Blog

As part of our Hebrew High teen program, we recently watched the Netflix hit, “You Are So Not Invited to My Bat Mitzvah.” Following the movie and the many snacks, Rabbi Berezin, Jennie Gates-Beckman, Justin Norton, and I engaged in a conversation with our teens about some of the issues that were raised by the movie. We talked about representation. We talked about the ostentatious demonstration of wealth and whether or not this played into classical Jewish stereotypes. And we talked about their b’nai mitzvah experiences, especially through the eyes of the protagonist Stacy Friedman.

According to Stacy, the Bat Mitzvah is the defining moment in a person’s life. And because of this perhaps misguided central focus, it justified all of Stacy’s choices, decisions, and actions, many of which were truly unkind, and which hurt a lot of people including her best friend Lydia. More on this in a little bit.
Thankfully, in our conversation about the movie, our high school students disagreed with the notion that a b’nai mitzvah is the defining moment in a person’s Jewish journey. They all felt it was an important moment in their Jewish lives, but not the defining moment.

But while watching the movie, my mind went down a similar path. I asked myself a similar question: is the first High Holy Day sermon of a rabbi in a new congregation THE defining moment of their rabbinate? There is a lot of expectation that can be placed on this sermon. Is this the one where I am supposed to give the State of the Congregation vision? Is this the one where I lay out all of my beliefs, hopes, and dreams? Is this the one where I give you so much to digest that you leave with your heads spinning? That is a lot to put onto one sermon. And the truth is, there is not a realistic way that any sermon can accomplish this. So I thought I would try a different approach.

To borrow from the words of Rabbi Jacob Schram, one of my all-time favorite fictional rabbis from the movie Keeping the Faith, who said “Since, uh, (Rosh Hashanah) is kind of like the Super Bowl of the Jewish calendar... most rabbis try to cram a whole year's... worth of sermons into one kind of big "best of" sermon. Um, I'm not gonna do that (today). I'm not gonna talk about the meaning of God... or the situation in Israel... or the status of Jews around the world. I'm-- I'd like to talk about something a little more personal. I'd like to talk about us. The status of you and me.” 

When going around the community, I am often asked the question: so you are the new rabbi? My typical response is: I am the new to Temple Israel Rabbi, not the new rabbi. I do this to emphasize the distinction between being new to the profession of clergy versus being new to the community. 

During many of these conversations, the question often comes up of how are we doing with the move and transition. You are all so kind in wanting to make sure my family and I are settled in and that we are happy. It has been a really good transition and move for us, but I will admit there have been some hiccups along the way that we are working through, but that is to be expected of any major transition.

This is because, according to studies, moving is one of the top five most stressful events in a person’s life. In case you are wondering the other four are: death of a loved one, divorce, long-term illness, and job loss.  And in the life of a community such as for Temple Israel, one of the greatest stresses can be the transition from one rabbi to the next. The question is then, how do we both acknowledge these stresses and move through the transitions in a healthy manner? Thankfully our tradition has a lot to say about how we can approach what this represents. 

This morning we read from the Akeida, the binding of Isaac. Probably one of the most traumatic stories in the entire Torah. Depending upon where you are in your life’s journey you can envision yourself as Abraham, or Isaac, or even God. Each of whom was transformed by the experience of the binding of Isaac. It is not just a story about sacrifice, it is also a story about transformation.

According to Rabbi Michael M. Cohen, “… there is a way to see this story in a completely different light. At that moment when Abraham has his arm raised, ready to kill in the name of God; in that moment of uber-religious fervor and fanaticism, Abraham is still able to hear the angel tell him this is not what God wants. This is the test that Abraham passes. He is rewarded not for being a religious fanatic but rather because in the midst of that fanaticism, he was open to hear a different voice, a path to a different way.

In this light, we can read the story as an anti-religious-extremism text. An important and timeless message for helping us grow – in our religions, in our societies, in our communities, in our personal relationships.”  Or to put it another way, Abraham realized there was a different way for him to express his religiosity. 

Another element of transformation took place immediately following the Akeida. Following the binding of Isaac, not only does Sarah die, but Isaac and Abraham do not return home together. What happened to Isaac? According to at least one midrash, Isaac went to a Yeshiva at Shem and Ever to study Torah.  

It’s a lovely midrash, but I am not sure Isaac left to go to Yeshiva. Much more likely, the Isaac who went up the mountain was vastly different from the Isaac who came down the mountain. He saw his father in a completely different light, and though Abraham’s relationship with his religiosity may have been changed for the better, Isaac’s relationship with his father was probably forever fractured. There are certain events that are so traumatic and so transformative that it is impossible not to be forever changed by them. And more than that, the experience of the Akeida fundamentally altered Isaac’s relationship with his father Abraham. 

Then there was God’s relationship with Abraham. As is noted by Rabbi Paul Kipnes, “Now consider this: Prior to the Akeidah, each encounter between God and Abraham occurs in direct one-on-one conversations. But from this point on, God never again speaks to Abraham directly. All further communication is passed through an angel. Why? Because Abraham simultaneously passed and failed the test. He showed his love of God, yes, but he employed violent means to pursue that love. The use of an intermediary – the angel – proclaims a message for future generations: Abraham really didn't listen to God’s teachings of compassion, did he?”  

But think about it, this was just one moment in time, one singular experience. None of the participants were ever the same again, but each was affected in very different ways. That being said, each found a way, to grow in new and profound ways. For example, Abraham focused on finding a wife for Isaac. Isaac found love and comfort in Rebecca, and God focused on accepting the frailties and imperfections of God’s chosen partners. 

Now expand upon this central theme of being impacted and possibly transformed by a life-altering moment imagine, if you will, not only a global pandemic but also a historical congregation that has been in a state of flux for these past several years. Unfortunately, both are actually quite easy to envision. Going through both, like the experiences of the Akieda, can have a profound impact on how each one of us relates to one’s Jewish community of choice. It can leave you wondering, what is next?

What does it mean to be in a relationship with the Jewish community? What does it mean to be a member or connected to a congregation such as Temple Israel? You might find yourself asking questions like, is this still my congregation? Is this still my home?

To compare these two reminds us that moments can define us, but they do not necessarily have to define our futures, unless we want them to or we allow them to. There was a study in the frontiers of Psychology by Ratcliffe, Rudell, and Smith, published in 2014 that speaks about how, “how traumatic events, especially those that are deliberately inflicted by other people, can lead to a loss of “trust” or “confidence” in the world.”
 
Having been through this singular moment in history and through all of the transitions at Temple Israel, it can be certainly easy to understand why some might be feeling a lack of trust, confidence, or simply even a connection with this community. And no one could blame you. But these does not need to be the only possible responses. 
For being Jewish also means being part of a community. To borrow a line, there is a reason why we are called, Am Yisrael, the people of Israel, and not Dat Yisrael, the religion of Israel.  Historically speaking, being part of the community was one of the expected obligations of what it meant to be a Jew.

Nowadays, I would argue, it should be more what it means to be ‘in love’ or at least ‘in relationship’ with the Jewish community. At its best, this means, being willing to be in a dialogue and connection with us even amidst the trials and turmoil that can arise in any community. This is because, at our best, we are here to support each through our individual Jewish journeys as a community. We are here to celebrate life cycles together. To mourn together. To educate our young and ourselves together. To hear the sound of the shofar together…
But being in a relationship is not always easy. There are ups and downs. There are resentments and challenges. There are unmet expectations, sometimes articulated, and sometimes not. At the same time, this is where, ideally, we should all be accepted for who we are. As a tiny minority, it is good to have a place called home that always leaves an eternal light on for us.
But how it is in the moment, does not have to define the entirety of the relationship. Every relationship is made up of many moments in time. Some simple, some profound, some aggravating, some surprising, and some are simply amazing. However, to experience those many moments is to be there for them.
Earlier in the story of the Akeida, when asked where he is, Abraham answers, Hineini, I am here. To be in a relationship, means to be present. In today’s world where we are almost expected to be in a constant state of motion, racing around from event to event, activity to activity, isn’t it nice to be somewhere that all that is asked of us is to be present. 

And if we are present, we can begin to build and rebuild our connections to our sacred community into the ones we hope it to be. One that won’t just meet our Jewish needs, but also one that can inspire us to be our best selves, our best Jewish selves, and to have a positive impact on our larger community and our larger world. Sounds easy, but it is going to take time as we get to know one another and reacquaint ourselves with each other. 

To borrow from the words of Rabbi Jeff Salkin, “Years ago, the great writer, Cynthia Ozick — now 95 years old — noticed that if you blow into the wide end of the shofar, you get no sound. It is only through blowing at the narrow end that the music emerges. You have to start small. You have to start with yourself.” 

Now back to the movie, not to stretch the metaphor too far, like Abraham, Isaac, Sarah, and God, Stacy went through many of her own trials. Now not to give away the whole plot of You are So Not Invited to My Bat Mitzvah, but, spoiler alert, Stacy Freidman at the end of the movie realizes that the Bat Mitzvah was not about the party, but instead represented an opportunity to make teshuvah and use it as an opportunity to grow beyond her self-centeredness and instead focus on rebuilding many fractured relationships including those with her family and friends, but most importantly, with her best friend Lydia. 

Acknowledging all of the changes we have been through is an important first step in acknowledging that as we make this transition together, it is about so much more than just our individual selves. Yes, it is about you and me. It is also about each of you and it is about all of us. We have been forever transformed by so many of our journeys that have brought us to this moment in time. And those journeys now present us with a chance to begin again anew. To start a new journey together. To start small and see where the next few steps will take us.

According to the Torah, the world may have been created in 6 days, but God’s covenant with the Jewish people has taken thousands of years of negotiation and renegotiation. And we start the process all over again every Rosh Hashanah. It is our prayer that somewhere between 6 days and thousands of years, we can continue to build and rebuild our sacred relationships with one another. And it is our prayer that through this process, our community, our lives, and our worlds will all be better for it.

L'Shanah Tovah. 

--

Watch the entirety of Friday’s service here.

Temple Talk is a recap of sermons given from the Bimah for those who missed a Sermon or who wanted to revisit the words spoken at a previous sermon.