Rabbi Joshua Hoffman Sermons

Rosh Hashana/Yom Kippur 5767 – 2006 by Rabbi Joshua Hoffman

Here is something real. This is a piece of a Katyusha Rocket launched on Northern Israel by Hizbullah. It may appear small to you, but the sharp edges of this coarse material conceived by man and fashioned by machine can maim and kill. Like its shape and size seem so insignificant to you now, its existence is almost surreal. This little scrap easily grasped in my hand cannot possibly do more harm than scratch the surface of a wall or a door or a piece of concrete. Yet this little piece is the remnant of tens of kilograms of steel with incredible destructive force. Feeling its jagged contours, you cannot help imagine what enormity of ruin this little piece has caused in people's lives, their homes, their places of business and learning. In the imagination, this bomb could have dropped on our homes here, but did not. This summer, it was not a fantasy for Israeli citizens, it was their reality.

As I hold this in my hand, I am reminded how much Israel is a fragile confluence of dream and reality. It is a land brilliant in imagination and dark in realism. It's always been that way for me. It is a dream, an ideal yet actualized, or it is a reality filled with the rich mixture of excitement, fear and concern, and a quietly resigned sadness for that which feels so impossible to grasp.

"Shir HaMa'alot B'Shuv Adonai Et Shivat Tzion Hayeenu K'Cholmeem." The Psalmist writes, "When the Holy One Returns Us to Zion – to Jerusalem – it was as if we were in a dream." The first time I visited Israel, I was in a dream.

It was 1994 when I discovered more Jewish people residing at Brandeis University than I had ever seen in one place in my life. Each day I would meet new people and continuously marvel at the diversity of Jewish expression and similarities of experience. One evening I was drawn to an informational meeting about going to Israel sponsored by an organization called Aish HaTorah. There I met Rabbi Stuart Schwartz who showed us a video and was offering an opportunity to go.

While I watched the video, I began to replay my own tale of Jewish identity and relationship with Israel. I am the product of religious school Judaism. I was the official gong striker in the "King and I" – a Purim play adaptation, and yes I played the rabbi when we simulated a Jewish wedding ceremony. Two to three times a week I went to synagogue where I learned Hebrew and Jewish history, where I was taught that the Western Wall was the most important place for Jews in the entire world, and that it was ours once again.

I was raised on Israel as being a ‘homeland for the Jews.' I was indoctrinated to feel a deep connection to Israel and that I must visit the country at least once in my lifetime, but short of that, Israel was a vacation destination in the vast and diverse itinerary of my world tour throughout life.

I bought into a dream that the modern State of Israel was a little more developed than in the times of King David or Solomon, but I never, ever thought that Kentucky Fried Chicken would be a popular, and kosher, dining destination literally minutes from the Western Wall. Amidst all this, I also learned that I have never really developed a language to describe Israel, nor created a context to place my connection. I never could really understand how this piece of shrapnel can co-exist with this idealized place I've spent a lifetime dreaming about.

The following night after the AISH program, I received a phone call and was given a scholarship to go to Israel during the winter vacation for 3 weeks. Now was the time and so I went. I was in a dream – the leaders on the program took me to the heart of Jerusalem, prepared me with excitement and anticipation as I was carefully led to the Western Wall, literally minutes after arriving in the Old City of Jerusalem.

In Israel, even the most elaborate dreams are short-lived.

I took it all in, and moments later found myself ask one of the biggest questions in my life, "What is next?" I walked away from the Wall. My dream was now a reality. But, my Jewish self could not live without a dream and so I began to explore this land of my people – my people. My own path in answering the question has led me here, to this pulpit sharing with you what I have learned since that day at the Wall. I have learned that Israel is the "What's next?" place in the world – it is a land of promise as much as a Promised Land, but the complexity of "What's next?" for me and especially for Israel remains as blurry and indecipherable as so many other nighttime revelations captured in my slumbered bliss.

In short, for most of my life, Israel touches on a range of fleeting emotions like that first gaze of my idealized reality ¬– from a strong pro-Israel surge in response to moments like this past summer, to a transitory brushes with anti-Semitism growing up. I've come to experience viscerally Jewish moments, and I have even at times harbored a muted and cautious self-doubt for being a part of something so "different." I am the Jew somewhat reflected in the words of Leonard Fein, who writes:

There are two kinds of Jews. One wants an Israel which is militarily strong, capable of defending itself and strong enough to defeat any enemy . . . The other wants an Israel which is a beacon of justice and righteousness, which affirms the humanity of all, friend and enemy. . . And the trouble is most of us are both kinds of Jews.

Israel is justice and Israel is shrapnel. Israel is a vision, and Israel has a reality that betrays the vision. To be a Zionist to me means to embrace this truth. We have to be both kinds of Jews to keep any aspiration of the State alive. I don't know if I can really call myself a Zionist. I am just learning what that truly means to me. But, if being a Zionist means being willing to engage in conversations about what is right and wrong about the State of Israel, what is most unique and most disappointing, then I am a Zionist. If being a Zionist is as Supreme Court Justice and ardent Zionist, Louis Brandeis posits, "To be good Americans, we must be better Jews, and to be better Jews, we must become Zionists." Then, I am becoming a Zionist.

It was only during the year in Israel when Becky and I were studying to become rabbis that my Israel naiveté, my own complexities reflected in those visions of the super-state, evolved into the most trying reality, at times even becoming a nightmare.

On one warm summer evening we walk back to our friend's home to sit on the mirpeset - their balcony – ready to enjoy some dessert and conversation. Suddenly, crashing sounds reverberate between the buildings surrounding us on the street – the echo causing the noise to appear as if bombs were going off. Days after the tragic suicide bombing in the busy Sbarro pizzeria in downtown Jerusalem, such sounds cause deep concern. Looking for the source of the bombs is complicated by the hilly terrain, our breath quickens. Before long, we surmise the would-be bombs are merely fireworks celebrating the Cinemateque's outdoor summer festival. The calm returns.

Months later, it's 4 a.m. when the sounds of jet propulsion gently wake us from our sleep. As Apache helicopters pass by our apartments, the sound is so fluid and intense that it feels like fighter jets were actually cruising by our window. It is like a dream. The awesome power that propels tons of steel was frightening – stultifying, and strangely comforting, as if a security blanket of protection is being draped over us while we are so tightly wrapped up while we lay frozen in our bed sheets. Hours later, we learn that there actually were Apache helicopters flying in to secure the area of Beit Lechem (Bethlehem) as the I.D.F. enter the city to secure and capture terrorists locked up in a church. The sounds still reverberate in my thoughts from time to time.

Under normal circumstances, sirens go off every day. Ambulances rush to victims in need. After nearly a year in Israel, we're affected by these sirens. Each shrill call sends us into a mild shock. Is it another bombing? Where will it be this time? Days after a suicide bomber detonates in a café less than a half a mile away, each time a siren goes off, we cautiously, carefully measure and calculate exit strategies. We rush to televisions. We wait expectantly for more sirens to follow. For the real problems, the sirens keep coming and coming for hours. Another fire truck passes by and no other sirens for the next few minutes. Composure returns, jokes ensue, our senses sharper and more focused for the next time.

Bombs that are just fireworks. Helicopters flying through the streets of Jerusalem. Sirens that are a sign of routine care in an urban city. They are merely sounds. They are the sounds that I hear each time I now watch a newscast, read an article, or engage in a discussion about Israel. They are sounds that evoke in my imagination horror, fear, and vulnerability. They are a sober reminder that nothing is as it seems. Reality is saved for the daily walk by the blown out windows and walls of cafés in the aftermath. Reality is found huddled in classrooms and meeting halls, where students confront the terror with information, and the comforts of friendship. "Et Ha Moment HaZeh, Lo L'Hafseek." In defiance of the savagery, the Israelis post yet another bumper sticker – a play on the Moment Café bombing in Spring 2002. "We will not let this moment stop." Living the reality means living in spite of the terror.

After the year of living and studying in the land, I feel some confidence to at least enter this difficult conversation about Israel. In that experience, I've seen the movie Salach Shabbati, starring the great and famous Topol (he played Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof), I've walked the streets of Meah She'arim, haggled with a store owner over a 10 percent discount on pyrex dishes, eaten raw vegetables whole, and yes stood with my people as they were under attack, even as the world likened them to murdering Nazis operating a concentration camp in Jenin. I've taken courses on Israeli life and society, visited most of the country, and spoken with a Jerusalem police detective exclusively in Hebrew, only to find out that he suspected me of causing an accident, while I was merely trying to testify that I was a witness to the accident taking place! It was real living all while TV screens here in the States were showing tanks rolling into refugee camps and the watchword was "Crisis."

We returned from our year of living in Israel changed. We returned and the ideal I once envisioned and felt changed too. I hear these words from our tradition so differently now.

"It is a land flowing with milk and honey," the Torah teaches us.

"Eem Eshkachech Yerushalyim, Tishkach Yimeenee," so says the Psalmist. "If I ever forget you, Jerusalem, let my right arm wither. . . . If I cease to think of you, if I do not keep Jerusalem in memory, even at my happiest hour." (ps.137)

Our Rabbis taught us that we face the direction of Jerusalem in our prayers so we may always invoke that which is ephemeral to become present and concrete.

"For the sake of Zion I will not be silent! For the sake of Jerusalem I will not be still, till her victory emerges resplendent and her triumph like a flaming torch!" shouts the prophet Isaiah. (62:1)

B'Shanah HaBa'ah B'Yerushalayim! Next Year in Jerusalem. How many of us have said these words at the end of Yom Kippur and Pesach Seders and given a second thought to what that really means today? I remember year after year thinking it was a real prayer. Ultimately, I have learned that when I asked myself, "What is next?" 12 years ago, it was much more difficult to answer than I thought. I've learned it was a question that invited relationship, one not based on a dream or an ideal, but upon the real and concrete, beautiful and ugly, loving and frustrated foundations of any relationship. It is the question that prompts me to ask, "What does it mean to have a Jewish state?" It beckons a conversation – one that is new and exciting, hurtful and challenging, hopeful and inspiring.

For, it is no wonder when Alan Dershowitz writes, "It is fair to say that few people are neutral about Israel. Many love it with the uncritical exuberance of a doting mother toward her child. Many more hate it with what one observer has aptly characterized as an almost "eroticized" passion." Or, in the beautifully crafted language of Daniel Gordis, "If a place can make you cry." Where else is so much passion evoked for a place?

In the push and pull of Bible and Newspaper; of Josephus and Yossi Klein HaLevi, the passion is felt. The complexity of Israel, Zionism, and the role of American Jewish support are features of a dynamic and unfolding history. Real conversations have points and counterpoints. We have to learn more about decisions like Plan D, which some scholars point out was a decision by Jewish leaders that "directly and decisively contributed to the birth of the Palestinian refugee problem." We must learn about Deir Yasin, Sabra and Shatilla, and even to rethink just exactly what happened in Jenin. As quickly as I read these horrific accounts of violence taken at the hands of Israeli forces, I want to hear the other side and be reassured, but both sides are voices that must be heard here. In the words of Rabbi Yitz Greenberg, "To take up the tools of power is to take on guilt. But that does not mean we are free to desist."

And so Thomas Friedman also has it right when he points out, "Israel manufactures computer chips, Hizbullah makes what? Potato chips. Israel has the Technion and Hizbullah has what? Hizbullah High?" While there is humor in his statement, he notes how sad it is that the political stage on which Israel is judged, so quickly neglects history and context. We live as Friedman says in the reality of the day after "the day after" the time when the shouts and rants cease to move the media and only the broken pieces are left to be put back together. On the day after, ‘the day after' we must ask – where is Hizbullah? Quickly fading back into caves, underground fortresses, locked away plotting in fear and despair where we only hope some light can be shed with the beacons of tolerance, acceptance and understanding.

These past months have shown us, that now, more than ever is the time to have that conversation with yourself, your families, others in our community, our leaders and our brothers and sisters in Israel who live there now. The topic of conversation is simply, "Where is Israel for you? Will you keep it in a dream, or will you take hold of the blessed and complex reality she has become?"

It's pretty easy to join the conversation besides going to Aroma café. However, if you hang around there long enough, you just might hear every possible opinion about Israel on the planet. So, start easier. Read Herman Wouk's The Hope and The Glory. Then read something a little more real, like subscribe to an Israeli newspaper or magazine – so many are now translated into English. Of course, you must visit. And when you give money and resources to Israel, you not only show your support, but you ensure the conversation continues.

Let this piece of shrapnel become the symbol of the links between Iran, Syria, and Hizbullah now broken. Let this piece of scrap metal become the cheap remains of another broken attempt to shake the Jewish people and all who seek justice and fairness can build their dreams into a reality.

* This document, or any portion thereof, may not be reproduced without the written permission of the author.