Rosh Hashanah Commentary - The Power of Presence (plus a poem!)
Rosh Hashanah is always an opportunity to look forward. As we embark on a new year, drawing on the Jewish wisdom that has us mark time and its passing, we think about what is before us. By that I mean, what is in front of us. You’d think the words “before us” would relate to the past, to yesterday, to what came before. But we use it to mean the future. As we look forward, as in “looking forward to seeing you” or “looking forward to the year ahead,” we are future-focused. But the word “before” reminds us of the tricky nature of time: what is past is always present. Our past informs and can even, if we let it, determine our future. And as we look forward, or look back, we also need to remain mindful of the moment we are in.
The tricky nature of time is why the previous year hangs like a spectre in our imaginings of the year to come. This year we have faced horrific wild fires, intensifying climate crises, a groundswell of Black Lives Matter Activism, and a global pandemic. It would be impossible to consider, to look forward to, the year to come and not wonder about how all this will continue to shape our lives. Of course it will. We are not leaving the year or the past behind. We are bringing it with us into the year that is dawning.
The tricky nature of time is also why we look to tradition to inform how we may approach the present and the future. We draw on sacred stories and texts, come together to mark this day as Jews have done for centuries. We let the wisdom of our forebears guide as we carve out a future in times that would have been unrecognizable to those forebears. The past is present, as we are future focused.
The story that informs the Rosh Hashanah commentary this year is the Akedah, the story of the binding of Isaac. Abraham, the father or founder of our people according to the Hebrew bible, is told by God to sacrifice his son Isaac as a sign of his devotion. In that first instance when God calls Abraham, Abraham answers: “Hineni” — “Here I am.” Abraham takes Isaac up the mountain where the sacrifice is to take place. He binds him to the altar. He picks up his knife. And then the “angel of the Lord” calls “Abraham! Abraham!” To which he, once again, answers: “Hineni. Here I am” The angel tells Abraham to stay his hand. Abraham sees a ram in the thicket and sacrifices that creature in place of his son. And Abraham is told that as a reward for his devotion his descendants, us, will be as numerous as the stars in the heaven and the sand on the seashore.
There is much to say about this story and, indeed, if you check out the Akedah project online there are 30 interpretations right there. I offer you mine: The repetition of the word “Hineni” is important. When Abraham is called, when he is tasked with the unimaginable, he answers by affirming his presence.
I believe presence is what he offers his son as well. They journey up the mountain alone, having left their servants at the bottom to wait. Three days pass. They spend time alone, together; Abraham unable to offer reassurance to his son. Just able to offer his presence.
To what and to whom will we offer that kind of devoted presence this year? We are being called, not from heaven but by the circumstances of our world on fire, to think about how we face an uncertain future. We cannot offer each other reassurances. We can offer each other presence. Hineni. I am here.
This story as part of Rosh Hashanah liturgy reminds us to be present in our own reflections as we take account of our own souls and lives in the pursuit of our own goodness. It reminds us that the gift of presence we offer our loved ones and our community is the most precious gift of all. In times of distress, or loneliness, or pain, what better solace is there than to feel someone is there for us? What more important act, than to say and demonstrate to those in our lives: “I am here.” Most read the Akedah as a call to faith. But I read it as a call to presence: the devotion to self and community that comes out of active, willing, committed, and purposeful presence.
We live in an age where there is a lot of talk of mindfulness, of living in the present moment. And yet we simultaneously live with the expectations of being able to multitask, of being constantly accessible via our various devices, and of being able to manage our many roles seamlessly. I am not saying I’m nostalgic for a time when we were expected to have one role only – men as breadwinners, women as homemakers – but I do think that life used to move at a slower pace, which allowed us to be more mindful, more present, and more available for one another. Think of the times over the past year when someone we know and care about was sick, was sad, was struggling. Were we able to be fully there for them? Or were we too busy?
If we find we are too busy to fulfill our priorities, to offer presence, we are not alone. We are as a society over-worked, over-committed, and over-whelmed. Those devices that I mentioned that are meant to make our lives easier, often make us feel that we can never take a break. They are there to enable us to be “connected,” and yet I think there has never been a time in history when people feel less connected to their families and communities than we do today.
Those who have been hanging around with Secular Synagogue know we’ve been speaking for a while about how to manage our devices so they don’t manage us. Whether through Tiffany Shlain’s advice in her book 24/6 to take a digital Shabbat each week, or Cal Newport’s suggestion in Digital Minimalism to do a full digital detox and then focus with intentionality and purpose on how we realign our tech with our values, we as a digital community have been talking a lot about unplugging. If that seems ironic to you, it shouldn’t. We are all about meaningful connection, a connection that goes beyond Facebook likes and Instagram follows, but a genuine solidarity and love borne out of connected community. Our devices are the form but never the content of that connection; they provide the how but they are not the what.
In a sense, as we at Secular Synagogue login to the Facebook group or the zoom session, we are saying to each other: Hineni. I am here for you. I want to hear about your struggles and losses, your victories and successes. I want to hear about your families and working lives. I care and I know you care about each other too. The fact that Rosh Hashanah cards have been sent by some of you to, in some cases, across 3 continents, is astonishing to me. This would not be possible in a world without digital technology. This very moment would not be. And yet we also need to remember that the devices can get in the way of us offering presence to our loved ones. When I’m with my kids, I want to say in my words and actions: I am here. And really be there. The story of the Akedah is a reminder that presence is one of the most meaningful things we can offer.
Another central theme of the Akedah story is sacrifice. It is shocking that Abraham is willing to kill his son. Jews have wrestled with it for centuries: how could he? Would it be worth it if I had to make the same choice? When we think about parental sacrifice, we usually imagine it is the parent making the sacrifices — working hard, doing the Sisyphean tasks like laundry and dishes, limiting our own freedom and sometimes fun for the well-being of our kids. In this story, it is the child to be sacrificed and on the surface it seems unfathomable.
However, we are living in a time when all of us, collectively, seem to be willing to sacrifice our children, the world’s children, through our political gridlock and our collective denial and unwillingness to meaningfully tackle climate change.
When I read the story of the binding of Isaac this year, I identified more with Abraham than I ever have: I feel like I am in that waiting place. Sitting with my children on the precipice of a very uncertain future, unable to offer reassurances. All I can offer is my presence: Hineni, I am here.
Just as Abraham hears the direction to kill his son and offers no resistance, we as a global community are behaving as though the sacrificing of our kids futures is inevitable. It isn’t. But we, especially those of us with relative privilege, are not really used to making significant sacrifices. We have lived lives of relative comfort. So the idea of making these sacrifices: changing the way we eat, travel, make and spend money, the kinds of homes we can live in, the kinds of conveniences we can rely on to make those Sisyphean tasks more manageable, all of that seems impossible to shift.
Until Covid. Obviously Covid has been devastating. But if it has done something for us, it has given us a big shove from selfishness to sacrifice. No, not everyone. But this is the first time in my life that there has been a global shift in business as usual on this scale. To save lives, most of us made great sacrifices. And I believe it has served as training for the sacrifices before us.
As we think about how to use the wisdom of our forebears, the stories in our tradition, to make meaning, one way is to rewrite, and reinterpret. Although it feels vulnerable, this is a moment that calls for the connection that comes from vulnerability. So I offer you a poem, Hineni, designed to draw together the themes of presence and sacrifice:
Hineni
I am here
Will always be here
Even when no longer needed
Hoping you’ve heeded the words I offer
Guesses at half-answered questions, my imperfect truths
My imaginings of what you’ll require and desire
As you go out into the world
The life before you, unfurled
Your formidable choices, your small but resolute voices
Attentive, ready, awake
Hineni
I am here
I was here for night feedings
Knowing that being here is a constant call
To action, a wake up call, a shofar blast
That’s never in the past
As I sleep, I am still perched on the edge
Can be lurched awake at the slightest sound
Trying to ground my thoughts in the present
While dreaming and hoping
That you will be ok
My babies
Hineni
I am here
With unsure parental advice
Willing to make any sacrifice
Worried about the world
The life before you, unfurled
Wild fires, floods, blood in the streets
Everywhere, illness. No time for simplicity,
Stillness
Our future at risk
So much you’ll have to fix
When we were the ones who broke it
My mind is future forward
Your happiness my focus
Hineni
I am here
No vision to stay my hand
Against the destruction
Of all we’ve planned
Doing all we can
Dialoguing across difference
Protests and pickets
Because you will not be the ram in the thicket
You are my whole hope
Deserving of a good life
And breath and, one day,
A good death
I can’t offer you assurances
As we weather occurrence after occurrence
Of crisis
Stasis
So much waste
But I see you and I offer you attention
And presence
And the resonance
Of these ancient and sacred words:
Hineni
I started by speaking about the trickiness of time; how the presence informs the past, how the idea of what comes before and what is before us are in tension. During the month of Elul I have been honoured to be with this community as we do some reflecting on the past, the present, and the future. The point has been to reflect on where we’ve been, where we are, and where we want to go, so that we can draw on the wisdom of the past to inform our direction moving forward. It is also to be present. To remain mindful that every single day is a gift. And the biggest gift we can offer those we love is meaningful presence. To say, again, in words and actions: whatever has come before, and whatever is before us, I am here with you now. Hineni.