“Awaken From Your Slumber”

Rosh Hashanah 5768/2007
Rabbi Streiffer

Our tradition tells of a great sage called Honi. He was known as Honi the Circle Maker, because by drawing a circle and stepping inside of it, he could recite prayers that would make the rains come in time of draught. He was a wise sage and a maker of miracles. One day, Honi the Circle Maker was out walking and he saw a man planting a carob tree. Honi asked the man, "How long will it take for this tree to bear fruit?"

The man replied, “Probably about seventy years."

So Honi asked him, “Why do you bother with this labor? Do you think you will live another seventy years?”

The man answered, “Perhaps not. But I was born into a world with carob trees. Just as my father and grandfather planted trees for me, I am planting this tree for my descendants.”

Honi then sat down, and was overcome by sleep. Unbeknownst to him, he slept for seven decades. And when he awoke he saw a man gathering fruit from that very same carob tree. He asked him, “Are you the man who planted the tree?”

The man replied: “No, I am his grandson. This is the tree that my grandfather planted 70 years ago. Only now has it begun to bear fruit.”

This Talmudic tale is very well-known and widely told. It teaches about providing for the future and passing on to the next generation. In fact, its lessons are on our minds as we build a congregational home for our future. But if we look very closely, we may see that there is also a hidden tragedy inherent in the story. True, Honi witnesses the touching exchange from grandfather to grandson. But by sleeping for 70 years – by sleeping for one entire lifetime – he misses the opportunity to plant his own tree. Honi’s grandchildren will not reap fruit from a carob tree, because he, in his slumber, didn’t plant one.

Now in some ways this is a whimsical story, since no one can actually sleep for 70 years (although let’s be honest - High Holiday sermons are sometimes seen as an opportunity to try.) But we do have the ability to put ourselves into autopilot, to trudge through days and get stuck in routines. We get overwhelmed by the minutia of life and turn a blind eye to the world around us; we go to bed wishing there were more hours in the day; we measure our time by our favorite TV shows instead of by the colors of the sunset; we spend an extra hour at work rather than with family. As a society, we have trained ourselves not to see the miracles that surround us all the time, and all too often to close our eyes to the realities of the world – both good and bad. Perhaps that’s what the Talmud means when it tells us that Honi the Circle Maker slept for 70 years. How many of us are asleep, without even realizing it?

We are not meant to sleep through life. In fact, the great philosopher Maimonides teaches that our sleepy state is precisely the reason for the High Holidays, that the task of this time of the year is to reawaken – to revive our senses, our spirit, and our intellect. The symbol of this is the shofar, whose call cuts through the silence and pierces our hearts. In his Laws of Repentence, Maimonides writes that the sound of the shofar calls to us:

Uru y’sheinim misheinatchem!
Awaken! Awaken from your slumber, you who are slumbering. You who sleep, rouse yourselves. Search your deeds and return in repentance.

Maimonides’ words are a challenge – a charge to each of us. The shofar does indeed call to us to reexamine our priorities, to refocus our lives, to rouse ourselves from the metaphorical slumber that has overtaken us in the past year. What, then, does it mean to awaken?

Uru y’sheinim misheinatchem! Awaken from your slumber, you who are sleeping.
We slumber when we are unaware of the miracles that surround us all the time, when we cannot or will not approach the world with the sense of awe that might be inspired by the sound of a bird singing or by a hug from a child.

We often speak of feeling God’s presence in the momentous occasions in our lives – the birth of a child, a wedding or special occasion, even a profound loss. But the Chassidic masters used to look for evidence of God even in what may seem mundane. Rabbi Nachman of Bratzlav wrote that not only each person, but each blade of grass is endowed with its own identity, its own unique melody, and its niche in the world, and is thus worthy of praise and celebration.
 
The Torah reading for the second morning of Rosh Hashanah, which is not widely observed in Reform Judaism but is found in our prayerbook, is the story of Creation. We read, in that famous chapter, that after creating the universe and everything in it, God calls it “Very good.” To our tradition, “very good,” means that the world was created in wisdom, that its orderliness gives evidence of God’s presence. For us as modern, Reform Jews, Genesis chapter 1 is not history but metaphor, but nonetheless we can still recognize the wondrous wisdom in the world. Our universe is made up of balanced systems and cycles, each of which is necessary for the others to exists – from the largest galaxy down to the veins and organs in the tiniest creature. And in the midst of all of this, we are given the opportunity to create and sustain life, to love one another, to think, to learn, and to grow. If we were truly awake to the universe’s many wonders, we would live in a constant state of gratitude - recognizing God even in the tiniest leaf, in a loving relationship, in spending time with a dear friend - and striving to turn ordinary into holy. We awaken from our slumber when we begin to approach each moment as a tiny miracle worthy of awe and gratitude.

Uru y’sheinim misheinatchem! Awaken from your slumber, you who are sleeping.
We slumber when we are unaware of miracles, and we slumber too when we choose to prioritize that which is fleeting over that which is lasting.

Now you may now know it, but I am an avid Sunday comics reader. And one of my favorites is Baby Blues, which tells about the day-to-day adventures of an overwhelmed young couple and their three too-smart-for-their-own-good children. In one very poignant strip, the mother is sitting on the floor with her one-year-old and the baby says, “Dada.”
 
“No, Daddy’s at work,” she answers. “Daddy works in a big office where he gets to talk to other adults all day long and go to nice restaurants for lunch with interesting people. Mommy had to put her career on hold while she just sits here watching you grow up.”

Wanda’s agitation grows, until finally the baby looks up, kisses her on the face, and says “Mama.” To which she replies, “Poor Daddy.”

I think this comic strip moved me because it so perfectly describes the dualism that we live with. Our society pushes us to measure success around our professions, and indeed, we create our identities around work. If someone asks, “What do you do,” the answer is your job. But there is another side to who we are, and it is found in our relationships – our families, marriages, and friendships.

Tomorrow morning we will read the Akeidah – the Binding of Isaac. There is no more poignant example of the need for presence in relationship and community than the story of Abraham’s near-sacrifice of his son. And in truth, it is not the sacrifice that is the central tragedy of the story, but rather the disintegration of Abraham’s family and relationships as a result of silence and mistrust. During the three-day ordeal of traveling to Mt. Moriah, building an altar, and nearly slaughtering his son, Abraham refrains from speaking to his wife at all, and speaks to his son only once, and then only a few words. He offers no words of comfort, love or praise – only silence. And even more tragic, the midrash records that the Akeidah is the immediate cause of Sarah’s grief-stricken death and of a prolonged and permanent estrangement between father and son. Unable to communicate and be present for those who love him, Abraham finds them slipping away.

Few of our lives are as dramatic as this, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t shades of familiarity. Who among us has not found him- or herself saying, “I’ll call my friend tomorrow,” or “If I can just answer a few more emails I’ll go home.” Prioritizing our relationships is not the obvious thing to do in our society; but it is the Jewish thing to do. Our tradition teaches that community and loving relationship are central to Jewish life, and it gives us opportunities to create them – Shabbat, study, worship, community celebration…food. Even eating a meal together is considered a holy act in Judaism, because by nurturing our relationships we bring God’s presence into the world. We can awaken from our slumber by measuring success in the health of the relationships we create – in the joy and comfort we bring to others and that we gain from our loved ones.

Uru y’sheinim misheinatchem! Awaken from your slumber, you who are sleeping.
We are capable of making a difference in people’s lives. We slumber when we go about our daily lives, without regard for our power to make the world a better place.

The great Polish rabbi and master storyteller known as the Maggid of Dubnow used to tell of a small-town man who traveled to the big city. In the middle of the night, he was awakened by the loud beating of drums. He inquired drowsily, "What's this all about?" He was informed that a fire had broken out and that the drums were the city's fire alarm. He turned over and went back to sleep, confident that the fire would soon be gone.
 
On his return home he reported to the village authorities: “They have a wonderful system in the big city; when a fire breaks out the people beat their drums and before long the fire burns out.” Excited, the people of the village ordered drums and distributed them to everyone. Some time later, a fire broke out. There was a deafening explosion of the beating of drums. And while the people stood, drumming, waiting expectantly for the flames to subside, their town burned to the ground. They hadn’t realized that the drums were meant to call them to put out the fire.

The call of the shofar, much like the beating of these drums, is intended not only to make us aware, but to awaken us to action. We all have our own fires – in our relationships, our families, our own souls, and we devote an immense amount of energy to trying sleeping through these fires. The Days of Awe are our opportunity to begin devoting some energy toward putting them out, toward bringing healing to ourselves and those around us.
 
The Torah reading for Yom Kippur, the third of the major High Holiday Torah readings, speaks to this theme. It tells of our covenant with God and the mitzvot – the holy obligations – that comprise it. It says, “lo bashamayim hi – the Torah is not in heaven.” The obligations of Jewish tradition are not of an otherwordly or purely spiritual nature. They are intended to enable us to do tikkun hanefesh, to heal our souls, to heal our lives. This year, let the sound of the shofar call us not only to prayer, not only to community, but to a true examination of our lives and commitment to do what we can to bring that healing. We awaken from our slumber by recognizing our profound ability to work towards goals, to change, to become better versions of ourselves.

There is a sense in which each of us is Honi the Circle Maker, slumbering under a tree. Yet on these Yamim Noraim – these Days of Awe - Judaism grants us an annual opportunity to step back from our ruts and our routines. Tonight, we enter the new year of 5768. Tonight, we enter into a period of introspection, self-examination, and setting things right.
In our tradition, each year is a new year, unencumbered by the vows and failures of the past. We have the choice, beginning today, to plant the trees that will provide for our needs and those of future generations. We can never know how long it will take for those trees to bear fruit, but that does not free us from the obligation to begin planting them.

• Let us approach the world with a sense of awe, resolving always to seek out the miraculous amidst the mundane.
   

• Let us measure our lives by the hearts we touch and the souls we allow to touch us.
   

• Let us begin the work of bringing healing to our lives and to our world, even with the knowledge that we can never complete it.

May the sound of the shofar, which rises from this place, inspire us to awaken our senses and our souls; may it carry with it a sense of the opportunity that is this sweet new year.

Ken Yehi Ratzon.
May this be God’s will.