High holilday sermons
ROSH HASHANAH D’VAR TORAH 5784
1 Tishrei 5784 // September 16, 2023
Rabbi David Benjamin Fainsilber
Rabbi David Fainsilber
This is the practice
Shana tova umetukah.
Would you join me in something?
I’d like each of us to take five breaths together.
And I’ll ask you to count each breath in your mind,
one to five.
Settle into your seat.
Close your eyes if it helps you focus.
There’s no need to push or change the breath.
Just notice the breath as it comes in and out.
[TAKE FIVE BREATHS.]
Each minute, we take about 16 breaths.
That’s 23,000 breaths a day,
eight and a half million breaths per year.
Too often, we breathe but are not conscious of our breath,
we think but are not conscious of our thoughts,
we are too quick to act without awareness.
Let me ask you:
Where has your attention been during this service—
and where is it right now?
Are you aware of the rise and fall of your breath?
What does it take to be more aware? More present?
Sim lev, the Hebrew term for “paying attention,”
means: place your heart,
lovingly attend to what is unfolding,
to our breath,
to the sights, sounds, smells, touch, and tastes in our body,
to the endless thoughts that arise,
right here, right now,
in a way that doesn’t say “this is good or this is bad,”
just aware of the moment as it is.
On this day of Rosh Hashanah,
where our practice is to understand
the ways that we individually and collectively have missed the mark,
we must do so consciously,
becoming more lovingly aware
of how we have not been present
to the needs of the moment.
I want to share two personal stories with you,
with two very different outcomes,
each one where I felt a mix
of deep and difficult emotions—
of frustration and agitation—
one story where I did not sim lev
to what was needed in the moment,
and one where I did sim lev.
I think these stories offer insights
on the way that being lovingly aware
of more difficult emotions
can move us towards compassion
for ourselves and for others.
First, a moment where I did not pay loving attention.
A few weeks ago, after a bustling Shabbat at JCOGS,
our family went to the Stowe Jazz Festival.
The jazz was joyfully coming through the speakers,
and the sun was shining,
as we found a pair of lawn chairs
under a glorious willow tree.
It was mid-day Shabbat, and I was tired.
All I wanted to do was enjoy the music,
but our kids did not want to be there,
and they let that be known emphatically.
One of our kids was pushing all of my buttons.
He just wanted my attention,
wanted me to sim lev to him.
But I could not, would not, did not
meet him where he was.
My breath was shallow,
I was overwhelmed.
Perhaps you have had that feeling yourselves:
where you just can’t regulate your feelings,
when what is being asked of you
is too far from what you want or have to offer.
I located my wife Alison across the field,
and brought our son crying over to her.
Needing a moment to myself,
I quickly went back to my chair under the willow.
But instead of appreciating the music,
I sat there, agitated.
I felt distanced from my son.
And I was sure that Alison
was also impacted by this situation.
In that moment, my own reactivity—
my lack of capacity to sim lev, to find my breath,
to not respond with those big emotions—
further ignited and inflamed the situation.
But all was not lost.
A short while later,
the emotions had passed,
and I had found my breath again.
I gently approached my son,
and apologized to him.
I explained how his behaviour impacted me,
but that I wish I had been more present with him,
and that I would try harder next time.
I gave him some space to share, but he was quiet.
He teased me slightly. He said he forgave me.
And we hugged.
The rest of the day, I continued to connect with him.
I also apologized to Alison and shared my gratitude for her.
Somewhere in there, I forgave myself too,
knowing that beating myself up was not going to serve anyone.
When I was able to lovingly sim lev to my breath,
I had a chance to see this as a learning opportunity.
I was recently flipping through a book called Zen Paths to Laughter
and landed on a quote by Franklin P. Adams that seems apt:
“You can learn many things from children.
How much patience you have, for instance.”
I can tell you that my children constantly teach me
how much better I can do.
What moments this past year do you wish you could redo—
that upon further reflection,
you wish you responded in a different way?
What times do you wish
you had paid better, loving attention
to the needs of the moment?
Okay, here’s another personal story,
this one from our April interfaith trip to Israel.
In this moment, I was truly able to sim lev
and have a loving impact on a difficult situation,
in spite of the dark emotions swirling within and around me.
With our friends at the Stowe Community Church and Saint John’s,
like we heard from Jordy last night,
we had just finished a glorious and wonderful week
touring Tel Aviv and northern Israel.
The first night we arrived in Jerusalem,
our group met with Yochi Rappaport,
Executive Director of Women of the Wall.
Yochi told us about their thirty year mission
to gather at the Kotel in the women’s section
to freely hold a service led by women,
despite the regular harassment they face.
So inspired, eight of us JCOGS members
joined their prayers the next morning.
The JCOGS women joined the women’s group
that were joyously praying together with little issue.
The JCOGS men joined the two dozen liberal Jewish men
who came to support Women of the Wall.
As we began our own prayers,
dozens of Ultra-Orthodox men started swarming around us,
cursing us with the most vile things a Jew can say to another,
which do not bear repeating in this holy sanctuary.
Hearing their words,
my chest ached, my heart was beating fast,
I was agitated and fearful.
I also bore witness to the other liberal men around me
some of whom were confronting these men,
calling them out for their abuse.
I did not judge them for this natural aggressive response,
yet in that moment, I felt a pull to make a different choice
and not let my emotions get further inflamed.
Could I open my heart to sim lev,
might I be able to cultivate
some mindful compassion for myself and maybe even for them.
I wrapped myself in tallit and tefillin, and began to pray.
I focused on the words of the prayers
and I paid attention to my breath.
I held my hand to my heart through all the prayers,
a way of staying connected to the very painful feelings within me,
but without letting them overrun me,
a way of cultivating a sense of love amidst the hatred.
Close to the end of the service, as we sang Oseh Shalom,
our ancient prayer of peace
that has been sung at this holy site for millennia,
I felt a courage rising in me, drawn from my prayers,
and turned around to face these men.
Locking eyes with one of the most feverish of the protesters,
I asked him: “Why are you yelling at me?
How would you feel if someone was yelling at you?”
He responded honestly: “I’d probably feel bad.”
He tried to continue yelling over me.
My heart raced, his words cut me,
but I carried on:
“Well, you’ve been yelling at me for the last 45 minutes.
And all I feel for you is love and compassion.”
He seemed caught off guard, not expecting that response.
Trying to bridge the gap of our shared humanity,
I asked if he would shake my hand,
which he would not.
Trying to lighten the mood, I asked:
“What about a hug?”
“At least not here,” he finally said, surprisingly.
I asked him again to stop yelling at me and this time he did.
I spoke our shared language of Torah,
saying how Rabbi Akiva claimed
one of the greatest principles is
ve’ahavta lereiacha kamocha,
love your neighbour as yourself.
I shared my Yiddish-ized Hebrew name,
to match his own accent:
“My name is Dovid Binyomin. What is yours?”
“Yitzchak,” he said.
As the prayers ended,
we reconnected with the JCOGS women
who had just had an equally intense,
yet incredibly joyous experience.
As we were leaving the Kotel and the Old City,
I saw Yitzchak leaving too.
I wondered if I could continue to see his humanity,
or if he would see mine.
So I said: “What about that hug?”
And there, outside the walled city,
a man that moments ago had said such vile things to me,
was now hugging me.
That hug that is seared into my memory,
as a moment of hurt that also offers a sliver of hope.
Shortly after, the eight of us JCOGS members
gathered on the side of the road,
reflecting on the experience we just had.
Tears were streaming down our faces,
as we wondered how could such animosity
exist alongside such joy.
So… can we take another five breaths together?
Let’s count each breath, one to five.
Close your eyes if you wish.
What is arising for you?
Do these stories stir anything in you?
Sim lev. Pay loving attention
[TAKE FIVE BREATHS.]
I wonder today if Yitzchak would act the same way
the next time Women of the Wall gathered at the Kotel.
Might he find his own breath and humanity,
and see it reflected in others.
I wonder, too, if in that same situation today,
would I respond the same way,
would I sim lev, or would I respond
more like how I did more recently at the jazz festival.
Just because we manage to access compassion once
doesn’t mean it’s always accessible.
Lovingkindness can be elusive.
It takes practice,
and there is learning when we miss the mark.
That too is the practice.
For me, what I do know is that
my capacity to sim lev with Yitzchak
was made possible by two factors:
The first, my compassion was fueled
by a week of immense lovingkindness
shared among my fellow clergy and trip participants.
I was totally filled up
with the walking, talking, breathing kindnesses of our group.
The second, for the previous number of months,
I had begun meditating on compassion each day.
I have found myself more resilient, more regulated, and happier overall
thanks to this daily spiritual practice
of simply being aware of my breath,
of noticing challenging emotions that arise,
while cultivating lovingkindness for myself and others.
What moments this past year are you most proud of—
that upon reflection, you were living your best self?
What times did you pay loving attention
to the needs of the moment,
perhaps even in spite of any difficulties?
What helped you to get to that place of compassion?
Rosh Hashanah, according to
18th century Hasidic Rabbi Levi Yitzchak of Berdichev,
is a time to practice lovingly paying attention,
one breath at a time.
“We must always try to bring to our awareness
that each moment, the Blessed Creator,
in great lovingkindness instills in each of us
chiyut chadash—a new life force…”
(As we sang earlier) in Psalm 150 it says:
“Kol haneshama tehalel Yah.
let all of your neshama, your soul, praise G-d.
(Or,) ‘for each and every neshimah,
every single breath, praise G-d.’
When we raise this thought to awareness
from moment to moment,
we are actually created anew.”
Whether or not you connect to the idea of a G-d that creates,
we can all appreciate this embodied idea
that with each breath,
life is compassionately gifted.
Rosh Hashanah is a time
to start our process of t’shuvah
of where we missed the mark
and what we want to do over.
It is also a time to set new kavannot,
new intentions for the year,
to cultivate compassion in ourselves,
to practice living in a way that in every moment,
with our breath accessible to each of us,
the gift of life gifted to us,
we can begin again to face even the difficulties in our lives.
Some of you may remember back Rosh Hashanah 5778,
I gave a charge to our congregation:
asking you to devote 10-minutes a day
for a year to a spiritual practice.
I have something a bit less ambitious for us.
We have ten days of awe from Rosh Hashanah to Yom Kippur
to heighten our attention.
I invite you to join me for
these ten days to practice ten minutes a day to sim lev.
Can you imagine this for yourself?
What are the circumstances
that can best lead to you lovingly paying attention?
You can simply sit and focus on your breath.
Or spend one meal a day being extra attentive
to the tastes and smells.
Or go for a brief walk in nature,
aware of your feet against the earth.
Or you can offer a daily prayer of gratitude for life’s gifts.
Or journal your thoughts without judgement.
Or sing a song that brings you joy.
Take a small chance with me and try it out.
It doesn’t matter exactly what you are doing,
as we can bring our loving attention
to almost anything we practice.
I find it very helpful to carve out the same time every day,
and so I meditate as soon as I wake up,
but it’s also good to allow yourself some flexibility.
Pick someone in your mind right now
that you are going to ask to be accountable to.
And also, on Yom Kippur,
I’m going to ask you to reflect on and share
your experience of the 10-minute challenge with others.
Take a moment now to think about why you,
as an individual, would take
this 10-day, 10-minutes-a-day practice.
Now think for a moment about one more detail:
of what this practice might be…
where you might practice…
and when in the day.
Let’s end with five more breaths together…
Again, notice your breath.
Pay loving attention to this moment.
[TAKE FIVE BREATHS.]
On Rosh Hashanah, we are
not only celebrating the origins of the creation of the world.
We are celebrating the renewal of creation,
today, right now—this one precious moment of renewal
that we have been gifted,
yet another opportunity for lovingkindness in each breath.
Shana tova umetukah.
May we sim lev these next ten days
and throughout this year with loving attention,
that we might live our most fullest,
most present, most impactful lives.
Shana tova.
Rabbi Jan Saltzman
This is the week that feels like we're in that quiet moment of the eye of the hurricane. Rosh HaShanah is behind us and we are in the held breath of time as Yom Kippur approaches. Having made the effort to do the work of teshuva, of naming the ways that we want to live our lives, and realigning ourselves with those principles, I find that I'm not really sure that anything has changed.
We know from countless academic and psychological studies (and from our own experience) that resistance to change is hardwired into how we treat our inclinations, to behave and even think, that are embedded into established patterns. Building upon our own intimate life experiences, from the context of our childhoods to the many excursions that form our lives, how we observe who we are is a complex and often convoluted study. We are resistant to shifting; to change is to startle, to endanger, to challenge. So how do we actually change?
For Maimonides, it was a clear process: identify the pattern that got you into trouble; vow to change; and, his final test, not to repeat the behavior if you find yourself in the same situation again. But that still leaves the pattern in place, and only asks that you not repeat your offense.
Reb Zalman and others have taught that there's one more step: to dismantle the inclination that was the foundation for your behavior. This deeper reflection upon the impulse that got you into trouble is the only way to fully interrupt and dissolve the inclination to engage in disruptive behavior. This process might (and probably should) involve some form of therapy or meditation technique; it asks that you take the puzzle apart and redirect the pieces to create a new picture.
Might this process be successful in interrupting your inclinations to harm yourself or others by the way you behave, including in the creation of healthier attitudes? It's possible, of course, but it takes determination and a certain amount of humor to do so. Can I laugh at the way I have responded to situations? Laughter does not imply scoffing, but rather a lightness of being; it offers a smidgeon of removal from my life in order to get some distance on my challenges.
To treat our healing process with love, respect, and joy is the way out of the drudgery of teshuva. These attitudes can remove the stigma of honest, critical reflection and place this work in the arms of compassion. And there's nothing that our world needs more than compassion.
May we all open our windows a little more this coming year, and let in the air of kindness. It can't hurt, and it just might help.
--- Rabbi Jan
