In Our Own Handwriting
Kol Nidre - September, 1999

There is a phrase that runs through my mind every now and then when I am praying. It is "Say what you mean and mean what you say." That aphorism takes me back to one of my first experiences in rabbinical school and also one of the most painful. This is what happened. At an opening dinner, I was asked to lead birkat ha'mazon, the prayer after meals. One of the last lines of the prayer is sung to a hauntingly beautiful tune. Its Hebrew words are na'ar hayiti v'kam zakanti v'lo raiti tzadik ne'ezav v'zaro mivakesh lachem. It means "I have lived my life, yet, I have never seen a righteous person abandoned and his children going without food."

As soon as I finished singing this sentence, Rabbi Mordecai Kaplan, one of the greatest Jewish thinkers of the twentieth century, arose, banged on the table and exclaimed: how can you sing those words. "Say what you mean and mean what you say." The point he was forcefully making is how can we truthfully claim in a prayer that the righteous are never abandoned by God nor their children lack food? This was back in 1965, a scant twenty years after the holocaust killed 6 million Jews among whom were the greatest rabbis of their day and many of the most pious Jews of their generation. Was it true of them that the righteous are not abandoned nor their children lack for bread? I have never forgotten Rabbi Kaplan's words nor his admonishment to be honest in prayer.

I must make a confession to you at this season of confession. The High Holiday prayers not infrequently raise the red flag "of say what you mean and mean what you say." There are moments in the service when I think to myself, "Do I really believe that? Do I want my congregants to believe it? And do I want people out there to think that I believe it?"

Ironically, the most troubling moment for me used to come at what is probably the emotional highlight of the High Holiday service - the Unetaneh Tokef prayer. The melody is beautiful and the words are moving – but are they true? Do we really believe brosh hashanah yeekatayvoon u'v'yom tzom kippur yahhatamun - that "On Rosh Hashanah, it is determined and on Yom Kippur, confirmed, who shall live and who shall die, who shall prosper and who shall fail?" If life is predetermined on the High Holidays - or at any other time for that matter - why wear seat belts, why watch what we eat, why go through chemo and radiation to fight cancer since it is already decided who shall live and who shall die? The theology of Unetaneh Tokef seems dissonant with reality as we know it and every year verbalizing the words would bother me.

This year, however, I found myself at peace with this prayer. The reason is an explanation of Unetaneh Tokef by Rabbi Harold Kushner that turns its words into an invaluable lesson especially for this season of the year. Rabbi Kushner points out that there are really two parts to Unetaneh Tokef - each of which describes a different, even contradictory reality. Yet, interestingly, both points of view are correct. The key image of its first part is the "book of life," sefer ha'hayim. God opens this book on Rosh Hashanah and reviews the detailed record of our doings - good and bad. Then comes the most important statement of this prayer: v'hotem yad kol adam bo - this record of our deeds has our own seal. It is written in our own handwriting. We are its indisputable author. We, alone, are responsible for our actions and for their consequences. We can't resort to the "Twinkie" defense that the sugar in my junk food made me do it. This is the very point of a story in the Talmud concerning Rabbi Eliezer. This famous rabbi came from a distinguished background and a great future was predicted for him. Regrettably, though, he strayed from the path of Jewish life. He became addicted to the allurements of lust and passion and immersed himself in sinful ways. One day, he heard a voice from heaven (his conscience, if you will) tell him, "Eliezer, you have no share in the world to come." Overwhelmed by this verdict, he cried out these strange words. "Kochavim u'mazalos - stars and planets, plead for me."

Now why was Rabbi Eliezer appealing to the stars and planets? Because he was looking for an excuse to explain and rationalize his failures. Does the Hebrew word for planets, mazalot, sound somewhat familiar? Its root is "mazal" which means luck, fortune, destiny. Rabbi Eliezer was saying, "Don't blame me for what I did. It's not my fault. It's mazel, it's predestined, it's all in the stars. There's nothing I can do about it!"

Rabbi Eliezer is not alone in seizing upon destiny to rationalize mistakes and misjudgments. When John F. Kennedy, Jr. died in a plane crash many people lumped together his death with the many other tragedies that have fallen upon the Kennedy family. And they concluded that the Kennedy's are cursed. Senator Kennedy in his beautiful words of eulogy, gave support to this thinking when he said that his nephew -like John, Sr., his father - was not destined for long years. But it was John F. Kennedy, Jr. who chose of his own free will to fly his plane on that dark and foggy night. And it turned out to be a tragic mistake! I don't say this critically. Each and every one of us is constantly making choices. On occasions, we choose to drive when we're a little too tired. We usually get away with it, but some people don't. And some choose to drive too fast or take risks. We are constantly making choices. And once in a while there is a drastic price to pay for them.

Returning to the story of Rabbi Eliezer, the Talmud tells us that after much soul-searching, he realized he couldn't blame the planets, or fate or destiny for the conduct of his life. He melted in tears and said, "Ein hadavar taluee elah bi" - everything that has happened is the result of my own decisions. My handwriting is on all my deeds. With that confession, a voice from heaven proclaimed, "M'zuman hu l'chaye olam ha-ba - Rabbi Eliezer has now earned the right to a place in the world to come."

Rabbi Eliezer came to realize that "Ein hadavar taluee elah bi" - that everything that happened was the result of his own actions. Yet, there is another reality, a contradictory one. The truth is that not everything that happens to us is the result of our behavior. There are forces and events beyond our control. A deranged man goes into a church and shoots and kills teenagers and adults at prayer. That is a fate beyond one's control. Several years ago whenever I would exercise at the Mid Island Y, I would see a man in his thirties who was in great physical shape. He was lean and mean and obviously worked out vigorously and carefully watched what he ate. Then a long span of time elapsed and I didn't see him. I learned that he had contracted cancer and had died within months. Why? He did everything right. Of course, you could respond, echoing traditional theology, that his illness was a punishment for some serious sin that was not obvious to a mere acquaintance like me. But do you really believe that people who get a terminal illness suffer because they have sinned - that this is God's way of punishing them? I think not. Look to the second paragraph of Unetaneh Tokef. It reminds us, "Who shall live and who shall die, me yihye u'me lo yihye, who shall prosper and who shall fail, me yaroom ume yishafel," is on occasions determined by erratic forces we cannot master.

The Unetaneh Tokef prayer speaks, then, of two different situations. Its first paragraph reminds us that in great measure, it is our own behavior that determines what rewards and punishments come our way. "Ein hadavar talu elah bi." If we are too lazy or obstinate to put on our seat belt, we may well die or be serious injured in an accident from which we would have emerged unscathed had we strapped ourselves in. On the other hand, sometimes our fate is out of our hands. We can be a cautious driver and secured by our seat belt but if a drunk driver plows his RV into our little Neon, our caution and safeguards are to no avail.

Understood in this way, Unetaneh Tokef is a profound prayer that accurately reflects our experience of life. Sometimes things happen to us - good and bad - for which we are solely responsible. But there are others things - bad and some good - that come our way - despite what we do or deserve.

Where we get into trouble - spiritually and morally - is when we get these two realms mixed up, attributing to fate and forces beyond our control what, in reality, is the consequence of our own actions and decisions. By failing to see the mark of our own handwriting in what is happening to us, by seeing ourselves as victims of circumstances instead of partners and accomplices in creating them, we let ourselves off the hook too easily. More significantly, because of our self-delusion, we deny ourselves the benefit of teshuva, of repentance. We deprive ourselves of its power to change our behavior and thereby create a more rewarding and fulfilling life.

Let me give an illistration. When, I will see a child in our Hebrew School sitting in the hall, frequently, I will ask the child to come into my office and tell me what happened. Usually, the story is the same. I wasn't doing anything wrong, but everyone else was. Yet, the teacher picked on me.

Now it could be that the teacher unfairly chastised the child, and I am careful to tell the child I am sorry if this is what, in fact, happened. However, upon investigating these incidents, I have found that only on rare occasions has an injustice been perpetrated. Most often the youngster is minimally an accomplice to the deed but is unwilling to own up to it. I see my roll as helping this child understand this. I might say, "Why do you think your teacher suspected you were involved? Over the course of the year, have your actions been such that your teacher might have properly assumed you were part of the group responsible for the problem? You know that as long as you regard yourself as a victim, you are not going to learn from this experience and grow into a better person. Why don't you try changing your behavior so that in the future you will be an unlikely candidate for suspicion? My friend, your fate in the classroom is in your hands.

Another example. It is no secret that after Yom Kippur, our custodians are going to put all the chairs in the back two-thirds of the room away until next Rosh Hashanah, because the rest of the year we won't need that many chairs for our services - not for Succot that arrives in five days, nor for Shabbat that comes every week. On any of these occasions, there is no need to look at the cantor and me on the TV monitors over there. Plenty of seats are available right up front in the main sanctuary. You don't even have to come early. Just come.

But the vast majority of you have decided that while Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are important to you, during the rest of the year, the synagogue and Jewish traditions will be marginal to your lives.

Some of your lack of involvement is my fault, the cantor's fault, the synagogue leadership's fault. We haven't yet succeeded in making Judaism compelling enough - not the part that happens in the synagogue building and not the part that should happen in your home. We haven't been able to convince you that the existential questions you have about life find answers in our worship and in the study of our sacred texts. We haven't been able to convince you that Jewish practices bring what should be a welcomed spirituality into your home. We have let you down and I admit it, even though we really try very hard to present Judaism in a way that is meaningful and compelling.

On the other hand, you have let us down, too. So often you act like detached consumers of Judaism rather than as eager partners in producing a spiritually satisfying Jewish way of life. Instead of wanting earnestly to create a synagogue of excellence, you have sought to have standards that demand as little as possible. Not infrequently, you have been takers instead of givers, allowing the work to be done by too few volunteers and then complaining that it isn't being done well. So your handwriting - along with mine and that of the synagogue leadership - are found together on the list of our failures. And once all of us admit our culpability, we can take control of our synagogue's destiny. The truth is that we have to see the synagogue as a place where each of us must contribute our own particular gifts. Because with our combined talents - and only with all of them, can we make the Woodbury Jewish Center a synagogue of excellence.

There is much in life - more than we readily admit to - over which we have control. We have to recognize that we are in the drivers seat and we have to accept responsibility for steering in the direction we have set. And once we do, we are the ones who ultimately benefit. This point is powerfully made in an unlikely place - an article that appeared several years ago on people with spinal cord injuries. The authors found that the patients who did best at physical therapy were those who had caused their own injuries, for example, by falling asleep at the wheel of a car, by diving into the shallow end of the swimming pool or by carelessly falling off a ladder. They fared far better than patients who were innocent victims of someone else's mistake. The authors' proposed explanation is that people who are victims of other people actions feel powerless. Somebody had gotten them into this mess and somebody had better get them out of it. But those who held themselves responsible for their predicament felt that they also had the power to do something to remedy it.

My friends, the purpose of Yom Kippur is to bring home the truth that we have power over our lives. Because as long as we insist on seeing ourselves as victims, as long as we persist in assigning the cause of our problems to others, we place our well-being and our happiness in other people's hands. Only when we accept part of the responsibility, only when we recognize our own handwriting somewhere on the record, can we take control of our lives and hope to experience change that will result in our happiness and contentment. This self-awareness helps us in so many ways. It enables us to realize that if our marriage is to be better, it is not just my spouse who has to change. I have to change too. If my health is going to improve, it will not happen only because God listens to my prayers or because I am hoping that by the time I get really bad, medicine will have discovered a cure. It will be because I take upon myself a healthy life style. If I want my relationship with my estranged sister or brother to be healed, I can't just sit back with my hands folded and wait until they decided to say "I'm sorry." It will happen because I took the initiative and deliberately created an opportunity for healing to begin. If I want my synagogue to have more activities or perform better those it is already engaged in, I can't just wait around for someone else to do it. I need to get involved myself. This is the self-knowledge I hope we can all come to through our experience in the synagogue this holy day. And if we do, when we leave the synagogue at Yom Kippur's conclusion, we will not feel helpless about our problems and the things we know are wrong. Rather we will take control of our lives and meet the challenges of living it in a healthy, honest, caring and loving way.

L'shana tova. Have a good new year and may God bless you.