“Heaven, Hell, the Messiah and Me”

Rosh Hashanah 5768/2007
Rabbi Schindler

There are many challenging conversations we have to have with our kids on such topics as death, sex, drugs, and school violence. One conversation I'll soon need to have with my seven-year-old son, Maxwell, will probably go something like this:

“You know Max,” I'll begin, “there are some kids you might meet -- not at Shalom Park, but perhaps at school – who, once they find out that you’re Jewish, might tell you that you are going to a bad place called hell. You see, some of our Christian neighbors are taught that you need to believe in Jesus to get into heaven, but as Jews, we believe that heaven is for all people who act in a righteous way.”

I imagine Max’s first response will be, “Mom, can I go back to playing Game Boy now?”

But on another day, we’ll be in the car and we’ll resume the conversation. We’ll talk about others’ beliefs and our beliefs and come up with some really great responses to help his friends understand who he is.

That is one of the tough realities of living in the South. We are surrounded by many of our Christian counterparts who feel genuine concern for our souls. They do not realize that our focus as liberal Jews is not on heaven in the afterlife, but on creating heaven in the here and now.

The many faiths represented here in Charlotte hold different beliefs as to what happens after we die. The Islamic community believes that, based on our deeds, on the Last Day of Judgment we will either be rewarded in paradise with spiritual and physical pleasures forever or we will be condemned to eternal torment in hell. Buddhists believe that hell is a temporary place where those with negative karma are reborn and must dwell until the negative karma is used up. The Bahai see hell as symbolic – a spiritual condition in which our souls are distant from God.

As for our Jewish beliefs on the afterlife, they say that between every two Jews there are three opinions. That’s what keeps the staff of Temple Beth El so busy! As Reform Jews, we differ in our beliefs, not only from people of other faiths, but even amongst ourselves.

From one Jew you may hear that we live on through our deeds. Another might profess the physical and bodily resurrection of our future. A third might publicly proclaim that our souls unite with God as our bodies return to the dust, while the mystics among us would hold fast to a view of gilgul hanefesh, the reincarnation of our souls.

This is likely the reason that many of you cannot easily articulate Jewish beliefs on the afterlife: first, because as liberal Jews, we do not dwell on it and are less dogmatic than are non-Jews regarding this subject; and second, because we believe that the here and now is of far greater concern.

This notion is expressed in a favorite Chasidic tale my father would tell of a rabbi who was given the privilege of seeing heaven and hell before his death. He was first taken to hell, where he was shown a huge banquet room containing a long table filled with every type of delicacy. All around the table, people sat looking at the food...and wailing. The rabbi had never heard such a sad sound and he asked, “With the most delicious food set before them, why do these people wail so bitterly?”

As he entered the room, he saw the reason for their distress. Although each person sat gazing at the incredible sight before him, no one was able to taste a thing. Each person’s arms were splinted so that their elbows could not bend. People could see the food, but they could not eat it.

The rabbi was next taken to heaven and, to his surprise, he saw here the identical scene he had witnessed in hell -- the same large banquet room and elegant table piled high with sumptuous food. Once again, everyone's arms were splinted so that their elbows could not bend. Here, however, there was no wailing, but rather, the sound of overwhelming and unrestrained joy. Because here, although the people could not put food into their own mouths, each picked up food and fed it to another.

This tale teaches that, with the exact same set of circumstances, one can create heaven or one can create hell. On this day, when our Book of Life is opened and our deeds are inscribed within, on this day when we pass under God’s staff as sheep before a shepherd, we are given our lesson on the hereafter; our actions of the present affect our fate in the future.

There are those in our society who by virtue of their life’s circumstances -- their economic status, their young or old age, their physical or emotional disabilities – cannot, metaphorically, feed themselves. Our task is to create heaven here by nourishing one another…by sharing our resources and our abundance.

On a daily basis, our media reveal a reality closer to the hell of this Chasidic tale. As Simon Greer, Executive Director of the Jewish Fund for Justice, puts it:

“The challenges facing our country are great: 37 million Americans in poverty, 47 million Americans without health insurance, the minimum wage raised just one time in ten years, over 200,000 mostly low-income African-American residents of New Orleans still unable to return to their devastated city, stubborn educational inequalities, (and the) widespread exploitation of immigrant workers.”

Kids shooting kids, parents neglecting children, metal detectors in schools, substance abuse… the list goes on and on. Rabbi David Wolpe remarks:

“Schoolchildren are often told, ‘This is not real life.’ When students are in college, they are told, ‘This is not real life….’ Real life does not begin when you get out of college or get married or have children or become a grandparent. Real life is right now.”

As Jews, we need to live as our best selves -- and not for a reward in the future. We need to live as our best selves for the reward today.

Rabbi Robert Levine, who is affiliated with a wealthy synagogue on Manhattan’s upper west side, was leading an interfaith Passover seder with a Harlem Baptist church, when a ten-year-old, African-American girl named Chaminique inquired, “Hey Mister Rabbi, who’s drinking that wine?”

She was referring to a cup set out for Elijah. When Rabbi Levine explained that when we open the door, we hope Elijah will come and drink the wine, she asked, “Why do you do that?”

Rabbi Levine further explained, “We believe that if Elijah comes, he will announce the coming of the Messiah. Chaminique, you believe Jesus will come again to make the world a better place. We don’t believe that Jesus was the Messiah, but we are still hoping that the Messiah will come to our world, soon.”

“And you do this every year?” she asked. “You open the door for Elijah and hope the Messiah will come right after and heal our world?”

“Yes,” Rabbi Levine responded.

“Why are you still waiting?” she asked. “Why don’t you do it yourself?”

This story is from the opening of Rabbi Levine’s book, There Is No Messiah, and You’re It. As the title of his book demands, each one of us needs to take responsibility; not to wait for Elijah, for our government, for our clergy or for “real life” to arrive. Each one of us needs to work towards bringing about a messianic future today.

Our tradition teaches, “Pray as if everything depends on God, act as if everything depends on you.” We need to spend time in our sanctuary; it is through prayer that we gain wisdom, strength, direction and inspiration. And we need to spend time in the world. God needs us to be partners. We must be God’s hands and reach out to respond compassionately to others. We must be God’s voice protesting against the injustices and cruelties of our world.

Now, I don’t want any of you to get a messiah complex, which is a psychological state in which people believe themselves to be saviors with transcendent powers. False messiahs of our past caused untold devastation: Bar Kochba, of the second century, caused physical turmoil and death to, literally, tens of thousands. Shabbatei Tzvi, of the 17th century, caused spiritual and psychological turmoil that, no doubt, demoralized the entire generation of Jews who believed in him.

We need to simply and humbly do God’s work. The Talmudic legend tells of Rabbi Joshua ben Levi who once came upon Elijah the Prophet and asked him where the Messiah lives. The prophet explained that the Messiah could be found at the entrance to Rome, in front of the gate.

“How will I recognize him?” asked Rabbi Joshua. And the prophet, Elijah, told him: “He sits among the lepers wrapping their bandages, one by one.”

According to our sages, the Messiah dwells not above others, but with them. The Messiah sits not with those inside the camp, but with those who have been cast out. The Messiah rests not with the privileged, but among the impoverished. Accordingly, the Messiah will be found, not at our Seder tables or in our sanctuary today, but alongside those who are suffering.

In September of 2001, the then Chief Rabbi of Israel remarked, “Of the 6000 languages spoken in the world, only one is truly universal -- the language of tears.” Those in need are all around us, we need only to listen and respond.

We can imitate the messiah of this midrash, by taking part in one of Beth El’s many Social Justice and Action programs that feed those who are hungry, shelter those who are homeless, give safety to those who are abused, give educational skills to those who have fallen to the bottom of our socioeconomic ladder, and give voice to those who are victims of injustice. We can imitate the messiah of the midrash, by being involved in our Caring Committee; by cooking meals, by visiting, by being part of a second family team for those are sick.

The story is told about a monastery that had fallen upon hard times. Only five monks lived there and all were over seventy years of age. In the deep woods surrounding the monastery, there was a little hut, which was used, occasionally, by a rabbi from a nearby town. He was such a spiritual rabbi, that the monks could always sense his presence.

The abbot of the monastery, agonizing over the imminent death of his order, visited the rabbi for advice. “Is there anything you can tell me?”

“No, I am sorry,” the rabbi responded. “I have no advice to give. The only thing I can tell you is that one of you is the Messiah.”

The abbot returned home and shared this news with his fellow monks. They each pondered the news. “Which one of us could it be?” they asked themselves. “Perhaps, my fellow is the Messiah. Suppose I am the Messiah!”

As they contemplated the matter, the old monks began to treat one another with extraordinary respect on the off chance that one of them might, in fact, be the Messiah. It so happened, that people from the town sensed the change and began to visit. More and more people came to picnic, to pray and to play. Young men began to join the monastery and, once again, thanks to the rabbi’s wisdom, it became a thriving order, a center of light.

Believing that the Messiah could be here and now or alternatively believing that we could, indeed, bring about the messianic era, will lift others and us from despair. That is our Jewish task.

The Midrash of Avot d’Rabbi Natan teaches that if you are in the middle of planting a tree and word comes that the Messiah has arrived, you must finish planting the tree first and then go to greet the Messiah. As Jews, we are required to always be planting the seeds that will bring about a better future.

There are times when I’ve had to give my kids sad news. “Max and Alec,” I’ve had to tell them, while staying strong and holding back the tears, “your babysitter and friend, Stephanie Block, died last night. Her soul went up to God.” And when I show them pictures of our families, we talk about Saba, my dad, who is up in heaven, and Nana, Chip’s mom, who is there, too.

But more important than reflecting on where they are, is reflecting on the work they would have wanted us to do; teaching Judaism, loving all human beings, feeding the hungry, and fighting with all our might against the injustices we see. They would not have wanted us to sit in this sanctuary praying to be reunited with them in heaven. They would want us to work in the world, helping to mold the real into our ideal.

May this year of 5768 be one of planting rather than just reaping. May this year be one of acting rather than waiting and of changing rather than just criticizing. May the words, “Next year in Jerusalem,” come true. May the heavenly Jerusalem of our dreams, be witnessed here on Earth and may we be partners in bringing about that peace. Amen.