Festival Sermons

2^nd Tishri – T’ki’ah, T’ru’ah, Sh’varim

On Rosh Ha-Shanah, we are commanded ‘to listen to the voice of the shofar‘ – lishmo’a kol shofar.^[1] In traditional communities, 2^nd Tishri is the second day of Rosh Ha-Shanah, and when the first day falls on Shabbat, the shofar (ram’s horn) is only sounded on the second day. The reason for this is not because the shofar should not be sounded, but because the shofar-blower might inadvertently carry the shofar, and so break the Shabbat prohibition against carrying.^[2]

The blessing speaks of ‘the voice of the shofar‘, but the shofar has many voices: T’ki’ah, T’ruah, Sh’varim. T’ki’ah – a loud blast (T’ki’ah G’dolah: a ‘great’ loud blast). T’ruah – nine rapidly discharged short blasts. Sh’varim – three blasts delivered in a broken, undulating way. The meaning of these words partially explains the actual sounds they represent: T’ki’ah – from the root, Tav-Kuf-Ayin, to thrust, clap, give a blow, blast; T’ruah – from the root, Reish-Vav-Ayin, to raise a shout, give a blast; Sh’varim – from the root, Shin-Beit-Reish, to break.

In the Torah, the first day of the seventh month, which came to be known as Tishri, is recorded not as a new year, but as Yom T’ru’ah, the ‘Day of Blasting’.^[3] The first day of the seventh month was the time of calling the community together in readiness for the tenth day of the month: The Day of Atonement; Yom Ha-Kippurim, as it is called in the Torah.^[4] Rabbinic Judaism transformed the first day of Tishri into the ‘new year for years’^[5], and the ‘Day of Blasting’ became an occasion for an entire ceremony of blasting the shofar during the Musaf (‘Additional’) service, chiefly as a call to t’shuvah, ‘return’. And so, the ten days from the 1^st through the 10^th of Tishri became aseret y’mei t’shuvah, the ‘ten days of return’.^[6]

The journey of t’shuvah is essentially a personal journey for each one of us. As we consider the different voices of the shofar, the ten days are an opportunity to reflect on our own voices – not in a metaphorical sense, rather in the actual sense of the different sounds we make when speaking: when we speak loudly or softly, rapidly or hesitantly; when we speak to be heard and when we speak to ourselves, when we speak at moments of joy and celebration and when we speak at times of sorrow and despair; and when we feel unable to speak.

Jewish teaching is very much focused on words – first spoken and then written. The first creation story in the Book of Genesis presents God calling the world into existence.^[7] As we make our t’shuvah journeys, we may wish to reflect on how important words are to us – both spoken and written – and how important silence is to us. Words can be inspiring and uplifting, consoling and healing. Words can also be used like weapons. If we find the courage, we might think about when we use words constructively and when we use them destructively. Our challenge for the 2^nd day of Tishri.

3^rd Tishri – Malchuyyot: From Judgement to Acknowledgement

The first series of shofar blasts on Rosh Ha-Shanah is called Malchuyyot, ‘Kingdoms’. The Aleinu, the prayer that concludes all Jewish liturgical services, was introduced by the Babylonian sages for use on Rosh Ha-Shanah,^[8] when the Eternal One is perceived primarily as melech malchei ha-m’lachim, ‘the King above the King of Kings’; ‘the King of Kings’ being the designation used by Assyrian and Babylonian rulers in the Ancient Near East.

The most important dimension of Rosh Ha-Shanah as conceived by the early rabbis is expressed by one its names: Yom Ha-Din, the Day of Judgement. On Yom Ha-Din, the Eternal Judge of human affairs, sits on His throne – and yes, the Judge is a King – and pronounces judgement on human beings. Those considered thoroughly wicked are written in the Book of Death, those considered thoroughly righteous are written in the Book of Life, and the lives of those who are neither thoroughly wicked nor thoroughly righteous hang in the balance. Only those who mend their ways and repent in the days between Rosh Ha-Shanah and Yom Kippur, will be written in the Book of Life^[9].

It is a truly awe-evoking image. For some, it is the image of the Judge sitting on His throne that compels them to attend the Rosh Ha-Shanah and Yom Kippur services. For others, many of whom would not step inside a synagogue, it is a repellent image that keeps them away from connecting with Jewish communal life. As progressive Jews, who, perhaps, feel less commanded and demanded upon by an Eternal Commander, the image of God as a mighty Sovereign and Judge can be reimagined in terms that makes sense for our own lives. The voices of the shofar call us to reflect on our lives, to interrogate, and, yes, judge, our deeds and misdeeds. Yom ha-Din challenges us to examine ourselves and take steps to change.

One of the traditions associated with aseret y’mei t’shuvah, the ‘ten days of return’, is to conduct cheshbon ha-nefesh, an accounting of ourselves in much the same way as one would go about an accounting of one’s economic affairs.

So, for those who haven’t done this already, on this 3^rd day of Tishri, in the spirit of Malchuyyot, why not take a piece of paper, and like a profit and loss account, make a list of the good you have done in one column and the harm you have caused in another, and then reflect on ways in which you can increase the good and acknowledge the harm, and take steps to make amends.

If the either/or nature of drawing up an account doesn’t speak to you, then try thinking of your actions in a threefold way in terms of what you have done that has been helpful, what has hindered, and what has harmed. The process of hindering can go either way. What we do may hinder the help we can offer someone and we can also hinder the harm we may cause someone.

Alternatively, you might simply choose to begin the process of reflecting on your actions of the past year by tackling three areas for improvement. Cheshbon ha-nefesh: Our challenge for the 3^rd day of Tishri.

4^th Tishri – Zichronot: Remembering and Re-Membering

The second series of shofar blasts on Rosh Ha-Shanah is called Zichronot, ‘Remembrances’. One of the rabbinic names for Rosh Ha-Shanah is Yom Ha-Zikaron, ‘The Day of Remembrance’. According to the Torah, God remembered our ancestors in their plight again and again,^[10] and as the blessing for the shofar blasts of Zichronot puts it, the Eternal One ‘remembers the covenant’ – zocheir ha-b’rit^[11] – present tense.

The present demands our presence. We, too, are called during these yamim nora’im, literally, ‘awed days’, to remember. The Torah exhorts us again and again: ‘You shall remember that you were a slave in Egypt’^[12]. Every evening and morning, the blessing of g’ulah, ‘redemption’, after the Sh’ma, reminds us of our ancestors’ liberation from slavery. Each Shabbat is, both, a ‘memorial of the work of creation’ – zikaron l’ma’aseih v’reishit – and a ‘memorial of the Exodus from Egypt’ – zeicher y’tzi’at mitzrayim.^[13]

So, we remember our liberation – and we also remember the persecution we have suffered: ‘Zachor Amalek …. Remember what Amalek did to you by the way as your coming out of Egypt. / How he met you by the way and attacked the weakest in your rear.’^[14]

Remembering is a Jewish reflex transmuted into a liturgical refrain. But during the ten days of return, we are challenged to do another kind of remembering: to remember our own lives; to remember our deeds of the past year. It’s natural to want to block out this kind of remembrance. After all, remembering can be very painful. And while we may readily access the memories of the hurt done to us, we do not so readily remember the hurts we have inflicted.

But in order to repair ourselves and our relationships and begin the New Year, we must remember the hurt and damage we have caused ourselves and others. How can we commit to acting differently in the future, if we haven’t acknowledged how we have acted in the past?

Ultimately, remembering can engender re-membering; a bringing together of the disparate parts of ourselves, and the possibility of healing our broken relationships. But for this to happen, we have to be prepared to look back; to rake through the tangled undergrowth of the path trailing behind us. Our challenge for the 4^th day of Tishri.

5^th Tishri – Shofarot: The Call to Act

The third and final series of shofar blasts on Rosh Ha-Shanah is called Shofarot, ‘Horns.’ The voices of the shofar thunder through the Torah and more broadly, the TaNaKh^[15], the Hebrew Bible. Quite apart from the specific sounds of the shofar we are compelled to hear on Rosh Ha-Shanah, each time the shofar is mentioned in the TaNaKh, the context is one of loud proclamation. At Sinai, ‘the voice of the shofar grew louder and louder’^[16]. Chapter 58 of the Book of Isaiah, opens with the words: ‘Cry aloud, do not hold back, let your voice resound like a shofar; declare to My people their transgression, and to the house of Jacob, their sins’^[17]. Significantly, we read this passage during the Yom Kippur morning service^[18]. In the Torah’s account of the Jubilee year, the fiftieth year following seven cycles of seven, the shofar was to be sounded on Yom Kippur to ‘proclaim d’ror, ‘freedom’, throughout the land to all its inhabitants’^[19]. There is no evidence that the Jubilee year was ever put into practice, but elsewhere in the TaNaKh, the shofar also heralds the future time of restoration: ‘And it shall come to pass on that day that a great shofar shall be blown; and they shall come that were lost in the land of Syria, and they that were dispersed in the land of Egypt; and they shall worship the Eternal on the holy Mountain Jerusalem’^[20].

Above all the reasons for sounding the shofar on Rosh Ha-Shanah is its role in summoning us to sit up and take notice. As Maimonides put it in his ‘Laws of Repentance’, the shofar is an alarm call, proclaiming:^[21] ‘Awake you sleepers from your sleep! Rouse yourselves, you slumberers out of your slumber! Examine your deeds, and return to God in repentance’.

So, the shofar blasts are a call to action. A call to act in the context of our own personal lives. A call to act in the wider context of the society we inhabit and the world around us. The call is not subtle. It is urgent. Another year has passed in which poverty and inequality has continued unchecked. Another year has passed in which the voices of the persecuted and the oppressed, the vulnerable and the marginal have not been heard. Another year has passed in which the ecological crisis has deepened – albeit the early days of the coronavirus pandemic lockdown brought some respite.

The shofar calls each one of us to take responsibility and to play our part in whatever way we can in tackling injustice and engaging in tikkun olam, repair of the world. At the midpoint of the ten days of returning, let’s pause and think about what we can do, what practical steps we can take to generate change and make a difference. Our challenge for the 5^th day of Tishri.

6^th Tishri – T’shuvah: Returning to Ourselves and Others

T’shuvah is the goal of aseret y’mei t’shuvah, the ‘ten days of return’ that begin on Rosh Ha-Shanah and conclude at the end of Yom Kippur. The word is usually translated as ‘repentance’, but the root Shin-Vav-Beit means to turn, or return.

Repentance is the purpose of t’shuvah, but the notion of turning and returning is more dynamic. It reminds us that the process of acknowledging our misdeeds and taking steps to make amends involves a journey.

The word ‘journey’ has been overused in recent years, but it really does apply to t’shuvah. We all know that Life is a journey from birth to death. T’shuvah involves recognising that we have strayed off the path of our lives, or taken a route that has led to a cul-de-sac, and that we need to turn back and return to our path. Turning back does not mean going back; we can’t go back. The past is the past. We can only move forwards. When we turn and move towards the path and then find it again, we discover that we are further along. We have learnt from our experiences. In making the effort to turn and return we have become more self-aware and admitted our errors and mistakes and how and why we came to lose our way.

T’shuvah doesn’t just involve returning to the path of our lives, it also entails returning to ourselves and to others and rebuilding our relationships.

But none of this is easy. T’shuvah is elusive. If we approach it in a mechanical fashion, ticking off items on the list, we will not experience the sense of renewal it offers. T’shuvah requires our commitment, but not our drive. We cannot speed our way back to the path of our lives; in the awareness of our frailties, all we can do is put one foot in front of another, tentatively, and feel our way along. T’shuvah requires our humility.

Nevertheless, there is sense of urgency attached to t’shuvah. The purpose of our return is our repentance. We will not automatically be absolved on Yom Kippur. On the contrary, as we read in the Mishnah, tractate Yoma:^[22]

One who says: I shall sin and repent, sin and repent, they do not afford that person the opportunity to repent. [If one says]: I shall sin and Yom Ha-Kippurim^[23] will atone for me, Yom Ha-Kippurim, does not effect atonement. For transgressions between a person and God Yom Ha-Kippurim effects atonement, but for transgressions between one person and another, Yom HaKippurim does not effect atonement, until they have appeased their friend.

As the aseret y’mei t’shuvah turn towards Yom Kippur, the need to make amends and repair our relationships becomes more pressing. Acknowledging this is our challenge on the 6^th day of Tishri.

7^th Tishri – T’fillah: Addressing God and Ourselves

What is prayer? Some people never pray. Others only pray in desperate situations; their prayer a plea for help: Please God, please help me! Jewish prayer takes the form of liturgy, set prayers, mostly written hundreds of years ago.^[24] The majority of these prayers are not actually prayers in the commonly accepted understanding of the word. Most are peons of praise to God in the form of blessing. There are blessings connected with thanksgiving, and acknowledgement of God for the gifts we enjoy that nourish us and enrich our lives, and blessings concerning actions that we are commanded to perform, like lighting candles.

Petitionary prayer is largely confined to thirteen blessings recited on weekdays in the middle of the Amidah, which consists of nineteen blessings all together.^[25] Apart from the option of adding a personal prayer to the blessing for healing, the themes of the petitionary blessings are fixed, and include requests for understanding, repentance, forgiveness, justice.

On Rosh Ha-Shanah and Yom Kippur, the liturgy is even more extensive and includes special prayers, like Avinu Malkeinu, which addresses God as ’our Parent and ‘our Sovereign’. The tone of these prayers is utterly supplicatory. For example, the concluding verse of Avinu Malkeinu:

Our Parent, our Sovereign, be gracious to us and answer us, for there is little goodness in us; treat us with justice [tz’dakah] and lovingkindness [chesed], and save us.

As Yom Kippur approaches, the question arises, what role does prayer play in our efforts to experience atonement? Answers to this question emerge when we look at the Hebrew word for prayer, t’fillah. The root Pei-Lamed-Lamed means to intervene, interpose, arbitrate, judge, intercede. Interestingly, ‘to pray’, l’hitpalleil, is a reflexive form. Reflective forms express an action in relation to ourselves. In the context of praying, this is very significant. We assume that to pray is to address God, but l’hitpalleil suggests that when we pray, we also address ourselves.

If we think of prayer in terms of the root meanings of t’fillah, then what we are doing when we pray is interrogating ourselves. And so, to pray, l’hitpalleil, is to open our hearts and to acknowledge our frailties and our needs – for love, compassion, support, affirmation, forgiveness. To pray is to give thanks for our lives and all the ways in which our needs are met. To pray is to acknowledge that we have the power to shape and transform our lives. To pray is to acknowledge that in order to transform our lives, we must also be prepared to let go and move on and trust that we can renew ourselves and our relationships.

Our t’shuvah journeys began seven days ago. To allow ourselves to pray is to open up the possibility that we will be able to reach our destination and begin again. Our challenge for the 7^th day of Tishri.

8^th Tishri – Tz’dakah: Acting Justly

Where is the ten-day t’shuvah journey taking us? The obvious answer is: repentance – and so, at the end of Yom Kippur: forgiveness and atonement. But what is the point of our repentance? Repentance isn’t an end in itself. If it were, the journey would only be from the past to the present. But Jewish teaching is concerned with the work of renewal and repair for the sake of the future. So, the goal of the journey of t’shuvah reaches beyond repentance, forgiveness and atonement to tz’dakah; to the task of practising righteousness and justice after the yamim nora’im, the ‘awed days’, are over.

Tz’dakah is usually translated as ‘charity’. But the root meaning of charity, the Latin concept of caritas, is very different from the root meaning of tz’dakah. Caritas centres on the feelings of love that move us to feel compassion for others and to take action to support them, both materially and emotionally. Tz’dakah, based on the root Tzadi-Dalet-Kuf and related to the word tzedek, ‘justice’, focuses on the imperative of just action.^[26] Emotions cannot be compelled, so righteous acts that are dependent on our feelings are useless. We may feel moved to help others, but we may not. Tz’dakah, by contrast, is a commandment. It is our obligation to put right what is wrong in relation to the poor, including the homeless, those who are oppressed and persecuted, and, specifically, the most vulnerable groups in society, identified in the Torah as the stranger, the orphan and the widow.^[27]

In the haftarah^[28] on Yom Kippur morning from the Book of Isaiah, chapter 58, the prophet decries observance of the rituals of Yom Kippur that are not accompanied by acts of righteousness:^[29]

Is this the fast I look for? A day of self-affliction? Bowing your head like a reed, and covering yourself with sackcloth and ashes? Is this what you call a fast, a day acceptable to the Eternal One? / Is not this the fast I choose: to release the shackles of wickedness and untie the fetters of bondage, to let the oppressed go free and to break off every yoke? / Is it not to share your bread with the hungry and bring the homeless poor into your house; when you see the naked, to clothe them, and never to hide yourself from your own kin?

The unknown prophet who speaks in the later chapters of the Book of Isaiah was addressing the exiles in Babylon in the 6^th century BCE.^[30] The prophet’s words also address us and are just as relevant to the society we inhabit. So, how will we respond? We know that we live in a world in which injustice is rife. What will we do about it? Our ten-day t’shuvah journey will conclude at the end of Yom Kippur, and then it will be our task to harvest the fruits of our repentance with acts of tz’dakah. The moment has come to begin to focus our attention to how we will conduct our lives after Yom Kippur. Our challenge for the 8^th day of Tishri.

9^th Tishri – S’lach lanu, m’chal lanu, kappeir lanu

‘Forgive us, pardon us, grant us atonement’: Preparing for Yom Kippur

S’lach lanu, m’chal lanu, kappeir lanu. There are several poignant melodies for this phrase that concludes the recitation of the Al Cheit, the confession of our ‘sins’ on Yom Kippur^[31]; each tune designed to move us and open our hearts. I’ve put the word ‘sins’ in inverted comas because strictly speaking, cheit, expresses the kind of error we commit when we miss our way. There are many words for ‘sin’ in the vocabulary of Yom Kippur^[32]. We may find it difficult to identify with the word, ‘sin’, because it may feel far removed from the errors and misdeeds that most of us perpetrate. The text of the Al Cheit makes it clear that, even the ordinary errors we make that we so often excuse ourselves for, are serious and require our repentance.

S’lach lanu, m’chal lanu, kappeir lanu. On Yom Kippur, following our work of t’shuvah, our efforts are dedicated to confessing our misdeeds and seeking forgiveness, pardon and atonement. Although each one of us is on our own personal journey, confession is recited in the first-person plural, expressing our shared predicament as frail human beings who go astray.

Human beings need forgiveness. We need to feel forgiven so that we can let go of the past and move on. But Jewish teaching makes it clear that we can only be forgiven if we repent and do what we can to make amends. We also need to forgive others. In fact, if we fail to forgive someone who has sought our forgiveness three times, we are the ones in the wrong^[33].

But forgiveness on Yom Kippur takes on a deeper resonance. Having engaged in the process of t’shuvah, and having done what we can to repent and seek forgiveness from those we have harmed, we are seeking forgiveness from the Eternal One. More than forgiveness, we are seeking pardon. The Hebrew, m’chal lanu, ‘pardon us’, expresses a blotting out or wiping out, an annulment^[34]. But how can we be seeking an annulment, in other words, a cancellation of our misconduct? Because, ultimately, Yom Kippur represents the drawing of a line under all that has gone before, so that we can start the New Year afresh. The Hebrew, kappeir lanu, ‘grant us atonement’, literally, means ‘cover us’. We read in the Torah that the Ark was covered with a kapporet, a ‘covering’.^[35] The goal of Yom Kippur is a covering over of our misdeeds of the past year. They do not disappear or evaporate; they are not conjured away by the rituals of Yom Kippur; they are covered over. So, what we do with the covered over wrongs we have committed during the past year? Do we store them away? Do we bury them? We do neither. We recognise that they are covered over – and move on. But we are running ahead of ourselves. As Yom Kippur approaches, is there anything we can do to lighten the burden of our regret? We can acknowledge that we have left much undone on our t’shuvah journey and prepare for Yom Kippur. Our challenge for the 9^th day of Tishri.

1. The concluding words of the blessing recited before the shofar is sounded. For reference, see note 15. ↑

2. Babylonian Talmud, Rosh Ha-Shanah 29b. ↑

3. Numbers 29:1 and Leviticus 23:24. ↑

4. Lev. 23:27. ↑

5. Mishnah Rosh Ha-Shanah 1:1. ↑

6. This designation became common in post-Talmudic times. Maimonides, Moshe ben Maimon, also known as the RaMBaM (1135-1204) referred to ‘the ten days’ in Hilchot T’shuvah (Laws of Repentance) 2:6, in his code the Mishneh Torah. ↑

7. Genesis 1: 3 ff. ↑

8. Jacobson, B.S., The Weekday Siddur: An Exposition and Analysis of its Structure, Contents, Language and Ideas (2nd ed, Sinai Pub., Tel Aviv, 1973, p.307). ↑

9. Babylonian Talmud, Rosh Ha-Shanah 32b. ↑

10. See, e.g., Sh’mot, Exodus 2:24, Jeremiah 2:2, Psalm 98:3. ↑

11. Machzor Ru’ach Chadashah, Liberal Judaism, 2003, p. 150 ↑

12. R’eih, Deuteronomy 16:12. ↑

13. These phrases are included in birkat ha-yom, ‘the blessing of the day’, recited as part of kiddush on Erev Shabbat. The word zikaron evokes a tangible memorial; every living thing is a memorial of creation. The word zeicher denotes a conceptual memory; we remember the Exodus because the memory has been passed on from generation to generation. ↑

14. Ki Teitzei, Deuteronomy 25:17-19. ↑

15. TaNaKh: An acronym for the Hebrew Bible – which falls into three parts: Torah (Five Books coming now of Moses), N’vi’im (Prophets) and K’tuvim (Writings). ↑

16. Yitro, Exodus 19:19. ↑

17. Isaiah 58:1. ↑

18. Isaiah 58 is read as the haftarah, the ‘conclusion’ of the scriptural readings on Yom Kippur morning. See Machzor Ruach Chadashah, pp.271-273. ↑

19. B’har, Leviticus 25:9-10. ↑

20. Isaiah 27:13. ↑

21. Hilchot T’shuvah, Laws of Repentance, 3:4, Mishneh Torah. ↑

22. Mishnah Yoma 8:9. The Mishnah is the first code of rabbinic law edited around the year 200. Yoma is Aramaic for ‘The Day’. ↑

23. The name for Yom Kippur in the Torah. See: Emor, Leviticus 23:27. ↑

24. The rabbinic sages devised the first post-biblical prayers, but it wasn’t until the 9^th century that the first complete prayer book was written: Seder Rav Amram, the work of the head of the Babylonian Talmudic Academy of Sura at that time, Amram bar Sheshna. For an in-depth exposition of the development of Jewish prayer, see: Jewish Liturgy. A Comprehensive History by Ismar Elbogen. JPSA, 1993. ↑

25. The Amidah (meaning, ‘standing’) is the central prayer of Jewish worship, traditionally recited while standing. The thirteen petitionary blessings are not recited on Shabbat because it would be inappropriate to petition God while enjoying God’s gift of rest. In place of the thirteen petitions, a blessing for Shabbat is recited. The thirteen petitions consist of six that are personal, six that are communal, and a final one, asking God to listen to our prayers. ↑

26. The most famous phrase about justice in the Torah is in Shof’tim, Deuteronomy 16:20: Tzedek, tzedek, tirdof, ‘Justice, justice, shall you pursue’. ↑

27. Significantly, the word tz’dakah is used in relation to restoring the garment of a poor person given in pledge (Ki Teitzei, Deuteronomy 24:10-13). The code in Ki Teitzei also mentions all three of these categories of vulnerable people (Deut. 24:17 to 22). See also: K’doshim, Leviticus 19:9-10 and 33–34. ↑

28. Haftarah means ‘conclusion’. The haftarah is the concluding Scriptural passage taken from the biblical books of the N’vi’im, Prophets, and read on Shabbat and festival mornings. ↑

29. Isaiah 58:5-7. ↑

30. Isaiah 1:1 speaks of ‘Isaiah, son of Amoz, who prophesied concerning Judah and Jerusalem in the reigns of Uzziah, Jotham, Ahaz and Hezikiah, kings of Judah’. Isaiah 6:1 mentions Isaiah’s call to prophecy in the year that King Uzziah died (742 BCE). While chapters 1-39 belong to the period when Isaiah prophesied. Chapters 40 to 66 are later in origin, the work of a Second (Deutero) Isaiah. Sometimes chapters 55-66 are seen as the work of a Third (Trito) Isaiah. ↑

31. See Machzor Ruach Chadashah, pp. 198-200 and pp.259-261. ↑

32. See the Machzor, p. 164, for ‘A Vocabulary of Sin’ based on A Guide to Yom Kippur by Rabbi Dr Louis Jacobs (Jewish Chronicle Publications, London, 1957, pp.75f.) ↑

33. Hilchot T’shuvah, Laws of Repentance, 2:9, Mishneh Torah by Maimonides, Moshe ben Mamon, the ‘RaMBaM’ ↑

34. The Biblical Hebrew root is Mem Chet Hei. In Rabbinic Hebrew: Mem Chet Lamed. ↑

35. The kapporet that covered the Ark was a slab of gold, 2.5 cubits by 1.5 cubits. See: T’rumah, Exodus 25:17-22. ↑

The New Year has dawned and we are still living in this coronavirus crisis that began to overwhelm our lives back in February. And we don’t know when it will end. So, we are marking Erev Rosh Ha-Shanah this year, not in the shul sanctuary, with the congregation gathered together, but on a technological online marvel called Zoom.

We are not together in physical space, but as Jews in the Diaspora have done for millennia, we are sharing a long sacred moment in time. And in the course of 24 hours, we will also share this sacred day with Jews across the globe.

Why are we choosing to share this moment? Each of us will have our own personal answer to that question. The New Year beckons and, perhaps, we are fearful and hopeful in equal measure. Is the coronavirus on the wane or will there be a new spike in the late autumn? Of course, we don’t know and not knowing is the heart of the issue as we face each New Year. We can never know what lies ahead – all we know is what lies behind us and what is happening right now. But this sacred moment gives us pause for thought and reflection.

Of course, there are some things we do know – albeit not with 100% certainty. The year is marked not only by festivals and commemorative dates in the calendar, but by birthdays, anniversaries and milestones in our own lives and in the lives of our loved ones. As I look ahead, I know that I will be retiring at the end of April, after serving this congregation for over 20 years – and 32 years after my ordination as a rabbi. So much has changed at Brighton and Hove Progressive Synagogue since I first began working here in December 2000. We have been on a journey together as a community – a journey of exploration that has involved expanding our horizons and becoming more inclusive, so that the congregation is more diverse and also more focused on our shared progressive values. I am proud of what we have achieved together.

Twenty years ago, at Rosh Ha-Shanah, shortly after I had been appointed to the post – but before I started working – I wrote a poem which is included in the meditations section before the Erev Rosh Ha-Shanah service in our Liberal Judaism High Holy Day prayer book, Machzor Ruach Chadashah^[1] I would like to share it with you now because it expresses what it was like for me to make a beginning back then after a time of great trial, not knowing what lay ahead; fearful – and also hopeful:

Rosh Ha-Shanah

New Year

New moon of Tishri

Dawning darkly

First stars

Sparkling pathways

From the past

Into the future

Hinneini

Here I am

Standing on the threshold

Of the new year

Ready

But

Retreating

T’shuvah?

I turn back from the brink

Sarah’s laughter

Ringing in my ears

New life?

New beginning?

Is it possible?

For me?

And then

In the desert

Of those questions

Hagar’s eyes

Opening mine

Forcing me

To turn around again

Pressing me

To look forward

To gaze into the landscape

Beyond

To see

Wells of water

In the wilderness

Hinneini

Here I am

Standing on the threshold

Of the new year

Ready

To begin

Again

In order to make a new beginning, we all need to turn around, and as we look forward, be prepared to see wells of water in the wilderness. Alongside our personal circumstances and concerns, as we stand on the threshold of a new year, we all face the wilderness of the continuing coronavirus crisis – and beyond that, the wilderness of continuing climate change, which we can only begin to address effectively if we allow ourselves to learn lessons from the Covid-19 pandemic. One of the most bewildering aspects of the pandemic has been that it has not only been a negative experience. We have all witnessed the way in which the lockdown created a much-needed Shabbat for the planet. We have learnt from the retreat from a 24/7 existence that we can renew our lives and renew the life of the world by ceasing from so many of the activities which we have considered essential to modern life.

In my sermon at the end of July, I spoke about the Build Back Better movement, which is dedicated to ensuring that as the coronavirus crisis does begin to diminish, we don’t go back to our old ways, but rather build together a better, more sustainable and more equal and just society. Let me remind you of the key goals of the movement:^[2]

1. Secure the health and needs of everyone in the UK now and into the future

2. Protect and invest in our public services

3. Rebuild society with a transformative green new deal

4. Invest in people

5. Build solidarity and community across borders

Whatever our fears for the future, hopefully, our impulse to repair the world, will propel us forwards, or at least, enable us to take tentative steps that gain in momentum as we realise that the future really does depend on us, on what we do and don’t do tomorrow and the day after.

Ultimately, whatever my fears, I have always felt driven forward by a sense that what each individual does or doesn’t do matters and makes a difference to the world. But more than this, more than a sense of the demand for individual volition, one of the reasons I became rabbi was because I believe that individuals can make the most difference when we work together in community. Before I decided to embark on the rabbinate, I considered joining a kibbutz. I had lived on one for almost eight months in 1978 -79, and Marxist that I was back then, I loved the sense of collective endeavour. But my memory of living on that left-wing ha-shomer ha-tza’ir kibbutz in the Western Galilee, a couple of kilometres from the Lebanese border, was that, perched on top of a hill as it was, the kibbutz was a bit of an island and did not have much of an impact on the wider society. And so, I decided that becoming a rabbi and offering spiritual leadership to a progressive congregation that was part of a wider movement would provide the communal context for individuals to transform their lives and the lives of others. Considering, the journey we have been on as a congregation these past twenty years, I think I was right.

We have work to do in the world in the year ahead. But we must begin with ourselves and the work we need to do to repair ourselves and our relationships. And before we even start this work, we have to recognise where we are right now. At the end of July 2008, I wrote another Rosh Ha-Shanah poem. Aubrey Milstein, Zichrono livrachah, May his memory be for blessing, a long-serving lay leader who had been a stalwart to me and to the congregation had just died^[3], and I felt unsettled and sensed his passing marked the end of an era. We have been more than unsettled by the coronavirus crisis. For those of us who did not go through the Second World War, we have been experiencing an unprecedented period of upheaval – and it’s not yet over. I offer these lines as an acknowledgement of the place of uncertainty that we are inhabiting at this moment. May we find ways of leading ourselves and our loved ones, our community and our world, towards renewal.

Hinneini

Here I am

Here we are

Now

In this moment

The ancient beat of Life

Pulsing through us.

And yet

Not living

Deeply

Not being

Fully present

Forever rushing carelessly into

Traps in the

Undergrowth – Underworld

Caught by

Complexity

Ambiguity

Uncertainty

The terrifying indifference of

Chance.

And then simply

Conjugating questions

Why me?

Why you?

Why us?

Why them?

And still

Here I am

Here we are

Now

In this moment

A new beginning

Beckons.

And let us say: Amen.

Rabbi Elli Tikvah Sarah

Brighton and Hove Progressive Synagogue

18^th September 2020 – 1^st Tishri 5781

1. Machzor Ruach Chadashah. Liberal Judaism, London, 2003, p. 39. ↑

2. https://www.buildbackbetteruk.org/what-we-want ↑

3. On 25^th July 2008. Aubrey Milstein, Z”L, was born on 30^th October 1921. ↑

Preparations for the High Holy Days this year began very early at the shul. I usually start working on my sermons for Rosh Ha-Shanah and Yom Kippur in August, but this year, the continuing coronavirus crisis led to the decision that we could not gather in the synagogue for the autumn festivals, which meant that I began thinking about them in July. And then, along with my rabbinic colleagues, I started to consider how we could adapt the services for an online experience.

Having decided to create a booklet of my sermons and reflections for the days between Rosh Ha-Shanah and Yom Kippur to help those who don’t have access to technology to feel included, the newly elected chair of the shul, Louise Mordecai, had the lovely idea of putting together Rosh Ha-shanah packages for those not online. So, we had a special meeting of the Pastoral Care Group and agreed that the packages would include honey-cake, apples and honey, my booklet – and also a loan copy of the machzor, the High Holy Day prayer book if needed. The next step was to contact those who had responded to the call for volunteers at the beginning of the coronavirus lockdown. Several people baked cakes. One member made New Year cards. As a result of the efforts of a number of people, in the past week deliveries were made to congregants in the Worthing area, Brighton and Hove, Lewes, Saltdean, Telscombe Cliffs, Peacehaven, East Dean and Eastbourne.

The coronavirus crisis has been marked by illness and death, suffering and loss – and also by an abundance of g’milut chasadim, deeds of loving kindness, as people reached out to their neighbours, in particular, to the isolated and the elderly. It is usual at this sacred high-point of the Jewish year to remind ourselves of our core values and the need to repair ourselves and our relationships. The coronavirus crisis has been a living lesson in how to go about this.

The coronavirus crisis has also been and continues to be a testing time. Our resilience is being tested. Our resourcefulness, endurance, self-discipline, empathy, generosity, optimism. Our capacity to remain hopeful in the face of uncertainty about what the future will bring is being tested. I’m using the first-person plural in the spirit of the liturgy. We are going through this together. And at the same time, each one of us, has our own particular circumstances and experiences, and is confronted with our own personal trials and tribulations and challenges. Each one of us is being tested.

In one of the Torah portions set aside for Rosh Ha-Shanah, Genesis chapter 22, known as the Akeidah, we read that our ancestor Abraham was tested:^[1]

And it came to pass after these things that God tested Abraham

Va-y’hi achar ha-d’varim ha-eilleh v’ha-Elohim nissah et-Avraham. 

‘After these things’ – a reference to the banishment of Abraham’s firstborn son Ishmael with his mother Hagar in the previous chapter.^[2] Abraham had been tested enough one might think. But then he was confronted with the ultimate test. The text continues:

And God said to him, ‘Abraham’, and he said: ‘Here I am’ [hinneini]. Then God said: ‘Take your son, your only one, whom you love, Isaac, and go for yourself to the land of Moriah, and offer him there as a burnt offering on one of the mountains that I will show you.’

‘Go for yourself’ – Lech l’cha – the use of this expression reminds us of Abraham’s first momentous journey, when together with Sarah and his household, he left his land, his kindred, his parental home to go on a journey to a land that God promised to show him.^[3] Abraham went of his own volition back then. And he’s called to do the same now. But in place of the promise of a future for his descendants, on this occasion, he was challenged to take a journey that would involve obliterating his future. The enormity of the moment and all that Abraham ha already sacrificed is brought out in a 4^th century midrash, commenting on the staggered way in which this second call to ‘go for yourself’ is delivered:^[4]

God said: ‘Take your son.’

Abraham replied: ‘I have two sons.’

God said: ‘Your only one.’

Abraham replied: ‘This one is the only son of his mother, and that one is the only son of his mother.’

God said: ‘Whom you love’

Abraham replied: ‘I love them both.’

God said: ‘Isaac.’

Of course, Abraham loved both his sons – which made the test he was confronted with even more agonising. On the surface, Abraham’s test was a test of faith; his faith in God; that God would not, ultimately, demand the sacrifice of Isaac. But the story makes it clear that Abraham was prepared to sacrifice his son. And so it was, when Isaac was lying bound on the altar and Abraham had raised his knife to slaughter him, that It took an urgent call to get Abraham to stop:^[5]

Then the messenger of the Eternal called to him from heaven and said: ‘Abraham, Abraham!’ And he answered: ‘Here I am.’ And the messenger said: ‘Do not raise your hand against the lad, or do anything to him, for now I know that you fear God, since you have not withheld your son, your only one, from Me.’

It’s a terrifying story. And as we follow it, we should ask ourselves about the mother of Isaac: Sarah. The mother who waited so long to have a child.^[6] What was it like for her to see her husband and son go off that day? Her death is recorded at the beginning of the next parashah.^[7] Did Sarah die of anxiety as she waited? The story is known as the Akeidah, the ‘Binding’ because Isaac was bound but not slaughtered. But the name confronts us just as powerfully as if Isaac had been killed by his father. We can read the story as a moral tale against the sacrifice of children. But the binding, evoking as it does the image of Isaac bound on the altar, also confronts us with questions about the way in which we are bound metaphorically, and bind others, not least, children, metaphorically, with the chords, restraints and constraints of our anxieties and fears. 

This coronavirus crisis has stimulated our anxieties and fears to an excruciating extent. It is testing our ability to resist the ways in which we tie ourselves and others into knots of anguish. And more challenging even than this, the pandemic is confronting us – at a time when our daily lives have been completely disrupted, leaving us in disarray – with the need to bind ourselves in ways that are helpful, like the routines and rhythms we create to structure our daily lives, which have become so essential as our lives have been turned upside down. Like the straps of t’fillin^[8], reminding us of our responsibility to direct ourselves to righteous action, binding can be liberating if it is enabling and life-affirming; or, to put it more bluntly, if it helps us to get out of bed each day and keep ourselves going.

This ancient story has still more to teach us for this coronavirus time. After the sacrifice of Isaac has been interrupted, we read:^[9] 

Abraham raised his eyes and saw, behold there was a ram behind him caught in the thicket by its horns. So, he went and took the ram, and offered it as a burnt offering instead of his son.

Among other things, the shofar, the ram’s horn blown at Rosh Ha-Shanah is a reminder of that moment, of that replacement of a ram for a son. For centuries, animals were sacrificed on the altar in successive Temples in Jerusalem. An agricultural people, our ancestors expressed their service of God by offering the fruits of their labours. A Temple has not stood for almost 2000 years, and since that time, as we read in the Babylonian Talmud, Jews have been required to offer in place of the service of the altar, the service of our hearts, that is, prayer.^[10] And more than this. We find this story in a 2^nd century collection of rabbinic wisdom:^[11]

Once, as Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai was walking out of Jerusalem, Rabbi Joshua followed him. Seeing the Temple in ruins, he cried, ‘Woe to us this place is in ruins, the place where atonement was made for Israel’s sins.’ Rabbi Yochanan said to him: ’My son, do not grieve, for we have another means of atonement which is no less effective.’ What is it? It is deeds of loving kindness [g’milut chasadim], about which Scripture says: “I desire loving kindness [chesed] and not sacrifice.”’^[12]

Deeds of loving kindness: g’milut chasadim. Yes, we are being tested during this coronavirus crisis; tested, above all, concerning how we treat others and the planet in which we live. At Rosh Ha-Shanah, we are commanded ‘to listen to the voice of [the] shofar’ – lishmo’a kol shofar.^[13] The voice of the shofar confronts us with urgent questions: How are we living? How are we relating to others: Within our families? Within our community? In the wider society? How are we relating to the world – to other nations and to the Earth? What are we going do to make t’shuvah, to turn ourselves around and make amends for all that we have done – and all that we have failed to do?

We are commanded ‘to listen to the voice of the shofar’. But there is also another voice we must hear. The shofar’s call to action to repair the world out there is also a call to repair the microworld that each of us inhabits in our individual lives, right down to the inner sanctum of our beating hearts.

Let us listen to the beating of our hearts this Rosh Ha-Shanah and face the uncertainties of the year ahead with courage and fortitude, determined to do what we can to renew our lives and the life of the Earth.

And let us say: Amen.

Rabbi Elli Tikvah Sarah

Brighton and Hove Progressive Synagogue

18^th September 2020 – 1^st Tishri 5781

1. Va-yeira, Genesis 22:1. ↑

2. Va-yeira, Gen. 21:14-21. ↑

3. Lech l’cha, Genesis 12: 1ff. ↑

4. B’reishit (Genesis) Rabbah 39:9 and 55:7. Also: Babylonian Talmud Sanhedrin 89b. ↑

5. Va-yeira, Gen. 22:11-12. ↑

6. See Va-yeira, Gen. 18: 9-15 and 21: 1-2. ↑

7. Chayyei Sarah, Gen. 23:1. ↑

8. T’fillin. The black leather bands and boxes (known as ‘phylacteries’). Derived from the words of the first and second paragraphs of the Sh’ma: ‘You shall bind them as a sign upon your arm and as bands between your eyes’ (Deuteronomy 6:8, 11:18). ↑

9. Va-yeira, Genesis 22:13. ↑

10. Babylonian Talmud Ta’anit 2a. ↑

11. Avot d’Rabbi Natan 4:5. Quoting: Hosea 6:6. This is a parallel collection to the more well-known Pirkei Avot, Chapters of the Sages, appended to Mishnah, the first rabbinic code of law, edited c.200. ↑

12. See also Rabbi Elazar said: Doing righteous deeds of charity is greater than offering all of the sacrifices, as it is written: ‘Doing charity and justice is more desirable to the Lord than sacrifice’ (Proverbs 21:3) (Babylonian Talmud Sukkah 49b). ↑

13. The concluding words of the blessing recited before the shofar is sounded. See Machzor Ruach Chadashah. Liberal Judaism, London, 2003, p. 140. ↑

Hinneinu – Here we are, over nine weeks into the coronavirus crisis lockdown, unable to gather together in the synagogue. We have managed very well with our streamed services, but today, as we mark Shavuot, the fact that we are unable to congregate acquires an additional and deeper poignancy. Jewish teaching puts a major emphasis on community: the Israelites, who fled slavery in Egypt, together with the erev rav, the ‘mixed multitude’ that made the dash to freedom with them, became a community, the people Israel, when they stood at the foot of Mount Sinai.

The people Israel. Often referred to as kol adat b’nei Yisrael: ‘the entire congregation of the Israelites’^[1]. Reading Torah, similar phrases are repeated, reminding us of this collective entity that discovered what it meant to be a people as they wandered for forty years through the wilderness.

The people moved together, acted together. But the Book of B’midbar, Numbers, which we began reading last Shabbat, draws our attention, again and again, to the individuals that made up the people. From the opening verses that list the names of the leaders of the twelve tribes onwards, a host of individuals, and with their names and their stories – or at least, some of their stories. We encounter the individuals whose stories stand out.

In next week’s parashah, B’ha’alot’cha, at Numbers chapter 12, we gain an insight into the eldest of the sibling leaders of the Exodus, Miriam, who barely appears in the Torah, and whose name is only mentioned for the first time, following the crossing of the Sea of Reeds on dry land, back in parashah B’shallach at Exodus chapter 15.^[2] There, in two short verses that focus on Miriam leading the women in dances with timbrels and song, we learn three particular things about her: her name, that she is designated as the sister of Aaron, and that she is a prophet, n’vi’ah. But then, Miriam disappears completely from the narrative, until she turns up in an extraordinary chapter that kicks off a series of portions, in which the names of individuals are at the heart of each story.

And so, in parashat B’ha’alot’cha, Miriam – and to a lesser extent Aaron – challenge their younger brother’s exclusive relationship with the Eternal. Then, in the next parashah, Sh’lach L’cha, we discover that of the twelve tribal leaders sent out to reconnoitre the land beyond the Jordan, Joshua and Caleb alone show courage and determination.^[3] Finally, in the parashah that follows, Korach, who gives his name to the portion, the first cousin of the sibling leaders, along with Datan, Aviram and On, the leaders of the tribe of Reuben, foment rebellion against Moses and Aaron with the words: ‘You take too much upon yourselves, for all the congregation, all of them, are holy, and the Eternal One is in their midst; so why do you lift yourselves above the assembly of the Eternal One.’^[4]

Ki chol-ha-eidah, kullam k’doshim – ‘For all the congregation, all of them are holy’. With these words, the rebels assert not that the congregation as a collectivity is holy, but that all of them – each and every member of the congregation – is holy. Throughout the Torah, the people, the congregation, is referred to in the singular. Most of us will be familiar with the principal statement of Jewish belief: Sh’ma Yisrael, Adonai Elohein, Adonai echad – ‘Listen! Israel: The Eternal is our God; the Eternal is one.’^[5] Listen! – Sh’ma! is a second person singular imperative. Again, and again and again: Israel; a single entity.

But then, at key moments, the singular ‘you’, becomes plural – which brings me back to the festival we are celebrating today, Shavuot, ‘Weeks’, reinvented by the early Rabbis as z’man matan Torateinu – ‘the season of the giving of our Torah‘. We read in the parashah, Yitro, in the opening verses of Exodus 19, prior to the account of the Divine Revelation on Mount Sinai:^[6]

Thus, you should say to the house of Jacob and tell the children of Israel: ‘You have seen what I have done to Egypt, and how I lifted you up on eagle’s wings and I brought you to Myself. And now therefore, if you indeed listen to My voice and you keep My covenant, then you will be to me a treasure from among all the peoples, for all the Earth is Mine’.

The ‘you‘ addressed is plural: ‘You have seen’ … ‘I lifted you up’ … ‘I brought you‘ … ‘If you indeed listen … ‘and you keep’… ‘you will be’ … And then, the aseret ha-dibbrot, ‘the ten utterances’, better known by the Christian designation, ‘the Ten Commandments’, that follow in chapter 20 are all couched in the singular you: in this moment of encounter with the Divine, all the ‘yous’ addressed in the plural become a single ‘you’: the people.

And yet, crucially, the scene of Revelation concludes at the end of the next parashah, Mishpatim, which details a code of mishpatim – laws – with the sealing of the covenant with the people that once again acknowledges their plurality:^[7]

Moses took the book of the covenant and read in the ears of the people, and they said, ‘all that the Eternal One has spoken we will do and we will listen’– Va-yom’ru: kol asher-dibbeir Adonai, na’aseh v’nishma.

The people entered the covenant with the Eternal as a community together, but the obligation to keep the covenant rested – and rests – on each individual. We will act. We will continue to listen. Each one of us.

And so, we read at the beginning of parashat Nitzavim, in Deuteronomy chapter 29, in a narrative set at the end of the forty years of wandering, we find a statement addresses to the generation who did not stand at Mount Sinai. A preamble to their entry into the covenant, it begins:^[8]

You are stationed today, all of you, before the Eternal your God.

Attem nitzavim ha-yom, kul’ chem lifnei Adonai Eliheichem.

You – plural – are stationed – plural – all of you – plural – before the Eternal your God – plural.

Needless to say, for all the plurality of the plural ‘you’, it is in the masculine plural – just as the singular ‘you’ is in the masculine singular. The Torah is written by men, and addresses men. Nevertheless, as we read the Torah today for ourselves in the context of our own lives, we can include ourselves, our diverse selves in all our diverse genders in that plurality. Interestingly, this week’s parashah, Naso, acknowledges that it was not only men who felt addressed by the call to commitment. We learn in Numbers chapter 6 ^[9] that individual women as well as individual men, would take it upon themselves to consecrate themselves to the Eternal, by explicitly uttering a vow of consecration – neder nazir – to set themselves apart for the Eternal. The adoption of the neder nazir required each individual concerned to take it upon themselves to abstain from drinking wine and any other intoxicant, let their hair grow, and refrain from any contact with a dead person, even their father, or mother, or siblings.

Significantly, while the Torah reading set aside for Shavuot, aseret ha-dibbrot, ‘the ten utterances’, emphasises the singularity of the people, another scriptural text that is read on Shavuot, focuses on the individual. The early rabbis set aside five books from K’tuvim, the ‘Writings’, the concluding third section of the TaNaKh^[10], the Hebrew Bible, for reading as separate scrolls on five particular dates in the calendar.^[11] The most well-known of these five books or ‘five scrolls’ – chameish m’gillot – is the Book of Esther, read on Purim. The Book of Ruth, read at Shavuot, relates how a Moabite woman, following the death of her husband, decided to leave her home and go with her mother-in-law Naomi to Judah. That Ruth made this choice was remarkable enough. She also gave voice to her choice. Ruth’s declaration to Naomi is one of the most powerful passages in the whole of the TaNaKh, and, arguably, the most beautiful and heart-felt expression of commitment ever articulated. We read in chapter 1:^[12]

Entreat me not to leave you, and return from following after you; for wherever you go, I will go; and wherever you lodge, I will lodge; your people shall be my people, and your God, my God; / where you die, will I die, and there will I be buried; thus, shall the Eternal One do to me, and more also, if anything but death parts me from you.

It may seem paradoxical that the covenant between the Eternal One and the people Israel is at its heart a commitment made by each and every individual. Of course, the marking of the transition from childhood to adulthood tells us this: at the age of 13 for boys, and, traditionally 12 for girls, an individual commits themselves to the mitzvot, the commandments. In Progressive communities that commitment is taken on by the bar or bat mitzvah on equal terms at the age of 13, and in this particular progressive community, Brighton and Hove Progressive Synagogue, the option of b’mitzvah, ensures that gender equality also encompasses gender inclusion. The reality is that even in an intensely, communally-focused community, everything comes down to the individual and the choices each of us makes.

Having distinguished between texts that use the singular texts that use the plural, there is a particular passage in the Torah, couched in the singular, which clearly addresses, not the singular people, but the individual. It’s one of my favourite Torah teachings, so I make no apology for sharing it once again. We read in parashat Nitzavim, Deuteronomy chapter 30:^[13]

For this commandment that I am commanding you today is not too wonderful for you, nor too remote. / It is not in heaven that you need to say, ‘who will go up for and fetch it for us that we may hear it and do it?’ / And it’s not across the sea, that you need to say, ‘who will cross the sea for us and fetch it for us that we may hear it and do it?’ / Rather, ha-davar is very near to you, in your mouth and in your heart to do it.

I have not translated ha-davar because it can be translated in at least two ways – as ‘the word’ and as ‘the matter’. Ha-davar; the word, the matter – and, in our current context of such great uncertainty, perhaps, the guidance we seek. The verses tell us that ha-davar is not remote from us; it is held within us; in our mouths and in our hearts. We are not re-enacting a glorious spectacle today. However much our imaginations may be stimulated and engaged by the images of the quaking mountain shrouded in cloud and smoke and fire. We recall the dramatic events of Mount Sinai back then in order to inhabit as fully as possible this moment, right now.

So: Hinneinu – Here we are. Of course, we aren’t actually here together. But each of us, wherever we are and whatever our particular circumstances, has chosen to log on and to connect; to be in this moment together, although we are physically apart. May each of us find courage and inspiration in this shared moment to commit ourselves to the Eternal and to one another. And let us say: Amen.

Rabbi Elli Tikvah Sarah

Brighton and Hove Progressive Synagogue

30 May 2020 – 7 Sivan 5780

1. See, e.g., K’doshim, Leviticus 19:2. ↑

2. B’shallach, Exodus 15:21-21. ↑

3. Sh’lach L’cha, Numbers 13-15. ↑

4. Korach, Numbers 16:3. ↑

5. Va-etchannan, Deuteronomy 6:4. ↑

6. Yitro, Exodus 19: 3-5. ↑

7. Mishpatim, Exodus 24:7. ↑

8. Nitzavim, Deuteronomy 29:92. ↑

9. Naso, Numbers 6:1-21. ↑

10. TaNaKh: Torah, N’vi’im (Prophets), K’tuvim (Writings). ↑

11. Arranged in the TaNaKh in the order of reading, the other books are: Shir ha- Shirim, the Songs of Songs read at Pesach, Rut, Ruth, read at Shavuot, Eichah, Lamentations, read at Tishah B’Av, and Kohelet, Ecclesiastes, read at Sukkot. ↑

12. Ruth 1:16-17. ↑

13. Nitzavim, Deut. 30:11-14. ↑

Chag Samei’ach everyone and welcome to this Seventh Day of Pesach morning service.

I hope that you have all been enjoying Pesach despite the restrictions imposed due to the need for social distancing during the coronavirus pandemic.

The Seventh Day Pesach morning service is marked by two distinct elements: the chanting of the songs recorded in the Torah, in the Book of Exodus, that were sung by the Israelites after crossing through the divided Sea of Reeds on dry land,^[1] and the Yizkor service in remembrance of our loved ones who have died.

Before we turn to the Torah, I will pause to reflect on the significance of these elements for us today – but first we begin our service by singing:

Hal’lu, Hal’lu, Hal’lu-Yah! [Praise! Praise! Praise! Praise the Eternal!]

…………………………………………..

So, Pesach is drawing to a close. Both, the Torah and the Haggadah recited at the Seder, urge us to identify with the Exodus story. Have we found ourselves doing this over the past week?

In my Pesach morning sermon, I suggested that as we endure the ongoing coronavirus pandemic, we have something to learn about endurance from the slaves who endured slavery for hundreds of years.

So, have we something to learn from the story of their liberation from slavery?

Liberation is such a powerful word. The thought of freedom is so uplifting. What about the experience? The account we find in the Torah suggests that just as slavery imposed unbearable hardship, suffering and anguish, freedom entailed its terrors, too. The terrors of the great unknown beyond the confinement of the house of bondage. No sooner had the slaves fled Egypt, then with the Egyptians in hot pursuit behind them, they encountered a barrier: The Sea of Reeds. The Torah‘s account suggests that it only took a miracle wave of Moses’ staff for the waters to part. By contrast, the rabbinic versions found in the midrash suggest that it took human courage: in one commentary, the waters didn’t part until one brave individual, Nachshon ben Amminadav ‘leapt first into the sea and plunged into its waves’.^[2] Another suggests that it wasn’t until the people were wading in the waters up to their noses, that the waters parted.^[3]

The moment of panic and terror as the slaves faced the sea is beautifully captured in Ruth Sohn’s poem, ‘The Song of Miriam’, included in the draft Shabbat morning service of the new Liberal Judaism prayer book.^[4] Let me quote a few lines from it:

In a moment of panic

My eyes go blind.

Can I take a step without knowing a

Destination?

Will I falter

Will I fall

Will the ground sink away from under me?

The song still unformed –

How can I sing?

To take the first step –

To sing a new song –

Is to close one’s eyes

and dive

into unknown waters

for a moment knowing nothing risking

all –

But then to discover

The waters are friendly

The ground is firm.

And the song –

the song rises again.

Out of my mouth

come words lifting the wind.

Once the fugitive slaves had crossed the sea, they faced the terrors of the barren desert, where water and food were in such short supply.^[5] Nothing evokes freedom better than the uncharted wilderness and nothing is more terrifying.

And then, there is the underside of liberation: The human cost incurred when tyranny is defeated. Throughout history, it has only been on rare occasions that an authoritarian social order has been toppled peacefully – think of the French Revolution of 1789 and the Russian Revolution of 1917 – after all, those in power want to hold onto their power. And so, too, in the struggle against Egypt, three thousand years earlier. The Torah recounts that it took ten plagues to bring Egypt to its knees^[6] – but there was one more blow to come – the drowning of Pharaoh’s chariot-riding army as the waters came crashing down upon them. The songs of triumph led by Moses and Miriam praised the Eternal One for finally defeating Egypt, but significantly, rabbinic reflection on their exaltation, expresses a very different Divine perspective. We read in the midrash:^[7]

At that time the ministering angels wanted to sing a song of praise to the Holy One, ever to be Blessed; but the Holy One ever to be Blessed restrained them, saying: “My creatures are drowning in the sea, and you would sing before Me!”

And so, during the Seder, when reciting the ten plagues one by one, we dip our little finger in the cup of the fruit of the vine, and diminish our cup of joy, by spilling a droplet for each plague.

It feels uncomfortable to be chanting these exultant songs of triumph over a stricken enemy, however oppressive, during a regular seventh day Pesach morning service. This year, as the death toll of the coronavirus pandemic shows no sign of abating yet, it feels excruciating. People die every day across the world, of course, when there isn’t a pandemic. Indeed, on average over 153,000 people die every day – that is 56 million people every year.^[8] But this year, this moment that we are living through is not average. Most people – excluding, doctors and nurses, religious ministers and funeral directors – do not usually encounter death, unless it affects them personally: a loved one, a friend, a fellow congregant. The coronavirus crisis has meant that all of us are being made aware of death on a daily basis, as the evening news presents us with the gruesome figures. And behind the statistics, we know that each death represents a unique, irreplaceable individual. And so, we cannot speak of death right now except in hushed tones.

And then, like the slaves facing the sea, we don’t know what will happen next. We are afraid for ourselves and for our loved ones. And the only good thing about the fear we feel is that, hopefully, it will strengthen our resolve to maintain social distancing and keep safe for as long as is necessary.

So, what should we do with the songs of Moses and Miriam? However uncomfortable they may make us feel during this exceptional time of the coronavirus pandemic, in acknowledgement of our history, and what it took for ancestors to be free, we will still include them in this Seventh Day Pesach service.

And then we will conclude – perhaps with a greater sense of immediacy this year – with Yizkor, the memorial service. The coronavirus pandemic has reminded us, if we needed reminding, that life is finite; that our loved ones will die one day; that we will die one day. We might wonder why we need to be reminded of the reality of death during a festival that is supposed to be a celebration? Perhaps, so that we may pause during our celebration to drink deeply from our cup of joy, appreciate our many blessings and value life with more intensity. There is also a lesson to be learnt from this conjunction of joy and sorrow from the opposite perspective: that at times like this coronavirus crisis, when we are being forced to drink deeply from the cup of sorrow, we should also pause to acknowledge the joys of life all around us, displayed in the beauties of nature, in the kindness and generosity of strangers, and in the loving gestures of our families and friends and neighbours. The Hebrew word for life, chayyim, is plural; it encompasses everything that it is possible to experience. Just as, on this Seventh Day of Pesach we acknowledge death, let us awaken to a new day tomorrow, and even in the midst of the coronavirus pandemic, give thanks for life.

And let us say: Amen.

Rabbi Elli Tikvah Sarah

Brighton and Hove Progressive Synagogue

7th Day Pesach Morning Service

15 April 2020 – 21 Nisan 5780

1. B’shallach, Exodus 15:1-21. ↑

2. Mechilta to B’shallach, Sh’mot/Ex. 14:22. ↑

3. Sh’mot Rabbah 21:10. ↑

4. Siddur Shirah Chadashah (‘Siddur of a New Song’), p. 16a/b. The name, is a quotation from the g’ulah/redemption blessing in ‘The Sh’ma and its blessings’ section that is a feature of evening and morning services. ↑

5. See the continuation of B’shallach, Sh’mot/Ex. 15:22-17:7. ↑

6. Recounted in Exodus chapters 7-12. ↑

7. Babylonian Talmud, M’gillah 10b. ↑

8. https://www.medindia.net/patients/calculators/world-death-clock.asp ↑

Chag samei’ach – and welcome to this first day of Pesach morning service. Chag samei’ach means ‘a joyful festival’. Chag samei’ach is an invitation to rejoice, even if we are not feeling very joyful as the coronavirus pandemic continues. Chag samei’ach is an invitation to enter into another dimension, and allow ourselves to celebrate the gift of life.

In the midst of the service, I will pause for us to reflect on what we can learn from the Exodus story for this time of extraordinary crisis, but first, let us turn to the service and begin by singing together, wherever we are:

Hal’lu! hal’lu! hal’lu! … Hal’lu-Yah! [Praise! Praise! Praise! Praise the Eternal!]

…………………………………………………….

So, we have arrived at Pesach: the festival celebrating the Exodus of our slave ancestors from Egypt – what the rabbis coined: z’man cheiruteinu – ‘The season of our freedom’.

Pesach celebrates the defining moment of the Jewish people, recalled also every Shabbat – the weekly day of freedom – and every evening and morning in the blessing of liberation that follows the Sh’ma, when we sing extracts from the song sung by the Israelites after they had crossed the Sea of Reeds on dry land.

But Pesach is special, of course. For seven days, as we eat matzah, we re-enact the moment of freedom; the moment when the slaves fled Egypt in such haste, the dough in their kneading bowls had no time to rise.^[1] For seven days, we are the newly-liberated slaves, eager to be free.

Well, that, at least, is the theory of it. How about the practice? My question is not about how Jewishly observant we are. I’m wondering: how do we, in the context of our own lives, manage to identify with the Exodus story?

Here we are, right now, in the midst of the coronavirus pandemic. In my article in the April issue of This Month, I suggested that ‘it feels like we are being afflicted by a deadly plague and must stay in our houses until it passes over’.

We are not in the Exodus time yet – we are still in Egypt.

So, what can we learn from our ancestors’ experience of being slaves – for hundreds of years?

As it happens, the Torah says very little about our ancestors’ experience of being slaves. But what it does tell us is significant. We read that, afraid that the alien people residing in the region of Goshen, might become too mighty and numerous and pose a threat to Egypt, the new Pharaoh that ‘did not know’ Joseph forced them into slavery, making ‘their lives bitter with hard servitude, in mortar and in brick, and in all manner of service in the field’.^[2] We read that Pharaoh commanded the midwives, Shifrah and Pu’ah to kill the new-born baby boys – and that they resisted Pharaoh’s decree.^[3] We read that a mother and sister – unnamed in the story – saved the new baby boy in their household, by making a waterproof basket for him and placing it in the reeds of the river.^[4] We read about that now grown-up baby boy – named Moses by Pharaoh’s daughter when she found him in the bulrushes^[5] – killing a taskmaster he found beating a slave and then fleeing to Midian, where he met and married Tzipporah, the daughter of the priest of Midian.^[6]

These are familiar stories. Less familiar is the one we read straight after this at the end of Exodus chapter 2 (23-25):

And it came to pass in the course of those many days that the King of Egypt died; and the Israelites sighed from the bondage, and they cried out, and their cry for help went up to God from the bondage. / And God heard their groaning, and God remembered the covenant with Abraham, with Isaac, and with Jacob. / And God saw the Israelites and took notice of them.

The language of the Bible is very spare. Unlike common English usage, there is a tendency in Hebrew to repeat the same roots – the three consonants that form the basis of verbs, nouns and adjectives – again and again. And yet, in this passage, we find a multiplication of roots describing the anguish of the slaves: they sighed (va-yei’an’chu), and they cried out (va-yizaku), and their cry for help (shavatam) went up to God, who heard their groaning (na’akatam).

So, what’s going on here? The passage is not simply multiplying language, it is describing a process: the slaves sighed, then they cried out, then they cried for help with such intensity that their cry went up to God, then God heard their groaning, remembered the Divine covenant with their ancestors, saw the Israelites and took notice of them. So, what does this suggest? That God had forgotten the covenant? That God had not seen the Israelites during all the years of their enslavement? That God had not noticed them?

The key to understanding the passage lies in the event described in the first phrase: the death of the King of Egypt. This passage doesn’t just pose challenging questions about God’s absence or indifference during centuries of slavery, it says something challenging about the nature of slavery: that it is so all-consuming, such a constant and perpetual reality in the lives of those enslaved, year after year; that it is only when there is a major upheaval in the social fabric – in this case, the death of the Pharaoh – that the people are stirred out of their torpor, their numbness and stupor. So, at first, all the slaves could manage was to sigh, then they mustered themselves to cry out, then their cry transformed into a call for help so powerful that it pierced the heavens.

We can learn many things from this passage and its evocation of the overwhelming experience of slavery. Most importantly, at this time, as we endure the coronavirus pandemic, we can learn about endurance. We have not yet reached the moment when there is a major development with the potential to change the course of the onward march of the coronavirus pandemic – although, the experience of China, gives us hope that that moment will come. Until then, those who are not essential workers, have to stay put indoors – apart from a daily walk and essential visits to the shops – and wait it out. Spring is burgeoning, so we must find new ways to enjoy it and relish the signs of life we see through our windows. Pesach is here, but the season of our liberation – z’man cheiruteinu – has not yet arrived. No renewal for us. Not yet. The numbers of those dying are still rising. The suffering continues. And so many people, not only have to endure confinement to their homes, they have to endure that confinement alone.

In Hebrew, ‘endurance’ and ‘suffering’ are expressed by the same word, seivel. Let us take courage from the endurance of our slave ancestors and help one another to endure by continuing to reach out to each other and supporting those in greatest need. And as we eat matzah this Pesach, let’s remind ourselves that before it became the bread of freedom, it was as the Haggadah tells us, ha lachma anya – ‘the bread of affliction that our ancestors ate in the land of Egypt’. And when this terrible time has passed – and it will pass; that is the core message of the Exodus story – we will renew our lives and the world around us. May we find within ourselves the savlanut, the patience – a word that is related to seivel – to wait, hopefully and expectantly, for that moment. And let us say: Amen.

Rabbi Elli Tikvah Sarah

Brighton and Hove Progressive Synagogue

First Day Pesach Morning Service

9 April 2020 –15 Nisan 5780

1. Sh’mot, Exodus 12:39 ↑

2. Ex. 1:8-14. ↑

3. Ex. 1:15-22. ↑

4. Ex. 2:1-4. ↑

5. Ex. 2:5-10 ↑

6. Ex. 2:11-22. ↑

Spring has arrived, and as April begins, the first month of the Jewish year, known in the Torah as Aviv, Spring (Exodus 13:4), is already one week in.

But this is a very strange spring, the spring of 2020–5780. As the natural world is budding into new life all around us in bright, vivid colours – green and yellow, blue and pink – an invisible force, the coronavirus that is spreading across the world, is also alive amongst us.

Stranger still, for Jews across the world, in the midst of the month of Aviv – known better by its Babylonian name, Nisan, the festival of Pesach that recalls the liberation of our ancestors from slavery will begin.

How will we celebrate Pesach this year? This is a practical question – given that we may find it hard to source matzah and maror and cannot congregate together around the Seder table – either in the synagogue or at home – because households continue to be in isolation. It’s also a spiritual and emotional question – since it’s hard to feel that there is something to celebrate right now.

As we ask these practical and spiritual/emotional questions, let us remember this central teaching of Pesach, set out in the Torah in the context of the commandment to eat matzah and exclude leaven (Ex. 13: 6-8):

You shall tell [V’higgadta] your child on that day, saying: “It is because of what the Eternal One did for me, when I went out of Egypt.”

This verse is repeated in the Haggadah, in the retelling of the Exodus story first crafted by the early rabbis. Generation after generation, ‘from Egypt until now’ (Numbers 13:19), in all circumstances – in times of segregation and persecution, and in times when Jewish life and creativity flourished – Jews have celebrated Pesach and identified with the story; even when consigned to the gruesome landscape of ‘planet Auschwitz’.*

How? Why? It is appropriate that we ask questions. After all, it’s the four questions of the Haggadah, traditionally recited by the youngest at the seder table, that prompt us to engage in the ritual of the Seder.

We might imagine that the generations before us were able to celebrate Pesach even in terrible and terrifying times because they had more faith than we have. That may be true. But perhaps, the reasons are deeper: those who went before us knew about survival against the odds and they knew that survival in the midst of anguish and suffering depended on maintaining a spirit of hope.

Our ancestors were slaves for more than half of the 430 years that that they sojourned in Egypt (Ex. 12:40). While acknowledging this, the rituals of the festival of Pesach focus on their liberation. Matzah, as the Haggadah tells us, is ‘the bread of affliction’ – and it is also the bread of freedom, recalling that after the final tenth plague, the slaves were so eager to leave Egypt, there was no time for the dough in their kneading bowls to rise (Ex. 12:39).

That last plague, the death of the first born, was more than the final blow against Pharaoh and Egypt. The slaves only escaped that deadly plague because they had the courage to mark out their houses, so that it would pass over them – that’s what ‘Pesach‘ means: ‘Passover’ (Ex. 12: 21-23-).

Today, in April 2020 – Aviv/Nisan 5780, it feels like we are being afflicted by a deadly plague, and must stay in our houses until it passes over. But the Exodus story and the Festival of Pesach remind us that whatever we have to endure, we will be free of it.

And more than this: as with the slaves, we have the opportunity to learn what it means to be free; to be free of the excessive materialism and compulsive consumption that has driven this coronavirus plague across the earth. Let’s not call it a ‘virus’, let’s name it for what it is: a travel bug, proliferating across the globe, because that’s what those living in the most prosperous nations have become accustomed to do; to use our prosperity to travel around the world, consuming as many new, exotic experiences as we can.

The coronavirus crisis will pass and we will emerge out of our homes, bereaved and traumatised – and also full of gratitude for the gift of life and grateful to all those who did what they could to save lives. And more than this: having done everything we could to make life bearable for ourselves and others – to reach out and connect across the ether, to help those more vulnerable than ourselves – we will be determined to live in new ways; to share with others and to care for one another and the world around us.

Rabbi Elli Tikvah Sarah

*This expression was coined by the Jewish philosopher, Emil L. Fackenheim (“The Holocaust and Philosophy.” The Journal of Philosophy, Volume 82, Issue 10, Eighty-Second Annual Meeting American Philosophical Association, Eastern Division, Oct. 1985, p. 511).

2019 is drawing to a close. What a year it has been. Surely, climate sceptics have taken note of yet more extreme weather events: raging fires – still raging in Australia; torrential rains – including, in Britain. A 16-year-old prophet, calling out the governments of the world has delivered the verdict loud and clear: Climate change is here and must be the top priority of every nation now if the planet is to recover and have a future. And how did the governments of the world respond to Greta Thunberg’s challenge at the recent UN climate change conference held in Madrid earlier this month?^[1]

That’s right: they weren’t listening – for a change …

And then, on the home front: the ongoing Brexit drama – and the verdict delivered by the outcome of the General Election: with an 80-seat majority, the re-elected Conservative government now has the mandate to ‘get Brexit done’.

Whatever you think of the election, however you voted, there can be no doubt about the power of three-word slogans. ‘Take back control’ ensured a majority for Brexit in the referendum of June 2016. ‘Get breakfast done’ achieved the same result for the Conservative party in the General Election. Each three-word slogan – just four syllables apiece. Surely, a very special gift to Dominic Cummings must have been at the top of Prime Minister Boris Johnson’s Christmas presents list.

Yes, if we’ve learnt anything in the past three-and-a-half years, it is that if you’re in the business of trying to persuade people, utilise a three-word slogan and repeat it again and again – and again…

So, as we celebrate the festival of Chanukkah by kindling the flames on the nine-branched Chanukkiyyah night after night, let’s proclaim our own three-word slogan: Increase the light.

Increase the light. That is our task. We can’t leave it to governments. Increase the light: a message to each one of us. A simple message for complex times.

Life was rather complex back then, of course, too. The struggle against the tyrannical regime of the Assyrian-Greek Emperor Antiochus IV, led by the Hasmonean family that became known as the Maccabees,^[2] lasted from 167 to 140 BCE; that is, 27 years. Chanukkah celebrates the first major victory, when, in 164 BCE, after a three-year guerrilla campaign, Judah the Maccabee and his brothers – all the sons of Mattathias, the priest of Modi’in – retook the desecrated Temple in Jerusalem, cleansed it, rebuilt the altar of unhewn stones, lit the m’norah, the seven-branched candlestick, and rededicated the sacred space – hence, the name of the festival: Chanukkah, which means ‘dedication’.

According to the first Book of the Maccabees, following the rededication (I Maccabees 4:59):

Judah and his brothers and the entire congregation of Israel decreed that the days of the dedication of the altar should be kept with gladness and joy in due season, year after year, for eight days from the 25^th of the month of Kislev.

The two books of the Maccabees – the first presents the most reliable historical record – make no mention of the miracle of the one-days’ supply of Temple oil with the seal of the High Priest that lasted for eight. We all know the story. And that’s what it is – a story, created by the rabbis centuries later, who, dismayed by the way in which Hasmonean family became corrupted by power following the establishment of an independent Judea in 140 BCE, did not wish to glorify them.

The less romantic explanation for the eight-day festival was that the guerrilla fighters had missed the seven-day festival of Sukkot, and Sh’mini Atzeret, the eighth day of ‘conclusion’. As we read in the Second Book of Maccabees (10:6):

They celebrated it for eight days with rejoicing in the manner of the festival of Sukkot, mindful of how but a little while before at the festival of Sukkot they had been wandering about like wild beasts in the mountains and caves.

The contrast between the straightforward reason for an eight-day festival and the miracle tale of a single day’s supply of oil for the Temple m’norah that lasted for eight is astonishing. So, how is it that the miracle tale won the day? After all, unlike the priestly Hasmonean family that came to rule the independent state of Judea, the rabbis did not have any political power. However, they did gain supremacy in one particular arena: the power of the word. The presentation of the miracle tale, included in the Babylonian Talmud, edited around 500 CE,^[3] begins with a question: Mah Chanukkah? ‘What is Chanukkah?’ It’s as if the reason for Chanukkah is not already known. What happened to the two books of the Maccabees? Responsible for deciding the Canon of the Hebrew Bible, the rabbis excluded the Books of the Maccabees from the sacred text. And so, the rabbis’ miracle story became the only story; not just, ‘the only story in town’, but, in time, the only story around the Jewish world.

By the way, if you’re interested, you can find the Books of the Maccabees in the Catholic version of the Bible – along with the Book of Judith, with its grisly tale of Judith’s beheading of the Assyrian Greek Captain Holofernes, which was also excluded by the rabbis from the Hebrew Bible.

The rabbis didn’t just succeed in trumping history with a miracle tale. They underlined the message of the miracle with the selection of a passage from the Book of Zechariah, chapter 4 as the haftarah for Shabbat Chanukkah – that is, the reading from the N’vi’im, the books of the ‘prophets’, which follows the Torah reading. And so, in every congregation, including here at BHPS, in every Jewish denomination across the world today, the message of Zechariah will ring out: ‘Not by power, nor by might, but by My spirit says the God of heaven’s hosts.’ (4:6).

These words can’t compete with a very easily remembered and repeated three-word slogan, but they come close. Which brings me back to the present and the message of Chanukkah today. The words of Zechariah proclaim the supreme power of God. But the message we need to take away from the stupendous success of the rabbis’ miracle tale is less about the power of the spirit of God and more about us and the power of our spirits. With our spirits, inspired by the eternal spirit that infuses each and every human being, we can increase the light.

Increase the light. Sounds good – but how do we do it? How do we even start? As Chanukkah approached this year, I thought about the challenges we face in our efforts to increase the light, and identified eight gaping lacerations in what Claudia Gould has called ‘the wounded world’^[4]:

1. Poverty and homelessness and the global economic system with its inherent exploitation of the world’s poor

2. Domestic and Sexual abuse and trafficking

3. The mental health crisis – in particular, amongst young people

4. Racism and Xenophobia – and, specifically, Anti-Semitism and Islamophobia

5. Homophobia, biphobia and transphobia

6. The marginalisation and exclusion of people with disabilities

7. The global refugee catastrophe

8. The climate emergency

Yes, I wrote down this list of horrors. I could have added more items – but I was determined to keep to eight – each one a focus for the nightly candle-lighting. But then, of course, I felt totally overwhelmed. What can I do? What can we do in the face of the scale of the task before us? How can we even begin the work of tikkun olam, repair of the world?

And then, my thoughts turned to the nightly candle-lighting. Such a wise and uncomplicated ritual: increase the light, flame by flame. There are enough fires raging, consuming everything in their wake. Chanukkah calls us to increase the light, incrementally, night after night. In the midst of the dark, to kindle a flame. Not a flame that has any practical application. Unlike the Shabbat candles, we are not supposed to make use of the light of the Chanukkah flames. Our task is, simply, to kindle light and proclaim the miracle of the unquenchable spirit. That’s why the ritual includes putting the Chanukkiyyah in the window – where, of course, the reflection doubles the impact.

So, let us take heart and spirit from the nightly flame-kindling ritual of Chanukkah and resolve to ignite flames of Hope through our acts of repair, night after night, day after day. In the words of the Jewish feminist poet Marge Piercy: ‘Every dawn, I choose to take a knife / to the world’s flank or a sewing kit, / rough improvisation, but a start.’^[5]

And let us say: Amen.

Rabbi Elli Tikvah Sarah

Brighton and Hove Progressive Synagogue

Shabbat Chanukkah

28^th December 2019 – 30^th Kislev 5780

1. https://www.rev.com/blog/greta-thunberg-un-climate-change-conference-speech-transcript ↑

2. Maccabee means, ‘hammer’. ↑

3. Tractate Shabbat, page 21b ↑

4. From her Aleinu poem, 2003, which is included on p. 35b in the first draft Shabbat morning service of Siddur Shirah Chadashah, Liberal Judaism’s new prayer book. ↑

5. The last verse of Marge Piercy’s poem, ‘The task never completed’. From: The Art of Blessing the Day. Poems on Jewish Themes. Five Leaves Publications, 1998, pp. 82-83. Also included on p. 36a in the first draft Shabbat morning service of Siddur Shirah Chadashah. ↑

SUKKOT PRAYER 5780

Sh’chinah M’kor Chayyeinu, Divine Presence Source of our lives, You have accompanied us on all our journeys ‘from Egypt until now’. As we celebrate Sukkot, we pray that the fragile sukkah recalling our ancestors’ forty-year sojourn in the wilderness, may remind us of our obligation to support the poor and the destitute, the homeless and the oppressed, and to assist those experiencing persecution and violence, hardship and humiliation across the globe. In particular at this time, we think of the Kurds in northern Syria.

Pause to reflect

As we gather in the sukkah open to the elements, may our exposure to the wind and rain also turn our thoughts to those peoples living in regions of the world that are suffering the devastating impact of climate change. This Sukkot, our hearts go out to the people of Grenada, whose nutmeg farms are being destroyed by hurricanes and flooding.

Pause to reflect

Ru’ach Olamim, Spirit of the Universe, You invite us to acknowledge the Earth around us and Eternity beyond us. As we wave the lulav in all directions, we ask You to strengthen our courage and resolve so that we may reach out to peoples in distress, extend our care to the planet and all that lives on it, and commit ourselves to the sacred task of tikkun olam, repair of the world.

And let us say: Amen.

Rabbi Elli Tikvah Sarah

Brighton and Hove Progressive Synagogue

Hinneinu – Here we are on Yom Kippur morning. Although several hours of praying, reflecting and fasting lie ahead, in fact, the aseret y’mei t’shuvah, the ‘ten days of returning’ are drawing to a close. After sunset, the New Year begins in earnest, and we will turn from looking back to moving forwards. In the meantime, here we are, with one another, with ourselves – and with our personal thoughts, concerns, regrets and memories. Memory is a funny thing. Perhaps, everything is stored somewhere in our amazingly complex brains, but if my experience is anything to go by, we only remember a tiny fraction – and then recall the same memories again and again. Whatever the memory – painful, joyful, miserable, humorous – each one a trophy of our past kept alive within us because for reasons we don’t always understand, it continues to resonate in the present.

One of my most powerful memories goes back to 1984. As a first-year rabbinic student who had worked as an editor, I was asked to be one of the proof-readers of the English of the Days of Awe prayerbook of Reform Judaism, which was published the following year.^[1] My memory centres on the first passage in a section of responsive readings in the Erev Rosh Ha-Shanah service that quotes from the 19^th century German Rabbi, Samson Raphael Hirsch, the intellectual founder of modern Orthodoxy:^[2]

What calls us here tonight, out of the daily routine of our lives?

The sound of the shofar … calls us all to God. It calls poor and rich to true riches; it calls the most distant wanderer home.

I didn’t feel called to God and the phrase about calling ‘poor and rich to true riches’ didn’t speak to me. But that last phrase was like an arrow going straight into my heart: I was a ‘most distant wanderer’. And I hadn’t only been a ‘distant wanderer’, I had wandered all over the place: antiracist and, specifically, anti-apartheid activism alongside involvement in the International Marxist Group while a sociology student at LSE, and then radical feminist activism and lesbian separatism in the late 1970s and early 1980s. When I arrived at Leo Baeck College in 1984, longing to belong, I hoped that at last I had found a home, where all of who I was could reside and thrive.

Over the course of my rabbinate, since my ordination in 1989, I’ve had one-to-one meetings with dozens of individuals longing to belong. Each individual, with their own story, their own journey, but ultimately, with a single goal: to find a home for themselves. It’s a simple need that we all share. I’m proud that Brighton and Hove Progressive Synagogue has become home to so many different people. We have succeeded in creating an oasis of inclusivity, equality and diversity, reflected in the different religious, cultural and social backgrounds, genders, sexualities and life situations of our members and friends.

What we have achieved here at BHPS is very special. It’s not easy to hold those values together in one home. For many people, the need for safety and refuge that home offers, makes it impossible for them to embrace others. The emphasis on the need for a home, of a place to belong to, of a people to belong to, stirs up feelings of wariness, suspicion, and even hatred of ‘outsiders’ – of those who look different or sound different, eat different foods, pray and worship in different ways, live and love differently. We have seen this in the Brexit debate since the Referendum campaign of 2016. The human need for belonging becomes dangerous when it becomes tribal, inducing a binary ‘us’ and ‘them’ mentality.

In his fortnightly ‘Light on anti-Muslim Prejudice’ Hope Not Hate^[3] email of 6^th September, Safya Khan-Ruf examines ‘the Identarian Movement’ put under the spotlight in Hope Not Hate’s report, From Banners to Bullets. The term ‘identitarianism’ is based on the word ‘identity’. Identitarians want to enforce strict mono-identity codes. Safya Khan-Ruf writes: ‘Identitarianism is an ideology that seeks to breed hatred and spread division. This ideology had inspired its followers to pick up firearms and travel to a mosque in Christchurch, a synagogue in Poway and Walmart in El Paso to carry out acts of terrorism.’ The email goes on to reference the Christchurch killer’s ‘manifesto’, entitled, ‘The Great Replacement’, which expresses ‘the central idea perpetuated by Identitarians’. ‘The Great Replacement’ danger is that white Christians are being replaced by Blacks and ethnic minorities – the ‘replacement’ a massive conspiracy, orchestrated, of course, by ‘the Jews’. The blog put out by the right-wing extremist who rampaged into the Tree of Life synagogue in Pittsburgh on Shabbat morning on 27^th October 2018 killing eleven people and injuring seven, made it clear that he was targeting the synagogue because of its support for migrants and refugees.^[4] The Identitarians want ‘ethnic autonomy’ in the context of what they call ‘ethno-pluralism’ as an antidote to the multicultural society. What they really want is white supremacy – again.

Of course, there is a huge difference between most people’s desire to find a home and this kind of xenophobic extremism. Nevertheless, unless our need for belonging, for a home, a refuge, is also linked with a sense of solidarity with others and a desire to connect with others, our emphasis on ‘our home’ – whether understood as ‘sovereign England’ or ‘sovereign Britain’ or on a smaller scale, as ‘our’ city, ‘our’ town, ‘our’ village, ‘our’ synagogue, church or mosque, ‘our own’ ‘bricks and mortar’ with the drawbridge drawn up – becomes self-serving and by definition, exclusive.

As a distant wanderer, who eventually found a home in Jewish life, but only after struggling hard for LGBT equality and inclusion for twenty years after I first became a rabbinic student, for me, Judaism can only be my home – and the synagogue can only be my home – if the doors are open to others, who are welcomed to come in and make it their home, too. Most of us want to ‘belong’ and feel at home. A sense of belonging is integral to many people’s sense of well-being. But for belonging not to become exclusive, we need to cultivate a sense of solidarity with others that involves connecting with others outside our home and inviting them in.

In the past three years the power of this kind of solidarity has been very evident in the monthly Interfaith prayer hour organised under the auspices of the Brighton and Hove Interfaith Contact Group.^[5] Initially established as a way of enabling people to connect together and express a sense of solidarity in response to a spate of devastating terrorist atrocities, the monthly Interfaith Prayer Hour has continued, and after being hosted at Hove Methodist Church for two years, and then the Baha’i Centre last year, just this past month, it was inaugurated here at Brighton and Hove Progressive Synagogue.

For the uninitiated, perhaps, the word ‘Interfaith’ is perplexing. Evidently, people attend of all religions and none, so what do we do? How do we connect, given the differences between us? The answer is very simple. People are free to remain silent, or to offer a prayer or a poem or a reading or a song – and whether reminding silent or speaking, to light a candle. There are no words adequate to describe the feeling of solidarity generated. Rather than differences being obliterated, everyone is free to express themselves in their own way – and together a home for mutual respect is created.

Of course, it is relatively easy to foster solidarity in the context of a sense of the external threat of extremism. Since 2016, apart from the ongoing Brexit debacle, there has also been a continuing problem with anti-Semitism in the Labour Party – experienced by Jewish members of the Labour Party, including Jewish MPs. The rise of the Momentum movement has brought in young people to the Labour Party inspired by the renewal of the Labour Party’s socialist vision. It has also re-activated far-left elements within the Labour Party that have not had a voice since Neil Kinnock defeated Militant tendency in the early 1980s^[6] – which in turn has led far-left activists from ultraleft groups to join the Labour Party. So: a perfect storm for the propagation of the particular left-wing version of anti-Semitism that is expressed in the characterisation of Israel as a ‘colonialist state’^[7] and a complete disregard for the way in which political Zionism emerged in Europe in the late 19^th century in response to a new form of virulent racist anti-Semitism.^[8] From the perspective of the father of political Zionism, Theodore Herzl, since Jews were not safe in Europe, the Jewish people needed to have our own home.^[9]

How should Jews respond to anti-Semitism in the Labour Party? One response is retreat – retreat into the refuge of a like-minded Jewish community. But the problem is, we’re not all like-minded. And Jews with progressive values that include reaching out to others, can’t find a home in a Jewish community that does not share those values. Solidarity rooted in reaction is negative and likely to foster negative feelings – fear, suspicion – that are not conducive to connecting with other communities.

So, how might we respond positively? What we need is solidarity rooted in positive affirmation of our lives and values as Jews that supports our efforts to reach out to others. Of course, anti-Semitism in the Labour Party and anti-Semitism on the right must be confronted. At the same time, we need to save some energy to connect with others and to focus on issues that demand the concerted action of all communities – not least the threat of climate change. As individuals and as families, there is much we can do to reduce our carbon footprint, cut out single use plastics, and so on. But we also need to work together as a community and across communities.

In January 2018, a new cross-communal Jewish initiative was launched to enable this to happen: Eco Synagogue. Eco Synagogue aims to change the relationship of our synagogues with the environment. To quote from the website:^[10] ‘It operates through an online survey aimed at synagogues which assesses broad domains of activity – how we use our buildings and any land we own or care for; how we eat and consume; how we use the opportunities of the liturgical year; how we teach and preach; and how we change the behaviours of our congregations … [through] community action, supported and encouraged by rabbis and lay leaders and put into practice by green teams of motivated members’.

I’m delighted to say that at the festival of Shavuot on June 8^th/9^th, with our all-night programme on ‘climate change and our responsibility to repair the world’, BHPS began the process of becoming an Eco Synagogue. Since then, a ‘green team’ of synagogue members has got to work. Just as exciting, at their first session, the new Kabbalat Torah class of 13 to 15-year-olds, discussing what they would like to focus on this year, said that they wanted to make ‘being an Eco Synagogue’ a regular weekly item in their sessions. At their second session, they decided that they wanted to create a newsletter and take on the task of monitoring the steps taken by the synagogue towards becoming a fully-fledged Eco Synagogue.

Clearly, we have an important task ahead as a congregation. Another initiative, championed by of one of our members, Benita Matofska, invites us to look beyond our community and work towards transforming how we live on this planet and how we connect with one another by generating a ‘sharing economy’. For the past couple of years, Benita has travelled all over the world meeting with people engaged in sharing projects. What she discovered is recorded in her wonderful book of testimonies and photographs, entirely made from recyclable materials, Generation Share, the proceeds of which are going to fund an amazing sharing project in a slum in Mumbai, India, where a young teenager has started a school for girls in her one-room home.^[11] A sharing economy is exactly that. Clothes can be shared – we hosted our first clothes-sharing event at the synagogue in the past year. Cars can be shared – a way of dramatically reducing the number of cars on the road and their toxic emissions. Just think of all those electrical items that you only use once or twice a week – hoovers, lawnmowers – they can all be shared between neighbours. And then, imagine what a difference sharing rather than, consuming and discarding could make to the planet.

We know that unless governments – including the British government – commit to acting now, climate change will become irreversible. We also know that we can’t wait for governments to act. We must act. What we do as individuals and communities can make a huge difference. Building a sharing economy is about sharing the world together in a sustainable way and creating connections across continents, regions, nations, cultures and communities, for the sake of the planet which is home to all of us. As we share this sacred day together, let us reflect on how we can draw positively on our personal needs for belonging and commit ourselves to connecting with one another and sharing and repairing our world.

Rabbi Elli Tikvah Sarah

Brighton & Hove Progressive Synagogue

Yom Kippur Shacharit 5780 – 9^th October 2019

1. Days of Awe. Forms of prayer for Jewish Worship, Volume 3. Prayers for the High Holy Days. RSGB, London, 1985, p. 156. ↑

2. Samson Raphael Hirsch (June 20, 1808 – December 31, 1888 formulated a philosophy he called Torah im derech eretz – ‘Torah with the way of the land’. In other words, a way of integrating Jewish observance with participating in the wider society. See: ‘Religion Allied to Progress’ in the Collected Writings of Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch, edited by Philip Feldheim (1996). ↑

3. Email: lamp@hopenothate Postal address: HOPE Not Hate Ltd, PO Box 61382, London, N19 9EQ. United Kingdom ↑

4. https://www.nytimes.com/2018/10/27/us/active-shooter-pittsburgh-synagogue-shooting.html https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pittsburgh_synagogue_shooting ↑

5. https://interfaithcontactgroup.com/ ↑

6. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Militant_(Trotskyist_group) ↑

7. See for example: Israel. A Colonial-Settler State? by Maxime Rodinson (Pathfinder Press, 2002. First published in 1973). ↑

8. https://encyclopedia.ushmm.org/content/en/article/antisemitism-in-history-racial-antisemitism-18751945 ↑

9. Theodore Herzl (2^nd May 1860 – 3^rd July 1904). Herzl’s Der Judenstaat (The State of the Jews) was published in 1896. The first Zionist Congress took place in Basel in 1897. ↑

10. https://ecosynagogue.org/ ↑

11. https://www.thepeoplewhoshare.com/generation-share

    Generation Share. The changemakers building the Sharing Economy by Benita Matofska, with photographs by Sophie Sheinwald. Policy Press, University of Bristol and University of Chicago Press, 2019. ↑