Sermons and Divrei Torah
Second Chances
by Rabbi Elyse Goldstein
(Sermon - Yom Kippur 5761)
Anyone in this room who is a parent, or who has a parent, will
relate to these universally understood and time-honoured phrases:
one-two-three...if you aren't here by the count of five.... That's
it, I'm counting to ten, one two three four five... There is even
a parenting video with the easy-to-follow parenting system of
"One two three magic." We parents and grandparents are remarkably
adept at counting; our kids have surely figured out that we must
know more than the first ten digits! But every parent knows that
one phrase that cuts to the chase, the one we save for the very
end, the one that finally gets the results we want: that's it,
that's your last chance, no second chances.
Oy- no second chances. What a frightening existence it would be
if there were no second chances in "real" life. No second chances?
Well, we adults know something our kids don't know yet, teenagers
don't believe, and older folks come to appreciate: this life is
your "last chance." Unetaneh tokef: who will live and who will
die; the theme of Yom Kippur, if you let it get to you, if you
come with your walls down and your heart on your sleeve as you're
supposed to, you can't help but feel the sense of urgency as the
gates close.
Kol Nidre: all the vows we made last year that we couldn't fulfill
are null and void. We didn't mean it, it doesn't count; give us
a second chance, God, count to three and then count to ten and
take us back again and love us still as Avinu- a parent. We know
we will probably muck it up again somewhere along the way but
Kol Nidre: we promise we'll do better next time. Or at least we'll
try.
That's what's so wonderful, I think, about the Jewish way of thinking
about sin and repentance. There are no permanent stains. "The
soul which You have given me, O God, is a pure one" we say in
the morning prayers. If it's pure, it can never be tarnished totally.
We have to have a second chance, as Jews, because human nature
is not sinful according to Judaism; the human being sins, but
the sin is removable. Kol Nidre: we are human, love us as we are,
not just as we hope to become.
Imagine if we never had a second chance. All the mistakes we've
made are forever. The wrong job, the wrong school, the wrong camp,
the wrong partner. Every experiment is forever.
That frightening scenario is the stark reality that Yom Kippur
suggests. We dress in white, as if in shrouds; we fast; the closing
gates, the pleading tunes, the Book of Life with its pages spread
open, the beating of the breast; metaphors which force us to
ask this one simple and uncomfortable question, the question which
gives Yom Kippur more meaning than a 24-hour synagogue marathon:
How would I live if this really was my last chance?
Before Erma Bombeck died of cancer, she wrote this little piece,
"If I Had My Life to Live Over":
-
"I would have talked less and listened more. I would have invited
friends over to dinner even if the carpet was stained and the
sofa faded. I would have eaten the popcorn in the 'good' living
room and worried much less about the dirt when someone wanted
to light a fire in the fireplace.
-
I would have taken the time to listen to my grandfather ramble
about his youth. I would never have insisted the car windows be
rolled up on a summer day because my hair had just been done.
I would have burned the pink candle sculpted like a rose before
it melted in storage.
-
I would have sat on the lawn with my children and not worried
about grass stains. I would have cried and laughed less while
watching television - and more while watching life. I would have
shared more of the responsibility carried by my husband.
-
I would have gone to bed when I was sick instead of pretending
the earth would go into a holding pattern if I weren't there for
the day. I would never have bought anything just because it was
practical, wouldn't show soil or was guaranteed to last a lifetime.
-
Instead of wishing away nine months of pregnancy, I'd have cherished
every moment and realized that the wonderment growing inside me
was the only chance in life to assist God in a miracle. When my
kids kissed me impetuously, I would never have said, "Later. Now
go get washed up for dinner." There would have been more "I love
you's".. more "I'm sorrys"... but mostly, given another shot at
life, I would seize every minute...look at it and really see it...
live it...and never give it back."
What would we do if tonight was our last chance? Would we be prepared
to reprioritize our lives?
There is story of two paddleboats. They left Memphis about the
same time, traveling down the Mississippi River to New Orleans.
As they traveled side by side, sailors from one vessel made a
few remarks about the snail's pace of the other. Words were exchanged.
Challenges were made. And the race began. Competition became vicious
as the two boats roared through the Deep South.
One boat began falling behind. Not enough fuel. There had been
plenty of coal for the trip, but not enough for a race. As the
boat dropped back, an enterprising young sailor took some of the
ship's cargo and tossed it into the ovens. When the sailors saw
that the supplies burned as well as the coal, they fueled their
boat with the material they had been assigned to transport. They
ended up winning the race, but burned their cargo.
God has entrusted cargo to us: children, spouses, friends, work,
Jewish commitment, tikkun olam- the repair of the world. Our job
is to do our part in seeing that this cargo reaches its destination.
What a race we run, all the while burning our cargo and thinking
it won't affect us. What if Yom Kippur was our last chance to
repack and rearrange and reorder so that our cargo reaches its
destination in peace?
I bet we'd speak differently to each other. We'd keep our promises.
We'd spend more time with the people we love. We'd complain less.
We'd give more. We'd work harder to change the world. We wouldn't
wait and procrastinate and put off what we need to do to make
ourselves and others happy. We'd dance more, sing more, worry
less. We'd even drive differently. We'd live fully, and urgently,
and carefully.
What if this was our last chance in our work? What if what we
did this past week was the thing we would be remembered for at
our job? Did it make a difference? Are you proud of it? Now it
doesn't matter much if you did something big or something small.
It doesn't matter if you returned some phone calls or ran a bank
or taught some kids or did brain surgery. It matters if it was
done with kavannah, intentionality.
And can we see our work differently? Can we give it a second chance?
Roosevelt was once quoted as saying "Accomplishment is sometimes
dressed in overalls." Can we see our work as part of our spiritual
life, and not a part from it? Work is in our cargo list, and has
a purpose. The laws of Shabbat begin with "Six days you shall
labor, and on the seventh you shall rest." Rest makes no sense
without labor. Labor is good, and we should treat it as if it
was.
And what if this was our last chance with our kids? What if your
kids turned to you and said, "I'm giving you one more chance.
You don't spend enough time with me. You don't pay enough attention
to me. You don't talk enough with me. You aren't interested enough
in what's happening in my life, and you act as if my life is only
a phase I'm going through. I'm giving you one more chance, and
if you don't shape up as a parent, I'm finding another parent
who will." I know some of our kids have threatened to do that
at one time or another, but what if they really could? Some time
ago I saw an advertisement for a parenting book which pictured
a tiny baby on the front. The caption of the ad read, "Yours,
for a limited time only." How true it is!
Can we see our kids differently? Can we give them a second chance?
Can we love them only as they are, not as we wish them to be?
Can we forgive them for not being us, for not being perfect, for
not giving us "all nachus all the time"?
And what if this was our last chance in our closest relationship,
with a parent, or a spouse, or a partner? What if this person
turned to you tonight and said, "I'm asking you to love me differently,
to listen more attentively, to compliment me more, to appreciate
me more, to stop taking me for granted. I'm giving you one more
chance." We claim that our relationships are the most important
things in our lives, but we don't act like it. We're always too
busy, too stressed, and when we want to relax, we go get a video
instead of talking to each other. Some of us probably make appointments
with our spouses to make love! "How's Wednesday, honey? Well,
I have a meeting, let's try for Thursday..."
Can we give those we love a second chance? Can we forgive them
their frailties, the times they slighted us, the words they said
or didn't say, the times they forgot? And can we give those we
once loved the same forgiveness, and then let go of them and the
hurt we hold on to so dearly?
And what if tonight was our last chance to pray? Rabbi Moshe of
Kobryn related: My teacher, Rabbi Mordecai of Lekhovitz, taught
me how to pray. He instructed me as follows: "He who utters the
word "Elohainu-Lord" and in doing so then prepares to say "Melech
ha-olam- Ruler of the world" has not prayed. At the moment he
says "Elohainu" he must think only of "Elohainu", so that even
if his soul should leave him at that moment, and he was not able
to say "Melech ha-olam" it would have been the most heartfelt
"Elohainu" he had ever said. This is the essence of prayer." If
we could cast aside all doubts, all rationalizations, all questions,
all fears, all negations and just pray as if we had only this
one night to pray, we might pray with all the anticipation, seriousness,
longing, and insecurity that real prayer requires.
What if we had one last chance- one last chance- to show our stuff
as Jews? When I was a teenager in youth group, we used to play
this kind of game, an exercise really, called "Last Jews on the
Planet." We would break into small groups and be told that we
were the last living Jews on the planet. What would we do to keep
Judaism alive? What would we leave the world to remember Judaism
by? Well I'm not a teenager anymore, but I still want to know
what would we do if we were the last Jews on the planet. Would
we have a sense of immediacy about the Jewish choices we make,
about the causes we support, about the Jewish education we give
our kids and ourselves, about the priorities of the Jewish community?
And can we give our Judaism a second chance? Can we love it despite
all its faults, all its shortcomings? Can we see its positive
and life-enriching reality and let go of the baggage we still
carry from Hebrew School or the last Rabbi who annoyed us or the
last synagogue president who didn't do something for us?
Teshuva is often understood as simply saying your sorry. No,
that's teshuva lite. In the Talmud, Rabbi Eliezar ben Hyrcanus
is quoted as saying, "Repent one day before thy death." His disciples
asked him, "How is that possible, since we do not know the day
on which we will die?" He replied, "So much the more reason is
there that we should repent every day, lest that day be the last
one before we die." Real teshuva is the dramatic process of looking
at your life as if today was your last chance. Because of this,
real teshuva is excruciatingly hard to do. It is not quick and
easy, and it's not fun at all. It's soul searching that's searing;
its coming naked and clean before yourself and before God and
asking, pleading, begging, for one more chance to do it right.
It's heshbon hanefesh, taking an account of your soul that leaves
you exhausted because you've weighed your own merits and your
own sins and the scale is pretty squarely tipped against you.
True teshuva is realizing that we've made more withdrawals then
deposits into our relationships and our families and our work
and our Judaism and the ledger is not coming out in our favour.
True teshuva is being scared enough to change big enough.
A story is told of Thomas Edison when he was working on the first
"light bulb" and it took a whole team of men 24 straight hours
to put just one together. When Edison was finished with one light
bulb, he gave it to a young boy helper, who nervously carried
it up the stairs. Step by step he cautiously watched his hands,
obviously frightened of dropping such a priceless piece of work.
Well, you've probably guessed what happened; the poor young fellow
dropped the bulb at the top of the stairs. It took the entire
team of men twenty-four more hours to make another bulb. Finally,
tired and ready for a break, Edison was ready to have his bulb
carried up the stairs. He gave it to the same young boy who dropped
the first one.
That's why we come to Kol Nidre: not so much to annul our vows
as to ask for a second chance to carry that bulb, to protect our
cargo better this year. The Yom Kippur service is an exercise
in taking that second chance. The imagery is stark: the gates
are closing. God says, "come in, come in, I'm giving you one more
chance. I'm counting to three. Get in before the gates close."
This year, let's do it before God gets to three.
Shana Tova.
Sermons and Divrei Torah
Additional Resources
Elul: Period of Preparation
Yamim Noraim: Days of Awe
Rosh Hashanah: Introduction
Shofar Symbolism
The Custom of Tashlich
Yom Kippur: Introduction
G'mar Chatima Tova...
