Rabbi Sernovitz's 2009/5770 Rosh Hashanah Sermon

Confronting Fear and Vulnerability
Children love him but he is far from loveable. In fact, his worst nightmare is of children hugging and kissing him. “He woke up in a daze, babbling like a baby: “It was only a bad dream, a horrible dream!” He is scared of mirrors and is physically so appalling that he frightens even Thunder and Lightning. “Wherever he went, every living creature fled. How it tickled him to be so repulsive.”  When he met his true love, they had a fairytale ending as, “the two lived happily ever after, scaring the socks off of all who fell afoul of them.”

I am referring to none other than Shrek, the loveable ogre created by the late cartoonist William Steig, best known for his 73 year career as a cartoonist with the New Yorker and made famous by Steven Spielberg’s production company DreamWorks when they brought Shrek to the big screen in 2001. The movie was so popular that it grossed over 267 million dollars. Steig recommended to the producers to give the cartoon Shrek a Jewish mother who worried about him. Interestingly enough, the recommendation was rejected. Steig still loved the movie, commenting that, “It’s vulgar. It’s disgusting-and I loved it.”

Last year, it was my distinct pleasure of attending an exhibit at the Jewish Museum in New York entitled, “From the New Yorker to Shrek: The art of William Steig.”  Born in Brooklyn in 1907 to Eastern European Jewish immigrants, Steig was the third of four children. His father Joseph had arrived in the United States from Lemberg and soon after secured passage for his wife Laura and their first son Irwin.  Joseph brought with him to America, along with others who immigrated during the early twentieth century, a tradition of political and labor activism. Although he was raised in an observant Jewish household, Joseph had become an atheist as a young man and joined the socialist party while still in the Old Country. After his arrival in New York, the Steig family was a big part of Yiddish culture in New York and supported socialist causes, such as worker’s rights.

As a result of this environment, it was not surprising that early on William identified with the underdog and the downtrodden. He was a keen observer of society and much of his work focused on connecting with and describing the human condition. His success as a cartoonist and author was largely due to his ability to effectively illustrate for people what they themselves were thinking and feeling and experiencing, whether or not they would admit it to others. His breakthrough was during the Stock Market crash of 1929. Steig was a creative and talented 22 years old, and in order to help out his family, he went out to sell his drawings. Fortunately for William, editors at magazines were looking for humor, especially during the Great Depression and the editors at the New Yorker loved his work.  “He tapped into a wide open market for thoughtful drawings fueled by anxiety.”

Anxiety, fear and vulnerability leads us to Shrek, originally published in 1990.  Even though this was a late work for Steig as he didn’t begin writing children’s books until after he reached sixty, his work has made a lasting impact on the world of children’s literature. For those of you unfamiliar with Shrek, the story is about two monsters that passionately fall for one another. The story intentionally defies the fairytale notion that love is only for the young and beautiful.  As Shrek and the ugly Princess court one another, Steig describes the scene, “Shrek snapped at her nose. She nipped at his ear. They clawed their way into each other’s arms. Like fire and smoke, these two belonged together.” 

What most people don’t know is that the word Shrek is a Yiddish word meaning terror or fear. For those Yiddish enthusiasts, the word isn’t found in Leo Rosten’s 1971 Joys of Yiddish, or any of its sequels and is rarely mentioned in other Yiddish-English dictionaries. The word comes from the German and is most frequently used as an adjective, Shreklekh, as in Shreklekh zach (a terrible thing) or shreklekh imgick (something horrible). In essence, Shrek is about confronting fear face to face and coming up on top.  And this was Steig’s genius in creating Shrek.

Aaron Lansky, the founder and president of the National Yiddish Book Center in Amherst, Massachusetts, comments that, “Steig deliberately made the word playful while giving Shrek his Jewish quality as “the outsider that everyone fears. The only thing that scares Shrek is a hall of mirrors where is appalled to see hundreds of hideous creatures staring at him. Then he discovers, ‘They’re all me!’ and he’s ‘full of rabid self esteem, happier than ever to be exactly what he was.” Shrek looks his greatest fear in the face, himself, and is liberated.

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 Unfortunately, many of us, in order to make it through each day, we stay away from mirrors and suppress our emotions and our fears. God forbid we admit our fears and anxieties to ourselves, let alone others, including the ones closest to us.

Imagine with me for a moment being a kid once again, standing in front of the Hall of Mirrors, seeing yourself up close, multiplied a hundred times. I remember as a kid loving the Hall of Mirrors. I would move from side to side, up and down, making funny faces and watching what would happen in the reflection in front of me. It was a fun and thrilling experience. As kids, we are still getting to know ourselves and are fascinated by images, especially ones of ourselves.  But, as adults, looking in the mirror is an entirely different experience. No doubt it is a difficult, and sometimes painful, experience. It is interesting that Shrek, a gruesome and fearful monster that has the ability to frighten everything that stands in its path is afraid of one thing, himself.

And of course, for a rabbi, Shrek provides us with wonderful symbolism for most sacred of days in the Jewish calendar. For the regular synagogue goers and those who only come twice a year, there is significance and power in coming together as a community to herald in the Jewish New Year. But unfortunately, for some, the High Holy Day season is a hollow ritual that we do because it has been done for generations. But what if we paused for a moment to consider the value of actively engaging in what the High Holy Days are all about? Imagine with me for a moment what that could be like. Instead of just coming together to see people we might not have seen since last Rosh Hashanah, in which I would agree there is much value, along with how they look and what they are wearing, which I would also admit I enjoy to a certain extent, we could take the time to look inside and admit to ourselves that there are things we fear and are anxious about. And, even more so, we don’t have to be alone as we confront the challenges that life throws us. We all have fears and vulnerabilities and by admitting them, we can move forward. Judaism can help provide us with the tools for confronting the reality and humanity of our lives, if we only allow its beauty to seep into our souls.

Rabbi David Ellenson, the president of Hebrew Union College, our movement’s seminary, said to us just before we were about to become rabbis, “When you go out into the world to make a difference in the Jewish Community, you will be successful if you do two things; comfort those who need to be comforted and irritate those who need to be irritated. That being said, let’s be honest with one another. I’ll begin to get the ball rolling.

It goes without saying that the last year is one that I am very much looking forward to putting behind me. It started off really well, with the birth of my son Sam. Besides finding a soulmate that I could spend the rest of my life with and a career that I was passionate about and could go home at night and feel like I made a difference, having a child was the single proudest moment of my life. As I share with our B’nei Mitzvah families during our final meeting together before the big day, the first time I held my son in my arms was the most powerful moment of my life. Initially, I was speechless. It was for me, as the Jewish philosopher Martin Buber explained it an I-Thou moment. I felt as close to God as anyone could possibly feel, and when the moment ended, tears just flowed down my cheeks.

But, as many of you know, the genuine joy that I had experienced turned sour when we began experiencing difficulties with Sam’s feeding and growth. The feeling of helplessness and vulnerability that I experienced is difficult to explain. I struggled with the fact that I, along with my wife, couldn’t do the most basic of things in this world; give our child the sustenance that he needed to thrive. And, then, in January, Sam was diagnosed with Familial Dysautonomia, also known as FD. David Brenner, executive director of the Dysautonomia Foundation, stated in the August 28th edition of the Forward, “FD is the most Jewish of the Jewish genetic diseases.” He explained that one in 27 Ashkenazic Jews are carriers of the recessive gene, similar to the carrier rate for Tay-Sachs, the more well known Jewish genetic disease. Tay-Sachs and other Jewish genetic diseases, however, have a higher rate of non-Jewish carriers than FD. Dr. Felicia Axelrod, the director of the Dysautonomia Center at NYU Medical Center added that she knew of only a single case of FD in which even one of the two parents was not of Ashkenazic Jewish ancestry.

How was I to make sense of all of this? Of course, my initial reaction is why did this have to happen to us? But, as a rabbi, I am asked this on a regular basis and my response usually is that asking the “why” questions don’t really help, unless we enjoy the intellectual exercise. We have to ask the “when” questions such as now that all of this has happened, how do I respond? It is difficult enough being a parent and dealing with the everyday regular kid stuff, let alone a child who needs additional support. Even more so, how was I able to cope on a daily basis, trying to balance the needs of my family with the demands of a busy and at times overwhelming nature of serving and meeting the needs of our large congregation? Why was I finding this so difficult when it seemed so easy for other dads? Who could I confide in to share these fears and anxieties? Even more so, who could I feel comfortable enough to talk to about the fact that I questioned my abilities to be a good father, a good husband, and one who was able to balance my personal and professional life? I know this was something that we discussed over and over again in rabbinic school but also something that one really couldn’t grasp until one was in the trenches. 

And, the question that many of us ask from time to time certainly popped into my head, especially as a rabbi:  Was I being tested? Is this how God knows if we are worthy of serving the Jewish people? Was my faith in God and in myself strong enough to prove that I could handle it and get through whatever would come my way? I kept hearing over and over again that God doesn’t give us any more than we can handle. Well, to be honest, I wasn’t so sure. Lately, I have been feeling like Rabbi David Hartman, director of the Hartman Institute in Jerusalem, when he said this past summer, “While I believe in God, I am not so sure I trust him.”

Then, as if I didn’t think it could get much worse, two months later, in March, my mother died at 62 years old after suffering for 10 years with COPD and Emphysema. My mother had always been my biggest supporter, my cheerleader, the one I could always count on to give me that extra push, a kind word, that I love you which helped me to accomplish any task and overcome any challenge that I might have to deal with. She was always quick with a smile, a hug or a kiss, and always had a kind word to say about everyone.

Talk about fear, anxiety, and vulnerability. So much was happening so fast. What was I to do? How was I to respond and make meaning out of all this?  

Let me stop for a moment. I could go on but I want to shift and redirect our conversation and ask each of you a serious and potentially life changing and defining question. It is only “potentially” life changing if you actually engage in the process and think about the question. The High Holy Day season is by definition a time of reflection and introspection into our lives. How many of you have looked inside, truly looked inside yourselves and have begun a real accounting of the soul, entering into if you will Shrek’s Hall of Mirrors, confronting yourself, face to face? I am not only speaking about your actions alone, but about your fear and anxieties. What makes you afraid and vulnerable? How many of you shield yourselves from your fears, suppressing them deep inside, never allowing them to see the light of day? And, how many of you, in this painstaking process, isolate those who want to help you the most? How many people have you pushed away, how many relationships placed on the back burner or even out of your life because you refuse to let anyone know what you are dealing with and how you are feeling? And, how many of you feel alone even though there are many people who surround you on a daily basis? You can certainly disregard these questions and continue to live your life in the same way you always have done. But, if you choose to opt out of this process, where will it leave you? And, more importantly, how long will it take for your fears and anxieties to get the best of you, to paralyze you from living your life to its full potential? Please, feel free to opt out but know that there are consequences to every choice that you make.

The knowledge that Judaism forces us to confront our inner selves and to overcome our fears may seem to be a liberating and meaningful concept, but in reality it is a scary process that many modern day Jews pass on because it is indeed more than they think they can handle or want to subject themselves to. I fully admit that facing our fears is daunting and it is easier to avoid the process altogether. However, we all face difficult circumstances and how we respond defines who we are and what we are to become.  Of course we are scared to confront our own humanity. We are afraid to look inside, to be vulnerable because we aren’t sure what we might find. Or, even worse, we don’t want to look because we know already what is lurking beneath the surface.  This is what fear and vulnerability is all about. However, like the great line in the movie, Keeping the Faith, Ben Stiller, who plays the rabbi, says to his friend the priest that, “Jews want their rabbis to be the Jews they don’t have time to be.” I can’t do this difficult work for you, only you can. But, what I can assure you is that the rewards certainly outweigh the discomfort of the process itself and that you might enjoy discovering a little bit more of what it means to be human.

In the powerful words of Unetaneh Tokef, a prayer we read during the High Holy Day season attributed to Rabbi Amnon of Mayence, we are confronted with the fears and anxieties of life. Whether or not we believe in the Book of Life and Death, or that God has recorded our every deed, or that there is an intervening God in this world, the words of Unetaneh Tokef strike a chord within every human being. They remind us of our humanity. “Who will live and who will die; who shall perish by fire and who by water; who by sword and who by beast; who shall be secure and who shall be driven; who shall be tranquil and who shall be troubled; who shall be poor and who shall be rich; who shall be humbled and who exalted.” As a rabbi, I am constantly reminded that death is a part of life and that on a regular basis, families within our congregation are confronted with difficult circumstances. I get a glimpse into the intimate lives of so many of our congregants and get to see a side of them that many others don’t get to see. I worry about our congregants who are suffering as a result of the terrible economic situation in our country; those who cannot afford to pay their mortgages or the water or gas bills, let alone to buy new clothes for the new school year. I worry about our congregants who have been dealing with health issues such as cancer, pulmonary and cardiac issues among others. I feel the pain of many who have lost a loved one, or more than one during this past year and come to say Kaddish. But, as my colleague Rabbi Lenny Gordon from across the road at the Germantown Jewish Center has written so beautifully in the most recent Sh’ma magazine, a prominent scholarly newsletter addressing hot button issues affecting the Jewish community, “This year, I approach the Unetaneh Tokef differently. For the first time, I hear the prayer not as a humbling prayer. Our tradition is not asking us to feel insecure and vulnerable in the face of the mysteries of human fate. Rather, our tradition is reminding us, demanding in fact, that we accept our vulnerability. Face it, someday, I will die, people I love will die.” So, as Rabbi Gordon suggests, and Shrek reminds us, Judaism challenges us to face our fears, not avoid them or feel uncomfortable about the fact that we have insecurities at all. Facing our fears and anxieties can help us begin to find ways to move past them and to live a life that feels more secure, that helps give us meaning, direction, and hope. Instead of dwelling on our frustrations about the way the world is, or the anxieties and anger over promises not kept and expectations not met, or our vulnerabilities which force us to face the reality that our lives are not what they were supposed to be, let us accept that the human experience comes with fears and vulnerabilities and it is how we deal with these challenges that define who we are and what we will become. Let us embrace the fact that things need to be different, should be different. Let us find more meaning and direction in our lives, based on how we address these insecurities. We all need hope that tomorrow will be better.

As a classmate of mine, Rabbi Shira Koch Epstein suggests, in regards to the Avinu Malkeinu prayer where we confess our sins, “What if each of us exposed our fears and vulnerabilities in the open, in front of the congregation? What if we wrote our petitions, our fears, and our vulnerabilities on a scrap piece of paper, and then heard them read aloud during Rosh Hashanah services? We might hear:

“Avinu Malkeinu, Grant me more affection from my family,”

"Avinu Malkeinu, Grant me more time to spend with my family.”

“Avinu Malkeinu, bring healing to my beloved.”

“Avinu Malkeinu, I don’t want to be destitute in my retirement.”

“Avinu Malkeinu, grant me a second chance with my spouse.”

“Avinu Malkeinu, don’t let me be so lonely this year.”

The power of this exercise would be to know that we aren’t alone. We all have fears and vulnerabilities, but there is a difference between the people who are consumed by their fears and those who are brave enough to confront their fears and become stronger through the process. And, as the Avinu Malkeinu prayer reminds us,  we always can ask for help from our friends, our families, and our community, especially this sacred community here at Beth Am, to get through the difficult and unexpected moments of our lives.

The last page of Shrek reads, “And they lived happily ever after.  Shrek and his princess spend their lives together scaring the socks off all who fell afoul of them.” The curator for the Jewish Museum exhibit, Claudia Nahson, told me, “Steig recognized the fact that we will always have something to deal within our lives that will be difficult to overcome. Pessimists focus on the immediate problem and tend to get overwhelmed and optimists look at the big picture and realize that whatever our problems are, wherever our fears lie, they will eventually pass.” By embracing our own humanity, allowing ourselves to be vulnerable, and putting it all into perspective, we can overcome even our biggest fears. While we will have situations that might not get any easier, or even at times where we think they are getting worse, our perspective can make all the difference. The Talmud teaches that even in the darkest of nights, we must look towards the light of the morning. 

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, Chief Rabbi of Britain takes this a step further and describes the difference between optimism and hope. He says, “Optimism is the belief that things will get better. Hope is the faith that, together, we can make things better. Optimism is a passive virtue, hope an active one. It takes no courage to be an optimist, but takes a great deal of courage to have hope.” And this is what Judaism has always understood and why we have thrived even in the most difficult of circumstances.

Our world is broken, financially, politically, and most importantly, spiritually. So many Americans, especially Jews feel lost in today’s troubled climate and we all need a place to feel secure and protected, a safe haven from the trials we all have to face day to day. Too many have found themselves lost and disconnected from the Jewish community and all that it offers, including a place to nurture our troubled hearts and souls, a place to find hope. When the storm called Familial Dysautonomia came into the life of my family, I didn’t know where to turn. Becky and I circled the wagons, trying to make sense of it all. And then, when I least expected it, hope surfaced in the form of two of our congregants, Peggy Robertson and Alison Dryer. Both inspired by Sam and his story, they went out and registered us for the Philadelphia International Dragon Boat Race taking place in just a few weeks, on October 3rd. Due to their incredible efforts, not only have we raised thousands of dollars to send to the Dysautonomia Center to fund their critically important research, not only have we been able to create an awareness about this horrific disease, but we have created a community all united for a common purpose. Not only do we have 40 paddlers, but we have a network of volunteers for race day, and people all over the country sending emails and letters of support. It isn’t only about Sam and his FD, but it is about people coming together to support one another during the difficult moments of life. It is about people wanting to connect in this troubled world where community is hard to find. It is about imagining the future, one where hope overcomes our fears and vulnerabilities, where we are all participating in creating a better tomorrow.  It is about finding peace of mind that our family, our friends, and our community will be safe and secure.

Let us all be united in hope and in faith as we celebrate this Rosh Hashanah 5770.  Let us all reconnect to our Judaism and to our community. Let us all recommit ourselves to Jewish values and to realigning our priorities to what is most important in this world. In the end, it is not about financial wealth or about reaching the top of the food chain, instead it is about how we spend our time and how we take care of the people in our lives: not only our immediate family and friends, but the community to which we belong. What would it be worth to you to spend another year with the people you love the most?  Priceless. What would you pay to know that you and all of us would be sitting in the seats we are sitting in now next year? Priceless. Life is priceless…and with life goes every opportunity to help those in need. Let us feel secure enough to confront our fears face to face and know that we will be supported by this community. Let us together provide hope to all could not find it by themselves so that we can pave the way to a better and brighter future. May we all be inscribed in the Book of Life, this year, and for many more years to come. Let the year 5770 be the year of Hope United-let it be the year when we are more attuned to needs of others and rededicate ourselves to bringing hope to this troubled, fractured, and disconnected world in which we all live.

Shanah Tovah u’Metukah…May you all be blessed with a good and sweet New Year.