Rabbi Dan Levin's Blog

Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev told the following story.  Once there was a beloved king, whose court musicians played beautiful music before him.  The king loved the music, and the musicians loved to play together for him.  Every day for many years, the musicians played with passion and zeal, and the king and the musicians developed a deep love for one another.  But eventually, after years of dedicated service, all of the musicians died.  Their children were called into the king’s court and were asked to take their parents’ place.  Out of loyalty to their parents, the children came to play each morning.  But unlike their parents, the children did not love the music.  While they could play the basic tunes, they did not understand the hidden power of their instruments, and played with little enthusiasm.  Their resentment grew each day they played.  And each day the king also became more and more frustrated – as much by their dismissive attitude as by their cacophony.

But after some time, a few of the children developed a renewed interest in serving the king.  They realized that playing beautiful music was not simply a way to connect with the king and bring him joy, but they found that making music kindled a fire in their own souls they had never before experienced.

So these children set out to remember what their parents had known so well.  They began to experiment with sound, composed new melodies, rediscovered harmony, and produced a music inspired by their own sense of devotion and love.

The king witnessed their efforts and was deeply moved.  Their music was different from their parents’, but like them, it came from a place deep within, from a compelling need to give of their spirit to each other and to him.[1]

On this Yom Kippur, I feel like a musician’s child.  Like the musicians, and their children, I am seeking.  I am seeking to figure out the answers to life’s basic and most important questions:  What is the best way for me to choose to use the gift of life?  What is my mission and my purpose?  How can I determine what is right and what is wrong?  What are my obligations to myself, and what are my obligations to the larger world in which I live, my community, my country, my people, humankind?

In the Torah portion we read today/tomorrow God gives us a choice.  “I set before you this day life and death, blessing and curse.  Choose life that you and your descendants may live. (Deut. 30:19)”

We are seekers.  We all are trying to answer that fundamental question – how do we choose life?  We all are looking to find our place and our purpose.  We are trying to find what will kindle our inner fire, what will ignite our passion to live the lives both God and we would want us to live.  We are, as Rabbi Sidney Schwartz notes in his new book Jewish Megatrends, seekers of wisdom, of community, of meaning and holiness.[2]

When we find what we are seeking, something amazing happens. You hear someone speak and what they say just hits you as so dead on; you get involved in a project where you can really feel like you’re making a difference; you spend time with people you love the most; or you feel like you have touched or witnessed something sacred – it creates an excitement, an energy, a fire in the belly, a burning deep inside.  In Hebrew, it’s called Hitlahavut – an inner burning of passion, excitement, desire.

It is Hitlahavut, that inner burning, that the musicians felt when they played for the king.  It is that Hitlahavut, that inner burning that inspired their children to make their own music, as their own gift to the king.

Isn’t that what we’re searching for?  We want to be inspired, to be awestruck, to have our passions ignited and our hearts filled with wonder.  But the music of one generation does not always speak to the next.

The High Holy Days are a paradox.  Last week, we celebrated the New Year – Rosh HaShanah. The word “Shanah” means year, as for example, to wish someone a good New Year, we say L’Shana Tova!  The word Shanah is formed from a three letter root – Shin-Nun-Heh, which means to repeat.  Thus a year is something that occurs in a repetitive fashion.  The first compendium of Jewish law is called the Mishna – same root – since it is a repetition of the oral law and interpretations of the Torah.

Interestingly, however, the same three-letter root – Shin-Nun-Heh, also means change.  If I say, “I change my mind – I say in Hebrew, Ani Eshaneh et Da’ati.”  It’s amazing to think that the same three-letter root means both repetition and change at the same time.

Our lives are bounded by two poles. On one side a compulsion to try something different, to build a new reality and change.  On the other side, we feel a need to hold fast to the way things were, to cleave to tradition, stay the course.  Sometimes the answers we seek are found in the music played by generations that came before us.  As we stand together today in prayer, the echos of ancient melody and rhythm touch a place deep within that grounds and inspires.  And yet at the same time there is a melody unique to us individually, a music that resonates especially in our own souls and spirits, distinctive for this day and age.

Music is found in vibration, in moving back and forth between two poles.  The music of our lives, like the music in Levi Yitzchak’s story, is found in the vibration between tradition and change. The answers we seek to answer this Yom Kippur are ultimately to be found in the music of Jewish rhythm and Jewish life.

We are seekers, as were our ancestors before us.  When the Israelites left Egypt, and embarked on their own journey to discover life’s meaning and purpose, where did they go?  They went to Sinai.  It was there, at Sinai, where our people were touched to the core with Hitlahavut. It was there that we found ourselves bonded together as a people, bonded together with God, a unity coursing with holy energy and life and light.

And throughout the ages, throughout our wanderings, we have constantly sought to return to Sinai, to that ultimate moment where we found what we were looking for.  And we built ourselves a portal that we thought would take us there.  We built ourselves a synagogue.

The synagogue emerged out of our people’s need to connect to God once the Temple was destroyed. In ancient times, when festivals were celebrated with pilgrimage to Jerusalem, only a small delegation from a particular town would go. Those who remained behind would gather together on the day they knew their offering would be presented in the Temple.  Since they could not participate in the actual offering, they would offer their prayers instead, praying that God would accept the sacrifice that was being offered on their behalf.

These groups were called Ma’amadim – standing groups.  As the Israelites had stood together at the foot of Mount Sinai, so we would stand together, and seek a new path to a connection to God.  It was these Ma’amadim – standing groups, that became the foundation of a Judaism that would rise from the ashes of the smoldering Temple in Jerusalem.

There is something very powerful when people come and stand together.  Moses begins the Torah portion we read Tomorrow/Today by calling out to the people: “Atem Nitzavim HaYom Kulchem, Lifnei Adonai Eloheichem – you stand here this day, all of you, before Adonai your God…(Deut. 29:9)”  We stood together at Sinai to hear God call to us, and we stood together to hear Moses’ instruction.  Standing together is big in Jewish tradition.  For it is when we come together to be one with each other that we begin to kindle that Divine spark within.

Think of the energy that comes from sharing just a moment of real openness, of connection and understanding with someone you love.  Imagine you could add a third person to that connection, and a fourth.  Imagine how powerful the energy would be from a whole community bound up in that web of relationship.  Think too of how alienating and painful is the experience of loneliness – how we yearn for that energy that comes from giving and receiving love.

That’s why the synagogue is called not simply a Mikdash Me’at – a little Temple, but a Beit Knesset, a house of gathering.  The synagogue is where a community gathers to kindle their passion and discover their purpose.  It is where we gather to worship, to learn, to celebrate, to grieve, to bond with each other, and with God, and set out to make the world a better place.

Dr. Ron Wolfson in his new book Relational Judaism, teaches that we need to rethink what the mission of the synagogue really is.  For years, synagogues grew to be program factories.  Lay leadership and staff would spend countless hours trying to put together the right menu of programs that would draw people into the synagogue – pre-school, religious school, alternative worship services, adult education, social events, community service projects – big events, small events.  But that really is not enough.

Like the musicians that came before us, we need to build a synagogue that reverberates with the music we need to hear today.  It needs to be a music that blends the tradition from which we rise with the world we share today.  It must vibrate between holding fast to what we’ve been and the dreams of what we might create.

Over the last two years, hundreds of you, in focus groups and town halls, in committee meetings and individual conversations, helped create our newly adopted strategic plan, in which we set forth a vision of what we hoped Temple Beth El should be and become.

Temple Beth El of Boca Raton seeks to be a deeply compelling center of Reform Judaism, integrating the wisdom of Torah and tradition with the modern world in which we live.  Our congregation will:

 

• Welcome, involve and inspire all who enter, embracing the unique contributions of every individual.
• Reach out to the larger community to encourage participation in   synagogue life.
• Celebrate, grieve, heal and grow together through all seasons of life.
• Strive to be a learned community that questions, studies, and honors the gift of Torah and our covenant with God.
• Engage in inspiring worship and transformative experiences of Jewish spirituality.
• Share a love and responsibility for each other, our community and country, for Israel, and for the future of the Jewish people.

And how are we going to implement that vision?  How will we make Temple Beth El into a center of Hitlahavut?  By being a center that builds relational Judaism. What we discovered is that synagogues need to build strong programs, but more importantly synagogues need to build strong relationships.

Wolfson teaches that we, as Jews, participate in nine levels of relationship:  Self, Family, Friends, Jewish Living, Community, Peoplehood, Israel, World, and God.[3]

First, the synagogue needs to be a place where we can get in touch with our selves.  The Hebrew term for prayer, L’Hitpalel, is best translated as a verb meaning “to examine oneself.”  The goal of Jewish prayer is not simply to praise God and ask for God’s blessings.  The goal of Jewish prayer is to be moved, to change one’s self.[4]  The synagogue needs to be a place where we heal our selves, find a sense of spiritual refreshment and rejuvenation.  The synagogue needs to invite us to share in vital worship, with a variety of settings and modes that will touch us in all our different ages and stages.

The synagogue needs to be a place where we can access Jewish wisdom.  It needs to be a place where we feel inspired to dig deep into the treasure trove of Jewish sources and learn to interpret the wisdom of our ancestors to rediscover our selves, our individual missions and purpose. It needs to be a place where, as the great educator Shlomo Bardin said, “people need to be touched, not taught.”[5]

Secondly, the synagogue needs to be a place where we celebrate family. The synagogue must be a center where we sanctify a loving commitment between two people who seek to build a Jewish household.  We must constantly create opportunities to celebrate the milestones along our children’s path through childhood, adolescence, and into adulthood.  We must provide the most compelling and accessible educational resources possible to guide families in the sacred task of passing Torah and tradition from one generation to the next.

The synagogue must be a place where we help each other find friendships and community.  We must help break down the walls that keep us from building bonds of understanding and relationship, and help us to engage with each other and build real community – by telling our stories to each other, finding common interests, sharing important experiences together, being there for each other in joy and in sadness, and spending time together for simple camaraderie.

We must facilitate the exploration of Jewish living.  In the Torah portion we read today/tomorrow, Moses implores the people not to be afraid of Jewish living: “this thing is very near to you, in your mouth and in your heart that you can do it. (Deut. 30:14)”  But like the Israelites who stood together in the desert before us, living a Jewish life isn’t easy.  Like a musician who hasn’t practiced, performing the rituals and Jewish acts can seem extremely awkward and uncomfortable.  The synagogue needs to lower the obstacles that keep us from living a Jewish life, and helps us learn how to use Jewish ritual in a way that makes sense in our minds and sense in our lives.

Our synagogue needs to be a place that inspires us to make a difference in the lives of those in our community and in our larger world.  It needs to be a place that not only advocates for the moral good, but performs the moral good.  It needs to be a place where we come together to feed the hungry, to shelter the homeless, to give voice to those who have no voice, and to make the world more just and fair.  It needs to be a place where we feel deeply a connection and responsibility to the land and people of Israel, and where we never neglect our responsibility to this great country that has offered a level of integration and security our people have never known.

Our synagogue needs the resources to make our dreams come true – it needs prayer spaces that inspire, whether there be 100 worshippers or 400.  We need spaces that inspire us to learn, and that take full advantage of all that modern technology can bring.  We need spaces that invite us to gather for real meeting, conversation, and interaction.  And we need the financial resources to make it all possible.

But ultimately, what we really need is you.  We need committed seekers, who want to come together and find the path in life that will set our souls on fire.  Let’s transform our synagogue by tapping into the power of our relationships. Call me – let’s sit and talk.  Let’s build relationships, you and I, and let’s build relationships amongst one another.  Let’s build a real community, where we break down the barriers that keep us from connecting, and open our hearts and minds and mouths to each other in real meeting and connection.  Let’s make new music together, music that soars from hearts ablaze with passion for Jewish life, living, love, and peace.

 

On May 10 of this year, The New York Times reported that the average daily level of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere had climbed above 400 parts per million.

For three million years, our planet had an average of 280 parts per million of carbon dioxide in our atmosphere.  Carbon is found everywhere, and is the core of our planet’s living systems.  Carbon is found in the life and death of plants, animals, and microbes, is stored in sediment at the bottom of the ocean, is dissolved in our oceans, seas, rivers, and streams, and circulates in our atmosphere.  The stability of the carbon cycle has kept our planet at a very stable temperature for the last 8000 years, and has allowed the flourishing of a species we call humanity.[1]

But for the last two to three centuries, human activity has disturbed this precious balance.  With industrialization, we began to dig up and burn tons of fossilized carbon.  As our appetite for fossil fuel grew, and as technologies abounded that burned more and more carbon, we have altered the carbon cycle so that there is more and more carbon in our atmosphere.  The higher levels of carbon trap heat in our atmosphere, rather than allowing it to bleed out into space. This is causing an increase in the average temperature of our planet.  The rise in temperature is causing significant melting of arctic ice, which changes the way in which our planet reflects light back into space.  More white ice – more reflection and less heat.  Dark ocean holds light energy, rather than reflecting it back into space, so less ice and more ocean creates more heat, which melts more ice, creating more ocean, absorbing more heat.  The Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change, a body of several hundred scientists from around the world, will report in September that there is a greater than 95 percent certitude that human factors contributing to the break in the carbon cycle have likely already locked us in to a global increase in temperature of at least two degrees celsius, and probably more.[2]

The vast majority of climate scientists agree that to avoid the significant and dangerous repercussions of a 2◦C rise in global temperatures, rich nations like the United States would need, by 2020, to reduce carbon emissions to a level 25-40 percent lower than levels were back in 1990.  Dr. Ben Strauss, who earned his Ph.D. in ecology and evolutionary biology from Princeton, asserts that with no change in our current levels of carbon output, middle of the road assessments point to an increase in sea-level of four feet within 100 years, which would essentially put the entirety of Miami Beach under water.[3]

So what are we doing about it?  Nothing.  Practically nothing.  We are on a course that the overwhelming consensus of scientists worldwide agree will drastically change our experience of life on earth, creating climate realities humanity has not known since before the creation of the wheel.     And yet despite the fact that we have known about this impending disaster for nearly twenty years, we are simply doing nothing.  Nothing.

Why is it that we all have such a tendency to do what we know is clearly not in our own best interest?  Why is it that even when we know rationally that we’re not on a healthy course, or that we’re making clearly self-destructive choices, nevertheless we refuse to change.

I’m guilty.  Every year, for more years than I care to count, I make myself a New Year’s resolution at the High Holy Days.  “This year,” I annually declare, “this year is the year I am going to get in shape!”  Every year, I promise myself that I am going to get myself into the gym and work out regularly.  I’m going to start running, swimming, biking, and exercising.

And guess what.  I haven’t.  Oh, I exercise a little.  I try to walk for exercise, I play soccer on many Sundays, and occasionally go for a run.  But none of it’s consistent.  And with the addition of Charlie the Wonderdog to the Levin family, even my walks are no longer the exercise they once were as my little dog stops to mark every tree, shrub, and lamp-post in our neighborhood.

I have made other resolutions I haven’t kept either.  I promised I wouldn’t turn on the TV in the bedroom and instead read more books, have more meaningful conversations with my wife, or God-forbid, go to sleep earlier.  I promised I wouldn’t constantly nag my family about the messy state of our house.  And yet, here I am, one year later, and I have a lot of repenting to do.

So why won’t we change?  Why won’t we break the bad habits we know are so unhealthy for us?  From the outside, we look like we’ve lost our minds.  For example, we have absolute and incontrovertible scientific evidence that cigarette smoking will dramatically increase our risk for lung-cancer, emphysema, heart-disease and a whole host of other terrible health problems.  And yet everywhere we go, we see extremely intelligent, highly educated people, whose extremely intelligent heads are masked in a cloud of cigarette smoke they just exhaled from their highly educated lungs.

The fact is that habits are hard to break. Our patterns of life are ingrained deeply into our brains and our psyches, and it’s very difficult for us to break out of those patterns.

For many years, I have worked with individuals who are suffering from addiction – addiction to drugs or alcohol or gambling.  And the stories they tell are remarkably similar.  Each suffered from a spiritual pain brought on by trauma, loneliness, a sense of emptiness or difficulty in understanding life’s purpose or meaning.  And to avoid those feelings, to escape the pain, they chose to medicate themselves with the numbness of alcohol, the euphoria of drugs, the excitement of gambling.  And soon use and abuse became habits, habits that led to all kinds of self-destructive outcomes – broken relationships, job loss, impoverishment, legal woes, physical illness.  And yet, it isn’t until something drastic happens that people will do what’s necessary to break those habits – and sometimes, those habits are so strong they literally kill us.

William James, the famous 19^th century philosopher and psychologist wrote in 1892 that “all our life, so far as it has definite form, is but a mass of habits.”[4] Charles Duhigg, in his book The Power of Habit teaches us that habits are made up of a cycle of three basic elements: cue, routine, and reward.

Let’s take a basic habit for example.  Like many of you, I have become dependent on my smartphone.  Throughout the day, our  phones give a little chirp or buzz, telling us we have a new text message.  That’s our cue.  We also learn that when we respond to that cue, and open the message, we get a nice feeling inside – someone cared enough to send us a text.  It might have a little bit of news or gossip or greeting, maybe even a cute or funny picture.  It’s fun to open a text.  So we learn that if we respond to the cue and open the text, we get a reward, that nice little feeling of having someone reach out and touch us.

This creates a habit pattern – buzz -> read text -> nice feeling.  And that habit can be overwhelming.  We’re sitting at an important meeting, our phones give a little buzz, and automatically, our phones are under the table while we read the text.  We pretend that we’re still focused on the meeting, but how many of us have missed an important thought because we were not fully present?  Or worse.  We’re driving in our cars, and we hear that cue, and even though we know we shouldn’t text while driving, our habit patterns create a mighty temptation to read that text once we hear that magic chime.  Hey, let’s be honest.  How many of you in our congregation are texting right now?!?

It’s very difficult to break our habits.  They become ingrained in the depths of our being.  In some ways, they define who we are.  And sometimes, if we’re not careful, habits lead us to incredibly self-destructive behaviors.

There are many reasons we have such difficulty changing our habit patterns.  It’s painful and it’s difficult and it’s scary.  As Clive Hamilton writes, “When climate scientists conclude that, even with optimistic assumptions about how quickly emissions can be cut, the world is expected to warm by 4◦C this century it is too much to bear. Who can believe that within the lifetime of a child born today the planet will be hotter than at any time for 15 million years? When scientists say we will cross tipping points leading to chaotic weather for centuries, we retreat to incredulity.”[5]

When thinking about climate change some will say the science isn’t settled, that there are differences of opinion among climate scientists.  Some even go so far as to say that there is a conspiracy by climate scientists to fashion a pre-determined outcome.  We so desperately don’t want to believe what we’re told, many deny the basic science.  This was true of many changes in scientific understandings of what we once thought was true.

In Weimar Germany in the 1920s, Einstein’s theory of relativity attracted fierce controversy.  Einstein was an internationalist and a pacifist, and those who opposed him saw his theory of relativity as yet another sign of moral and intellectual decay.  Einstein was accused of being un-German, and a decade later, Nobel laureate physicist Philipp Lenard sought to root out “Jewish physics” from the academy in Germany.  Fellow physicist Ernst Gehrcke developed an elaborate account of “mass hypnosis” to explain the public’s gullibility in accepting a theory that was so manifestly untrue.

Things weren’t terribly different when it came to smoking.  Tobacco companies for years sponsored pseudo-scientific work to refute the evidence that smoking was directly linked to cancer and disease.

We do this too.  We deny our bad habits, or we minimize the impact they have on others.  We blame others for the reasons we don’t change our ways.  We engage in wishful thinking, hoping that we won’t have to suffer the consequences we know deep down our bad habits are likely to bring.

I think about all the reasons I haven’t joined a gym.  I am plagued by analysis paralysis.  What kind of gym do I want?  Which is the best one?  Isn’t that one too expensive?  I tell myself that I’m still getting some exercise, and some is better than none, right?  I excuse my behavior by telling myself I’m too busy – too much to do between my responsibilities to work and family.  And another year goes by, and nothing has changed.

We do not have to be a slave to our old habits.  We can change.  Duhigg suggests that part of the reason Alcoholics Anonymous is so successful is because it replaces the effect the drug has on our spirits with a healthy alternative.  AA helps people identify the cues and rewards that encourage alcoholic habits, and then helps the addict find new behaviors. The meetings offer companionship and a “sponsor” can offer as much escape, distraction, and catharsis as heading into a bar to spend a night drinking.[6]

But while an alcoholic can try and change, without one ingredient, we find inevitable relapse.  The missing piece, we are told, is belief.  J. Scott Tonigan, a researcher in alcoholism and drug addiction at the University of New Mexico says, “belief is critical.  You don’t have to believe in God, but you do need the capacity to believe that things will get better…  What can make a difference is believing that [you] can cope with that stress without alcohol.”[7]

Belief is what will make a difference.  Belief that our habits are self-destructive and leading us into a darkness from which we may not emerge.  Belief that we have the power to change.  Belief that change will be good and make a difference.

William James, the father of American psychology, was actually the shlepper in his family.  His father was a wealthy and prominent theologian.  His brother, Henry, was a brilliant novelist whose works are considered masterpieces.  William wanted to be a painter, but then enrolled in medical school, then left to join an expedition up the Amazon River. He couldn’t find his place in life, and began to despair to the point of contemplating suicide.  But in 1870, James made a decision.  Before doing anything, he could conduct a year-long experiment.  he would spend twelve months believing that he had control over himself and his destiny, that he had the free will to change.  “My first act of free will,” he wrote in his diary, “shall be to believe in free will.”  James would later write that the will to believe is the most important ingredient in creating belief in change.[8]

Duhigg writes that the real power of habit is that your habits are what you choose them to be.  We all have developed habits that lead to dead-ends of self-destructive behavior.  But we are not destined to go down those roads.  Each step is a choice.  And we can make different choices, if only we exercise the will-power to do so.

I used to know a woman who was a recovering alcoholic.  At each meeting, she introduced herself: “My name is … and I am a grateful recovering alcoholic.  I am so grateful I didn’t have a drink today, because I wouldn’t have just had one drink.  I would have had ten drinks, and I would likely be dead.  Thank God I didn’t have a drink today.”  After several weeks, I asked her if I could venture a personal question.  “Sure,” she said.  “Well, how long have you had your sobriety?” I asked.  “Thirty-three years,” she said.  “It’s been thirty three years of making a conscious decision every morning not to drink at breakfast, not to drink at lunch, not to drink in the afternoon, not to drink with dinner, and not to drink at bedtime.  Thirty three years – and it has made all the difference.”

We can break unhealthy habits and lead more healthy lives.  We can embrace new ideas and incorporate them in new ways of thinking.  We can develop new technologies that will lower our carbon output and increase our economic income. We can learn to drive more efficient automobiles. If we believe and commit to leading a different kind of life, we can make an enormous difference for ourselves, our families, our communities and our world.  We just need to believe in the necessity and the power of change.

Temple Beth El is beginning to do its part.  We built our Beck Family Campus with extraordinary efforts to achieve green construction and use standards.  By using efficient landscaping, lighting, and other resource management, we endeavor to keep our carbon footprint as low as possible and earned Silver LEED Certification.  We have begun efforts to institute green practices on our main campus, changing to more efficient lighting systems, instituting recycling programs and introducing sustainable and biodegradable materials.  And guided by our Social Action committees’ green initiative, we have only just begun.

In the Talmud in Pirke Avot, Rabbi Tarfon used to say: “It is not up to you complete the task, but neither are you free to desist from it.”  On this Rosh HaShanah let us believe in ourselves and in a better future we can build together.  Let us resolve to build healthy habits that will lead us toward what we know is right and good for ourselves and the world. May God bless us with the insight, the wisdom, the tenacity, and the courage, to dare what must be dared, in order that the lives we lead the choices we make will inspire future generations to copy our ways and adopt our habits.

 

Rebbe Nachman of Breslov tells the following tale.

A young boy went off into the world and returned after many years to his father’s house after becoming a master artisan.  His specialty? He had become an expert in the crafting of the menorah – the seven-branched candelabra that adorns every sanctuary of every synagogue in the world, reminding us of the grand menorah that once stood in the holy precinct of the Beit HaMikdash – the Temple in Jerusalem.

Claiming to be the most skilled of all of his craft in the land, he asked his father to invite all the other artisans in town to come and view his masterpiece – his most prized menorah.  This the father did, and all the finest craftsmen throughout the land came to view his son’s menorah.

But instead of pronouncing the work a masterpiece, each craftsman remarked that the menorah was deeply flawed.  When each was asked to name the fault, each found something different they claimed was wrong.  What one person found defective in it another would claim to be its most beautiful feature!

Later, the son said to his father, “What did you think of my menorah?”

The father replied, “I’m sorry to say all of your fellow lamp-makers told me that it was an ugly piece, of very inferior workmanship.”

“Ah,” replied the son, “but that is the secret! Yes, they all said it was ugly, but what nobody realized is this: Each saw different parts as ugly, and different parts as beautiful. This was true of all of them — what one saw as bad, the others saw as good. Each overlooked the mistakes that he himself would make, and saw only the shortcomings of the others.

“You see, father, I made this menorah in this way on purpose — completely out of mistakes and deficiencies — in order to demonstrate that none of us have perfection.[1]”

Human life is a paradox.  Our world and we are, at once, broken, imperfect, faulty and flawed, and at the same time we are also awesome, creative, inspiring, and holy.

Many of us recall the legendary psychologist B.F. Skinner.  As he lay on his deathbed, his mouth grew dry.  When a caregiver gave him some water, he sipped it gratefully and then uttered his final word:  “Marvelous.”

Psychologist Russ Harris remarked that even on his deathbed, with his organs failing, his lungs collapsing, and leukemia destroying his body, B.F. Skinner could only marvel at one of life’s basic gifts.[2]  Marvelous.

Rosh HaShanah invites us to perform a Cheshbon HaNefesh – an accounting of our lives.  We look back over the last weeks and months of the last year, and think of the choices we celebrate and the choices we regret.  We think about how wondrous is human life and also how limited.

I think Rosh HaShanah is hard because we don’t like to think about our flaws and blemishes.  Most of us do our best to lead the best possible lives we can lead.  We try to make the best decisions we can and to do what we think is right.

But then we get that slap – what Harris calls the “Reality Slap”.  It’s that slap in the face when we told that the perfect life we thought we were living is no longer perfect.  It’s when we find out a loved one is dying, or when we discover that we ourselves are ill.  It’s when we find out that we’re losing our jobs, that our business is failing, or an investment is going bust.  It’s when we realize a spouse was unfaithful, or a marriage needs to end. It’s when we realize we’ve done things, inadvertently, or perhaps even deliberately, that caused offense and pain to people we care about, and that go against our most important values. To realize that our lives are not going to be what we expected is like a big slap of reality.

Our world is a broken world.  The great master of Kabbalah Rabbi Isaac Luria teaches that in the beginning there was darkness, a world unformed and void.  And in love God brought light into that darkness and created a world.  God extended a ladder to that world, made up of holy vessels of wisdom and understanding, compassion and justice, drive and wonder, beauty, and presence.  But as strong as these holy vessels were, the light was too powerful for them to hold, and they shattered in a spiritual cataclysm that rained down brokenness and shards of holiness all around.

Our world is a broken world.  Rebbe Nachman wanted us to understand that the menorah of creation is flawed, each branch filled with fault.  And yet, we can take pieces of those shattered vessels and with them build a menorah that will radiate the holy light of God’s presence into the darkness of our world.

Rabbi Karyn Kedar reminds us that “The light from creation … runs through you…. It is what was, before you were born, and it is what will be, after you die.  And as long as you have breath, it is what gives your life the capacity for holiness and goodness.”[3]

“If your soul can be imagined as a brilliant beam of light originating from above, running through your mind, into your core, and out through your heart, then every offense, every bit of criticism, every attack throughout your life has the capacity to diminish that light, and the dimming of the light within your being is the ultimate loss.”[4]

Our world is a broken world.  And yet we so badly, so desperately want to avoid its brokenness.  We want life to be perfect.  We expect life to be perfect.  When things go right we assume that’s how it’s supposed to be.  We’re supposed to be healthy.  We’re supposed to be successful and prosperous.  We’re supposed to be rich and secure.  We’re supposed to be loved by people we can trust, we’re supposed to be satisfied and at peace.  And we’re not.  None of us are. Not completely anyway. And the gap between what there is and what we think there ought to be is what causes us so much angst, anguish, and agony.

So how do we begin to heal?  Let me give an example.

From the time I was a toddler, both of my father’s parents lived in a nursing home.  My grandfather died when I was five and my grandmother moved to live in the Hebrew Home of Greater Washington, a nursing home just a mile or two from my house.

Life was not easy for my grandmother.  She was terribly hard of hearing, she had cataracts that made it hard for her to read, and her arthritis confined her to a wheelchair.  When I was an early teen, I used to ride my bicycle to visit her.  She was very brave, and never complained when I took her outside in her wheelchair, barely controlling her as we maneuvered down the hill to sit by a shaded bench together.

But as I started high school, I began to spend less time with my grandmother.  My father would offer to take me with him on his Sunday visits, but I often refused.  I was uncomfortable at the nursing home, it was hard to talk to my grandmother who had such a hard time hearing me. I couldn’t figure out how to relate to her.

In tenth grade, our confirmation class decided to do a Chanukah celebration for a local nursing home.  I was very excited, and I persuaded my classmates to do the presentation at my grandmother’s nursing home.

As Chanukah grew closer, it had been a little while since I had seen my grandmother.  My dad had mentioned that Grandma had declined a little, but I didn’t really know what that meant.  All excited, I ran up to her room to bring her down to the program, and I was shocked by what I saw.

My grandmother didn’t recognize me, and she couldn’t really communicate or speak.  I tried talking to her, telling her who I was, but she didn’t seem to understand or respond.

I left the room in tears.  My parents tried to calm me down, and it took a while for me to regain my composure.  My mom asked me if I could lead the program if my grandmother was there, or would I be too upset.  And then I said it.  “No,” I said.  “I don’t think I can.”

“That’s okay,” my mom said. I led the program, and afterward I went back upstairs to Grandma’s room.  I couldn’t go in, the nurse said, because they were helping her change clothes back into her nightgown for bed.

Four weeks later, my grandmother passed away.  I was fifteen years old.

I have never forgotten that night.  Never.  I keep thinking about my grandmother and her experience that night.  For my grandmother, getting dressed was an arduous chore.  Her stiffened joints made every movement so painful, and I knew it took at least an hour for her to get dressed.

I remember her sitting in her wheelchair that night.  She was wearing a nice dress, her hair was done, and the nurse had just put on her lipstick.  She must have been so confused – why did they go through all that trouble to get her dressed, ready, and beautiful when she never got to go anywhere.

I look back on those months of my teen years and I have so much regret.  I regret that I didn’t visit my grandmother for all those Sundays.  I regret that I didn’t have the courage to allow her to participate in the Chanukah program.  My heart breaks when I think of her confusion, getting undressed after just getting dressed, wondering what was going on.

Each of us who shares these holy days together is a blemished and imperfect vessel.  Like the menorah fashioned from flaw and failure, each of us can look back and find moments when we realize we made mistakes, when we did not act as we wished we had, when we lacked or ignored wisdom that would have helped us make a better choices.

We look at what we imagine a perfect life could be, and then we look at the life we actually led.  And there is a gap, what Harris calls “The Reality Gap.”  Sometimes the gap is modest, easily repaired.  A petty misunderstanding can be repaired with a simple apology.  An injury can be healed.  But sometimes the gap is much larger, and we have to accept that the vision of what we thought life was going to be is never going to be realized.  A chronic illness will never fully heal.  An economic loss may never be reversed.  A relationship may never be repaired.  And living with that gap can be enormously difficult.

Life is never wrapped up in a box of happiness with a big beautiful bow.  Life is far more complex.  Like the menorah of faults and flaws, there are pieces of life that are beautiful and wondrous and others that are simply awful and challenging.

“The fact is this:” Harris writes, “to live a full human life is to experience the full range of human emotions – not just the ones that ‘feel good.’ Our feelings are like the weather, continually changing: at times very pleasant, at other times extremely uncomfortable.”

So just as it is important for us to experience moments of unbridled joy and happiness, so is it also important for us experience moments of anguish and regret.  We heal the reality gap by appreciating the idea that both are blessings, both helping us to understand who we are and what our mission and purpose in life should be.

I am blessed to be the father of three extraordinary children.  I know that as a father I try to do my best to support them to be all they can be, to guide them to be their best, to inspire them to embrace the values that are the bedrock of our family and our people.  I also know that as a father there are times that I have let them down and disappointed them, that perhaps I pressured them more than they wanted, that I wasn’t present when they needed me to listen, that I yelled too much in the house.  And I regret the gap that exists between the father I wish I were and the father I am.  I regret the gap that exists between the husband I wish I were, and the husband I am. I regret the gap that exists between the rabbi, the friend, the mentor, the colleague, the leader I wish I were, and the rabbi, the friend, the mentor, the colleague, and the leader I actually am.

But regret is good.  The Hebrew word for regret is חרטה – charata – which comes from the root meaning to engrave.  Our regrets are etched into our souls – we always carry them with us, but regret can also inspire us to reach for a different future, with better wisdom and understanding of ourselves.  Regret helps us learn to be more sensitive and focused on finding a path to grow closer to our ideal.  The regret I carry with me from my experience with my grandmother inspired me to learn to be more comfortable with the ill and the dying.  It taught me not to wait until it’s too late to tell the people you love how you feel.  It was because of my regret for how I lived my life as a teenager that, when my mother told me my father, at home with hospice, wasn’t doing well, I decided not to wait and to bring my family to Washington the very next day.  And thus I had the privilege of spending that next morning with my father, and being with him when he died that afternoon.

Regret is good when we embrace the lessons we have to learn from the slaps of reality we all suffer. But having learned the lessons regret affords, we must then, with newfound wisdom and acceptance, afford ourselves forgiveness.

Forgiveness cleanses our spirits of the toxicity of regret.  Regret reminds us that we are flawed; forgiveness reminds us that we are human, both mortal and divine.  Though our world is broken, forgiveness reminds us that it is nonetheless, wondrous.  Though our lives are often filled with painful, agonizing slaps of reality, forgiveness reminds us that we can still embrace each day as an extraordinary gift from God. Though we are flawed, and regret our faults, when we forgive others their faults, and forgive ourselves our own, we come to see that we are still the vessels through which God’s light flows into the world.  And despite the fact that in life we will never achieve all we want to achieve, never accomplish all we hope to accomplish, never realize all our dreams and never be all we wish we could become, we can, still, each day, each week, each month, each year, reach and strive and learn and grow.  We may regret, but we may also forgive.

Forgiveness is the path to heal that painful gap between God’s world and our own.  And on this Rosh HaShanah, when we take stock of the measure of our lives, flaws and all, we may see the full brilliance of God’s light shining through us, helping us to see that our lives and our world is broken, flawed, and … marvelous.

Since the time I was very young, I have always been captivated by the idea of revelation — how do you get God to talk to you?  What’s it like to feel God’s presence?  What is it that God ultimately expects of us — how can each of us know what are the higher and holier purposes of our lives.

As the senior rabbi of Temple Beth El in Boca Raton, Florida, my life and work is centered around trying to find the answers to these questions.  Judaism — its texts and traditions — is the portal through which we can begin the divine process of discovering life’s deepest meaning and richest happiness.  The study and practice of Judaism has the power to awaken in each of us a larger vision of what life can mean.  The  challenge is to create modes of Jewish life and living that synthesize the powerful wisdom and insights of the tradition from which we’re from with the world in which we live.

The purpose of this blog is to explore that synthesis — to help us to understand how Judaism can inspire a sense of holiness and spirituality in our often complex and complicated lives.  It is my hope that our conversation here will help each of us to better understand ourselves, and to connect more deeply to a sense of God’s presence through our Jewish tradition.