Living Well in our own Dalet Amot
(Our Personal Sphere of Influence)
Rosh Hashanah Morning 2001/5762
Rabbi Jeffrey Summit
In the face of large events, such as the tragedies we experienced in the past weeks, there is a tendency for the individual to feel small and powerless. What can we do to make a difference? What can we do to alter or impact this history as it unfolds and shapes our lives? I see many people looking to our leaders for solace, direction and guidance. And in fact, it has been inspiring to see figures like Rudolph Guiliani, epitomizing calm, vision and leadership. Yet, on this Shabbat Shuvah, I would like to suggest that while our leaders are important, life, as we live and experience it, is really shaped by each one of us, in our daily actions and interactions.
I want to speak briefly about the importance of living well within our own dalet amot, our personal sphere of influence, and what a profound difference that can make, both for us, the people we touch every day. I don't believe that we, as regular people, are powerless as large events unfold. In a very real way, we each have profound power to shape and influence the quality and experience of life in our world.
The basis for my observation comes from two directions. On one hand, I am deeply influenced by the Jewish tradition's emphasis on the centrality of the individual in changing the world. Teshuvah (change, growth), in its essence, is the work of the empowered man or woman, making an individual decision that moves to action. While teshuvah is supported by communal practice, such as fasting and public prayer, the hard work of personal change and growth is placed squarely in the lap of each man and woman. One of the essential messages of the Yamin Noraim is that more than anything, each person's actions count.
My second influence in these thoughts about the importance of each one of us living well in the midst of crisis is found in the writings of Benedict Anderson in his book Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origins and Spread of Nationalism. Anderson discusses a particular paradox of nationalism. While people have extremely strong feelings for nations, so strong that they will even fight and die for their county, in fact the concept of a nation lives in our minds rather than in actual relationship with other individuals. Anderson explains that a nation, or even a large community, such as "the Jewish community," is for the most part imagined because the members of even the smallest nation will never actually meet or know most of their fellow-members. Yet in the minds of each, lives the image of their community."
This concept helps me understand the student who comes to campus angry at the entire Jewish community because he had a mean Hebrew school teacher who yelled at him when he was in the seventh grade. Part of me wants to say, deal with it, but the student's personal experience with that one individual has shaped his imagined view of the Jewish community. So, I conclude, that it is extremely important to pay attention to how we live in our small personal sphere: We are constantly contributing to the imaged community constructed by those around us. But I get ahead of myself.
So in actuality, what does it look like for each one of us to live well through such a crisis? I want to briefly suggest three areas for examination: the first is the importance of being fully present in whatever place we are, second, I want to speak about embracing hope and finally, I want to talk about why it is so important to assert the rock solid Jewish belief that good eventually inches out evil in our world.
So my first point is the incredible importance of being actively present in our lives. I think here of the phrase in the Torah reading for the first day of Rosh Hashanah, "God heard the cry of Ishmael "basher hu sham." "In the place where he was" It is unclear to me why these words strike me with such power. Possibly because recently our technology has created a life which has challenged our ability to be fully present in any one place, at any one time. We can be called, beeped, faxed, emailed and fed-exed anywhere. So much vies for our attention. We live in a world where we are both everywhere and no-where.
To live well during a crisis such as this is being able to be fully present with the people around us. Being truly present with another human being is giving that person our full attention. It's looking into their eyes rather than over their shoulder at the TV. It's being willing to engage in thoughtful conversation at the dinner table even though you are exhausted. Being fully present is being comfortable to sit and be silent with a friend.
You know, there is something worse than not being with the people who we care about. And that is to have them physically present but not really there. I return to Soloveitchik's book on teshuvah and find his discussion of "ha'avodah sh'he balev," "the service of the heart" helpful in understanding what it means to be fully present. Soloveitchik examines how Maimonides breaks prayer into two categories: the service of prayer, which like the service of the Temple consists of doing certain physical acts and saying certain words, and "ha'avodah sh'he balev" where "the heart must do its share" and "encompasses all of a person's being, joys and sorrows, grief as well as rejoicing." (p. 73) Soloveitchik stresses that the act of praying is merely the performance of the law while the fulfillment of the law remains in the realm of the heart. So too, being fully present during difficult times like these requires both physical and emotional presence: if you care about people, it's important to show up. Once you are physically there, then it is essential to do that "heart work" and be emotionally involved and available.
Sometimes people are not present because they are uncertain of the words to say, or they fear they won't have the right answers to give. But being there in this crisis is not about knowing the right answers or what will happen next. It's certainly not about being able to explain the root causes of international terrorism. To a large extent, it is about being willing to make direct, focused, compassionate contact with the regular people who are part of our lives, our roommates, friends, faculty members, our parents, the lady behind the cafeteria line, the guy next to you at the Post Office. Those are the interactions that shape the way we conceive of our communities, make us feel at ease or on edge and build webs of connection in our daily lives.
Harold Kushner tells a story that I've always liked about a boy who tells his father that he going over to help a friend who just broke his new bicycle. The father asks "What do you know about fixing bicycles?" The son answers, "I don't know anything about fixing bicycles: I'm going over to help him cry." I think of people who have helped me when situations seemed dark. In my experience, such people didn't flood me with wisdom, they didn't magically fix things, they were certainly not perfect: they were willing to spend time, to talk and listen. Sometimes their words even had a comforting cynicism, such as when Dick Israel, whose memory is a blessing, would say, "Things are rarely as bad, or as good as they first appear." Never underestimate how very important is it for you to be present, and hopeful, for those people directly around you.
That leads me to my second point, which is the importance of conveying hope. While many people have been singing "God Bless America," the song that has been going through my head recently is "Hatikvah" The Hope. I was amused to read that recently, in an effort to teach Zionist values to young Israelis, Israel was scrolling the lyrics of Hatikvah across the television screen; too few young people in Israel knew the words. Those words have much to teach us now. Ode lo avdah tikvatenu, Hatikvah bat shanot alpayim, the hope that has persisted for thousands of years. The French poet Edmond Fleg wrote, "I am a Jew because where most people despair, the Jew hopes." In this era of instant gratification, it can be a profound gift to those around us to convey that it is possible to remain hopeful, even for a long time, before our goal is achieved.
I know from my rabbinic work with families in grief, that a key to a family's recovery after experiencing tragedy is having one person in that family who holds and articulates a vision of hope. Many families will make it though a difficult time if just one person is able to look through to the other side of a crisis and continues to say that things will eventually be all right. Living well through this tragedy is being able to convey to the people around us, even in our fear and uncertainty, that our lives will go on and we will continue to work, love, play and celebrate.
Finally, I want to speak about the importance of asserting a truth that we have learned over and over as Jews. That truth is that good eventually inches out evil in our world As Jews, we know that evil exists. That wasn't news on September 11th. America may have been naïve. But we Jews are not naïve. We have looked evil in the face and still, we live today. We know how hard teshuvah is, and yet, every year, we insist that teshuvah is possible. There will always be the haters but when we examine our history, we maintain that still, good will eventually triumph. Justice may not flow like a mighty stream and rightness may not well up like great waters but good will prevail. This is a powerful message and one that is at the core of our tradition. Which is, of course, why on both Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur we blow a tekiah gedolah, why we say ha shana haba'a b'Yirushalayim. I don't look at those words or actions as colorful rituals; I understand them to be expressions of the core values of my Judaism. Af al pi sh'yitmamaya, Ani ma'amin b'amunah sh'lamah. Even though redemption is not yet here, I still fully and completely believe that good will eventually inch out evil. Living well in this difficult time is to accept and convey that truth; as Jews, I don't believe we have another option.
What you do now, how you live your life, can make a profound difference. I was struck by a letter that was recently sent to the New York Times by a student in high school after the World Trade Center went down. She writes, "I am a high school sophomore and I've been finding out what kind of people my friends are. One is fearful and has to be driven to and from school instead of taking the subway. Many are self-absorbed and narcissistic and their biggest worry is that certain people haven't called to check in on them." She describes another friend who was "so loving and caring" that she was completely incapacitated and all she could do was cry.
I feel bad for the high school students she describes and I hope they find the courage and understanding to overcome their fears and self-centeredness. After all, that is one of the central messages of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, that change and growth is always possible.
You are probably all too familiar with the Rav Zusia story in which Zuzia says, When I die, I'm not afraid that the Holy One is going to confront me and ask, "Why weren't you Moshe Rabbenu, I'm afraid God will ask me, Zuzia, why weren't you Zuzia? In these demanding times, that story doesn't quite cut it for me. I prefer the sharper edge conveyed by a rabbi I met when I was in High School who gave me clearer advice. He said, "Always be yourself. Unless, of course, you are an ass. In that case, be someone else."
These are demanding times, but we don't have to be superheroes or great national leaders to have an impact upon our immediate world.If we are able to be present for the people around us, remain hopeful and assert that good will eventually inch out evil in our world, each one of us can make a profound contribution. I wish for all of us the strength to live well during these difficult times.