Rabbi Joshua Hoffman Sermons

Rosh Hashana – 5768 by Rabbi Joshua Hoffman

A few weeks ago a very reputable survey source, MTV and the Associated Press, released the results of an extensive 7 month study on what makes young people happy. They asked questions ranging from, "How important is it to be happy with life?" to asking them to express their feelings about money, their heroes, and their stress. From the 100 questions they asked, what did they conclude? 26 percent of teens surveyed are very happy with their lives, 42 percent are somewhat happy with their lives, and an overwhelming majority of teens stated that parents are primary source of their happiness. Even better, 64 percent say they usually wake up happy! 

Hold on a minute. Have you seen your garden variety teenager lately? They're moody, cranky, sloppy, silly, and brooding. If most teenagers are happy, they sure have a funny way of expressing it. I keep hearing the words of Mark Twain, "There are lies, damned lies. And then there are statistics." (An interesting finding was that when those surveyed were asked to identify an ideal vision of happiness, their number one response was having no financial worries.) 

To be honest, I'm more interested in seeing the results of a survey on happiness for adults. Would the results be the same? 

What makes you happy? Could you define it in a few words? Even if you could, would you say that you are living your life in a way that reflects those qualities and relationships which nurture that happiness? If I had the magic wand of MTV's survey tools to wave over us here, I would conclude that we too are mostly happy – just like the thousands of 13-24 year olds questioned earlier this year. But how my magic wand works is not as magical as you'd imagine. 

When most of us are pressed to answer, we will in some way find things that make us happy. Even the most miserable of us out there will still be able to find something in our lives or something we see in the lives of others that make us happy. And even further, that happiness we feel is based on some conviction that happiness is an ideal we all strive to achieve. 

It's no wonder that there is a multi-billion dollar industry of teachers, preachers, gurus, and life coaches out there to inspire us to achieve happiness. And even though each one of them has their own unique flavor of happiness, it's the brilliant wisdom of George Burns who says, "Happiness is having a large, loving, caring, close-knit family in another city." 

The greatest challenge to any happy thinking is that because we believe we are unique, our happiness must be equally exceptional. But, we're clever beings, we humans, and science will tell us that we should test such a hypothesis. So we invest even more millions of dollars into research groups who wisely tell us what we like and dislike based on their very cleverly crafted instruments of measurement. Time after time, the beacon of science bears light on the truth. Isn't it odd there always seems to be some statistical majority in whatever aspect of behavior we test? We eat too much, we don't sleep enough, and we like Coca Cola more than Pepsi. This week, we like Barak Obama more than Hillary Clinton. But look out for Fred Thompson! 

With surveys and statistics we can easily forget that we're all human beings, whether we're too short, too tall, too thin, chubby, or balding. Yes, some of us are smarter, funnier, quieter, angrier than others, but measured over time, no matter how many of us take the test, the results will ultimately be the same. Statistics measuring human emotions like happiness is like flipping a quarter. The likelihood that the flip will reveal the head of the coin is, as you expect, about half the time that it will reveal the opposite side. It may take a million flips to get there, but eventually fifty percent of the flips will be heads and fifty percent will be tails. There are six billion human beings. Take the test. What are the odds that your happiness is ultimately any different than the person sitting right next to you or someone deep in the heart of New Delhi, India? 

This was Harvard psychologist, Daniel Gilbert's, analysis of what we believe about our happiness. He tested things that not only currently make people happy, but even more intriguing, he analyzed what we believe will make us happy. As much as we believe happiness is predicated on some future event unique to our tastes and desires - obtaining the new car, the new Iphone, the family with 2 children and a pet Chihuahua - what truly will make us happy is found right in the present. If we want to know what will make us happy in the future, says Gilbert, start with our present feelings. 

In Judaism, the word for happiness or joy is Simcha. Simcha is a present experience, whereas happiness is a future projection. There is no state of being called happiness that Judaism employs as an idiom for the future. We are commanded to be joyous and happy on our holidays and festivals, but there is no ultimate goal of happiness. Judaism is a here and now religion – what we do here matters today. We are commanded to fulfill mitzvot – God's plan – not for tomorrow, but for today. And while we may suggest that happiness comes from following the mitzvot, mitzvot are not necessarily contingent upon happiness. The famous teaching of Ben Zoma gives us a rare glimpse into how the rabbinic tradition views Jewish happiness. "Who is wealthy?" "The one who is Sameach (happy) with his present situation." 

I think it is hard to believe that our happiness is within our reach right now. Perhaps, it is because we're more comfortable believing that we don't deserve to be happy. We try to buy future happiness as a remedy for our present despair. Judaism says turn it around. The wealthy one sees happiness now – and that is as good a test for the future as any. 

But, what we do when present times are not so joyous? I share with you a sadly common story: I've been asked to come, to sit for a few minutes with a family in need. I place myself along side the mechanical bed in the middle of the living room, holding her hand as the moments of her life slip away. Warmth pulsates through her frail hand, nothing but skin, arteries, veins, bones. The family is all around the living room, sitting on couches, the floor, anywhere close enough to hear, but far enough away not to disturb their beloved mother, partner, sister, friend. Medical paraphernalia is stacked around the room. Someone says, "She's comfortable, now," as if in some way, in any way, to assure me, the family, the very best was done. Wracked with cancer, metastasized way out of proportion, Deborah lay dying, and the family has questions, the family wants to understand. Nothing is more uncomfortable than this present state of waiting. I'm not a doctor, or a shaman, but the family's looking for some curative power, some soothing presence to ease the pain in losing a loved one. 

"What happens next, rabbi?" they ask. I respond with the voice of tradition. "Onanut, Tehorah, Hesped, Kriyah, Kevurah, Shiva, Nichum, Kaddish," I explain. "From death to rebirth, Jews infuse meaning in loss at every moment." Words and concepts are grasped with raptured attention - anything helps at this point. "No, but rabbi, what happens next? What happens after she dies? What does Judaism say about her soul? Is there really an afterlife?" 

Now is not the time for philosophy, but I must respond. "Your mother, your wife, your friend has a pure soul," I explain, "I believe there is a part of her that goes back to God - that there is part of her that belongs to the universe. And her spirit, her legacy, endures in you." 

"Why does someone who is so good in the universe, so pure, get cancer? It's poison for us. Everything we consider holy is desecrated, how can you, Rabbi, teach us that we have a pure soul, when the body withers like this? Why doesn't God protect his investment? She's only 47 for God's sake!" What about her future? What about our future without her? 

The death bed is not the time for biology, either. "Would you rather hear, ‘Deborah's death will come after her last breath expires. The oxygen and blood cease to flow through her body and the body begins to decay. The existence of a soul is a neurological construction we devise to make meaning of our emotions and imaginations." Chas v'Chalilah! God forbid I should say such things! Is it better – is it more comfortable to pretend that biology is the ultimate truth? In times like this, we know there is something more here, and what we do matters, what we believe matters, and there is no tool in a laboratory that can measure what we believe to be true or false. 

So I hold the family's hands, we hug a lot. We take some Kleenex and shed a tear. We talk about the future. Even if we really don't know what the future ultimately holds. But holding on tightly seems to bring a little comfort with the unknown. 

Gilbert has it right. We're a species that contemplates, argues with and projects a future, based mostly on our imagination of what that future may be. We truly have no empirical knowledge of a future because it is always in our hands to write it. Every choice we make sets a new course for the future. In our future, we can curb greenhouse gases, and we can find Osama bin Laden. We can strive to raise our children to be like the teens in that survey, and we can look forward to the holiday meals we're about to share with our family and friends. We can plan our outside weddings in November, and our perfect family reunions. And even when we think we've planned and envisioned what that perfect future will be, the old Yiddish proverb, "We plan and God laughs" sounds oddly comforting. 

Underlying all of this is something that we really don't speak about. But it's there in our prayers and in our deeds. It may seem archaic, unreasonable, and unlikely – but Moshiach – Messiah – is at the end of any Jewish vision for the future. In Judaism, the Messiah is the harbinger of God's salvation of humanity. It's an idea that one day the world will come to an end, and God will return our souls to Zion – It is the ultimate pursuit of happiness. 

We proclaim our deeds in the name of Tikkun Olam – Repairing the World - in the hopes that someday the world will be whole. The unspoken acceptance of that mandate is that when the world is whole, Moshiach will come. By the end of these holidays, we will allude to it or sing about it countless times. The words we sing say it all: 

"V'khol, v'khol ma'aminim, ma'aminim sh'hu. (2x) . . .Goel v'Hazak. God redeems from death and delivers from the grave. And we believe, is the mighty redeemer." 

"Ani maamin beemuna shlemah, B'viat hamashiach V'af al pi sheyitmameha, Im kol zeh achake lo B'chol yom sheyavo. "I believe with a complete faith in the coming of the Messiah and even though he may tarry I will wait for him, whenever he comes." 

But, Moshiach is a future imagination so elusively disguised in our present perception. We see the Messiah when we need a distraction from all the hurt we experience in the world. Buried deep in the tomes of rabbinic literature, this hidden faith of the Messiah always seems to emerge in times of great adversity. After the Temple was destroyed nearly 2000 years ago, Rabbi Akiva believed Shimon bar Kochba was the Messiah. We might even submit the messianism of Jesus was also a response to the catastrophe of Roman occupation and subjugation. The massacres and pogroms of the 16th century took place and Shabbetai Tzvi emerged as a messianic figure. If even for a brief moment, the turmoil of the late 20th century led many followers of Chabad to believe that their beloved Rebbe, Menachem Mendel Schneerson, was a messianic figure too. While all these people are, in the words of Rabbi Yitz Greenberg, ‘failed messiahs,' the impulse to look ahead is deeply rooted in Jewish history and belief. 

We imagine a messianic era to comfort ourselves from the fear that this reality is too broken for repair. It is the, "what happens next?" in a world when there are no more answers to give. Even the rabbis of the Talmud, striving to find an answer for everything sometimes fell short. The times when they could not reach some conclusion, rather than say they reached an impasse, they would write Teiku – an acronym for the words, Tishibite Yitaretz Kushiot u'Bayiot. – Elijah – the messenger of the Messiah will answer all questions, all conflicts, all inconsistencies, all failings of logic and reason. 

Sometimes reasons do not have their conclusions. And so even after the rabbis would reach a Teiku – they still continued to argue. 

Perhaps you've heard this story before: 

A hurricane came and destroyed streets, entire communities, even cities. In the midst of the torrent and rising flood levels, one man, steeped in faith, prayed for his Maker to save him from the catastrophe. As he prayed fervently in his living room, a knock came on the door shaking his concentration. There was a fireman, alerting everyone to evacuate, since the flooding was yet to come. "No," the man replied, "God will save me. I just know it." The fireman left, scratching his head in disbelief. 

The floods came as predicted and sent the man to the second floor of his home. There, he holed himself up in his bedroom, praying with even greater fervor and determination. Along came a boat, and the Army woman knocked on the window, beckoning the man to join her to safety. "No," the man replied again, "God will save me. I just know it." The woman from the army pleaded with him, "The flooding will destroy your house and the second floor will collapse! But her logic was useless against his faith. 

The floods tossed the house and the water level rose so high, that the man, desperate to survive, clamored to the roof where he continued his prayer. "God, please save me!!" Suddenly, a helicopter appeared and over the loud speaker, the voice cried, "Take this rope and we'll bring you to safety!!!" "No!" the man shouted with equally anxious volume, "God will save me! I just know it!!" Unable to move this man of faith, the helicopter flew on, leaving the man alone amidst the tempest and the ruin, sadly to his death. 

After his demise, the man finds himself in the palace of God. He is granted permission to witness the power and glory of the Almighty and to ask Her one question. Humbly, the man steps in, and in recounting the course of events that brought him to this moment, he shouts, "Why weren't you there for me? All you ask is for us to believe in You and I did. The Holy One, looking with sadness and pity upon his gentle creation that languished so, asked him, in such a Jewish voice, "So, nu? You prayed and I sent you a fireman, you prayed and I sent you a boat, you prayed and I sent you a helicopter! What else did you expect? 

What's beautiful about the story is not the question of faith, but the deep message we learn in recognizing how eclipsed our thinking becomes by the future. We can so easily be caught up in our future strivings that what we really want is right before us, awaiting our response. 

We are a people that have endured more than one crisis of faith, reached more than one impasse in our present struggles. One look outside today, and we see and hear, global warming, rampant poverty, genocide, cancer, economic unrest, tragedy – if we want to make a case for global fear and the end of days, we wouldn't be hard-pressed to find it today, right now. But we always see through this. It is in our triumph over innumerable adversities; we turn to the world and share one of our greatest gifts – the present. Our faith is how we find God in the response – in our outstretched hand and in the kindness of those who share their hand and their fate with ours. We have to believe that caring for another is what God wants from us. In this, my friends, Ani Ma'amin – I believe. 

The world gasped when we read Mother Theresa's most passionate manuscripts. It was known throughout her entire lifetime that she was a struggler with God. How could such a righteous and loving human being be wracked with so much doubt? If she had her doubts, what about us?! "Go out into the world," she taught. Leave the sheltered comfort of pulpits and pews, of bar mitzvahs and brises and you see how ugly this world really is - starvation beyond imagination - desecration of people and the human spirit. Live in the dirt heaps of humanity like Mother Teresa and see how your ‘faith' fares there. Yes, faith is about the future, not some distant abstract future. Faith is not about what we will do when we're finally happy. Faith is the courage to choose, the courage to respond the very next moment when you see God's presence missing. Faith is the unmitigated response to a cry for help. 

Mother Theresa is a hero, not for her doubt, but for her unwavering determination to continue her lifetime mission of caring for the poor, despite her doubt. Could we possibly seek our God and listen to the mandate in our doubt as well? In this, my friends, Ani Ma'amin – I believe. 

In 1954, Abraham Joshua Heschel published a short work entitled, "Man in Search of God." He teaches, "Each day we avoid our belief, we elude God." It took tremendous courage for him to say that as well as, "God may be of no concern to man, but man is of great concern to God." He warns us that we have neglected our simple mandate to be agents for God. This world we've constructed, this culture and way of living that we've evolved is the illusion. We have distracted ourselves in comfort, and we're resting well while our bellies are full. Just over fifty years later, have we heeded the rabbi's challenge? 

Friends, for some time there have been disturbing movements afoot, and we are wise to pay attention. Books on the shelves with vituperate spews of anti-religious rhetoric are merely the symptom of a malaise of comfort. We pursue happiness to the extent that we entertain the idea we do not need God at all, that our human construction of God is a veil of ignorance impeding us from seeking mechanistic, scientific, empirical Truth. When a person, like Christopher Hitchens, offers a message like, "Religion no longer offers an explanation for anything important." I fear we may begin to believe that it is true. I can say I admire scientist and ardent atheist, Richard Dawkins, for seeing through the opiates of religious dogma. But when he says, "I am against religion because it teaches us to be satisfied with not understanding the world." it doesn't sound like he's speaking about Judaism. (Dawkins may even be proud, since we probably have the highest number of atheists in any religion!) 

Judaism is unique in that it demands you to look further, to inquire, to understand. We have something to say about everything, because we understand how vitally important what we do now matters. How we see today will shape our decisions for the future. If we ever lose hope that we can respond, if we ever lose our faith that we do will make a difference, then Hitchens is right. 

Maybe, religion is the science that explains the satisfaction, the impression, the inspiration of helping another in times of strife and times of joy. Bringing God's presence into this world isn't just a passive act. In this, my friends, Ani Ma'amin – I believe. 

We make our way into this sanctuary, this sacred space, to find comfort – not veiled ignorance – but comfort to take a second look and give our world a second chance. Unlike happiness, we have many names for that second chance. We call that second chance Teshuvah – the inward turn to personal growth. We call that second chance Tikvah - Hope. We call that second chance Emunah – Belief. Without these, we are merely treading in the stagnant waters of human frailty and apathy. 

Here's what science has found. Two noted U Penn scientists, Andrew Newberg and Eugene D'Aquili asked, "Why Won't God Go Away?" Based on tests of the most pious Buddhists and Franciscan nuns (and I'd imagine a devout Hasid shuckling back and forth at the Western Wall would also suffice) they found an isolated part of the limbic system – the part of the brain most responsible for emotional experience – throbbing with activity when the subjects claimed they were experiencing God. There is a biological need to connect. The human mind is designed to make meaning from its experience. From humanity's earliest stages of making meaning from strange sounds in the wild, to the wonder and amazement in discovering new universes hundreds of light years away, we are meaning makers at our very core. Whatever you call the mystery - God, HaShem or Absolute Unitary Being, as they describe it – it is a heightened sense of awareness that brings deep understanding of our surroundings, our environment, our relationships, our purpose. 

God won't go away because we will always need to find comfort and insight to life's greatest challenges and joys. Participating in the drama of life as a Jew demands that each moment we appreciate the need for people to gather around us, to share gratitude for life, and to do Tzedakah – to bring righteousness into this world. God won't go away because God is waiting for us – waiting for our response in those moments and everyday we live. "Let us remember," Heschel teaches, "we revered the instinct, but ignored the prophet." We revere the comforts that provide for us temporal satisfaction. The prophet screamed to the world so that we may hear that our duty to find this God and to bring this God into the world. 

A story is once told of Rav Kook. Between the two World Wars, there roamed the streets of Jerusalem a man who made a nuisance of himself, pestering the populace that he was the Messiah. Finally the "Messiah" was brought to the Chief Rabbi of Jerusalem. Rav Kook asked to meet with the deranged man alone. After a few moments with Rav Kook, the "Messiah" never again boasted his claim. Sometime later Rav Kook revealed what produced such a wondrous effect. "I told him: ‘The truth is, there is a spark of Messiah in every Jew. You obviously have received an especially large endowment. But the quality of the spark [in all of us] is such that it works only as long as [we] do not speak of it to others.'" 

We will not speak of our Messiah spark – no, but better than any ‘Secret' you can buy on today's bookshelves, it will become our secret to vital living. We will live for tomorrow, but instead of speaking about it; we will quietly, diligently, ardently do our part to bringing Messiah today, now, with our hands, with our spirit. 

Ani Ma'amin – I believe: 

I believe that the study of Torah brings God into this world, I believe that protecting the stranger, loving my neighbor, showing kindness to all people, judging others positively are ways to bring God into this world. I believe that keeping Kashrut, observing Shabbat, finding a time for Prayer are all ways to bring God into this world. I believe that when I die, may it be many years from now, my task in bringing God into this world will be complete and that my efforts are taken up in the harmony of all that lives beyond me. 

Ani Ma'amin – I believe. I invite you to believe with me once again, now renewed. Believe that your actions matter. Hang around this synagogue long enough and you'll see it yourself. Believe that the future is your response. 

And lo, if we do not see Messiah in our time, And even if God's return tarries a little longer, still we will believe. 

Shanah Tovah.

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