energy use.
Avoid products with excessive packaging. Be mindful of how you engage in the culture of fast fashion. Buy second hand clothing, toys and goods whenever possible. Make a commitment to minimise consumption of single use plastic. Minimise your food waste food. Educate yourself as much as possible on the environmental issues we are currently facing. If you have children, make sure they spend time in nature and learn to respect and protect our world. Advocate for further government policies on waste, pollution and carbon emissions. Join or support movements or organisations lobbying for change. There are so many more actions that can be taken.

I wish I could stand in front of you and share that I engage in all these acts, that the drill is not in my hand, that my actions go only towards fortifying our shared boat. Al Chet shechatanu lifanecha, I have sinned, I need to be better. Let’s help one another, let us hold each other accountable. Let us join together and face this existential threat with courage and vigor. We have no other choice.

In the words of the wise young prophet Greta Thurnberg, “Solving the climate crisis is the greatest and most complex challenge that Homo Sapiens have ever faced. The main solution, however, is so simple that even a small child can understand it. We have to stop our emissions of greenhouse gases. And either we do that or we don’t. You say nothing in life is black or white. But that is a lie. A very dangerous lie. Either we prevent a 1½ C of warming or we don’t. Either we avoid setting off that irreversible chain reaction beyond human control-or we don’t. Either we choose to go on as a civilisation or we don’t. That is as black or white as it gets. We can create transformational action that will safeguard the living conditions for future generations. Or we can continue with our business as usual and fail. That is up to you and me.”

Last week we entered into the year 5780, what will the world look like in 5880? What will be our communal legacy? This can all be overwhelming, in order for us to be the advocates we need to be we must also continue to care for ourselves. And this is why I wanted to start this sermon by focusing on meaning making. Each of our lives, our individual lives is sacred and important and we are given the holy task of making meaning with our time. It is not unethical to care for ourselves and to focus on our own desires and hopes. In fact, it is only if we focus on ourselves and our ethical framework that we can have the courage and strength of spirit to do the holy work that is needed to repair our world.

May this coming year be a year of holy meaning making for you and your loved ones, and may our meaning making happen while also responding to the terrifying cry of future generations. 

I want to end with a prayer by Reb Nachman of Bratslav, the holy sage who found himself most spiritually called amongst nature.

“Grant me the ability to be alone; may it be my custom to go outdoors each day among the trees and grass – among all growing things and there may I be alone, and enter into prayer, to talk with the One to whom I belong. May I express there everything in my heart, and may all the foliage of the field – all grasses, trees, and plants – awake at my coming, to send the powers of their life into the words of my prayer so that my prayer and speech are made whole through the life and spirit of all growing things, which are made as one by their transcendent Source. May I then pour out the words of my heart before your Presence like water, O God, and lift up my hands to You in worship, on my behalf, and that of my children!”

Shanah Tovah

Rabbi Elana Dellal