I’m writing to share the D’var Torah, the words of Torah, I offered this past Friday night on the eve of celebrating a young person in our community, Arielle Schwartz, becoming Bat Mitzvah.
It comes on the eve of a moment in our own life cycle as a community, the eve of Rosh Hashanah, a New Year. It is a year, unfortunately, marked by war and hardship for many. I write this introductory note as Iranian missiles have just rained down on Israel. The Yamim Noraim, the Days of Awe, are always days of trepidation, when themes of life and death are in the air; we wish it were not literal for so many people as it is this year.
Still, these days, these themes, are very much a part of our tradition, calling upon us to reflect on how we live our lives; how we can transform the rich moments of life we have into blessings for the world around us, revealing the holiness sewn throughout the world.
Read on for my remarks.
Shanah tovah, may it be a good year, and k’tivah v’hatimah tovah, may we all experience a good inscription and sealing in the Book of Life.
Arielle, your Bat Mitzvah comes on the very last Shabbat before Rosh Hashanah, the very last Shabbat of the year, as we are in the midst of the season of heshbon hanefesh, of self examination, of doing an accounting of our souls as we prepare for who we want to be in the new year.
This shows that New Year’s resolutions are not just a secular concept. We Jews may not use that exact phrase, “new year’s resolutions,” but the Yamim Noraim, the Days of Awe, Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, are very much about calling us to resolve, to make a resolution to return (t’shuvah/return) — returning to the best of ourselves, to realigning ourselves with the core goodness of our souls, rather than drifting from them.
But easier said than done, right? As anybody who works the front desk of a gym will tell you, most resolutions are easier said than done. That gym employee can testify that year after year, there is a spike of gym attendance in January when the resolutions are fresh, and then attendance begins to drift, tapering off in February, dropping a little more in March, by April reaching the same low attendance it saw in December. (Maybe there’s a spike again come summer time, who knows.)
In any event it begs the question, what does Judaism say about how we approach this challenge, how do we ensure there is some follow-through on our resolutions, some stick-to-it-iveness? How do we ensure Rosh Hashanah leaves its mark, that the goodness we’re called upon to realign ourselves with is not a short-lived landing space but stays with us a good long while — at least until the next Rosh Hashanah when we re-engage with the question?
Unlike with a lot of areas with respect to Jewish practice and theology, there is actually a very direct answer to this question, and that answer, in a word, is mortality.
I recently taught a three-session course preparing people for the High Holidays, and one of the students, based on the liturgy we studied, posited that the primary experience of the High Holidays is about facing up to our mortality, in community, and asking ourselves, therefore, how do we want to live our lives.
No prayer asserts this idea in a more pronounced way than the prayer which we spent three sessions studying, the prayer known by its two-word opening, “unetaneh tokef:” in it, we say “we acknowledge the power of the holiness of this day, of Rosh Hashanah, for it is full of awe and dread.”
The famous prayer goes on to remind us all of that fact which is exceedingly obvious and yet which we put out of our minds most of the time: we are all going to die.
It goes on to detail a gory litany of the different ways we might go. And yet, just when we begin to ask ourselves what we are doing in services listening to this, why would we subject ourselves to this morbid liturgy year after year, there is a verse which turns the entire concept on its head: “ut’shuvah ut’filah utz’dakah, ma’avirin et r’ah hagzerah.” There are certain actions — t’shuvah (repentance/return); t’filah (prayer/reflection/openheartedness) and tz’dakah (acts of justice, righteousness, and charity) — with which we can fill our lives, which in turn allow us to transcend the seeming harshness of our fates.
On the one hand, Judaism wants us to face our destiny. We are all going to die. That is out of our hands. There is no controlling that.
On the other hand, Judaism wants us to form a relationship to that fact with conscientiousness, sacredness, holiness, asking, okay — so what? What does that mean? In what way should I live my life, given that that is indisputably the case? What are the sorts of choices that will make me feel like my life is meaningful, sacred, holy. “Unetaneh tokef kedushat hayom” — we acknowledge the power of the holiness of this day.
T’shuvah, t’filah, and tz’dakah —
T’shuvah is our relationship with ourselves; do we feel aligned with ourselves; true to ourselves.
T’filah is our relationship with God, do we experience our flow from the source of all life.
Tz’dakah is our relationship with others, are we serving others, too, working to right the wrongs we see.
These are the tent poles of the response to the inevitable fact of life of our mortality.
This is the profound spiritual insight of Rosh Hashanah for how to ensure our resolutions actually stick, that we actually follow through with these core actions: we remind ourselves of our mortality — not to be morbid, but to ask the implications of our mortality. We ask ourselves how we want to lead this one precious life, what choices do we want to make — with that as a backdrop.
Now, lest we think that Judaism teaches this only on Rosh Hashanah as a one-time concept, a once a year — the Talmud (a compendium of sacred rabbinic teachings) says differently. It actually says that this — forming a relationship to the inevitable end of a life — is a vital tool to carry with you throughout life, to have in your back pocket, at your disposal. We’re always struggling to make the right choice, the Talmud says. That struggle is part of the process, it says.
One should always agitate one’s good instinct against one’s not-good instinct
L’olam yargizd adam yetzer tov al yetzer hara
לְעוֹלָם יַרְגִּיז אָדָם יֵצֶר טוֹב עַל יֵצֶר הָרַע
And if that works to subdue those not-so-good instincts, and to help you make the right decision, “great,” it says. You’re set.
But sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes that wrestling is insufficient. So in that case, what should you do?
Study Torah
Ya’asok baTorah
יַעֲסוֹק בַּתּוֹרָה
Surely you’ll find something in there that will help you make the right decision. And if it does, once again, you’re set.
But if that doesn’t work to help you follow through on your good instincts, it offers another suggestion.
Recite the Sh’ma
Yikrah kri’at Sh’ma
יִקְרָא קְרִיאַת שְׁמַע
That’s the core of the Jewish prayer experience; the ultimate declaration of the sovereignty of the Divine. Surely that will set you right; will help you follow through on your good instincts.
But, again, sometimes it doesn’t. So the Talmud offers one more move before you’re checkmated by your not-so-good instincts, this one with more strength. If, after bringing your yetzer tov, your good instincts to bear on the situation, you’ve studied Torah, and you’ve said the Sh’ma, and you’re still struggling to know what to do or how to follow through…
Remind yourself of the day of your death
Yizkor lo yom hamitah
יִזְכּוֹר לוֹ יוֹם הַמִּיתָה
Yizkor, like yizkor, the service of remembrance — you should remind yourself — because this is a fact that you’ve already known, but sometimes you have to remind yourself — of Yom Hamitah, of the day of death.
Reminding yourself of the day of death, the Talmud teaches, will give you the strength and clarity to do what is right. This, Judaism says, is one of the most powerful relationships we can form when navigating the ship of our lives. Identifying this final destination is seen as a homing mechanism to help us steer to what is good and true.
Arielle, this weekend you’re celebrating your Bat Mitzvah. You are, Barukh Hashem, a lifetime away from needing to concern yourself with any of this. You’re at a different stage of your journey.
Rather than worrying about the end, you are, in a sense, at a new beginning. With your Bat Mitzvah celebration, with respect to your journey rather than worrying about the end, in a sense you are being empowered with a compass, and a map, for the first time, on your own. Becoming Bat Mitzvah is the culmination of a process, in which you prove to us, and yourself, how capable you are of navigating this journey, how much of a gift you are to the world, as well as one where you engage deeply with the richness of your tradition, learning its values, learning the map, taking your compass. We have deep faith in you, and it’s also okay if, like us, you need some help from your tradition with following through on your resolutions from time to time.
Hazak hazak, may we go from strength to strength.
