CAN OUR FAILINGS BE REDEEMED THROUGH OUR DEEDS? by Rabbi Alan E. Litwak

I am thrilled to have my first "Guest Blogger," Rabbi Alan E. Litwak, senior rabbi at Temple Sinai of North Dade, and my boss.

Can we ever really overcome our faults? Is our sinful behavior so deeply engraved in our nature that we are only deluding ourselves when we believe we can eradicate it? Is the popular adage, “You can not change human nature” really true?

Our congregant, Marylou Brotherson, sent me an article written last week in the wake of Senator Edward Kennedy’s death, asking the same question. The author of the article quoted the poet John Berryman, in his "Sonnets for Chris" -- which was about an earlier act of adultery. Berryman asked "Is wickedness soluble in art?" What the poet wanted to know was whether he could be forgiven -- or redeemed -- for his act of immorality by striving for the artistic heights? Are we, in some way, able to get past our past, through our subsequent actions?

Let’s get it right out of the way: Edward Kennedy was a weak, flawed and, occasionally wicked human being. Yes, he cheated on a Harvard exam hoping to stay eligible for football. Yes, in his early days in the senate he was looked upon as a lightweight who got by on charm, a famous name and a great staff. Yes, his indiscretions and infidelities were, in part, the cause of his divorce. And yes, he closed down many a bar in Palm Beach and Cape Cod.

With all that said, we are now able to examine his good deeds.

Entering the Senate in 1962 at age 30, Senator Kennedy brought with him a storied name and virtually nothing else. Now, at his death some 47 years later, he leaves the Senate as one of the most effective senators of the past 100 years. He drafted and shaped some of the most significant legislation in the past century. Among the over 300 laws that never would have been enacted without Kennedy are:

• The 1964 Civil Rights Act



• The Voting Rights Act of 1965.



• Expanding voting to 18-year olds.



• The 1985 legislation that imposed sanctions on the apartheid government of South Africa.



• The 1988 bill that provided $1.2 billion for AIDS testing, treatment and research.



• The 1990 Americans With Disabilities Act.



• The 1993 Family and Medical Leave Act.



• The Kennedy-Hatch Act of 1997, which provided health insurance for children.



• Heightened taxes on tobacco.



• The Kennedy-Kassebaum bill which made health insurance portable for workers.



• The "Patients' Bill of Rights" which he co-sponsored with John McCain

One wonders how, with all the loss, tragedy and foibles, Kennedy could have fought on for so many decades. What was it that made him get up each day and do the best he could to make this a better world? Was it an intense desire to tip the scales? Although no one can ever know for certain, this drive, according to one of his friends, has always been his defining quality.

Because of all he went through in his family, Ted Kennedy became what the great political writer Jack Newfield called "America's grief counselor." By way of example, Newfield noted that "when two planes were hijacked out of Boston's Logan Airport on 9/11 and 93 residents of Massachusetts went to their deaths; Senator Kennedy personally called more than 125 family members offering assistance and solace." One conversation with a grieving father so moved the senator that he sent the man a copy of a letter that his father, Ambassador Kennedy, had written to a friend in 1958 upon hearing of the death of the friend's son. That note, perhaps better than anything else, provides the key to what, when all is said and done, made Senator Ted Kennedy so utterly unique.

"When one of your loved one goes out of your life, you think of what he might have done for a few more years, and you wonder what you are going to do with the rest of yours. Then one day, because there is a world to be lived in, you find yourself a part of it, trying to accomplish something -- something he did not have time to do. And, perhaps, that is the reason for all. I hope so."

In the end, despite all his personal foibles and humiliations, his public losses and private tragedies, he has done well. He has done more than his share to help make this world a better place. There are those who would say that wickedness can never be soluble in good deeds; that “once a sinner always a sinner.” I will certainly not dismiss him because of what happened that one night in 1969 in a place called Chappaquiddick. Nor, will I release him from responsibility for his sins simply because he spent the better part of his life engaged in the act of overcoming loss, tragedy, and personal shortcomings. And, neither would Judaism.

Judaism’s answer to the question of whether we can escape our past is to reject any and every kind of fatalism that denies us the freedom to choose our way and to strike out in new directions. We are not enslaved by the impersonal laws of nature. God encourages and awaits our return. There is a wonderful Midrash that teaches “God said to Israel, "My children, Open the door of repentance as wide as the 'eye of a needle,' and I will expand it so wide that wagons and carriages can pass through." (Shir HaShirim Rabbah 24)

HERE IS THE KEY POINT: According to our tradition, great action, in and of itself, cannot redeem a person’s sins. The action must be directly linked and in response to the sin. Senator Edward Kennedy was a great man, a brilliant legislator, a tireless champion of those without a voice. The question of his redemption can only be answered by God and by those against whom he transgressed, and it is determined by his teshuvah.

The great composer Wagner’s virulent anti-Semitism is not mitigated by the brilliance of his musical compositions. O.J. Simpson’s talent on the football field does not outweigh or excuse his past sins.

Did Senator Edward Kennedy do the necessary teshuvah? Perhaps. Perhaps not. But, he or we need not be seen in the light of either/or. Human beings are not wholly sinful; nor are they completely pure. The great legacy of Judaism is to recognize that we are both. One does not erase the other.

The month of Elul and the subsequent High Holy Days bring us a reassuring message that we are not eternally bound by what we have been. We can throw off the oppression of enslaving habits. Our tomorrow can be freed from the shackles of yesterday. We can conquer the selfishness that shrinks us, the prejudice that blinds us, the envy that gnaws at us, and the greed that impels us. The verdict is still out on whether we can actually change human nature. However, it is human nature to change human actions, and that is what these days of teshuvah are all about.

God Within

Elul Thought #27

Last night I read Murphy Leopold’s beautiful Elul thought, and today I am going to riff off of a part of her thought.

She wrote, “Does anyone else hear Charlton Heston as the voice of God in the Torah?” in reference to the burning bush scene from The Ten Commandments. Moses, played by Charleton Heston, approaches the burning bush, and God’s voice speaks, also played by Charleton Heston. The same dual-casting is used in the animated The Prince of Egypt for the same scene, but with Val Kilmer playing both voices.

This casting choice is also a theological choice. It says, in essence, that when Moses hears God’s voice, he hears his own voice. In other words, God’s voice is not the cinematic presentation of a booming, masculine voice from the clouds. It is the still, small voice within us. This is why the Hebrew word l’hitpalel, “to pray,” is a reflexive verb. We do not direct our prayers outward; we direct them inward, to the Divine Spark nestled deep in our soul.

When I am reading or thinking and I “hear” words in my head, the voice of those thoughts is my voice. I assume it is the same with all of us. Who knows? Maybe we all hear God’s voice, disguised as our own. Perhaps what we call the voice of conscience is that same voice that Moses heard at the burning bush, that all the Israelites heard at Mt. Sinai, and anyone can hear if we are able to recognize our own connection with God.

Have a very sweet and happy 5770.

Shanah Tovah!

Remembering September 11

Eight years ago, I was living in Jerusalem. It was almost 4 in the afternoon, and my classmates and I were moving to the large classroom for our Tuesday afternoon seminar. My cell phone rang. It was my mother. She was calling to tell me that there had been a terrible accident in New York City at the World Trade Center. (Remember those 5 minutes? In between horror that there could be such a terrible accident and the realization that this was no accident?)

When the second plane hit, my mother said something to the effect of, “Oh my God, a plane just hit the second tower.” I told her, “Please, don’t hang up, we’ll never get this connection back.”

For a while my mother was one of two phone connections we had to the states. One of my classmates ran around the school looking for someone who could bring a TV to where we were. Another ran to the library to get on the internet for updates. Whoever had a spouse with them in Israel was either calling frantically or running home. I stood at the front of the classroom, relaying information from my mother to the other 62 students in the year in Israel program.

When the TV arrived and we were able to tune in to CNN, I hung up my phone and sat with Natalie to watch in horror as they showed the planes crashing and the buildings falling, over and over. After sitting in the classroom for a couple of hours, two classmates who lived across the street from HUC offered their homes to all of us. So most of us crammed into the two apartments, which happened to be in the same building, one floor apart. We used the Markleys’ apartment to watch news, and the Cytron-Walkers’ apartment to watch movies over the next two days.

For my four classmates with family or friends in New York City, those first hours were gut-wrenching. It was not until 2 in the morning our time that we heard that the last relative was safe. Most of us slept on the floor or couches in our friends’ apartments. We couldn’t be alone. We felt so helpless watching from half a world away. We held each other as tightly as we could. We wondered if we were safe as American Jews in Israel. We prayed.

My friend Heidi was living in New York at the time. Her brother was working in the World Financial Center, near the World Trade Center. She was able to talk to him only for a second before the connection was lost. She would learn much later that he was under the World Trade Center when the first plane hit. He ran when debris got too close for comfort, and made it to safety. Meanwhile, Heidi’s office was evacuated, and she and some co-workers got on a subway. It stopped in a tunnel in between two stations for what she describes as the longest 45 minutes of her life. After walking, riding a ferry, and walking more, she found her way to a bar where she was a regular. Her mother actually called the bar when she could not reach her by cell, and said it was the first time she was ever thankful her daughter was in a bar.

My friend and colleague Rabbi Stephen Wise was also at HUC when the planes hit the World Trade Center, but he was at the New York campus. They were holding morning services when they heard what sounded like a bomb exploding. They went to the street to see what had happened, then made their way to the roof of the building where they saw the second plane hit and the towers fall. Instead of standing in awe, they went to the blood centers and hospitals en masse. They rolled up their sleeves to give blood to those who needed it. They prepared triage areas in hospital parking lots for the wounded. Only the wounded never arrived. There were no wounded on September 11, only victims and the rest of us.

There are so many stories, so many memories. There are memories of tragedies and miracles. A man decides he needs coffee an hour earlier than usual. A woman sleeps in and doesn’t get to work that day. A firefighter goes back up the stairs to try to save one more life.

Memory is central to the Jewish belief system. We are commanded, “Remember the days of old, Consider the years of ages past” (Deut 32:7). In our weekly practice, remembering is one of two ways the Torah tells us to sanctify Shabbat. We are constantly reminded that we were slaves in Egypt. Two weeks ago we read from Parashat Ki Teitze, “Remember what Amalek did to you….do not forget” (Deut 25:17-19). Memory is powerful—palpable. A memory can make us laugh or cry. It can activate our senses and stir our souls.

So tonight we remember September 11, 2001. Like the memory of Amalek, we remember the evils that befall us as a people. Even when we feel helpless, when we think there is nothing we can do, we can remember. Our memories bind us as a nation, and strengthen us as a people. We remember that even in the darkest hour of our nation, we can find a glimpse of light.

My good friend Brian called me on September 12, 2001. Brian is ex-military, and I knew that the attack would have a serious impact on him. I had been expecting his call, but I did not anticipate what he had to tell me. You see, he had missed most of the drama of the day. He spent most of it in the hospital delivery room. His wife Colleen had given birth to a beautiful baby boy on September 11th, 2001. Brian had called to ask me if I would be Nathan’s Godfather. So for me September 11th is both a day of unfathomable dread and a day of uplifting joy. A day remembered for the end of lives, and the beginning of life.

I want to close with a thought posted on Facebook this morning by Pete Pirro, my freshman year roommate at Bradley University:

Exactly eight years ago... Vulnerability crept into our nation and murdered the
innocent. War unfulfilled, life, men and women still underappreciated. Souls
sent to rest too early, fears perked, hearts swooned and time stopped.
Understand the brevity of life, remain vigilant, give of yourself and never
forget that we rest beneath a blanket of freedom stained with sweat and blood.
God Bless each and every one of you.

Zichronam livracha. May the memory of the victims of 9/11 be a source of blessing for us personally and as a nation.

Elul Thought

As I write this, I am in Cincinnati for my nephew’s b’rit milah. He was born on the last day of Av, and his birth reminds me of some of our Elul themes.

As Elul begins, we are given the opportunity to look back and seriously consider how we would like to live our lives. Like a newborn baby, we are full of potential. The High Holy Days are a time to tap in to our potential and create the best version of ourselves for the coming year. Elul provides for us a full month of preparation for the Days of Awe. We cannot expect to go to synagogue once or twice a year and immediately feel renewed. Just like we give a newborn milk or formula before solid foods, we take time to prepare before our feast of the spirit over the High Holy Days.

Thinking about the new arrival in my family gives Elul even greater significance this year. In holding with Ashkenazi custom, my sister has named him after our father Victor Young z”l. My nephew will spend his life honoring my father’s memory by carrying his name. Sad as we are that our father will not be here to hold his grandson, make fun of him, and hunt for pine cones with him, we know that Victor Aaron Dujan carries with him a legacy that we are all proud to bestow upon him.

As it says in Pirkei Avot 4:13, “A good name surpasses all else.” In his name is a great deal of potential. Victor means “conqueror,” and Aaron means “mountain of strength.” We pray that Victor Aaron Dujan will be able to conquer everything that comes his way with great strength of character.

May we all find the strength to use Elul to realize our fullest potential. May the month ahead bring us into a year of conquering the changes we wish to make in ourselves.

Attack in Tel Aviv

Last Saturday night there was a terrible attack in Tel Aviv. It was not a terrorist attack or a strike by Palestinian militants. It was Jew to Jew—an attack by one Jewish person on a group of people. A masked man stormed into a basement and sprayed automatic gunfire into a crowd of people. Two were killed that evening, and 15 others wounded. Police still hunt for the man responsible for this horrifying act, an act of hatred and prejudice.

For the past week much of the media has been referring to this tragedy as happening in a club. This is true, but it is also misleading. When we hear of an event happening at 11 at night in a club, we think of a nightclub, especially when it comes to light that this was a GLBT club—a place for Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, and Transgender youth. It was not that kind of club. The shooting happened at the Agunah Tel Aviv Gay and Lesbian Association building. This masked man opened fire in a room where gay teenagers were holding a weekly support group. They were sitting with their counselor, with friends who understood them. Perhaps they spoke about the issues they faced as teenagers in a society whose rules are based on a stringent interpretation of their religion. Perhaps they were wondering how and when they would tell their families that they did not live under the assumptions that a heterosexual society puts on people. Instead of counsel and comfort, last Saturday evening they instead endured hate and violence.

Last Saturday night, Liz Trobish and Nir Katz were gunned down in a place they believe was safe. Liz was 17, Nir was 26. Nir was the counselor at the center, working to help others through what their families see as subversive lifestyles. It is scary to think of the teens who have to tell their parents that they have been hospitalized at the same moment they tell their parents that they are gay or lesbian. It is terribly painful to know that several of those parents have not yet visited their children in ICU because they are gay or lesbian.

This is not the first time such an attack has been executed against Israel’s GLBT community. In 2007 a bomb was planted at an entrance to a settlement with a note that said, “Sodomites Out.” A device was planted in an attempt to prevent people from attending the 2006 Israeli Pride Parade in Tel Aviv. In 2005 at the Pride Parade in Jerusalem, a man ran into a crowd brandishing a knife, wounding three parade-goers. Of all these hate crimes, the knife-wielder is the only one who has been caught.

Throughout the past week, Israel has heard loud condemnations from both sides of the issue. Knesset Member Nitzan Horowitz, Israel's only openly gay elected official, condemned the attack this past Sunday, saying:

This is undoubtedly the worst incident targeting the gay community in Israel. It
has the characteristics of a hate crime, of someone who attacked to blindly
strike out at every person on the spot...

The leader of the ultra-Orthodox Shas party decried the attack as well, stressing Judaism’s belief in the sanctity of human life. Last Saturday’s shooter ignored this sanctity in a blind display of hatred.

While it fills me with pride that so many Jewish leaders from all walks of our faith would speak out against this bloodshed, I am reminded that many of the criminals who perpetrate these acts of hatred do so inspired by guidance from “spiritual leaders.” Let me be clear: I do not blame any particular person or religious movement for the shooting last weekend. We don’t know who the shooter is. At the same time, I am suspicious when bombers leave signs like the 2007 “Sodomites Out”—a clear cut Biblical reference left at a settlement entrance next door to a far-right-wing yeshiva. But the police have no suspects for that one.

The Torah teaches us to pursue justice. It teaches us to love our neighbor as ourselves. It teaches that all human beings are created in the image of the Divine. Pursuit of justice means we stand up for the orphan, the widow, the poor, and anyone whose voice is not being heard. When we combine that with love for our neighbor, it means when we see injustices heaped on our neighbors, we take it to heart because our loved ones are not being treated as if they are created in the image of God.

Earlier this week, the Religious Action Center for Reform Judaism hosted a vigil in Washington, DC. Mark Pelavin, Associate Director of the Religious Action Center of Reform Judaism, made a statement asking that the Jewish community make a promise:

A promise to preach respect. A promise to seek justice, to speak for
righteousness, and to always, always demand equality. A promise to proclaim that
bigotry and hatred have no place in our society and that love and tolerance are
our cherished religious values. Values that cannot be compromised and cannot be
shaken. Values that do not falter in the face of violence and hate.

May the memories of Liz Tronbish and Nir Katz serve as constant reminders that our work in this world is not finished. We have much to do to fight against the hatred and violence enacted upon our neighbors. May God bring speedy healing to those still being treated in Tel Aviv hospitals, and may the families of the victims come to soon know peace.

Ken Yehi Ratzon.

Visions and Visionaries

Yesterday morning I was watching The Today show as I got ready for work. Meredith Viera was interviewing Susan Boyle, the famous Britain’s Got Talent contestant who has been all over the news this summer. For those of you without a television or internet access, Susan Boyle walked on to the Britain’s Got Talent microphone and endured eye-rolling and taunting by the judges because of her frumpy looks and socially awkward comments. Then she began to sing. Her stunning, powerful voice filled the theater and immediately brought the audience to their feet. Famous naysayer Simon Cowell stared open-mouthed and teary-eyed as she belted from Les Miserables, “I Dreamed A Dream.”

Immediately Susan Boyle was catapulted into super-stardom. The YouTube video of her performance got over 3 million hits in one day. It has since gotten ten times that many. Though she ultimately lost the television program’s competition, it takes a Goodsearch to find out the name of the winner. It is Susan Boyle who we remember, and who we most certainly had not heard the last of.

The coincidence of her song choice, “I Dreamed A Dream” has not been lost on those who cover her story. Her dream was to sing, and sing she did. Perhaps this is the very reason for her popularity. That a person can tap into a talent so special that physical appearances, social ability, and mental ability melt away into inconsequential trivialities. All that matters is doing what she does best. She had a vision and worked to make it a success.

Very few of us have the vision to accomplish all of our dreams. We may be successful and happy, yet there is still the possibility there is something we still want. One of the best ways to accomplish our goals is to envision them already completed. We can close our eyes and see the health, wealth, family, happiness, whatever it is that we feel we desire. Sometimes our vision is out of focus and we need meditation and prayer to pull ourselves back together. Some of us are better at having the visions than others.

In Hebrew the word for vision is chazon. We find it in this week’s Haftarah, from the beginning of the book of Isaiah: Chazon Yishayahu ben Amotz, asher chazzan al yehuda v’yerushalayim. “The vision of Isaiah, son of Amoz, which he envisioned about Judah and Jerusalem.” This Saturday is called Shabbat Chazon, in reference to the first word of the Haftarah. Typically the Haftarah will point to an element of the Torah portion. A word or a theme from the Parashah will be reflected in the Haftarah selection, allowing us to connect the later parts of the Bible to the weekly Torah reading. This week, however, the Haftarah is tied to the calendar, the last of three Haftarot of rebuke leading up to Tisha B’av this coming Thursday.

Isaiah alternates between harsh scolding of the Israelites’ behavior and compassionate consoling and reminding that if they change their ways, his destructive prophesies will not come true. In Isaiah 1:18, the prophet offers a deal with Israel:

"Come, let us reach an understanding, declares the Lord.
Be your sins like crimson,
They can turn snow-white;
Be they red as dyed wool,
They can become like fleece."

In other words, no matter how bad it gets, no matter what we have done or what situation we find ourselves in, we can always make it better and succeed. Isaiah is referring specifically to the sins of Israel. Crimson is the color of blood and reminds us of the evil we do, the harm we do to others. Turning our deeds snow-white is absolution. When we do good, good things happen.
Isaiah is talking about the major sins of Judah, especially giving in to the idolatrous practices of their neighbors. But the concept holds true for lesser things in our lives, too. If we can purify our thoughts and our actions, envision our lives the way we want them to be and behave in a way that will get us there, our visions will be realized just as easily as red dyed wool can become like fleece.

Perhaps what we need now is not a vision of doom and gloom. Not a vision of cause and effect theology. What we need is a vision of optimism. In Yiddish, the term alle mailis refers to all the best that life has to offer. When a person has alle mailis, they have looks, brains, and talent all rolled in to one with the added bonus of loving family and friends. When we envision all these things for ourselves, it is the first step in making our vision a reality.

May all our positive visions this week come true.

Shabbat Shalom.