"The Four Questions of Yom Kippur"
Kol Nidre : September 21, 2007/5768
Rabbi Jeffrey Summit

We’ve all heard the four questions at the Passover Seder. Gathered around the Seder table, we ask, “Why is this night different from all other nights?” So many Jews know the tune for the four questions that when the youngest at the table chants them, it’s difficult to keep the whole group from joining in. The rabbis knew that nothing engages people as much as asking questions. Tonight, I want to suggest another set of four questions which I’ll call the four questions of Yom Kippur. But these questions are not about what makes this Kol Nidre night different from other nights. Hopefully, these questions will focus us on how to turn our life towards deeper fulfillment and satisfaction, help us re-connect to people we care about, become clearer on what is really important in our lives. We find all of the questions in the first book of the Torah. While the Hebrew is simple and straight-forward, the questions are not so easy to answer. I want to thank and acknowledge Rabbi James Gibson of Pittsburgh, who in turn acknowledges Rabbi Baruch Poupko, for connecting these questions from the Torah to the High Holidays. While I’m grateful to these rabbis for suggesting these questions, I should stress that my answers, and the stories I want to tell about them, are very much my own.

So, the first question of Yom Kippur is actually the first question in the entire Torah and it takes place in the story of the Garden of Eden. You remember the story: Adam and Eve are living an idyllic existence, at one with their environment, at peace with the animals. Actually, the Garden is not like real life at all. In many ways, it’s a childlike existence. Everything is provided for them. They have no knowledge of their own sexuality. In fact, they only have one thing they are told to do: Don’t eat from the tree of knowledge. So, it’s only a matter of time before the snake goads Eve, and then Adam, to do exactly what they are not supposed to do. And then, knowledge hits them like a thunderbolt: “Whoa, we’re naked!” Actually, they realize a lot of things, the biggest one is that they’ve just done something cosmically wrong. So, they do what many children would do in such a situation: they abdicate all responsibility and run and hide, as if it was possible to hide from an omniscient God. And here’s where the first question in the Torah occurs. God calls to them and asks, “Ayeka? Where are you?” This is not a question about global positioning. Of course God knows where Adam and Eve are. The question is much more intense. “Where are you? What were you thinking? Do you think that no one sees you, that your actions have no consequence?

A story: About five years ago, I had a student in one of my classes who was really brilliant, insightful, well-read. The problem was that he was acutely aware that he was really brilliant, insightful and well-read and he didn’t let anyone; his friends, his family and his professors, forget that he knew. So he was also obnoxious and pompous, an attitude that doesn’t sit well on a forty year old, let alone a twenty year old. He liked to dominate discussion. So even though he was smart, it was not a lot of fun to be with him, in a meeting or in our class.

So because I cared about the dynamics in the class, and I cared about the student, I finally sat down with him and asked, “Where are you?” You’re really smart and have great things to contribute but part of being wise is knowing when not to speak, knowing when to listen and make room for other people in a discussion. If you are continually grabbing the ball, no one will want to play with you. At first he was defensive, but the conversation was a catalyst and he paid attention and began to understand and change.

Where are you? In your relationships with your friends? Where are you in this university community? In the Jewish community? Where are you as a member of your family? As we get older, families change and we need to reassess and take on new roles. Where are you as you figure out how to be a good brother or sister? A responsible son or daughter? A supportive mother, a good father? Ideally, this Yom Kippur should be an opportunity to pause and consider where we are in our lives.

The second question of Yom Kippur occurs shortly after the story of the Garden of Eden. After Adam and Eve leave the garden, they begin to raise a family and they have two sons, Cain and Abel. Like in many families, the sons are so different from one another. Cain is a farmer, who works the land. Abel is good with animals and he raises sheep and goats. But petty jealousies and rivalries keep the brothers at odds and one day, Cain is so jealous of his brother that his anger overcomes him. He can’t contain himself and he hits his brother. But it’s not just brotherly rough-housing. Cain hits Abel so hard that he knocks him to the ground and the blow kills him. And that’s when we hear the second question of Yom Kippur. God asks Cain, “A-yei Hevel achi-cha? Where is your brother, Abel?” A-yei achicha? Where is your brother? Again, this question has nothing to do with the location of a sibling whose gone missing. When Cain answers defensively, “What? Am I supposed to be my brother’s keeper?” God answers, “Your brother’s blood call out to you from the ground.” And that’s the second question for Yom Kippur: Where is your brother? Where is your sister?

While John Donne wrote that “no man is an island,” in actuality, a lot of us live like our life is the whole focus of the world. And in truth, we’ve created structures and institutions where the individual needs to focus very much on herself and himself to succeed. In university, much success demands that we concentrate on our studies, our classes, our testing, our plans for choosing and getting into graduate school. We want to do well and focus on the task at hand. We feel pressured, internally and externally, to do so. But ultimately, an unconnected life turns lonely and selfish and sour. Where is your brother? Where is your sister? We are fortunate that at Tufts many people take this question seriously. We ask the question “If we’re not educating people here to ultimately repair the world, to be global citizens, to create peace through justice, what the hell are we doing here?” So, we’ve all heard this and put it on our college applications and volunteered here or there in some project. I’m suggesting that this Yom Kippur, we consider going a level deeper, and educating ourselves so that we can give substantial answers when we’re asked, “Where is your brother? Where is your sister?” To educate our selves so we really know the impact of hunger and homelessness, substandard education, inadequate health care on the men, women and children who live around us, who are really our brothers and sisters. Then after we learn something more, to meaningfully put our commitment into action integrated in some regular way into our lives. As Jews, we are obligated to be engaged in these acts of tzedukah (righteousness), gimilut hassadim (deeds of loving kindness) and tikun olam (repairing the world). There comes a point when we want to move beyond doing these actions because they look good on our resumes. Hopefully this Yom Kippur we can begin to understand that when we are asked, “Where is your brother? Where is your sister?” we can answer and say, “We know and we’re part of their struggle. Our lives and happiness are ultimately bound up with their well-being.”

The third question of Yom Kippur is closer to the end of the book of Genesis. We find it in the story of Joseph, the youngest son, his father’s favorite, who has infuriated his brothers though his constant dreaming and predictions. Joseph’s father Jacob sends him out to find his brothers, but while looking for them, he looses his way. He’s walking alone through a field when he come upon a stranger and this stranger, from out of the blue, asks Joseph, “Ma t’va-keish?” What do you seek? What are you looking for?” When Joseph answers that he’s looking for his brothers, the stranger points the way and Joseph sets off on a life journey that will take him from being sold into slavery and brought down to Egypt, from being recognized for his intelligence and talents to rising to a position of responsibility and power in the court of Pharaoh. His journey will take him from intense conflict with his brothers to a loving reconciliation with his entire family, from being a dreamer to a person who contributes to society by formulating a plan to feed the hungry when the country endures famine. But it all starts with the question, “Ma t’va-keish?” What do you looking for? What are you seeking in your life?

If you don’t know where you want to go, then any road will take you there. But many of us, actually, know what’s important to us. We know what we want. We want our lives to count for something. We want to have some impact on the world. We want to enjoy ourselves and actually remember what we did the night before so we know if we enjoyed ourselves or not. We want to build friendships where our friends will respect us and stand by us, where we feel good about being who we are with them. And we want love, because we know that a life without connection is a lonely life. And if I was totally wrong just now in my suppositions about what you want, it’s really up to you, anyway to formulate what you’re seeking in your life. But whatever you or I decide, the real question is: are we making decisions that are in tune with the things we say we are looking for? If you want a deep connection with your friends, turn your damn cell off and don’t answer it when your friend is pouring out her heart to you about what’s important in her life. If you want a deeper connection with your family, say no the next time you’re asked to do something that will make you miss dinner at home for the fourteenth day in a row. If you want to be healthy and strong, make good decisions about what you ingest and do with your body. But we can’t know how to act in our lives until we understand what we’re seeking, what we’re looking for.

For the fourth and last question of Yom Kippur, we roll back the scroll of the Torah and we find the question in the Torah reading we read last week on Rosh Hashanah, in the story of the binding of Isaac. When we read the story quickly, it’s not even clear that this question is a question. But in truth, it’s one of the most profound questions that can be asked. The story is well known. Abraham is told to sacrifice Isaac, the son that he and Sarah have prayed for, waiting for, who is supposed to insure his legacy. And the story unfolds like a bad dream. Abraham and Isaac walk together to the mountain, Abraham binds Isaac. He places him on the alter and raises the knife above his son. And only then is the question asked, “Abraham?” The question is his name, calling him to stop and think. “Abraham!?” make sure you respond with your whole being. What are you about to do? Are your actions in focus with the person who you really are, with the person you most want to be. It’s only at that point that this deadly drama screeches to a halt as Abraham stops and answers, “Hineini. Here I am.” One could argue that if Abraham didn’t stop in response to that question, the Jewish people would have ceased to be. And it was all in response to the question that was only his name, “Abraham?”

To explore this question, I want to tell you a story that I learned from the writings of Rabbi Benjamin Blech. I love this story. It’s a story about Rabbi Naftali Berlin, who was one of the most important rabbis in Russia during the last century. Rabbi Berlin, who was called “The Netziv,” was incredibly influential and his school in Vilozhin was a spiritual center for Russian Jewry. The famous Hebrew poet, Bialik, studied in his Yeshiva. Berlin published a number of extremely important books: The Mashiv HaDavar and the Shoel Davar among them. Rav Berlin had an extraordinary talent of explaining Jewish law in clear, understandable ways to the people.

Now once there was a party celebrating the publication of one of his books and Rabbi Berlin gets up to speak. He was supposed to be a great speaker, and he stands up and he is simply unable to say a word. After a moment, he begins to cry. People ask what’s the matter and Rabbi Berlin says, “I have to tell you a story: you have all so kindly come out to honor me and you see me now, an accomplished rabbi. But when I was a child in Hebrew School, in Heder, I was a terror. I was so disruptive that my parents didn’t know what to do. Teachers constantly warned me about my attitude and my behavior but I paid no attention. One day, I overheard my father and mother discussing how they decided that they were going to take me out of school and apprentice me to a tailor. I went into the room where they sat and I begged them for a second chance and from that point on, I studied hard and did well in school.”

And then, Rav Berlin continued, “I have often wondered, what if I had never overheard that conversation? What if I hadn’t persuaded my parents? I would have become a tailor and it probably wouldn’t have been such a bad life. I would have made a living, I would have gotten married, had children, been active in my community. I could have lived a good enough life, like most decent people do. But, when I came to the world on High, God would look at me and say: ‘So, Naphtali? Where is the Mashiv Hadavar? Where are all the books you were supposed to write?’ And I’d say, ‘What books? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ And God would say, ‘I’m talking about the books that you were capable of writing. Naphtali? I’m talking about the person you were capable of becoming!’ And Rabbi Berlin continued, I came this close to missing it! And then how ashamed I would be that I settled for less than I could have been.”

There are so many times we miss it. There are times when we get excited about accomplishing something and then a little bit of criticism or a small failure makes us lose interest and give up. We don’t make time for the very things we say are most precious and important to us. There are times when we are really capable of hearing another person and instead we get defensive and we close off the connections that make love deepen and grow. When your name is called, Abraham? Jonathan? Jessica? Michael? Laura?, Yom Kippur comes to say, “Don’t miss your life! Don’t miss the fullest and most complete life that you could possibly have.”

I hope this New Year will be a time for questions, the four questions of Yom Kippur. Ayecha? Where are you? Ayeh achecha v’achotecha? Where are your brothers and sisters? Ma t’vakeish? What do you really want? And then, over it all, your name, calling you to respond with your full being, “Here I am.”