Our Close Brush With Life - Rosh Hashanah 5765
Earlier this year, a physician in our community who is part of our national Homeland Security emergency response team, shared with me a troubling concern. She had just returned from a life-saving mission to southeastern Iran in response to last winter's devastating earthquake which killed nearly 40,000 men women and children in a matter of moments. The suffering and loss were of biblical proportions, as an entire urban metropolitan area had been reduced to rubble. She told me of how she treated a suicidal teen girl who, having lost her entire family, was in need a prescription refill - but the pharmacy was gone, the medical clinic was gone, the regional hospital too was gone - as but one of hundreds of heartbreaking instances she faced. Yet, she found herself bothered by something else that happened on the long flight home.
There she met for the first time another physician from her hospital who shared the story of how his marriage was falling apart. She listened intently to his troubles and sympathized genuinely with his pain. What bothered her was how large the story of his marital strife loomed in her mind for weeks after returning. It seemed to overshadow the staggering suffering she had witnessed in Iran. "As sad as it is that this guy's marriage is in trouble, what's wrong with my sense of perspective that his troubles should occupy my thoughts more than the endless carnage I witnessed in Iran?"
Her struggle got me thinking about the sheer intensity of stories and their immediacy in our lives. I was reminded of a point that the late Stephen Jay Gould made when he spoke at KI just months following September 11th, 2001. Gould, a world renowned Harvard paleontologist who was one of the leading scientists of our era, made a powerful point about the way our brains work. We are built to absorb and remember stories. This notion we all understand well. I can give this or any sermon for 20 minutes, and the thing you will remember most is the story that I tell. But Gould made a deeper point. He suggested that having such story-friendly brains comes with a cost. A salient, particularly poignant story will loom disproportionately large in our minds, such that matters of probability become completely distorted. People don't do the math. The actual frequency when something might occur is lost and replaced with a disproportionate estimation of its likelihood. For weeks and months following the 9/11 terrorist attacks, whenever I would see a plane flying over Boston, in the back of my mind I would wonder whether it was coming in too low, what if it was going to crash into one of our taller buildings. How else, Gould wondered can you explain the phenomenon of, in spite of the millions of acts of quiet goodness that happen in the world every day, a single act of radical evil could force us to call basic human nature into question.
A ratio of a million good acts to one evil act, would tip the scales heavily in favor of human goodness and generosity, but the solitary poignant evil narrative flattens mathematical reason, causing us to wonder whether human beings aren't basically evil. Endowed with story telling brains we are poor at proportional, clear-minded assessments, granting dramatic experiences a much larger share of our obsessing than they really deserve.
But the other side of this coin presents us with an important benefit. Being able to blow the impact of something or someone way out of proportion can be one of our most important gifts. Without such a capacity, today would just be another Thursday morning. Without such a gift, every person - no matter how special he or she may be in our lives - would simply be considered one/six billionth of humanity. Everything would be flat, consistent, and precisely proportionate, but flat. Experiences wouldn't be special, people wouldn't love and be loved. We wouldn't become passionate about causes or throw ourselves into task with a powerful sense of mission. It would be impossible to conduct our lives not only in living color, as opposed to narrow shades of gray, but even in High Definition color at the top of our emotions, laughing more, arguing more, and crying more than we otherwise could get away with. Put differently, thank God 'irrational exuberance' comes naturally to our brains.
So if it is bad news for probability that our minds radically overstate the gravity of an experience, it is good and important news for priority.
Rosh Hashanah strongly agrees with this premise. The plight of every single soul is of paramount significance on these High Holidays. Why else would the scriptural readings chosen for the birthday of the world, address the birth of one single child? It is somewhat surprising that on a day when the scope is as wide as the whole universe, that the Torah and Haftorah readings concern is with the birth of one little boy - Isaac in the case of the Torah, and Samuel in today's Haftorah.
The message is impossible to miss: each one of us has cosmic significance. Adding drama to our days and grand import to our decisions isn't just egotistical or narcissistic. Such a tendency is born from an existential affirmation that the scope of our impact can be disproportionately large.
What is true for single child, a single story, can also be true of a single experience like the one here in this sanctuary this morning. The impact of this first day of the New Year is meant to be disproportionately large.
The same brain design feature than influences how we weigh experiences, affects how we judge people.
We tend to see others as totally good, kind, considerate, or mean, selfish, and bad. Even though we rationally know that people are far more complex, even though we appreciate the fact that bad people occasionally do incredibly generous things and good people occasionally become totally self-absorbed and petty, it is a lot more natural for us to categorize them as friends or foes, good or evil.
And we bring intensity to such judgments with the same disproportionate power that we do to large-looming experiences. We gravitate toward polarizing postures because there's so much more energy there, than in trying to be moderate, nuanced, and generous in our consideration of complexity and ambiguity. As we approach this November's election, politically minded books that happen to be written to be equally sensitive to both the red and the blue states are hardly selling - whereas those that are totally polarizing, on one side or the other - sell extremely well.
By far the two most polarizing public narratives of the year were The Passion of the Christ and Fahrenheit 911. I am one of the very few non-movie critics who went out to watch both films on the day that they opened in theaters. Setting aside their quality as films, the appetite and hunger for each was particularly strong - two years of corrupt and criminal Church leadership being exposed, primed disillusioned Christians for Mel Gibson's "authentic" religious encounter of power and piety. And of course our polarized nation as we approach what promises to be one of the most divisive elections of our lifetime, made the ideological purity of Michael Moore's film irresistible 'red meat' for millions of blue state voters.
Whatever one wants to say about these films, it can hardly be said of those who created them - Mel Gibson and Michael Moore - that the public is neutral about them - they are adored or abhorred.
The truth is that there is so much more glamour and cheap satisfaction in categorical judgments against others. We become deliriously giddy about exposing the faults and failures of our foe. Drunk on the heady wine of denunciation of political leaders, ideological adversaries, even former friends, we find categorical condemnation positively intoxicating.
Is there any hope for sobering up? Here we come back to the power of salient experiences. Just as acts of radical evil - like the massacre in the Russian school a few weeks back - cause us to wonder about human nature. So too really bad people who do something incredibly noble can be redefined by a solitary yet dramatic act of colossal righteousness.
Oscar Schindler offers a powerful illustration of how this is possible. He was a bad person who exploited the war for his economic gain, but did something heroic later, that has us remember him in a dramatically different manner. What matters isn't only the scale of the redemptive act, but its timing too. The most recent counts the most. This is how change gets processed. People change for the better and the for the worse. What is most salient is what they've done or haven't done for us lately. This High Holiday season of Teshuva points to this kind of directional energy. Who we have been is yesterday's news. What matters is which way are we headed right now.
Yet, a core problem remains with granting disproportionately heavy weight to solitary dramatic acts - it is the problem of fairness. Is it fair that a bad person gets to do something really good while waiting on death row before being executed? There seems to be a mixed message. On the one hand, our decisions and deeds are of cosmic significance, we approach them with such intensity because they are of paramount importance, on the other hand, a life of behaving in weak and selfish ways always affords us the chance to dramatically change it all with a late-in-life conversion to becoming a really nice guy. This suggests that our deeds don't really matter until we want them to matter.
An answer can be that our brains take note of salience not only in acts of redemption, but also in our way of response. Today is the first day of the Ten Days of Teshuva running through Yom Kippur. The literal meaning of the word Teshuva isn't just 'repentance' - Teshuva also means 'response.' The quality of our response has the capacity to neutralize the unfairness of the disproportionate dominance of the poignant act. Our response cannot nullify that unfairness because life isn't always fair - but the depth of our response can grant dramatic acts less dominion. I still remember the spasm of uncommon kindness and consideration that followed for days following September 11th 2001. Drivers were so polite that afternoon, strangers were so interested, corporations we so warm and endearing. Salient trauma can knock us off balance. The way we respond, after having regained our balance, can be just as salient and moving and dramatic and intense as the acts and experiences that prompted a need for such a response.
In this season, our response takes three forms: Tzedakah - righteous generosity, Tefillah - prayerful contact with God, and Teshuva -truthful self-refinement.
When we feel dejected because life isn't being fair to us, Tzedakah, righteous generosity works wonders. The best way to make you more hopeful, when your feeling weakest and at your lowest point, is to doing something kind, helpful, or considerate for somebody who needs you.
In our Torah portion this morning when Hagar and her infant son Ishmael are dying of starvation and thirst, having been banished into the desert by Abraham and Sarah, Hagar is at her lowest point - she is resigned to die and watch Ishmael suffer the same fate. It is at this moment that she is given life-renewing advice, the only advice, quite frankly, that ever truly works for people is such desperation. An angel appears to instruct her "hahaziki et yadeh bo" literally "make your hand strong by taking your son's hand" which really simply means four magic words: Find somebody to help. In some sense, it's stunning that Hagar is told to respond to her life threatening predicament by doing a mitzvah. Find somebody to help.
It's not a question of realizing that others have it just as bad if not worse than you do. It's not about competing in the 'suffering Olympics' to see who has the right to be most depressed. It's rather about reminding yourself just how helpful and important you can be in the life of another. It's about re-acquainting yourself with the fact that you matter, that you make a difference. Of course this helps the other in need, but such an act of righteous generosity - is a response that helps you too.
I know this to be the case from my own experience. There are, on occasion, difficult days in the office. Maybe I inadvertently offended somebody and discovered how upset I made them. Maybe I learn I wasn't there for somebody who needed me and was counting on me. Often at such emotionally down times, I will respond quite consciously by choosing to make a hospital visitation or look in on somebody in a Nursing Home that I haven't seen in a while. Hopefully my visit will make them feel a bit better, less neglected, less forgotten. I am glad of course if it does. But I have to admit that I am making the visit not only for them, but also for myself - to remind myself that even when I have good reason to feel lousy about what I've done or failed to do for others, that I am not worthless, that I can still be a meaningful presence in people's lives even when I disappoint others or myself.
If this is how tzedakah works on as a response to that which we feel is unfair on an interpersonal level, how might Tefillah - prayerful contact with God work as a helpful response to life's unfairness? We can imagine a deep moment of prayer sounding something like this. "That terrible day when that crippling diagnosis struck at my world like a thunderclap from out of the clear blue sky, I turned to my friends for support, for the reassurance that I was not a bad person, that I didn't deserve this fate. Some were wonderful, caring, and supportive. But some people on whom I counted, turned out to be false friends. They were not there for me. They could not nourish me emotionally as I needed to be nourished. I needed them to bring bright light into my darkness, to banish the gloom that consumed me, but they didn't know how to do that for me. Some were so intimidated by what happened to me that they couldn't look at me without worrying that something similar might happen to them. Some stayed away because they felt inadequate. They didn't know what to say. And some were like Job's friends, trying to offer religious explanations for what happened that only made me feel worse. They all had their reasons for how they responded. But the only thing that kept me going, the only thing that helped me believe in myself, was my faith that when I cried out, God heard me. He didn't have to solve my problem. He didn't cure my illness. He didn't find me a new job or a new mate. He didn't bring my loved one back to life. But He heard me. When I felt alone and abandoned, I prayed and I had this astonishing feeling that I was no longer alone." We thank God for being there for us when our friends may not have been up to the challenge. We thank God for giving us the strength to keep believing in ourselves and our own worthiness.
Every year I urge us all to engage in the same exercise while we're at High Holiday services. I ask you to consider: What if someone would have said to you a year ago, the following things are going to happen to you in the coming year. You're going to learn of an alarming medical diagnosis in yourself or a loved one. Your going to lose your job. A number of people who are important to you are going to pass away. And your going to have to face with your family some horrible dilemma which forces you to have to make a decision where both options are terrible, a decision that nobody should have to make. If somebody would have told you all those things were going to happen in the coming year, you would have said 'Please don't let those things happen. I can't handle all that. I'm not strong enough to survive it.' And yet those things did happen, and you're still here. The question to ponder is 'From whence came those resources? Where did you get the resources to handle those things? Resources you didn't think you had in you. Resources you may in fact not have had in you, until the day you were called upon to have to produce them.' My answer is that God worked invisibly and imperceptively to grant me what I need to survive, and I only now realize this to be the case, sitting here today engaged in deep prayerful contact with God.
Which points to a special characteristic of response in the realm of Tefillah- it is always far less dramatic, more subtle, yet just as intensely enduring. God's reliability is most readily seen through a rear-view mirror, is always more gradual, but no less impact-full, emotionally intense, and lasting.
The final realm of response, Teshuva itself - suggests that life's unfairness caused our own miss-steps, our instances of poor judgment, our moments of weakness. Our response can aggravate or ameliorate. Just ask Martha Stewart whose response to a relatively small moment of poor judgment, grew exponentially worse because of her response. The same exponential growth can work in a noble, reparative direction too. So dramatic and sincere can be our effort to redress a wrong we committed, that we actually present within clear view, qualities of our soul like contrition, humility, and gentle-sensitivity that would otherwise have never been revealed.
In reality, scouring one's soul is never easy and rarely pleasant. Yet as Rabbi David Wolpe writes: "True Teshuva comes from a well-spring of joy. That may sound strange considering the terror and worry and anguish that consciousness of our sins sometimes causes us. But the end of a soul aligned with itself, with others, and with God is a feeling of great joy." The reward for a sin is immediate, otherwise, why would anyone ever sin? While the reward for Teshuva is gradual but lasting.
Part of coming to terms with the unfairness out there, is appreciating why we are here in the first place. Some years ago, I asked a class of children why God created us. A ten year-old boy said "God created us to please our parents. Because when we do what God wants, it makes our parents proud." Another child, probably around seven, gave me the answer that I truly believe is correct in her own words: "God created us so that we can be better than God made us to start with." Behind that statement is a profound truth - important enough to take center stage on these High Holidays. Why are we here? We are here to grow in soul - and truthful self-refinement - Teshuva - our most salient response to this day - is what makes growing in soul possible...
There is a universality about Gould's theory about the undue influence of dramatic and traumatic stories. Still I find that it rings especially true for our Jewish people. Rosh Hashannah's texts actually encourage and reinforce our time living in the upper registers of our emotions. This is designed to be an intense and emotional experience.
In honor of the forthcoming November election, I wish to recall an odd bit of American history - about President of the United States, David Rice Atchison. That's right David Rice Atchison. He came into office when Polk went out of office and Taylor was to have succeeded Polk. The situation was as follows. Inauguration day was then Sunday, the 4th of March. Taylor was a religious man. He refused to be inaugurated on his Sabbath, so the inauguration was changed to the 5th of March, Monday at noon. At Sunday at noon, however, Polk and his Vice President went out of office, as did the Cabinet. Under the then existing rules, the only one eligible to be the President of the United States was the acting President of the Senate, David Rice Atchison of Missouri. It was inauguration week and a lot of parties were being held in Washington. Atchison was living at a boarding house and he went to all the parties. Since this was the era of drinking, he drank very heavily. Thus it happened that he arrived at his room at about 3 am on Sunday, March 4th. He instructed the landlady, "I am very tired and I am going to sleep. Don't wake me up until I get up." At 6 am he was asleep. At 12 noon, Sunday the 4th of March, he was asleep. At 6 am on Monday, the 5th of March he was still asleep. He woke up at 1 pm, Monday, the 5th of March, thus having slept through his entire term as President of the United States.
Our times are filled with such intensity. Dozing through the events of our day seems to be the least of our problems. Let us not slumber through the immensely potent possibilities for us to frame our response - with our neighbors and friends, with our God, and within ourselves, as we seek a spirit of renewal that is intense and cleansing.
Every special liturgical addition to the Amidah - the central prayer of this and all holidays - mentions and repeats a single word - Hayim - life. Savoring and relishing life, making it seem more fair, more productive, more imbued with that which is worthy of having cosmic significance, is what Rosh HaShannah is all about. It is about caring deeply, reacting strongly, appreciating the drama, the urgency, and the pathos of what happens to ordinary people like ourselves. We have faith that what we do matters to the world. And because we do, it does...
We know about near-death experiences. Hopefully most of us will never know from such close brushes with death. But may today's close brush with life, encourage us to fill our days and our souls with more than ever before. Amen.