OUR JEWISH DRAWER Kol Nidre 5773 Rabbi Elliot Strom

In the recent movie, Five Years of Engagement, the Jewish character played by Jason Segal is having an argument with his non-Jewish girlfriend about their upcoming wedding and whether the ceremony should be Jewish, Christian, neither or both. At one point, in utter exasperation at his insistence that the men all wear yarmulkes, the girlfriend says to him “Well I never heard you say the word “yarmulke’ until today. I don’t even think you own one.” Irate, he responds: “Of course I do. I have a whole lot of yarmulkes. They’re in my “Jewish drawer.”

In an interview after the release of the film, Segal admitted that the idea came from real life, that he actually HAS a “Jewish drawer” in his home, a drawer filled with a few yarmulkes and Chanukah candles and some old photos of him celebrating Jewish holidays, a Jewish drawer which, he says, he opens up every year for the High Holy Days. Then -- and only then.

Let me tell you: it was a very cute and endearing interview. And he’s a very funny guy, Jason Segal, a very funny guy. But I have to admit: there was something a little sad about this “Jewish drawer” thing. Here, after all, is a young man, proud heir to more than 3000 years of Jewish learning and living, who has managed to distill all that genius, all that vitality, all that passion into one little drawer, a tiny, little “Jewish drawer” he opens up once a year for the High Holy Days. How sad, I thought, how sad.

And yet… what struck me at the same is that for this very successful actor, this Hollywood celebrity, no matter how attenuated his connection to his Judaism, he STILL HAS ONE. He still has yarmulkes. He still has memories. The High Holy Days still apparently mean something to him. He may not think much about being Jewish. It may not matter all that much to him most of the time. But it does mean something. He still has a connection. He still HAS his Jewish drawer, a drawer he opens up once a year at this most sacred time.

That’s why I’m willing to bet – I don’t know for sure but I bet -- that Jason Segal is sitting in shul somewhere this evening just as we are. And, if that’s so, I wonder why. I wonder why he – and we, quite frankly – are drawn here tonight, even if we don’t study or pray much – or at all! – during the rest of the year. He’s wherever he is and we’re here tonight – even if we’re not many other days of the year -- and I think that’s remarkable.

After all, I know – better than most – just how hard it is for so many of us to be present here this evening. Because you tell me. You tell me what it is that keeps you away most of the time, what it is that makes you reluctant to be here even tonight.

Some of us, I know, find it hard because we don’t believe in the language of the prayers we recite. We don’t believe in God’s mercy or healing or any of the things we say about God in our prayer book. We don’t believe God created day and night, planted the stars in the heavens, created humankind. We don’t believe in a Book of Life, either literal or figurative. And so we

1 come here, sitting for hours, feeling like hypocrites, reading words that at best are irrelevant to us, at worst fly in the face of our deepest beliefs. No wonder so many of us are reluctant to be here, even tonight.

Others resist being here because we just can’t get comfortable in the synagogue. Maybe we grew up with a weak or even non-existent Jewish education. Maybe we can’t read the Hebrew. Maybe the tunes are unfamiliar; we can’t sing along. Maybe when the rabbi starts talking about Jewish this and Jewish that, it’s all a big mystery to us. And maybe we’re even proud to be Jewish but, when we really get down to it, we’re not sure exactly what that’s supposed to mean. No wonder so many of us are reluctant to show up, even tonight.

Others stay away, I know, because we are angry and upset with where our lives have taken us. We feel disillusioned, unhappy, dissatisfied with where we are and can’t imagine coming to a place where we speak such hopeful words. Perhaps we think about how we sat here a year ago in this same sanctuary and prayed for good fortune and now after a difficult year, we feel chagrined and disappointed and let down. No wonder so many stay away, even tonight.

Others, it pains me to say, don’t want to be here because we are upset with the synagogue, the rabbi, the cantor, the executive director, the president. Perhaps we are unhappy at the policies of the board or the language of a letter we received from the bookkeeper. Perhaps we have been wounded in this place that is supposed to be our safe haven – and we find it hard to overcome our feelings of hurt and indignation and so we stay away, even tonight.

Finally, some of us stay away because we know that if we come here, we won’t really know anyone around us and we’ll be doubly lonely. Because we’ll hear all the fine talk about community and family, about helping and being compassionate and caring about each other and yet, through all the fine words, we’ll feel completely alone and lonely in a sea of unfamiliar faces. No wonder so many opt to stay away, even tonight.

I know. Believe me I know. There are so many reasons that conspire to keep us away, so many reasons we find it difficult to rouse ourselves to get dressed and ready and find our way here to the sanctuary tonight.

And yet if you are hearing my voice tonight – and you are, aren’t you? -- you did finally decide to come and be here. And so I have to ask each and every one of us in this sanctuary: WHY ARE WE HERE? What is it that, in spite of everything, draws us here on this holy day?

I’m sure we all know about the powerful homing instinct in many birds. Some years ago, I read an amazing story about a bird called the Manx Shearwater. As part of a research project, a Cambridge scientist transported one of these birds to Harvard University from its native habitat off the coast of Wales. It was tagged at a lab in Boston and then released. Twelve and a half days later, the bird was back in its nest. It had flown over 3,000 miles to get there, an average of almost 250 miles a day!

2 God, it seems, has placed a powerful homing instinct in this tiny, little bird just as God has in so many other species of birds and mammals, including human beings. And the proof of it is, God seems to have placed that same homing instinct in us. With the arrival of the Holy Days, we Jews feel drawn to the synagogue in instinctual ways, ways that transcend rationality, ways we may not be able to explain to others or even to ourselves, to return to our base, our home, our nest.

So here we are – back in our nest. And I wonder why? What is it that brings us here, in spite of everything?

Maybe it’s because we’re expected to be here. It’s expected by our family and our friends, expected by our clergy and leadership, by our co-workers. Where else is a Jew supposed to be on the most sacred day of the year? After all, they give the day off school. In many businesses, it doesn’t count as a personal day. It’s Yom Kippur. Even Gentiles know their Jewish friends and acquaintances won’t be around for the day. And so some of us show up here because, after all, we’d be embarrassed to be seen today at school or work or in the supermarket or in the park.

Or maybe we’re here because we think we couldn’t live with the guilt if we stayed away. From the time we were little children, we were told our place was to be in the synagogue on Yom Kippur. I remember when I was bar mitzvah age and the World Series was going on during the High Holy Days one year, I went to shul in the morning but pleaded with my parents to let me stay home in the afternoon to watch the game. After attempting to reason with me, telling me about all the Jews of history who risked their lives to pray on Yom Kippur – a powerful guilt trip -- they finally relented and said: OK, you’re supposed to be a man now. So it’s your decision to make. But you’ll have to live with the consequences of the choice you make. So, “man” that I was, I made my choice. I decided to stay home and watch the game and I must tell you: not only was I unable to enjoy it, but I haven’t quite gotten over the guilt until this day. So the guilt I understand. Maybe that’s what brings some of us here tonight -- an over-active sense of “Jewish guilt,”

And maybe for some of us there’s a twinge of superstition here as we fear we might be punished if we don’t show up for Kol Nidre. After all, the theme of the evening and tomorrow is that our fate for the coming year hangs in the balance as God decides if we have earned the right to be sealed into the Book of Life. One thing we know for sure, God will not look positively on our skipping tonight’s service and so, to play it safe, we show up. So maybe it’s our superstitious fear of being, God forbid, left out of the Book of Life that brings some of us here tonight.

And maybe for some there are social reasons that draw us here. Maybe we’re fortunate enough to look around and see a lot of people we recognize and enjoy. We walk in through the corridors of the building and into the sanctuary and see so many old friends. Maybe they give us a hug and a kiss and we have the chance to catch up on our lives, on our kids’ lives, our grandkids’ lives. Maybe the rabbi even gives us a hug and kind word. It could happen! And

3 maybe we don’t necessarily see everyone here on a regular Shabbat evening because it’s not their thing, alright it’s not OUR thing either but on the Holy Days EVERYONE is here and we just know we’ll have a chance to see them and catch up with them in the parking lot, in the foyer or whispered during the rabbi’s sermon. So maybe it’s friendship, people, relationships, that bring some of us here tonight.

But maybe it’s something more. Maybe what brings us here is something much bigger than any of these.

Maybe it’s because we have so few moments of real quiet in our lives, so few times without distraction when we have nowhere else to go, nothing else to do than take a good long look at our lives and re-imagine who and what we could be. Kol Nidre, Yom Kippur, is a glorious time to ask ourselves, as Ed Koch was famous for asking when mayor of New York, “How am I doing?” And then to stick around while we try to come up with an answer for ourselves.

And maybe it’s because we know that there is real sanctity, real holiness in this place when hundreds and thousands of us gather to pray here together, to sing together, to be inspired together. Maybe it’s because we know this is a special place, no matter how much or little we customarily avail ourselves of it.

And maybe it’s because our lives can be so confusing, so crazy that we don’t know where to turn and we have an idea – some kind of idea – that maybe Judaism can work for us, can help us make sense of our lives, can give us a direction that seems to be so lacking so much of the time. We know friends, family, acquaintances who come here and swear by it, who testify to its centrality in their lives and we find that so very appealing, especially when times are tough.

But, above all, I believe, whatever else is going on, ultimately we’re here tonight because we have to be, because we don’t really have a choice, because we still have a connection, a pintele Yid that draws us here.

What does that mean? What is a pintele Yid? Literally it means a “Jewish spark.” It means no matter how dulled to, how disinterested in, how estranged we might have become from Jewish life, there’s still something there, a spark that hasn’t been extinguished. It means that no matter how distanced we may be, there is always a “Jewish drawer” filled with memories, warm feelings, and a couple of old yarmulkes that is still a part of us.

Every one of us, I would guess, has that pintele Yid within. And the proof of it, the proof is that we are here tonight. Because, my friends, IF we’re here tonight it says that, in spite of everything, there is still something there, something that draws us here, an instinct we can’t resist. There is a Jewish spark within us and so we can’t stay away.

That’s what we celebrate here this evening, the fact that, in spite of everything, we are here. And that, my friends, that is a marvel, a true miracle worth celebrating.

4 For me, it recalls a story I heard many years ago about Golda Meir. When she came to the then Soviet Union as the Israeli ambassador during the High Holy Days of 1948, no one knew how those Russian Jews would respond. Would they greet her? Would they publicly identify as Jews? There had, after all, been no legal Jewish education or religious life permitted in Russia since 1917, more than 30 years before. Russian Jews had been oppressed and persecuted for so long. Perhaps they had disappeared altogether as Jews.

But when the word got out that she was coming to services on Yontiff, more than a hundred thousand Jews came out to greet her, a hundred thousand Jews! They lined up in front of the synagogue in order to see her, touch her, wave to her, welcome her.

Later she wrote in her autobiography that she was so choked up, she could hardly speak. All she could say as she made her way through the crowd was: Thank you, thank you, thank you, she said. Thank you for coming. Thank you for being here. Thank you for remaining Jews.

My friends, this is what I want to say to you tonight. Thank you for keeping up your own “Jewish drawer.” Thank you for not allowing that pintele Yid, that Jewish spark, to be extinguished. No matter how complicated it might be, no matter how challenging, you have kept up your connection to your synagogue and your people. You are here. So thank you, thank you all. Welcome home. And so now…now that you ARE home, let’s get to work. There’s so much for us to do together in this new year just begun.

AMEN

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