KOL NIDRE 5765 – 2004
Some of you may remember my Kol Nidre sermon from a year ago when I began with
a reference to my father, Max Pohl.
I shared that when I ask Max, “How are you?” his most common response to that question is “I’m here!”
Well, I’m very pleased to tell you, that Max Pohl is “still here.” Not here, in this room, although he was here for Rosh Hashanah. At this moment, I’m assuming he’s in his synagogue in Buffalo, New York.
I was very concerned he might not be “here” this year since last winter Max was diagnosed with cancer. But the treatments have helped and other than the lingering aftereffects from shingles, he is actually feeling pretty well.
Tonight I will begin with a story about my father, Max Pohl.
Then I’ll tell you a little bit about one of the members of our congregation.
Then I’ll share with you a most important lesson, if not the most important lesson, I have learned from one of my friends.
Finally, I will read a story concerning a person I don’t know.
Story Number One –
In the middle of June I returned to my home congregation, Shaarey Zedek, outside of Buffalo to serve as the Scholar-in-Residence for the Annual Rabbi Isaac Klein Memorial Scholar-in-Residence Weekend.
Rabbi Klein was a most renowned rabbi and scholar. He was wonderful on the pulpit and he was extremely learned in both Judaic and secular studies. He was an expert in halacha. His book, The Guide for Jewish Religious Practice is still the definitive reference text for Conservative Jewish ritual practice.
In addition, he earned a Ph.D. in Philosophy from Harvard University. I tell you this only because I want to bring honor to his memory on this night of Kol Nidre.
So I was invited to spend the weekend teaching current members of Shaarey Zedek, which included many people who have known me since childhood.
I spoke on Friday night after a service and dinner. I also spoke during the service on Shabbat morning.
My presentations were all based on the work I’ve done over the years in promoting a knowledge of how Judaism helps provide healing, spiritual, emotional and physical.
The weekend culminated with a presentation on Sunday morning where I attempted
to model a Jewish healing service.
All weekend long, for every presentation, my parents sat in the very first
row.
Their rabbi correctly pointed out that it was probably the first time that they sat in the front row of the synagogue since my Bar Mitzvah.
I was explaining the various prayers for healing which can make up a Jewish service for healing, and now it was time to sing the “Mi-She-bayrach,” once we mentioned the names of people for whom we wanted to pray.
I told those assembled to feel free to mention the names aloud. If they wanted
to say something about that person, they were encouraged, but not obligated
to do so.
A few people started to mention names, and the next thing I know, Max Pohl
raises his hand. When his hand went up, my heart started pounding. My father
is liable to say anything in such a situation.
So, I’m stuck – I call on him and recognize that he wants to say something. He begins, “I’m not a religious man.”
I begin thinking, “Great, my own Dad’s gonna slam everything I’ve done all weekend long, and tell everybody how he doesn’t believe in this stuff.”
So I whispered to my mother, “Tell him just to mention the names of people he wants to pray for, just the name. That’s all he should say.”
My mother starts elbowing my father and says to him in Yiddish, “De numen, de numen - the names, the names,” whereupon my father stands up from his seat in the front row, turns around to everyone, waves, and says, “Hi Everybody, I’m Max Pohl.”
It was a pretty funny moment for me, but I still worried about what he was going to say. He didn’t want to mention a name at that moment. Instead he told us all the following –
“I’m not a religious man. I never believed in God.”
(I begin to pray, someone please stop him.)
He continues, “Yet, every morning when I get up, that’s all I can think about for an hour or so.”
I asked him, “What do you think about?”
He responds – “I can only think about God. I’m not praying or anything, but that’s all I can think about.”
I push him a little and say, “You mean you’re grateful to God.” And he says, “Yes, I’m grateful.”
I respond – “That sounds pretty religious to me. You may not be observant, and you may not be davening in a traditional manner, but for someone who does what you now say you do - that is, in my opinion, a religious man.”
Story Number Two
Dorothy Sager is a member of B’nai Shalom of Olney and she is the mother of Suzanne Newman. Suzanne and Gene are charter members of our congregation.
Dorothy has always been one of the most energetic, talented, vocal, opinionated, intelligent people you will ever want to meet.
She’s an activist and she cares for causes that are important to her, almost as dearly as she cares for the members of her family.
Dorothy’s beloved husband, Arthur, passed away a few years ago.
During the year 5764, Dorothy became ill. After treatments that were risky
to people even much younger than Dorothy Sager, she became severely ill. In
all honesty and frankness, Dorothy was so ill that we thought she might die.
At least that’s what I was told by a professional health care provider
when I was leaving Dorothy’s apartment in Bedford Court last December
24th, following my recitation of the Vidui – the Confessional Prayer
which is recited when death seems imminent.
Not only is Dorothy Sager “still here,” but she’s been
coming to shul regularly. Since then she was able to spend time with another
great-granddaughter, her fourth great-grandchild.
And, Dorothy continues to be active, productive, and creative.
Suzanne handed me this newsletter that contains poems and other articles written by the residents of Bedford Court. That is where Dorothy currently resides.
And so, it is with tremendous admiration and my great honor to read this poem, written by Dorothy Sager. It represents her utmost gratitude for being able to experience the blessing of beginning a new year, this time, most unexpectedly.
POEM
Let me tell you about someone else who’s “still here,” someone I never thought I would be even talking about in this context at this time.
My dear friend, Ken Goldrich, is “still here,” not in this room, but in the hospital in Hackensack, New Jersey.
A few months ago he was diagnosed with a very aggressive, incurable form of cancer.
He’s still hoping for a miracle and struggling just to gain a measure of comfort, along with some quality of life.
He has been ill since May, and now he’s been in the hospital for the last month.
My feelings and emotions about his situation include worry, fear, anxiety, and one other emotion that is extremely appropriate to mention and review on this day.
I feel guilty.
In this case I feel guilty not because I’ve done something wrong, but rather because it just doesn’t feel right to live my life, day after day, while my dear friend Ken is so sick and not able to share the details of his life with me.
He knows that I have this feeling of guilt. I told him, and he told me honestly,
that he’s jealous, and I understand that. Of course he doesn’t
want me to do anything differently. Of course I must enjoy life as much as
possible even though he’s ill.
But I honestly believe it’s not fair. He deserves to be healthy no less than I. There’s no reason why he should be ill and I really shouldn’t.
It certainly can’t be because I’m a better person. I’m not. And it certainly can’t be because he’s an evil person. Far from it.
Of course, I, he, we, all of us in such situations begin to review all the possibilities.
How is it that someone, anyone, should have to suffer through such a devastating disease?
Maybe there’s some reason. Maybe there’s some explanation. But there isn’t any reason or explanation that makes any sense to me.
What I do with my life once I have the disease, that’s a different question. That’s an opportunity for learning and growing. It’s an opportunity most of us wish we didn’t have, but most of the time we don’t get to choose.
My discussion with Ken on this issue led to where they always lead, and that is to an understanding of something important or deep about the Jewish religion.
His sons like to joke that he and I can’t have a discussion that lasts more than two minutes without our getting to the point of talking Torah.
When I thought about the fact that there’s no reason why he should be in the hospital and I should be here, I began to understand the meaning of a prayer that had always perplexed me previously.
Some of you know what I mean when I tell you that the prayer is the blessing recited when we “bench Gomayl.”
To “bench Gomayl” is to first receive an aliyah to the Torah. You ascend, recite the opening blessing, the portion is read and the usual concluding blessing follows it.
To “bench Gomayl” is to then recite an additional blessing, a blessing of thanksgiving after recovery from illness, or after escaping a dangerous situation, even like childbirth, or after returning from a long journey.
The concept of offering a prayer of gratitude and thanksgiving after those types of encounters is not what perplexed me.
There is one term in the prayer, in the bracha, which always perplexed me until my discussion with Ken.
Let me read the bracha in Hebrew and in English and you will learn which term perplexes me.
The person benching gomayl recites:
Bracha
Blessed are You, Lord our God, Ruler of the universe who graciously bestows favor upon the UNDESERVING, even as God has bestowed favor upon me!
The congregation responds:
May God who has been gracious to you continue to favor you with all that is good.
It is the term “undeserving” which always confused me. It didn’t sound right. What do you mean, “undeserving?” I always felt put off by that term and I imagined that so did the person reciting the blessing.
But now I understand - after what my friend Kenny has gone through, after experiencing my own sense of guilt, and after realizing without any doubt that I am no more deserving of better health, of good health, than Ken.
After all that, I realize the blessing is very much on target. The whole point of benching Gomayl is being able to stand up and admit that something good has happened to me, for no other reason, except that it just happened to work out that way. And for that, I want to thank God.
Of course when bad things happen I want to curse God and be angry. And that makes sense, and there’s ample precedent for that. But only if we also thank God for all the goodness in our lives.
That’s why any opportunity to bench Gomayl should not be missed. The truth of life is that what happened to my friend, can happen to me, and vice versa.
When it doesn’t happen exactly that way, I can feel guilty, and realize I’m undeserving. Therefore, all the more reason to be grateful for all those wonderful little moments which fill our days, and which most of us take for granted.
Did you experience something this past year for which you should bench Gomayl?
Did you get a better report on a medical test than you feared?
Did you narrowly escape serious injury in an accident?
Did you give birth?
Did you take a long journey and return home safely?
Were there moments during this past year when life was better to you than you might otherwise have expected, or at least better to you than it was to someone else?
If so, it probably has nothing to do with you, other than you were the beneficiary of good fortune. And, I would guess, according to the principle behind reciting Birkat Ha-Gomayl, you should be grateful for God’s blessing.
Bench gomayl!
Max Pohl has a greater appreciation of God’s blessing this Yom Kippur. That I know.
Dorothy Sager has a greater appreciation of God’s blessing this Yom Kippur. That I imagine.
Ken Goldrich is fighting to gain an even greater appreciation of God’s blessing in life.
But I will tell you what he knows without a doubt, and will know forever – and that is that he has the unswerving love of his wife, children, parents, brother, other relatives, and dear friends.
I pray that a year from now I will be able to tell you that both he and I are “still here.”
The last story I share with you is a story I will read. It was sent to me and
many other rabbis as material to be reviewed and perhaps utilized on the
high holy days.
The name of the story is “The Cab Ride.” A man named Barry Kingsley wrote the story. The incident he describes in this story is true.
It is an example of the types of issues each and every one of us should be thinking about and confronting on this Kol Nidre and throughout Yom Kippur.
STORY
Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living.
When I arrived at 2:30 a.m., the building was dark except for a single light
in a ground floor window. Under these circumstances, many drivers would just
honk once or twice, wait a minute, then drive away.
But, I had seen too many impoverished people who depended on taxis as their
only means of transportation. Unless a situation smelled of danger, I always
went to the door. This passenger might be someone who needs my assistance,
I reasoned to myself.
So I walked to the door and knocked. "Just a minute", answered a
frail, elderly voice.
I could hear something being dragged across the floor.
After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 80's stood before
me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it,
like somebody out of a 1940s movie.
By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had
lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets.
There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters.
In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.
"Would you carry my bag out to the car?" she said. I took the suitcase
to the cab, then returned to assist the woman.
She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb.
She kept thanking me for my kindness.
"It's nothing", I told her. "I just try to treat my passengers
the way I would want my mother treated".
"Oh, you're such a good boy", she said.
When we got in the cab, she gave me an address, then asked, "Could you
drive through downtown?"
"It's not the shortest way," I answered quickly.
"Oh, I don't mind," she said. "I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way
to a hospice".
I looked in the rear-view mirror. Her eyes were glistening.
"I don't have any family left," she continued. "The doctor says
I don't have very long."
I quietly reached over and shut off the meter. "What route would you like
me to take?" I asked.
For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building
where she had once worked as an elevator operator.
We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when
they were newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that
had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl.
Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner
and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.
As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, "I'm
tired. Let's go now."
We drove in silence to the address she had given me.
It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that
passed under a portico.
Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up.
They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must have been
expecting her.
I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door.
The woman was already seated in a wheelchair. "How much do I owe you?" she
asked, reaching into her purse.
"Nothing," I said.
"You have to make a living," she answered.
"
There are other passengers," I responded.
Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me tightly.
"
You gave an old woman a little moment of joy," she said.
"Thank you."
I squeezed her hand, then walked into the dim morning light.
Behind me, a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life.
I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly lost in
thought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk.
What if that woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to
end his shift?
What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away?
On a quick review, I don't think that I have done anything more important in
my life.
We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments.
But great moments often catch us unaware-beautifully wrapped in what others
may consider a small one.
PEOPLE MAY NOT REMEMBER EXACTLY WHAT 'YOU DID, OR WHAT YOU SAID, ~BUT ~ THEY
WILL ALWAYS REMEMBER HOW YOU MADE THEM FEEL.
Life may not be the party we hoped for, but while we are here we might as well
dance. Every morning when I open my eyes, I tell myself that it is special.
Every day, every minute, every breath truly is a gift from God.
Many of you know that I’m very intrigued by the way religious texts are
framed. I point that out almost every Shabbat when we look at the Torah reading.
Let’s review another example of framing and the use of religious texts.
The prayer “Adon Olam” is included in the evening prayers recited at bedside.
The final words of that poem read as follows:
I place my spirit in God’s care/when I wake as when I sleep,
God is with me, I shall not fear, body and spirit in God’s keep!
Then we go to sleep. Our prayers for the day have ended. And, the next morning,
upon waking, the other side of sleep is framed now with these words:
I am grateful to you, living, enduring Ruler, for restoring my soul to me in
compassion. You are faithful beyond measure!
And that is the way a religious person states the much more prosaic and universally
understood phrase, “I’m here.”
Shabbat Shalom and G’mar Hatima Tova – whatever decisions become
sealed for us in the coming year, may they be l’tova – for goodness.
Amen.