Parents and Children

(This article was written for and published in the High Holy Day edition of the 'Sinai Chronicle', quarterly magazine of Sinai Synagogue, Leeds).

Parents and Children

At currently 36 weeks pregnant, parenting is ‘on the brain’. A kind member of Sinai Synagogue gave this inexperienced, first-time mother-to-be a wonderful book called ‘Raising Boys’ by Steve Biddulph. My husband Dave and I both very much enjoyed reading it as we anticipate the birth of our son in August, God willing. These are certainly interesting and wonderful times for our budding family. 

I was honoured to celebrate my Ordination in early July and Dave and I are preparing to move to Leeds as I will take up my post as Assistant Rabbi in late Autumn or early Winter. It’s a period of profound personal transition. But the transition isn’t only personal – it also matches the Jewish calendar. 

Today (at the time of writing) was Tisha b’Av, the 9th of the month of Av, in which we commemorate the many tragedies that have befallen the Jewish people on account of sinat chinam, baseless hatred. As the day draws to a close, we start to spiritually prepare for doing teshuvah as we march towards the High Holy Days. Out of the darkness of this day of mourning comes our quest for personal redemption that culminates in Rosh haShanah and Yom Kippur. But a lot of work remains to be done. 

The High Holy Day liturgy often seems to focus on our relationship with God. One of the ways this finds expression is in the reading of the Akeidah – the binding of Isaac in Genesis chapter 22. Theologically, I’d like to think that Abraham failed the test by obeying God’s erratic and draconian decree. But what if we look at the story from the other side: that of Isaac? Maybe the Biblical story gives us far greater insight in parent-child relationships. The fact of the matter is that Abraham and Isaac never speak once they get off the mountain and that Sarah dies shortly afterwards. There is, of course, a lot of ancient Midrash on this paradigmatic story. But we can interpret this scenario in contemporary ways as well and see how it can speak to our modern sensibilities and relationships. Steve Biddulph, the family therapist who wrote ‘Raising Boys’ (and the parallel book, ‘Raising Girls’) argues in favour of strong, loving and involved fathers (and mothers). Was Abraham such a father? Perhaps not. And perhaps this was his greatest failing – a failing that would plague his family for generations to come. 

The family dynamics of the patriarchs and matriarchs are hardly worthy of emulation. Perhaps Abraham’s greatest sin was not only foolishly obeying an immoral decree and checking his conscience at the door but also to sacrifice his child on the altar of his own ego. Perhaps he projected too much of his own hopes and expectations on his sons – Isaac and Ishmael both. So maybe this year we can focus on our family relation-ships in preparation of the High Holy Days. I know I have a lot to learn in either direction: as a daughter and as a mother-to-be. What would we do and should we do if we were in Abraham’s position? And how can we model and enact healthier relationships? As my husband and I stand on the brink of parenthood ourselves, these are all daunting as well as exciting questions. Reading parenting books won’t help us find the answers but may prompt us to think deeply about these issues. 

One of the most heart-wrenching themes in ‘Eichah’, the Book of Lamentations read during Tisha b’Av, is the notion of parents so plagued by starvation and despair that they end up hurting their own children (I will spare you the gruesome quotes although you can read Lamentations for yourself, of course). And one of the most grating themes in the ‘Akeidah’ is the notion of a loving father who willingly offers his son to his own delusions. 

Bookended by these two toxic and dangerous models of parenthood lie the hopes of the Prophets. Part of the Messianic vision and the quality of mercy and redemption in our own lives is when the prophet Malachi predicts the coming of Elijah in Messianic times, who will turn ‘the hearts of the parents to their children and the heart of the children to their parents’ – ‘v’heshiv lev avot al banim v’lev banim al avotam’. (Malachi 3:24). I am sure Steve Biddulph would agree. 

So how can we become both better children and more compassionate parents? What are the ways in which we can improve family relationships in our lives? What grudges and false expectations can we let go? How can we turn a sacrifice to ego into an offering of love? Maybe it’s time to pick up the phone, write that letter or initiate that conversation. None of us can guarantee success. But as long as the gates of repentance are open, we can always try. 

If we can model the loving graciousness of ‘Avinu shebeShamayim’, our ‘Father (or Mother) in Heaven’, then truly we can traverse the distance from darkness to light. As for myself, I hope to start this parenting journey with equal measures of awe and love. I am sure I will make many mistakes along the way. Thank God I am part of a religious tradition that offers me the instruments to self-reflect and repair and improve those relationships. Shanah tovah! 

Rabbi Esther Hugenholtz

Words are Wind?

Southport Reform Community 

Kol Nidré Sermon 

Words are Wind? 

“I’ll begin from the moment I got you, the moment I saw you lying on the table among my other birthday presents... on Friday, June 12, I was awake at six o ‘clock, which isn’t surprising, since it was my birthday. But I’m, not allowed to get up at that hour, so I had to control my curiosity, until quarter to seven... A little after seven I went to Daddy and Mama and then to the living room to open my presents, and you were the first thing I saw, maybe one of my nicest presents...’ 

When she started scribbling her thoughts in her checkered blue-and-red diary, on that fateful 12th of June, 1942, did she know her words were eternal? That they would change the world – both hers and ours? 

Words bind our fate and shape worlds, as my fellow Dutchwoman and co-religionist Anne Frank would intuit. Words, words, words. Yom Kippur is heavy with them. Prayers that are given wings through our sacred intentions. Words that indict us and defend us. Words that praise and words that ring with the empty chime of our mortality. Ancient words from the Torah, Prophets and Sages and contemporary words from our Progressive rabbis. Words that speak of vows, of repentance, of prayer and charity. Words that condemn our abuse of words: of slander, of lying, of judgment. Words that ring true and words that ring hollow. Words that move us and words that leave us cold. 

Between now and Ne’ilah, many words will be spoken, too many perhaps. Even, or especially on Yom Kippur, there is a danger that words become wind. The machzor brims with them. It is a document that shows our struggle with God and ourselves, that maps our gratitude and exposes our weakness. It disseminates the mayor themes of our tradition, provides us with the roadmap into life’s most profound questions. It is a distillation of our Jewish tradition’s wisdom and theology, a rallying cry to justice and a whisper to bring the heart to contrition. The machzor is a beautiful document to be sure, but in many ways it is not ours. We might struggle with finding God on those pages that are so God-heavy, we might not recognise ourselves in the ‘Al Chets’, we might not be moved by the imagery of ‘Ki Anu Amecha’ and do we really need to ponder the want of our actions in ‘Avinu Malkeinu’? Even the Kol Nidré, the convergence point of many a Jewish community, may be rendered meaningless in our experience. What vows have we broken? What obligations have we forsaken? For what must we atone? 

As important as breaking down our ego is during these Days of Awe, it is equally important to build up our values, our intentions, our promises. From this Kol Nidré to the next. 

If Kol Nidré is about annulling and excusing the vows we’ve made between God and ourselves, from this past year to this present moment, then can we perhaps do the reverse? Can we bequeath a heritage of words that is lasting, positive and compelling in our lives? We know that Anne Frank did even in the darkest and direst of circumstances. Her diary encouraged her to see pinpoints of light in the midnight of the century. I can only stand in awe of what her spirit accomplished but it does prove the power of words. 

Words matter, for better and worse. Then how can we make our words count? In a way, Anne Frank’s diary is a complex and beautiful example of an ‘ethical will’. The ethical will is one of those wonderful concepts that the Torah bequeathed on humankind (together with monotheism and the weekend!) and that made its way in both the Jewish and Christian tradition. There are two important ethical wills mentioned in Torah: Jacob’s blessing of his children in Genesis chapter 49 and Moses’ song in Deuteronomy chapter 32 (yes, you can go home and read these and be inspired). 

Speaking words of wisdom and blessing to one’s progeny does seem very Biblical indeed. Not many of us may be granted that dignity, calm and lucidity when at death’s door. Hence, during the Middle Ages, rabbis developed the ethical will as a written document that could be written when the individual was still of sound body and mind. An ethical will grants us an opportunity to impart our values both to ourselves and to the next generation. It is a valiant storming of the gates of Eternity, to make sure that we are indeed inscribed in the Book of Life. I would invite you, then, to complement the fleeting words of the Kol Nidré and words of urgent morality from the machzor with writing your own ethical will – you can glean inspiration and tips from the website ethicalwill.com. 

For those of you who do not write on Shabbat and Yom Tov; this is a project that can be done right up till Hoshanah Rabbah, when the Gates of Repentance really close for the year. For those Progressive Jews who do choose to write on holy days, I invite you to consider taking up pen and paper when you come home tonight after services. You might even use the machzor as a source of inspiration. Consider the question you would like to ask yourself. If the machzor represents a meeting between God and the individual, then maybe you can see yourself from the God’s eye perspective. See yourself with both chesed and din, loving-kindness and judgment. What things did you get right this year and what things did you get wrong? Who is this person you are trying to become? Who are the people you want to honour, love and cherish in your lives? What are the timeless values you want to impart on family and friends? And how do you wish to be remembered? Write these words with tenderness – they can truly be a gift. 

It seems indeed that the ethical will can be an excellent metaphor and tool for the transformative experience of Yom Kippur. We can seal ourselves in the Book of Life; not out of presumption and arrogance but out of contrition and quiet dignity. 

This moral profundity is reflected in the first written ethical will known to us, from Eleazar, the son of the famous 11th century Ashkenazi rabbi Isaac of Worms. In this document, Eleazar writes advice fitting for this time of year: 

 “Think not of evil, for evil thinking leads to evil doing.... Purify your body, the dwelling-place of your soul.... Give of all your food a portion to God. Let God’s portion be the best, and give it to the poor.” 

Another scholar, Asher, the son of Yechiel, writes in the 14th century, leaving us with another appropriate set of values: “Do not obey the Law for reward, nor avoid sin from fear of punishment, but serve God from love.” 

I would like to close with the wisdom of our beloved Anne Frank - even the young can share transformative and prophetic insights. Allow me to read some snippets of the ‘ethical will’ she left the world, through the words of her diary. Consider these words alongside with the themes of the machzor:

“The final forming of a person's character lies in their own hands.” Pair this with “Hachayim v’hamavet natati lefanecha, hab’racha v’hak’lalah, uv’acharta bachayim - I have set before you life and death, blessing and curse... choose life!” (Deut. 30:19) 

Or, “No one has ever become poor by giving”, which can be read in conjunction with, “al chet shechatanu lefanecha b’neshech uv’marbit – for the sin we have committed before You by financial greed.’ (Liturgy) 

Or, “I keep my ideals, because in spite of everything I still believe that people are really good at heart” with “Elohai, neshamah shenatata bi, tehorah hi – my God, the soul You have given me is pure.” (Liturgy) 

And finally, “How wonderful it is that nobody need wait a single moment before starting to improve the world” with “Limdu heitiv, darshu mishpat – learn to do good, seek justice” (Isaiah 1:17). 

The key word here is limdu, the imperative to learn. We are our own books, the stories of our own lives. It is never too late to write them, to be inscribed for goodness and eternity, in the reflections we share and the love we transmit, from one day to the next, from Rosh haShanah when we are written to Yom Kippur when we are sealed. The gates and the pages of our ethical wills are open. 

Give yourself and your loved ones this gift. G’mar chatimah tovah!

Heroes and Villains

Yom Kippur Sermon 

Southport Reform Synagogue 

The Heroes and Villains Among Us: Abraham and Jonah 

One of the great unexpected delights of rabbinical school was discovering that so many of my fellow students are science fiction and fantasy nerds. Star Trek, Star Wars (but never both at once!), Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings – all these modern-day sagas were loved, cherished and dissected by us students. I guess it makes sense: these narratives are so archetypical and we rabbis love a good story and a good book. 

One fantasy, however, that many of us have been particularly engrossed with is the ‘Game of Thrones’ book series by George R.R. Martin, also a successful television series by the American network HBO. In most fantasy and sci-fi, there is not so much space for moral ambiguity or psychological depth. Not so in ‘Game of Thrones’ – set in a brutal Medieval world, even the most noble of characters know their darker sphere and even the greatest of villains have some redeeming qualities. Its realism makes the saga truly compelling. It is the same realism that Tanakh displays. 

Heroes and villains may not be so different; and that applies too to our inner heroes and villains. 

A meaningful example of such a hero-villain continuum is found in two of our High Holy Day protagonists: Abraham and Jonah. Abraham is often cast as the heroic man of faith who argues with God for the redemption of Sodom and Gomorrah. Jonah, however, is seen as the reluctant and petty prophet who has no desire to bring his redemptive message to the people of Nineveh. There are many parallels between the two stories and I think they are deliberate. We can see the Jonah story as a ‘Midrash’ on the Abraham story. The Jonah narrative is, if you will, a sequel that subverts many of the messages of the Abraham narrative in order to bring to light more meaning. 

This idea is not entirely my own. The technique of reading different Biblical texts as midrashic commentaries of each other, as sequels that subvert or affirm each other, was developed by the Biblical scholar Judy Klitsner in her book ‘Subversive Sequels in the Bible - How Biblical Stories Mine and Undermine Each Other’. The idea behind reading Biblical texts this way is called intertextuality – that a story can be multilayered, nuanced and possess different possible readings. It is both bold creativity and deep respect, trusting that the Biblical stories can teach us something both new and profound. 

Let us start with Abraham. 

The first narrative is that of Abraham, spanning the story of Sodom and Gomorrah, chapter 18, versus 16 to 33. Abraham bids farewell to the three mysterious men who announce that he and his wife will still bear progeny. Abraham sees them off in the direction of Sodom. Meanwhile, God says to Himself: ‘shall I hide from Abraham what I am doing?’ (Gen. 18:17) God decides to confide in the patriarch, saying about Sodom and Gomorrah, ‘za’akat S’dom v’Amorah ki rabah v’chatatam ki kav’dah me’od’, ‘the outcry of [against] Sodom and Gomorrah is very great and their sin is very heavy’ (Gen. 18:20). God decides that the cities should be destroyed. Abraham’s response is startling: rather than acquiescing to God’s plan, Abraham challenges his God, saying, ‘ha’af tis’peh tzadik im rasha? ’, ‘will you even sweep away the righteous with the wicked’? (Gen. 18:23, translation mine) only to continue with, ‘hashofet kol ha’aretz lo ya’aseh mishpat?’, ‘shall not the Judge of all the earth do justice?’ (Gen. 18:25). He then famously proceeds to bargain with God over the lives of the few righteous in Sodom. However, God does not relent and overturns the cities. 

Abraham’s heroic act of moral bravery stands in contrast with Abraham’s other moral weaknesses such as the Binding of Isaac, where he fails to challenge God in order to spare his beloved son’s life. 

Jonah, in the Book of Jonah, makes the inverse journey. Abraham represents the hero archetype, and Jonah is our villain. We feel empathy with Abraham; he champions the cause of the oppressed and makes peace. Jonah, on the other hand, is less easy to empathise with. Jonah flees from before the Eternal when charged with his prophetic mission to ‘call on Nineveh’ (Jonah 1:2). Not only does Jonah flee far, far away in the opposite direction, to Tarshish (Spain), but he also relishes in God’s ‘condemnation’ of Nineveh. Jonah is a weak character. He goes down to sleep on the ship to Tarshish in the middle of a storm (Jonah 1:5), shows little concern for the plight of the (non-Israelite) sailors on the ship (Jonah 1:6), is displeased at Nineveh’s repentance (Jonah 4:1) and wallows in self-pity as his beloved kikayon, (bottle gourd plant ) perishes. 

Finally, the book ends with a happy end for Nineveh but rather unhappily for our anti-hero. Jonah does not get what he wants. He is left to brood on his own moral failings. How are these two incredible stories linked? Jonah is the ‘subversive sequel’ to the Abraham saga. The Jonah narrative ‘flips’ a number of key elements in the Abraham story to teach us something about both God and humankind. Both Abraham and Jonah start off seemingly solitary and enjoy an intimate relationship with God. Both are travellers. But while Abraham travels towards God (Gen. 12:1), Jonah flees from God (Jonah 1:2). If anything, Abraham travels across land - arduous and slow - while Jonah travels by sea - efficient and fast. Perhaps the message is that it is difficult to march towards goodness but easy to sail away from it. 

Jonah is almost a polar opposite of Abraham. Whereas Abraham is praised by non-Abrahamites, such as Melchizedek (Gen. 14:19), Jonah eschews relationships with non-Israelites, as he goes down to hide in the ‘belly’ of the ship. The character differences become most apparent in the moment of confrontation with God. Abraham lays the groundwork for the later prophetic traditon: that of the prophet interceding on behalf of the accused by ‘standing in the breach’, even for those outside of the Israelite covenant. Jonah, however, fails miserably in this regard. Even Elie Wiesel doubts whether he deserves to be called a ‘prophet’ since he does not seek to ‘save men but to punish them’! 

Not only can we examine our prophet but also the people they enter into prophetic relationship with. While innocent ‘Gentiles’ (for lack of a better term) fail to avert the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah, it is on account of innocent ‘Gentiles’ that both Jonah and Nineveh are spared. Gentiles play another unique role in the book of Jonah: as the ‘innocent’ sailors who try to deal with their misfortune ethically and honestly. They are reluctant to throw Jonah overboard and embrace ‘ethical monotheism’ (Jonah 2:13 and 14). The sailors show the kind of ‘Abrahamic’ moral courage that Jonah is lacking! The other Gentiles featured in the story are the inhabitants of Nineveh themselves who repent quickly and successfully. Nineveh succeeds where Sodom fails. Finally, God, too, undergoes significant subversion. In the Jonah account, He is far more compassionate. Wrath is amended with mercy and the God of Jonah is a far more forgiving and universalist God than the God in the Abraham narrative. It is as though God Himself has undergone radical change. ‘V’ani lo achus al Nineveh, ha ir hagedolah?’, He says (Jonah 4:11), ‘should I not care for Nineveh, the great city?’. 

Whereas Abraham unsuccessfully appealed to God’s justice, Jonah unsuccessfully tried to block God’s mercy. If we see the Jonah story as a sequel of the Abraham story, then perhaps God wanted Jonah to do what Abraham did: resist His judgement. Not only does God care about repentance; He cares for humanity as a whole. It is God’s Self Who provides the ultimate prophetic message of universal Divine Love when the prophet fails. 

We must, in a way embrace both the villain and hero within us; to grow in self-awareness and self-improvement.

If both God and His prophets can grow and cultivate compassion, then so can we. It is with good cause, then, that we travel through Yom Kippur with Abraham and Jonah by our sides. They are both conflicted characters, who do both good and ill. They are real; of flesh-and-blood and three-dimensional. No wonder us sci-fi and fantasy geeks find our Tanakh so compelling. The best stories don’t only keep us riveted but they help us change and become better versions of ourselves and help us to see the best both in our fellow man and in God. 

What better plot is there for the High Holy Days? 

G’mar chatimah tovah!

The Elul Pop Music Project

photography: Esther Hugenholtz

שִׁירוּ לַיהוָה, שִׁיר חָדָשׁ; שִׁירוּ לַיהוָה, כָּל-הָאָרֶץ.

'Shiru la'Adonai shir chadash, shiru la'Adonai kol ha'Aretz' 

'Sing unto the Eternal a new song, sing unto the Eternal, all the Earth!' 

~ Psalm 96:1

Music has always been an inextricable part of my spirituality. I didn't grow up in a 'musical' family (we were the sort who cultivated the 'visual arts') but the musical choices of my older brothers did rub off on me: Bob Marley, Queen, Nirvana, The Doors, Jimi Hendrix and Tracy Chapman. 

Queen and Bob Marley were especially formative to me. It was in this music that I found my earliest spiritual inspiration. When I was 19, I discovered Tracy Chapman and was so inspired that I decided to teach myself to play the guitar and have been writing (protest) songs ever since. Once I started getting involved with the Jewish community, I also started composing liturgical and religious music.

As a rabbi-in-training, I love engaging with music professionally. Service leading in synagogue allows me to cultivate love of song in congregants and when appropriate and desired, I play the guitar and sometimes share my own compositions.

And so the 'Elul Pop Music Project' was born. There is a lot of wonderful Jewish music, including contemporary music, 'out there'. But there's also a lot of fantastic non-Jewish pop music with spiritual themes that can uplift us. The purpose of the Elul Pop Music Project is to post one spiritual/religious pop song a day, from Rosh Chodesh Elul until Rosh haShanah, that matches the themes of love, teshuvah (repentance), forgiveness and God. Some of it may be contemporary Jewish music (Sheva, Matisyahu), some of it may be from the Christian rock genre appropriate to Jewish ears (Hillsong) or from other faith traditions (also appropriate to Jewish ears). Some of it is explicitly religious while other songs from secular artists may hint at spiritual themes and leave you to explore the metaphor yourself. The list is not yet complete and is a little experimental but please join me, offer your own suggestions and enjoy the music as a preparation throughout the month of Elul for the High Holy Days. 

Here is the list of songs posted on my Facebook Wall and their themes (including brief snippets of lyrics for contemplation). This list will be amended as the month progresses.

Day 1 - Repentance: 'What I've Done', Linkin Park: 'Let mercy come and wash away what I've done - I'll face myself to cross out what I've become.'

Day 2 - Social Justice; 'Hands', Jewel: 'Cause where there's a man who has no voice, there ours shall go singing.'

Day 3 - Spiritual Intimacy/Divine Kingship: 'King without a Crown', Matisyahu: 'I want to be close to You, yes, I'm so hungry - You're like water to my soul when it gets thirsty.'

Day 4 - Forgiveness: 'Baby can I Hold You', Tracy Chapman: 'Forgive me is all that you can't say, years gone by and still words don't come easily, like forgive me.'

Day 5 - Praise: 'All God's People', Queen: 'So all you people, give freely, make welcome inside your home - thank God you people, give freely, don't turn your back on the lessons of the Lord.'

Day 6 - Faithfulness/Shabbat theme: 'Shir la'Ma'alot, Psalm 121', Sheva/Yosef Karduner: 'I lift my eyes up to the mountains - from where does my help come? My help comes from the Eternal, Creator of Heaven and Earth.'

Please check back for regular updates of the list.

My own music: I've recently started the process of recording some of my own liturgical/religious music. Please check my Bandcamp account for the following songs:

- 'How Precious is Your Love' (Psalm 36)

- 'Adon Olam'

Music: Esther Hugenholtz

Lyrics: traditional liturgy/Esther Hugenholtz

Guitar, vocals: Esther Hugenholtz

Production: Dave Middleton

(Please keep in mind that these recordings are my intellectual property... and... that they are by no means professional! :))

Kol Nidrey Sermon: From the Bottom Up

Kol Nidrey Sermon, Sinai Synagogue Leeds

Esther Hugenholtz

From the Bottom Up

“”Why have we fasted if God does not see?

Why afflict ourselves if God does not pay heed?”

Because on the day of our fast we put our business first and force our workers to labour”.

- Adaption of Isaiah 57:3

Alessio Rastani got what he wanted; his proverbial ‘fifteen minutes of fame’. And like most instant-celebrities, all he had to do was appear on national television.

Rastani is nobody particularly remarkable. He is a minor City trader who emerged from oblivion through a well-timed and intelligent use of sound bites. Rastani’s main achievement was his ability to address the confusion about the current economic Crisis. Dressed in a slick grey suit and a too-fashionable pink tie, the well-groomed trader seemed to enjoy his place in the spotlight when interviewed by the BBC.

What was especially striking about Rastani’s account was not his articulate summary of the current malaise but his own glib, nihilistic commentary.

Riding on the back off financial fall-out that affects millions of people’s lives the world over, he candidly states “if I see an opportunity to make money, I’ll go with that... For most traders, we do not care that much about how they are going to fix the economy. Our job is to make money from it. I dream about the recession and making money from it.”

Whether these statements reflect his intentions accurately or not, they have consequences. Whether Rastani is or isn’t what he claims to be, he did pointedly sum up what is troubling today’s economic and moral system.

Now, I might have broken my own rule and may have stumbled into a ‘political sermon’. I usually try to avoid this. I celebrate human diversity, including political opinions. The bimah is not an appropriate place for partisan politics.

Yet to keep silent in the face of an unprecedented Crisis would be just as political.

If we can pretend that Judaism, Torah and these High Holy Days are somehow detached from reality, then we do our Judaism a grave disservice. Prompting people into thinking about issues that may make us uncomfortable is sometimes the only appropriate religious response. The purpose of religion, after all is, quoting Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, “to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable.”

It’s Kol Nidrey, the entrance gate to 25 hours of fasting, prayer and introspection. Yom Kippur may be a lot of things: meaningful, transformative, challenging. But ‘comfortable’ is not one of them.

The Rabbis of the Talmud already understood this juxtaposition well. While organising the liturgy for a day that seems to be all about the ritual observance of ‘afflicting one’s soul’ through fasting and other prohibitions, they had the moral courage to choose a Haftarah reading from Isaiah that calls people out on ritualistic behaviour that is morally void. It is important that we think about the ethics that drive our world and that decide, in a cruel and ironic rephrasing of the Unetaneh Tokef, who dies ‘by fire or water, by the violence of man... by hunger of thirst, by disaster and plague, who become poor and who become rich’. It is almost as if the Haftarah cautions us to not fulfil our own ‘evil decree’ but rather to transform it, as the Machzor states, by turning towards goodness and justice.

“Is not this the fast I have chosen;

To loosen the fetters of evil, to untie the straps of the yoke,

To let the oppressed go free, and whatever the yoke, to break it?

Is it not sharing your food with the hungry and bringing the homeless into your home;

When you see the naked, to clothe them, never hiding from your own flesh and blood.”

- Isaiah 58:5 – 7

As morally resonant as this citation is, it also presents a risk. There is a danger that in exposing our inadequacies and highlighting our flaws, we come to feel immobilised in the face of them. Truthfully, how many of us – myself included – engage regularly in acts to ‘loosen the fetters of evil and to feed the hungry’? Most of us are wrapped up in the business of providing for our own and our family’s direct needs.

It is tempting to point the finger at Alessio Rastani, but that is not the point. Rather, we should use his example to reflect both on our own roles and on the greater questions at hand.

How do we balance changing the world and changing ourselves?

What can we do ‘feed the hungry and let the oppressed go free?’

It is actually the model of mitzvot that may provide us with a strategy for change that will not paralyse us. Small but meaningful steps that can transform our lives and our world.

It is our system of mitzvot that bolsters us in the face of cynicism and our Torah delivers us a message that runs counter to the overwhelming anonymity of our world. What we do matters. Our actions are neither trite nor futile, no matter how small they seem in the grand scheme of things. If anything, our Torah empowers us. We can change things, from the bottom up.

Consider, then, in small but important ways in which we can both be a witness to the larger perspective and an agent for change. How can we reform our choices to conform to our ethical standards? How do we choose to invest our money? To buy organic and fair trade food? What can we do to tread the Earth lighter? Can we make a small commitment to consume less? To give charity to poverty and hunger relief? Perhaps, from this Kol Nidrey to the next, we can make a neder, a vow, to implement a small change that may accumulate to become a bigger change.

But it does not end here. Questioning is just as much part of transformation as change is. How do we, as individuals, enable corruption and injustice in our world? What are the power dynamics that ensnare us and dehumanise us? How can we hold our political and economic leaders accountable? Is there a way in which we can reverse cynicism back to righteous indignation? How can we model healthy and ethical relationships with other human beings in our own lives?

The answers are varied and fluid. We do not have to be perfect; but holiness is about meeting God halfway.

It is both logical and remarkable that if we pursue justice, our Haftarah promises us the following:

“Then shall your light break through like dawn and your healing quickly spring up...

Then if you call, the Eternal will answer, if you cry out to Him, He will say, HINENI, ‘Here I am’.”

- Isaiah 58: 8-9

We cannot ‘change the world’ without being solidly rooted in our own Jewish values and spirituality. Usually, it is the prophet who is called by God who answers ‘Hineni’, ‘here I am’. But in this case, by holding fast to what is just and right, it is us who God will answer. Transcendence may be elusive but can inspire us to do good.

Perhaps we can and must believe that the Shechinah dwells wherever we act to repair the world. For sure, we can emulate the Divine, ‘imitatio Dei’, by ‘clothing the naked and feeding the hungry’. There is no better answer to glib cynicism and moral recession.

Let us bring our world a little closer to Redemption – from the bottom up.

May the work of our hands be blessed. G’mar chatimah tovah.

Rosh haShanah sermon: The King and the Lighthouse

Rosh haShanah Sermon 2011, Sinai Synagogue Leeds

Esther Hugenholtz

The King and the Lighthouse

Once upon a time, there was a traveller.

He travelled from place to place, wearing his cloak and staff thin, dust clinging to his sandals. He had been sent out on a mission he did not yet fully comprehend but he knew it was for good.

Curiosity drove him. A precocious child, he asked his elders daring questions. ‘Why do we worship the moon, sun and stars? Did not Someone else create them?’ He wanted to search out Who that Presence was, the Prime Mover, the radical Ground of Being.

He wanted no more of his father Terach’s idolatrous ways. Unimpressed by the clay figures he had smashed in his father’s shop, he packed his meagre belongings and set out westwards in search of the one God.

A beautiful young woman caught his eye. Intelligent and strong, she too, had a deep moral understanding of the world. Not before long, Sarai pledged to marry him.

For years, they had been travelling. They pitched camp in Charan and remained there. They welcomed many people under the shadow of the wings of the Divine Presence. Our hero came to be known as a righteous man, a just leader, a kind husband.

Settling, however, was not that great transformative journey he yearned for. So, he flung his cloak about his shoulders, held fast his staff and bound the sandals upon his feet.

One day, he was traversing the desert expanse between Ur and Canaan. It was exceedingly hot and the sun beat the sand into shimmering discs of light. The landscape trembled and wavered before him when he noticed the flicker of flames. Surely it must be a mirage.

Drawing closer, he saw what had caught his eye. It was no mirage but a gleaming tower of many turrets, constructed from fine white sandstone, like cast gold and silver. To his dismay, he saw that the slender structure was crumbling and blackened as hungry orange flames licked at it. What was the purpose of this tower, he wondered, and why was it alight? Did it not have an owner?

In answer to his questions, he saw a figure move in front of the window in the top floor. He gasped with horror as he rushed towards the burning structure in an effort to save the person trapped in its bowels. The heat of the flames drove him back as he saw the man lean from the window.

‘I am the owner of the burning tower, the ‘ba’al birah doleket!’ he exclaimed, ‘I am the King of Kings but you must rescue me!’.

Unflinching, Abraham knew at once what he needed to do. This was the purpose of all his sojourning.

* * *

This story is three part fairytale, Torah narrative and Midrash - but wholly mysterious. What are we supposed to make of the solitary trekker, moving ‘memakom le’makom’? And even more pressing is the question of the ‘ba’al birah’ caught in the burning palace. Midrash Bereshit Rabba, the source and inspiration for this narrative doesn’t relinquish simple answers.

Our Midrash is based on Parashat Lech Lecha, chapter 12 of Genesis, where the Eternal enjoins Abraham to ‘lech lecha me’artzecha umimolad’t’cha umibeit avicha el ha’aretz asher ar’echa’ – to ‘go forth from your land and your birthplace and from your father’s house to a land that I will show you’ (Gen. 21:1). The Midrash states:

‘...This may be compared to a man who was travelling from place to place when he saw a building in flames. Is it possible that the building lacks a person to look after it? He wondered. The owner of the building looked out and said, ‘I am the owner of the building.’ Similarly, because Abraham our father said, ‘Is it conceivable that the world is without a Guide?’ the Holy One Blessed be He, looked out and said to him, ‘I am the Guide, the Sovereign of the Universe’’ (Midrash Bereshit Rabbi 39:1, Soncino translation).

Our text cuts straight to an existential core. Gone is the classical High Holy Day image of God as Melech, King, all-powerful upon His seat of judgment. Here, God is portrayed as a vulnerable monarch, trapped in His grand but failing tower. Not only is God engulved by flames but He cannot make His presence known in the world.

This is a direct inversion of the High Holy Day image of the Divine manifesting Himself as the crown to our prayers, accompanied by the blast of the shofar. It is this image that we celebrate in our Machzor, in the Unetaneh Tokef, the Great Aleinu, in Malchuyot, Zichronot and Shofarot.

But it is not only the portrayal of God that is inversed. It is also the role of Abraham. During Rosh haShanah, we read the Akeidah, the Binding of Isaac. The tradition portrays Abraham as a man of deep faith who was willing to sacrifice his own son. But was he? Many of us are horrified by the Akeidah.

What kind of a God would demand such a gruesome offering?

And what kind of a man would succumb to such blind zealotry?

And so, our Midrash offers us unique insights both in the nature of God and Abraham.

It is not easy to imagine God trapped in the fires of His own world. But it is an honest and a consoling one.

Each day we are witnesses to great acts of cruelty and deep existential crises. The roaring fires of hunger, war, conflict, economic collapse and environmental degradation rage viciously.

Also the smaller – though not less personally significant – flames of loss, pain and hatred burn our individual lives down to cold ashes.

And yet, it seems, God does nothing. He too, is trapped by the fierce logic of His own natural law.

But can we worship such a God? Yes - I think we can and I think we must!

It is this God who desperately but tenderly reaches out to us, Who remains morally relevant in a broken world. For this God, Abraham is not a muted, zealous slave, glinting blade hovering over a beloved child. For this God, Abraham is a hero, an equal partner in the great project of Redemption.

Likewise, for this Abraham, God is not a tyrant, a caricature penned from the imaginings of the New Atheists. This is not the God that Richard Dawkins or Christopher Hitchens deride and dismiss. This is a loving and complex God, Who makes Himself known through the ‘chesed’, lovingkindness of Abraham.

It is through Abraham that God must be made visible. Abraham carries the torch of ethical monotheism. Of justice, of championing the cause of the innocent as he had done in Sodom and Gomorrah. This Abraham dares challenge both God and man to be better versions of ourselves.

Let us reach out to quench the fires of our world and the fires in ourselves. We should be as our father Abraham. Be brave. Go out into the world while at the same time going into ourselves as the words ‘lech lecha’ tell us. Let us carry forth the torch of a humane, compassionate and passionate faith, a hope for humanity, a deeply intimate covenant with a God we can both challenge and love, just as we challenge and love ourselves.

Then the burning tower can become a lighthouse, bright across the shimmering plain, for all the world to see.

Shana tovah, chatimah tovah.