Rabbi 360

My sermon on Erev Yom Kippur 5787

In our Jewish tradition, we like to end our prayers with words of peace.

We have a number of prayers for peace scattered throughout our liturgy. Particularly I’m thinking right now of the Amidah, the standing silent prayer we just did, which gives us the opportunity each time we recite it to offer our own silent prayers, our own prayers in our hearts.

You might have noticed, or known, but regardless I will tell you now, that the Amidah is made up of a number of smaller sections. It is one unit, yes, but subdivided into smaller sections. Indeed, another name for the Amidah is the Shmoneh Esrei, meaning 18, referring to 18 different sections. Although as a fun fact you can use at dinner parties, there are actually 19 sections during weekday prayers, and 7 on Shabbat and holidays. So it’s called the shmoneh esrei—18—but no where is it actually 18.

But regardless, the last section of the Amidah is always a prayer for peace. And as another interesting fun fact you can use at dinner parties, there are two different versions of the prayer for peace. During evening services, we say “Shalom Rav,” and during morning services we say “Sim Shalom.”

These prayers might be familiar, as each have common tunes that we use to sing them. Growing up, I most often went to Saturday morning Shabbat services, rather than Friday night Erev Shabbat services, so I grew up more familiar with Sim Shalom. As a kid, it was a song. As an adult, the words take on much more meaning and prominence:

Sim shalom tova uveracha, chen v’chesed v’rachamim, aleynu v’al kol Yisrael amecha.

Sim means to “place” or “grant” or “make,” and so we are asking God in this prayer to sim shalom, “grant peace” upon us and upon all Your people Israel. But while the prayer is commonly called Sim Shalom we are asking God for actually six things in this first sentence: Shalom, but also, tovah, beracha, chen, chesed, and rachamim.

Some of these we might be familiar with: tova, goodness—like when we say shana tova, or gmar hatimah tova, we are appealing for goodness, happiness, joy. Beracha, blessing, like we say a beracha, a blessing over food, over candles, over study, over many things—in this case to be granted blessing is to be granted bounty, success, all that we need.

And then there is chesed, or lovingkindness, a feeling of love for another that results in acts of generosity and support, and rachamim, compassion, from the word for womb, a feeling of love for those in need, and vulnerable, and hurting.

But then stuck in the middle is a word that we actually don’t talk about too much, though it does show up throughout our Torah and liturgy, a word and idea that here in the prayer is given equal status, and we tend to overlook it, although, I would suggest, it is perhaps is what we need the most of right now:

Chen. Often translated as “grace.”

This word can feel out of place within Jewish practice, grace. We don’t use this word often in our Jewish practice. Or it feels to Christian which is not unsurprising for the concept takes on greater significance in Christian theology. Think “Amazing Grace.”

But it shows up more often than we think. This is not the only time we see this word over the course of Yom Kippur. When we chant the 13 Attributes of Mercy—calling upon the spirit of forgiveness, we say Adonai Adonai El rachum v’chanun—”God, God, God of Compassion and Graciousness.” And in the Book of Jonah, which we read on Yom Kippur afternoon, the prophet Jonah says, “I know you are a compassionate and gracious God.” When we sing the Avinu Malkeynu, as we will later this evening, we say “Avinu Malkeynu chaneynu v’a’aneynu…” Our creator, our sovereign, be gracious with us and answer us.” In these cases the word chen is connected to mercy, or pardon, or empathy.

Chen shows up in Tanakh, in the Bible, and even then its meaning is a little vague. There are a variety of nuances within the biblical text. It is often found in the phrase, matza chen b’eynecha—find chen in ones eyes, that is, to be looked upon favorably. It sometimes—as in the Book of Esther—has the connotation of physical beauty.

But here in Sim Shalom, it is put in the context with chesed and rachamim, and so gives us more understanding of its meaning as it has evolved. It is related to these other two concepts but is separate and distinct. Chesed as mentioned is lovingkindess and action based on relationship and connection, and rachamim is acts of care and compassionate towards the vulnerable. Therefore chen must be different. And not only different, but perhaps since it precedes the two in the text, we can posit chen to be a prerequisite. Chen can be understood as the initial possibility of favor, of good will. It is the initial recognition of another’s humanity in all its complexity and possibility and dynamism.

And not necessarily earned by anything we have done, but simply because we are human. The phrase from Avinu Malkeynu continues: avinu malkeynu chaneynu va’aneynu ki ein banu ma’asim. “Our creator our sovereign be gracious with us, and respond to us—even though we have no deeds.” Even though we have nothing to show for it, to earn it. Chen is favor and regard granted solely by the virtue of being. Unearned love that understands that “being” also means “becoming.” That is grace.

And even though all of these examples are all speaking of divine action, God’s grace towards us, how much moreso that we, created in the image of God, can and must also embody this? We speak of chesed and rachamim often as informing our human actions and values and virtues and obligations. We must also speak of chen in the same way. Favor and regard granted solely by the virtue of being. Unearned love that understands that “being” also means “becoming.”

Because it starts with chen. It starts with grace. And we need it now more than ever. How necessary that is in these times when we are defined by polarization and separation, when we are content to categorize and reduce, that we need to cultivate an attitude of grace—of recognition and acknowledgment of another’s humanity–towards our fellow human beings.

In 1962, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. gave an address at Cornell College in Mount Vernon, Iowa. He was speaking of the civil rights movement, but his words resonate to us today, “I am convinced that men hate each other because they fear each other. They fear each other because they don’t know each other, and they don’t know each other because they don’t communicate with each other, and they don’t communicate with each other because they are separated from each other.”

Fast forward 60 some odd years and I am sitting in a synagogue in Washington, DC at a convening of T’ruah, the rabbinic human rights organization, an organization that is dear to my heart and a foundation of my activism. I was even honored to be invited to present a workshop on using social media for social change. There, we had the opportunity to meet and hear from Aziz Abu Sarah and Maoz Inon who since October 7 have spoken publicly together and written a book The Future is Peace. Aziz is Palestinian whose brother was killed in Israeli detention. Maoz is Israeli whose parents were murdered in their home on October 7. At this gathering we had the opportunity to hear their story and share their vision. It was a blessing to listen and learn from them, because I truly believe this is the foundation of peace—a mutual commitment beyond difference and power and violence and history. They closed their talk saying, “we will meet in the future.”

I read their book over sabbatical, which is poignant, hard-hitting, challenging, and important, it’s a series of alternating reflections on the history, present reality, and future of Israel and Palestine.

In one passage in the book Aziz invokes this King quote, having encountered it, as he writes, as “an 18-year-old Palestinian struggling to come to terms with my anger.” And he powerfully takes this quote one step further:

“I grew up in this world of mental and physical walls. And for Israelis and Palestinians, whose lives play out in isolated proximity to one another, there is another layer. It’s not only that we don’t know each other. It’s that so many of us are convinced that we know everything we need to know about each other, those on the other side. It takes away our curiosity, our urge to reach out, to learn. This polarization and hatred come from the illusion that many of us believe we already know what is in the other’s hearts and minds.” (p. 134)

And isn’t that the case? Isn’t it like MLK says we are separate from each other, and isn’t it like Aziz says that we purposefully separate from one another? And how easy that is, especially now, when we sit behind keyboards and smartphones, when we can avoid engagement and interaction, we are more comfortable to assume, to portray, to define the other rather than engage them in their full humanity?

What happens when we stop seeing people as people and start seeing them as categories? I look out at our landscape today and believe there are two large forces at play in our interpersonal discourse that are proving to be so harmful and destructive: strawmen and shibboleths.

A strawman is that logical fallacy in which one person purposefully misconstrues another’s position, often taking it to extremes. A legislator wants to expand the social safety net and is labeled a communist (well, maybe that’s not such a bad thing), or wants to impose gun safety regulations and is charged with wanting to confiscate all guns. “What is your favorite color?” “Blue” “Why do you hate green?”

It is not a good faith argument, not only because it misrepresents another, but because it is often done for the sake of affirming one’s own position. We purposefully characterize the Other in a way that bolsters our own opinion, our own identity. Not rooted in truth but in perception. Not rooted in complexity, but in simplicity. It is portraying people not as they are, but as we want them to be.

Creating strawmen also feeds hostility bias, when we run the risk of ascribing the worst in people, and assuming bad intent. It happens a lot in our discourse when any attempt to provide context is interpreted as condoning, or broadening explanation invites accusations of rationalization.

And the second in addition to strawmen are shibboleths—the terms, the phrases, the words that are meant to separate us.

It’s a great word, and is actually biblical, from the Book of Judges, and it means either an “ear of grain” or a “stream,” it’s a little unclear. But it becomes significant and a part of our English usage not because of what it means, but in how the word itself is used. From the Book of Judges, chapter 12:

“… The Gileadites defeated Ephraim… [and] Gilead held the fords of the Jordan against Ephraim. And when any fugitive from Ephraim said, “Let me cross,” the Gileadites would ask him, “Are you an Ephraimite?”; if he said “No,” they would say to him, “Then say shibbolet”; but he would say “sibbolet,” not being able to pronounce it correctly. Thereupon they would seize him and slay him by the fords of the Jordan…” (Judges 12:4-6)

The word shibbolet was a test, a test of dialect and belonging. It was a word that allowed for the distinguishing between groups, an act that had violent consequences. It became a marker for identification of “in group” and “out group”.

And we continue to use these, where certain words mean you are part of a certain group, or hold a particular position, and if you do not use those words, you are out. And it goes beyond inclusion and exclusion, but we apply moral weight to these shibboleths. They become not just identity markers but moral judgments, which goes even further to create (oftentimes artificial) wedges and divisions between individuals and groups. And these terms, these shibboleths, are often subject to multiple interpretations and definitions, which makes it even more challenging to navigate them.

And both of these—strawmen and shibboleths–lead to absolutism and false dichotomies—dividing people into either/or vs. both/and. And, when we put people into dichotomies, when we make them into strawmen and segregate by shibboleth, we end up dehumanizing. The Jewish philosopher Martin Buber spoke famously of the I-Thou relationship: we must see people not as an It, an object to categorize, but a Thou, a subject with whom relationship is possible.

I will speak personally for a minute, if I may. My sabbatical, as I have shared, was a time of rest, reading, reflection, and writing. And it was also a time of reclaiming my humanity. For one of the hardest things for me personally throughout these past few years is how often I felt that I, as a rabbi, both in my work and my presence on social media became an object. Where I was the strawman in another person’s worldview. Positions ascribed to me regardless of what I had particularly said or written, or not particularly said or written. And sometimes (more often on social media) it felt based solely on my identity as a Jew and my role as rabbi. (Or according to some, “rabbi”). So I recognize how hurtful this could be. Being reduced to an object made me feel at times defensive, at times withdrawn. And perhaps even worse, it made me like treating others as objects as well.

And all of this is why I think we need to uplift the value of chen. We must give each other grace. This initial recognition of another’s humanity in all its complexity and possibility. To offer chen is to treat another as a Thou rather than an It.

And where we begin is self-grace. Because we also make strawmen of ourselves. We also apply shibboleths to ourselves. We also assume bad intent, or create static narratives, of ourselves. Sometimes we treat ourselves as an It and not a Thou.

Yom Kippur reminds us to have grace for ourselves first. We are here on this day of self-reflection and self-improvement. But to begin, we need to start with grace. We need to say to ourselves, that yes even though I may not have deeds to show for it, I am worthy of grace. Because I am a human being, created in the image of God. Because I have the capacity to learn and grow and change.

Each one of us enters this room this evening hurt and broken. At this time of teshuvah, we must give ourselves grace. Because this is hard work. Life is hard work. When we think about teshuvah (repentance) in this season, we talk about it as if it is an easy process: we see where we have missed the mark, we commit to do better, and we make different choices moving forward. However, while the steps seem easy, the work is so difficult. Teshuvah takes time, patience, and courage. We will try and we will fail and we will try again. And fail again.

So one of the greatest gifts we can give to ourselves is the gift of grace. We honor the commitment to change, even if the change is not yet complete, and the intention to heal relationships, even if that healing is gradual. We muster the courage to admit our mistakes and commit to the ongoing work of repair.

And as we give grace to ourselves, we must give it to others. But this is important: it doesn’t mean we overlook hurt, or excuse transgression, or dismiss accountability. It doesn’t mean we must agree with one another, surrender our moral convictions, or remain in relationships that cause harm. Judaism has mechanisms for loving reproach and compassionate criticism.

But chen asks us to distinguish between holding someone accountable for what they have done and defining them entirely by what they have done. We can name harm without denying humanity. We can establish boundaries without abandoning compassion. We can oppose injustice without giving up the possibility that the person before us can learn, grow, and change.

If you believe that you can change, and I know all of you believe that about yourselves, then you must believe it about others. You must give each other grace, as you wish to receive it for yourself.

In the Sim Shalom prayer, the next line after the one I mentioned earlier that lists those six words is: barcheynu avinu kulanu k’echad. “Bless us Source of Being as one.”

As one. For while we can offer grace to ourselves and to each other, it is also what binds us together as one community. As one. That each one of us has worth, is imperfect. Each one of us has the capacity to change, to regret. Grace is the starting point, to move past the strawmen, to move past the shibboleths, to create real human connection and thus real human community. So we can be “as one”?

I want us here to be a congregational community rooted in chen. I want us to be a congregational community where we can as Jews, treat each other as fully human, as Thou rather than It, having meaningful relationships and engagements.

So, can we?

Can we create a Jewish community that thoughtfully wrestles with our horror, sadness, anger, and yearning over what is happening now in Israel and Palestine?

Can we create a Jewish community that openly explores our experiences and fears of antisemitism, and our commitment to Jewish peoplehood?

Can we be a Jewish community where we recognize our shared commitment to the Jewish future and Jewish survival, even though we differ on how that is made manifest?

Can we be a Jewish community where we listen to and seek to understand each other’s stories, hopes, fears and identities?

Can we be a Jewish community that is built on genuine relationship and not roles and hierarchy?

And can we be a Jewish community where we recognize that, even amid our differences, we are bound to one another through a covenant, a brit, of shared values and aspirations?

Can we be individuals and can we be a Jewish community rooted in chen? For to be rooted in chen is to:

Recognize that we are all deserving of love.

Embrace each other’s full humanity and resist the temptation to define or exclude.

Approach each other with generosity and curiosity, not hostility.

Accept that explanation is not rationalization.

Hold open the possibility of transformation while not abandoning accountability.

Embody acts of chesed—lovingkindness–and rachamim—compassion.

May each one of us learn to offer chen, grace, to ourselves and one another. And may the grace we practice bring about—sim shalom—that peace for which we pray.