High Holy Days, Sermons

YOM KIPPUR MORNING SERMON–100th Anniversary

September 19, 2018

RABBI AMY B. BIGMAN

…From [his] base in Montreal Ezekiel Solomon found his way to Michilimackinac (1761), to become the first Jewish settler in Michigan.

By the mid-1840’s, there were Jews in Detroit, Kalamazoo, Marshall, Adrian, Ypsilanti, and Ann Arbor.  But only Ann Arbor could boast of a “community,” where the traditional minyan, the gathering of at least ten Jewish adult males for Sabbath services, was held. The minyan had crystallized at the home of the Weils — five brothers — who had come to German-speaking Ann Arbor from Bohemia, in keeping with the pattern that sent German Jews into locales where German populations and the German culture already existed.  In 1847, Charles, Henry, and Emanuel Lederer…, found their way to Ann Arbor to enjoy the… minyan at the Weil home. The Lederers were to become Lansing’s first Jews.

Thus begins the article “Lansing’s Jewish Community:  The Beginnings” by Daniel Jacobson.  Dr. Jacobson was the Director of the Social Science Teaching Institute, Professor of Geography and Education, and adjunct Professor of Anthropology at Michigan State University.  His article about the beginnings of our community was published in the January 1976 edition of “Michigan Jewish History,” the semi-annual publication of the Jewish Historical Society of Michigan.

According to the sources cited by Dr. Jacobson:

[I]n 1859, when Lansing was incorporated as a city, the population was just over 3,000; four years later, fewer than 4,000. Yet there were already “…within the city, eleven churches, five hotels, two flouring mills … three tanneries, two breweries, three sawmills, two sash and blind shops, two printing offices, several brickyards and a large number of mechanic shops.” …By 1870, Lansing’s population had jumped to 5,244, yet the Jews could only be numbered among the Lederers and Eksteins. …Individual Jews and individual families did begin to move into the growing capital in the ’70’s and ’80’s. Jacob, Edward and Andrew Born were residents in 1873 as was Joseph Lehman. The Glickmans may have arrived before the decade’s end and by 1883 the Beck families and David and Arthur Behrendt were also living in the city.

By the late 1800’s, Russian Jews, ancestors of many of us sitting here today, fled Russia and moved to the United States.  They generally moved to large cities, but some moved to Lansing.

On November 10, 1918, eighteen men signed the Articles of Association of Congregation Shaarey Zedek.  Several of these men’s descendants not only still belong to our congregation, but are seated here this morning.  From those eighteen signers, we are now approximately 240 families, including over 80 students in our religious school (pre-kindergarten through twelfth grade), down from our high of 350 families in the 1990’s, but fairly steady in the last dozen or so years.

According to Article II of the Articles of Association, the purpose for which the congregation was formed is “the diffusing of religious knowledge; the holding of Divine Services, Sunday Schools and Hebrew Schools; and the acquiring of real estate whereon to erect a suitable building or buildings for such purposes.”

One hundred years ago, our founders felt the need to come together as a community, to learn and worship together.  Similarly, our purpose today, as currently listed in Article 2 of our constitution, notes:

The purpose of Congregation Shaarey Zedek is to enable all of its members to develop a relationship with God, Torah, and the Jewish people through communal worship, study, and assembly.  Shaarey Zedek functions in an inclusive and egalitarian atmosphere.

To ensure the continuity of the Jewish people, Shaarey Zedek promotes the fundamental and enduring principles of Judaism and applies those principles to the values and conduct of the individual, the family, and the society.

As I learned about greater Lansing’s Jewish history, I decided to review my history here in East Lansing, too.  My first Shabbat on this bimah was July 6, 2007.  The Torah portion that week was parashat Pinchas.  In that portion, Joshua is chosen as Moses’ successor to lead the people into the next phase of their journey.  In that first sermon I shared a bit about my personal journey and then shared the following:

We read in this week’s parashah God’s command to Moses and Eleazar, Aaron’s son, to “‘take a census of the whole Israelite community from the age of twenty years up, by their ancestral houses, all Israelites able to bear arms.'” [Num. 26:2, Etz Hayim translation, p. 920]  The text continues by telling us who “the descendants of the Israelites who came out of the land of Egypt” were, listing each clan and the number of able-bodied men who could form an army.

Interestingly, most translations say “who came out of the land of Egypt,” using the past tense of the verb.  But Rabbi Neal Joseph Loevinger…points out in his commentary on this parashah…[that] the Hebrew is actually in the present tense:  “Those who are coming out of Egypt.”  Rabbi Loevinger sees the use of the present tense as an important lesson.  He notes that

at any point in the life of the Jewish people, individual Jews are in different stages of ‘leaving Egypt.’  Egypt is often understood not only as a physical place, but as a psychological stage as well:  In ‘Egypt’…we feel overwhelmed, far from our sacred centre, far from God, unable to accomplish our proper spiritual tasks.

In any given community, there are people who are on different stages of the journey…  Some people are ready to enter the land (understood as ‘settled’ self-confidence about their Jewishness), some people are just leaving Egypt — every Jewish community contains individuals all along the spectrum, and, of course, the challenge is to figure out how to all travel together.

Sometimes even as individuals, we go back and forth in our spiritual energy; sometimes it feels like we’ve just escaped Pharaoh, and sometimes it feels like we’re ready to join with others and build a strong Jewish community.  The taking of a census reminds us of the importance of periodically assessing where we are on the journey, so that we can be ready for the next step.  Whether as individuals or as a community, we can only go forward if we know who and where we are. [Kolel, Pinchas 5760, paragraph designations and emphases mine]

We are all on journeys, personal as well as communal.  In that first sermon, I expressed my hopes for our congregation for the years to come:  that each member will find their niche, their place in the congregation; that each person will feel at home in this sanctuary and in this building; and that each person who enters our building feels welcomed, safe, and secure.

Shaarey Zedek’s congregational journey is at a unique point in time; we have a great deal of history, a great deal of the journey behind us, and at the same time we move forward on a new part of our journey.

It is up to each of us to contribute to that journey, to participate in the process. This year as we celebrate our 100th anniversary, we will have many celebrations for members of all ages:  At the end of October there will be a kickoff event; there will be 100th anniversary programming in the school and for PJ Library participants; and three rabbis and a cantor who grew up at Shaarey Zedek will return for special services and programs.

In addition to celebrating the 100 years that have passed, we will be looking forward to the 100 years to come, and so you will be hearing about fundraising for things that we need today, such as a new Torah scroll, to raising funds for our future through planned giving.  In order to be the congregation we need and want to be, we have to be fiscally secure.  All we ask is that you do the best that you can financially and otherwise in helping your congregation be the best it can be.

In good times and in bad, our people have turned to the biblical Book of Psalms for comfort and inspiration.  And so, as we begin our celebrations of our 100th anniversary this year, we conclude with, appropriately, the 100th Psalm, the Psalm of Thanksgiving:

1. Mizmor L’Todah: Hari’u l’Adonai kol ha-aretz

A psalm of Thanksgiving:  Raise a shout for the Lord, all the earth

2. Ivdu et Adonai b’simkha, bo’u lifanav birnanah

Worship the Lord in gladness, come into God’s presence with shouts of joy

3. D’u ki Adonai hu Elohim, hu asanu v’lo anakhnu, amo v’tzon mar’ito

Acknowledge that the Lord is God; God made us and we are God’s:  God’s people, the flock God tends.

4. Bo’u sh’arav b’todah, khatzeirotav bit’hilah, hodu lo, bar’khu sh’mo

Enter God’s gates with praise, God’s court with acclamation.  Praise God!  Bless God’s name!

5. Ki tov Adonai l’olam khasdo, v’ad dor va-dor emunato

For God is good; God’s steadfast love is eternal; God’s faithfulness is for all generations.

As we say together:  Amen.

KOL NIDREI SERMON

September 18, 2018

RABBI AMY B. BIGMAN

I want to tell you a story:  a true story.  A story about the power of words, the power of our Yom Kippur liturgy, the power of the prayers — even if you don’t understand the Hebrew or the Aramaic, even if you aren’t sure what or if to believe — the power of this moment of “Kol Nidrei.“ 

The Forest Cantor 

Zalman Bronstein was drafted into the Russian army in 1942.  As he noted in an interview much later in life, “Obviously, being in the Russian army wasn’t easy.  Of those sent to the front, more than 50% did not return alive — and that’s where I was sent.”

“During hostilities I was in a bunker…very close to the German enemy.  The bunker was like a small room in the ground, fortified and protected, from which extended long trenches that we walked in.”

One day Zalman was able to take a brief nap in the bunker before returning to his battle post.  Suddenly, a Russian officer entered the bunker, humming an upbeat marching tune.  Zalman opened his eyes, annoyed.  The officer’s off-tune singing aggravated him… “Comrade Officer!  Excuse me, but I have to tell you that in the original version, that song is sung differently.”  The officer turned towards him with a look of surprise on his face. “You know this song? If so, you must sing it for me.  I can’t get along without it.”

Zalman tried to refuse, insisting that in his present downtrodden state of mind, he couldn’t possibly sing a cheerful song, but the officer wouldn’t relent.  With a shrug, Zalman began to sing.  After a few bars, the officer’s face lit up with pleasure.  When he finished singing, the officer’s expression became fierce. He began to rail against the Russian Army leadership.  “How can it be that they sent such a gifted singer like you to the front? This is an unforgivable outrage. I shall raise this issue with headquarters as soon as possible, even today.”

A few days later, an announcement blared over the bunker’s loudspeaker system. “Paging the singer Bronstein. Report to headquarters immediately.” Zalman hurried to present himself before the commanding officer of the bunker. The latter told him, “I just received an order to transfer you to officers’ headquarters. Get your things right now and crawl out there. But be careful! One wrong move on the way could mean your doom.”

Zalman began his crawl along the muddy earth, his belongings on his back and his heart full of suspicion. What could possibly be the reason behind this incomprehensible transfer? Only when he reached his destination and was told to report to a high officer in the Culture Division who was in charge of the Army choir, did he realize the connection between what was happening and the words of that officer before whom he had sung the battle song.

The choir leader told him that he must now sing before a group of very high-ranking officers. Zalman well realized that his future depended on the success of his performance. He started by singing the same military marching tune, but this time with a lot more feeling.

The officers to a man reacted boisterously with excitement and appreciation. Each one wanted Zalman to be assigned to his own unit so that he could give a concert to the brigade under his command. So Zalman became the lead soloist in the Army choir and they traveled from base to base giving performances. Everywhere they went, the Russian officers in charge were very friendly to Zalman.

His performances and popularity became a particular source of pride for all the Jewish soldiers. At one of the concerts, a Jewish officer passed him a note requesting that he sing something in Yiddish. He complied, choosing a song that he felt would be sure to arouse in the Jewish soldiers memories of their religious roots.

The date for the next concert, the most important one on the itinerary, was already set. They were to perform before an audience of hundreds of commissioned military doctors. However, the date coincided with Yom Kippur, the holiest of holy occasions. Zalman was firm in his mind that no matter what the consequences, he could not and would not perform on the holy day.

On Yom Kippur morning, he informed the musical director that he had terrible pains in his head and throat and that it would be impossible for him to sing on stage. The director pressured him to change his mind, but Zalman was adamant; he could not possibly sing this day. The director had no choice but to accept that the choir would have to perform without its star soloist.

Zalman retired to his room, where he devoted himself to the Yom Kippur morning prayers, those which he was able to remember by heart.  Afterwards he began reciting Psalms, while in the background he could hear strains of singing and musical instruments from the military concert that was proceeding without him.

Several sharp knocks on his door broke his concentration. Three officers, whose epaulets indicated very high rank, quickly entered the room. “Are you Zalman Bronstein?,” one of them queried. He nodded, whereupon one of the other officers demanded, “Do you know what day is today?”  “Yes. It is Yom Kippur.”  His guests’ faces softened visibly. “We too are Jews,” they said. “Please, could you sing for us a few sections of the holy day’s prayers?”

Zalman felt great relief upon hearing of their Jewish identity, and at the same time felt compassion for them. Nevertheless, he demurred, “How can I sing for you? In order to escape having to go on stage, I arranged to be officially registered on the sick list.”

The three officers did not give up. They presented a possible solution. “In back of the camp is a thick forest. Let’s go deep inside it; then we can hear you pray and sing without anyone around to bother us.”

They entered the forest. Under a tree with a thick trunk and large, draping branches, Zalman stood facing the three Jewish officers. He closed his eyes and began to intone softly “Kol Nidrei,” the opening prayer of Yom Kippur evening with its traditional, haunting melody. He repeated it a second and third time, following custom, each time successively louder.

Zalman continued with other music from the High Holy Days liturgy.  As he finished, the three officers were bent over, eyes bulging, and sobbing like little children. In the midst of lethal war, their futures concealed in the smoke of daily battle, three Jewish souls became revealed in a forest, flaming brightly with Yom Kippur holiness.

“Who knows?” Zalman couldn’t help thinking to himself. “This could be the reason that God directed the steps of that non-Jewish officer to me that morning in the bunker.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Found in The American Rabbi’s “Pearlson’s Pearls 5779.”

Source: Translated-adapted by Yerachmiel Tilles from the Hebrew weekly Sichat Shavua, #1081, with a few supplementary words of biography from the son of R. Zalman.  Found in Tilles’ book Festivals of the Full Moon (Koren Publishing).  Supplemented by Zalman Bronstein interview in “Beis Moshiach” magazine, April 15, 2016.

ROSH HA-SHANAH MORNING SERMON

September 10 & 11, 2018

RABBI AMY B. BIGMAN

The Midrash tells the story of a king who quarreled with his son.  In a fit of rage, the king exiled his son from the kingdom.  Years passed and the son wandered alone through the world.  In time, the king’s heart softened, so he sent his ministers to find his son and ask him to return.  When they located the young man, he said that he could not return to the kingdom.  He had been too hurt and his heart still harbored bitterness.  The ministers brought back the news to the king.  The king told them to bring his son the following message:  “Return as far as you can, and I will come the rest of the way to meet you.” [Pesikta Rabbati 44:9 as cited by Rabbi David Wolpe in “Finding A Way to Forgive,” a Jewish Lights Publishing’s Lifelights pamphlet]

This midrash can be understood in a few different ways:  Some will read this as a story of a father and son, two human beings who could not see eye-to-eye.  Rabbi David Wolpe, the well-known author and rabbi of Sinai Temple in Los Angeles, explains that

The triumph of the king was that he overcame the rage that had mastered his feelings and led to the exile of someone he loved.  Forgiveness is the lightening of our own hearts.  The darkness that we harbor rarely injures the unforgiven as much as it does the one who will not forgive.  We imagine that our anger is so powerful that it will bring sorrow and ruin on those against whom we hold a grudge.  But its influence is far more dangerous to our own hearts. [emphases added]

Others will read this parable as a story of God and the Jewish people as a whole or as a story of God and an individual. Either way, our tradition tells us that we should return as far as we can and God will come the rest of the way to meet us.

You may be wondering why I am speaking about forgiveness on Rosh HaShanah.  Isn’t this a more fitting topic for Yom Kippur?  Well, yes — and no.  Today we prepare for next week.  Today and throughout this next week we must do the difficult work of self-evaluation so that we will be ready for Yom Kippur.

It’s not easy to do this.  Just showing up for worship on Yom Kippur isn’t enough; just fasting all day on Yom Kippur isn’t enough.  We have to spend time and energy before then to examine what we’ve done or said that hurt someone — even if we didn’t mean to — and ask forgiveness.

Our liturgy for Yom Kippur is replete with confessional prayers.  When you look at them, you will see that many have to do with the spoken word:  what we say is often more hurtful than what we do.

Sometimes something that is meant as a joke isn’t taken as a joke — or the “joke” hits too close to home and becomes something hurtful instead of something funny.

We should examine our words and deeds on a regular basis, but if we don’t, we have forty days set aside each year to do so:  the entire month of Elul (the month leading up to these Yamim Nora’im [Days of Awe]), plus these ten days, also known as the Aseret Y’mei T’shuvah (the Ten Days of Repentance).

Regarding repentance, the Talmud says: 

It was taught…that Rabbi Meir would say:  Great is repentance because the entire world is forgiven on account of one individual who repents, as it is stated [in the Book of Hosea]: “I will heal their backsliding, I will love them freely; for My anger has turned away from the one” (14:5). It does not say:  From them, i.e., from the sinners, but “from the one,” i.e., from that individual.  Because the one repented, everyone will be healed.

And with regard to repentance, the Gemara asks:  What are the circumstances that demonstrate that one has completely repented?  Rav Yehuda said:  For example, the prohibited matter came to the person’s hand a first time and a second time, and the person was saved from it, thereby proving that the person has completely repented. [Yoma 86b, emphases added]

This coming Shabbat, Shabbat Shuvah (the Sabbath of Return / Repentance), we will read from parashat Vayeilekh.  It is a short portion, consisting of only one chapter:  chapter 31 of the Book of Deuteronomy.  As Moses prepares for his death, he passes the leadership role to Joshua.  God tells Moses that the people will abandon the laws in the future, yet promises to still bring them to the Land.

Rabbi Yael Splansky of Holy Blossom Temple in Toronto, in her commentary on Vayeilekh, titled “Jewish Guilt,” notes that

Once upon a time, relieving ourselves of guilt and sin was much simpler and more immediate than today.  In ancient Israel, religion not only defined what was right and wrong, but also gave people something to DO when they felt burdened by doing wrong (sins of commission) or by not doing right (sins of omission). Chapters four and five of Leviticus describe how when someone felt he had not lived up to God’s expectation, he could bring a sacrifice, a chatat (sin-offering) or an asham (guilt offering) to the altar.  The purpose of the sacrifice was to remind the individual of his better nature, to say to himself, “I would like to be perfect, but I know I am not.  Only God is perfect.  Sometimes I am weak and thoughtless.  And I have many regrets.  But look here:  sometimes I can be strong and generous and disciplined.  I am not a bad person.  More often than not, I do the right thing.  Here is proof of that.  Please accept this offering, release me from this guilt, and grant me forgiveness” [slightly adapted from Rabbi Harold Kushner, How Good Do We Have to Be? (New York: Little, Brown & Company, 1996), p. 65].

…During the High Holy Days we gather in public to do a very private thing:  we tally our sins. The all-knowing God does not need to keep score, so why do we do this? The machzor’s endless lists of sins come to teach that we are “only” accountable for our actions and inactions. We are not called to change our whole person, but “simply” our deeds.  [In the Torah reading for this Shabbat, Rabbi Splansky reminds us:]  Moses did not say in his rebuke, “You ARE wicked;” he said, “You will ACT wickedly.” He did not threaten, “God will be vexed by YOU;” rather he warned, “God will be vexed by your DEEDS” (Deuteronomy 31:29).  Similarly, the Days of Awe do not say:  “Be ashamed of who you are.”  They say:  “Do better.”  They say:  “You are created in the image of God.  Now act like it.” [“Ten Minutes of Torah,” September 17, 2012]

Shanah Tovah!

THE TREASURE

September 9, 2018

by Rabbi Neil Amswych, Temple Beth Shalom, Santa Fe

There once was a king who gave a man a treasure map. “This map,” said the king “is a map to the greatest treasure that you can ever find.” The man snatched the map and rushed away from the king without even a word of thanks, so set was he on finding the treasure. He looked over the map. It had a date and a location on it – a place far, far away. He knew it would be a long and difficult journey, but the date was close, and he knew he had to set off immediately.  At times, the man felt like giving up, but he persevered and eventually found himself at the top of a mountain, exactly the location where the map told him the treasure would be found. He started to dig with his bare hands because, in his hurry, he had forgotten to bring the right tools with him to find the treasure.  After a while his hands were red and sore, and he started to really regret ever looking for the treasure. In a last desperate effort, he started to dig furiously.

After a short while, a shadow loomed over the small hole he had made. It was a woman, holding in her hand a map identical to his. “Where did you get that map?” he asked. “The king gave it to me,” she replied. “Well, then, if you agree to split it with me,” said the man hesitantly, “we can combine our efforts and dig faster before anyone else comes along and takes our treasure.” And that they did. Working their fingers to the bone, they dug and dug but to no avail, and it wasn’t long before another person arrived with an identical map in his hand. And as the man and woman looked up, thousands of people – the entire kingdom – were all walking towards the mountain. Eventually they had all pooled their efforts and one by one had dug into the mountain, until there was virtually no mountain left. They found no treasure. Despondent, every person from the kingdom slunk back to their homes and put their maps aside.

But a strange thing happened. Round about the same time the next year everyone remembered that they had a map, and suddenly realized that perhaps the date referred to this year, as opposed to last year. Almost simultaneously, everyone in the kingdom set off for what was left of the mountain, and all arrived on the same date. They waited and waited, but they couldn’t see the treasure arriving. They dug a little more, but quickly gave up, since it had been so futile last year. Once again disappointed, the whole community stared at each other in frustration, and then agreed to go their separate ways.

And so it went on for many years… Eventually, some of the original treasure hunters died, but passed the map onto their children in the hope that their family may come to enjoy the treasure. But year after year they returned to the same place at the same time, dug a little, and left unsatisfied.

One day, a young girl went to the king. “Your Holiness,” she asked, “Why did you give my family this map? Why did you give every family a map?”

The king looked at her sadly, “Because I had a treasure I wanted you to share.”

“But we’ve dug at the mountain so much that there can’t be any treasure there.”

“Did you look to see what was on top of my mountain?” asked the king.

“Just people,” replied the girl, “but no treasure.”

The king sighed. “I brought you together on one day so that you could see how much of a treasure you all are to me. But you were so blinded by self-interest that you failed me. You rushed into the journey year after year, unprepared, and each year you came out with your hands bloodied. You destroyed my precious mountain upon which I presented you the greatest treasure of all – a community – and you were so self-obsessed that you scurried about in the mud, instead of searching within yourselves…”

The girl hung her head. “But why didn’t you just tell us this? Why make us go through all that trouble? How were we meant to know?”

The king smiled. “All that was needed was for you to ask. Now you’ve asked, so you can go back to everyone and tell them this…there is nothing more precious than a supportive community who put their own self-interests aside in order to value each other. There is nothing more valuable to me than a community that honestly seeks meaning together. This is the mountain where I presented you with the world’s most precious gift, but you destroyed it. Now on the date I gave you, at the start of every year, I want you to gather together and build a little of the mountain back up. Every year, on Rosh Hashanah, I want the entire community to gather and to learn that they are precious, but only when they appreciate the value in each other, when they build together, and not wear the world down… Now that I have decreed [this]…I hope…that this year, on Rosh Hashanah when the community comes together, you will understand what I have given you.”

The girl smiled, she left the presence of the king, and she told the community all that had been said.  And [the] next year…the community journeyed to the mountain in a different sense, and they arrived as a community together on Rosh Hashanah, they started rebuilding the mountain, and then they left as one.

YOM KIPPUR MORNING SERMON

SEPTEMBER 30, 2017

RABBI AMY B. BIGMAN

These past few months have been a struggle:  not only because I’ve had to deal with this stress fracture in my foot and learning how to use a wheelchair and crutches, but also because I, like most rabbis and synagogue staff, begin focusing on the High Holy Days around June.  This year’s preparations were different than previous years in that we tried to make sure that everything that Cantor Schiffer took care of these past years was taken care of after her retirement in June.  We worked very hard to make sure that nothing was overlooked and I hope that we were successful.

One of the many things we rabbis especially focus on in our High Holy Days preparations, as you can imagine, is sermons.  I ask myself every year:  “What am I going to say to my congregational family?  What would be meaningful for them to hear on these holiest of days?  How can I help them to feel good about their Judaism and their synagogue?”  There are so many topics that I have thought about for this morning:  I’ve wanted to talk to you about loss, about support for Israel, about the special issues faced by Reform and Conservative Jews in Israel, about loss, about support for our congregation, about involvement in Jewish life, about Jewish education, about loss…

I keep coming back to loss.  There are all types of loss that we experience as we go through our lives:  loss of jobs, broken relationships, death.  Our tradition helps us to deal with loss, especially with the death of loved ones.  This afternoon – as we also do on Shemini Atzeret, on the last day of Pesach, and on Shavuot – we will gather together for Yizkor, a special time of remembrance for our loved ones.

Judaism tells us that we are “official” mourners for our husband or wife, son, daughter, mother, father, sister, and brother.  By “official” this means that we are responsible for taking care of funeral arrangements for these loved ones, for saying Kaddish for each of these loved ones, for reciting Yizkor on the previously-mentioned holy days, for contributing tzedakah in their memory, and so on.

But each of us also mourns for other members of our family and for our friends as well.  This afternoon I will be remembering not only my brother, but also my grandparents, aunts, and uncles, and also four friends.  Between mid-March and the beginning of August, four of my friends died, all of whom were only in their 50s.  While I no longer saw these people on a daily basis, as life’s journeys took us to different communities and different experiences, they were friends to me at various points in my life and I mourn their loss just the same.  I also learned this summer that someone I have known since I was three years old and he was four years old was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s.  Having watched my grandmother struggle with Alzheimer’s, I mourn for what I know my old friend is experiencing and will experience in the future.

In situations like these, along with the many natural disasters that our country and our world have experienced recently, the inevitable questions are asked:  “How could this happen?  Why did this happen?  How could God let this happen?  Why did God make this happen?”

A few weeks ago my colleague, Rabbi Paul Kipnes of Congregation Or Ami in Calabasas, California, posted an article on our alumni listserv that he wrote seven years ago which he titled “Why the Good Die Young: A Conversation with God about 4 Funerals, Illness and an Earthquake in Haiti.”  As soon as I read it, I knew that I needed to share it with you this morning.  Here is just part of his “conversation” with God:

I noticed that God attended each funeral, but amidst the many tear-filled eulogies, there wasn’t time for God to speak.  So God sat quietly at the side – listening, crying.  God left quietly after each funeral ended, and almost no one realized that God had been there.  I did take notice. Wondering what God might have said had God been invited to deliver a eulogy, I dashed out after the Holy One.  Still reeling from these funerals, I wondered if God could make sense of these senseless deaths.  I asked if God had time to talk, and God was willing. We strolled through the cemetery, talking quietly.

…Man:  You mean you don’t agree with what the rabbis said [at the funerals]?

God:  Look, one said baruch dayan ha-emet, the traditional words of “Blessed be the Judge of Truth,” suggesting that what happened was all part of a plan – My plan – while another suggested I took a boy’s life because he didn’t celebrate Shabbat that week.  Some people, I suppose, find comfort in the idea that I have a master plan.  Others find direction through religious rituals, which perhaps they believe help them beat the odds of life.  If that brings them comfort, they can cherish those beliefs.  But those ideas are built upon ancient words, misinterpreted to suggest things I didn’t say and I never meant.  It’s neither who I am nor how I work.  I don’t pre-plan untimely deaths and I don’t punish those who don’t keep the rituals.  I am not responsible for those deaths.

Man:  Wait, with all due respect, You created everything – spectacular sunsets, shooting stars and beautiful California coastline – but, You also created poisonous snakes and ferocious lions, as well as earthquakes, hurricanes and deadly diseases.  And, forgive me, but You are the One who created the humans who created the automobiles that led to the deaths of three people.  Just where do you get off abdicating responsibility for any of this?

God:  There you go again!  Blaming Me for what you refuse to acknowledge, what you fail to see.  Yes, I created it all, each with its own purpose.  Some of it blessedly benevolent; some of it potentially dangerous.  So I created lions.  Leave them alone and they are just gorgeous creatures.  Bother them and look out!

…God:  Listen, each [of these awful things] pains Me. They weren’t in any plan.  When I set out to create, I began with exactness and perfection.  But when I began creating the universe, I failed to realize that I was creating something that was other-than-Me.  And because it was other-than-Me, it was imperfect. All approximations are intrinsically imperfect.  Your teacher, Rabbi Isaac Luria, articulated the story of creation well.

Man:  You mean, the mystic from Tzfat, who taught the story of repairing the world, that we call tikkun olam?

God:  Yes.  First there was only Me.  Everything was God.  Ein Sof, Me without end.  Then I contracted – tzimtzum – I pulled back to make space for Creation.  I created the universe, as vessels, which at that moment were devoid of anything, including Me.  Then I poured My light back into those vessels.  But My light was too pure and too potent for the creation-that-was-not-Me.  So it blew up – sh’virat ha-keilim – the vessel broke apart, sending shards of creation and sparks of My light all over the universe.

Broken world; bad things happen.  The earthquakes and tsunamis.  Cancer and heart attacks.  Automobile accidents and incomprehensible tragedies on the slopes.  All the result of a broken world, an imperfect world.

…[And] it pains Me to watch you abdicate your responsibility, as you fail to live up to your end of our human-Divine partnership.  I cry for each life lost.  I cry that you humans are suffering, and will suffer.  I cry for the pain that I let into your life the day I decided to pull back and give you free will.

Man:  Truthfully God, when I hurt, I don’t always feel that you are close.  Where do you go when I’m in real pain?

God:  That’s just it.  I am still here.  By your side.  I’m holding you up and making sure you get through the day. Do you ever wonder how you find the strength to get out of bed the next morning?  That’s Me.  Do you see all those people who came over to your house, to hug and hold your loved ones, to take care of the arrangements so you could fall apart. That’s Me too.  I’m making sure you keep getting phone calls and e-mails and all those beautiful memories posted to Facebook.  My friends are your Facebook friends doing My sacred work.  And when you rage at Me in anger, or withdraw from Me in pain, I’m still here, waiting patiently.  Still loving.  Still helping.  It’s the holy work I do.

…Man:  Is there anything…we can do?

God:  You can try to make quiet time to meditate and pray.  Daily.  I do.  I pray that the memory of your loved ones…bring you blessing and joy.  And that those who are ill have hope.  May you comfort each other, and feel My love, too, and may you find fortitude and courage so that you may endure the inevitable dark times.  Remember, there also will be plenty of joy.  I love you.  I wish for you wholeness and shalom.

To me, the idea of God being here in the form of friends and family is a potent one.  I’ve spoken about this before; I’ve taught this before, but I believe it bears repeating.  As I noted on Rosh HaShanah morning, we are here so that God can be here on earth. The prophets remind us that, as God’s partners, we are to take care of everyone in need, to feed the hungry and to clothe the naked.  God commands us to give tzedakah (righteous giving), to pursue acts of g’milut chasadim (lovingkindness).  We are also here to welcome the stranger, visit the sick, comfort the bereaved and to take care of those who need companionship.

I offer this prayer:  Dear God, for making my life richer by allowing me the privilege of having good, caring people in my life, I thank You.  For allowing me to realize and to appreciate the gifts of these special people, I praise You.  Help me to be that person in their lives and in other people’s lives. Help me to use each day of this new year with greater wisdom and with compassion for others.  For the blessings you bestow upon me every day, may I always be grateful.

Amen.

KOL NIDREI SERMON

SEPTEMBER 29, 2017

RABBI AMY B. BIGMAN

Charlottesville.  All I have to say is that one word, that one name and images are conjured up in our minds:  Shabbat morning, August 12, in Charlottesville, Virginia, home of the University of Virginia, a university town not unlike our own, a “Unite the Right” rally took place.  Clashes broke out between the “Unite the Right” folks and the counter-protesters.  A man drove down a street filled with counter-protesters, killing one person and injuring others.  Two Virginia State Patrol troopers also died that day when their helicopter, monitoring the events on the ground, crashed.

Most of you have read, I’m sure, the article written by Alan Zimmerman, president of Congregation Beth Israel in Charlottesville, describing the events of that Shabbat:  the armed security guards hired by the synagogue for protection, forty congregants inside at Shabbat morning worship, people marching by shouting “There’s the synagogue!” and chants of “Seig Heil,” some carrying flags with swastikas on them.  Services ended, people having to leave through the back entrance of the synagogue in groups, learning that Nazi websites had called for the burning of the synagogue, removing from the building the Sifrei Torah (Torah scrolls), just in case.

The following Friday morning, August 18, the Interfaith Clergy Association of Greater Lansing held a quickly scheduled meeting to discuss what happened in Charlottesville and what we should be doing here in the Lansing / East Lansing area.  I was heartened to see that 14 or 15 of my colleagues showed up to this last-minute meeting and many others who couldn’t attend expressed support.  To demonstrate their support for our Jewish community, some of my colleagues attended Rosh HaShanah evening worship at Congregation Kehillat Israel and some are with us tonight.  (names)  We are grateful for their support and welcome them to our home this holiest of evenings.

At that meeting in August we discussed how to respond not only to the tragedy in Charlottesville, but to other situations as well.  We talked about what we could do as clergy to respond, what we could do or say or bring to our community.  During the conversation, one of my colleagues leaned over to me and whispered, “I’m tired.”  He said – and here I’m paraphrasing – “I’m tired.  We’ve done this work before.  We’ve taught, we’ve preached, we’ve prayed together.  I’m tired.”  I looked at him, nodded, and said, “I’m tired, too.”

As I was driving to the synagogue following the meeting, I realized that I hadn’t given a full and more appropriate response to my friend’s comment.  “Yes, I’m tired, too,” but I should have also added, “but we can’t give up for the Talmud teaches:  ‘Rabbi Tarfon omeir:  Lo alekha hamlakhah leegmor v’lo atah ben choreen l’heebatell meemenah – Rabbi Tarfon said:  You are not required to complete the work, but neither are you at liberty to abstain from it.” [Avot 2:16]

Some would say that if you cannot complete a task, you shouldn’t even bother to start it.  However, Rabbi Tarfon reminds us that something is better than nothing.  Rather than opt out because we cannot do it all, we are encouraged to do our best.  If we try, something good might happen; if we don’t even bother to try, we most certainly won’t accomplish anything.

A colleague, Rabbi Brad Levenberg, of Temple Sinai in Atlanta, wrote a blog on the “Times of Israel” website ten days after Charlottesville.  I commend it to you.  It is lengthy, so I will only share a part of it with you this evening:

[He talks about the temple’s Shabbat service the Friday evening after Charlottesville.  He contacted his non-Jewish colleagues to invite them and members of their congregations to attend what they were billing as a Unity Shabbat.  He was in for a shock.]

One friend with whom I spoke offered a stirring rebuke.  “Look, Brad, I get it.  The Jewish community is shocked and you are reaching out to people of color to be a part of this dialogue.  But where was the Jewish community when my community needed an ally?  When yet another black man was murdered by the police…where was the outrage of the Jewish community?  When we were marching in the streets I looked for allies and there was a sea of people who looked like me and I didn’t see ANYONE who looked like you.”

…Or this response: “Brad, the Jewish community was all over Facebook when the Supreme Court struck down the Defense of Marriage Act.  But when the LGBTQ community marched on the Georgia Capital during this past legislative session, there was not one non-LGBTQ rabbi standing by us.  And the Jews who WERE there? They were not with us because they are Jews.”

Throughout this week I have been on the receiving end of a good amount of criticism.  While my friends expressed personal support, the rebuke was stunning:  when we needed an ally, the Jewish community was not by our side.

I recognize that the Jewish community has done a lot of good in standing shoulder-to-shoulder with others.  After all, in many communities, my own included, there is a healthy contingent of Jews and Jewish organizations present at the PRIDE parades.  The Jewish community en masse supports the ADL [Anti-Defamation League]; the American Jewish Committee creates and supports dialogue between communities, including the Black/Jewish Coalition.  For Reform Jews, the Religious Action Center has been involved in many national actions and has recently been engaging local communities in a whole new level.

But for a good number of us, myself included, we have not been good allies.  We do well with the sponsored initiatives, we do well when our movements are recognized as partners.  But by and large we have not cancelled our plans to participate with those who feel threatened when they needed somebody from outside of their community to demonstrate an act of solidarity.  We are great about forwarding articles and clicking “like” on Facebook…

Rabbi Levenberg’s blog was a kick in the pants.  Sadly, Rabbi Levenberg is correct.  We like to think that we are doing the work that needs to be done.  But we’re not.  Admittedly, I get frustrated when interfaith programs are scheduled for Shabbat or other Jewish holidays.  But I know I can – I must – do better with those programs which do not conflict with our religious holy days.  And at the same time, I need you to join me at these programs.  Sometimes I’m the only Jew in attendance; sometimes there are a handful of us.  Our Jewish community is not large number-wise, but I know that are our hearts are huge, and I know that we can find ways to help make our community better.  We are not required to finish the task, but we are not free to abstain from it, either.

For the first time in the over ten years that I have lived here, I will miss the Interfaith Clergy Association of Greater Lansing’s annual Interfaith Thanksgiving Service.  (My family has scheduled a week-long cruise to celebrate my mom’s 75^th birthday and my parents’ 55^th wedding anniversary.)  So do me a favor:  Make this year’s Thanksgiving service, scheduled for Monday, November 20 at 7:00 p.m. at Peoples Church, the year that we have the largest turnout from our temple.  Show up this year.  It’s always a beautiful service and I know you will enjoy it.  But don’t make this the only interfaith program you attend.  Pay attention to what’s being offered in our community and participate.

I conclude this evening with a prayer written by Rabbi Karyn Kedar titled “These are the Days of Awe”:

These are the Days of Awe, the Days of Judgment.

O, Eternal source of Peace, hear our plea.

Judge us, inspire us, compel us

so that we will not turn away,

never to be silent, never to be numb,

never to be distracted, never to let our bewilderment

and exhaustion keep us from

doing what is right, what is good,

and what is demanded of us, O God,

to love mercy, pursue justice and to walk humbly.

These are the Days of Discernment, the days of Self-Examination.

God of compassion and love, hear our prayer.

Give meaning to our confusion, purpose to our pain

and bring healing to our fragmented hearts.

May our tears ease the suffering of another.

When we love our neighbor, we transcend;

when we love the stranger, we transcend;

when we do not stand idly by, we transcend;

when we pursue peace, we transcend;

when we hold the world as a vessel of grace, we transcend.

These are the Days of Renewal, the Days of Life.

Divine Source of good, hear our heart’s desire.

Lift us, guide us, command our eyes

to gaze into the shadows, and upon the streets,

and into every place that evil strays and preys

upon all that is good and beautiful in our world.

Send us forth, that we may be Your servant

choosing blessing over curse, bearing witness.

May we proclaim from the heights and from the depths

the power of goodness, beauty, righteousness and hope.

These are the Days of Holiness and You are the Holy One of blessing.

We will not tire, we will not despair, we will not turn away.

You Dear God, are the Source of peace in the high heavens.

We are the source of peace, here, upon the earth.

And let us say:  Amen.

ROSH HA-SHANAH MORNING SERMON

SEPTEMBER 21 & 22, 2017

RABBI AMY B. BIGMAN

This summer I found myself flipping through the television channels and very often ending up watching a few episodes of one of the all-time best shows, “M*A*S*H.”  (For those of you who are not familiar with “M*A*S*H,” it aired in the 1970s and early 1980s and is the story of the fictional 4077th Mobile Army Surgical Hospital during the Korean War.)  “M*A*S*H” is one of my favorite shows and I’m always happy to spend time with my friends Hawkeye, B.J., Hot Lips, Radar, Klinger, and the rest of the gang, so I decided to record the shows and made my way through the eleven seasons that this television show aired.

One episode in particular touched me as a rabbi.  The story is called “Blood Brothers” and it originally aired in April 1981.  In the main storyline, Father Mulcahy (played by William Christopher) is anxiously awaiting the arrival of a senior officer, Cardinal Reardon, his boss.  Father Mulcahy is very anxious, wanting everything to be just perfect for the cardinal’s visit.  His preparation for that Sunday’s worship is all-consuming; Father Mulcahy spends all of his time writing what he hopes to be the best sermon of his life. (You can see, I’m sure, why I could relate to this storyline!)

The second storyline in this episode has one soldier, Private Gary Sturgis, played by a very young Patrick Swayze (in his television debut), learning that, in addition to his war wounds, he also has leukemia.  There is nothing that his doctor, Dr. Pierce, can do to help him, other than to send him to Tokyo for more tests and possible treatment.  Despite his own almost-assuredly fatal diagnosis, Sturgis wants to stay at the hospital with his best friend, who was very severely injured, in order to encourage him during his recovery.

Father Mulcahy learns of the situation and pulls himself away from his sermon-writing to counsel Sturgis about his newly-discovered illness.  Sturgis and Mulcahy spend the entire night talking.  In fact, Father Mulcahy is so absorbed with this soldier that he has to be pulled away from him the next morning, being reminded to go to the chapel, where everyone was waiting for him, to deliver his sermon.

So there he is, in front of the entire camp, all of whom showed up to support him on his big day, wearing the same bathrobe he had been wearing the night before when he was called away to counsel the soldier, and suddenly he realizes how silly he had been to be worried about one measly little sermon, one simple little visit from a superior officer.  Instead of delivering the at-least-partially-written sermon that he had been working on, he said:

I want to tell you about two men.  Each facing his own crisis. The first man you know rather well. The second is a patient here.  Well, the first man thought he was facing a crisis.  But what he was really doing was trying to impress someone.  He was looking for recognition, encouragement, a pat on the back.  And whenever that recognition seemed threatened he reacted rather childishly.  Blamed everyone for his problems but himself because he was thinking only of himself.  But the second man was confronted with the greatest crisis mortal man can face, the loss of his life. I think you will agree that the second man had every right to be selfish.  But instead he chose to think not of himself, but of a brother.  A brother!  When the first man saw the dignity and the selflessness of the second man, he realized how petty and selfish he had… I… I… I had been.  It made me see something more clearly than I’ve ever seen it before.  God didn’t put us here for that pat on the back. [God] created us so [God] could be here…  So [God] could exist in the lives of those [God] created, in [the divine] image.

“We are here so that God can be here [on earth].”  Those words really hit home with me. They’re not how I as a rabbi would probably communicate that sentiment, yet they are powerful and, I have found, a source of comfort and inspiration. They remind me, even though they were spoken by a television character, that we must be out there caring for others, both taking care of those who need physical and / or emotional care, and taking care of our world.  It is our duty.

One of the foundations for this obligation is found in this morning’s Torah portion, which tells of the creation of the world.  It’s a very familiar story:  God created light and darkness, heaven and earth, plants and trees, and all sorts of animals.  Throughout the first five days of creation, we read that God made many things, including many multiples of different types of living beings.  And yet on the sixth day of creation, God made only one human being, not multiple humans of different colors, shapes, or sizes:  “God said:  ‘Let us make human in our image’…thus God created human in the divine image (b’tzelem Elohim), in the image of God the Divine created him; male and female God created them.  God blessed them… And God saw all that had been made and found it very good.” [Genesis 1:26-28, 31]

The rabbis understood this passage to mean that God created one being which was later separated into two:  man and woman.  The Mishnah teaches that humanity was created as one single being so that no one might say to another:  “My parent was greater than yours.” [Sanhedrin 4:5]  We all come from the same line…we all have the same heritage…we all are brothers and sisters.  And God saw that we, God’s creation, were “very good.”  No other creation is noted as being “very” good in the creation story. Only we humans did God find to be “very” good.

The same Mishnah continues:  “…For a person strikes many coins from the same die and all the coins are alike; but when…the Holy One, Blessed be God, strikes each person from the die of the First Person, no person is quite like his friend.”  Descending from one common ancestor, God created each of us a little bit different than others, but also exactly the same:  b’tzelem Elohim — in God’s image.  Each of us thus has the divine spark within us.

There is a word that is used in India that is said in greeting both friend and stranger alike:  “Namaste:  I see the divine spark within you.”  My colleague, Rabbi Debbie Pipe-Mazo, wrote about this phrase in our rabbinic newsletter years ago.  She suggested that we think of this statement when dealing with others, but she also challenged us to use it with ourselves.  She asked us to start by looking in the mirror each day and saying to ourselves, “I see in me evidence of the divine spark.”

I see her words on my refrigerator every morning.  That piece of paper reminds me every day that I am created b’tzelem Elohim and as such, I deserve dignity and respect. My life, my well-being, my feelings are just as important as anyone else’s.  Recognizing one’s own worth is the first step.

The next step is to apply that lesson to others, to everyone with whom we come into contact:  not just family and friends, of course, but also co-workers, our fellow congregants, the waiter at the restaurant, the clerk at the dry-cleaning store, everyone — each of whom is also made  b’tzelem Elohim.

The prophets remind us that “we are here so that God can be here on earth.”  They teach us that, as God’s partners, we are to take care of everyone in need, to feed the hungry and to clothe the naked as they, too, have the divine spark within.  God commands us to give tzedakah (righteous giving), to pursue acts of g’milut chasadim (lovingkindness).  Joseph Karo, the author of the Shulkhan Arukh, a collection of Jewish laws written in the Middle Ages, notes that “‘each person must contribute tzedakah according to his or her means.’” [Yoreh Deah 248:1]  Even those who themselves receive help from the community are to give whatever possible to others.  No one is exempt from this duty.

In an interview in February 2015 on the PBS television show “Religion and Ethics Newsweekly,” the host, Bob Abernethy, interviewed the former chief rabbi of Great Britain, Jonathan Sacks.  Rabbi Sacks is an Orthodox rabbi and the author of 30 books. In the interview, Rabbi Sacks said:

Judaism tends to be a religion of deeds and making the world better, what we call Tikkun Olam.  So we really don’t have a problem with atheists or agnostics so long as they are willing to work along with us to make the world a slightly different place.  We don’t ask that everyone who comes inside this synagogue believes in all elements of Jewish faith.  We just say come and be part of the community, because it is in community that we find meaning, that we find relationship, that we find friendship and love, and it is in community that we change the world.

My friends, let us change the world by seeing the Divine presence in each and every person.  Let us come together in community to do the sometimes difficult work of tzedakah, g’milut chasadim, and tikkun olam.  Let us be God’s presence on earth.

Kein y’hi ratzon.

May this be God’s will.

[Based upon my “RH AM 02” and my “RH AM 04”]

       ROSH HA-SHANAH EVENING SERMON

SEPTEMBER 20, 2017 

RABBI AMY B. BIGMAN

Tomorrow morning at our Tot and Children’s Services, I will be sharing with the children from these books:  Have You Filled A Bucket Today?:  A Guide To Daily Happiness For Kids, by Carol McCloud; Fill A Bucket:  A Guide to Daily Happiness for Young Children, also by Carol McCloud; and How Full is Your Bucket by Tom Rath.  These books and many others, including books for adults, are based upon the philosophy of Dr. Donald O. Clifton (1924-2003) who first created the “Dipper and Bucket” story.  For his life’s work, including the use of the “Dipper and Bucket” idea, he was presented with the American Psychological Association’s Presidential Commendation.

Tonight I’d like to share with you from the book Have You Filled A Bucket Today?:  A Guide To Daily Happiness For Kids.

All day long, everyone in the whole wide world walks around carrying an invisible bucket. (p. 4)

You can’t see it, but it’s there. (p. 5)

You have a bucket.  Your mom and dad each have a bucket.  Your sister and brother have a bucket. (p. 6)

Your grandparents, friends, and neighbors all have a bucket.  Everyone carries an invisible bucket. (p. 7)

Your bucket has one purpose only.  Its purpose is to hold your good thoughts and good feelings about yourself. (p. 8)

You feel very happy and good when your bucket is full, and you feel very sad and lonely when your bucket is empty. (p. 9)

Other people feel the same way, too.  They’re happy when their buckets are full and they’re sad when their buckets are empty. (p. 10)

It’s great to have a full bucket and this is how it works…  You need other people to fill your bucket and other people need you to fill theirs.  So, how do you fill a bucket? (p. 11)

You fill a bucket when you show love to someone, when you say or do something kind, or even when you give someone a smile.  That’s being a bucket filler. (p. 12)

A bucket filler is a loving, caring person who says or does nice things that make others feel special.  When you make someone feel special, you are filling a bucket. (p. 13)

But, you can also dip into a bucket and take out some good feelings.  You dip into a bucket when you make fun of someone, when you say or do mean things, or even when you ignore someone.  That’s being a bucket dipper. (p. 14)

A bully is a bucket dipper.  A bucket dipper says or does mean things that make others feel bad. (p. 15)

Many bucket dippers have an empty bucket.  They think they can fill their own bucket by dipping into someone else’s…  but that will never work.  You never fill your own bucket when you dip into someone else’s. (p. 16)

But guess what… when you fill someone’s bucket, you fill your own bucket too!  You feel good when you help others feel good. (p. 17)

All day long, we are either filling up or dipping into each other’s buckets by what we say and what we do.  Try to fill a bucket and see what happens. (p. 18)

You love your mom and dad.  Why not tell them you love them?  You can even tell them why.  Your caring words will fill their buckets right up. (p. 19)

Watch for smiles to light up their faces.  You will feel like smiling too.  A smile is a good clue that you have filled a bucket. (p. 20)

If you practice, you’ll become a great bucket filler.  Just remember that everyone carries an invisible bucket, and think of what you can say or do to fill it. (p. 21)

Here are some ideas for you.  You could smile and say “Hi!” to the bus driver.  He has a bucket too. (p. 22)

You could invite the new kid at school to play with you. (p. 23)

You could write a thank-you note to your teacher. (p. 24)

You could tell your grandpa that you like to spend time with him.  There are many ways to fill a bucket. (p. 25)

Bucket filling is fun and easy to do.  It doesn’t matter how young or old you are.  It doesn’t cost any money.  It doesn’t take much time.  And remember, when you fill someone else’s bucket, you fill your own bucket too. (p. 26)

When you’re a bucket filler, you make your home, your school, and your neighborhood better places to be.  Bucket filling makes everyone feel good. (p. 27)

So why not decide to be a bucket filler today and every day?  Just start each day by saying to yourself, “I’m going to do something to fill someone’s bucket today.” (p. 28)

And, at the end of each day, ask yourself, “Did I fill a bucket today?” (p. 29)

“Yes I did!”  That’s the life of a bucket filler… (p. 30)

And that’s YOU! (p.31)

You know how they say “out of the mouths of babes…”?  Well, I think that we can also say that “out of the books for babes” come great lessons for adults, too.

In this new year of 5778, in our everyday conversations and interactions, we would do well to remember what seems like a lesson for children:  to remember to be bucket-fillers.  Our fractured world needs bucket-fillers.

May this new year be a very happy, healthy, bucket-filled year for you and your loved ones.  Shanah tovah!