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Rabbi Karp's Sermons ... ROSH HASHANAH EVE: THE
MAKING OF A NEW YEAR Shabbat
Shalom! It
is so gratifying to see so many of you celebrating Shabbat with us this
week! What?
You’re not really here for Shabbat?
You’re here for Rosh Hashanah?
Well, I’m not really surprised.
Most Friday nights we don’t draw a crowd like tonight’s, but we
always seem to draw one on Erev Rosh Hashanah. It
is no revelation that many, many Jews, who do not generally involve
themselves in Jewish practices during the course of the year, feel
compelled to come to synagogue, year in and year out, on Rosh Hashanah and
Yom Kippur. In fact, you
would think that after countless years of doing this, while we Jews may
not know a lot about Shabbat or Shavuot, Tisha B’Av or Tu Bishevat, we
would be veritable High Holy Day experts, knowing practically everything
that there is to know about Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Well,
guess what? For many of you I
have a surprise. Instead of
just telling you what the surprise is, let me share with you a Torah text,
and hopefully, you’ll figure it out for yourselves. “This
month shall mark for you the beginning of the months; it shall be the
first of the months of the year for you.
Speak to the whole community of Israel and say that on the tenth of
this month each of them shall take a lamb to a family, a lamb to a
household... You shall keep watch over it until the fourteenth day of this
month; and all the aggregate community of Israelites shall slaughter it at
twilight. They shall take
some of the blood and put it on the two doorposts and the lintel of the
houses in which they are to eat it.
They shall eat the flesh that same night; they shall eat it roasted
over fire, with unleavened bread and with bitter herbs.”[1] Did
you get it? That holiday that
occurs during the month that the Torah designates to be “the first of
the months of the year” is not Rosh Hashanah, nor is it Yom Kippur.
It is Passover. Indeed,
listen to what the Torah says about Yom Kippur.
“The Eternal spoke to Moses, saying: Mark, the tenth day of this seventh
month is the Day of Atonement.”[2]
Yom Kippur is in the seventh month, not the first. So
how can Rosh Hashanah be “Rosh Hashanah,” literally “the Head of the
Year” when it falls in the seventh month? Now
I have another one for you. How
often is Rosh Hashanah mentioned in the Torah?
Do you want to know the answer?
As my father, of blessed memory, used to say, “Close your eyes
and what do you see?” Nothing.
Zero. Rosh Hashanah is
not mentioned in the Torah. In
fact in the entire Hebrew Scriptures, the term “Rosh Hashanah” only
appears once, in the book of EZEKIEL,[3]
and there, it is only referring to the concept of the beginning of the
year, and not to any holy day in particular. Now
in the Torah, there is mention of a holy day that takes place on the first
day of this seventh month - what we today call Rosh Hashanah - but it is a
rather obscure holy day. It
is designated a day of “complete rest, a sacred occasion commemorated
with loud blasts”,[4] “a day when the horn is sounded.”[5]
In fact, at the end of the first century Before the Common Era, the
Jewish philosopher, Philo Judaeus of Alexandria, wrote briefly about it,
calling it the “Feast of Trumpets,”[6]
Aside from these scant tidbits, we know precious little else about
this holy day. So,
my Rosh Hashanah experts, we need to ask ourselves, “What’s going on
here? How did this obscure
Feast of Trumpets become this major holy day for our people?
And more importantly, why was the Jewish new year changed from the
time of Passover to the time of Yom Kippur, and who was responsible for
that change? Was it done on a
whim, or was there reason and purpose for this dramatic alteration in
Jewish life? Who
was responsible for this change? While
there does not seem to be any conclusive evidence, there are several
indications that point to the rabbis of the first and second century.
For it is only with the completion of the MISHNAH, around the year
200 C.E., that we see that Rosh Hashanah as we know it today, is
undeniably established as the beginning of the Jewish calendar year. It
should go without saying that what the rabbis did, they never did on a
whim. When they made decisions, especially major decisions, like
changing the date of the new year, they did it with serious forethought
and with profound purpose. The
rabbis were not ones to take the words of Torah lightly.
Therefore, I imagine that this change was not easily effected, for
it entailed nothing less than totally disregarding those Torah texts which
proclaimed the Spring month of Nisan, the month of Passover, to be the
first of the months. Yet
strangely enough, our rabbinic texts provide us with only a hint of what
must have been a prolonged and lively debate.
In Tractate Rosh Hashanah of the Babylonian Talmud, a disagreement
is recorded between two first century rabbis; Rabbi Eliezer and Rabbi
Joshua. The two rabbis were arguing about when the world was created.
Rabbi Eliezer claimed that it was created in the month of Tishri -
this month - while Rabbi Joshua claimed it was created in the month of
Nisan - the month in which Passover falls.[7]
Knowing that one of the major motifs of Rosh Hashanah is that it is
the “Anniversary of Creation,” it is safe to assume that what Rabbis
Eliezer and Joshua were arguing about was nothing short of the setting of
the date of the Jewish New Year. Eliezer
was in favor of changing the date, while Joshua wished to maintain it as
stated in the Torah. But
why even consider changing the date?
After all, Passover is an important holiday.
Once again, what’s going on here? In
order to understand why the majority of rabbis in the latter part of the
second century were in favor of making this dramatic change, we need to
look at their decision in its historical context. At
that time, the Jews were living under the domination of Rome.
Life under the Romans was not easy, and the Jewish people did not
take kindly to it. Indeed,
the Jewish people had a history of resistance to Rome, with armed revolts
dating back to 4 B.C.E. In
the year 66, they successfully drove the Romans out of Judaea, but only
for a short while. In the end
the Romans returned, recaptured the land, and in the year 70 destroyed
Jerusalem and the Temple. In
fact, they would have destroyed Judaism itself, were it not for the
resourcefulness of Rabbi Johanan ben Zakkai.
Then again, in 132 the Jews rose up in revolt, this time led by
Rabbi Akiba and Shimeon bar Kochba. But
this revolt, too, was doomed to failure.
It, too, almost resulted in the end of our people, our history, and
our faith. It
was in the wake of the devastation of the Bar Kochba revolt that the
surviving rabbis resolved that something dramatic had to change in Jewish
life, and more importantly, in the Jewish perspective, if the Jewish
people ever hoped to survive as a people and as a faith.
A significant part of that change would have to involve how the
Jewish people related to Rome and to the outside world in general. The
fires of nationalism had practically destroyed the Jewish people, not
once, but twice. The rabbis
understood that somehow those fires needed to be significantly dampened;
that somehow the Jewish focus needed to be shifted from an intense,
patriotic commitment to the Jewish people as a people separate and unique
on the face of the earth, to a finer appreciation of the Jewish people as
part of a greater universal whole. Since
looking inward and concentrating on our Jewish identity had almost
destroyed us, we needed to strengthen our ability to look outward, and to
learn how to live peacefully and cooperatively in a world populated by
non-Jews. It
was toward this end that the rabbis decided to change the Jewish new year
from Passover to Rosh Hashanah, for they hoped that by changing the new
year, they could begin to change Jewish attitudes. What
does one thing have to do with the other?
Simply this. Passover
is purely a Jewish nationalistic holiday.
It is the celebration of Jewish liberation.
It is about going out of
Egypt. It is about separating from the non-Jewish world.
It is about how dangerous the non-Jewish world is for us as Jews.
It is about how God wants us to be a nation apart from all other
nations. This was precisely
the type of thinking that the rabbis wished to moderate. However,
by moving Rosh Hashanah to where it is now, connecting it to Yom Kippur,
and imposing upon it the significance of being the anniversary of
creation, the focus of the new year became, not nationalism, but personal
introspection and universalism. The
New Year became a time for us to consider the mistakes we made in the past
year. The New Year became a time for us to reflect upon our
relationships with others, where we failed in those relationships, and how
we can improve those relationship. The
New Year became the celebration of creation; not just the creation of the
Jewish people, which is so much of what Passover is about, but the
creation of everything and everyone.
The New Year became a time for celebrating and evaluating our
place, as Jews, in the greater world.
The New Year became an affirmation of the fact that all humanity
are the children of God. As far as the second century rabbis were concerned, this more
open and inclusive perspective was just what the doctor ordered. Now
the second century rabbis were not out to abolish Jewish nationalism, that
particular sense of a special Jewish identity.
They just wanted to temper it.
And in so doing, they established an ideological tension for the
Jewish people that challenges us today no less then it challenged them
those many years ago. The
tension which the rabbis created is the tension between “Jewish
particularism” and “universalism.”
Jewish particularism is our commitment to the Jewish people and to
Jewish life in particular, while universalism is our commitment to
humanity in general and to our lives in the greater world. The
desired goal of the ancient rabbis was to help us to better set a balance
between these two forces. They
lived in a time when the balance was far too weighted on the side of
Jewish particularism, and because of it, our people had great difficulty
interfacing with the non-Jewish world, and as a result, almost destroyed
themselves. At the same time,
they feared an imbalance in favor of universalism, for they understood
that over-involvement in the non-Jewish world was just as deadly for the
Jewish people. However, they
firmly believed that the Jewish people could achieve a healthy balance
between the two; one which would permit them to live a full, rich Jewish
life, yet at the same time, permit them to live in harmony, cooperation,
and respect with their non-Jewish neighbors. That
was their dream, and that is still our dream today, especially for us who
consider ourselves liberal Jews. Some
might say that we wish to dance at two weddings, the Jewish wedding and
the secular one. But we
believe that we can do that; that while one cannot physically be in two
places at one time, one can spiritually reside comfortably in two worlds. Like
the ancient rabbis, we modern liberal Jews perceive, or at least should
perceive, the dangers inherent in either extreme.
Of course, for us, the most obvious danger is the danger of Jewish
particularism, or any particularism for that matter.
When a group becomes too focused on themselves, they tend to lose
touch with the outside world. From
there, it is but a brief journey to distrusting the outside world, and
from there, an even briefer journey to despising it.
In the realm of religion, we have come to call this particularism
“fundamentalism.” Many
years ago, when I was a rabbi in Lincoln, Nebraska, when Christian
fundamentalism was just becoming popular, with Jerry Falwell and his Moral
Majority, there was a fundamentalist congregation in Lincoln called the
Indian Hills Community Church. In
the beginning, it was a small congregation, but it grew rapidly.
It was not long before they purchased some land on the outskirts of
town and built a church - a big church - a very big church.
In those days, this church stood in the middle of a field, apart
from the rest of the community. The
building was imposing, but I thought it rather strange, for it looked more
like a fortress than a church. In
fact, as large as it was, it had no windows.
I used to jokingly call it “Fort Zindernuf,” after the French
Foreign Legion fort in the
book, BEAU GESTE. But in
truth, that is what it was. It
was a fortress, a fortress of faith.
It was built to keep the rest of the world out. But
fortresses are built to serve two purposes.
They are both defensive and offensive.
They are a haven, and they also are a base of operations.
And so it would become with this fortress of faith. As
we have witnessed in our world, fundamentalists, whether they be Christian
fundamentalists or Islamic fundamentalists or Jewish fundamentalists,
rarely remain content living an existence isolated from the outside world.
The next step - a step that their own particularism drives them to
take - is to become aggressively particularistic; to be so committed to
their own life philosophy that they need to transform the rest of world in
their image. As
Jews, this has become a very real and a very painful issue for us,
particularly as it relates to Jewish life in Israel.
For there, the ultra Orthodox wish to leave no room for Reform and
Conservative Judaism. They
want only one form of Judaism practiced in that state - their form.
Sad to say, so zealous are some of them in their cause, that these
individuals have felt no compunctions about resorting to violence and
vandalism. Just this past
summer, there were a string of attacks upon Reform and Conservative
institutions, include one directed against the Jerusalem campus of the
Hebrew Union College. Therefore,
it is very easy for us as liberal Jews to recognize the dangers inherent
in an imbalance weighted heavily toward particularism.
However, there are just as many dangers inherent on the other side
of the scales as well; with an imbalance weighted heavily toward
universalism. And this is the
danger that stalks each and every one of us as American Reform Jews.
And how much the more so, as Reform Jews living in a community such
as ours, in which the Jewish universe is so small; in which the non-Jewish
world can be so overwhelming? When
I was growing up in New York, the world stopped for the High Holy Days. Schools were closed. Businesses
were closed. It was
understood. It was a given.
Being Jewish did not run against the grain.
Indeed, in my public school it was the grain.
And it wasn’t just the High Holy Days.
It was Jewish life in general.
It was simply easier to be a Jew.
That does not mean that there weren’t conflicts; there weren’t
other things to do on Shabbat, for example.
Of course there were. It
was just easier to make more Jewish choices, for making Jewish choices was
more accepted and acceptable. You
didn’t always have to explain yourself and justify yourself.
People understood. Sometimes,
they even accommodated. But
the Quad Cities is not the New York of my childhood.
For us, making Jewish choices can be far more difficult. There are so many voices calling to us, so many forces
tugging at us. The voice of
our Judaism is so easily drowned out; at times we can barely feel its
touch, nevertheless its tug. We
Americans pride ourselves on living in a society in which majority rules.
But unfortunately, for us as Jews, that democratic principle has
gone far beyond the voting booth. It
has permeated and come to rule so many aspects of our lives.
We find ourselves deciding consciously, or subconsciously,
“Whatever the majority does, I will do.”
When needing to choose between our Judaism and soccer, or swimming,
or football, or hockey, or dance, or any number of our children’s extra
curricular activities, the majority says, “Choose soccer.
Choose swimming. Choose football. Choose
hockey. Choose dance.
Choose this club. Choose that club. Choose
this team. Choose that
team.” Choosing between
Judaism and going to the theatre, Judaism and a concert, Judaism and a
sporting event - “Choose the theatre.
Choose the concert. Choose
the sporting event.” Between
Judaism and a party - “Choose the party.”
Between Judaism and golf, Judaism and tennis.
“Choose golf, choose tennis.”
Between Judaism and some meeting for work, or for some voluntary
organization. “Choose the
meeting.” Whatever our
options, if we hearken solely, or primarily, to the voice of the majority,
we will not choose Judaism. It
is not that the majority has anything against Judaism, for they don’t.
It is simply that they are not Jewish.
But we are. And as
Jews, sometimes our choices cannot be their choices.
Sometimes our choices need to be Jewish choices. As
we work so hard at being like everyone else around us, we subject
ourselves to a process of Jewish devolution.
And if we continue on this path, we will accomplish what the Romans
failed to accomplish. We will
destroy the Jewish people. We
will bring us to a point where all this will be no more. I
know that sounds extreme, and perhaps a bit hysterical.
But the hard truth of the matter is that with every passing
generation, this devolutionary process advances.
Some of you may remember grandparents or great grandparents for
whom there was so much about their Judaism which was truly sacred.
They may have kept kashrut. They
may have gone to schul every Shabbat.
They may have even worn a kipah and gone to daily minyan.
But what about their children?
Perhaps they kept kashrut, but only in their home.
They may no longer have gone to daily minyan, or to schul every
Shabbat, but they went often, or at least when they had a yahrzeit,
and always on the holidays - for all the services on the holidays. And what about their children?
Perhaps they no longer kept kashrut in any manner, and maybe they
did not always make it to schul on Shabbat for a yahrzeit.
But still, there were the holy days.
Those were sacred. Nothing interfered with their attendance. But
for many those days are gone as well.
You would be surprised how often I hear that people will not be in
Temple for the holy days because they have a business trip or some meeting
they have to attend; they have some school activity they have to
participate in; they are going on vacation.
And it is not just the holy days.
On Shabbat, those who come to observe yahrzeits are fewer and
fewer. The crowds at the
cemeteries for our Kever Avot services are smaller and smaller with each
passing year. And scheduling
Bar and Bat Mitzvah tutoring appointments can be very difficult, because
there are so many teams with so many practices, and the coaches expect
those young people to be at every single one - no excuses accepted.
Talk about religion! Now
that’s a religion! As for
our Judaism, it has become a “when can I squeeze it in” affair, and
the “whens” are becoming fewer and further between.
O, we are so deeply committed to being at one with all those around
us. We are so deeply weighted
on the universal side of our scales. Believe
it or not, my purpose in all this is not to beat you up.
I do not fault you for desiring to be at one with the world around
you. Indeed, I and my family
are as guilty as you are. We,
too, often fail to make the Jewish choices.
We, too, often choose the path of fitting in. No,
my purpose is not to beat you up, but rather to implore you to become more
sensitive to maintaining the balance - the balance the rabbis placed
before us two millennia ago - the balance between our Jewish particularism
and our universalism. Yes,
the rabbis wanted us to live in harmony with those around us, but they
also wanted us to continue to make substantive Jewish choices in our
lives. There is not one
person in this room, myself included, who could not well afford to make
more of those choices. That
we are in this room tonight is ample testimony to our commitment to
keeping our faith and our people alive.
But we can never accomplish that solely on a twice a year basis. Each one of us must choose to do more. What that more is, I cannot tell you. We each have to decide for ourselves. We have to decide its content, its quality, its quantity. Here’s
another piece of Jewish trivia which you may not know.
The early Jewish mystics associated the various months of the
Jewish calendar with their corresponding astrological signs. The astrological symbol for the month of Tishri, the month of
the High Holy Days, is Libra, the scales.
As each of us enters this High Holy Day season, we, like the
ancient rabbis, need to consider the scales, the balance in our lives; the
balance between our particularism and our universalism.
But unlike those ancient rabbis, our concerns need not be with the
overwhelming forces of particularism, but rather with the overwhelming
forces of universalism. Unlike
those ancient rabbis, we do not need to broaden our world view - trust me,
for most of us it is broad enough - but rather to work on focusing more
keenly on our Judaism. May
God help us in our efforts to balance our scales. AMEN |
