Yom Kippur 5771

Who is the most tragic figure of the entire Hebrew Bible? My teacher at the Jewish Theological Seminary, Professor Yochanan Muffs, would start each semester with this question, and since his passing last December, I can still imagine him waiting for a response. First as his student and then as his teaching assistant, every year I would listen to the answers of my fellow rabbinical students. Maybe it was King Saul – who was anointed King, only to have the crown given to David. Perhaps Jacob – who lived so many years not knowing that his son Joseph still lived. Certainly our matriarch Rachel about whom we read on Rosh Hashanah knew tragedy – her love affair with Jacob was delayed through deceit, she was barren for many years, and she died giving birth to her son Benjamin. Samson, Isaac, Michal, even Moses who never reached the Promised Land – the Bible does not lack tragedy or tragic figures. Every year, Professor Muffs would listen, quietly shaking his head at our responses, and the room would grow silent as he would give his answer, the answer he learned from his teacher, Saul Lieberman of blessed memory.

It is a provocative thought and one that is altogether relevant for today, Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the Jewish year. There are high expectations for all of us – we are, after all, created in the Divine image – and yet we continue to fail to live up to our God-given potential. God gave us the gift of free will, and yet we use that gift poorly by choosing sin. God bears a covenantal commitment to us, but wakes up every day positively splenetic over the tsuris we cause. God loves us unconditionally and yet the voice in the Divine head keeps asking: “why, oh why, do I put up with this?”

I am reminded of the story of Goldstein, a man who lived a righteous life – a true tzadik – free from sin. He goes up to heaven and is greeted with open arms by the Lord, given a seat at the head of the table. His meal comes: a slice of bread, a can of schmaltz herring and a glass of water to wash it down. As he is eating, out of the corner of his eye his sees through the partition, to the other side, the dining room where the sinners go. To his shock he sees a feast taking place – kugel and turkey, brisket, french fries, wine, cakes and pastries – all sorts of delicacies. This goes on and on, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday. Goldstein sits down for dinner – slice of bread, shmaltz herring from the can and a glass of water – and every day, he sees in the other dining room these no-gooders feasting away. Finally, Friday comes and Goldstein musters the courage to approach God. Summoning all his strength, he says, “Please don’t take this the wrong way, I mean no offense, but I lived my whole life in righteousness, I never committed a single aveirah, a single sin. I came up to heaven and every meal I get my schmaltz herring, my bread and water, and every meal I watch these sinners enjoying a gorgeous feast… God, I have to say, it just doesn’t seem right.” God turns to him and says, “Well to tell you the truth Goldstein, it’s just not worth cooking for one.”

Our divine host, it would seem, is ready for us, has set the table for us. We just continue to disappoint, we fail to show up, we fail to be up to the task. My favorite midrash associated with the high holiday season has to do actually not with our prayers, but with God’s. The divine day, according to tradition, is divided into thirds. During the first third, God, not surprisingly, studies Torah. During the second third, God becomes the cosmic matchmaker bringing lovers together (imagine that reality show). The third part of the day God sits as Divine Judge. The most poignant part of the midrash is the prayer that God recites upon entering the courtroom: “May it be My will that My love for humanity overcomes my exasperation with them!” It is a powerful thought. It suggests that for God it is a constant struggle to overcome our glaring deficiencies and every single day God has to reach out - to God - to do so.

And if this is God’s predicament, then comfort is found in the fact that it is today, on Yom Kippur, that God’s self-referential prayer is answered. What actually happens on Yom Kippur is not so much that God wipes away our sins or that somehow we become incapable of sin. We will be just as human and flawed tomorrow as we are today. Rather, the gift of Yom Kippur is that today, God’s mercy overwhelms God’s judgment.   Again and again and again, we will recite God’s attributes of compassion: “Adonai, Adonai, all merciful, gracious, compassionate, patient, abounding in kindness and faithfulness, treasuring up love for a thousand generations, forgiving iniquity, transgression, and sin, and pardoning the penitent.”

Spoken first at Mount Sinai after the heresy of the Golden Calf, these verses signal God’s repeated willingness to accept us back, no matter how egregious our failings. Our sages explain that “Adonai” is written twice because God loves us both before we sin and after we sin. God may be exasperated with us, but today of all days, God reaches deep, moves from the seat of judgment to the seat of mercy, and offers the conditions by which repentance can take place. Granted these conditions, we – individually and collectively – turn to stand before God, frail and vulnerable and ready to acknowledge all our shortcomings, because we know God will accept us. When God opens up to us endless compassion, and accepts us, we are prompted to respond. We give up our pretentions and we move toward God; we return, we do teshuvah.

But today is not just about returning to God, it is also about reconciling with each other. I would suggest to you that it is precisely the model of God’s unconditional love for us that must be our guide as we seek to be “God-like” in our efforts to address the relationships that matter most to us. If we are to really absorb the message of the day, then we need to adopt the Divine tactics of compassion and mercy. We need to follow God’s lead and create the conditions that will prompt those around us to return. Today, of all days, we reach higher and dig deeper than we would normally be able to, we seek to emulate the divine posture. Today we let those we love most know that we are ready to forgive, we want healing, and, despite our frustrations, if our loved one is willing, we will create the conditions by which that change can happen.

I will tell you something. Normally, we do just the opposite. Normally, when we want someone to change or respond differently, we do just about anything BUT create the conditions under which someone will WANT to change. Just think about all the unhealthy tactics we typically employ to get others to change. We nag, we scream, we lecture, holler, harangue, henpeck, cry, rescue, beg, bribe, coerce, accuse, trap, entrap, set straight, provoke, scold, insult, threaten and much worse. We vent, we beat our chests, we condemn, we dictate, we command, we complain, we give time outs, we keep home, we lock out, we provoke, we make jealous, we make afraid, we search dressers, we read emails, we question hearts, we question motives. We claim that our tactics are aimed at changing people, but in the end – surprise, surprise – not only do we find that people’s positions are hardened, but we wake up to find ourselves at the mercy of the very shortcomings that frustrated us at the start.

The divine tool for effecting change in a loved one is acceptance. It is an insight which, I admit, may initially strike you as counterintuitive. After all, how will someone change, if you don’t tell them to change? Well, I do know that nobody - not me, not you - no one can change or will change in a toxic environment. To continually tell someone of his or her need to change is a strategy fraught with pitfalls for both parties. Nine times out ten, when such criticism emerges out of our mouths, the person on the receiving end closes up and shuts down, verbally, emotionally and certainly to the possibility of change. Apart from the sheer futility of such an enterprise, these words have a corrosive and debilitating effect on the person uttering them.

Long ago our rabbis knew well that the biblical commandment to reprove is an extension of the commandment “to love your neighbor.” Love and criticism are not opposites; they are actually are interdependent. Oscar Wilde once wrote that “a true friend is someone who stabs you in the front.” And long before that, the Book of Proverbs taught et asher ye’ehav, Hashem yokhiah, “whom the Lord loves, He rebukes.” (Proverbs 3:12) Love unaccompanied by criticism is not love, and criticism that does not come from a place of love has very little chance of effecting the change we desire, with God, with our loved ones and with ourselves. It is hard. It is hard for God, and it is certainly hard for us. But unless you are willing to create conditions in which dialogue can take place, unless you are willing to accept a person for who they are and love them in all their flawed humanity, unless you are willing to hold your tongue while keeping the door open, then change will remain painfully and persistently elusive.

Think about it for a second. There are so many relationships in this room that are in need of repair. So many individuals in need of profound, soul-searching change. But let me tell you something: your child will not stop engaging in self-destructive behavior just because you say it must be so. Raising the volume of your voice does not make your argument any more compelling. Siblings can’t begin conversations by pointing out who is or isn’t being derelict in family duties, in caring for parents. Husbands and wives, life partners, sitting here in this room – the same arguments, the same nitpicking – “he-said-she-saids” to last a lifetime. The changes that we need to make may be trivial, or they may be incredibly serious, but they won’t happen if all we do is criticize and chastise again and again and again. Einstein once said that “the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”

This year let’s try something new. This year, I ask you to consider that as important as the “what” is of what needs to be said, is the “how” of how it should be said. As the saying goes, first seek to understand, then seek to be understood. Try to understand that your son takes no pleasure in living on the family payroll, even as you communicate what your needs are – that today you expect a different relationship, financially and emotionally, than you did years ago. Siblings need to begin a dialogue by discussing a vision of how elderly parents should be cared for and then figure out a way to meet those goals – together. When a spouse confronts a life partner with his or her shortcomings, we can be unflinching in sharing the effects of our loved one’s behavior, but we should communicate our concerns open to the possibility that these perceived shortcomings do not grow out of malice or ill intent. Our criticisms cannot come from anger, they must come from love. Each one of us must create the conditions under which people will want to change.

These conversations need to happen, they need to happen today, and they ideally need to happen every day. But they can only happen when we begin them with acceptance, not accusations, with validation and not vindictiveness, and most of all, with love. When it comes to reconciliation, style is substance. We need to learn to approach our most sacred relationships with care and concern. Let’s remember that the most effective agent of change in our entire tradition is the prophet Jonah, about whom we read on Yom Kippur afternoon. He spoke to the people of Nineveh, they repented and God’s wrath was stayed. No other prophet – not Jeremiah, not Ezekiel, not Isaiah – gets the results Jonah got. And what does he tell the people, what words of admonition and rebuke does he impart to the sinful city? Actually… none. He simply proclaims: “In forty days, Nineveh will be overthrown.” Jonah knew what any modern day therapist will tell you, that when seeking to change someone’s ways it is far more effective to alert them to the future consequences of their actions than to berate them for their present wrongdoing. When we let people solve their own problems, not only are we freed from bearing the weight of their misdeeds, but they themselves are better positioned to confront their own deficiencies. It neither means you have to agree with a person, nor that you have to give that person what they want, but you do need to accept and acknowledge both where they are and what they perceive their needs to be.

Rabbi Nahman of Bratzlav’s most famous story is probably the parable of the turkey prince. There was once a royal prince who was convinced he was a turkey. He sat beneath the royal table – naked, poking at bones or crumbs. The worried king called upon the royal physicians to treat the prince. They brought medicines, incantations, miracle cures, but nothing they did made any difference. The prince continued hopping around the palace as a turkey should.

One day a sage volunteered to help, offering to cure the Prince. “Where are your medicines,” asked the surprised King.  “I have my own ways Your Majesty,” answered the wise man. “Allow me seven days with the Prince.” The king reluctantly agreed, since he had no other hope. When the sage was brought to the prince, he immediately undressed and sat under the table opposite the prince. Now the prince had company. “Who are you?” asked the prince, “And what are you doing here?”
The sage answered, “I am a turkey, and you, what are you doing here?”
“I am a turkey too,” said the prince, happy to have a friend. So they sat together for quite a while.

After a number of days the sage signaled the kings’ servants to throw him two shirts. The sage put on his shirt and before the prince could object, he said “What makes you think that a turkey can’t wear a shirt? “ So the prince put on a shirt. And so it was with the pants. “What makes you think that a turkey can’t wear pants?” The prince emulated the sage until they both were completely dressed.

Next the sage stopped eating the off the floor and ordered a meal brought to the table. He asked the prince, “What makes you think a Turkey can’t sit at a table?” So the prince sat at the table. This went on and on until eventually the sage left the prince acting, well, positively princely. The king rejoiced at seeing the prince return to his former self. When, in time, the prince became a great king ruling over that entire kingdom, no one other than he knew that he was still a turkey.”

Every time I have ever told that story, my focus has been on the prince. This year, I finally realize that it is really about the sage, about our willingness to create an atmosphere in which people can make the changes they need to make. I think about the sermons I gave years ago, at the beginning of my rabbinate, before I was married, before I had kids, before I was juggling so much. I told those communities that each of us possessed the power to radically transform who we are, our loved ones and the relationships we are in. I suppose that still may be true, but I am not sure it is altogether desirable and certainly not preach-able. I think what we really need to do, what is in our grasp to do, is to create the conditions by which people are prompted and empowered and inspired and stirred to make the changes that are actually theirs to make. We need to appropriate the divine insight that for human beings, change is contingent on acceptance. We, like God, can continue to love, without insisting on solving other people’s problems. We can invest in each other, but be adamant that people take responsibility for themselves. We need to make no apologies for who we are and what we expect, but we also need to let people know that, should they seek to return, the door of repentance is always open. And yes, sometimes we need to get down on the floor and validate other people’s struggles if there is any hope of getting them to sit at the table. It is hard… God knows. But that is our task and this Yom Kippur and we commit to the work at hand.