Survival

Yom Kippur Sermon, 5768

by Rabbi Frank Hellner

Shehechiyanu, v’kiyamanu v’higiyanu laz’man hazeh-

…who has kept us alive, sustained us and enabled us to reach this time

It is exactly one year since I stood here and preached a sermon motivated by the news of Valerie’s illness. At that time, she was in hospital undergoing surgery. The outcome was unknown. Today, I give thanks that she is with us today. Shehechiyanu…who has kept us alive.

Shehechiyanu: We give thanks that we are all here.

Another year has passed. Today, on Yom Kippur we acknowledge that we are all survivors: as individuals, as a holy congregation, as a people, as a nation and our world; we have survived. Given all the uncertainties that life holds out to us: natural calamities, crime, gratuitous violence, sickness, war, chance and decay,-- that we are all still here, today, speaks to us of a miracle. That we, as a people have outlived the Pharaohs, the Torquemadas, the Chemelnitskis & the Hitlers of Jewish history is a miracle.   We must all see ourselves as survivors. We should all give thanks: Shehechiyanu…who has kept us alive. Life is a theme of this day.

But this day, as well, especially, perhaps more than any other day, holds out before us the prospect of death & mortality. This is the “white fast”. On this day, we simulate an encounter with death. Jews, certainly in some Orthodox synagogues and rabbis acting as the shaliach tzibbur—the representative of the community in Liberal synagogues—don the white kittel, recalling the shroud used in wrapping the dead. For a full day, we simulate death by refraining from life-giving food and abstaining from sex. Confessions similar to the death-bed viddui punctuate the day. We duplicate the rituals of death and await the final decree: who shall live & who shall die? We begin this day by lighting the memorial lamp; we hold a memorial service. We do all this-- we feign death-- not in any self-indulgent or masochistic way, but rather to appreciate even deeper what it means to be alive and what opportunities there are still to be achieved, today, so long as the breath of life is within us. And so when this day is over and we have returned from our encounter with death, it is hoped that we might gain a deeper appreciation of our existence, of life’s meaning and the opportunities life has to offer.  Judaism is a life-affirming faith.

Some of you may remember the 1954 film ‘Lease of Life’ starring Robert Donat as a rather dull, unprepossessing village clergyman who is told that he has only a year to live. The death sentence, rather than depress him, affords him a new lease of life. He realises how unexciting, unappreciative& unrewarding his life has really been. Basically, he has existed. He hasn’t really lived. Suddenly, life takes on new meaning: a boy & girl in love exchanging glances, the beauty of the sunset… all the normal, ordinary daily events which he saw & passed by every day, all now became drenched in a special new aura. For his remaining days, he comes to savour & delight in life.

This scene was re-enacted for us recently when we took our two-year-old grandson for a walk to the park. We had walked that route ourselves many times before, but never before did we realise all the little things we could encounter en route. There is nothing to match the wonderment & excitement of the ordinary & mundane as seen through the eyes of a child. We saw things we had never noticed before.  Surely, this is what the author of the Yotzer prayer, which we recite daily, must have felt, but we, too often, have forgotten or have become too inured to appreciate:

Ma rabu ma’asecha Adonai…

           “How manifold are your works, O God! With wisdom have you

           made them all; the world is full of Your creations. Your handi-

           work proclaims Your praise; the radiant stars bear witness to

           Your glory…”  

Even Richard Dawkins, without a God, has got to be impressed with the marvels of the universe.

Perhaps, we have walked blindfolded too often along this path of life, blinkered to life’s beauty.

A story is told about a postman who rode his bicycle into a field as a shortcut. Suddenly a bull noticed him and began charging after him. The postman raced wildly ahead and miraculously succeeded in getting out safely. A bystander who had seen it all, said, ‘Phew. The bull nearly got you’. ‘Yeh’, said the postman, ‘You know, it’s the same thing everyday’. Somehow, we seem to own the same errors, repeat the same mistakes, walk visionless along the same road, never really seeing what’s there or trying to change course.

 Perhaps, if we only realised how fragile is this gift called life, would we squander away so many of our days? Only this week I received an e-mail that said: “If you woke up breathing this morning, congratulations. You have another chance”. If we knew that this would be our last year, this our last service, tonight, the last time we would hear the final blast of tekia gedola, would it impact on how we spent these next weeks or months? Would we not treat our loved ones with more care & tenderness? Would we not cherish every moment with them? Would we not see every moment as a lease of life? Like the poet, Blake, “to see the world in a grain of sand and a heaven in a flower, hold infinity in the palm of your hand and eternity in an hour”?

Shehechiyanu- We have survived. But just what does it take to make us truly grateful for this gift we call life? Hear the last will & testament of a young terminally ill high school girl written in the cancer ward of a New York hospital. It’s called “Slow Dance”. It goes like this:

Have you ever watched kids on a merry-go-round?

Or listened to the rain slapping on the ground?

Ever followed a butterfly’s erratic flight?

Or gazed at the sun into the fading night?

You better slow down.

Don’t dance so fast.

Time is short.

The music won’t last.

Do you run through each day on the fly?

When you ask ‘how are you?’

Do you hear the reply?

When the day is done do you lie in your bed

With the next hundred chores running through your head?

You’d better slow down, don’t dance so fast.

Time is short. The music won’t last.

Ever told your child we’ll do it tomorrow?

And in your haste, not see his sorrow?

Ever lost touch, let a good friendship die,

Cause you never had time

To call and say ‘Hi’?

You’d better slow down don’t dance so fast.

Time is short.

The music won’t last.

When you run so fast to get somewhere,

You miss half the fun of getting there.

When you worry & hurry through your day,

It is like an unopened gift…

Thrown away.

Life is not a race,

Do take it slower.

Hear the music.

Before the song is over.

The young girl writing these lines was given 6 months to live. Her last wish was to send out a letter telling everyone to live their life to the fullest, as she never will. She will never graduate High School, nor marry and have a family of her own. Her letter was forwarded by Dr Dennis Shields, of the Dept of Developmental & Molecular Biology, Bronx, NY. Sadly, it often takes such an upheaval to afford us a lease on life. Let us not wait until the final decree comes before we begin to see the excitement of the world through the eyes of a child or last will of a dying young girl. Time is short. The music won’t last.

Jonathan Cainer in the Daily Mail some years back wrote: “They say tomorrow never comes. By this what they mean is that by the time tomorrow arrives, it will be today… Tomorrow never comes because today never goes away. Our relationship with time is complex. We live in a perpetual present. There is only one moment. This moment. The rest is either memory or fantasy. Look at what you’ve got right here, right now. If you want to change it, you don’t have to wait”.

We, the survivors, stand at the threshold of a new year. So what are we going to do about it? Are we going to go into the same field again, in denial of the wild bull who roams there? Are we going to make promises today we know we’ll ignore tomorrow? Or shall we walk hand-in-hand with our loved ones, with family & friends? Don’t ever take them for granted. Listen to them. Hear them. Pick up the phone. Tell them how much you care. Forget about the b’roiges; don’t worry about the scratch on the car door. Compared to life, it really doesn’t mean that much. Hear the music, instead. Don’t ever tire of telling loved ones: ‘I love you.’ Thee words of Nachman of Bratslav which we read earlier reverberate still: “Remember that life is short, and that with every passing day you are nearer to the end of your life. How can you waste your time on petty quarrels and family discords? Restrain your anger; hold your temper in check, and enjoy peace with everyone”.

Today is a day of reconciliations. We reconcile ourselves with ourselves. We reconcile ourselves with others & with those whom we have offended, all these before we can finally become reconciled with God. There are always opportunities for reconciliation. Opportunities don’t come. They are here all along. We just need to recognise them.

I would like to tell you a story—a true story as told by a man to his rabbi. It went like this:

“Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living. When I arrived at 2:30 a.m. the building was dark except for a single light in the ground floor window. Under these circumstances, many drivers would just honk once or twice, wait a minute, then drive away.

But I had seen too many impoverished people who depended on taxis as their only means of transportation. Unless a situation smelled of danger, I always went to the door. This person might be someone who needs my assistance, I reasoned to myself. So I walked to the door and knocked. “Just a minute”, answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor.

After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 80s stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like someone out of a 1940 movie. By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets. There were no clocks on the wall, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos & glassware.

“Would you carry my bags out to the car?” she said. I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman. She took my arm and we walked slowly to the curb. She kept thanking me for my kindness.

“It’s nothing”, I told her. “I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother treated.”

“Oh, you’re such a good boy,” she said.

When we got in the cab, she gave me an address, then asked, “Could you drive me through downtown?”

“It’s not the shortest way,” I answered quickly.

“OH, I don’t mind,” she said. “I’m in no hurry. I’m on my way to a hospice.”

I looked in the rear-view mirror. Her eyes were glistening.

“I don’t have any family left,” she continued. “The doctor says I don’t have very long.”

I quietly reached over and shut off the meter. “What route would you like me to take?” I asked

For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building she had once worked as an elevator operator. We drove through the neighbourhood where she & her husband had lived when they were newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl. Sometimes she’d ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness and say nothing. As the first hint of the sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, “I’m tired. Let’s go now.”

We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico. Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must have been expecting her.

I opened the trunk & took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair. “How much do I owe you?” she asked, reaching into her purse.

“Nothing,” I said

“You have to make a living,” she answered. “There are other passengers,” I responded.

Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held on to me tightly.

“You gave an old woman a little moment of joy,” she said.

“Thank you.” I squeezed her hand, then walked into the dim morning light.

Behind me, a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life.

I didn’t pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly lost in thought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk. What if that woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift? What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away?

On a quick review, I don’t think that I have done anything more meaningful in my life.

We’re conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments. But great moments often catch us unaware—beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one. People may not remember exactly what you did, or what you said, but they will always remember how you made them feel.

Life may not be the party we hoped for, but while we are here we might as well dance. Every morning when I open my eyes, I tell myself that it is special. Every day, every minute, every breath is a gift from God.  ( YK Readings, P. 8)

Let us always remember that yesterday is a spent cheque; tomorrow is a promissory note. Today is all we can be sure of. Let us not forget those we love & who need us. Remember, the name of the game is not ‘achievements’ but ‘relationships.’  It is what we will be remembered by. It is our immortality. God has set before us life or death, the blessing or the curse. Let us choose life, that we and our descendants may live.

***

Rabbi Frank Hellner

Finchley Progressive Synagogue

Yom Kippur, 5768