From the Bimah: Jewish Lessons for Life Temple Emanuel in Newton

When was the last time you changed your mind on a matter of deep principle? You felt one way on an important issue, and then you flipped and came down on the other side? If that has happened to you, what inspired your change of thinking? What changed your mind?  

Pharaoh and his courtiers changed their minds not once but twice. For a long time, he was not going to let the people go. Then after the tenth plague he changed his mind. Not only can they go, they need to go now. ASAP. And then in the reading for the seventh day, they change their minds again. What did we do? Why did we ever let them go? Let’s get them back, now. Send out our finest soldiers and chariots to take back our slaves. 

When we discussed these biblical texts at services, a number of people volunteered that they had indeed changed their minds on important issues. It was always a personal relationship that prompted the change. 

I was against LGBTQ plus inclusion, but then a family member came out; now I am for it. 

I did not understand trans. It was not my issue. Then my grandchild announced that they are transitioning. Now I really care about this issue. 

Fifty years ago I was against women’s equal participation in Jewish ritual. Then my daughters had their Bat Mitzvah. And of course my granddaughters. I can’t remember why I was ever against it. 

These narratives suggest that it is personal relationships that drive changing our minds. People we know and love can cause us to think again. 

What about ideas? Have you ever changed your mind because of the power of an idea? Has anyone ever sent you an article, a podcast, a book, a video link, an op-ed, and your response was: I was wrong after all. Does that happen, ever? 

What do our sources suggest? Do ideas ever change our minds? Or is it only people and relationships that change our minds? What does all this suggest about the minds we need to change now, and how do we go about doing it?

Yizkor sermons tend to be challenging for rabbis because we give a lot of them.  We say Yizkor four times a year.  If you do the math year after year, that is a lot of Yizkor sermons, and what is there new to say?  What is there to say that we haven’t said before?  That you haven’t heard before?

I wish we had that problem again this year.  Unfortunately we don’t.  This is a Yizkor with an entirely fresh angle.  The last time we said Yizkor was October 7.  I don’t need to tell you that the months since October 7 have been, and continue to be, the most harrowing for the Jewish people, since the Shoah. What is the impact of this hard new chapter on our private Yizkor mediations now?

I want to ask you to imagine for a moment that you are one of the Israelites fleeing Egypt. And let’s be granular. I want you to imagine that you’ve been a slave for decades. That your life is dictated by the whims of a cruel pharaoh, that your days are spent lugging huge stones, that you’ve been separated from your family, kept apart so that you can work harder. I want you to imagine that after decades of hard work, you are tired. Your bones creak. Your muscles are sore. When Moshe tells you that God has heard you, that he’s going to get you out, you can’t even process that possibility. You can’t even catch your breath.

You might have stayed in Egypt, and simply enjoyed a few days off, but during this past week, Egypt has become more miserable than ever. You’ve endured water shortages, frogs, lice, hordes of wild animals, disease, hail, darkness, and widespread destruction. There aren’t enough resources to stay. And so, even though walking is the last thing you want to do, you’re marching with 3 million Israelites, following some cloud towards a “Promised Land.”

After what seems like forever, walking day and night following God’s mysterious pillar of clouds and fire, you make it to the Sea of Reeds only to hear Pharaoh’s army following behind. Wearily you race ahead, walking through the water on dry land. In terror you watch as Pharaoh’s armies give chase, and then with relief you see the waters crash down on them.

You’re safe. You’re exhausted. You’re relieved. What do you do?

Abe and Sarah have been happily married for more than 60 years. They share children, grandchildren, great grandchildren.  One fine day, Sarah says,  Abe: I’d like a banana sundae.  Would you please go to JP Licks?  Of course! It would be my privilege! What kind of banana sundae do you want?  Abe, write it down.  A banana sundae has a lot going on.  Would you please get me three flavors: chocolate chip, Oreo, and cake batter. Then whipped cream. Lots of hot fudge. With a cherry on top.  Abe, write it down.   I don’t need to write it down.  I’ve got it.  Off he goes. Thirty minutes later, he comes back, smiling and triumphant.   Sarah, I got you just what you wanted! A dozen hot, fresh bagels. And delicious plain cream cheese, which you always love. Abe, I told you to write it down. I told you you’d forget.  I don’t want plain cream cheese.  I want cream cheese with scallions.

This is an old joke that my father in love used to tell, but the older I get, the more I realize that this joke is no joke.  This joke has a deep pathos.  The pathos that Abe is not the person he used to be. The pathos that Sarah is not the person she used to be.  The pathos that their decline does not have an answer or a happy ending.  The pathos that their children, grandchildren  and caregivers are increasingly going to be called upon to help get them through their days safely.  The pathos that their life is going to be changing in ways that they would not have chosen and cannot control.

Abe and Sarah’s 60-year love story has complexity to it.  A lot of joy. A lot of love. A lot of rich shared history. A lot of what matters most in the world.  And a lot of pain and loss.  How do we think about the totality of their story—and of ours?  How do we make sense of not only the happy parts but also the rough patches?

This morning we are trying to make sense of two things that have their own cycle, their own rhythm, their own ups and downs—and that at first blush do not seem connected but in fact deeply are.  The first is Through the Decades membership in Temple Emanuel for folks who once celebrated their Bar or Bat Mitzvah here, as an adult or as a teen, and are still connected to our community.  The second is the outburst of hatred on college campuses directed against Israel and the Jewish people.

This year, on the 8th day of Pesach, we will say Yizkor. In a recent clergy conversation as we were planning out this class, Michelle asked the simplest and most profound question, one I had never thought about before. Why do we not say Yizkor for fallen ideas and ideals? For broken hopes and dreams?

If we did, there would be so much to say Yizkor for this year. Think of all the ideas and ideals that have fallen since October 7. Think of all the hopes and dreams that feel utterly vanquished.

Michelle’s question shined the light on a simple fact: we only say Yizkor for dead people, not for dead ideas and ideals. We say Yizkor for parents, spouses, children, siblings, friends—people. We don’t say Yizkor for a peace process that feels terminally derailed; for a sense of pre-October 7 normalcy in Israel; for the rise of eliminationist Jew hatred on college campuses throughout our country; for the golden age of American Jewry that is either over or seriously threatened; for democracy in our own country and throughout the world that feels so very tenuous.

Why not? What wisdom is encoded in our holiest and wisest sources for how to think about ideas and ideals, hopes and dreams, that feel not realizable in our lifetime?

April 23, 2024