ichael P. Sternfield's High Holy Days Sermons

Chapter Two

Rabbi Michael P. Sternfield

Chicago Sinai Congregation

15 West Delaware Place

Chicago, IL 60610

Rosh Hashanah Eve 2009

In the Torah, the Jewish New Year has several names. Most of us know it simply as Rosh Hashanah. It is also called Yom Teruah, meaning the day of the sounding of the shofar and Yom HaZikaron, which means “The Day of Remembering.” We are instructed to remember and simply to count our blessings. We recite the sh’hechiyanu prayer for that which has been, rather for that which we hope is yet to come. We thank God: “Sh’hechiyanu v’ki-y’manu v’higianu lazman hazeh,”... for giving us life, for sustaining us and enabling us to reach this day. With all the turmoil and economic insecurity that so many have been enduring, it may not be such as easy thing to “accentuate the positive.” That is why it is even more important for us to express our gratitude. In spite of everything, or perhaps because of everything, we need to remind ourselves of how incredibly blessed we are. What better time could there be than Rosh Hashanah?

On Rosh Hashanah, as the title “Yom HaZikaron” infers, we also are urged us to think back over the past year; and to admit that there were times when we could have done better, and to commit ourselves to making the coming year a better one.

The most essential aspect of the High Holy Days is to be honest with ourselves. The classic Hebrew word for this process of introspection is “teshuvah,” which is usually translated as “repentance,” a word I have never cared for very much, first because the word is so associated with guilt and second, it’s not easy to understand what it exactly what we are supposed to do when we repent. A better interpretation of teshuvah is the word “remorse.” “Remorse” conveys not only a sense of regret but also the determination to actually do something about it. As my new colleague Rabbi Levinsky remarked to me, remorse is “guilt but with a purpose.”

For a compelling illustration of the power of remorse, we would do well to contemplate the life of Senator Ted Kennedy, of blessed memory. Much has been written about his many achievements and the causes for which he so powerfully advocated

Yet Ted Kennedy was not always the great liberal lion of the U.S. Senate. Especially when compared to his larger-than-life brothers, he seemed to be but a poor imitation. Teddy, as he was then called, was the most impetuous and irresponsible of the Kennedy brothers— cheating on his Spanish test in college, drinking way too much and carousing to great excess. And there was Chappaquiddick when he had allowed a young woman to die, and fled the scene of the accident, an act which was inexcusable, possibly even criminal.

In 1991, at the age of 59, and after having been a U.S. Senator for 29 years, in what must have been an incredibly painful public address, he finally expressed remorse for his many transgressions and pledged to reform. He said: “I recognize my own shortcomings--the faults in the conduct of my private life. I realize that I alone am responsible for them, and I am the one who must confront them… Today, more than ever before, [he said] I believe that each of us as individuals must not only struggle to make a better world, but to make ourselves better, too. And in this life, those endeavors are never finished.”

It took Senator Kennedy a long time to deal with it, but from all that he ultimately accomplished, it is clear that he took his own words to heart. He could never escape from the shadows of his past.. But he dedicated him remaining years to proving that he could be a better human being than his past suggested.

Many of the retrospectives on Senator Kennedy’s life have made note of the fact that his life really was composed of two very different chapters.

There is something almost Biblical about Kennedy’s life story. The Bible contains a number of stories of truly flawed individuals who eventually went on to lead exemplary lives. And there are also some who went in the opposite direction. In our Torah, the father of the Jewish people is known first as Avram, and his character is of dubious moral quality. Only later, as he grew in stature, did he become Avraham. Likewise, the patriarch Jacob was called Yaakov, literally meaning “a heel,” because he really was one. Only after overcoming his own self-centeredness does God change Jacob’s name to “Yisrael, Israel,” meaning the one who has struggled and overcome.

One of the most perplexing questions of human existence is: Do people ever really change? We would like to believe that we are capable of making significant changes. After all, this is the premise of almost all counseling and therapy. Just about every volume of self-help literature is based on the belief that people can change. The fundamental premise of these High Holy Days, and perhaps all of Judaism, is that people can change. If people really don’t change much, then psychology must be bunk and the High Holy Days are only pretending and giving lip service. I prefer believe otherwise. Still, to be completely candid, real change just doesn’t seem to happen very often, not because it is impossible, but because it is so difficult.

We are mostly creatures of habit. Our day to day existence seems a lot like Bill Murray’s character in the film Groundhog Day. We just keep doing the same things over and over, making the same mistakes, repeating the old pattern, seemingly unable to change even some of our the smallest habits. How many diets have we all gone on, only to see ourselves revert to the same eating pattern? How many New Year’s resolutions have been broken almost immediately? Or consider the redundant manner in which most of us relate to those closest to us: our parents, our spouses our children How many times have we caught ourselves speaking the same stinging words of criticism, knowing at the same time that we blurt them out, that we really should have kept our mouths shut?

And what of the various habits, both physical and psychological, that many people find almost impossible to kick? Sorry to say, the old patterns just tend to go one as if in one continuous loop: the same actions, the same words, same old, same old.

Perhaps, just perhaps, it doesn’t have to be that way. And that is exactly what Rosh Hashanah is intended to be about. In fact, the Hebrew word for a year, shana, has the same etymology as the word for change, which is shina. It is our religion’s way of expressing confidence that the year ahead can be different than the one we now leave behind. Rosh Hashanah is not so much a day as it is a mind-set and a belief—that as long as there is life, there is hope. I won’t say it is never too late, because sometimes it is. But it is almost never too late to begin the next chapter.

The great psychiatrist Viktor Frankl taught that we should live as if we are living a second time, and as though we had acted wrongly the first time. We begin by admitting, as with just about all people, that we have made mistakes; and saying to ourselves: “I recognize my own shortcomings... I realize that I alone am responsible for them, and so I am the one who must confront them.” Unfortunately, this almost always seems to require some kind of “wake-up call,” an event or calamity so painful that we have no choice except to confront what has led to this.

In the tractate of the Talmud entitled Rosh Hashanah, a difference of opinion is recorded between two rabbis, as to when the New Year ought to be observed. Rabbi Joshua said: “The world was created in the month of Nisan.” “No,” said Rabbi Eliezer, “The world was created in the month of Tishrei.” When the New Year begins is not just the subject for rabbinic hair-splitting. Nisan, which comes in the spring, the time of year of renewed life in nature, whereas Tishrei, coming in September, is the month of autumn, of fading flowers and dying leaves, of shorter days and longer nights. And of course, Rosh Hashanah is observed in the autumn. It might seem more reasonable that the New Year should be celebrated in the springtime, when the snow melts and when the buds first appear. But the Jewish religion sees it differently. The rabbis understood that people are most in need of renewal precisely with the gloom of autumn spells the end of another year. When the autumn times of sadness and disappointment; that is when we are faced with the choice between starting a new chapter, or just doing chapter one all over again.

Out of the dark times, that is when a New Year really can begin. In fact, it may well be that only out of our dark times do new beginnings ever occur. As I wrote recently in our Sinai bulletin, our good times teach us nothing; it is from adversity that real growth comes. I would hope that our current deep recession will teach us a few things, both as a nation and as individuals. We are learning to adjust to new realities, and in many cases, to get back to basics, and that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

One of life’s greatest blessings is our capacity to learn from mistakes and make a fresh start. Thankfully, life provides us with not just with one but with many second chances. This gift belongs to almost everyone, but not everyone is strong enough or wise enough to accept the gift. Some people go on just feeling guilty but not doing much of anything about it, or perhaps making endless excuses for why they are never going to change. Others are simply worn out. For some, it probably is too late to make much of a difference. But for most of us, this gift is ours for the taking.

So here we are in the month of Tishrei. As we know all too well here in Chicago, the leaves are about to die and fall to the ground. Dreams, goals and hopes also may lie, for each of us, to some extent, like the autumn leaves. And, precisely because this is so, that is why we are here to celebrate the New Year, and to express hope for the future and faith in ourselves.

The great Chasidic master, Rabbi Nachman of Bratslav taught: “If you are not going to be better tomorrow than you were today, then what need do you have for tomorrow?”

And if you or I should say: same old, same old, nothing will ever change. I am the way I am. Then nothing will change, and we may be back here next Rosh Hashanah, pretty much like we are now, except one year older. But if we will it, then a New Year can begin today out of remorse over past failures, and out of gratitude that God has given us the gift of yet another new beginning, if only we will embrace it. This is the best and most useful meaning of our traditional greeting: “L’shana tova,” “May you be inscribed for the blessing of change in the book of life.”

To paraphrase Senator Kennedy: “Today, more than ever before, I believe that each of us as individuals must not only struggle to make a better world, but to make ourselves better, too. And in this life, those endeavors are never finished.” “...And so, for each of us, let the work go on, let the hope remain alive, so that the dream of a better and fuller tomorrow will never die.”

To See Things in Their True Light

Rabbi Michael P. Sternfield

Chicago Sinai Congregation

15 West Delaware Place

Chicago, Illinois 60610

Kol Nidre 2009

If I were to ascribe a single great reason for observing Yom Kippur, it would be to encourage each of us to take one full day out of our busy lives and to engage in self-evaluation. It is for this challenging and admittedly difficult purpose that Yom Kippur exists. Whether or not that goal is to be realized depends not upon whether a sermon hits the mark, or whether the music lifts the spirit, or even if the words of the prayerbook touch the heart. It depends entirely on how willing each of us may be to make good use of this day, or whether this will be simply our annual “nod to God.”

Speaking personally, on Yom Kippur I try to think back over the most important events in my life, and how they have affected me. There are certain events of such impact that they continue to loom large despite the passage of time. We all have these such memories. Certainly, occasions such as the birth of our children, the day of our wedding, the day a parent died: these are indelible. But, there are less dramatic experiences that remain in our hearts as well.

For me, a single devent in my rabbinic experience stands out from all others, and it continues to inspire me to this very day. This occurred in 1990, while I was serving a congregation in San Diego, just a few miles from the sprawling city of Tijuana, Mexico. If you have ever been to Tijuana, then you know it is a very depressing place, all the more so because it is situated next to one of America’s most desirable cities. Unlike San Diego, with its affluent neighborhoods, its manicured lawns, and pristine beachfront, Tijuana basically is a disaster. Many people live in shacks made mostly of cardboard and corrugated metal. Sewage spills onto the streets. And everywhere you go are rag-tag little children, most of them abandoned, some even without shoes, trying to earn just a few meager pesos by selling chicklets or chotskes to the tourists.

One day call came from a woman I had never met, asking me if I would officiate at her son’s funeral. Her son Jay had died that day in an automobile crash when he was returning from Tijuana. One of the front wheels of his car had come loose while he was driving on the expressway. He was killed instantly.

When I met with Jay’s parents, they made a request that I had never encountered, before or since. Would I permit the playing of mariachi music at their son’s funeral? Mariachi Music!? When we gringos think of mariachis, generally what comes to mind is cheerful music, Mexican restaurants, piñatas, Cinco de Mayo, and other happy times. I was taken aback. It just didn’t seem appropriate for a Jewish funeral, and at first, I politely declined. Then they explained to me that Jay’ close connection with an orphanage in Tijuana; that he had been a wonderful friend to many of the children.

In Mexico, they told me, when someone who is greatly respected dies, it is considered a high honor to have Mariachis escort the casket all the way to the cemetery. So, despite certain misgivings, I said yes.

Although I never met Jay personally, this is what I learned about him. When he was a child, Jay had experienced many difficulties. He never quite fit in. He even was considered by some to be mentally retarded, which was not true. But thanks to much love and encouragement from his parents, he surmounted many obstacles, and along the way Jay made up his mind that he was going to be a giver, and not just a taker.

Eventually, he became a social worker, devoted to helping other young people whose problems he naturally understood. And when his work day would end, he often would turn to his greater passion, helping the poor abandoned and orphaned children of Tijuana. He spent countless hours and much of his modest salary in Mexico, bringing clothing, helping arrange for medical attention, and doing whatever he could to make life better for the many little children whose lives are so pathetic.

For one little girl who could not walk, and had no hope of finding the money to buy braces herself, he obtained orthopedic braces. He put together excursions and picnics for the kids, and persuaded many others in San Diego to lend a hand. Jay simply would not take no for an answer. He organized his friends and co-workers to become a part of his work. Jay became a human bridge, between two very different worlds, by bringing both material assistance and much needed hope to the children.

Hundreds of people came to Jay’s funeral. The vast majority of those who crowded into the Temple did not speak English. With great solemnity, attired in their traditional costumes, the Mariachis played their instruments and sang as they proceeded slowly from the back of the sanctuary to the very foot of the bima, where Jay’s casket lay. They sang several more sad-sounding folk songs, and departed just as they had entered. I doubt that I can fully express to you just what a moving experience. It was emotionally overwhelming.

I wanted to tell you this story, not only because of the Mariachis. There is so much to be learned from this young man’s great life, and yes, I mean a great life. Jay was never especially interested in organized religion, but it should be clear that he embodied the highest ideals of our Jewish faith, namely to accept each day as a blessing, and to express our gratitude by doing whatever we can to make better the lives of those less fortunate.

One moment Jay was here. The next moment he was gone. But that’s the way life can be. By only the thinnest of threads is life sustained. This is the first great lesson of this story. That fragile thread by which every one of our lives is sustained may be broken literally in the blink of an eye. Life turns on a dime:

from joy to sorrow;

from happiness to despair;

from well-being to calamity.

If I have learned nothing else in 36 years as a rabbi it is this: Life comes with no guarantees, except that it will eventually come to an end. We just can’t know when, and that may be just as well. Therefore, we need to realize that all we truly have is this moment, this day. By its very nature life is unpredictable, and we should not pretend that we have all the time in the world. The acceptance of this reality is the beginning of wisdom.

There is a verse in the Book of Deuteronomy which we will read tomorrow morning, and which we all know and love. Even Jews who know very little about Judaism can quote this verse. “Choose life.” "Choose life, in order that you may live!" But, there is a problem with this verse. The problem is that it is not true. We really don’t get to choose life or death, sickness or health. More accurately, life and death seem to choose us, at their own time and place.

All we really can choose is how we are going to make the fullest use of our all-too-brief lifespan. And that is actually the more important lesson to be derived from Jay’s story.

Although at this season we pray to be inscribed in the Book of Life, there are some things that are much more important than living a long time. What a person decides to do day-to-day is of much greater significance than how long one may be fortunate enough to survive, or how many material possessions, or net worth one may accumulate. Merely to “hang in there” for 70 or 80 or even 90 years, is no measure of excellence. All it means is that we have been blessed with good genes or good doctors, or both. The Book of Proverbs teaches us: “to number our days, so that we gain a heart of wisdom,” and by that the writer meant not to count our days, but rather make our days count.

You’ve heard the expression: “the good die young.” It’s not always true, but it is often true. Sometimes I cannot help but wonder whether the reason why most people live longer is because God keeps giving us extensions, hoping that we will eventually get it right.

There is so much emphasis placed on medical science prolonging human life. And without disparaging medicine in the slightest, I wonder if we sometimes lose sight of precisely why we should be aspiring to live longer. What we should be asking, especially on Yom Kippur, are questions such as these:

What do I hope to accomplish in this limited time allotted to me?

If I were to learn tomorrow that this will be the final year of my life, what would I decide to do with that year?

When it is all over, what difference, if any, will my presence on this earth have made?

What, if anything, will remain of me when my life is over?

Every religion has its theories about what happens to people when they die: from beliefs in reincarnation to the reward of heaven or, conversely the punishment of hell. Judaism has not one, but several theories all ultimately unproveable. However the one which we all can be most sure about is that we live on through our deeds. People come and go, but acts of righteousness endure.

There is a lovely passage from the prayer book which expresses this idea so perfectly:

“We lose our hold upon life when our time has come, just as the leaf falls from the branch with its day is done. The deeds of the righteous enrich the lives of others just as the fallen leaf enriches the soil beneath.”

Therefore, our tradition teaches - let no person ever suppose that even the smallest act of goodness is ever lost or wasted. There is no such thing as a trivial mitzvah.

Each of us is called upon, in the brief span of time that is our life, to make our contribution, whether large or small, to add to the wellbeing of our world.

It seems to me that, no matter how great our means may be, we can only enjoy and consume so much. Material things, in and of themselves, do not bestow satisfaction; they may make us happy for a while, but that’s about all. The most fulfilled people I know are those who have dedicated themselves to something more than their own personal comfort or happiness.

To quote Viktor Frankel: “Don’t aim at success. The more you aim at it and make it a target, the more you are going to miss it. For success, like happiness, cannot be pursued; it must ensue… as the unintended side-effect of one’s personal dedication to a cause greater than oneself.”

And especially in these troubled times, there are so many people who are barely holding on, and who desperately need the support, concern and friendship of others. And if we are serious about trying to make a difference, we don’t have to look very far to find ways to be of help, whether to a cause or even to a single individual or family.

Less than 2 miles from here is Cabrini Green where our congregation has done excellent work for the kids of the Schiller School and now will do the same for the Jenner school. And, of course, this is only one of so many opportunities for each of us to offer ourselves as a bridge from despair to hope, to be a source of encouragement and of tangible assistance.

This is not only the meaning of the Torah’s instruction to: “Love your neighbor as yourself.” It is the essence of the entire Jewish religion.

And lest you think that I am referring primarily to donating money or physical goods, let me make it clear that there are so many ways in which we can give of ourselves.. To give the gift of one’s time and energy is every bit as important as the checks we may write, and definitely more heartfelt.

The question is not so much specifically what are you going to do, but whether you will do anything at all. If the heart is willing, the opportunities are boundless. And this is why Yom Kippur can be of such value:

to open our eyes a little wider; and

to enable us to recognize the possibilities for enjoying a fuller and a more significant life.

God has called us into this life, and set us here for a very brief time.

Ours is the task and the privilege to make worthy use of the many blessings which are ours every single day;

to move, at least in some way, beyond the narrow confines of our own self-interest.

to perform a mitzvah as often as we can, every single day if possible;

to share the blessings which are ours with those whose lot, through no fault of their own, is so very different from our own and, thereby, to do our small part to the betterment of our world.

Can One Doubt The Existence Of God And Still Be A Good Jew?

Rabbi Michael P. Sternfield

Chicago Sinai Congregation

15 W. Delaware Place

Chicago, IL 60610

Yom Kippur 2009

I want to speak with you this morning about that most widely used and most abused three-letter word in our language, spelled G-O-D. We must say the words “God,” “the Eternal One,” “Adonai,” and “Eloheinu” dozens of times over the course of these Holy Days. The question is: Can one doubt the existence of God and still be a good Jew?

It should come as no shock to you for me to acknowledge that almost all of us have our doubts about the existence of God. And there are others who, while they may be willing to acknowledge God’s existence, doubt whether God has any actual influence on their lives. They may be willing to admit that God is that unknowable Source that created the world at one time and may, in some also unknowable manner, sustain the world. But beyond that, most contemporary Jews essentially are humanists, meaning that we tend to believe that human and not divine values direct our lives. Especially interesting is the fact that this skepticism is trans-generational. There are many young people who express these same feelings. More than a few of our bar and bat mitzvah students will say to me privately that they are willing to go through the ceremony and, of course, the celebration, but they really don’t believe in God at all.

Belief in God has many challenges. When things are going well, it is pleasant to thank God. But then life has a way of smacking us in the face, and we start to doubt. Crises of faith are completely understandable, and the admission of such a crisis is, in no way, an irreligious or disloyal act. It is completely understandable that when, facing a severe calamity, such as the unexpected and fatal illness of a loved one, almost anyone would question whether God exists, whether God is really as powerful as the prayerbook would have us believe, or whether God even cares, especially if he/she had prayed fervently for a positive outcome, and it did not come to pass. On a much more massive scale, just about every thinking Jew must question God’s existence in confronting the enormity of the Holocaust and God’s apparent silence.

So rather than just pretending that the state of Jewish belief is secure, let me address this issue squarely.

Any serious discussion of Judaism must begin with a discussion about God, and yet paradoxically, this is a subject that none of us know anything about. The great rabbi and philosopher Maimonides was incredibly honest when he wrote that people actually are not capable of knowing anything about God; that whatever God may be is completely beyond our finite comprehension. All we can know is what we believe about God.

Even something as basic as God’s existence cannot be proved. On the other hand, God’s existence cannot be disproved either. Therefore, all attempts to prove or disprove the existence of that which is unprovable are a waste of time.

This is why I have never cared much for “theology.” Serious discussion of God whether God exists is the work of a handful of philosophers of the seminaries and graduate schools. The rest of us form our own opinions concerning what we believe or don’t believe at a relatively early age and are usually content to retain them without much questioning for most of our lives, and therein may lie a big part of the problem. Unfortunately, far too many otherwise intelligent and well-educated adults cling to perhaps well-intentioned, but nevertheless naïve teachings about God.

So, can one doubt God’s existence and still be a good Jew? The answer to this question is: Definitely yes. One’s doubts about the existence of God should be no obstacle to our being a good Jew.

Judaism’s essence is expressed far more by deed than by creed. Doubt about the existence of God is no reason to deny the validity of Judaism as an ethical code and a way of life. Despite its ultimate goal of bringing humanity to the recognition of God and of universal moral law, Judaism stresses action far more than faith. The Talmud attributes to God a declaration which is probably unique among religious writings:

“Better that the they [the people of Israel] should abandon Me, but follow My laws”

(Jerusalem Talmud Haggigah 1:7)

Think about that for a moment. It is really a startling statement coming from the Talmud itself. “Better that the people of Israel should abandon God, but follow God’s laws”

According to Judaism’s most authoritative source, one definitely can be considered a good Jew while doubting God’s existence, so long as he or she observes the precepts of Judaism.

My intention is not to say that God is peripheral to Judaism, it is merely to emphasize that the value and excellence of Judaism can be appreciated and enacted independently of one’s belief in God. One may easily incorporate Judaism’s ideals into one’s daily life even if one doubts God’s existence, because Jewish principles are beneficial in and of themselves. A person definitely can be a good Jew and doubt God’s existence. In fact, without question, there are many very good Jews here today who are harboring serious doubts about where all these prayers are going.

However, the converse is not true: One who claims to believe in God but disregards Jewish ethical values and moral practices cannot be considered a good Jew. In fact, such a person cannot even claim to be a good human being. Both history and current events are filled with examples of supposed “true believers” whose daily conduct unfortunately demonstrates just how true this is.

No doubt most of you have read about the small group of rabbis in the Syrian Jewish community of New York, who were arrested over the summer for crimes of money laundering, which were connected to the illicit and completely illegal practice of trafficking in human organs.

I would imagine that you also remember the scandal of Agriprocessors, a large Kosher meat packing company, owned by Chasidic Jews, who not only played fast and loose with the laws for kosher slaughter, but also treated their employees, most of whom were illegal immigrants from Latin America, with utter disregard for their well-being, paying substandard wages, shorting their paychecks, denying them proper medical care, and many other abuses.

I am sorry to say that these people may observe all the minutiae of Jewish personal religious practices, but their callous disregard for the law and for basic rules of human decency stand in contradiction of that which they claim to believe. Lest you think that I am just picking on the Orthodox, I do need to state that there plenty of non-Orthodox Jewish unethical people, but least they do not seem to parade their religiosity.

We could just as well speak of whether one can be a good Christian if they participate in bombing abortion clinics, or whether one can be a good Muslim if he engages in acts of terrorism and murders innocent civilians. I am referencing these Jewish offenses this morning only because my subject specifically is about being a good Jew. Clearly, the offenders to which I have referred are not good Jews, and no one should pretend otherwise. And before leaving this sore subject, let me only emphasize this point: Just because one seemingly acts religious, or dresses religiously, does mean that such a person is actually a religious person or a good Jew.

One of the most amazing and powerful passages from Jewish tradition reads as follows: “If you observe My commandments and follow My instructions, then I am God. And if you do not…then, I am, one might say, not God at all.” Those who deny God’s existence most explicitly and tangibly are not the agnostics and atheists per se, but rather those whose personal conduct shows no sense of moral accountability. Whether one claims to believe in God means very little when that person’s ethical behavior contradicts their supposed beliefs.

A person who truly believes that God cares about ethical conduct; that God pays attention to personal practices and keeps score, as it were; I can’t imagine how such a person would ever habitually conduct himself in an immoral or unethical manner because he/she believes, and even knows, that God is watching. So when supposedly religious people act immorally, it shows very clearly that they really aren’t such true believers after all. They are just faking it.

We should try to keep in mind that G-O-D is a word, that our description of what we describe as God is the product of the human mind. Again, to remind us of what Maimonides taught, we actually can know nothing about God. What we call by the word “God” is a theoretical construct, intended to convey a sense of ultimate purpose in life and the conviction that there meaning to our existence because we are created beings; that there is such a thing as moral law and personal accountability.

The Torah begins with these words: “B’reisheet bara Elohim et hashamyim v’et haaretz” In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. Our entire religion begins with this one basic assumption that Creation is purposeful, and that such qualities as kindness, compassion, human responsibility, ethical behavior, to name only a few, are not arbitrary nor are they artificial; we identify them with what we call “God.”

Unfortunately, much of the language of religion tends to lead one to envision God as having human qualities. Even such seemingly innocuous phrases as “And God spoke to Moses,” or “And God saw” are anthropomorphic. There are others phrases that are even more problematic, such as when they refer to “the hand of God” or the belief that “God’s eye is ever upon us.” No doubt the writers of these prayers and passages were only attempting metaphorically to convey the sense that God is connected to our lives. But the consequence of these metaphors is that, together, they tend to portray God in such naïve way that is destined to leads disillusionment, and loss of faith.

It might be better if we were not so attached to the word “God.” One of the Ten Commandments is that we should not take God’s name in vain. For that reason, traditional Jews will not say “God” or “Adonai” in everyday speech. They will use expressions like: “HaShem.” In the days of the ancient Temple, only one person was permitted to pronounce the Divine Name, one day a year, and that was the High Priest in the Holy of Holines within the Temple on Yom Kippur. I think that the ancient aversion to using the name of God has merit. The word “God” becomes an idol all by itself because it conjures, if not an actual physical image, at least a collection of powers. And more times than not, I find that when someone says: “I don’t believe in God,” what he/she really means is they don’t believe in the God that early in their lives that person has come to associate with the word “God.”

There is no way to conclude this sermon or to tie it all up in a neat package. I can’t tell you that your doubts about God are wrong. I can’t tell you that they are right…because I don’t really know anything about God. But I do know something about what it means to be a good Jew; that has little to do with what one believes and everything to do with what one practices.

So I will simply end with this story, that will leave you perplexed. Rabbi W. Gunther Plaut tells of a famous philosopher who once gave a lecture before a large Jewish gathering on the subject “A Critique of the Existence of God.” The lecture was very well attended. A thousand people were there who wanted to know how the professor, who was known for his atheism, could prove his proposition. After the professor had been at his lecture for some time, he noted that the audience was beginning to leave.

Finally, when out of the thousand people only a few were left, he turned to the chairman and asked, “Mr. Chairman, am I talking too long?” “No,” said the chairman. “your lecture is not too long. And you have proved to almost everyone’s satisfaction that God does not exist, but you see it’s almost time to assemble for our evening worship services. And, God forbid, we wouldn’t want to be late.”