Yom Kippur 5773

Rabbi YY Jacobson

• September 4, 2012
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• 17 Elul 5772
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  Yom Kippur Insights

  13 Yom Kippur Insights

  Rabbi YY Jacobson

  • September 4, 2012

  Index:

  1.     Why Do We Pound Our Hearts? Jewish Defibrillation

  2.     Ashamnu, We Sinned—G-d Is Also in “Trouble”

  3.     Why Did G-d Create Sleep? What a Waste of Time!

  4.     Connecting to Loved Ones Who Died

  5.     A Nation of Memory

  6.     Avinu Malkenu and the Power of Forgiveness

  7.     Never Let Hope Die

  8.     What Does It Take to Tip the Scale? The Rabbi Who Always Said Hello to the German

  9.     The Mouse Trap: It Affects All of Us

  10.                       Don’t Play Dumb

  11.                       The Courage to Be Real

  12.                       How Much Can We Talk About Out Guilt? Enough Already!

  13.                       Look to the Door

   

  1. Jewish Defibrillation

  Ashamanu… Al Chete

  Human gestures are almost always ambiguous. A man with hands raised toward the sky could be praying, cheering, or the victim of a hold up. Without the context and the intention, one cannot know.

  So what are we doing when we beat our chests in the confessional prayers of Yom Kippur? Is it self-punishment, an attempt through a long day to keep ourselves awake akin to slapping one’s own face, or perhaps checking to see if our heart is beating?

  It is a profound symbolic attempt to jump-start our hearts. Moving through the world each day we sometimes shut down our feelings. The world is so crowded, with so many stories competing for our attention, with the rapid succession of news, that callousness is a frequent response to the sadness and joy of life. Yom Kippur is a chance to stop. We beat our hearts because they have grown sluggish from the fray. The Al Chet is a Jewish defibrillator. A few good, sharp knocks to the chest gets the heart sensitized anew.

  On Yom Kippur we repent of what we have done, but is it a stretch to say we also repent for what we have not felt? The joys and pains in the world should touch us and move our hearts. Remember when you were a child, you got excited about things. Then we become cynical and sluggish. So we strike our heart, in the hope that it will beat more powerfully and passionately in the year ahead. We want to try to be a little less self-absorbed, our hearts more open and receptive.

  A man is in court. The Judges says, "On the 3rd August you are accused of killing your wife with a hammer, how do you plead?"

  "Guilty", said the man in the dock.

  At this point a man at the back of the court stood up and shouted "You dirty rat!" The Judge asked the man to sit down and to refrain from making any noise.

  The Judge continued "and that also on the 17th September you are accused of killing your son by beating him to death with a hammer, how do you plead"?

  "Guilty", said the man in the dock.

  Again the same man at the back stood up and shouted even louder, "You dirty rotten stinking rat"!!

  At this point the Judge called the man to the bench and said, "I have already asked you to be quiet, if you continue with these outbursts, I will have to charge you with contempt of court. I can understand your feelings, but what relationship do you have to this man?"

  He replied "He is my next door neighbor.”

  The Judge replied, "I can understand your feelings then, but you must refrain from any comments".

  The man replied "NO, Your Honor, you don't understand.

  Twice I have asked if I could borrow a hammer, and BOTH TIMES he said he didn't have one"!

  But we know that our hearts are capable of beating with kindness and integrity. It just needs a little “kalp.”

  2. We have Sinned—G-d Is Also In “Trouble”

  Ashamanu, Bagadnu… Al Chete Shechatanu…

  Throughout Yom Kippur, we confess in the plural. “Ashamnu, Bagadnu, Gazalnu…” We have sinned, we have betrayed, we have stolen. “Al Chete Shechatanu Lefancecha…” For the sin we have sinned before You.

  But the essence of confession and remorse is to own up to your mistake and not blame other people. Why then are we confessing in the plural?

  Imagine you come to your 12 step meeting for AA. And when it is your turn to speak, you say: “We are addicted, we have not been sober for 3 years, we have lied, we have deceived, we have abused, we have insulted…” The sponsor therapist will likely correct you and explain to you that the prerequisite for recovery is for you to say: I am an addict; I have not been sober, I have lied…” Stop blaming the world. Yet in all of our confessions, we are speaking  in plural language.

  There are three answers for this (you can of course share only one):

  1) All of our people are compared to limbs of “one body.” When one limb does something counterproductive, it affects the entire organism.  That is why even great tzaddikim say the confessions: Because we are all one, what you do matters to me and affects me; what I do has an impact on you. When we say, “we have sinned,” it is not coming to absolve the guilt, but to highlight the sense of responsibility that I carry, knowing the influence of all my actions. [1]

  2) The say that chutzpah is coming to a psychiatrist because you have a split personality and then asking for a group discount… “We have sinned” underscores the Torah perspective that we are not made up of “one piece,” but that we have an inherent dichotomy in us. The confession is intended to remind us how many impulses, ideas — how many selves — we truly are.

  We must appreciate the inconsistency of personality. The same individual can be heroic one minute and craven the next. We experience this when watching a movie or reading a book; now we identify with the hero, now the villain, now the bystander. The great Polish poet Czeslaw Milosz wrote that the purpose of poetry is to remind us how hard it is to remain just one person.

  We cohere in some loose way, of course. But it is a salutary reminder: In judging the limitations of others, remember how often you can be a stranger to yourself. Moses did not know that he harbored a hero until G-d called him; we are both mountains of dust and reflections of an infinite G-d.

  The soul of man, which is "literally a part of G-d above," "neither desires, nor is able, to separate itself from G-d and commit a sin. It is only a person's animal self -- the material and selfish drives which overlay his or her G-dly soul -- who might, at times, take control of his life and compel him to act in a manner that is completely at odds with his true self and will.

  Because the Torah perceives the superficiality of sin, it can guide the transgressor through a process by which he can undo the negative effects of his transgression--a process by which the transgressor recognizes the folly and self-destructiveness of his deed and reinstates his true, G-dly self as the sovereign of his life, and take control over his own animal self. As we confess, we declare that it is “one of us” talking, but “two of us talking.” There is a part of us that is essentially good, pure and holy.

  Jacob Greenberg was a tad meshugah and eventually was put in a mental hospital, where he insisted that as a religious Jew, he be served only kosher food.

  The director argued and pleaded with him, for it would mean preparing Greenberg's food apart from the other food, and having the kitchen overseen by a rabbi. It would entail great trouble and expense for the hospital and they were resistant, but Greenberg was adamant. Finally, after the second week of Greenberg's hunger strike, the hospital relented.

  Several weeks later, on a Saturday, the director noticed Greenberg deeply absorbed in a high stakes poker game, smoking a big, fat cigar, and eating Lobster.

  "Excuse me, Mr. Greenberg," the director said, somewhat angry. "I thought you were such a religious man that we had to prepare only kosher food for you, and how I see you smoking and gambling on your Sabbath, eating non-kosher? How do you account for this?"

  "You forget, doc… I'm mishugah!"

  3) The most daring interpretation was presented by Rabbi Pinchas of Koritz, a student of the Baal Shem Tov:

  As man stands before G-d and declares “WE have sinned,” he is actually saying: “WE—You and I, You G-d and I have sinned before You.” We are in this together. G-d, You know that even though I had a choice, but YOU are the one who put me into this family, who gave me certain proclivities, challenges to confront. YOU created the circumstances in my life which ultimately caused me down this or that path. You were the one who placed me in the environment where this happened. You are the one who allowed all of this to happen. So let’s face it. I am guilty. But we are in this together…[2]

  This is the most empowering component of confession. Because if G-d was “there” somewhat, it means there is a hidden spark in the sin, there is a redeemable element, there is some meaning, purpose and goodness that can be learnt from all this. So now let us “confess” and see how this experience can lead us to far greater moral and spiritual heights.

  And that may be one of the reasons we don’t say but sing the “Ashamnu.” Who ever heard of someone reciting confession with song? What is this? A musical? But the fact that we can say “Ashamnu,” WE have sinned together; G-d you are in this with me, I know that there is a song here, there is a poem here, this is part of a journey toward a new recovery and a new discovery.

  Essentially we are declaring: G-d, if You were here all the time, I know that there must be some “pony” in all of the manure.

  The Tenth Man

  This explains something very strange we talk about in the Yom Kippur service. It is the story of the “ten martyrs.”

  It is the second century CE. The Roman Emperor Hadrian summoned the Sages and inquired, “What is the law regarding one who kidnaps a person and sells him as a slave?” They answered, “According to Biblical law, the perpetrator should be put to death.” “If so,” the king exclaimed, “this punishment should have been meted out to the brothers who kidnapped Joseph and sold him into captivity, and now it is you who must bear the sin of your forefathers.”

  The martyring of the ten greatest Sages of Israel was done by the sadistic Romans as a supposed punishment for the brothers kidnapping and selling of Joseph.

  Yet something is amiss. When Josef was sold, only nine brothers were present (Reuben, the Toras states, was not present, he had returned home and Benjamin did not participate. So from the 12 brothers, only nine were left to sell Josef). Why were ten Sages killed?

  The Shalah (17^th century Rabbi Yeshaya Horowitz, Rabbi of Prague, Frankfurt and Jerusalem) saying something incredible. This is pure Kabbalah. According to the Midrash's account, the brothers decided they needed a “minyan” in order to sell Josef, so that brought G-d into the equation to make up for the missing one. They were so certain that they are doing the right thing, that it was no question in their mind that G-d was present with them. It was not nine but ten (counting G-d) who had cooperated in the kidnapping, and therefore ten Sages were killed.

  Now, commentaries ask why Rabbi Akiva was among the ten Sages killed since he was a descendant of converts and his ancestors had taken no part in the kidnapping? The answer given is that Rabbi Akiva was representing G-d, who participated in the kidnapping. Being that Rabbi Akiva was a child of converts, his “lineage” is traced directly to G-d, so he is the man who represented G-d in this entire story.[3]

  But what does all of this mean? If G-d was being “penalized,” what type of sin is this? The definition of sin is that it against the Divine will! Here again we are privy to that mystical idea, that “Ashamnu,” we both have sinned… G-d has been part of the process in some hidden way. And if that is the case, it means that the sin is not all sin. How not? Because somehow through the sin we can reach new spiritual heights.[4]

  3. A Refreshing Death

  “He arouses those who sleep” – Nishmas prayer.

  "The shipmaster approached him, and said to him, 'How can you sleep so soundly? Arise! Call to your G-d! Perhaps G-d will think of us that we perish not!'” – Maftir Yonah.

  My daily thought: I am so busy. If only I had more hours in my day, I could achieve so much more. Make so much more money. Be so much more successful. Spend more time with my loved ones. Catch up on all my old duties.

  Well, I do have many more hours in my day in which I do virtually nothing. There is only one problem: They are my sleeping hours, and I need sleep.

  Bummer.

  Every day, some 51,000,000,000 man-hours are literally slept down the drain.

  That's 7 billion individuals, each sleeping an average of 7.2 hours every calendar day. One might argue that slumbered time is our most wasted resource.

  Indeed, why spend 25 to 30 percent of our lives doing nothing but sleeping? Why sleep?

  To many of the planet's sleepers, this may seem a pointless question. Why sleep? Because our body demands it of us. Because that is how we are physiologically constructed: We require so many hours of rest each day in order to function. But to the Jew, there are no pointless questions. If G-d created us a certain way, there is a reason. He could just as easily have created us without the need for sleep, so that every moment of our lives could be put to constructive use. Or, if sleep is so delicious, He could have made our bodies need one hour of sleep. If our active hours must always be preceded by the minor death of sleep, there is a lesson here, a truth that is fundamental to the nature of human achievement. Sleeping, in other words, is essential to living. Why?

  I will share with you an incredible insight I heard from the Lubavitcher Rebbe, in the summer of 1990. [5]

  An intrinsic fact of life is growth. In the first two decades of life, our growth is real and tangible; we daily gain knowledge and experience. We can even gage our growth by inches of height gained per year or by the steady maturing of our bodies. But growth is really a lifetime endeavor. There is no stasis in life: that the mind that ceases to learn, forgets what it has learned in the past; the heart that ceases to develop new feelings, atrophies emotionally. That is true in every area of life, one who ceases to progress, regresses.

  Anecdote: The Meaning of Life

  On the first day, God created the dog and said: “Sit all day by the door of your house and bark at anyone who comes in or walks past. For this, I will give you a life span of twenty years.”

  The dog said: “That’s a long time to be barking. How about only ten years and I’ll give you back the other ten?”

  So God agreed.

  On the second day, God created the monkey and said: “Entertain people, do tricks, and make them laugh. For this, I’ll give you a twenty-year life span.”

  The monkey said: “Monkey tricks for twenty years? That’s a pretty long time to perform. How about I give you back ten like the dog did?”

  And God agreed.

  On the third day, God created the cow and said:”You must go into the field with the farmer all day long and suffer under the sun, have calves and give milk to support the farmer’s family For this, I will give you a life span of sixty Years.”

  The cow said: “That’s kind of a tough life you want me to live for sixty years. How about twenty and I’ll give back the other forty?”

  And God agreed again.

  On the fourth day, God created man and said: “Eat, sleep, play, marry and enjoy your life. For this, I’ll give you twenty years.”

  But man said: “Only twenty years? Could you possibly give me my twenty, the forty the cow gave back, the ten the monkey gave back, and the ten the dog gave back; that makes eighty, okay?”

  “Okay,” said God, “You asked for it.”

  So that is why for our first twenty years we eat, sleep, play and enjoy ourselves. For the next forty years we slave in the sun to support our family. For the next ten years we do monkey tricks to entertain the grandchildren. And for the last ten years we sit on the front porch and bark at everyone.

  Two Types of Growth

  However, there are two types of growing. One growth is a progressional growth, a growth in which each gain is based upon, and is proportional to, our past achievements. Here the past develops into the future, improving and perfecting itself in the process. The revenue of my company has been so and so this year; next year it will increase by ten percent, and so forth.

  But there also exists another type of growth—a growth that is a complete departure from the past. A growth that is a leap upward for something that is beyond relation to all that has been previously achieved. Sometimes in life you have to take a leap into the unknown. It is scary and vulnerable, but it is the only chance for true wild growth. This is true financially, psychologically and spiritually. We have the capacity to not only improve but also to take a leap into a new reality. To open a new chapter in life that is neither predicted nor enabled by what we did and were up until now. To free ourselves of yesterday's constraints and build a new, recreated self and a new recreated destiny.

  This is why G-d wants us to sleep for so long each night. This is what the void of sleep contributes to our lives. If we didn't sleep, there would be no tomorrow—life would be a single, seamless “today.” If we didn't sleep, our every thought and deed would be an outgrowth of all our previous thoughts and deeds. There would be no new beginnings in our lives, for the very concept of a “new beginning” would be utterly alien to us. If we did not experience the obliterating passivity of sleep, we could not possibly conceive of a break from the past. All of our life would be about “continuing the past.”

  Because we sleep, we are accorded what is perhaps the greatest gift of life: morning.

  A survivor of Auschwitz once related this personal experience:

  “Every morning, as the sun rose over Auschwitz, my heart would swell with anger over the sun. How can the sun be so indifferent to the suffering of millions and just rise again to cast its warm glow on a world drenched in the blood of the purest and holiest people? How can the sun be so cruel and apathetic? Why can’t the “sun” just die, and let night reign forever?  How can the sun shine in such darkness?

  “But I survived. I came out of the hell. And the day after liberation, as I lie in a bed for the first time in years, I watched the sun rise. And for the first time, I felt so grateful to the sun… I felt empowered that after the long night, which seemed to never end, light has arrived.”

  That is why we need to sleep for so many hours. Sleep teaches us that there is something called “a new day,” and what is more, sleep allows us to begin every day anew as though this was our first day in the world.

  New Clothes

  This captures the core of Yom Kippur.

  The High Priest had a special set of garments he donned only on Yom Kippur, made of linen. It was unlike the garments he wore all year around, woven of gold.

  Yet there is an intriguing law: You could not wear garments used last Yom Kippur. For each Yom Kippur they had to make for the Kohen Gadol a new set of garments.

  This is strange: The garments he put on all year, can be used for many years till they whither. Yet the Yom Kippur garments which are used only one day a year must be put away for eternity? The logic is counterintuitive.

  The answer captures the essence of Yom Kippur: renewal. We often become addicted to our limitations. We get stuck in the quagmire of resentment, grudges, hate, misery, insecurity, envy, bad habits, addictions, fear, guilt, shame and the belief that we are worthless.

  We must discover the power of our soul, a fragment of Divinity, an infinite source of light, inspiration, confidence, hope and goodness. The soul, just like its source, is capable of self transformation and true renewal. I have the power to recreate myself. Yom Kippur I can become a new person. Even my garments are totally new. They are not a continuation of last year. That is why on this day the High Priest cannot wear garments of old.[6]

  Beginning Again

  In his book of memoirs “All the Rivers Run to the Sea,” Noble Prize Laurite and Auschwitz survivor Elie Wiesel tells the following episode:

  "At my first visit to the the Rebbe's] court [at 770 Eastern Parkway] ... I had informed him at the outset that I was a Chasid of Vishnitz, not Lubavitch, and that I had no intention of switching allegiance.

  “The important thing is to be a chasid,” he replied. “It matters little whose.”

  "One year, during Simchas Torah, I visited Lubavitch, as was my custom... “Welcome,” he said. “It's nice of a chasid of Vishnitz to come and greet us in Lubavitch. But is this how they celebrate Simchas Torah in Vishnitz?”

  “Rebbe,” I said faintly, “we are not in Vishnitz, but in Lubavitch.”

  “Then do as we do in Lubavitch,” he said.

  “And what do you do in Lubavitch?"

  "In Lubavitch we say lechayim.”

  “In Vishnitz, too.”

  “Very well. Then say lechayim.”

  “He handed me a glass filled to the brim with vodka.

  'Rebbe,' I said, 'in Vishnitz a hasid does not drink alone.'

  'Nor in Lubavitch,' the Rebbe replied.

  He emptied his glass in one gulp. I followed suit.

  'Is one enough in Vishnitz?' the Rebbe asked.

  'In Vishnitz,' I said bravely, 'one is but a drop in the sea.'

  'In Lubavitch as well.'

  He handed me a second glass and refilled his own. He said lechaim, I replied lechaim, and we emptied our glasses.

  'You deserve a brocha,' he said, his face beaming with happiness. 'Name it.'

  I wasn't sure what to say.

  Let me bless you so you can begin again' 'Yes, Rebbe,' I said.

  'Give me your brocha.'

  And the Rebbe blessed Eli Wiesel to begin his life again… the man who was still etched in the horrors of “Night” (the name of his first book), where he saw the most horrific sights of what the human eye can endure, the individual who refused to marry and have children feeling that it is unfair to bring Jewish children into the world lest they suffer as he did; -- this person rebuilt his life from the ashes creating not only a family, but becoming a spokesman for hope and conscience the world over.

   On the day of his son’s bris, friends sent gifts. “But the most moving gift came from an unexpected place,” he told. It was a beautiful bouquet of flowers sent from the Rebbe. I guess it represented his blessings for a life started over again, blossoming like a beautiful, fresh flower.

  Albert Einstein was considered the greatest mind of the 20^th century, although it is reported that his wife, in speaking of him, would say: “What does he know?”  But he knew a lot!  And he came up with a definition of insanity that has become immortalized.  It was Einstein who reportedly said: “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.”

  Yom Kippur we decide to begin a new day, to open a new chapter, to do at least ONE thing differently. 

  4. Yizkor: Connecting to Our Loved Ones Who died

  Let me tell you a story, one that was shared by Mildred Hondorf, a former elementary school music teacher from De Moines, Iowa.

  “I've always supplemented my income by teaching piano lessons-something I've done for over 30 years. Over the years I found that children have many levels of musical ability.

  “I've never had the pleasure of having a protégé though I have taught some talented students. However I've also had my share of what I call ‘musically challenged’ pupils. One such student was Robby.

  “Robby was 11 years old when his mother (a single mom) dropped him off for his first piano lesson. I prefer that students (especially boys!) begin at an earlier age, which I explained to Robby. But Robby said that it had always been his mother's dream to hear him play the piano. So I took him as a student.

  “Well, Robby began with his piano lessons and from the beginning I thought it was a hopeless endeavor. As much as Robby tried, he lacked the sense of tone and basic rhythm needed to excel. But he dutifully reviewed his scales and some elementary pieces that I require all my students to learn. Over the months he tried and tried while I listened and cringed and tried to encourage him. At the end of each weekly lesson he'd always say, "My mom's going to hear me play some day." But it seemed hopeless. He just did not have any inborn ability.

  “I only knew his mother from a distance as she dropped Robby off or waited in her aged car to pick him up. She always waved and smiled but never stopped in.

  “Then one day Robby stopped coming to our lessons. I thought about calling him but assumed, because of his lack of ability, that he had decided to pursue something else. I also was glad that he stopped coming. He was a bad advertisement for my teaching!

  “Several weeks later I mailed to the student's homes a flyer on the upcoming recital. To my surprise Robby (who received a flyer) asked me if he could be in the recital. I told him that the recital was for current pupils and because he had dropped out he really did not qualify. He said that his mom had been sick and unable to take him to piano lessons but he was still practicing. "Miss Hondorf...I've just got to play!" he insisted. I don't know what led me to allow him to play in the recital. Maybe it was his persistence or maybe it was something inside of me saying that it would be all right.

  “The night for the recital came. The high school gymnasium was packed with parents, friends and relatives. I put Robby up last in the program before I was to come up and thank all the students and play a finishing piece. I thought that any damage he would do would come at the end of the program and I could always salvage his poor performance through my curtain closer."

  “Well the recital went off without a hitch. The students had been practicing and it showed. Then Robby came up on stage. His clothes were wrinkled and his hair looked like he' run an eggbeater through it. "Why didn't he dress up like the other students?" I thought. "Why didn't his mother at least make him comb his hair for this special night?"

  “Robby pulled out the piano bench and he began. I was surprised when he announced that he had chosen Mozart's Concerto #21 in C Major. I was not prepared for what I heard next. His fingers were light on the keys; they even danced nimbly on the ivories. He went from pianissimo to fortissimo...from allegro to virtuoso. His suspended chords that Mozart demands were magnificent! Never had I heard Mozart played so well by people his age. After six and a half minutes he ended in a grand crescendo and everyone was on his or her feet in wild applause.

  “Overcome and in tears I ran up on stage and put my arms around Robby in joy. "I've never heard you play like that Robby! How'd you do it?" Through the microphone Robby explained: "Well Miss Hondorf...remember I told you my mom was sick? Well actually she had cancer and passed away this morning. And well.... she was born deaf so tonight was the first time she ever heard me play. I wanted to make it special."

  “There wasn't a dry eye in the house that evening. As the people from Social Services led Robby from the stage to be placed into foster care, I noticed that even their eyes were red and puffy and I thought to myself how much richer my life had been for taking Robby as my pupil. No, I've never had a protage but that night I became a protage...of Robby's.

  “He was the teacher and I was the pupil. For it is he that taught me the meaning of perseverance and love and believing in yourself and maybe even taking a chance in someone and you don't know why.”

  You see, Robbie “saw that which is usually heard:” Hew knew very clearly that his deaf Mom would indeed “shep nachas” from his playing the piano for the first time in her life…

  Mrs. Hondorf concluded the story:

  “This story is especially meaningful to me since Robby was drafted to the first war in Iraq, known as Desert Storm, in 1991. Robby, an extraordinary pianist, returned from Iraq safe and secure.

  Then, in one bright April day, Robby found himself in the Federal Building in Downtown Oklahoma City. Robby was playing the piano for the beautiful children when suddenly a bomb was detonated. It was The Oklahoma City bombing on April 19, 1995, which claimed 168 lives, including 19 children under the age of 6, and injured more than 680 people. Robby was among the victims. As he was playing the piano, his breathed his last breath and joined his mother in heaven, playing music that our eyes cannot see and our ears cannot hear…

  The After Life

  We are sometimes reluctant to talk about it, but it is absolutely central to our religion. Belief in an afterlife is essential to Jewish theology. Perhaps words like “resurrection” and “a world to come” rub against the grain of our modern rational sensibilities.  Perhaps generations of proselytizing has made these words seem – what my grandfather called – “goyishe.” But the truth is that Judaism believes that we are not only bodies; we are also souls. Our body is only a vehicle for our soul. And a soul never dies. Illness, disease, old age, or fire, can harm a body but can’t destroy a soul.

  Many of us yearn for a relationship with our loved ones who have passed on.  That yearning I witnessed at the bedside of so many patients doesn’t go away.  Now as a congregational rabbi I see another side of it.  I see that yearning in the eyes of so many of you when you are sitting shiva, or marking a yahrzeit… I see it in the eyes of many of you today, as we prepare to say Yizkor.  We cannot know exactly what happens to us when we die, but we do know that that the relationship with our loved ones does not end with their departure from this world.

  Optional: The Mind Vs. the Brain

  Dr. Scot Haig is an assistant clinical professor of orthopedic surgery at the Columbia University College of Physicians and Surgeons. In the Jan 29, 2007 issue of Time magazine, he wrote a powerful story that occurred with his patient:

  David's head was literally stuffed with lung cancer… His seeming nonchalance about the pain and the surgery was clearly out of concern for his beautiful, young family--his wife Carol, a nurse, and his three kids, who were there every night… When his doctors rescanned his head, there was barely any brain left. The cerebral machine that talked and wondered, winked and sang, the machine that remembered jokes and birthdays and where the big fish hid on hot days, was nearly gone, replaced by lumps of haphazardly growing gray stuff. Gone with that machine seemed David as well. No expression, no response to anything we did to him. As far as I could tell, he was just not there.

  It was particularly bad in the room that Friday when I made evening rounds. The family was there, sad, crying faces on all of them… it was his last night on earth.

  But something happened: “He woke up, and said goodbye to the entire family. He talked to them and patted them and smiled for about five minutes. Then he went out again, and he passed in the hour.”

  The doctor explains in Time magazine: “But it wasn't David's brain that woke him up to say goodbye that Friday. His brain had already been destroyed. What woke my patient that Friday was simply his mind, forcing its way through a broken brain, a father's final act to comfort his family. The mind is a uniquely personal domain of thought, dreams and countless other things, like the will, faith and hope. These fine things are as real as rocks and water but, like the mind, weightless and invisible, maybe even timeless. Material science shies from these things, calling them epiphenomena, programs running on a computer, tunes on a piano. This understanding can't be ignored; not too much seems to get done on earth without a physical brain. But I know this understanding is not complete, either.

  “I see the mind have its way all the time when physical realities challenge it. In a patient stubbornly working to rehab after surgery, in a child practicing an instrument or struggling to create, a mind or will, clearly separate, hovers under the machinery, forcing it toward a goal. It's wonderful to see, such tangible evidence of that fine thing's power over the mere clumps of particles that, however pretty, will eventually clump differently and vanish.

  “Neuroanatomy is largely concerned with which spots in the brain do what; which chemicals have which effects at those spots is neurophysiology. Plan on feeding those chemicals to a real person's brain, and you're doing neuropharmacology. Although they are concerned with myriad, complex, amazing things, none of these disciplines seem to find the mind. Somehow it's "smaller" than the tracts, ganglia and nuclei of the brain's gross anatomy--but "bigger" than the cells and molecules of the brain's physiology. We really should have bumped into it on the way down. Yet we have not. Like our own image in still water, however sharp, when we reach to grasp it, it just dissolves.

  “But many think the mind is only in there--existing somehow in the physical relationship of the brain's physical elements. The physical, say these materialists, is all there is. I fix bones with hardware. As physical as this might be, I cannot be a materialist. I cannot ignore the internal evidence of my own mind. It would be hypocritical. And worse, it would be cowardly to ignore those occasional appearances of the spirits of others--of minds uncloaked, in naked virtue, like David's goodbye.”

  End of optional section

  Connecting

  In a few moments we will begin Yizkor.  The Kabbalah teaches that the soul of our loved ones enter into the shul during yizkor, which is why people who don’t say yizkor leave the shul. It is not a place for them. I’m going to invite you to have a conversation with the loved ones you have come here to honor.  If you’re willing, I invite you to close your eyes, and take a few deep breaths… see yourself opening a door and walking into a familiar room. You feel safe, secure, at peace.  As you look around the room, you find an open chair and take a seat.  Sitting in the chair across from you is your loved one. Look into their eyes; see the details of their face that were once so familiar to you.  What do you want to say that you didn’t say when they were alive? Perhaps there is a question you never got a chance to ask.  Maybe you want to tell them about something important that has happened in your life this year.  Or perhaps you simply want to say thank you or I’m sorry or I miss you. Or I love you.

  And I invite you to take a moment to wait for a response.  Listen carefully.  While we say Yizkor, I invite you to linger with your loved one; and, as Yizkor comes to a close, see yourself safely exiting the room.  You return to this sanctuary knowing that by taking the time to remember and reconnect you have transformed an ordinary moment into a sacred encounter.  This is the gift and the power of Yizkor. 

  Remember the Living

  But as we say Yizkor, we must also remember to cherish those we still have with us here today.

  A man stopped at a flower shop to order some flowers to be wired to his mother who lived two hundred miles away.

  As he got out of his car he noticed a young girl sitting on the curb sobbing.

  He asked her what was wrong and she replied, "I wanted to buy a red rose for my mother.

  But I only have seventy-five cents, and a rose costs two dollars."

  The man smiled and said, "Come on in with me. I'll buy you a rose."

  He bought the little girl her rose and ordered his own mother's flowers.

  As they were leaving he offered the girl a ride home.

  She said, "Yes, please! You can take me to my mother."

  She directed him to a cemetery, where she placed the rose on a freshly dug grave.

  The man returned to the flower shop, canceled the wire order, picked up a bouquet and drove the two hundred miles to his mother's house.

  5. A Nation that Remembers

  “Mi Sheaanah L’Avraham Avinu…. Mi Sheaanah….” (Yom Kippur Maariv).

  Eileh Ezkerah… These I shall remember (Musaf Yom Kippur).

  At the exit to the Yad Vashem Holocaust Memorial in Jerusalem are engraved the words: “Forgetfulness leads to exile, while remembrance is the secret of redemption.”  We are the people that we are because of our memories. We remember vividly our past, and every Jew who ever lived. We know what our grandmother Sarah used to do 3700 years ago on Friday evenings; we recall what Moses did on Yom Kippur 3300 years ago.

  It was in 1937 when the handwriting was already on the wall regarding the future of the Jews in Europe that David ben Gurion appeared before the Peel Commission set up by the British who had the mandate over Palestine to allow the Jews of Europe to immigrate to Palestine.

  This is what he said:

  “300 years ago, there came to the New World a boat, and its name was the Mayflower. The Mayflower’s landing on Plymouth Rock was one of the great historical events in the history of England and in the history of America. But I would like to ask any Englishman sitting here on the commission, what day did the Mayflower leave port? What date was it? I’d like to ask the Americans: do they know what date the Mayflower left port in England? How many people were on the boat? Who were their leaders? What kind of food did they eat on the boat?

  “More than 3300 years ago, long before the Mayflower, our people left Egypt, and every Jew in the world, wherever he is, knows what day they left. And he knows what food they ate. And we still eat that food every anniversary. And we know who our leader was. And we sit down and tell the story to our children and grandchildren in order to guarantee that it will never be forgotten. And we say our two slogans: ‘Now we may be enslaved, but next year, we’ll be a free people.’

  “Now we are behind the Soviet Union and their prison. Now, we’re in Germany where Hitler is persecuting us. Now we’re scattered throughout the world, but next year, we’ll be in Jerusalem.”

  6. Our Father Our King & the Power of Forgiveness

  “Avinu Malkanu…” (Yom Kippur prayers)

  Avinu malkenu. Our father our king. It is one of the highlight prayers of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. You know who composed that prayer? Rabbi Akiva. The Talmud tells the story:[7]

  תענית כה, ב: שוב מעשה בר' אליעזר שירד לפני התיבה ואמר עשרים וארבע ברכות ולא נענה ירד רבי עקיבא אחריו ואמר אבינו מלכנו אין לנו מלך אלא אתה אבינו מלכנו למענך רחם עלינו וירדו גשמים. הוו מרנני רבנן. יצתה בת קול ואמרה לא מפני שזה גדול מזה אלא שזה מעביר על מדותיו וזה אינו מעביר על מדותיו.

  Once no rain fell in the Land of Israel. There was a drought. People were suffering. The rabbis ordained a fast. Rabbi Eliezer, a very distinguished rabbi and one of the greatest sages of the time, prayed 24 prayers but nothing happened. Then Rabbi Akiva stepped forward and said: Avinu malkenu, our father our king. Ein lanu melech ela atah. We have no king but you. Avinu Malkenu, have compassion on us for Your sake. And the rain fell.

  The Rabbis, says the Talmud, wondered why was Rabbi Eliezer not answered, and Rabbi Akiva was answered? What made the difference? They heard a voice which explained: It is not that Rabbi Akiva is greater than Rabbi Eliezer. Rather, it is one quality that Rabbi Akiva has which Rabbi Eliezer does not: Rabbi Akiva knew how to forgive those who wronged him. He could forgo his honor and put things in perspective. He knew how not to take himself too seriously, and tolerate the imperfections of other people.

  Often, in our own minds, we hear a remark from somebody and we built it up, we exaggerate it, to the point that it becomes a bone of contention.

  You know the story:

  A polish man moved to the USA and married an American Girl.

  Although his English was far from perfect, they got along very well. One day he rushed into a lawyer's office and asked him if he could arrange a divorce for him. The lawyer said that getting a divorce would depend on the circumstances, and asked him the following questions:

  Have you any grounds?

  Yes, an acre and half and a nice little home.

  No, I mean what is the foundation of this case?

  It is made of concrete.

  I don't think you understand, says the attorney.

  Does either of you have a real grudge?

  No, we have carport, and not need one.

  I mean what are your relations like?

  All my relations still in Poland.

  Is there any infidelity in your marriage?

  We have hi-fidelity stereo and good DVD player.

  Does your wife beat you up?

  No, I always wake up before her.

  Is your wife a nagger?

  No, she is white.

  Why do you want this divorce?

  She is going to kill me.

  What makes you think that?

  I got proof.

  What kind of proof?

  She is going to poison me.

  She buy a bottle at drugstore and put on shelf in bathroom.

  I can read, and it says:

  Polish Remover!

  Rabbi Akiva had that unique ability of overriding the instinctive emotion of anger, resentment and animosity.  He was not naïve and a push over. But he was large, grand, noble, royal, and very pure and good. When someone who forgives asks G-d for something, the response is different.

  A Walk through the Desert

  Two friends were walking through the desert. During some point of the journey they had an argument, and one friend insulted the other one. The one who got insulted was hurt, but without saying anything, wrote in the sand: TODAY MY BEST FRIEND INSULTED ME.

  They kept on walking until they found an oasis, where they decided to take a bath. The one who had been insulted got stuck in the mire and started drowning, but the friend saved him.

  After he recovered from the near drowning, he wrote on a stone: TODAY MY BEST FRIEND SAVED MY LIFE.

  The friend who had insulted and saved his best friend asked him, "After I hurt you, you wrote in the sand and now, you write on a stone, why?"

  The other friend replied "When someone hurts us we should write it down in sand where winds of forgiveness can erase it away. But, when someone does something good for us, we must engrave it in stone where no wind can ever erase it."

  A Bundle of Sticks

  A father had a family of sons who were perpetually quarreling among themselves. When he failed to heal their disputes by his exhortations, he determined to give them a practical illustration of the evils of disunion; and for this purpose he one day told them to bring him a bundle of sticks.

  When they had done so, he placed the faggot into the hands of each of them in succession, and ordered them to break it in pieces. They tried with all their strength, and were not able to do it. He next opened the faggot, took the sticks separately, one by one, and again put them into his sons’ hands, upon which they broke them easily.

  He then addressed them in these words: “My sons, if you are of one mind, and unite to assist each other, you will be as this faggot, uninjured by all the attempts of your enemies; but if you are divided among yourselves, you will be broken as easily as these sticks.”

  We are all G-d’s children. United we must always stand.

  7. The Power of Hope

  “Vetikvah Tovah Ledorshecha…” Give hope to those who search for You (All Amidah prayers of Yom Kippur).

  “Al Tashlechanu Leas Ziknah…” Don’t cast us away as we get old” (Shma Kolanu in all of prayers of Yom Kippur).

  Why would G-d cast us away when we get old? Literally, it is a prayer that as we get older we should still retain our dignity, our senses, our sense of self and inner nobility. But why is this a universal prayer said by young and old alike? This should be a special prayer for seniors.

  A story:

  Rabbi Hugo Gryn. Hugo Gryn (1930-1996), was a Holocaust survivor, a community leader, educator and broadcaster for the BBC, was born in Berehovo, Czechoslovakia in a home filled with great warmth.

  Hugo Gryn was 13 years old when he, among 10,000  Jews confined to the Berehovo ghetto in April 1944. All were sent to Auschwitz  on May 28, 1944. 

  He and his father were sent to work; his brother and grandfather were sent to the gas chambers.

  Hugo Gryn and his father, together with 2,600 Jews were later sent to the death march from the Lieberose camp to Mauthausen. Less than a thousand survived that march. Hugo was freed in on May 4, 1945, but his father died a few days later from typhus and exhaustion.

  Rabbi Gryn once related:  When I was a young boy my family was sent to Auschwitz. For a while my father and I shared a barrack.

  In spite of the unspeakable horror, oppression and hardship, many Jews held onto what scraps of Jewish religious observance as they were able.

  One midwinter evening one of the inmates reminded us that tonight was the first night of Chanukah, the festival of lights. My father constructed a little Chanukah menorah out of scrap metal. For a wick, he took some threads from his prison uniform.

  For oil, he used some butter that he somehow obtained from a guard.

  Such observances were strictly “verboten,” but we were used to taking risks.

  Rather, I protested at the “waste” of precious calories. Would it not be better to share the butter on a crust of bread than burn it?

  “Hugo,” said my father, “both you and I know that a person can live a very long time without food. But Hugo, I tell you, a person cannot live a single day without hope. This Menorah is the fire of hope. Never let it go out. Not here. Not anywhere. Remember that Hugo.”

  Judaism always understood: What oxygen is to the lungs, such is hope to the meaning of life. A Chassid once said: If you lose money, you have lost nothing. Money comes, money goes. If you have lost health, you lost have half of your existence: your body, not your soul. But if you lost hope, then you have lost everything.

  Now the nature of life is, when you are young you hope too much. But when you are old, you often hope too little. You become cynical and hopeless. You have been around the block too many times…

  This is what we ask G-d: Don’t cast us away in our old age. Even as we are young, we can become old in the sense that we give up on life; we give up on our selves; we give up on our marriage, on our children, on our success, on our Judaism, on our happiness, on our becoming something special.

  G-d, we plead, do not let the fire of hope die within me.

  8. The Power of a Hello

  “Uteshuvah Utefilsh Utzedakah…” (Unesana Tokef.)

  The zodiac (constellation of stars associated with each month) of the month of Tishrei is  Moznaim/Libra/Scales. This is fascinating because it is during this month that our actions are put on a “scale” and measured, the good vs. the bad. We are judged for the year to come.

  But there is something very profound about the metaphor of a scale.

  Permit me to share a story which occurred during the Nazi’s bottomless pit; a time when mere men substituted G-d’s scales with a mere flick of the hand: to the right was life and to the left were gas chambers.

  In a queue waiting to step up to the scales of death was an older Jew, a Rabbi Rabinovitz, who understood well that his frail frame would serve no use to these sadistic beasts. He knew that his scale should tip to the left.

  Before the war, before this madness Rabbi Rabinovitz enjoyed a tranquil life with his non Jewish neighbors in Germany. In fact the Rabbi was maddeningly polite and would always greet his younger neighbor Herr Muller with a smile and a tip of the hat.

  “Good morning Herr Muller”! He would say, and Muller would respond with a “good morning herr Rabbiner!” He was proud that the Jewish Rabbi paid him such deference.

  But then the madness began and suddenly there were no friends for the Jews and then there were no neighbors and now, now there was a queue for a scale that inevitably tipped left. As the Rabbi approached the scale, he dared to look up into the eyes of the angel of death. Suddenly he stood up straight, doffed his hat and quietly, imperceptibly, said, “good morning Herr Muller”! The scale froze and then very quietly it said: “Good morning herr rabiner” and (make with the hands) tipped right.

  Rabbi Rabinovitz survived the war.

  One deed! Whether it’s an expression of concern or a polite greeting—one deed can save worlds. And that is the idea of a scale. What tips the scale in one or the other direction is not a heavy weight; it is the tiniest item that can serve as the “tipping point.”

  Thus, Maimonides states, that Judaism teaches that one deed, one word, one thought can tip the scale not only of an individual but of the world. Real change isn’t born out of dramatic expressions of piety, nor out of the womb of extraordinary events. Change doesn’t come through overwhelming life experiences. You can’t force the scales of Yom Kippur to tip; you simply have to gently apply the pressure of change. It’s the little things that make a big difference. Your one deed, resolved sincerely on the path of growth, can fuel an epidemic of change that tip the scales in your favor.

  I want to ask you to think of one good deed that you can add to your life during the new year. One Mitzvah, one action of goodness and holiness that will become your resolution for this new-year.

  The Security Guard

  I heard the following story from Rabbi Shlomo Gestetner:

  The black security guard at a major slaughter house in Johannesburg, welcomed the sound of jangling keys, as it signaled lockup time at the plant, the end of a long and tiring workday.

  Out of the building came 60 shochatim, a group of religious bearded Jews from Israel who came to “shect” (to prepare kosher animals for consumption) in South Africa for a few months. The meat would then be frozen and sent to Israel. They would come in each morning at dawn and engage in slaughtering till early afternoon when they would return to their lodgings.

  One day, as they were about to depart, the African black guard tells the head of the group, known as the “Rosh,” that “one rabbi was still inside somewhere. He never came out. What happened to him?”

  The head of the group went off to search for the missing rabbi, but shortly later he returned alone.

  “Sir, I am positive he’s in there somewhere,” the security guard replied with conviction.

  “No sign of him,” said the “Rosh.” “Are you absolutely sure he didn’t leave yet? Maybe you didn’t notice him slip by as he left for the day?”

  “Sir, I am positive he’s in there somewhere,” the guard replied with conviction.

  Looking none too pleased, the head of the group, the “Rosh,” went off looking for the missing “shochet” for the second time. After a few minutes he was back, but no one with him. With as much calm as he could muster, he said, “dear guard, you must be mistaken. I have searched the facility twice. There’s no way I’m going back to search again.”

  Meanwhile, not a hundred feet away, in a walk-in freezer locked from the outside, the missing ritual slaughterer lay semi-conscious, literally freezing to death. Toward the end of the day he went into the freezer, the door shut behind him, and he was locked inside. The noise was so loud that all of his knocking and screaming did not help. Nobody heard him. His muted calls for help began to slur until they faded completely. “So this is what it feels like to die . . . ,” he mused. Barely coherent, he managed to mutter the Shema. He was ready to meet his Creator.

  As if in a distant dream, he heard what seemed to be the sound of a screaming angel. “I’m locking up now,” the “Rosh” yelled, his tone leaving no room for arguments. And yet the security guard persisted, “Sir, allow me to check myself, maybe the rabbi is in some type of trouble . . .”

  At the mention of the word “trouble,” the “Rosh” jumped and dashed towards the freezers … And there he was freezing to death. At the last moment he was saved.

  The “Rosh” asked the black security guard: “I’m really curious. There are 60 rabbis who walk out from this place every day. We all have beards and look, more or less, the same. How did you know that this particular ritual slaughterer was still inside the plant?”

  “It’s really very simple,” the black guard answered. “Every single morning without fail, I am greeted with a solitary ‘good morning.’ From all of you guys, there is only one man, who stops each morning and tells me “Good morning, how are you? How is your family?” Every evening, upon leaving, he wishes me a hearty ‘good night.’ This morning I received my usual cheery ‘good morning,’ but I still hadn’t received my usual ‘good night’ . . . I knew that he still inside the plant!”

  Every single day of your life, even when you feel down and about, try to approach at least one person in the world and with sincerity ask them: how are you? Are you happy? What is bothering you? How can I help you? It can be your spouse; your child; your mother; someone in the office; an employee; a partner; a friend; or a strange in the street; a homeless man or woman. Every day—just one sincere and real “good morning.” The impact, you will never ever know.

  9. The Mouse Trap: It Effects All of Us

  “Al Chete Shechatanu Lefanecha Bemutz Halev,” for the sin we have sinned before you by closing our hearts…

  Let me share with you an anecdote about an old farmer living in his farm with his animals. A mouse looked through the crack in the wall to see the farmer and his wife open a package.

  What food might this contain? He was devastated to discover it was a mousetrap.

  Retreating to the farmyard, the mouse proclaimed the warning. "There is a mousetrap in the house! There is a mousetrap in the house!"

  The chicken clucked and scratched, raised her head and said, "Mr. Mouse, I can tell this is a grave concern to you, but it is of no consequence to me. I cannot be bothered by it."

  The mouse turned to the sheep and told him, "There is a mousetrap in the house."

  The sheep sympathized, but said, "I am so very sorry, Mr. Mouse, but there is nothing I can do about it but pray for you. Be assured you are in my prayers. But honestly, I am little affected by it."

  The mouse turned to the cow and pleaded for help. She said, "Mr. Mouse. I'm sorry for you, but it's no skin off my nose."

  So, the mouse returned to the house, head down and dejected, to face the farmer's mousetrap alone.

  That very night a sound was heard throughout the house - like the sound of mousetrap catching its prey.

  The farmer's wife rushed to see what was caught. In the darkness, she did not see it was a venomous snake whose tail the trap had caught.

  The snake bit the farmer's wife. The farmer rushed her to the hospital, and she returned home with a fever.

  Everyone knows you treat a fever with fresh chicken soup, so the farmer took his hatchet to the farmyard for the soup's main ingredient.

  But his wife's sickness continued, so friends and neighbors came to sit with her around the clock. To feed them, the farmer slaughtered the sheep.

  The farmer's wife did not get well; she died. So many people came for her funeral; the farmer had the cow slaughtered to provide enough meat for all of them.

  Moral of the story: The next time you hear someone is facing a problem, a challenge, a crisis, whether it is personal or communal, and think it doesn't concern you, remember -- when one of us is threatened, when one of us is in danger, we are all at risk.

  We are all living in the same planet. And as Jews, we are all one family. Your problem is also my problem. We can never ever be indifferent to each other. When a Jew out there seems lost and he or she are out of the fold, it is our responsibly to do whatever we can to bring them back to his or her ancestral Jewish family. [You can talk about the power and value of community and the need to build the sense of community.]

  The Horse

  There was a famous Chassidic Jew from Russia called R Mendel Futerfas, a man who spent ten years of his life in a Russian gulag for teaching Judaism.

  One of the prisoners in Rav Mendel's camp was an old Cossack imprisoned because of his loyalty to the Czar. He reminisced with Reb Mednel about the Cossack horse.

  You see, the Cossack horse was different than all other horses, incomparably different! A Cossack’s horse had a different heart.
  
  Not only would it do anything for its master; jump into fire, over trees and even houses. Anything. And it was stronger, faster, and braver than anything alive. But most of all, it had a different heart.

  I will explain," continued the Cossack, “How did they catch a Cossack horse? Do you know? Well I will tell you, this is a story!"
  
  "The Cossacks were experts at this. There was a special group that would wander the mountains and fields on horseback looking for herds of wild horses.

  Then, if they were lucky and found a large herd, say of a thousand, two thousand horses. They would stampede them and get them all running in the direction of the nearest river. Then they would start screaming and shooting their guns in the air and force the herd into the widest, deepest part of the river. You see, most horses can swim, and so they had to get over, through the current to the other side, or die.

  Now, on the other side was waiting another group of Cossacks. The whole thing, was planned from the beginning, and they would watch to see what the horses did.

  There were always two types of horses; some horses would make it to the other side and run away to live their lives. Then there were the young horses, that didn't have the strength to cross over, so they just floundered in the middle of the river."

  His voice became serious, and he sat a "But sometimes... Not always, but sometimes, there was a third type; maybe only one or two at the most, that were sort of crazy horses.

  They would make it across, but instead of running away, they would turn around, look back into the river to see if there were horses in trouble and then jump BACK in to save them."

  "They would swim to the young horses, grab them with their teeth and start dragging them in. They just couldn't stand to see their fellow horses in danger.

  The Cossacks would throw some paint on these special horses and chase them for days until they caught them. Then it would take several months of hard work until they trained them. But the main thing was the heart; it was a horse with a heart.

  My friends the heart of a Jew needs to be like the heart of a Cossack horse… We know we are real success in life is to transcend the self and think of the needs of another.

  10. Don’t Play Dumb

  “Al Chete… Beyodim Ubelo Yodim,” For the sins that we have committed before You, knowingly and unknowingly.

  There is something amiss. Since it already says, “For the sins that we have committed before you intentionally and unintentionally,” isn’t this redundant?

  The answer is this: In Yiddish there is an expression, “er macht zeich nisht vidensik.” He plays dumb. He makes believe that he does now know. That is the meaning of this confession: “Beyodim Ubelo Yodim,” I know, but I make belief that I don’t know…

  You know the anecdote:

  A kind-hearted fellow was walking through Central Park in New York and was astonished to see an old man, fishing rod in hand, fishing over a beautiful bed of red roses.

  "Tsk Tsk!" said the passer-by to himself. "What a sad sight. That poor old man is fishing over a bed of flowers. I'll see if I can help." So the kind fellow walked up to the old man and asked, "What are you doing, my friend?"

  "Fishin', sir."

  "Fishin', eh. Well how would you like to come have a drink with me?"

  The old man stood, put his rod away and followed the kind stranger to the corner bar. He ordered a large glass of Beer and a fine cigar.

  His host, the kind fellow, felt good about helping the old man, and he asked, "Tell me, old friend, how many did you catch today?"

  The old fellow took a long drag on the cigar, blew a careful smoke ring and replied, "You are the sixth today, sir!"

  Often in life, deep down I know certain things are true, but I repress them. I make believe—to myself!—that I don’t really know what is the right path, what is the right thing to do, whom I have to confront, and what I really need to do in my life in order to fulfill my spiritual mission.

  I play ignorant not only to others. Also to myself. For this there is a special confession, for the things that I really know, but I have told myself that I don’t know.
  
  11. The Courage To Be Real

  “Ten Kavod Leamecha…” Give dignity to your nation” (Amidah of Yom Kippur).

  As a senior citizen was driving down the freeway, his car phone rang.  Answering, he heard his wife's voice urgently warning him, "Herman, I just heard on the news that there's a car going the wrong way on Interstate 77. Please be careful!"

   

  "Hell," said Herman, "It's not just one car.  It's hundreds of them! I am the only car, in fact, driving in the right direction."

  Sometimes in life, you have to be real to yourself, to your soul, to your G-d, to your Jewishness. The whole world may be driving in one direction, and you are tempted just to confirm and follow the masses. But no! To live means to have the courage to be yourself.

  An elderly Floridian called 911 on her cell phone to report that her car has been broken into. She is hysterical as she explains her situation to the dispatcher:  "They've stolen the stereo, the steering wheel, the brake pedal and even the accelerator!" she cried.  The dispatcher said, "Stay calm. An officer is on the way."

  A few minutes later, the officer radios in.

  "Disregard," he says. “She got in the back-seat by mistake."

  In life, make sure you not always taking a back seat, following others. Drive and create your own future. That is what Teshuvah is.

  12. How Much Can We Talk About Our Guilt?

  It is strange, no. All of Yom Kippur we talk about how many sins, how lowly we are, how guilty we are, how much we need G-d’s grace. Give me a break. We go on and on and on about how despicable we are. We all sound like guilty Jewish mothers. Let’s just chill out and relax.

  So I will tell you one of my favorite anecdotes:

  A couple of days into his trial, George, the man accused of committing the crimes, stood up and asked for permission to approach the Judge.

  "Your Honor," George said, "I would like to change my plea from innocent to guilty of the charges."

  "If you are guilty," the Judge bellowed, banging his fist angrily on the desk, "why did you not say so in the first place and save this court a lot of time and inconvenience?"

  Meekly, George explained, "Well, when the trial began I did think I was innocent, but that was before I had the opportunity to hear all the evidence against me."

  You get it? On Yom Kippur, once a year, we get in touch with who we really are. We sense the depth, majesty, holiness and purity of our souls. It is only then that we realize that we are guilty… that we are so much better, that we ought not to live a life of deception, dishonesty, immorality, sheepishness and selfishness. Because Yom Kippur is such an uplifting day, therefore, it is on that day that we hear the evidence of who we really can be, and we thus tell G-d, “Em… I got to shape up, I am so much better than this.”

  13.  Look To the Door!

  “Pesach Lanu Shaar Beis Neuilas Shaar,” open a gate for us during the closing of the gate (Neilah service)

  I want to share a story which in my mind captures Yom Kippur:

  A defendant was on trial for murder. There was strong evidence indicating guilt, but there was no corpse. In the defense's closing statement the lawyer, knowing that his client would probably be convicted, resorted to a trick.

  "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I have a surprise for you all," the lawyer said as he looked at his watch. "Within one minute, the person presumed dead in this case will walk into this courtroom." He looked toward the courtroom door. The jurors, somewhat stunned, all looked on eagerly. A minute passed. Nothing happened.

  Finally the lawyer said, "Actually, I made up the previous statement. But, you all looked on with anticipation. I therefore put to you that you have a reasonable doubt in this case as to whether anyone was killed and insist that you return a verdict of not guilty."

  The jury, clearly confused, retired to deliberate. He really caught them! A few minutes later, the jury returned and pronounced a verdict of guilty.

  "But how?" inquired the lawyer. "You must have had some doubt; I saw all of you stare at the door."

  The jury foreman replied, "Oh, we all looked, but your client didn't."

  On Yom Kippur we all look to the door…  We don’t accept that we are guilty and that’s it. We know that there is a door of opening, of hope, of forgiveness, from where we can be absolved.

  (My thanks to Rabbis: Dovid Wineberg, Avraham Rapoport, Zalman Bluming, Mendel Huminer, Mendel Zilbershtein, for all of their assistance with ideas and stories.)

  ---

  [1] This insight is from Derech Mitzvosecha Ahavas Yisroel.

  [2] When Rabbi Nachman of Breslov heard this insight in the name of Reb Pinchas, he agreed (Likkutei Halchos by Reb Noson of Breslov Parshas Vayigash; Chaye Maharan 510.)

  [3] There is yet another reason. The Talmud relates (Pesachim 22b) that when Rabbi Akiba studied the verse, “G-d, your G‑d, shall you fear” -- he learned from the extra word in the verse “es” that the commandment includes the fear one should have for Torah scholars. Since it was Rabbi Akiva who equated the fear of Torah scholars with the fear of G-d, he was the one selected to represent G-d.

  The Talmud relates (Berachos 61b) that while Rabbi Akiba was being put to death, he recited the Shema prayer, and when he said the word "One"--echad--he expired. A voice emanated from heaven and said, “Lucky are you, Rabbi Akiva, that your soul went out with One."In light of the above, we may say that the voice also meant, Lucky are you Rabbi Akiva that your soul went out on behalf of One -- G-d -- the One and only One (The Arizal).

  [4] See Likkutei Sichos vol. 5 Lech. Vol 16 Ki Sisa. Vol 17 Acharei.

  [5] Based on an address by the Rebbe, Av 6, 5750 (July 28, 1990. Sefer Hasichot 5750 pp. 596-599).

  [6] Likkutei Sichos vol. 28 Maasei

  [7] Taanis 25b

   

   

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