Rabbi Howard Morrison

WHAT DOES IT MEAN TO BE RELIGIOUS?

If, as I mentioned yesterday, Rosh Hashanah commemorates the birth of humanity, why do our Torah readings for Rosh Hashanah not come from the opening pages of Genesis? Rather, our Biblical passages originate from the early experiences of the very first Jewish family, Abraham and Sarah. While Genesis chapter 1 is universal and predates Jewish history, the stories of Abraham and Sarah inaugurate the Jewishness of the Torah. Perhaps the specificity of the Jewish people explains the ancient choice for the Rosh Hashanah Torah readings.

Abraham and Sarah are the originators of the Jewish way of life. Together, they recognize the Oneness of God. Together, they provide an open tent to all who want to be divinely inspired. Together, they welcome passersby and those in need into their tent. Yet, they are not perfect. By definition, all people, even those who call themselves religious, are imperfect human beings. Abraham and Sarah do not come off so well in their treatment of Hagar and Ishmael, who are banished from the family. At face value, Abraham does not come off so well in taking his son Isaac up to the mountain for a near slaughter. The age-old question of why Abraham can challenge God about wiping out Sodom and Gomorrah but not challenge God about what might happen to Isaac continues to be an age-old question of generations on the subject.

With all the imperfection, Abraham and Sarah are the progenitors of Judaism. Their open tent becomes the model for the Jewish home and for the synagogue. Four thousand years later, the Jewish home and the synagogue are still here and continue to provide the best guarantees of Jewish meaning, purpose, and vitality. Yet, the Jewish home, the synagogue, and affiliation with Jewish life are in peril, and not because of the pandemic. Traditional Jewish practice in the home has waned in the 20th-21st century. Affiliation and volunteer involvement in synagogue have waned in recent years. The word religion or religious has become a negative word for many people.

When I was ordained in 1987, one of my classmates was David Wolpe, the son on a congregational rabbi himself. David was our class valedictorian at our ordination ceremony. He has gone on to write many books and has recently retired after many years as senior rabbi of the Sinai Temple in Los Angeles. This past Summer, his public retirement article, entitled, "As a Rabbi, I've had a privileged view of the human condition," has gone viral.

Here are some excerpts from his meaningful essay:

For over a quarter of a century now, I have listened to people's stories, sat by their bedsides as life slipped away, buried their parents, spouses, sometimes their children. Marriages have ended in my office, as have engagements. I have watched families as they say cruel, cutting things to one another, or just as devastating, refuse to say anything at all. I have seen the iron claw of grief scrape out the insides of mourners, grip their windpipes, blind their eyes so that they cannot accept the mercy of people or of God. . . . I have come to several realizations. All of us are wounded and broken in one way or another. Those who do not recognize it in themselves or in others are more likely to cause damage than those who realize and try to rise through the brokenness. This is what binds together a faith community. No religious tradition, certainly not my own, looks at an individual and says: "There, You are perfect." it is humility and sadness and striving that raises us, doing good that proves the tractability of the world and its openness to improvement, and faith that allows us to continue through the shared valleys.

I have had a privileged view of the human condition, and the essential place of religion on that hard road. Sometimes it seems, for those outside of faith communities, that religion is simply about a set of beliefs to which one assents. But I know that from the inside it is about relationships and shared vision. Where else do people sing together week after week? Where else does the past come alive to remind us how much has been learned before the sliver of time we are granted in this world?

I know the percentage of those who not only call themselves religious but also find themselves in religious communities declines each year. . . . Keeping a congregation together has never been easy. . . . Two practices have enabled us to stay together. Over the years, I have encouraged people to learn about each other's lives. . . . The second is listening. We, who do not know ourselves, believe we understand others. We must always be reminded that each person is a world.

I still believe the synagogue is a refuge for the bereaved and provides a road map for the seeker. I have been moved by how powerful that teachings of tradition prove to be in people's lives, helping them sort out grievances from grief, focusing on what matters, giving poignancy to celebrations. The stories of the Torah, read year after year, wear grooves in our souls, so that patterns of life that might escape us become clear. Sibling rivalries and their costs are clear in the story of Jacob and Esau, Joseph and his brothers. The consequences of kindness emanate from the book of Ruth. We share unanswerable questions with Job and passion with Song of Songs. The Torah acts as a spur and a salve.

Religion may be on the decline . . . but if you wish to se the full panoply of a human life, moments of ecstatic joy and deepest sorrow, the summit of hopes and the connections of community, they exist concentrated in one place: Your local house of worship.

I only wish I could speak and write as beautifully and as meaningfully as my classmate and colleague, Rabbi David Wolpe. I look out at you. I look into the livestream camera knowing who you are. I know that in my twenty-three years at Beth Emeth and in my thirty-six years in the rabbinate that I have seen and experienced everything that Rabbi Wolpe has seen and experienced. With many of you, I have come to learn, understand, and respect your lives, as you have done with me. When we are commanded to HEAR the Shofar and not BLOW the Shofar, we are taught the importance of listening to each other completely and not blowing empty words at each other. It is appropriate that the origin of the Shofar is found in the Torah reading for Rosh Hashanah. We do not sacrifice our children or others on the proverbial altar. The ram's horn teaches us to listen, to love, and to care with and for each other.

It is time to reclaim the words religion and religious. They are not limited to external garments or a fixed set of beliefs and practices. They are about cultivating homes, synagogues, and lives that are predicated on striving to be the best we can be even while being imperfect beings; on finding moments of meaning in celebration and in sorrow; and in being there for each other.

I wish us all Shanah Tovah U'Metuka.
Rabbi Howard Morrison