Two Goats Yom Kippur Morning

by Motzen | Sep 27, 2020 | Sermons

Two goats, identical in height, features, complexion, and even cost were placed in the Temple’s courtyard on the morning of Yom Kippur. Lots, drawn by the High Priest, would designate one goat to G-d and the other goat to the mysterious Azazel. The first goat – the one chosen for G-d, would be slaughtered like all other offerings, only that this offering would have the unique distinction of having its blood sprinkled in the Holy of Holies. The second goat would be walked for miles, deep, deep into the wilderness. The first goat was offered on the grand altar in full view of the masses gathered in the Temple for Yom Kippur. The second goat was escorted by one man alone, without any audience at all, then thrown off a cliff, and left to die a gruesome death.

Two goats, identical in height, features, complexion, and even cost – two very different outcomes all decided by a lottery. Luck, fortune, chance would dictate the fate of these two goats.

The classic understanding of this strange Yom Kippur ceremony is that the identical goats represent the two paths that stand before each and every one of us. We are constantly faced with a choice – service to G-d or abdication of responsibility. The judgment of Yom Kippur is the ultimate reminder that we have free-will, that we choose, and the consequences of our choices are ours. In the words of the poet, Anthony Liccione, “There really are only two roads we will travel, one going to heaven, the other to hell.”

But there is something lacking with this explanation. If the symbolism of these identical goats is to remind us of the two paths we can take, of the possibilities that stand before each of us for us to choose, why then is the fate of these two goats left to a lottery? If this central service of Yom Kippur is to highlight free-will, why does it revolve around pure and random chance? The goats do not select which path they will take! The High Priest does not even consciously decide which will go to G-d and which will go to Azazel! It’s left to chance, to a lottery; the very antithesis of choice.

It would seem, that the two identical goats do not represent choice; they represent the exact opposite; the randomness of life. The two identical goats, with two radically different fates, represent how two identical people, for reasons entirely out of their control, can lead drastically different lives. Some of you may have read the book, The Other Wes Moore. It’s a story, a local story of two boys who grew up a few blocks away from one another, here in Baltimore City. Both had difficult childhoods, both grew up without fathers, both hung out with gangs, and both had run-ins with the police. Two goats, identical in every which way.

However, one Wes Moore grew up to be a Rhodes Scholar, a decorated veteran, a White House Fellow, and a business leader. The other Wes Moore ended up a convicted murderer serving a life sentence. One goat is chosen to be brought as an offering and the other goat thrown down the cliff. In the words of Wes Moore, the Rhodes Scholar, Wes Moore: “The chilling truth is that his story could have been mine. The tragedy is that my story could have been his.”

Circumstances, many of them completely out of each boy’s hands, shaped their lives. Just like circumstances, mostly out of our hands, shape ours. In the Talmud, Rav Chanina bar Pappa describes an angel taking the drop of semen that creates a child and asking G-d, “Master of the Universe, what will be with this drop? Strong or weak? Wise or foolish? Wealthy or poor?” So much of our lives is predetermined. Is it not?

A term – a controversial term that gained a lot of currency this year was ‘privilege.’ If you are in this room, you likely have a good education, decent health, and opportunities available to you that a good percentage of the population of this country and the world don’t have access to. You were born into that privilege. Just like most of you were born into the privilege and burden of being Jewish, of being part of a great legacy and also part of one of the most hated groups of people in the world. Most of you did not choose these things. They were chosen for you. We are goats, acted upon by biology and luck.    

In modern slang, to be a goat means to be the greatest of all times. G.O.A.T. Greatest. Of. All. Times. I don’t know about you, but I’m not feeling that goat these days. I’ve felt much more like a Yom Kippur goat; left to the mercy of forces completely out of my control. Spending months this year stuck at home, hiding from invisible enemies that no one seems to understand, waiting for a cure that may or may not materialize, and hoping this country stays safe and sane. As the days wore on, I felt smaller and smaller, less and less in control. LaShem, la’azazel, to the right, to the left… It’s all chance, it’s all insignificant.

As we say at the end of Vidui: Afar ani b’chayai, I am dust in my life, kal v’chomer b’misosi, all the more so in my death. What are we? If we’re honest with ourselves, we know that we’re helpless. Just a speck of dust in space and time.

And that liturgy continues: Harei ani l’fanecha kichli malei busha u’chlima, behold, I am before you like a vessel filled with shame and humiliation. These past months, who did not feel at some point, not just small but ashamed? We saw so much tragedy around us, medically, socially, and we were impotent; completely unable to make a difference. How much time did we spend doing foolish things? How many hours of our short lives left to distractions? Elo-ai, ad shelo notzarti eini chedai, v’ach’shav shenotzarti k’ilu lo natzarti. My G-d, before I was created, I was not worthy, and now that I have been created, it’s as if I never was.

What lasting impact can we claim for ourselves? What meaning can there be? We are just a goat. Sent off on its destination. With control of almost nothing.

***

But it’s ‘almost’ nothing, and it’s that ‘almost’ that I want to talk about this morning. Because it’s true, we do not have control of so many things in our lives, of most things in our lives, for good and for bad, and the sooner we acknowledge that, the better off we will be. But there is a little tiny something that we do control.

Recently, a number of lectures from Dr. Viktor Frankl were discovered and translated. Dr. Viktor Frankl, that great psychologist, author of Man’s Search for Meaning, and inspiration to so many who have walked through the valley of death. These lectures were given in 1946, less than a year after he was liberated from the clutches of the Nazis. During the war, he had lost his beloved wife, parents, and brother. The shadow of loss loomed over his life. And if that was not bad enough, he faced the very real prospect of nuclear war. As you can imagine, he grappled mightily with the meaning of life.

He joked how a young man once stopped him as he was walking into a lecture, and asked him, “Frankl, I can’t make the lecture. In one sentence, what’s the meaning of life?” Which is like asking a chess master which move is the best move of all. It of course depends on the circumstances; it depends on the moves that preceded it. How do you summarize the purpose of life in a sentence?

Nonetheless, Frankl does share a formula for a meaningful life which I’d like to share with you. It begins, he suggests, with a recognition that most things in life are not controlled by us. It begins with a recognition that the slogans of changing the world are meaningless and foolish – very few people can make such a claim, and any such claim of changing the world is suspect. It begins with a recognition that we are just a goat, and so many of our life circumstances and who we are has been chosen for us through nature and nurture.

But in that recognition, in that small place, there is a choice and there is a responsibility. Frankl quotes Hillel, the great 2^nd century sage, in his most well-known saying: Im ein ani li… “If I am not for myself, who is for me? And when I am only for myself, who am I? And if not now, then when?” And this is how he interprets it:

“Let us not forget,” he writes, “that each individual is imperfect… ‘in his own way.’ Expressed in a positive way, he becomes somehow irreplaceable, unable to be represented by anyone else, unexchangeable.” Im ein ani li, mi li? There is no one like me. Never was and never will be.

But that uniqueness alone has no positive value. This is the mistake, I would add, of so many in our generation, who believe that individuality is a value in it of itself. That being different is a goal in it of itself. No, writes Frankl. “Individuality can only be valuable when it is not individuality for its own sake but individuality for the human community.” Because Hillel continues, uch’sh’ani l’atzmi, mah ani? If I am only for myself, what am I? We are called upon to serve. Not all of humankind, that’s fanciful thinking. We are called upon to make the life of those immediately around us more elevated, or at least, more bearable.

And the final clause, the most important of all. V’im lo ach’shav eimotai – and if now, when? It is not we who ask life – or G-d – what the meaning of life is all about. It is G-d who asks us. When does He ask us? Ach’shav. Right now. All the time. In every circumstance we find ourselves in we are being asked that question; what is the meaning? And our entire lives, every ach’shav, is an opportunity to respond to the question G-d asks of us. We could be in Auschwitz, or we could be in America, we could in a lockdown or on a cruise-liner, the question is always being asked of us. What are you, the unique, irreplaceable you, doing in this unique, irreplaceable moment? Are you making your life and the life of those around you better or not? That’s it. That’s life’s purpose in one sentence. So simple and so easily forgotten. And so I’ll repeat it: What are you, the unique, irreplaceable you, doing in this unique, irreplaceable moment? Are you making your life and the life of those around you better or not?

Life is a coloring book. We don’t get to choose the pictures; we don’t even get to choose the page. But we do get to choose the colors. We get to choose how we respond, what we do in that little space – that’s ours.

We do not know what this year has in store for us; I hope we have been humbled enough to accept that. We may be brought to the Temple – maybe this is the year of our redemption. Or we may be brought to the rocky mountains of Azazel. But as we are schlepped along, as we make our way through this short life, there is a question, a set of questions we must answer:

Ime in ani li, Mi li? What qualities have I been blessed with? What character flaws do I need to change?

Uch’sh’ani l’atzmi mah ani? Am I living for myself or am I living my life for others? My family, my community, they are part of my identity and they are part of my purpose.

V’im lo ach’shav eimo’sai? We pray for health, but we may face illness. We pray for wealth, but we may face poverty. We pray for an end to this pandemic, but we may face a second wave. But in this moment, whatever this moment looks like, you are being asked a question; what does life and what does G-d expect of me. 

What will you be your answer?

A Prayer for Neilah

by Motzen | Sep 27, 2020 | Sermons

I recently heard a story of a survivor who was liberated from Auschwitz. He was fed, given clothing, he was told that he could go wherever he wanted; he was free. Many survivors were in shock, others were in a state of jubilation, and many cried. This man was in that last category. He was sobbing uncontrollably.

A Jewish chaplain who saw him came over to him and put his arm around his shriveled shoulder. Was it a loved that he lost? Was he scared about the future? But it was none of those. The man kept crying.

Finally, he caught his breath and turned to the chaplain: “You cannot begin to imagine what I witnessed these past few years. I lost most of my family, I witnessed unspeakable atrocities, and suffered in ways I can’t even describe. But one thing kept me going. One thing kept my hopes alive. The only way I could understand what was happening was by believing that it would end with the great Shofar, that it would end with Mashiach, the End of Days. There was no other way to make sense of it.”

“And yet,” he continued and turned to the chaplain, “here you are. An army, Americans, Russians. And we’re just going to go back to normal.”

Now by the furthest stretch of the imagination, I am not comparing 2020 to 1945. But the story brings home something I have been thinking about a lot these past months. Will we really just go back to normal? After all this? After all the suffering, all the pain, all the questions, theological questions we had; will G-d once again hide Himself behind his thick cloud? There’s only so much we can take. There’s only so much injustice we can witness before our belief crumbles. There’s only so much pain we can endure before our sense of direction is forever lost. Where’s the geulah? Where’s the grand finale that we’ve been promised? Where’s world peace? Where’s universal prosperity, education, goodness? Where are you G-d? It’s getting mighty dark in here. You can’t really just let things go back to normal.

And I imagine if G-d were to respond to my challenge, He would say the same thing to me. He would ask me, Sruli, are things really going to back to normal? Will you really just throw your masks in the trash when this is all done and with it all the lessons you’ve learned? I’ve been yelling and screaming at you through these past few months to wake up! To start living! To start caring! To start growing! You can’t really just let things go back to normal.

And so allow me, at this holy moment, the most precious moment of the year, when we all stand together, in the Holy of Holies, directly before our Father, our King, and instead of addressing you – please excuse me, as I direct my words to G-d.

Ribbono shel Olam, Master of the Universe,

Let’s make a deal. Please, I beg You, do not allow things to go back to normal.

We will look out for those who are all alone, we will call them, we will invite them, we will say hello to them, there will be no more invisible people. But can You, G-d, let them know how precious they are? How much You love them? Because they don’t know.

We will try to support those who are in financial need. We will give more to Ahavas Yisrael, to scholarship funds, and just look out for our friends who can use a little help. But can You, G-d, just be done with this curse of poverty? It’s so overwhelming. How do you expect people to live good lives with the crushing burden of not knowing if they can pay their monthly bills?

We will pray more for those who are ill, we will check in on them and ask them how we can help. But G-d, please, enough with illness! Enough covid, enough cancer, enough mental illness! Enough sickness! It’s just too much!

We will be kinder and more understanding with our spouses, we will be gentler with our children. But please, G-d, fill our hearts with forgiveness, reverse these trends of hatred and impatience. These are Your children, not only ours! Doesn’t it hurt You to see their pain?!

We will pray more, we will study more, and we will fulfill more of Your mitzvos, but please G-d, help us see You. It’s so much easier to not believe these days than to believe, how can you blame us? We need Your help; open our eyes. We want to believe, we do, but we can’t do it on our own.

Please G-d, we want the redemption. We’re so tired, we’re so worn out. I don’t have to tell You what we have been through, this year, this century, these past two thousand years. It’s just too much. And G-d, there’s nothing we can do about this one. Only You can save us.

We’re about to begin Neilah. We will pray to You, we will sing Your praise, we will cry out to You. But at the end of the day, we’re so small, we’re so insignificant, we need You today more than ever. We will do what we can to ensure that the world does not go back to normal. Please G-d, help us, and do the same.

Yom Kippur at Home Reader

by Motzen | Sep 24, 2020 | Sermons

Please click on this link for some thought-provoking and uplifting reading material for Yom Kippur: ou-chag-at-home_Yk

Living in the Age of Uncertainty Sermon for the Second Day of Rosh Hashana

by Motzen | Sep 18, 2020 | Sermons

“Unesaneh tokef kedushas hayom, let us now relate the intense holiness of the day” None of us took these words as seriously last year. Did we?  “Mi yich’yeh umi yamus, who will live and who will die?” And this year, we will think of the almost 200,000 people who died this year in the United States due to the coronavirus and we will think ahead to the great unknown; what will this year have in store.

“Who will die at his predestined time, and who before his time?” We will think not only of the elderly – who died disproportionately, but the many young, who thought they would live forever – and perished.

“Mi badever, who by plague?” Honestly, every year we say these words, and I think to myself, who by plague?! What is this – the dark ages? Who will die by plague?! But yes, in 2020, we ask, we shudder at the thought – who, which one of the people we know will die by plague.

“Who will live in harmony and who will be harried? Who will enjoy tranquility and who will suffer?” The teachers, the front-line workers, the parents, those living in isolation… the list just goes on and on, so much suffering this year. It’s overwhelming! From the obvious and objective struggles to the countless people struggling in their own way, silently, forging forward, despite the immense difficulty in doing so.

“Who will be impoverished and who will be enriched? Who will be degraded and who will be exalted?” Our economy is still holding on, but for how long? And with the collapse of an economy, with social unrest at every street corner, an upcoming contentious election, it feels like we’re living in a tinder box.

Though we omitted many of the traditional prayers for this year, I could not bring myself to removing Unesaneh Tokef. It summarizes more than anything else the spirit of our mindset this Rosh Hashana; uncertainty about what this year will bring.

Isn’t that the most appropriate term to summarize our state of mind? Uncertainty. We just don’t know.

We don’t know anything. When will a vaccine come out? Who will be the next president of the United States? Will the country be in lock-down in a few months from now? Will the stock-market grow or crash? Will I be healthy this year? Will I lose more friends and acquaintances to this plague? This was the year, and this is the age of uncertainty.

The word, certainty, comes from the Latin, cernere, which means ‘to distinguish, to mark out, to separate one thing from the rest, to discern.’ Uncertainty is the opposite – it’s the experience of being unable to distinguish, when we can no longer separate one thing from the rest. There is so much conflicting and ambiguous information that it is impossible to distinguish fact from fiction. Are we being irrational or are we being prudent? We just don’t know.

Uncertainty is a debilitating feeling that can wreak havoc, both spiritual, emotional, and physical. Why did the Jewish People turn to idol-worship a mere 40 days after receiving the Torah? Because Moshe was gone, and they were anxious. Why did the Jewish People choose to believe the negative report of the spies? Because they were terrified of the unknown. Why did millions of Jews choose to stay in Europe despite the tell-tale signs of the looming inferno? For many of them it was because they were anxious and afraid to move to a new home. This year, we don’t need to look at the Torah or history to know this; we know it in our kishkas, we have experienced the terrible impact of uncertainty on our lives.

Uncertainty is taxing on our brain. Our brain is hard-wired to be aversive to ambiguity. We will do anything we can to avoid ambiguous – or uncertain situations. And that’s because ambiguity overworks our brain. It’s too much. That’s why when we’re feeling uncertain, we make snap decisions that we later regret, we yell at people, we’re rash, we cry more, we self-medicate unhealthily. Anything to avoid that unsettling feeling of uncertainty.

Uncertainty is at the root of everything that is wrong with us this year.

Or so it seems.

Franz Kafka, the 20^th century Jewish philosopher and novelist, wrote a story six months before he died. It’s called, The Burrow, or in German, Der Bau. The burrow is a mole-like creature who spends his life creating a rather complex shelter. It’s built with ingenuity and with the sole aim of protecting him from all possible dangers. It’s a perfect and impenetrable home. Except for one thing – there is a hole that serves as an entranceway which is not sealed off.  

The hole threatens his life, exposing him to danger, and at the same time, paradoxically, the hole reminds this little animal that he is not completely safe, and therefore keeps him vigilant and ready. In the words of Professor John Hamilton, “If the burrow were perfectly secure, he would waste away in idleness and complacency, and therefore put himself at an even greater risk. It is the possibility of being killed and the uncertainty of the threat that keeps him alert. His mortality, so to speak, saves his life.”

In Kafka’s telling of the story, the creature points to that hole and states, “There,” because of that hole “I am mortal.”

Because you see, uncertainty is a curse, but uncertainty is also a blessing.  

For all the havoc it breeds, uncertainty also breeds humility. Uncertainty breeds urgency to do and to accomplish. Uncertainty breeds curiosity and wonder. And lastly, uncertainty is the passageway through which we find faith in G-d.

For the past five years, one of the things that kept me busy during the summer months was creating a shul calendar full to the brim with exciting events for the entire year. That calendar is something I bring with me to every rabbinic conference. I am proud of it. We have a plan for our entire year. I could tell you what classes will take place, what programs we will run, who our honorees will be – it’s great. I smugly inform my colleagues how at Ner Tamid, how at our shul, we don’t have to stress out in middle of the year because we know exactly what we’re doing months in advance.

Obviously, I didn’t work on a calendar this summer, because who in their right mind, plans for more than two weeks at a time nowadays?

It was sad but also humbling. Because it’s so easy for me, and I imagine for all of us, to live in the mirage of having everything under control, when in truth, we don’t control anything.

I have found myself saying and hearing the words, I don’t know, over and over and over again. In talking to top doctors, infectious disease experts, all I heard from them was, I don’t know. There’s something scary but also refreshingly humbling about saying and hearing those words. Rashi, Rabbi Shlomo Yitzchaki, possibly the most important Jewish scholar in the past thousand years, wrote a commentary, or should I say the commentary for both the Chumash and the Talmud. In a few precious passages he writes the following: “I don’t know why this was said or done.” That’s not embarrassing; that’s a sign of his greatness as a thinker. Socrates once said, “True knowledge exists in knowing that you know nothing.”

You see, uncertainty does not have to be depressing; it could be refreshing and energizing. Living in a state of uncertainty means waking up every morning, taking a deep breath through a throat that’s not itchy, allowing your lungs to be filled with oxygen, and to exhale. To say, “Modeh ani! Thank you, Hashem!” To experience life and all its beauty as if for the first time.

Uncertainty means listening intently when someone speaks, maybe even when they share a view that you know to be wrong – especially when they share a view you know to be wrong, because who knows, maybe they’re right. Maybe you’ve been wrong your whole life. “I don’t know.” “I don’t know.” “I don’t know.” Get used to saying those words. They’re words of knowledge, of humility and of greatness. That’s an uncertainty the world can use a lot more of these days.  

And in that humble space of not knowing, not only the right answer, but also how long our biological clock will tick, a sense of urgency is born. We all saw it with our own eyes; the people who stepped up to help, to do, to serve. The people risking their lives for others. And we felt it in our soul; the questions we faced like never before, why am I here? What am I supposed to be doing? Where has my life gone?

And all of sudden, families that barely talked Zoomed weekly. Family dinners were back in vogue. Old friendships dusted off and reignited. Dark secrets and overdue apologies were freed from their captivity. New careers were considered. Aliyah offices were overwhelmed. I don’t know how long I have to live, but I do know that I want to live a life of meaning. And so, this curse of uncertainty blossomed into a movement of meaning. The greatest motivator in life is our mortality, but only when we’re bold enough to face it.

And lastly, uncertainty allows us to bring G-d into our lives. We all plan our lives as if we know exactly what’s going to happen next. We plan how many children we’ll have, and where we’ll live, and how much we’ll retire with, and where we’ll vacation – and then Covid, and the ground beneath us crumbles.

But the truth is the ground did not crumble. All Covid did was expose that there was never solid ground beneath us. As complex and sophisticated as our tunnels may be, there is always a hole that is exposed. Covid just made us aware of that vulnerability. And now that I see that hole, that hole that reminds me that I’m not in control. I could realize Who is. I could submit to the fact that despite my greatest plans, I do not run this world.

In a moment we will be blowing the Shofar. Our custom is to blow the Shofar 100 times. The reason, according to the Talmud, is that a woman by the name of Temach, cried for her son 100 times. Her son had gone out to battle and he was late returning. She was scared, she was anxious, she was filled with doubt and uncertainty. Our shofar blows are meant to capture those uncertain and loving cries.

Because you see, the Shofar symbolizes our uncertainty about our future; what will be, we do not know; we’re ready now to accept that. But is also symbolizes the love of our parent, of our Father in Heaven, who is waiting by the window, hoping that we return to Him. Because the two, uncertainty and love are intertwined. When we allow ourselves to feel vulnerable, how dependent we are, when we allow ourselves to acknowledge our uncertainty, then, and only then, can we really feel love. It’s true for all relationships, especially our relationship with G-d.

The Kotzker Rebbe was once asked, where is G-d. And he famously replied, “wherever you let Him in.” Covid has swung open my door, all of our doors, and made us aware of the cracks in our armor; let G-d fill those cracks. The cracks in our self-confidence is “how the light gets in.” 

There’s a story told about a man, who wanted to climb a terrifically tall mountain. After many years of preparation, he began his climb. On the third night of climbing, the sun had set, but he kept going. He was almost there, almost at the top.

And just as he had a few feet to go, he slipped.

Falling at incredible speed, seeing nothing, just feeling the terrible sensation of being pulled by gravity; further and further and further.

His life flashed before him, but he kept on falling, until YANK!

He felt the rope tied to his waist violently tug on him.

Dangling in the air, he caught his breath. He started pushing himself this way and that way, but he was nowhere near land; he realized he was dangling off a cliff. He tried climbing the rope itself, but he had no energy left.

Not a big believer, but facing no other choice, he turned to G-d. “G-d, if you’re really there, please help me.” No reply.

He started shivering in the cold. “G-d, if you’re really there, please help me.”

This time a deep voice responded: “How can I help you?”

“Save me!!”

“Do you really think I can save you?” asked the voice.

“Of course I believe You can! You’re G-d! I put my life entirely in Your hands. But please save me!”

“Then cut the rope tied to your waist.”

“Wait, what?!”

“Cut the rope.”

***

The next day, a rescue team found the man, dead, frozen to death, clutching that rope, dangling just a few feet from the ground. 

When we realize how we’re not in control, when we realize how little we know about right or wrong, when we realize how fleeting life is, it’s an opportunity to feel G-d’s love and – to heed his directions, to let Him into our lives. To listen closely to what He’s asking of us. It’s hard, no doubt, to cut the rope. It’s hard to make major life changes, it is. But it’s moments like these, moments that are once in a lifetime, when we are dangling, when we recognize how little we are, how little we know, how short our time on earth really is, that we have the opportunity to let go of that rope and let G-d in.  

***

Ironically, Kafka never finished that story. The hole he wrote of was the hole he lived. Life is full of uncertainty. Life is full of unfinished business. But we have a choice; to be debilitated by that uncertainty or to be moved by it. To fight and flight or – to face our weaknesses and grow in our humility. To fret endlessly or to make the most of this time here on earth. To escape into more distractions or to cut the rope – and start living a more meaningful life. We don’t need the Shofar today to remind us of the uncertainties of life. 2020 was one long Shofar blast, and if we listen to its call, we can hear the voice of G-d, calling us, beckoning us, shuvu vanim, return my beloved children, please! I love you! And in our vulnerability, as we cut the rope and give in, we can feel His warm and loving embrace.