Shir Shalom – Gainesville
Temple Shir Shalom: Gainesville
Rabbi Cy Stanway
When I became an American many years ago, someone told me that it is now my duty to pay attention to baseball. Taking their admonition to heart, I did what I always do when I need to expose myself to something: I bought a couple of books! Now, granted they not on the majesty of the game but rather on the oftentimes strange personalities and strange events that can turn a game on way or the other. And, as I end up doing with so many things, I find a Jewish lesson.
You probably know about Sandy Koufax and his refusal to play on Yom Kippur 52 years ago. If you don’t know the story – and, by the way, I didn’t know all the details – here they are.
In 1965, Sandy Koufax was a pitcher on the Los Angeles Dodgers who refused to play against the Minnesota Twins on Yom Kippur. This was a momentous event for the American Jewish community as one of the greatest baseball players ever chose his Judaism over the World Series. Don Drysdale substituted for him as the pitcher and, of course, lost the game. He is reported to have said after the lost, “I bet you all wish I was Jewish, too!”
The Dodgers ended up winning the championship in seven games but it was Koufax’s decision on Game 1 that has remained the most memorable iconic sports moment for our community.
So momentous, in fact, that the very day after this apparent catastrophe, a local rabbi named Moshe Feller went to the hotel Koufax was staying at and, if accounts are to be believed, the front desk clerk tried to size up this strange guest. Like everyone, the clerk, surely knew that Koufax had not pitched Game 1 because it fell on Yom Kippur and he must have figured this man was the pitcher’s rabbi. He gave him the phone number to Koufax’s room. (Clearly, people were a lot more trusting, by the way.)
Rabbi Feller called him and, yes, Koufax answered. The rabbi told him what he had done was remarkable, putting Judaism before his career, and that, as a result, more people had not gone to work and more children had not gone to school to observe the holiday. He then said he wanted to present Koufax with a pair of tefillin and a tallit.
Koufax invited the rabbi up to his room.
According to the rabbi of the story who tells this story, he told Koufax he was proud of him for “the greatest act of dedication to our Jewish values that had even been done publicly” and presented him with the tefillin, which he said Koufax took out of their velvet box and handled reverently.
This is an enduring story if it’s true. It speaks to the powerful impact Koufax’s decision had on American Jews, both then and now decades later. The rabbi of the story correctly concludes, “It’s something that’s engraved on every Jew’s mind. More Jews know Sandy Koufax than Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.
And when I thought about I saw that it is a teaching moment for us, with an interesting connection to our Yom Kippur liturgy. Because while there is a mochlokes, a dispute, as to whether Koufax went to shul that day or stayed in his hotel room, he reminded us of the importance our tradition makes of standing up and doing the right thing, by seizing the moment, but in his case making a statement by refusing to do something– which was his decision not to play baseball. He taught us at times we can make a Kiddush Hashem- a sanctification of God’s name by not doing something–and he never sought fanfare for it.
It is unlikely, but certainly possible, that our Yom Kippur decisions will decide anything like the World Series. No. Our Yom Kippur decisions will affect so much more. We might not get famous for these decisions. We might not even be appreciated. But we will be equal with the angels.
The decisions we commit to today are about the way we choose to live our lives and theme of today is forgiveness. and repentance. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Our literature is filled with it. Today you will hear variations of the phrase.
“You must not take vengeance upon the children of your people. You shall love your neighbor as you love yourself. I am Adonai.”
In the Torah, the most obvious example of this is the Joseph story who, after being thrown into a pit by his brothers leading up to the strange coincidence of his brothers appearing before him twenty years after being elevated to the position of Prime Minister of Egypt, says to them, “Don’t be afraid. For, do I stand in God’s place?” In his journey that took him to and from the pit to the throne, his eyes and heart opened to the truth of what he had and what had been done to him. His moment of forgiveness and repentance arrived in the form of his brothers standing before an unrecognized Joseph.
Tonight, we begin the journey to become like Joseph. And, let’s be honest, it is the most difficult journey we will ever undertake. Every one of us has experienced being hurt. Personally, I joke about it – but it is more gallows humor than anything else – that rabbis like me are the target of more criticism for what we say said or didn’t say at any given moment. It takes something of a thick skin knowing that my name is uttered at so many dinnertime conversations before, during and after any public appearance.
I believe it is pretty common for all of us to keep not-too- deeply-tucked into our hearts the malicious slander, the public humiliations, or the betrayal by those we trusted and in whom we kept confidence. And when we recall those thing especially on Yom Kippur when the liturgy tells us to bring them to mind to offer forgiveness – we repress that primal urge and are bitter with resentment. After all, we think, ‘the notion may be praiseworthy but the guy who wrote this never felt the same hurt that I still feel
Understandable feeling. After all, we are only human. I believe that Yom Kippur was invented precisely to address this primal part of our souls: the part that wants to nurture and caress our resentments. On this protection of our hurt from yesterday or from our childhood, we are not alone. No matter how great the person, our resentment becomes our pet and is lovingly fed with more hate and more pain.
I think of Michelangelo. In everything he saw, he saw beauty. His hands carved and painted and etched the most beautiful pieces of art which still inspire awe. Not bad for someone who died in 1564!
And yet, despite the profoundly beautiful ceiling of the Sistine Chapel or the majestic David, Michelangelo was unable to forgive even the slightest criticism of his work.
When one of his sponsors looked at his sculpture of David, he said, “‘It’s coming along wonderfully. But do you know what? The nose is too thick.” Michelangelo held on to his festering hate for the rest of his life.
And speaking of hate, have you ever read Dante’s ‘Inferno.’ It is revenge fantasy of the highest order. Although he is considered a great artist and even a great man, he spent 12 years writing the volume with the protagonist bearing his name and relished the punishment inflicted on his enemies. 14,233 lines of revenge. By the way, that is 3 ½ lines of revenge fantasy every single day for 12 years!
It is against this anger and hatred that the stories of Joseph and Moses stand in their forgiveness. And it is among those greats that Yom Kippur is commanding us to stand. When we hear those stories of the great acts of forgiveness we thrill with admiration. I am sure everyone here admires this quality of letting go of the hate. The problem is that most of us accept it in theory but not in practice.
We are animals, after all. And, like all animals, when we are hurt we tend to claw back. We want revenge, a la Dante. We hold on to our hurt and hate a la Michelangelo. We want the other to get their comeuppance and dream of that glorious day. We think, how delicious is it to watch the one who besmirched us get publicly humiliated?
When I lived in New Jersey, there was a scandal that made national news when many in the ultra Orthodox Hassidic community were arrested for everything from fraudulent checks to brokering kidneys. Too many people were absolutely giddy when other Jews were arrested for these immoral acts, especially since these Orthodox Jews who despise any form of contemporary liberal Judaism – were arrested for welfare fraud to the tune of millions of dollars.
And, therein, lies the rub. We love to watch our oppressor squirm. Yet, when we do, we become Michelangelo and not Joseph.
It is a times like this that I want to teach you two simple words in Hebrew:
Yitamu Hataim
The translators take the word chataim to mean ‘sinners’ – so the verse says, ‘May sinners be removed from the earth.’ It is a reasonable translation. Every Jewish and Christian translation includes these very words. But the Jewish Bible is not simply what the Jewish Bible says it is. It is what our Sages teach us the Bible says. And when such a verse, our Sages knew how easily abused it could be. They saw it as an invitation for those in power to rid the world of those they thought were sinners. We see those literal interpretations today: Moslem extremists bomb rock concerts because everyone but them is a sinner. Right wing and left wing extremists see all the faults of the world coming from the Jews and openly advocate violence toward us.
Would that I had the power and wealth that they think I have! It doesn’t matter who you are: if you are different, you are a sinner and the righteous feel the divine impulse to rid the world of the sinner.
But the rabbis did not look at this verse the same way. In a very famous story in the Talmud, there is remarkable woman named Bruriah, who, as the story goes, was with her husband Rabbi Meir. The Talmud says this, “Meir was being abused by some vagrants and he prayed for their destruction. Bruriah quoted this Psalm, noting that the verse does not mean “let sinners cease out of the earth,” but rather should be understood as “let sins cease out of the earth”. Once the sinning ends, there will no longer be any wicked people, for they will return to God. Rabbi Meir accepted his wife’s advice and instead prayed for his enemies to repent. God accepted his prayers and they returned from their evil ways.”- By the way, Rabbi Meir’s wife’s name – Bruriah – comes from the Hebrew root meaning ‘clarity.’ Bruriah indeed gave us clarity to guide us away from being the destructive hand of God abolishing all the sinners from the face of the earth to helping us strive to abolish ‘sin’ from the face of the earth. Hers was a message of healing. It was not a call for destruction.
That is the place we need to get to. It is a huge journey. It is a big leap. When we hate the sinner and the sinner seeks to ask forgiveness, we will not listen. We don’t care what he has to say. When we hate the sinner we see no good in her. When we hate the person, we lose the chance to redeem him and ourselves. We are like Shammai, that First Century rabbinic giant of the Talmud who could not tolerate anything but a strict interpretation of Jewish law. We pay no attention to his constant antagonist, the great Rabbi Hillel who saw the good and the possible in every single person – from pagan to Jew.
So how do we get to that point?
First of all, we need to recognize that when we act like biblical literalists we admit to ourselves who seek to destroy the sinner and that we are acting like rod of God. Our first commandment on this holy day, then, is to dismiss that impulse and to listen and take to heart the other’s sincere repentance. And if they don’t offer repentance, we grant it to them anyway. Like Rabbi Meir, we pray that they turn away from their sin. When we do that, we end up turning away from our sin; especially the great sin of self- righteousness and arrogance that is the fuel of our souls.
Second, we need to understand that we too have committed the same acts and may not even have been aware of them. Others are waiting for our repentance just as we are waiting for theirs. If we can see ourselves as frain and sinning people, then surely we can see the same thing in another person. It is then that this day of Atonement comes to be something real and not just a day to come to temple. It becomes the greatest manifestation of what it means to be a Jew striving for holiness.
There is no question that someone, somewhere sees us as a sinner. That is why every single day of our lives is Yom Kippur – a day to atone, a day to forgive, a day to say, ‘I am truly sorry.’ A day to start again.
So now, meet Larry Trapp whose original name was Larry von Trapp. Yes, a von Trapp of the famous ‘Sound of Music’ family. He lived in Lincoln, Nebraska and hated everyone. His apartment was filled with Nazi flags, pictures of Hitler and hate literature and he oozed hatred of blacks, Jews, gays – everyone not like him. He was the ultimate biblical literalist. And when a new cantor came to town and was featured in the newspaper, Trapp immediately called him with a death threat. What did the cantor do? He brought some Kentucky Fried Chicken to his home! That’s right. He went to his apartment and offered to feed him. At first, he was rebuffed. But the cantor persisted. Long story short, a remarkable friendship blossomed that led to Trapp’s conversion to Judaism. But not only did he convert to Judaism, his life took on new meaning, purpose and direction. Sadly, he died at age 42, and in keeping with his new Jewish identity, he was buried in the Jewish cemetery and was mourned by his Nebraska congregation.
Trapp embodied repentance and the cantor embodied forgiveness. As the Talmud says: “A single moment of repentance and good deeds in this world is greater than all of the World to Come.”
We all have reason to be hurt. And we all have caused hurt. But Yom Kippur challenges us to that single moment of repentance, that single moment of forgiveness. True, it may not be as earth-shaking as a losing a World Series game and we probably won’t make any headlines. But, remember, the term ‘World Series’ does not appear in the prayerbook. The term ‘World to Come’ does, though. And through our forgiveness and tzedakah toward another, we create a new world – a world to come. It is Jewish chemistry. We change what we are and what we have done into something completely new. We embrace a new name, ‘Oseh Shanna’ – the one who changed.
It is the time of change. It is time that we change. There is enough pain and unhappiness in the world already.
Our hatred and anger and hurt – while often understandable – does not create the World to Come. It creates more pain and we are the ones often carrying it around with us. Why should we add to the world’s pain?
Yom Kippur is a time when we stop tearing ourselves away from each other. It is a time to cover up – to Kippur – what has happened and to stop feeding our distance from each other by forgiving and asking forgiveness. It is then, our Sages tell us, that we may find some peace and begin the year as a Shanna Tova – a year of great and profound change. Each of us has enough sorrow. We ought to strive to remove some of it.
In his own way, Sandy Koufax changed the world in his own little way, I suppose. But today, decades later, some people are still angry at him for not playing baseball. These are the same kinds of people who still despise Bill Buckner who let a ball pass through his feet in a World Series game. And the list goes on.
But baseball is just a game. The short time on earth each of us has is not. And, to continue the baseball theme, Yom Kippur is not about hitting a home run and getting the cheer of the crowd. It is about sliding into home and making it back to where we started. Sometimes hurt, sometimes filled with the dust of life but making a circle where we are the people we started out being: pure, innocent, and reaching for holiness.
Shanna Tova.
