Rabbi 360

I don’t know what the over/under is on my sermon topic tonight but I’m going to guess that a number of you here tonight believe it is going to be the “Seven Things I Learned On My Sabbatical.” Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but you would be wrong. But not completely wrong. Because it is more like the one thing I learned on my sabbatical, in 7 parts.

Upon my return from sabbatical, I would get two questions. The first: “how was it? What did you do?” to which I answer, “it was great, and not much.” And by that I mean that while I did take a two-week trip east at the beginning, most of sabbatical was about slowing down: reading, writing, resting, trips to the dog park.

And the second question I would receive is, “how was it coming back?” to which my usual response is, “well, I thought everything would be solved by now.” But alas, it is not.

My sabbatical was a time for gaining perspective, how we often need to step back from things in order to gain clarity and understanding. For me this perspective was less about my work, or the congregation, but about the general state of things.

What I realized is, the general state of things is not great. We are witnessing a rise in antisemitism, strife and division within the Jewish community, ongoing war and destruction, corruption and flagrant violation of laws and norms at the highest levels of government, greater divisions of wealth and power, the fueling of ego at the expense of the vulnerable.

And, what I also began to realize too in general—and perhaps this comes with getting older—that the line between joy and sorrow gets fuzzier. Like the proverbial zebra which is either black with white stripes or white with black stripes, it is harder to tell if life is great with some difficult parts, or mostly difficult with some great parts.

So that’s where I am. How are you doing?

There is an image I keep coming back to from last summer. I was at Owen Beach in Point Defiance Park in Tacoma, a beautiful spot, and there was lots of activity on the beach and in the water. Kayakers mostly, with the occasional power boat—and they usually kept their distance from another. But there was one kayaker and one powerboat that got too close to each other, and as the motorboat sped by, it created a wake that tossed the kayaker up and down. They didn’t capsize, but it was almost comical as they were trying not to tip over while the waves passed by. And I remember thinking that this was just someone out for a normal afternoon on the water on a beautiful sunny day, and now they are trying not to tip over.

And I thought, well isn’t that how it is for many of us: how can things be normal, when we are just holding on?

It is times like these that we gravitate to the concept of “hope.” And, yes, sure, I’m a rabbi, perhaps I’m supposed to trade in hope. But what I thought about a lot during my sabbatical is that sometimes hope is, maybe, a little too much of an ask. Hope is nice, hope is good, hope is important. And I understand that distinction as Rabbi Jonathan Sacks put it: “Optimism and hope are not the same. Optimism is the belief that the world is changing for the better; hope is the belief that, together, we can make the world better.”

And yet, even that sometimes feels out of reach.

And so perhaps we need to ask, what do we do if we don’t feel hope? What comes before hope? What could be more in our grasp, more attainable, more comprehensible? And so maybe what we are looking for, what we need in this moment, what feels within reach is not hope, but cope.

And if I may so chutzpadik as to riff off of our former president, the spirit that we need at this moment is the “audacity of cope.” That yes, I want a better tomorrow, but I can’t get there if I don’t make it through today. Yes, I have an eye towards the future, but I’m also firmly rooted in the here and now. Perhaps we can embrace the audacity of cope.

So how do we cope? So this is where I share my seven steps: we exist, we enlist, we consist, we assist, we insist, we resist, and we desist. Easy.

First, we acknowledge that we exist.

So, yes, maybe this first one is a bit obvious. Of course we exist. We are here.

And, at the same time, the Torah famously exhorts us to “choose life.” That the nature of our existence is we are defined by choice, by free will, and that our choices will determine our path. Our existence is an active choice, one we make each and every day.

When Moses at the Burning Bush asked God’s name, God famously answered Ehyeh Asher Ehyeh, I will be what I will be. That the essence of life is both being and becoming. That existence is dynamic, can change, that we have the opportunity to learn and grow. That who we were is not who we need to be. That is the meaning of these days, the High Holidays, when we seek to correct past wrongs and commit to a better future.

And just knowing that—that we are not stuck—that “this too shall pass”—is a way that we are able to cope with what life gives us. We must face the uncertainties of this world by continuing to choose our existence, to live into our most authentic selves. Whether that is your Jewish identity, your gender identity, or something else, living into our most authentic selves without apology and being who you are is a gift to yourself and a gift to others. And knowing we are doing that allows us to cope.

And Judaism teaches that the preservation and protection of life—the value of pikuach nefesh—is one of our highest and most important values. Taking the steps we need to maintain life, health, and safety, our own and of others, is a way to cope with the harshness of the current moment.

And we know we can not do it alone, and so to cope we also must enlist allies and friends. We need people by our side, we need to develop and nurture those relationships and friendships that will sustain us.

In the ancient book of rabbinic wisdom, Pirke Avot, we are told to ukeneh lecha chaver “Acquire for yourself a friend” (1:4). It is seen as one of the building blocks of a rich life.

And who is a friend? According to the later commentary Avot De Rabbi Natan “One to eat with, drink with, read the Scriptures with, study Mishnah with, lodge with, and reveal all secret lore, the mysteries of the Torah and the problems of everyday life.”

This ancient definition of a friend and ally sounds so relevant. Someone who supports you with advice—we need others to help us make our way in the world. We need friends and allies who can teach us things we don’t know, so that we have greater knowledge. We cope with the world when we have allies and friends who are able to support us and guide us, and we are able to support and guide as well.

But, as this definition contains, a friend also is someone we can “eat, drink, and lodge” with—essentially someone to socialize with, have fun with. And this perhaps is even more important. An important part of coping is the ability to have fun, to celebrate, to do things we enjoy.

So can we have fun while the world is on fire? Not only can we, we must. We can not live without it. And we enlist others to join us.

While we actively enlist those friends and allies, we must remember that we as individuals consist of a network of relationships and connections, we are part of a community.

When struggling, remember that you are part of a greater whole, you are never alone. You are part of a community. And yes community is hard—it means showing up, it means compromise, it means sometimes putting the needs of the collective above one’s individual needs—but this is the way we get our individual needs met and find our place in the world

The ancient sage Hillel taught the famous dictum “if I am not for myself who will be before me, and if I am only for myself what am I” And he also taught in Pirke Avot al tifros min hatzibur “do not separate yourself from the community.” On the one hand this can be understood as charge to community service. But I also think of it as a warning, an observation: do not separate yourself from the community because you need your community. Because you cannot face your challenges, your suffering alone. There are others who are struggling to cope just as you are.

And in the scope of things, communities provide the stability that we need. In a commentary on Hillel’s teaching from the Maharal of Prague (and if you are keeping score, that’s the guy who made the Golem): “Hillel says that society is the main thing and not the private individual, for the individual is dynamic/changing, and these societies endure, as has been explained, for societal power endures without change.” [Derech Hayim 2:44]

Individuals change, communities endure.

I think about serving this community for over 20 years—I have witnessed both change and consistency. Children become adults and more children take their place. Parents become grandparents. People move away and people move in. The faces change, but the community is steady.

“Do not separate yourself from your community.” Communities provide stability and continuity—they are a place of calm and acceptance in the midst of all that surrounds us. It is this steadiness that allows us to cope, to be rooted in something that has always been there and always will be.

And through our friends, allies and communities we assist. We all have needs, we can’t survive in this world alone. The Torah’s ethical charge to “not stand idly by the blood of our neighbor” and to “do not harden your heart and shut your hand against your needy kindred” reminds us that of the importance of tzedakah, righteous giving. That in order to cope with the world we need the assistance of others. We need to ask for, offer, give, and receive help at times during our lives.

But assisting with physical needs is one way of coping, we also assist others by seeing them where they are and helping them recognize that they do not need to carry their burden alone.

Early in the Israelites wandering in the desert, shortly after leaving Egypt, the Torah describes Moses adjudicating each and every dispute of the community. His father-in-law Jethro sees this, and advises Moses to set up a system of judges that will share the burden of leadership. In his opening to Moses, Jethro says, “The thing you are doing is not right; you will surely wear yourself out, and these people as well. For the task is too heavy for you; you cannot do it alone.” (Exodus 18:17-18)

This was not a statement of critique, of judgment, of condescension. This was the honest assessment of one person who saw another struggling, and reached out to help. We are all struggling in our own way during these times, and we can cope by offering and giving assistance both materially and spiritually. You are not alone, even if it feels that way, and sometimes the best thing we can do is remind ourselves and remind others of that fact. Offering our presence, our compassion, our empathy is a way we assist each other to cope during these difficult times.

And while we assist others, we also insist on our own needs and experiences.

Tomorrow we read the story of Hannah from the book of Samuel. We read it on Rosh Hashanah because it is a story of new life—of longing for a child and ultimately having one—and we use it in our community as an opportunity to celebrate and honor those who have added new life into their families in the past year.

But it is also a story of insistence, of not accepting things as they are, of articulating one’s own experience, of refusing to be defined by others.

Hannah, desiring a child and bullied by her sister-wife Peninah, offers a fervent prayer at the Temple in Shiloh. The priest, Eli, thinking her to be intoxicated, berates her and tells her to leave. She counters him by naming her experience and refusing his characterization of her. That she is not intoxicated, that she is praying deeply. “Do not think of me as a worthless or wicked person!” she says, “I am speaking out only because of my anxiety and torment!” Eli, put in his place, then offers her a blessing.

In a world that seeks to divide and define us, we cope by claiming the right and ability to name our own experience and insist on our presence. Like Hannah who stood her ground while articulating her needs and telling her story, we can cope by doing the same.

And when we insist, we also resist.

This isn’t new. We have been talking about resistance for a while—we understand the need to fight back against people and policies that do us harm. And while often times we view resistance is a vehicle for hope—a way to change the world—we can also think about it as a form of cope—of surviving each day. Because sometimes resistance comes in the grand gestures of protest, or marching, of organizing. And sometimes resistance is simply pushing back against the forces that would try to define us or put us in our place.

Think of the midwives in the Exodus story, who refuse Pharaoh’s order to kill the Israelite newborns. They don’t revolt against Pharaoh or publicly protest his order, they quietly resist by refusing to do what they were told to do. It may move the needle some—every act of resistance does—but it is in these small acts of resistance that also allow us to cope in a world marked by injustice. They allow us to exercise some agency in a world that seems like it wants to take it away, or have some control in a world that is out of control.

Care for an immigrant family. Find a small corner of nature and keep it clean. Help get out the vote and use ballot drop boxes instead of the post office. Even with small acts of resistance, you are making a difference. You are changing the world, but just as important you are changing yourself. You are finding ways to cope.

To cope we engage and resist the world as it is, and paradoxically, we must also desist from it.

One thing I truly learned on my sabbatical is that we need to take breaks. Of course I know about Shabbat—I teach and preach about it—and yet the irony is that I’m often busy on that day. The sabbatical was an opportunity to experience truly stepping back without obligation—to organize time differently, to shift priorities, to slow down, to focus on gratitude—not to escape from the world but to fully step into it. And I realized how necessary it really is.

I know we all don’t get the blessing of a sabbatical—and I am deeply grateful to this community for supporting me in taking this time off—but we can all find ways to desist. And it doesn’t need to be Shabbat in the traditional sense, and even though this year Rosh Hashanah falls on Shabbat, I’m not going to say that “there is an ancient wisdom there and if only we observe Shabbat in the traditional sense will we attain some peace.” I’m only going to suggest that you engage more deeply with the spirit of Shabbat and find ways to step back from the world. You don’t need to turn off your devices, but maybe a few more cat videos and fewer news clips. Do something that might seem like it is work, but do it only in service of itself, not for some other purpose. Or spread out Shabbat—try to do fewer things each day over the course of the week.

We can not cope with the state of the world if we don’t turn away from it now and again. I was lucky to step away for three months. We don’t all get that chance. But we can desist from the world in smaller ways that will allow us to be renewed and refreshed. When you take yourself out of your expectations and establish new routines, you can learn new ways of being in the world, which means newer ways of coping with the world.

The audacity of cope: we exist, we enlist, we consist, we assist, we insist, we resist, we desist. And by doing this, we will cope. We will cope. And when we find ways to cope, we persist. We will persist.

So I lied, am going to talk about hope.

Because we must be able to envision and work for a future we wish to build. This is hope. We can not let that go. And at the same time we find ourselves having to face a present we did not choose. This is cope.

Hope allows us to look ahead. Cope allows us to weather the here and now. There are always going to be things we can not control, we can not fix, we can not avoid. So while we speak often of hope—as we should—I also invite us to think of cope as a spiritual practice.

As Jonathan Sacks also wrote on hope and optimism: “Optimism is a passive virtue, hope an active one. It needs no courage to be an optimist, but it takes a great deal of courage to hope.” I would offer, too, that it takes a great deal of courage to cope.

Indeed, in order to learn to hope, we first must learn to cope.

Our Jewish story is the journey from slavery to the Promised Land.

And our Jewish story is also 40 years of wandering in the desert.

We can’t have one without the other.

So yes, we are in the small kayak being tossed about in the wake of a motorboat. And we hope the wake will soon calm down. But that doesn’t mean we don’t do what we can to hang on for dear life right now.

And it is OK to be in a place of just hanging on. It is OK to just be in a place of cope. For that too, is part of the journey.

A journey from cope to hope.

We are in a place of just hanging on. But we are hanging on together.

The audacity of cope. Let’s continue to hang on together.