Each High Holy Day season, I’ve offered a sermon on what our tradition has to say about a contemporary moral issue. In past years, I’ve talked about antisemitism, climate change, racism, and Israel, to name a few. As I considered a topic to address this year, I felt strangely overwhelmed even by the prospect of choosing one.
Our world feels broken. Climate change has created a series of storms, heat waves, and flooding that are as intense as they are frequent. The polarity in political discourse is so fierce that we have forgotten how to talk with people we disagree with. The rise of nationalism has created more hatred, violence, and brutality. Homelessness is an ever-present problem, as are gun violence, racism, antisemitism, and homophobia. There is injustice all around us. Sometimes, those in power make choices we simply cannot fathom or understand.
The constant stream of bad news can feel so soul-crushing that researcher and psychiatrist Dr. Joaquim Radui reported, “The best predictor for having lower anxiety and depressive symptoms” is to “avoid watching too much news.” Many of us take vacations from the never-ending news stream to preserve our mental health. I’ve done that myself on occasion. It’s not that I don’t want to know what is happening in the world. Indeed, I believe it is imperative to be well-informed.
Rather, when so much pain exists in the world around us, even a consummate optimist like myself begins to wonder if anything will improve. Even though I want to protect the earth and stand up for justice to help create a more loving and compassionate world, can my actions actually make a meaningful difference?
Today, I don’t wish to talk about a single moral issue. Instead, I ask you a different question. Perhaps it’s a question we’ve been asking ourselves for quite some time: How do we find the strength to respond to the ailing world, even if we don’t know that our hard work will make a difference at all?[1]
There is a story of a town that couldn’t tell time. Slowly, every single clock in the town stopped working. The people tried diligently to fix their clocks, but despite their hard work, they could not fix a single one. No one in the town understood the inner mechanisms of the springs, pendulums, dials, and gears. Despite their best efforts, no one could fix the clocks. Days passed. Then weeks and then months. They held onto their watches, hoping that one day someone would be able to fix them, and they would bounce back to life once more.
After many years, a foreigner wandered into their secluded town. When the people discovered he was a watchmaker, they believed their dreams had finally come true. They were elated. The townspeople gathered their clocks and brought them to the watchmaker one by one. But despite the watchmaker’s expertise and hard work, the townsfolk emerged downcast and disappointed one by one. Their clocks were unrepairable.
One woman, however, left her meeting with the watchmaker with a smile on her face and a ticking timepiece in her hands. All the townspeople wanted to know how this was possible. Why was it that her clock and hers alone could tell time?
She explained that she didn’t know what to do when all of their clocks stopped working. So, each morning, she did what she could. She wound the dial on her clocks as if they worked, hoping they would tick again one day. Whereas all of the townspeople’s clocks had rusted with time, her small act of care, repeated diligently each day, made it possible for her clock to be repaired.[2]
I imagine her waking up and turning the clock each morning, having no idea why she was doing so or if her clock would ever tick again. And despite not keeping up this practice every day, not for days, weeks, or months, but for years. Her determination and stubborn hopefulness would have seemed foolish to anyone witnessing her. It seems so insignificant that it is almost laughable. And yet, because of her small act, repeated one day after another, her timepiece came back to life.
This story is a hopeful reminder that while sweeping legislation or initiatives are needed to face the complexity of world issues, small actions repeated over time are just as necessary. Even with all of his expertise, the watchmaker could not fix the watch that hadn’t been cared for.
Small stitches are required to crochet a Kipa. Training is needed to run a marathon. And becoming a Bar Mitzvah requires practicing every single day. (Right, Noam?). And even more to the point, to have a supportive interfaith community, as we are so blessed to have it first required clergy—including those here today and those that will be here throughout the High Holy Days—to build mutual respect and appreciation relationships.
To quote Pirkei Avot, “It is not up to us to complete the task, but neither are we free to desist from it.”
How do we find the strength to respond to the ailing world, even if we don’t know that our hard work will make a difference at all? By taking one small step, followed by another.
It can be easy to take these small efforts for granted or stop prioritizing them, but as the story reminds us, small actions can make a huge difference, sometimes far more significant than we know.
Several years ago, I led weekly Tot Shabbat services for a great group of preschool students. Each week, we sang songs and paraded around the room, engaged in Jewish stories, and played instruments. All of the children were so enthusiastic and involved. All except one little girl who sat there the entire time with her arms folded, looking at me with curiosity. I tried everything to engage her—art, music, dancing. Nothing seemed to work at all. I contacted her mom, asking how she was doing and if there was anything I could do to make Tot Shabbat more fun for her. The mom’s reply completely blew me away. She sent me a video of this little girl playing her toy guitar, singing every song we had sung that morning word for word perfect. “She loves Tot Shabbat so much,” the mom said, “She has been singing and talking about the story all day!”
It was an incredible reminder that we don’t always know the impact we are having. Sometimes, it may appear that our actions have no effect, only to find out that we were making a difference all along. That little girl has grown up to be an incredible young lady, passionate about her Jewish identity. I feel blessed to have been a small part of the reason why.
Whenever I wonder if I’m doing enough, I always go back to this story, reminding myself that just like an iceberg, only a fraction of our impact is visible.
How do we find the strength to respond to the ailing world, even if we don’t know that our hard work will make a difference at all? By remembering that we are often unaware of the impact of our actions on others.
But what if my efforts with this adorable preschooler hadn’t worked? What if the woman’s decision to turn the clock’s dial daily hadn’t done anything? Would those efforts be worth it? Does our success depend on the outcome, or is the very act of trying—of putting in effort valuable on its own?
There is a story of a Rabbi who was also trying to do his best to help others. One day, a man came to him asking for help. “I’m sick and can’t work,” he said. “My wife is so sick she cannot get out of bed. We do not have enough money to put food on the table, and our children are hungry. I don’t know what to do. Rabbi, is there any way you can help us to tide us over until I’m well enough to work?”[3]
This wasn’t the first time the Rabbi had been asked for assistance, even that day. He felt weighed down by the needs of the community around him. So many were struggling financially.
The Rabbi knew that helping this man wouldn’t diminish the struggles of his community, but as he looked into the man’s eyes, he also knew he was called to help. After a long conversation of listening and support, the Rabbi opened his wallet and took out a large bill. As he handed it to the poor man, he wished him well. The man thanked him and went on his way as the Rabbi prayed for the man’s family’s health and well-being.
That afternoon, a neighbor approached the Rabbi and said, “Rabbi, you know that man who came to you this morning with a story about his sick family and hungry children?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it’s not true!” the neighbor protested. “None of them are sick. They are healthy. They are fine.”
Upon hearing news like this, we might feel angry or resentful. Who was this man to lie to us? How dare he take advantage when so many others legitimately need help?
But not this Rabbi. This Rabbi’s jaw dropped open as he breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank God they’re healthy! Thank God they’re okay!” he said.
This Rabbi seemed not at all concerned.
“No, don’t you get it?” the neighbor said. “The man took advantage of you. He lied to get your money!”
“I lost $100,” the Rabbi said. “What is that compared to the health of a family?”[4]
The Rabbi’s first response wasn’t anger or defensiveness. His first response was relief that the family would be okay.
The Rabbi could have been bitter, pledging never to give so freely again. But it was not in his nature to do so. The Rabbi did not regret his choice even after learning that he had been conned. How could he regret a moment of compassion?
Next time, he might be a little more discerning before giving quite so generously, but he would not let this incident stop him from being the generous and considerate person he was. Yes, people could take advantage, but he would give anyway when he felt moved to do so.
You might recall how a year and a half ago, my friend and colleague Charlie Cytron-Walker was held hostage in his synagogue at gunpoint after welcoming a stranger to pray with them. Though thankfully, Rabbi Charlie and his congregants were physically unharmed, the ordeal forever changed Rabbi Charlie and his family. Despite that, just a month after the whole ordeal, Rabbi Charlie wrote in an oped for the New York Times, “I opened the doors of my synagogue and unknowingly welcomed the individual who would later attack me and my fellow congregants. That I opened the door will always weigh heavily on me. Still, I remain committed to the idea of welcoming and caring for the stranger and living into that value.”[5] When I saw him this past spring, he reiterated that message. He would never stop welcoming the stranger. He will not allow the man who terrorized his synagogue to change the core of who he is.
Rabbi Charlie, like the Rabbi in our story, understood that while others may take advantage or threaten us, there is something that they can never take. That something is our integrity.
How do we find the strength to respond to the ailing world, even if we don’t know that our hard work will make a difference at all? By staying true to who we are, even when it’s challenging to do so.
Maimonides, the famous medieval philosopher, taught that there are eight rungs for charitable giving. One of the highest levels of tzedakah is when the giver and recipient are unknown to one another. In this scenario, the giver can never be acknowledged because the recipient has no idea who to thank. The giver also will never know if his donation made a difference. This type of giving is one of the purest types there is: giving that isn’t dependent on the outcome or celebrated with praise. Those who share in this way do so because they feel a moral calling that isn’t dependent on other’s recognition or outcome at all. They give simply for the satisfaction of giving, for the knowledge of knowing that they did something good, no matter what comes of it.
This is our calling: to be kind, not because we’re sure that kindness will be met with grace, but because we choose to be kind. To be generous even while knowing someone may take advantage because we choose to be generous. To trust even when we know that trust can be broken because we choose to be trusting.
Perhaps Mother Theresa said it best. “People are often unreasonable, irrational, and self-centered. Forgive them anyway. If you are kind, people may accuse you of selfish, ulterior motives: Be kind anyway. What you spend years creating others could destroy overnight: Create anyway. If you find serenity and happiness, some may be jealous: Be happy anyway. The good you do today will often be forgotten: Do good anyway. Give the best you have, and it may never be enough: Give your best anyway. For you see, in the end, it is between you and God. It was never between you and them anyway.”
There will be times in the year ahead when we will feel overwhelmed by the number and intensity of world problems. When we find ourselves getting anxious or depressed, unsure about whether there is anything we can do that will make things better, let us remember that even small actions repeated over time can have an enormous impact, that we are so often unaware of the profundity with which we inspire others and enrich their lives, and no matter what the outcome, being true to our deepest moral values is worthwhile in and of itself.
This morning, we will hear the shofar calls. The first three blasts are an awakening, a calling to each do our part to create a kinder and more compassionate world. But there is one final blast that is entirely different. The tekiah gedolah is long enough to give us time to channel our internal moral compass, to call us to be the best version of ourselves, not only when it is convenient, not only when we are sure that we will be rewarded for doing so— but when it is challenging as well.
May we act not because others expect us to but because we want to remain faithful to the generous, kind, thoughtful people we are at our core.
May we so strengthen our integrity that even when faced with enormous challenges, we choose to do the right thing, anyway.
[1] Rabbi David Stern asked this question at a High Holy Day seminar this year. It is an inspiration behind this sermon.
[2] Abraham Joshua Heschel, Man’s quest for God https://www.shirtikva.org/2022/09/rosh-hashanah-i-sermon
[3] Morinis, Alan. EveryDay Holiness, p.28
[4] Morinis, Alan. Everyday Holiness: The Jewish Spiritual Path of Mussar (p. 29). Shambhala.
[5] https://www.nytimes.com/2022/02/23/opinion/colleyville-texas-synagogue-antisemitism.html
Rabbi Cassi Kail 