Rekindling the Fire of Jewish Life - Sermon for Kol Nidrei 5776/2015

Rekindling the Fire of Jewish Life

Sermon for Kol Nidrei 5776/2015

Rabbi Arnold S. Gluck

Temple Beth-El, Hillsborough, NJ

I’m sure it will come as no surprise to you that we Reform rabbis have an online forum. What do we do there? We argue, of course! What else would rabbis do! We share ideas, talk about Israel and respond to world events; we ask each other questions about source citations, share stories, and then we argue about them.

One recent argument began when a colleague was looking for a story for her Rosh Hashanah sermon. She shared the elements she remembered, and, as often happens, at least a half a dozen colleagues posted a version of the very story she was looking for. You might think that would have been the end of the matter—a happy ending at that! One rabbi was looking for a story and other rabbis helped her find it. But not this group. This group went on to debate the merits of the story. And, as you can imagine, some loved it, while others loathed it. I won’t tell which side I was on. Not yet, anyway. First I’ll share it with you and give you the opportunity to form your own opinion. Then I’ll tell you what I think. The story is one of many tales of the Baal Shem Tov, the founder of the Chassidic movement.

Legend has it that when the Baal Shem Tov saw misfortune threatening our people, he would go to a certain place in the forest to meditate. There he would light a fire, say a special prayer, and the miracle would be accomplished and the misfortune averted. Later, when his disciple, the Magid of Mezeritch, had occasion… to intercede with heaven, he would go to the same place in the forest and say: “Master of the Universe, listen! I don’t know how to light the fire, but I am still able to say the prayer.” And again the miracle would be accomplished. Still later, when Rabbi Moshe-Leib of Sassov sought to save his people, he would go into the forest and say: “I don’t know how to light the fire, I don’t know the prayer, but I know the place, and this must be sufficient.” It was sufficient and the miracle was accomplished. Then it fell to Rabbi Israel of Rizhyn to overcome misfortune. Sitting in his armchair, his head in his hands, he spoke to God: “I am unable to light the fire and I don’t know the prayer; I can’t even find the place in the forest. All I can do is to tell the story, and this must be sufficient.” And, so goes the story, it was sufficient.

So, what do you think? Does this story speak to you? It most certainly speaks to me, but not in a good way. I find its message depressing and disturbing: our glory days are over. They are in the past. Once upon a time, we had it right. We had the magic, we knew the words and the place; we got it just right. But with each succeeding generation, alas, our knowledge and our powers diminish, and we become a mere shadow of the great ones who came before us! We know this is true, but it’s all right, because we can reflect back and wax nostalgic about the good old days when God was in heaven and all was right with the Jewish world. All we need now is for Tevye to sing a chorus from Fiddler on the Roof, and everyone one can smile and take comfort.

But I’m not smiling, and I take no comfort in nostalgia. For me, it is not enough for us to have a glorious past. I want a great future for our people here in America and throughout the world. I want us and our children, our grandchildren, and our great-great-great-grandchildren to know how to light the fire of Jewish life, to be able to say the prayers, and even more, I want them to achieve a level of knowledge, sophistication, creativity, and vibrancy beyond our wildest dreams. I want us to be more from one generation to the next, not less.

Evidence suggests, however, that this vision of a vibrant American Jewish future may prove to be an illusion. With notable exceptions, Jewish literacy, loyalty, and observance are not growing. Fewer of us know how to light the fire and say the prayers, and a startling number of us want no part of our story at all. The portrait of American Jewry painted by the latest demographic research is, in fact, one of significant decline. So much so, that if we fail to act, the Baal Shem Tov’s legend may indeed become our story.

Here are a few of the disturbing findings of the 2013 Pew Research Center’s report on American Jewry.

·      Of the 7 million Americans who have at least one Jewish parent, 2.1 million of them no longer identify themselves as Jews, at all.

·      Of those who do define themselves as Jews, 22% of them say they have no religion.

·      Two thirds of these Jews without religion are not raising Jewish children.

·      Among Jews ages 25 to 54 who are intermarried, 36% are not raising their children as Jewish at all, 44% say their children are being raised partly Jewish or as Jewish but with no religion, leaving only 20% who are raising their children exclusively in the Jewish religion. Considering that the intermarriage rate has reached 72% among non-Orthodox Jews, the implications for our future are alarming.

Unfortunately, there is even more bad news. The birth rate among non-Orthodox American Jews is now 1.7 children, well below the replacement rate of 2.1 per couple. Add to this the fact that fewer than 50% of Jews between the ages of 25 and 39 are married, and the conclusion is undeniable. With fewer non-Orthodox Jewish families, and with those families having fewer children, we are marching toward what Steven M. Cohen and Jack Wertheimer have called “a demographic cliff.”

And what of those who still identify as Jews? Here, too, the picture is one of diminishing commitment and loyalty. Jewish giving, Jewish literacy, rates of communal affiliation, synagogue attendance and support for Israel are all in decline. So much so, that if we do not succeed in reversing these trends, within a generation the landscape of American Jewry will be very different than the one we have known and valued all our lives. We will have fewer and smaller institutions and there will be far fewer of us. As a result, our political power and influence as a community will be diminished, with all that implies for us and for Israel.

Now, I haven’t shared this information in order to depress you. On the contrary, it is intended as a wake-up call. For only if we understand what is happening can we take the necessary steps to bring about a different outcome. It is not too late. Not if we are determined and act decisively.

I have spoken so far on the macro level about the non-Orthodox Jewish community in America. But I know well that there is a very personal side to these matters. Many of us have given the fullness of our hearts to the effort of raising Jewish children, only to see them make other choices.

When parents come to seek my advice in such situations I tell them the story of the man who complained to the Baal Shem Tov that his son had forsaken God. “What shall I do?” asked the father. “Love him even more,” replied the Rebbe. This must be our response to all of our children who choose to leave our Jewish community. We must love them even more. Anything else would be a betrayal of our Jewish values. And when we do exemplify those values of love, compassion and acceptance, we have reason to hope that our children may find their way back to our faith.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks reminds us that there is a spark that remains in every Jewish soul, no matter how far removed they may be from their people and their heritage. “Some years ago,” he writes, “one of the leaders of world Jewry [went searching for the] “missing Jewish children” of Poland, those who had been adopted by Christian families during the war and brought up as Catholics. … He organized a large banquet and placed advertisements in the Polish press, inviting whoever believed they had been born a Jew to come to dinner. Hundreds came, but the evening was about to end in [disappointment] since none of those present could remember anything of their earliest childhood—until the man asked the person sitting next to him if he could remember the song his Jewish mother had sung to him before going to sleep. He began to sing ‘Rozhinkes mit Mandlen’ (‘Raisins and Almonds’), the old Yiddish lullaby. Slowly others joined in, until the whole room was a chorus. Sometimes,” Rabbi Sacks concludes, “all that is left of Jewish identity is a song.”

Even if nothing more remains of a Jewish identity than the memory of a distant lullaby, we must never stop trying to reach our children whom we’ve lost. With hearts and arms that are open and welcoming, we must do everything in our power to reach out and encourage those who might find their way home. So, too, must we welcome and encourage the intermarried. We have seen so many examples of wonderful Jewish families in which one of the partners isn’t Jewish. These non-Jews are our Jewish heroes, and they need to know how much we appreciate the contribution they have made to Jewish life.

Turning back to the macro level, I’d like to spend the next few minutes sharing a few strategies for building a strong and sustainable Jewish identity that can help us bend the curve from decline to resurgence. They are the insights of a group of Jewish thought leaders I have been involved with since the release of the Pew report.

Evidence indicates that Jewish engagement tends to produce long-term commitment to Jewish life when characterized by three qualities. First, that it be intensive and immersive in nature, offering participants powerful experiences of living in Jewish time and space with Jewish peers. Second, that Jewish engagement begin early in life and continue steadily into adulthood. And, third, that it be rich in meaningful Jewish content that provides a solid base of Jewish knowledge and literacy.

Almost 2,000 years ago, at a time when the continuity of Jewish life was threatened, Rabbi Akiva taught us the importance of immersive and content-full Jewish experience. As the Talmud relates, in the second century, the Roman government forbade the Jews to study the Torah and practice Jewish rituals. But Rabbi Akiva defied the decree and continued to teach the Torah at public gatherings. When asked why he risked his life in this way Akiva answered with the following parable:

“One day a fox was strolling by the banks of a river and saw how the fish were anxiously swimming around from place to place. He asked them: ‘What are you trying to escape from?’  The fish answered: ‘From the nets that people cast to capture us.’ The fox said: ‘Why don’t you come up and find safety on land, so that you and I can live together in peace?’ But the fish replied: ‘Are you really the one whom they call the most clever of animals? You’re not clever at all, but really quite dumb. If we are already afraid in the element in which we live, how much more would we have to be afraid in the element in which we are certainly going to die!’

And thus, Rabbi Akiva continued, is the case with us. If we are already in a dangerous situation when we sit and study the Torah, of which it is said ‘For thereby you shall have life and shall long endure’ (Dt. 30:20), how much more dangerous would our situation be if we were to neglect the Torah!” (Talmud B’rachot 61b)

Jews thrive and endure as Jews when we live in a Jewish environment together with other Jews. When we do, we are like fish in water. We flow naturally with the rhythm of Jewish time, in which Shabbat is Shabbat 52 weeks a year, and our holidays are holidays that we all recognize and celebrate together. This is the experience our children have when they go to Jewish summer camps, to Israel, or attend Jewish day schools.

But here in America, we Jews are like fish who have learned to live on dry land. For the most part, we take an occasional dip in the water, but it is rarely enough for us to feel that we are in our own element. Hoping to endure and pass our identity on to our children we send them for swimming lessons— to Hebrew school— and we prepare them for one big swim— bar or bat mitzvah. But as the evidence suggests, it is insufficient to sustain them as Jews unless it is followed up by ongoing immersion in the waters of Jewish life.

Attending services only rarely, observing a few Jewish holidays, often in a cursory manner without much passion, enthusiasm, or content, has little chance of producing a strong Jewish identity in a non-Jewish environment. Only when we live among our people do we form bonds of friendship with each other and come to see our shared culture as our own.

In the past, as in the days of Rabbi Akiva, Jews were forced to risk their lives in order to demonstrate their devotion to Jewish continuity. In our day, what is asked of us is to keep the waters of Jewish life deep, abundant, and inviting so that our young people, especially, will want to enter and thrive in them. This requires, and will increasingly require, determined action on the part of all of us who want to see our Jewish community continue to exist and our children and grandchildren grow up to be Jews. Each of you, by virtue of your membership in this community is contributing to this effort, and I want to thank you for your commitment to our cause. But let there be no mistake about it. What we are doing currently is not enough to ensure our future. We need to do more to add fire and passion to our collective Jewish life. So I urge each of us to think about our involvement not just in terms of what we want to receive, but also in terms of what we can do and what we can give to strengthen our community. Of course, funding matters, but your active engagement matters even more.

I’d like to close with a story that reminds us of the importance of Jewish knowledge and learning.

Once, a long time ago, on the eve of his wedding, a groom’s passage was blocked by a raging river. Just as he was about to give up, he saw a rabbi approach the water from the nearby forest. The rabbi looked carefully at the river and then dutifully removed a prayer book from his pocket and recited a prayer. He bowed left and then right, and miraculously he walked across the river.

“Please, Rabbi,” he said, “my wedding is just hours away and I’ll miss it if you don’t help me.”

“How can I be of assistance?” the rabbi asked.

“If I could borrow your prayer book for a moment and if you could show me the prayer to say before I cross this river, that would be all I need.”

The rabbi gave him the book and the groom recited the prayer, bowing left and then right. Having completed the ritual, he took one step onto the water and sank straight to the bottom. The rabbi grabbed him by his coat and hauled him onto the shore.

“What did I do wrong?” the young man sputtered. “I said the right prayer. I bowed in the exact sequence. Why did I sink?”

“Ahh,” said the rabbi with a smile. “You asked me for the prayer book and you wanted me to show you the appropriate blessing, but you never asked me to show you where the rocks were under the water.”

To find our way—to traverse the waters of Jewish life—we need to know the meanings of our practices and customs. We need to know why we do them. For if we don’t, we won’t do them for long. And isn’t that the sad story of our time? Have you encountered learned Jews who are not committed to Jewish life? They are few and far between because the power and depth of our tradition shines forth brightly when it is revealed. Torah and wisdom, knowledge and understanding, are the stepping stones to Jewish commitment and continuity. So I challenge you, young and old alike, to immerse yourselves more deeply in our teachings and our way of life. Our young people need our adults to be role models of what we hope and wish for them. So let us all embrace a Judaism that is serious and aspirational. Not just because that is the only kind that will survive here in America, but because it is the only kind of Judaism that is worthy of survival.

May each of us rekindle the fire of Jewish spirit on the altar of our hearts, that it may burn bright and blaze the way to the renewal of our extraordinary people in this great land of freedom.

V’chein yehi ratzon! Amen!