From the Bimah: Jewish Lessons for Life

It is the best of times, it is the worst of times. It is the best of times: David Rosemberg’s Bar Mitzvah.  David radiates joy, and that joy fills our congregation. It is the worst of Times.  The Red Sox.  The Red Sox’s utter collapse.  We win games 2 and 3 in historic fashion, and then lose the next three games.  What is that? These two events, the joy of David’s Bar Mitzvah, and the anguish of the Red Sox collapse, have something very important in common, and it is something that we don’t talk about enough: momentum. Momentum is the strength or force that gathers and grows when something is moving in the right direction.

It was 5:30 AM.  Solomon and I were sitting in our usual seats on the boat behind the captain’s chair, watching the shores of Plymouth speed away as we headed towards our favorite fishing spot.  After chatting with the captain for a while, Solomon decided it was time for breakfast.  He walked over to our bags and pulled out a banana. “Is that a banana?!” the captain asked, turning white with what seemed like shock. “Yes,” said Solomon, “this is a banana. Why do you ask?” “Do you need that banana?” “I was going to eat it for breakfast, but...I guess I don’t need the banana.” “Man, I’m sorry, but I can’t let you have a banana on board.” “Seriously?” “Seriously.”

Cancel culture. What two words are more fraught, more charged than that?

Have you ever seen the cartoon of Noah’s ark floating on the water in the distance while two dinosaurs in the foreground look out and say, “Was that TODAY?” Or the one with unicorns standing at the foot of the ark saying to Noah, “We’ll wait for the next one.” My favorite of this genre pictures Noah standing on deck as two holes gush with water. He looks down and says, “Maybe I shouldn’t have brought the termites.”

Talmud from October 9, 2021

For years now, every few months I receive a failing grade as a good citizen.  Every quarter it comes in the mail: the dreaded and terrifying, triggering and retraumatizing Home Energy Report from National Grid.  It compares our energy usage to that of Efficient Neighbors and Average Neighbors. It is never pretty.  There are three possible grades:  Great, represented by a big smiling face; good, represented by a small smiling face; and the dreaded “Using more than average,” which is represented by a sad, frowning face. Shira and I try. We really do.  But every quarter, we get the sad, frowning face.  Not only do we use more energy than Efficient Neighbors, we use more energy than Average Neighbors. That is every quarter since forever.  It came then as a total shocker when, in the most recent report, for the first time ever, we did better--much better--than even our most Efficient Neighbors.  We got a big, smiling yellow face with the notation that we used “42% less gas” than efficient neighbors. I was so proud, I could not wait to bring this National Grid report to share it with you. There is only one problem.  I took one more look at this happy National Grid report and noticed that it covered a period during the heart of the summer when we were not living at home; we were living in the Berkshires on an extended Air B and B.    We did not use less energy. We used no energy, which is why our report was so good. In other words, there was a lovely report, but there was a catch that undoes the lovely report.  Beware of the catch that undoes.

October 2nd, 2021

Imagine a friend or loved one comes to see you with a problem.  They are wrestling with a dilemma. Should I stay where I am at in my current job, or should I take a risk and take a new job? Should I break up with my current boyfriend or girlfriend? Should we be open to moving cities, to starting all over again? Somebody offended me. Should I talk to the person, or do I let it go? They are open to your advice.  They are seeking your wisdom.  Now further imagine that having heard their take on their dilemma, you have an opinion on the merits of what they might do. How we can be most helpful to the person who turns to us? Adam Grant, a professor at Penn, recently posted a teaching  about the difference between what he calls good mentors and great mentors: Good mentors share lessons from their experience. Great mentors help you crystallize lessons from your experience. Good mentors give useful answers. Great mentors help you ask better questions. Good mentors walk you through their path.  Great mentors help you identify your path.

Join Rav Hazzan Aliza Berger for her sermon from Sukkot Day 5

September 25th, 2021

Very often I feel that my hair is not doing anything for me.  It’s just kind of there.  So before Yom Kippur, since I was about to see the entire congregation, I have to confess that in addition to teshuvah, I was thinking about my hair. I shared my dilemma with Shira:  Should I go see my hair stylist, Tami, who works at Dellaria?  Why, she asked.  Because my hair is not doing anything for me, I answered.  I think your hair is fine.  Fine?  Is that all you can say? Married for 36 years?  All you can say is that my hair is fine?  Say more, I said.  OK, she said. Your hair is sparse. Sparse?  What is sparse hair, anyway? I found that very demotivating.  It was the day before Yom Kippur, I had more important things to think about, so I did not see Tami before the day of atonement. However, on the morning after the day of atonement, I was with Tami, who was cutting my sparse hair, we were making pleasant chit chat, and since I have been seeing her for years, I know that Monday is her day off.  I asked her:  what are you going to do this Monday, on your day off? "I am coming in to Dellaria Salon this coming Monday." But Monday is your day off. Why are you coming in? "Because I want to take a class.  They are having a hair expert teach a class on how to color hair.  And I want to learn." Wait a minute, I said.  How long have you been a professional hair stylist? "Over 30 years." And in those 30 plus years, how many people’s hair have you colored? "Thousands.  Too many to count." So you already know how to color hair. "Yes, but I could always learn how to color hair better."

In my synagogue growing up, we had a vibrant tradition of journaling and reflection during services.  On the high holidays, they would assemble four tents in the four corners of the sanctuary and during services, it was common for community members to duck into a tent for a moment of quiet meditation or to jot down some ideas in a journal.  I always thought that writing was an integral part of Jewish practice. When I got to college, I was so lonely.  I missed home and missed the Judaism I had grown up with.  When I spoke to my rabbi, she recommended that I try some of the synagogues off-campus.  She thought multi-generational community might be a balm to my soul.  So I got up my courage, found the nearest conservative synagogue, and headed there for shabbat morning services. I was nervous. Uncomfortable. So worried about traffic that I left ridiculously early and got there with nearly a half an hour to spare before services.  Those were the days before we had to have security, so I wandered into the sanctuary and found a seat near the back.  I pulled out my journal and started writing a letter to God about how lonely I was, asking God to help me make this a good community, to help me feel at home. Just then, a group of women walked up to me.  “What do you think you’re doing?!  We don’t write on shabbos!  And in the sanctuary of all places?!  How dare you!” I was mortified. Alienated. Heart-broken.  I managed to blurt out some hasty apology.  The ladies started asking me questions about who I was and how I got there.  I answered, trying to hold it together, and waited for services to start.  As soon as they did, I fled to my car and cried all the way home.

September 18, 2021.

When I turned 60 this past summer, I developed an intense fascination with my grandfather, my mother’s father, Will Bloom. It is not just that I am named for him. He was Will, I am Wes.  We are both Yechiel Shneyer. The connection is deeper.  My grandfather was, in the last season of his life, a traveling salesman.  He would drive hundreds of miles a week making sales calls.  He was Willy Loman. My mother could never watch Death of a Salesman because the pathos hit too close to home. One day, he died on the road, in a single car accident, suddenly, tragically, and in circumstances that were never explained.  Did he fall asleep at the wheel?  Did he intend to take his own life? We never knew.  One day, out of the blue, my mother gets the call saying that her 60 year old father had died on the road.  Her loss was shattering and unimaginable.  And she decided to respond by bringing a child into the world to name after her father, that would turn out to be me. It was an implausible choice, to bring another child into the world.  My parents already had five children, one bathroom, and no money.  The last thing they needed was another mouth to feed. But my mother was determined to name a child after her father. Will Bloom’s death, and my life, are intertwined.  If he had not died the way he had died, I would never have been born.

How are we to think about this day, the 20-year anniversary of 9/11?  This is a day of double memory, double mourning, double pathos. We remember the lives that were lost on that terrible day, and what that meant to the families who lost them, the spouses who lost spouses, the parents who lost children, the children who lost parents, the brothers and sisters who lost brothers and sisters.  In his elegy You’re Missing, Bruce Springsteen gives voice to this pathos. Pictures on the nightstand, TV's on in the den Your house is waiting, your house is waiting For you to walk in, for you to walk in But you're missing, you're missing You're missing, when I shut out the lights You're missing, when I close my eyes You're missing, when I see the sun rise You're missing That trauma, that loss, never goes away.