Holy Time Part II
Rosh Hashanah Sermon Day 2, 5772/2011
Delivered by Rabbi David Baum, Congregation Shaarei Kodesh
A poor Jew from a small European shtetl once dreamed that there was a great treasure under a bridge in the great city of Vienna. He traveled to Vienna and stood near the bridge, trying to figure out what to do. An officer passed by and asked him, “Jew, what are you doing here?” The man decided to tell the whole story to the officer, hoping that he would help him find the treasure. The officer listened to the whole story and replied, “A Jew is concerned only with dreams! I also dreamed of finding treasure. It was in a small house under the cellar.” The officer described the small house in detail, and the Jew realized that it was his house that the officer was describing. He rushed home, dug under the cellar, and found the treasure. He said, “Now I know that I had the treasure all along. But in order to find it, I had to travel to Vienna.”
All too often, we travel at great lengths to find treasure, but after our long journey, we realize that the true treasures of life are found in the place we least expect it, our hearts and our homes.
Yesterday, I spoke about the concept of holy time in our Jewish calendar. Our calendar, the first mitzvah we were given as a people, has allowed us to bring God into our lives by dwelling in His sanctuary.
Our Torah tells us that the place where we will offer our sacrifices will be the place where God chooses to place His name, the place where His presence dwells. For years, this was the Mishkan, the Tabernacle, and later, our Holy Temple. But the Temple was destroyed, and with it, seemed like God lost His place.
It was after the moment of destruction that time became the center of our lives, not space.
But where else does God dwell?
There is a famous line in the Torah when God tells the Israelites to build Him a sanctuary.
Leviticus Verse 25:8 God says “And let them make me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them.” This is a strange wording because the text should say: let them make me a sanctuary that I may dwell upon it. Our commentators see that this is a reference to God residing in our people’s hearts, among them.
We are the sanctuaries that God dwells upon.
Yesterday, I spoke about the minutes in a year, Five Hundred Twenty Five Thousand Six Hundred minutes in a year. We strive to dwell in God’s sanctuary, but we are not always in synagogue, there are not always holidays to celebrate. Most of the time, we are living in Chol, the mundane, not in Kodesh, the holy.
One of my favorite ceremonies in Judaism is Havdallah, the separation from Kodesh to Chol, from the holy to the regular. Our Rabbis envisioned this ceremony to occur in the home, not in the synagogue. In this ceremony, we bless wine, spices that give off a pleasant odor, and fire.
Our first blessing is over an overfilled glass of wine. Our cup overflows with the hope that blessings will pour out into our homes.
The second blessing, over the spices, are like smelling salts. The sweetness of the spices wake us up from the slumber of Shabbat. When we smell them, we are refreshed and ready to take on the world.
Finally, we recite the blessing Borei Meoreh HaEish over the flame of a candle – blessed is God, the creator of the lights of fire.
We light the Shabbat candles to bring peace into our homes, Shalom Bayit, on the even of Shabbat and holidays, but the light we kindle for Havdallah is different– it is a flame, a candle made up of numerous wicks. This fire is more then peace, it is about comfort, warmth, and confidence that we do not have to be afraid because God is with us.
This ceremony tells us:
LIFE IS NOT ALL ABOUT THE HOLY DAYS, THE KODESH, IT’S ALSO ABOUT CHOL, THE DAILY MINUTES WE TAKE FOR GRANTED.
I asked you yesterday to take a step into our sanctuary to celebrate our holy times together which would bring us into God’s sanctuary.
Today, I want to give you a different message.
Today, I want to ask you to do something else – to bring God into your sanctuary, your home, your life, your heart, the minutes of your every day life. The places where you think God is off limits, but these are the places where you need God the most.
288 minutes – the length of an average baseball game.
I took a class on ethical wills, an ancient Jewish practice, as a rabbinical student. Our tradition tells us that there is more to pass on to our children than just material possessions, so they devised ethical wills to pass on the immaterial; the values and ethics that guide our lives and the hope that our children would take on their morals and values to pass on to their children.
In this class, one of our teachers, told us a story that I will never forget regarding his own ethical will. He wrote an ethical will for his son. In his will, he recalled an event in his life that troubled him decades later, and he contacted his son 40 years later about this moment: Son, do you remember what happened when you were ten years old? His son answered, “Yes, I do. That was when you stood me up before my first baseball game.”
Years ago, this Rabbi promised his son that for his 10th birthday, he would take him and his friends to his first baseball game. For months, his son counted down the days, and finally, that Sunday came. It was on that Sunday morning when the Rabbi received a call from a congregant. Rabbi, our father has died, we need you to officiate at his funeral today at 12:30 pm. The problem was that the baseball game was during this same time.
The Rabbi had to make a choice, and so, in an instant, he chose the funeral. I asked him if he asked the family to change the time of the funeral. He did not. It was not that he was afraid of losing his job. Instead, it was ego. He thought only I could officiate at this funeral.
His sin was that he thought of himself only as the Rabbi. He did not realize that another Rabbi could have stepped in, but no one else could have stepped in to be his son’s father.
I will never forget what he did at the end of the lesson, “Rabbotai, I chose the funeral, and it is something that stuck with my son 40 years later. My students, if you are ever given the same choice, choose the baseball game.”
The choice between family and other aspects of our life is nothing new. In fact, we read today about another choice that our forefather, Avraham once made. In today’s torah reading we read the famous story, the Akedah, the binding of Isaac. It is one of the shortest accounts of a story in the Bible, only 19 lines long, and yet, it is a story that is ingrained in us.
One can look at this as a horror story. Abraham and his wife Sarah struggled with infertility for so long, and they were finally blessed with a son. God calls out to him, “Avraham, take your son, your only-one, whom you love, Yitzhak, and go to the land of Moriah, and offer him there as a burnt offering on one of the heights that I will point out to you.”
How many of us know someone, or ourselves, have struggled with infertility? When I think of Avraham and Sarah’s struggles, I think of a one of my cousins. His young wife had cancer, and thank God, she survived the treatment, but it came at a cost: she was left without the ability to have children. They went through surrogacy, and after many years and dollars, they finally had a child. It warms my heart to see the way they look at their child; he is their gift from God.
Now, imagine that you are told to sacrifice this child. One would think that the battle of all battles would ensue! But in our story, in the Akeidah, the father, Avraham is silent.
God could have just said your son, but he drives it home to him, it is your only son, the one who you love, and then, he says his name, Yitzhak.
It is almost as if God wants Avraham to debate him – but God is met by silence, and the silence is deafening.
You may say, in the modern world, I would never do such a thing, I would never sacrifice my own blood for anything!
That’s what I thought after the Rabbi told me his story, I would never make that mistake, but a couple weeks ago, I experienced my own moment of silence.
My two year old son, ironically named Avraham, was tugging at my pants trying to get my attention, but I was on my Iphone answering email, so I turned on the television for him.
My wife saw this and stopped me, “Would you take a couple of minutes to play with your son.” It began a debate within myself. At first I fought it, “this is our livelihood, it’s my job to answer email.” But was it really? When I am at home, shouldn’t my job be to play with my child, my only child, the one whom I love?
And yet, how many minutes do we sacrifice for our children so that we can have more money and possessions? Abraham was asked to sacrifice for God, but how many of us sacrifice for our bosses, or the news, or television?
There are so many times that we are confronted with choices: between work and family, between space and time. All of us want to call ourselves noble and say that we would choose family over work at all times, but in reality, it is usually the other way around, and it never happens with a loud fight, but with silence.
If your boss invites you over for a barbeque, but it is during your son’s play off game, which one do you choose? Many of us would say, well, in this rough economy, if I want my son to continue having playoff games, I better go to the barbeque.
The truth is, sometimes, our families will understand our dilemma, they may even forgive us, but it does not mean they will forget.
We make these important decisions in our lives, every day, on a moments notice. Like Avraham, when it comes to our families, sometimes we don’t even debate the choices.
God wants you to debate, God wants you to fight for your family.
Do not sacrifice the innocent; do not sacrifice your family without a debate, without a fight.
There is a battle going on in our lives, between space/materials, and time.
Time goes by, and we cannot collect it or make more of it. We can always gain more possessions though, and through it, gain control over space.
But will space and possessions make us truly happy?
There was an editorial in the NY Times that I highly recommend by David Brooks. In this article, Brooks spoke about a safari in Africa that he went on with his family. His family stayed in two different camps: an elegant camp and a simple camp. The elegant camp was more expensive, and with the higher price came your own dinner table, and your tents were secluded from the others. The higher price gave you more space. The simpler camps did not have the luxuries of the elegant camps like running water. At the simpler camps, the guests all ate at one table and people got to know each other – they had more time together.
He wrote, “I know only one word to describe what the simpler camps had and the more luxurious camps lacked: haimish. It’s a Yiddish word that suggests warmth, domesticity and unpretentious conviviality. It occurred to me that when we moved from a simple camp to a more luxurious camp, we crossed an invisible Haimish Line. The simpler camps had it, the more comfortable ones did not.”
Our society as a whole went through such a phenomena. When Americans started making more money, they left the crowded cities neighborhoods where people hung out on stoops and children played together for the suburbs where each family had their own private space but were less likely to know their neighbors.
When we get more means, it seems we automatically feel we must conquer more space.
Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel spoke about this struggle, between space and time. He once wrote, “Indeed, we know what to do with space but do not know what to do about time, except to make it subservient to space. Most of us seem to labor for the sake of things of space. As a result we suffer from a deeply rooted dread of time and stand aghast when compelled to look into its face.
But things of space are not fireproof; they only add fuel to the flames.”
All the money and possessions in the world won’t win your family’s affection, and using it for that purpose only adds fuel to the flame.
What they really want is your time.
In his article, David Brooks writes about how we choose our vacations. He writes that we primarily think about WHERE we will take our vacation as we look at the travel company brochures showing private beaches and phenomenal sights. But when you come back from vacation, you primarily treasure the memories of Who — the people you met from faraway places, and the lives you came in contact with.
I like to look at this idea of a vacation as a metaphor for our lives. If God were our travel agent, would we want Him to show us brochures of the houses we will live in, the material things we will own, or would we want God to show us the people who we will have in our lives?
When I walk through cemeteries, as Rabbis, we do this more than most people, I often read the gravestones. Out of all the gravestones I have seen in my life, and I have seen many, I have never seen ‘Here lies Moshe, he owned a 5,000 square foot home or ‘he had three BMWs’ inscribed on a grave stone. What I do see is, here lies Moshe or Miriam, beloved mother or father, grandfather or mother, great-grandfather/mother, son, daughter, uncle, aunt, and friend.
We might be able to possess more and more things, but these things are fleeting, as Heschel told us, they are not fire proof.
Now, HaYom, today, is the time to start mastering your time, your minutes.
You cannot create more of it, but you do have a lot of them: 525,600 minutes.
Yesterday, Liza Schwartzwald sang the words from the musical “Rent”. The song ends with the answer to how we measure our moments in life; we measure them in love. The song ends with the words, “You know that love is a gift from up above, Share love, give love, spread love, measure your life in love.”
God gave us the gift of time, every year, and asks us to add the ingredient of love, and share it with others.
This year, I want all of you to do one thing: hold that Haimish line. Hold it in every one of the Five Hundred Twenty Five Thousand Six Hundred minutes that you are blessed with.
These minutes are the treasure that you seek, and they are not hard to find, just look in your homes, in your hearts.
This New Year, 5772, is the time to let God dwell in these places.





