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This is water: On making meaning, making choices and making a difference

Rabbi Yoshi Zweiback\'s High Holy Days sermon
[additional-authors]
September 29, 2015

Good yontif!

So there are two young fish swimming in the ocean. Just doing their thing, tooling along, when they happen to meet an older fish going the other way. He nods at them and says, “Morning, boys. How's the water?”

After exchanging pleasantries, the two young fish swim on for a bit and then one looks over at the other and says, “What the hell is water?”

The point of the story is that the most obvious, ubiquitous, important realities right in front of our faces and all around us are sometimes the ones that are hardest to see and discuss.

Why a fish story on this day of fasting?

Well, the point of these Days of Awe is to help us see the most important realities, the things that should matter most to us, the things that should be most important in our lives. And then, our tradition wants us to make a choice. Our tradition wants us to decide – to choose, this day – to live our lives in a way that is consistent with these values, these most important realities, these things that, like water to a fish, literally make our lives possible.

I want to begin with a few personal stories about what, for me, are the deepest realities, the “water” of my existence.

Story number one: Omaha, Nebraska

I’m nine years old. It’s Sunday afternoon. And I’m excited. You see, every Sunday my father makes rounds at the hospital, bringing one of his kids along to help. And this week is my turn. I love being in the car with him – the yellow Chevrolet Camaro with bucket seats, Neal Diamond on the 8-track.

We talk. Sometimes he tells me stories of his childhood.

It’s amazing to watch him with the patients. He is gentle. He listens carefully. He reassures them. I love that he introduces me as his assistant, the “Young Dr. Zweiback.”

And then we drive to my Grandpa Joe’s house. It’s where we eat dinner every Sunday night. Usually steaks grilled over hot coals and hickory chips, even when there’s snow on the ground. Grandpa Joe puts out his delicious gehochte liver. I spread it on a trisket – it’s heaven.

Gathered around his dining room table – never in front of the television – we tell stories, we tell jokes, we argue. We laugh. And sometimes we cry – we’re a rather emotional bunch.

The people who matter most to me in the world – my mother, my father, my sister, Rosie, my brother, Adam, my grandfather, my aunt and uncle, cousins – they are all there. Every week, they are present.

(And, better yet, since it’s 1978, and there are no cell-phones to distract us. We are, in fact, fully present.)

I am swimming in the “water” of family.

Story number two: Shwayder Camp, 10,200 feet above sea level, half-way up the Mt. Evans road, approximately 60 miles from Denver, Colorado

I’m sixteen years old, my current height, 40 pounds lighter. A strong gust of Rocky Mountain air practically knocks me over. I have a mullet but before you judge me, remember, it’s 1986 and, I gotta be honest, I’m rocking that mullet.

I’m a Junior Counselor and I’m having the summer of my life — discovering who I am and what makes me truly happy. I feel completely at home in this place, living on Jewish time. Beginning and ending meals with a blessing. Making prayer – spirituality – a regular part of my daily life. A cabin-full of 8 and 9 year old boys who look up to me, and who, sometimes, even listen to me. It’s a place where our love for one another, for the Jewish community, for Torah, for nature, for God, is alive and real.

“The way I feel in this place,” I think to myself, “is how I want to feel for the rest of my life.”

I am swimming in the “water” of community and spirituality and nature.

Last story: South Hill, Virginia, two weeks ago.

I’m with two of my daughters, participating in America’s Journey for Justice with the NAACP, a thousand-mile march from Selma, Alabama, to Washington D.C. for a fair criminal justice system, unfettered access to the ballot box, sustainable jobs with a living wage, and equitable public education.

The Central Conference of American Rabbis has joined with the NAACP on the journey and rabbinic colleagues from all over the country are taking turns carrying a Torah scroll every step of the way.

I walk for a bit near the front with a man named Middle Passage. He’s 68 years old from Colorado, a Navy veteran who fought in Korea and Viet Nam. He’s marched every day of the journey, always at the front – dread-locks, dark shades, cowboy hat – and always proudly carrying an American flag.

At one point, I’m marching slightly out of formation and Middle Passage looks and me and says, sternly yet kindly, “two-by-two, young man, two-by two!”

His sense of duty, compassion, and concern for the well-being of all of the participants on the journey, even as he advocates for the larger goals of the march, is uplifting.

On, September 12th, right before Rosh Hashana, at mile 921, Middle Passage collapsed and died.

His death touches me deeply. I didn’t know him well but our short time walking together, participating as partners in a common cause, connects our lives. The choice he made – his commitment – inspires me.

I am swimming in the “water” of justice and empathy for the pain and the struggle of others.

When we reflect on the core stories of our lives, the stories that give our lives meaning, we sense the water; we come to understand more deeply the most important realities, the ultimate values that should be guiding our lives.

And this is what we’re supposed to be doing, by the way, especially on these Days of Awe. It’s our task to perform what our tradition calls cheshbon ha’nefesh, an accounting of our souls. We are to look deep inside of ourselves, and ask: are we living our lives in a manner that is consistent with what matters most to us?

We all know that family and friends are the most important things in our lives, but how often do we fail to be present, truly present, for those we love the most?

We all know that without community, we would be lost but how often do we fail to make the needs of our community a priority in our daily lives? How often do we show up for community even when it’s not convenient, even when we’re tired, even we don’t feel like it?

We all know that nature uplifts and inspires us, connects us with our Creator and sustains us, literally making our lives possible, but how often do we find ourselves in nature, appreciating the miracle of this world? And how often do we make a real effort to protect the air we breathe, the water we drink, and the soil that nourishes us?

We all know, and our Jewish tradition is clear on this, that most of the blessings we enjoy come to us not because we are deserving, but because we are lucky. Not because we are clever, but because we are standing on the shoulders of those who came before us. But how often do we commit ourselves to sharing those blessings with those who will come after us?

We all know there are causes for which we must march, principles for which we must fight, but how often do we make the time to stand up for what we believe, even when it’s inconvenient or downright hard?

These days are meant to help us see the reality more clearly. They are a mirror that we hold up to our very lives. The sound of the shofar, the prayers we recite, they call us to introspection.

And more broadly, beyond this Yom Kippur, this Day of Atonement, this Temple helps us see the water. What Stephen Wise stands for, what it teaches, what it celebrates and what it memorializes, these things awaken us to the most important realities.

It’s what a Temple is supposed to do. According to our tradition, every synagogue must have a window. A Temple is not meant to be a cocoon, a sanctuary from reality. A Temple is supposed to help us see reality more clearly, see the water more clearly and then inspire us to act out those values and change the world.

Once we see the water, we must make a choice – a choice about what we will worship. The novelist, David Foster Wallace, the author of the fish story with which I began, frames it this way:

“In the day-to-day trenches of adult life, there is actually no such thing as atheism. There is no such thing as not worshipping.

Everybody worships.

The only choice we get is what to worship.

And an outstanding reason for choosing some sort of god or spiritual-type thing to worship … is that pretty much anything else you worship will eat you alive.

If you worship money and things — if they are where you tap real meaning in life — then you will never have enough.

Never feel you have enough.

It's the truth.

Worship your own body and beauty and sexual allure and you will always feel ugly, and when time and age start showing, you will die a million deaths before they finally plant you…

Worship power — you will feel weak and afraid, and you will need ever more power over others to keep the fear at bay.

Worship your intellect, being seen as smart — you will end up feeling stupid, a fraud, always on the verge of being found out.

And so on.

Look, the insidious thing about these forms of worship is not that they're evil or sinful; it is that they are unconscious.

They are default settings.

They're the kind of worship you just gradually slip into, day after day, getting more and more selective about what you see and how you measure value without ever being fully aware that that's what you're doing.”

Wallace is right. We get to decide – we , in fact, must decide – what we will place above all else. What will be the ultimate reality of our lives, the “water” in which we will swim?

And how will the choice we make shape our behavior? How will it be reflected in the way we spend our time and our money?

Friends, what will we worship in this New Year of 5776?

Will it be family? Community? Wisdom? Will it be goodness? Service? Kindness? Love? Will it be God?

Our tradition knows it’s a choice. This is why every Yom Kippur we read from Parashat Nitzavim: We stand together this day before God, all of us – men, women, children, strangers in our midst. And in this moment of standing together – it’s what the word Nitzavim means after all, standing – we have to choose what we stand for.

God tells us: “I call heaven and earth to witness this day, that I have set before you life and death, blessing and curse! Therefore choose life, וּבָחַרְתָּ  בַּחַיִּים -that both you and your seed may live…”

One commentator, Rabbi Eliezer Davidovits, asks what sounds like an obvious question: So, nu, who would choose death? What kind of choice is this? Life or death? I choose life! Who wouldn’t?

Here’s the insight: it’s not a choice between life and death. It’s a choice about how we will live our lives.

It’s a choice about what we will see, what we will notice, what we will pay attention to, how we will devote our time, our resources. This is the choice we make. We get to choose what we will worship.

We all want to live – every creature does. Our task, our primary challenge, is to have the courage, the strength, the energy and the commitment to choose to live our lives well.

I am grateful, truly grateful, to have this glorious tradition of ours that helps me to choose. And I’m thankful for Yom Kippur and its liturgy, the time we spend here together in contemplation. It helps me to choose.

And, I’m grateful for you, dear friends, because you help me see the water, you help me choose.

The values you cherish, the devotion and dedication you display, inspire me.

Everyday in small ways and in great, big illuminating ways, you inspire me.

When you pick up each other’s children after school and care for them as if they were your own. Or when you drop off meals during an illness or show up for a shiva minyan. When you come early to set-up or stay late to clean-up or volunteer countless hours planting a garden or planning a program.

And, little ones, precious children, you inspire me, too. When you dream big and try to make a difference by building a lemonade stand to fight cancer or by writing a book and raising a million dollars to find a cure for your best friend’s liver disorder.

When you smile at the new family, making a special effort to help them feel welcome, inviting them into your home for Shabbat dinner.

When you hold each other’s hands in a hospital room or hug one another tightly when the unthinkable happens.

I witness it every single day…

Friends, if we can just see the water and make good choices in this New Year, we’ll be blessed with lives of meaning and purpose and we’ll make the world a better place.

And not just for us but for all people, as our Torah reading for Yom Kippur has it, “from woodchopper to water drawer,” for all Israel and for the strangers in our midst, even for refugees from the nations of our enemies.

Our choices will shape our behavior and we’ll live up to the highest calling of our tradition: L’takein olam b’malchut Shadai! To heal the world in partnership with God.

I’m deeply honored and incredibly excited to be on this journey with you as your new Senior Rabbi. This is an amazing place and I’m lucky – so lucky – to be able to help write the next chapter in the history of Stephen Wise Temple, following in the footsteps of my supportive and generous predecessors, Rabbis Zeldin and Herscher, surrounded by incredible colleagues, gifted Clergy, educators, and staff.

I am blessed, truly blessed to be swimming in these waters of meaning and purpose with you.

One final story: Yom Kippur, the Jewish year of 5791, fifteen years from now. Right here, Stephen Wise Temple

We all look pretty much the same except maybe even – it’s not fair to contemplate – maybe even a bit more handsome, just a bit prettier (stronger and healthier, too!).

But it won’t just be us – there will be others here, too. This place is a big tent. Those who built it, opened the flaps for us, and so we shall do for others.

In 5791, we’ll know each other even better, we’ll be closer because of the time we’ve spent with one another, the meals we’ve shared, the journeys we’ve taken, and the mitzvahs we’ve done together.

Some of the kids chanting Torah in 5791, haven’t even been born yet but they’ll grow up right here in our Temple, in our Schools, and we’ll say, perhaps with a few tears in our eyes, “Those are our kids! Look at the menschen they are becoming!”

It will be another story about the water of our lives, about the ultimate realities that matter most to us. It’ll be a story about what we choose to worship and how that choice inspires us to make our lives better, our community stronger, and our world more whole.

And so, then as now, we will choose life – וּבָחַרְתָּ  בַּחַיִּים – so that we, and our children after us, and their children after them, will find meaning and goodness, kindness and purpose.

May this always be the story of our lives.

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