Over the next several days the various Nobel Prizes will be announced, so I thought it would be worthwhile to refresh our memories of the origins of the Prize. Alfred Nobel made his vast fortune after he invented dynamite. Initially, it was used to build railroads, but it wasn’t long before it was used for military purposes. In 1888, Alfred’s brother Ludvig died. In one of the most infamous journalistic errors, newspapers carried the obituary of Alfred with the headline: “The merchant of death is dead.” The story described Nobel as a man who became rich by finding ways to kill more people faster than ever before.” Alfred Nobel was stunned to read this account of his legacy and set aside most of his estate to create the five Nobel Prizes that highlight peaceful advancements for humanity.
Alfred Nobel’s revelation relates closely to the theme of a recent book The Road to Character, by New York Times columnist David Brooks. He opens the book: “Recently, I’ve been thinking about the difference between the résumé virtues and the eulogy virtues. The résumé virtues are the ones you list on your résumé, the skills that you bring to the job market and that contribute to external success. The eulogy virtues are deeper. They’re the virtues that get talked about at your funeral, the ones that exist at the core of your being—whether you are kind, brave, honest or faithful; what kind of relationships you have formed.”
Brooks is inspired by Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik’s classic essay, “The Lonely Man of Faith,” in which he contrasts two opposing sides of human nature that he derives from the first two chapters of Genesis. In Genesis 1, we meet humanity on the move, assisting God in the creation of the world. Rav Soloveitchik called this Adam I. In modern terminology, Brooks renames Adam I is “Résumé Adam,” the career-oriented, ambitious side of our nature that seeks to build, create, produce and discover things.” In contrast, there is Adam II, derived from the character by that name whom we meet in the Garden of Eden in Genesis 2. Adam II is internally focused. Adam II seeks a serene, inner character, a sense of integrity in the face of life’s moral dramas. Adam II will never admit it, but he (or she) cultivates the positive attributes that will appear in his or her eulogy or obituary. We, the descendants of Adam, live in the contradiction between the outer, majestic Adam and the inner, humble Adam.
Brooks argues that our current generation’s ethos is more heavily weighted to Adam I. In this mindset, “[i]nput leads to output. Effort leads to reward. Practice makes perfect. Pursue self-interest….Impress the world.” Adam II lives by a different mindset, a moral logic. “You have to give to receive. You have to surrender something outside yourself to gain strength within yourself. You have to conquer your desire to get what you crave. Success leads to the greatest failure, which is pride. Failure leads to the greatest success, which is humility and learning.” Brooks adds: “To nurture your Adam I career, it makes sense to cultivate your strengths. To nurture your Adam II moral core, it is necessary to confront your weaknesses.”
Brooks laments that our society today has lost touch with Adam II to a large extent. Prior generations spent more time cultivating character and eulogy virtues, while our generation is heavily tilted towards résumé virtues.
Like Soloveitchik, Brooks advocates a balanced approach to the duality of human nature, and laments that we as a society have lost our way. “The mental space that was once occupied by moral struggle has gradually become occupied with the struggle to achieve.” (p.259) Using Google, Brooks discovered that the language of economics in books and publications has increased, but words having to do with morality and character have declined. Words like conscience, virtue, bravery, gratitude, and kindness are all down over 50% over the course of the 20th century. We are losing the language to talk about values, and we can’t nurture Adam II without it.
Brooks calls those who confront their imperfections “moral realists.” They are aware of their flaws and strive to improve. This is in accord with Jewish wisdom that teaches:
איזהו גיבור? השמח בחלקו “Who is a hero? The one who conquers his weakness.” (Avot 4:1) Indeed our heroes such as Moses, David, Abraham, Sarah, Joseph, Esther, and other biblical characters had to cope with their insecurities and ultimately overcome them, making them our role models. Jewish Heroism lies in the work of Adam II.
Our gathering today on Shemini Atzeret is an opportunity to reflect on the Adam II side of our character. Shemini Atzeret is prone to get lost in the shuffle of the fall holidays. Our holiday today follows the high drama of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur and the pageantry of Sukkot. Outside of Israel, the revelry of Simhat Torah is postponed until tonight and tomorrow. Sh’mini Atzeret seems more like a way station than a destination.
The midrash explains Shemini Atzeret as an opportunity to look inward. It’s a call to tap into our Adam II. Commenting on the designation of this holiday as “atzeret” the rabbis understood it in the sense of stopping or delaying. “‘I have stopped (atzarti) you, from leaving,’ [says God]. [It can be likened to] a king invited his children to a banquet lasting many days. At the banquet’s conclusion when it came time for the children to leave he said, ‘My children! I beg of you, delay your departure by one more day. It is difficult for me to take leave of you.’”
The midrash is both simple and profound. We spend all of the High Holidays and Sukkot reaching out to God, asking for forgiveness, for redemption, for life itself. We want to carry on with our lives of building and creating. Along comes Shemini Atzeret to remind us that God seeks an intimate relationship with us. This text complements another midrash that explains the sacrifices over the seven days of Sukkot as honoring the seventy nations of the world. In contrast, on Shemini Atzeret, the sacrifice honors the special relationship between God and Israel. For seven days we’re hobnobbing with the other nations, each showing off to God their greatness. Today, we confront God directly, and in so doing we confront ourselves.
Sh’mini Atzeret is a necessary complement — perhaps, even, a corrective — to the pomp and circumstance of the surrounding holidays. If the other holidays this month up until today have been Adam I, outward focused days, today is about Adam II. It is inward-focused.
Tomorrow, when we begin reading the Torah anew, we will read the creation story. The operative verb of Genesis 1 is bara—God creates. So too, Humanity creates. That is Adam I, and it is a necessary part of life. However, tomorrow’s reading ends with Shabbat. God ceases creation. Shabbat redirects attention from the outside to within. The verses describing Shabbat are the prelude to Adam II, the inner-focused aspect of humanity. We need Adam II to ground our actions in the moral character that we hope will burnish our legacy. When we tap into our Adam II, we create a more intimate relationship with God that molds us into the kind of people we ought to be.
Perhaps it is the image of divine-human intimacy that spurred our tradition to add Yizkor to this holiday. We miss our departed loved ones. We miss the meaningful relationships that they created with us. We miss the quality time that we spent with them on Shabbat and Festivals and other times when we just enjoyed each other’s company. When they died, we realized that their résumé virtues did not matter so much. What mattered most were their eulogy virtues—their kindness; their character; their integrity. On Shemini Atzeret, we remember our loved ones for these essential qualities, and we miss them terribly as a result.
May the memory of our departed loved ones inspire us to nurture our character so that we may bring God’s presence into the world.
Ken Yehi Ratzon.
Originally posted on Rabbi Ed Bernstein:
In time for Sukkot, here is the newest tie in the #TieBlog collection. Two central commandments from the Torah related to this harvest festival are dwelling in the Sukkah (booth) for 7 days. The other is to gather four species of plants and wave them (based on Leviticus 23:40).
The Midrash (Lev. R. 30:9-12) notes that each of the species has different qualities. The Etrog (citron) has both a sweet taste and a fragrant smell. The lulav (date palm branch) has no smell but its fruit tastes sweet. The Hadas (myrtle) has a fragrant smell and no taste. The Aravah (willow) has no taste and no smell. Taste and order represent Torah and good deeds, respectively. Some Jews possess both, some perform better at one and some do not perform well at either. Yet we…
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There’s a story about a man who hoped for his whole life to be in the movies. Years went by, but he never had his chance. Finally, a film crew came to town, and they were looking for extras to appear in a Civil War picture. The director gave him one line: “Hearken unto the cannons!” The man was so excited to land a speaking part, and for days he would practice his line: “Hearken unto the cannons!” The big day came for the shoot. On his way to the set, the man says to himself over and over, “Hearken unto the cannons! Hearken unto the cannons!” He puts on a Union Army costume practicing his line, “Hearken unto the cannons!” Then, they finally start shooting the scene, and there’s a gigantic blast of a cannon, and the man shouts, “What the hell was that!”
As we go through life, we are not always prepared for the roars of the cannon, momentous changes that alter the course of our lives. For example, any one of us or our loved ones may seem perfectly healthy one day, then receive a serious diagnosis of illness the next.
During this season, we create a communal cannon blast, as it were. It’s sort of a fire drill to prepare us for the real cannon blasts that shake up our lives. We gather in large numbers on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur and put on a display of pageantry through our services to remind us of God’s grandeur. This pageantry is designed to create a framework in which we can do the real work to bring God’s presence into our lives by bringing healing to our relationships and our world. That work is called Teshuvah (return). If we do this work well, we will be better equipped to deal with the unexpected cannon blasts that shake up our lives.
Teshuvah is not easy. Teshuvah requires thought. Teshuvah requires intentionality. Teshuvah requires action.
For ten days we have sung in synagogue the plaintive melody of Avinu Malkeinu. We cry out to God as a parent, Abba, someone who is close to us; we also call to God the Melekh,the distant ruler of the universe. At the end of that prayer we say aseh imanu tzedakah vachesed—do with us acts of tzedakah—righteousness— and loving kindness. We say to God: “this is what we are doing. We are inviting you—even imploring you—to join us on the way. If you join us, then You, God, will have no choice but l’hoshiainu, to redeem us.
We all have times when our faith is challenged. We see loved ones suffer from illness. We see people around the world suffering from natural disasters and man-made disasters, such as war and terror. We ourselves suffer from illness and hardship.
The first Lubavitcher Rebbe, Rabbi Schneuer Zalman of Liadi (1745-1812), taught that there will come a time in everyone’s life when we lose faith in God. Too many things may have happened to us. We have too much knowledge of bad things that happen to good people. “At that moment,” the Rebbe says, “go take care of someone who is sick. Go visit someone who is lonely. Go do an act of tzedakah, of hesed. You will feel God in your hands and your faith will be restored.”
As we prepare to say the Yizkor service, I’d like to suggest specific actions we can do and words to say to a dear one with serious, perhaps life-threatening, illness. My hope is that when we take such action those who are suffering in some way, particularly those near and dear to us, feel cared for and valued as human beings. Through simple action and words, we have the potential to strengthen the relationships that matter to us most. Through the bonds of those relationships, we will feel God’s presence.
The action that I propose is derived from Dr. Atul Gawande and his remarkable book Being Mortal. Dr. Gawande is an accomplished surgeon at Women’s and Brigham Hospital in Boston, a professor at Harvard Medical School and a columnist for the New Yorker. In his book, he notes that the medical profession has developed great technology for treating disease and keeping people alive. At the same time, he writes, “Our most cruel failure in how we treat the sick and the aged is the failure to recognize that they have priorities beyond merely being safe and living longer.”
Gawande notes that for much of the last century there have been two kinds of doctors. One could be described as “paternalistic,” an all-knowing priest-like figure whose advice a patient does not question. Another form of doctor is “informative.” This doctor will give you the facts of your disease and then offer different choices of treatment. The course of treatment is up to the patient, the doctor is just providing information. Gawande, however, advocates for a different model: the “interpretive” doctor-patient relationship. Here the doctor’s role is to help patients determine what they want in the big picture. Interpretive doctors ask, “What is most important to you? What are your worries?” Then, in response to the patient, they provide appropriate guidance for treatment based on the patient’s priorities.
Gawande shares lessons not only from his own career and how he has grown in his practice of interpretive medicine but also from his personal experience of the medical system. He describes his father’s battle with a rare form of tumor in his spinal column that threatened to make him quadriplegic and kill him. Gawande’s father and mother are both doctors who immigrated from India. Their entire family speaks the language of science and modern medicine. The father, therefore, was able to ask very sophisticated questions about his own condition and potential treatments. Gawande contrasts two neurosurgeons whom his father visited for consultations. Both agreed that the tumor could not be removed; it could only be decompressed. In both cases, the neurosurgeons described the benefits and risks of surgery. Their styles, though, differed greatly when it came to answering the father’s questions.
Gawande writes that one neurosurgeon wanted to operate immediately and was annoyed by his father’s many questions. “He was fine answering the first couple,” he writes. “But after that he grew exasperated. He had the air of the renowned professor he was—authoritative, self-certain, and busy with things to do.”
Gawande continues: “Look, he said to my father, the tumor was dangerous. He, the neurosurgeon, had a lot of experience treating such tumors. Indeed, no one had more. The decision for my father was whether he wanted to do something about his tumor. If he did, the neurosurgeon was willing to help. If he didn’t, that was his choice.” The elder Dr. Gawande made a choice—not to use this surgeon.
Gawande reports that the next surgeon also exuded confidence. “But he recognized,” Gawande writes, “that my father’s questions came from fear. So he took the time to answer them, even the annoying ones. Along the way, he probed my father, too.” This surgeon reflected that the father was more worried about the harm the operation might cause than the tumor itself.
Gawande continues, “My father said he was right. My father didn’t want to risk losing his ability to practice surgery for the sake of treatment of uncertain benefit. The surgeon said that he might feel the same way himself in my father’s shoes.” The neurosurgeon spoke to his patient as a fellow human being rather than a diseased specimen to be treated, and he won the trust of the author’s father.
As Gawande tells the story of his father along with the maturation process of his own surgical practice, he highlights three questions that doctors should ask patients, particularly when confronting terminal illness. He calls this a “hard conversation” and that doctors need to muster the compassion, courage and skill to engage in these conversations. The questions are:
- What are your biggest fears and concerns?
- What are your most important goals?
- What trade-offs are you willing to make or not? For example, Gawande describes one patient before agreeing to a risky operation who asked if after the surgery he would still be able to watch football and eat ice cream.
Of course, for any of us who are caring for loved ones with serious illness, this is a template for the hard conversations we all should have. In times of illness, each of us should sit with our loved ones, hold their hand and be fully present. We then should ask: What are your fears? What are your goals? What trade-offs are you willing to make in the face of this battle? When we have such a conversation, we reaffirm the humanity of our dear ones. We fulfill the words of Avinu Malkeinu and literally bring God in our midst to be with us as we perform an act of hesed, loving kindness.
Returning to Gawande’s story, these three questions played a significant role in his father’s treatment and final years of life. The senior Dr. Gawande was an accomplished and respected surgeon in his own right who enjoyed his practice. His greatest fear, it turns out, was not death but quadriplegia. His goals were to practice medicine as long as he could and continue other community activities that he enjoyed. In terms of trade-offs, if surgery were to save his life but leave him paralyzed, he would forego surgery.
The father delayed surgery and continued in his medical practice for a time and in a respected community leadership position. He monitored his symptoms, such as tingling in his hands. He established a red line with the neurosurgeon as to when he would have to have surgery. Some two-and-a-half years passed with the father living a fairly normal life until pain and numbness had advanced. He retired from medicine and eventually opted for surgery. The tumor was decompressed and he was able to maintain mobility, at least for a while.
Some time after his father’s surgery, Gawande was invited to give the commencement address at a university near his parents’ home. His father’s health had declined, and he was confined to a wheelchair. The tumor had indeed taken its toll. For a while, Gawande feared his father might not survive long enough to hear his speech. When it became apparent he would, the planning turned to logistics. Originally, his father would sit in a wheel chair on the floor of the basketball arena housing the ceremony. But when the day came, the father was adamant that he would walk and not sit in a wheelchair on the floor.
“I helped him to stand,” Gawande writes. “He took my arm. And he began walking. I’d not seen him make it farther than across a living room in half a year. But walking slowly, his feet shuffling, he went the length of a basketball floor and then up a flight of twenty concrete steps to join the families in the stands. I was almost overcome just witnessing it. Here is what a different kind of care—a different kind of medicine—makes possible, I thought to myself. Here is what having a hard conversation can do.”
A “hard conversation” is actually quite simple when we break it down to its component parts. We ask three questions: What are your fears? What are your goals? What trade-offs are you willing to make, or not? Our challenge is to discover within ourselves the courage, compassion and love to make these conversations possible. And then we must listen. Asei imanu tzedakah va’hesed. According to our prayer when we perform loving kindness God will be imanu, with us, right by our side.
As we prepare to remember departed loved ones in Yizkor, my hope is that we will tap into the best of their values for which we remember them. As they were there for us, let us be present for our dear ones who need us today. We may not know when cannons will fire that will shock us into our mortality. We can at least be better prepared for when they do. Let us have the courage to have hard conversations with our loved ones about our fears, our goals and the aspects of life we most cherish.
Avinu Malkeinu, give us the strength to be fully present for our dear ones who turn to us for purpose and hope. Asei imanu tzedakah va’hesed—we’re not going to sit by silently. We’re going to take action and have conversations of lasting importance. We invite You, God, to be with us when we perform this act of hesed. In our work together with You, God, we pray v’hoshi’einu, that you will save us through the power of Your presence in our sacred relationships.
On the night of November 4th, 1995, I was walking through the streets of Jerusalem near the Mahane Yehudah market. I had spent that Saturday evening with many of my rabbinical school classmates in an exuberant Melave Malka, a festive celebration of the end of Shabbat with singing, dancing and Torah learning. In retrospect, I realized that during my walk home after the party the streets seemed eerily quiet. Finally, as I neared my apartment, a seemingly crazed man was staggering down the street toward me. As we passed on the sidewalk, he was not crazed at all, but his face was ashen. He said in Hebrew, “Someone shot Rabin.” That was how I learned the shocking news that was confirmed when I got home.
Earlier that evening in Tel Aviv, hundreds of thousands gathered for a massive pro-peace rally. “I was a soldier for 27 years,” Rabin called out. “I believe there is a chance for peace. A great chance which must be seized. Violence is undermining the foundations of Israeli democracy…it must be rejected and condemned, and it must be contained. It is not the way of the State of Israel. Democracy is our way. There may be differences but they will be resolved in democratic elections…” (Horowitz, Shalom Friend, 16) Unfortunately, Rabin’s final remarks became horrifically prophetic as he was assassinated minutes later by a Jewish terrorist.
I remember the atmosphere in Israel in the weeks before and after Rabin’s assassination. Posters were plastered around Jerusalem calling Rabin a traitor for signing the Oslo Accords with the PLO. Even worse were the posters depicting Rabin in a Nazi SS uniform. Public criticism of Rabin did not come out of nowhere. Two years into the Oslo process, there had been an escalation of terrorism in Israel, including bus bombings, that raised public fear. On the other hand, peace activists charged that opponents to the peace process were traitors to Israel. The nation had already witnessed the unthinkable when Baruch Goldstein of Kiryat Arba slaughtered Muslims at prayer in the Cave of Machpelah in Hebron in 1994. In the wake of Rabin’s assassination, religious Jews in Israel were publicly taunted and harassed by secular neighbors because Yigal Amir, Rabin’s assassin, was a product of the national-religious world. This was a dark time for the Jewish people. Fortunately, respected rabbinic leaders from the national-religious camp like the late Rabbi Aharon Lichtenstein, z”l, who died earlier this year, led a communal heshbon hanefesh, examination of the soul, and many Israelis and Jews around the world took advantage of the “teachable moment” to learn from Judaism’s tarbut ha-makhloket, our culture of respectful disagreement. Indeed, every page of the Talmud is full of debate. Our tradition embraces debate. There is no one legitimate Jewish opinion of anything. How we engage in debate is another matter.
The Torah offers a vision of what an ideal Jewish community looks like, and it’s worth reflecting on that. In the book of Exodus, the Israelites leave Egypt, throwing off the shackles of slavery and entering a new chapter as a free people. They wander in the desert for seven weeks, according to tradition, until they come to Mount Sinai where they receive the Torah. A key question that emerges from the text is why did God choose to give the Torah to our ancestors at Mt. Sinai? Why not give the Torah as the people left Egypt? Why not as they entered Israel? What was it about that particular moment when the Israelites were assembled at the foot of Mt. Sinai?
In Exodus 19, the text tells us:
ב וַיִּסְעוּ מֵרְפִידִים וַיָּבֹאוּ מִדְבַּר סִינַי וַיַּחֲנוּ בַּמִּדְבָּר וַיִּחַן־שָׁם יִשְׂרָאֵל נֶגֶד הָהָר:
“They journeyed from Rephidim and arrived at the Sinai desert and made camp in the desert, and Israel encamped there near the mountain.” Rashi notes the verbs in this verse: vayisu, vayavo’u, vayahanu—they journeyed, they came, they encamped. These verbs are all plural. It is a collection of individuals. Then, the verb case changes: vayihan sham—It encamped there, that is, the people of Israel. Rashi says at that moment it was k’ish echad k’lev echad. as one man as one heart. In other words, what made it possible for us to receive the Torah was that we came together as a single, united entity. The message is that being one people enabled us to receive the Torah and encounter God. They had come together as throngs of individuals, each with different ideas, hopes and fears. Yet, when they came together, they received the Torah, a symbol of their shared values and destiny.
Twenty years have passed since Prime Minister Rabin was assassinated by a Jew. Yet, I fear the division of the Jewish people as much as I ever have before. Reflecting on this past summer, I believe that we have reached a new low point in the history of the Jewish people both in Israel and in the United States. I fear the consequences of our division if we do not take swift action to overcome our current predicament.
This past summer, we witnessed two acts of horrific violence in Israel, one in which a Haredi man stabbed six participants in the Jerusalem gay pride parade, killing a teenage girl. That same day, a gang of radical settlers burned to the ground a home of a Palestinian family. At the time, and 18-month-old baby boy was killed, and in the weeks since both parents succumbed to burn wounds. These two acts of Jewish terror should shake us all, our entire people, to the core, just as the terror of Baruch Goldstein and Yigal Amir did two decades ago. It might be easy for us to dismiss these instances as extreme, isolated acts that happened far away in a democratic country that pursues and punishes the perpetrators.
When violence is carried out in the name of Judaism, it should raise red flags for us to be vigilant not to create an atmosphere that could incite such violence. My fear is that within the American Jewish community we are sinking to a dangerous level of irreparable fracture. Debate over the recent nuclear agreement with Iran divided our Jewish community and brought about the worst possible behavior from advocates for and against the agreement. Supporters of the deal charged Jewish members of Congress who opposed the agreement with the slur of dual loyalty, insidiously suggesting that these patriotic Americans put the interests of Israel ahead of the United States. Meanwhile opponents of the deal have called supporters kapos, suggesting they are two-faced Jews who put their own political survival ahead of their loyalty to the Jewish people. This rhetoric has pitted Jew versus Jew. It is not in keeping with ish echad k’lev echad, “one person, one heart.”
When I express concern about how we talk about key issues of the day, I am not saying let’s just stop talking about them. We have a right and duty to voice our concerns as active participants in democracy. We look at the world now, and we have good reason to fear. We see a strand of militant Islam in the form of ISIS and other terrorist groups on a violent march throughout much of the Middle East. We see a sharp increase of vicious attacks on Jews in European capitals. We see Israel increasingly isolated when it has become fashionable in some parts to question Israel’s right to exist. And, yes, on top of all this Iran has threatened to wipe Israel off the map.
We as Jews have good reason to feel threatened and scared and angry. At the same time, taking the broad view of history, we Jews have never had it so good. We have a strong democratic State of Israel, and we are active participants in our vibrant democracy of America. Particularly in times like this, when there is much uncertainty in the world, we as Jewish Americans dare not apologize for engaging in American democracy. We dare not apologize for supporting the State of Israel and the Jewish people’s right to a secure national homeland. And, like caring family members who share loving criticism from time to time, we dare not apologize for holding America and Israel to the highest standards of justice.
The United States and Israel are democracies that were each inspired in their founding by Biblical values. Our societies cherish open debate and have the innate ability to redeem themselves through democracy. We have good reason to mobilize and to muster all of our tools within our democracy to create a better world. Along the way, members of our community might have different approaches to achieving a safer and more peaceful world and more secure Israel. In a time like this when contentious issues are at stake, rabbis like me have the responsibility to raise the question: What are we doing to make it possible for our community to come together, k’ish echad k’lev echad, like one person with one heart?
The rancor in the American Jewish community that we experienced this summer fell far short of the “one person, one heart” vision. I believe our democracy is threatened if we turn arguments into witch hunts. Our democracy is threatened if we brand each other as illegitimate because some other person disagrees with a policy or politician whom we support. Our democracy is threatened if we only listen to those with whom we already agree rather than engage those who see things differently.
A teacher and colleague of mine, Rabbi Brad Artson, advises that in any disagreement it is best for each party to speak in a way that makes it possible for the relationship to continue after the disagreement. We need to speak in a way that allows us to have our say and allows us to come together afterwards. We must hold in our heart love for each other despite disagreements. Instead of demonizing, we need to ask questions, such as:
“I know you’re concerned about Israel’s security as much as I am—how are you able to support this?” Or “I know that you hate war and love democracy, why aren’t you bothered by this?” This more constructive approach is borne out of affection and respect for our fellow Jews.
Twenty years after Yitzhak Rabin was killed by a Jew, we still have much work to do to heal the deep rifts within the Jewish community. On this Yom Kippur, I ask you to join with me to speak in pledging from this moment forward to speak to our fellow Jews who are sincerely engaged with respect and dignity. Let us also pledge to moderate our rhetoric and demand of politicians that they will speak of those with whom they differ with respect.
The future of democracy at stake both in America and Israel. Our blueprint for navigating present turbulent times is the notion k’ish echad k’lev ehad. If we can truly be as one person with one heart we will merit to receive our bountiful Torah that will empower us to bring about healing into our broken world.
Ken Yehi Ratzon
Last week, September 9, marked 50 years since Sandy Koufax pitched a perfect game against the Chicago Cubs, his fourth career no-hitter. On the Jewish calendar, next week’s observance of Yom Kippur marks the 50th anniversary since Koufax sat out Game 1 of the World Series in observance of the Jewish holy day. Koufax went on to lead the Dodgers to a seven-game Series victory over the Twins in which he was MVP.
I was not yet born in 1965, but Koufax has always been my hero for his excellence on the field and his historic decision to put his Jewish identity first at a critical moment. My admiration for Koufax was forever cemented when I was ten years old. Two of my great-aunts lived in the same San Mateo, CA, condominium as Evelyn Koufax, Sandy’s mother, and they were friendly with her. Imagine my joy when I opened a package from one of the aunts to find a baseball with the inscription: “To Eddy, Good luck and very best wishes. Sandy Koufax”! I forgive the Great One for not using the preferred spelling of my nickname, Eddie.
The story of this gift was profiled in 2007 in the Cleveland Jewish News JStyles magazine. I remain grateful for my piece of “Koufaxabilia.” It reminds me of my late aunts and the importance of family. It reminds me of the prowess of Sandy Koufax, and it reminds me of his heroic gesture on Yom Kippur, 1965, that continues to inspire Jewish Americans. Jewish and American values do not have to conflict. In fact, they complement each other. Making a choice as Koufax did is as authentically American as it is Jewish. His inspiring decision not to pitch Game 1 of the 1965 World Series is a gift that keeps on giving.
In case you missed it before Rosh HaShanah, here is a video I produced for Temple Torat Emet, “We Are Torat Emet!”