I love you,
Jim --- Yaakov BenHarel v Penina
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
k'tiva v'chatima tova!!
To you who find yourself here and your beautiful ones, k'tiva v'chatima tova!!! A sweet year filled with love, laughter, peace, fulfillment and enlightenment (should you need any...). And, of course, mazal and brachot.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
A STILL, SMALL VOICE
A STILL, SMALL VOICE
Yom Kippur has times of exaltation and times when attention wanders.
There are greater and lesser moments – impressive, major moments when,
in the language of the liturgy, it almost appears that "the great
trumpet is sounded". There are also moments when, amazingly, all is
quiet, and "the still, small voice is heard". There is eloquence in
silence, when the world does not exist, and we quietly, serenely,
confront ourselves and our own souls.
In New York a room in the United Nations building is called "A Room of
Quiet". The name is explained in this fashion: "This is a room devoted
to peace and those who are giving their lives for peace. It is a room
of quiet where only thoughts should speak."
Yom Kippur too gives us "a room of quiet where only thoughts should
speak"... the thoughts of a husband who quietly realises how deeply he
loves his wife, of a wife who recognises how fortunate she is in her
husband, of children who discover the solid quality of their parents,
of parents grateful for the good there is in their children, of
friends who determine to be better friends, of colleagues who resolve
to show greater appreciation of each other in future... these are some
of the thoughts that speak.
The thoughts also speak of ourselves and God. We pretend we don't
believe in Him, but we all know deep down that something exists which
is higher than human, and in moments of stillness it beckons us
upward.
The mystics ask, why do we conclude the fast by saying “HaShem Hu
HaElokim”, "The Lord, He is God", seven times? However unemotional we
are, by the end of the day we have reached such exaltation that
despite ourselves we feel close to God.
And then the day is over. Its exaltation lingers a little, but so
often the spirit has evaporated by morning. Whilst it was there the
silence was real, the thoughts did speak, but now it is “i-kavod”,
“the glory is departed”.
But things don't have to be so. Every day of the year we can catch a
glimpse of Yom Kippur by "surrendering to the stillness... by
withdrawal from the market-place, the honking of horns, the television
set, the innumerable diversions and attractions which modern living
thrusts upon us, and yielding to the quiet that is everywhere" (Samuel
H Dresner).
Thoughts can speak almost anywhere, in the garden, in the bedroom, by
the water, among your books – certainly in the synagogue. Calm,
peaceful, serene surroundings are good for silence. It helps us
reflect and resolve.
Let’s find silence, and then go back into the world and find speech.
Let’s go to other people, give them a smile and a word of friendship
and concern. Perhaps they won't always respond at once, or even at
all. Maybe the world has not been good to them. But one rebuff should
not stop us.
There are times to be silent, and times to speak – to say words that
are caring, not callous; words that are considerate, not cruel; words
that are pure, not pornographic; words that are peaceful, not
provocative. Let the silence tell us what to say; let the power of
speech say it and let us help to make the world a better place.
*** ADVOCATES ON EARTH
"Viddu’i", the confession of sins, occupies a dominant place in the
Yom Kippur liturgy. Confession is an essential part of penitence. We
feel a sense of guilt; articulate it in confession and resolve to
expiate it by acts of righteousness.
The alphabetical pattern of the two confessions, "Ashamnu" and "Al
Chet", seems strange. How can thoughts and words be really sincere and
spontaneous if they have to fit into an artificial framework? Yet such
is the skill of the liturgical authors that we are not really
conscious of their literary constraints.
The reason that prompted this reliance on the order of the aleph-bet
(a characteristic of the High Holyday prayers) is prosaic. It was
simply that authors and editors were concerned to provide an easy aid
to memory in days before printing, when few people could afford prayer
books.
Some also saw in the use of the alphabet a suggestion that Israel had
violated the Torah from A to Z, from beginning to end. The mystics
took this idea further when they advised the worshipper, "Make the
aleph-bet your advocate; let its letters help in formulating your
pleas before the Divine Judge".
A deeper question: why recite a confession at all, when God, the
All-Knowing, is well aware of our deeds? The answer may be that the
value of confession is to man, not to God. *It is we – not God – who
need to be reminded of our lapses*. It is *our* memory which is
fallible, not His.
The point is made by the Midrash: "From the moment a person is willing
to see himself as he is, and to make the admission, 'I have sinned',
the powers of evil lose their control over him".
As Louis Jacobs puts it, in the process of confession "we discover not
alone that in some respects we are worse than we fondly imagined
ourselves to be, but we discover too, our potentialities for good,
that we are in God's hands, that he knows our nature and does not make
impossible demands on us... in the jargon of our day we have to live
with ourselves. To be sure, this involves that we try hard to become
better than we are, but it also means that we give up trying to be
better than we can be".
We confess our shortcomings to God alone: "From all your sins, before
the Lord shall you be clean". No-one else may mediate between man and
God or claim a share in forgiving sins. Every human being has the
privilege – and duty – of direct communication with God, a thought
which filled Rabbi Akiva with ecstasy, as he exclaimed: "Happy are
you, O Israel! Before whom are you made clean, and who makes you
clean? It is your Father in Heaven!"
On Yom Kippur God Himself pleads for us. He knows the earnestness of
our endeavour to strive upwards. He speaks for us before His own
court.
On earth we have advocates too. Before the Torah was given, the
Almighty demanded assurances that His word would be obeyed. Israel
offered the Patriarchs as guarantors, but God was not satisfied. Even
the great prophets were not enough. Finally Israel said, "Our children
shall be our guarantors!" and God was content. Children are our
guarantors in every generation if we bring them up with solid values.
Yom Kippur has times of exaltation and times when attention wanders.
There are greater and lesser moments – impressive, major moments when,
in the language of the liturgy, it almost appears that "the great
trumpet is sounded". There are also moments when, amazingly, all is
quiet, and "the still, small voice is heard". There is eloquence in
silence, when the world does not exist, and we quietly, serenely,
confront ourselves and our own souls.
In New York a room in the United Nations building is called "A Room of
Quiet". The name is explained in this fashion: "This is a room devoted
to peace and those who are giving their lives for peace. It is a room
of quiet where only thoughts should speak."
Yom Kippur too gives us "a room of quiet where only thoughts should
speak"... the thoughts of a husband who quietly realises how deeply he
loves his wife, of a wife who recognises how fortunate she is in her
husband, of children who discover the solid quality of their parents,
of parents grateful for the good there is in their children, of
friends who determine to be better friends, of colleagues who resolve
to show greater appreciation of each other in future... these are some
of the thoughts that speak.
The thoughts also speak of ourselves and God. We pretend we don't
believe in Him, but we all know deep down that something exists which
is higher than human, and in moments of stillness it beckons us
upward.
The mystics ask, why do we conclude the fast by saying “HaShem Hu
HaElokim”, "The Lord, He is God", seven times? However unemotional we
are, by the end of the day we have reached such exaltation that
despite ourselves we feel close to God.
And then the day is over. Its exaltation lingers a little, but so
often the spirit has evaporated by morning. Whilst it was there the
silence was real, the thoughts did speak, but now it is “i-kavod”,
“the glory is departed”.
But things don't have to be so. Every day of the year we can catch a
glimpse of Yom Kippur by "surrendering to the stillness... by
withdrawal from the market-place, the honking of horns, the television
set, the innumerable diversions and attractions which modern living
thrusts upon us, and yielding to the quiet that is everywhere" (Samuel
H Dresner).
Thoughts can speak almost anywhere, in the garden, in the bedroom, by
the water, among your books – certainly in the synagogue. Calm,
peaceful, serene surroundings are good for silence. It helps us
reflect and resolve.
Let’s find silence, and then go back into the world and find speech.
Let’s go to other people, give them a smile and a word of friendship
and concern. Perhaps they won't always respond at once, or even at
all. Maybe the world has not been good to them. But one rebuff should
not stop us.
There are times to be silent, and times to speak – to say words that
are caring, not callous; words that are considerate, not cruel; words
that are pure, not pornographic; words that are peaceful, not
provocative. Let the silence tell us what to say; let the power of
speech say it and let us help to make the world a better place.
*** ADVOCATES ON EARTH
"Viddu’i", the confession of sins, occupies a dominant place in the
Yom Kippur liturgy. Confession is an essential part of penitence. We
feel a sense of guilt; articulate it in confession and resolve to
expiate it by acts of righteousness.
The alphabetical pattern of the two confessions, "Ashamnu" and "Al
Chet", seems strange. How can thoughts and words be really sincere and
spontaneous if they have to fit into an artificial framework? Yet such
is the skill of the liturgical authors that we are not really
conscious of their literary constraints.
The reason that prompted this reliance on the order of the aleph-bet
(a characteristic of the High Holyday prayers) is prosaic. It was
simply that authors and editors were concerned to provide an easy aid
to memory in days before printing, when few people could afford prayer
books.
Some also saw in the use of the alphabet a suggestion that Israel had
violated the Torah from A to Z, from beginning to end. The mystics
took this idea further when they advised the worshipper, "Make the
aleph-bet your advocate; let its letters help in formulating your
pleas before the Divine Judge".
A deeper question: why recite a confession at all, when God, the
All-Knowing, is well aware of our deeds? The answer may be that the
value of confession is to man, not to God. *It is we – not God – who
need to be reminded of our lapses*. It is *our* memory which is
fallible, not His.
The point is made by the Midrash: "From the moment a person is willing
to see himself as he is, and to make the admission, 'I have sinned',
the powers of evil lose their control over him".
As Louis Jacobs puts it, in the process of confession "we discover not
alone that in some respects we are worse than we fondly imagined
ourselves to be, but we discover too, our potentialities for good,
that we are in God's hands, that he knows our nature and does not make
impossible demands on us... in the jargon of our day we have to live
with ourselves. To be sure, this involves that we try hard to become
better than we are, but it also means that we give up trying to be
better than we can be".
We confess our shortcomings to God alone: "From all your sins, before
the Lord shall you be clean". No-one else may mediate between man and
God or claim a share in forgiving sins. Every human being has the
privilege – and duty – of direct communication with God, a thought
which filled Rabbi Akiva with ecstasy, as he exclaimed: "Happy are
you, O Israel! Before whom are you made clean, and who makes you
clean? It is your Father in Heaven!"
On Yom Kippur God Himself pleads for us. He knows the earnestness of
our endeavour to strive upwards. He speaks for us before His own
court.
On earth we have advocates too. Before the Torah was given, the
Almighty demanded assurances that His word would be obeyed. Israel
offered the Patriarchs as guarantors, but God was not satisfied. Even
the great prophets were not enough. Finally Israel said, "Our children
shall be our guarantors!" and God was content. Children are our
guarantors in every generation if we bring them up with solid values.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)