Here we are in the aseret y’mei t’shuvah – the ten days of repentance. After spending long hours in synagogue praying, reflecting, and attuning ourselves to the holy, we are back for Shabbat. Given the grandeur and majesty of Rosh Hashanah, it might feel somewhat anticlimactic coming down from those great heights.

The soaring melodies, stirring poetry, and deep worship of Rosh Hashanah helps us do that ever-important soul work. But now, it’s a little more quiet. What are we to do now?

Here’s the truly great thing: Maurice Lamm teaches that God is not just a Rosh Hashanah God. Holiness is available to us, if we acknowledge it, every day. God’s majesty cannot be contained within a synagogue ark, or squeezed into the stone walls of Jerusalem, or locked tight in the 25 hours of Yom Kippur.

On Rosh Hashanah, I spoke about the attributes of God, and how we are meant to emulate them. In particular, how we are taught that truth and teshuvah are not just good ideas, but are fundamentally part of what we might think of as God’s divine-DNA.

Another one of God’s attributes holds the key to capturing, on a daily basis, some of the awe-someness of the yamim noraim.

The Torah describes God as Rav Chesed – great in kindness.

Like truth and teshuvah, chesed is not just a good idea, or a nice way to interact with others, but is elevated by our tradition to among the highest possible traits.

Our ancient rabbis were imaginative people. In addition to studying Torah and formulating Jewish law, they thought expansively about the nature of the universe. They were fond of making concise lists of what they considered to be among most important things in the world.

You’re probably familiar with one of these. The world, they said, rests on three things: On Torah, on Worship, and on acts of Loving-Kindness (Mishna Avot 1:2).

Dr. Alan Morinis, a teacher of Jewish ethics, explains one view of chesed: “It is not simply wishing someone well, or smiling, or doing what is expected of you. We need to be careful around the almost universal translation of the word chesed as ‘lovingkindness.’ To my ear, and maybe to yours, too, loving-kindness suggests being nice…”

Rather, “you have to tap those feelings to reach out your hand with real sustenance to another, by way of money, time, love, empathy, service, an open ear, manual assistance, a letter written, a call made, and on and on. People can and do draw sustenance from many sources.”

Chesed is not just an exceptional attitude, but is a fundamental obligation of every Jew. It is, alongside worship and Torah study, part of the very cosmic stitching of all of existence.

* * *

Like many of you, I watched the scenes from the recent seemingly incessant natural disasters in profound awe. I was struck by the ferocity of nature, but also by how people selflessly reach out to each other in times of desperation.

I confess that while it has been moving, and indeed inspiring to see people supporting one another in times of great need, while watching coverage on CNN, or the Daily Show, or any of the other myriad outlets that have focused on this, I have felt an unsettling notion nagging at me.

Like rubberneck traffic, we are stopped in our tracks to marvel at humans “getting it right.”

I wonder if the way in which we tell these stories communicates a message that these acts of kindness are the exception rather than the norm.

Yes, there’s something attractive about watching heroic acts of kindness, but what happens when cable news networks add “late breaking news” graphics and dramatic soundtracks to the footage of someone saving another from drowning? Why are we so astonished to see people acting compassionately toward one another?

To be sure, this is not a black and white issue.

On the one hand, these dramatic stories of kindness can be inspiring and motivate others to do good. They can convey a message of comfort during times of catastrophe and disarray.

But on the other hand, as consumers of these stories, how do we let them affect us?

Do we de-incentivize kindness through this exceptionalizing? Do we send the message: “I don’t need to help people unless there’s a disaster. Unless there’s a hurricane”? Each of us may encounter our own brand of hurricane every day. Are we deserving of kindness only during natural disasters?

Acts of chesed are not meant to be viewed as exceptional. Indeed, they are meant to be the norm.

* * *

The word chesed appears 245 times in the Torah. The rabbis taught that the Torah begins with an act of chesed (BT Sota 14a), when God provides Adam and Eve with clothes; and it ends with an act of chesed, when God buries Moses. Abraham extends chesed to strangers, wandering in from the parched desert.

Rabbi Lamm teaches that, “In a sense, the goal of the whole enterprise of Judaism is to develop human beings whose principal trait is chesed… It appears on page after page of the Jewish Prayerbook, in chapter after chapter of the Psalms, and is implied in the legal and moral decisions on folio after folio of the Talmud… The world could not have endured so long without chesed; it would have imploded.”

We always have access to chesed. It is a way that we can emulate God every day. Not just on Rosh Hashanah, not just on Shabbat, and not just when exceptional disasters call for it.

Okay, so how do we do this? How can we approach chesed in a way that doesn’t result in us losing our sense of humility, and doesn’t require flashy cable-news headlines? Can we bring a sense of chesed to our lives that is not sensational or exceptional, but is part and parcel of who we are every single day, just as it is for God?

Dr. Morinis offers:

[Action] is the key to opening the heart.  It is too easy to think good thoughts and say the right things but then just continue to be stuck in the same old ways.  We’re too easy to deceive, especially self-deceive. Action is required. Then, through experience, the heart learns and opens, setting off a chain reaction of hearts opening and connecting leading right up to openness and connection to God.

* * *

This past summer, I worked in a hospital, learning how to provide spiritual counseling to patients, families, and doctors. One of my teachers was a Buddhist, who introduced me to a concept called Fierce Compassion.

I think that the Jewish idea of chesed and the Buddhist idea of Fierce Compassion might inform each other. Willa Miller, a Tibetan Buddhist, teaches that Fierce Compassion is based in a contemplative perspective that helps us be more kind, in four distinct ways:

One: Fierce compassion requires that we lean into our own shadow to see how we avoid truths within ourselves. Fierce compassion is introspective, and curious about our own darkness…

If what is happening is not pleasant, we gradually learn to come alongside the very states of suffering that we are in the habit of avoiding. We cannot develop a compassion practice without being intimate with our own suffering. In this way, fierce compassion begins with self-compassion.

Two: Fierce compassion asks of us to extend love to those who is it not easy to love. It asks for us to suspend condemnation long enough so that we consider the humanity of those who have done us harm. When we consider their humanity, we, too, become humane.

Three: Fierce compassion leans on a perspective of equanimity. It is broad… We need to broaden our sense of compassion, so that it becomes wide enough to embrace the earth as a whole organism.

Four: Fierce compassion builds resilience. Contemplative practices of compassion rely on engaging with suffering as a method to transform it into joyful empathetic responsiveness.

Fierce Compassion requires that we learn how to be kind to ourselves, so that we can extend that kindness to others. It requires that we give this freely to all people and creatures, not only to those from who we can expect something in return. And it is clearly not a one-shot-deal. It is not something that we do every now and then when the stars align, or when we are feeling especially altruistic. It is an entire way of being, a process of engaging with the world.

Fierce Compassion sounds a whole lot to me like God’s idea of chesed.

These aseret y’mei t’shuvah are a gift to consider how to bring more holiness into our lives every day. Who are the people that we want to be each and every day – not just when we’re in synagogue, but at all times?

When we make chesed a part of our daily, when it becomes not just a series of actions, but an entire worldview, we are fulfilling what the prophet Micah teaches us is what God requires of us: “only to do justice, love chesed, and to walk humbly with our God.” (Micah 6:8)

May we all bring more chesed into the world, with a little fierceness.

In 1940, at the age of eight, a young boy named Russell Moses was forcibly removed from his home. Ripped away from all that he knew, he was relocated by the government to one of many re-education schools. The government stripped him of his identity and gave him a number that was sewn onto his clothes.

Robbed of his name, forbidden to speak his native language, subject to harsh physical punishment, and deprived of love, Russel suffered enormously.

Born in 1932, Russell Moses was a member of the Delaware band of the Six Nations of the Grand River, an indigenous Canadian territory in what is now the province of Ontario. The story of his life – like many of the indigenous peoples of this continent – is one that includes discrimination, poverty, and tragedy.[1]

Russell’s story is just one of hundreds of thousands. Each similarly unconscionable, each more tragic than the last. They are uncomfortable truths that many would rather ignore than dredge up. We tell ourselves that we have evolved, that we are better, that these injustices are a thing of the past. Such attitudes ensured that until recently, most of these stories had never seen the light of day.

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There’s a certain paradox to salt: it has the power to elevate our meals to culinary heights, or bring them crashing to the kitchen floor.

Salt is best when we’re not aware of it. We only notice it when there’s too much or not enough. Too much, and food tastes sharp and potent. Too little, and it lacks umph. But the right amount, precisely balanced, doesn’t just make food taste better; according to food scientist Alton Brown, it “makes food taste more like itself.” This is why professional chefs obsess over the right amount of salt, seasoning at every step along the way. It’s a technique that most of us – with our less-refined taste buds – won’t ever be able to match.

This salty paradox isn’t limited just to the foods the mineral graces – it applies to us humans, as well: Too much salt intake may eventually kill us, but our bodies also depend on it to survive; if we don’t keep up our sodium levels, we will eventually die. So much power, all within a tiny grain of sodium chloride.

Our parasha this week is also aware of the power of salt. We read of God’s commandments regarding the elaborate sacrifices to be brought up to God. Among all the minutiae, there is one peculiar instruction:

וְכָל־קָרְבַּ֣ן מִנְחָתְךָ֮ בַּמֶּ֣לַח תִּמְלָח֒ וְלֹ֣א תַשְׁבִּ֗ית מֶ֚לַח בְּרִ֣ית אֱלֹהֶ֔יךָ מֵעַ֖ל מִנְחָתֶ֑ךָ עַ֥ל כָּל־קָרְבָּנְךָ֖ תַּקְרִ֥יב מֶֽלַח׃

You shall season (salt) your every offering of meal with salt; you shall not omit from your meal offering the salt of your covenant with God; with all of your offerings you must offer salt. (Lev 2:13)

Four times in one verse, God commands us to salt our offerings, as a symbol of the “salt of the covenant”? What is this melakh brit Eloheikhah – salt of the covenant? Of all the covenants we’ve encountered in the Torah, none of them have included the use of salt.

We all know that salt has a dualistic power: the power to preserve and the power to destroy; the power to kill and the power to maintain life. It turns out that some of our rabbis of old were also aware of this power.

Rabbeinu Bachya, a thirteenth century Spanish rabbi, brought his understanding of the workings of the natural world to his commentary on this verse from Vayikra. He knew that salt can both give flavour and preserve food, and also that land which has been salted will not grow. He understood basic chemistry – that salt requires the heat of the sun to evaporate water so that it can become usable.

Casting these observations in a mystical light, he wrote that salt has two competing forces within it, each one the opposite of the other: water and fire. He believed that these forces parallel the two divine elements upon which the world is sustained: God’s judgement – din, and God’s mercy – rachamim.

Din – God’s judgement – is like fire; it is salt upon the land. Like Noah’s Flood or the salty and sulfuric destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, the Torah is clear that human actions have consequences and that at times, God exercises judgement over humanity.

Rachamim – God’s mercy – is like water; it is the salt of preservation. Like God’s compassion toward the orphan, the poor, and the widow; or the redemption from Egypt and the parting of the salty waters of the sea, the Torah is also clear that our God is a merciful God, endlessly patient, and overflowing with love.

We want our relationship with God to be one balanced between din and rachamim. We need some judgement, so that we can discriminate the path God desires of us, and so that we can know that there is something at stake in our relationship with God. But we also crave God’s mercy, for we are only human beings – imperfect and struggling to do better in this world.

So why is salt symbol of our covenant with God? For Bachya, salt is a symbol of the competing forces of God’s judgement and mercy. Too much din, and we cannot survive. Too much rachamim, and there is no incentive to act according to God’s instructions.

Rabbeinu Bachya’s idea is beautiful, but how do we bring this lofty, mystical interpretation down to the salt-of-the-earth?

Perhaps we can think of salt as a symbol for how we live in relationship with those we hold most dear. All of our relationships – with our parents; our children; our friends – require certain things to sustain them: support, guidance, a hand to hold onto. Like the salt of the covenant, each of these has a dual nature: not enough guidance, and we lose our sense of place in the world. But too much, and we feel as though we are unable to chart our own path. Not enough handholding, and we may hamper developing empathy. But too much, and we risk becoming overbearing, helicopter-like.

Somewhere between these poles is the sweet spot – where those in a relationship feel as though they are both supported and nurtured, but also have freedom and agency.

Just as this is true in our own relationships, it is true for our covenantal relationship with God. When our ancestors brought forth salted sacrifices on the altars of old, they made a supreme declaration of the depth of their love of God. To seal those offerings with salt as a symbol of the covenant was a profound way of acknowledging those same competing forces inherent in any partnership – the forces of preservation and of destruction; of judgement, and of mercy.

The paradox of salt requires our attention to detail. I am inspired by great chefs, who constantly salt, then taste, then pause to reflect: “am I elevating this, or am I destroying it?” If we bring this care and love, then just like salt with food, our partnerships and covenants will bring out the best in each other, and our lives will be full of flavour.

I’m the little Jew

Who wrote the Bible

I’ve seen the nations rise and fall

I’ve heard their stories, heard them all

But love’s the only engine

Of survival [1]

Why do human beings write and read poetry?

Why does poetry work?

Writing in The Atlantic, Andrew Simmons argues that poetry has a particularly important role today: it teaches us how to write, how to read, and how to understand any text. It gives us a healthy outlet for surging emotions. It can foster trust and empathy, while also emphasizing speaking and listening skills that are often neglected in reading other forms of literature. [2]

My teacher, Rabbi David Kasher, says: “It’s true, we don’t ‘need’ poetry. We can get by communicating in prose, and take care of the basic functions of human life.” [3] We could just say what we mean, couldn’t we? Save paper. Save time. Just get to the point.

But that would be missing the point of being able to speak and read, wouldn’t it?

Rabbi Kasher goes on: “The fact that we write poetry is a testament to our search for something more. Some kind of hidden beauty, some kind of deeper meaning.”

What is the hidden beauty, the deep meaning in these words:

I’m the little Jew

Who wrote the Bible

I’ve seen the nations rise and fall

I’ve heard their stories, heard them all

But love’s the only engine

Of survival

Your servant here, he has been told

To say it clear, to say it cold

It’s over, it ain’t going any further

And now the wheels of heaven stop

You feel the devil’s riding crop

Get ready for the future: It is murder

These words, penned by one of my heroes, Leonard Cohen, are the lyrics to his song, The Future. Cohen is something of a modern-day prophet. It’s not just the heavenly wisdom which pours forth from his poetry and music; wisdom which simultaneously is inspired by our rich textual tradition, and itself inspires others with its ability to peer into the depths of the human soul.

Were it only that, he would still be counted among the greats of music and literature. But more so, it is that he lives his life so remarkably in tune with our spiritual calendar. “I am ready to die,” Cohen confessed this week in a revealing interview where he candidly shared what it means to be approaching the end of his life. It is serendipitous that he shares this the very week when we read of Moses preparing for his own death.

Update: Cohen thankfully now says: “I think I was exaggerating. I’ve always been into self-dramatization. I intend to live forever.”

“For some odd reason… I have all my marbles, so far… So I am extremely blessed… At a certain point, if you still have your marbles and are not faced with serious financial challenges, you have a chance to put your house in order. It’s a cliché, but it’s underestimated as an analgesic on all levels. Putting your house in order, if you can do it, is one of the most comforting activities, and the benefits of it are incalculable… The big change is the proximity to death… I am a tidy kind of guy. I like to tie up the strings if I can. If I can’t, also, that’s O.K. But my natural thrust is to finish things that I’ve begun.” [4]

In his song, The Future, Cohen ponders some anxious questions that I think must have been going through Moses’ mind, as he readied himself to abdicate his role as leader; as he prepared himself to die. Uncertain about what is to come for his people; apprehensive of how stable things will be.

Our own poet-prophet, Moses, is putting his house in order, this week in parashat Ha’azinu. In his last message to the Israelite, perched on the edges of their Promised Land, Moses crafts a poetic farewell, trying to tie up the strings before ascending to the top of Mount Nebo to die. In fact, his message is also referred to as Shirat Moshe – the song, or poem, of Moses. When you look at the text in a sefer torah, you can see how it is formatted differently, in poetic stanzas.

Moses is told by God to write down this shir – this poem – and to recite it to the Israelites. In it, he recounts the toilsome journey through the desert, and warns Israel not to reject God in the future:

God found Jacob in the land of the wilderness, in an empty howling chaos /

He circled him, watched over him, guarded him as the pupil of His eye.

Like an eagle who awakens his nestlings, gliding down to his young /

So did He spread His wings and take him, carrying him along on His wings.

(Deut. 32:10-11)

Moses could have communicated these ideas in prose – simply saying that God protected Jacob in the desert when times were hard. But then we would miss the fact that Jacob, whose other name is Israel is a metaphor for the Jewish people as a whole. All of us are seen as having a deeply personal relationship with God. We would miss the penetrating imagery of God seeing us as “the pupil of His eye” – always in focus, entering with the light of the universe. We would miss that God is portrayed as a protective eagle, caring for us as the majestic bird cares for its young.

When Moses finished reciting all these words to all Israel, he said to them: Take to heart all the words with which I have warned you this day. Enjoin them upon your children, that they may observe faithfully all the terms of this Teaching. For this is not a trifling thing for you: it is your very life; through it you shall long endure (Deut. 30:45-16)

This is surely an emotional time in Moses’ life, filled with uncertainty. Told by God that he is about to die without entering the land of Israel, his personal mission will remain incomplete. Strings untied; house not fully in order. He must be searching for some of what Andrew Simmons was writing about in The Atlantic: trust, empathy, and certainty that the Israelites have heard all that he has said. This is why our parasha begins with the word Ha’azinu – give ear! Literally, make sure what I am saying is resonating in your ears, because I’m not going to be around much longer; you won’t be hearing my voice anymore.

When Moses is instructed to record and share this poem, The Talmud interprets it to be not simply the words of our parashah this week, but those of the entire Torah. [5] The whole Torah itself is a poem! The 19^th Century commentator, the Netziv, unpacks what it means to call the entire Torah a poem:

Surely the entire Torah is not written in the language of poetry, he says. Rather, it is that Torah shares two features with poetry: its nature and its richness.

First, Torah has the nature of poetry: it speaks in a fragmented language that demands our active engagement. In a poem, ideas are not fully explained the way they are in prose. Poetry is not literal. We need to discover why one rhyme means this, while another rhyme means that. We have to make notes in the margins. We read Torah the same way: this is the foundation of the millennia-old enterprise of Torah commentary. We turn it over and over again, to piece together the fragments of meaning.

Second, Torah has the richness of poetry, as it is adorned with all kinds of literary artistry, in a way that isn’t done with prose. One who studies an idea expressed in poetic form becomes connected to it on a deeper level than to an idea expressed in prose. The Netziv writes that the illuminating language of the poem and its unique grammar is far sweeter than to one who simply comes to read it quickly and extract the main idea.

This is the way of the whole of the Torah: we go deeper than a surface-level reading, to discover that every word may contain secrets, mysteries, and hidden delights.

When Leonard Cohen writes that he is “the little Jew that wrote the Bible,” of course we are not meant to understand this literally. The delight in hearing him croon these words is in our ability to unpack the mystery behind them – what does he want us to know about his life and his view of the world? How does he understand what it means to be a Jew? How does he see the future? We are given license to share these words – they belong to him, but he has gifted them to us, as so they, too, are our portion.

We sense the secrets hidden inside; ideas that cannot be expressed in everyday language. With each read, with each listen, we uncover more delights.

The same is true for Torah. What does it mean to refer to God as a protective Eagle? Or as a treasure vault? To refer to the Torah as drops of nourishing dew?

This is why the Torah ends poetically; a reminder that all of the Torah should be read and reread, approached with a desire to uncover the layers and discover new unseen delights each time. We can resist the urge to read every word literally, instead bringing a passion to get closer to it, to unpack its mysteries, and to discover its meaning for our lives.

Poetry allows a message to resonate long after the mouth which gave voice to it is no longer with us.

Leonard Cohen shared a snippet of a “sweet little song” that he has been working on, one that he wasn’t sure he would be able to finish before he dies. As he approaches the end of his life’s journey, it seems Cohen is less apprehensive than Moses; his writing less anxious than his previous vision of the future. Like Moses’ journey, and like our own lives, not every loose end might be tied up… but that doesn’t mean we abandon the quest for meaning. The poetry is still there, if we would but listen to it:

Listen to the hummingbird

Whose wings you cannot see

Listen to the hummingbird

Don’t listen to me.

Listen to the butterfly

Whose days but number three

Listen to the butterfly

Don’t listen to me.

Listen to the mind of God

Which doesn’t need to be

Listen to the mind of God

Don’t listen to me.

[1] Leonard Cohen, The Future

[2] www.theatlantic.com/education/archive/2014/04/why-teaching-poetry-is-so-important/360346/

[3] www.parshanut.com/post/98312914296/the-poetry-of-torah-parshat-haazinu

[4] www.newyorker.com/magazine/2016/10/17/leonard-cohen-makes-it-darker

[5] Babylonian Talmud: Nedarim 38

This is my sermon from Yom Kippur 5777 at Congregation Beth Emeth in Albany, NY

I had a dream last week. I was walking down a long, dimly lit hallway. As I moved past different open doorways, I noticed a large, ornate mirror hanging on the wall. I passed by the mirror, and glanced into it. What I saw bothered me. I looked into my eyes, at the face in the mirror – and while I sensed that it was my reflection, the face was not mine. It was a startling and haunting feeling – to not recognize my reflection; to look at myself, but not see myself.

I woke up in a panic. I reassured myself that it was just a dream, caught my breath, and went back to sleep. In the morning, I remembered it vividly, and tried to brush aside the memory as an errant nightmare.

You do not need a degree in psychology to suss this one out. It is no surprise that my mind was clearly on this season of introspection; this season when we are meant to look ourselves in the eyes and come face-to-face with who we are.

We all have a vision in our minds of what we look like – our ideal version of ourselves. Studies show that for many, this representative image – this avatar – probably looks to be around 25 years old, at the height of our youth. Wise, and beloved by many, with seemingly limitless abilities.

And then one day, we walk by a mirror, catch a glimpse not of our idealized avatar, but of our real self, and we say: “Who is that?!”

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