God Bless America: America at 250 (Erev Rosh HaShanah 5787)

Transcript Click here to access formatted version of this sermon . September 11, 2001 dawned with a brilliant, cloud-free sky. That sky is forever etched in my memory, along with so many other details of that day: smoke visible from miles away. Sirens that never seemed to stop. Bridges closed in every direction. Frantic phone calls to loved ones. People covered in ash walking uptown in stunned silence. A few days later, our congregation gathered for Rosh Hashanah in the sanctuary we had just rededicated after a devastating 1998 fire. Rabbi Rubinstein knew that our shaken New York congregation needed a ritual moment of collective gratitude. So, we recited the Gomel prayer — the blessing offered when one has come through a life-threatening experience. We drew strength from ancient words that generations before us have spoken in gratitude for their miraculous survival. Baruch Atah Adonai…she’gemalani kol tuv “Blessed are you God…who has bestowed such goodness on me.” That wasn’t the first time Gomel was uttered from Central’s pulpit. In 1885, Rabbi Alexander Kohut, our fifth senior rabbi, opened his inaugural sermon by reciting, or ‘benching’ Gomel. Our German-speaking congregation had wanted to hire a luminary, and Kohut had already made a name for himself as a scholar and a gifted preacher in Europe. Kohut had brought his wife and eight children on the harrowing, weeklong, voyage across the Atlantic and arrived in New York only six days before his first sermon. The slender, bearded rabbi ascended this pulpit and explained that the Talmud names four people who should offer thanksgiving: someone who has survived a sea voyage, crossed a wilderness, recovered from illness or been released from captivity. Kohut felt compelled to bench Gomel not simply because he had survived the sea voyage. He said he had also crossed the wilderness of antisemitic Europe, escaped the illness of intolerance and been released from the physical and spiritual constraints placed upon European Jews. Rabbi Kohut’s first sermon in America began with him thanking God for saving his life by bringing him to this Promised Land. For a moment, imagine what America represented to a Jew like Kohut, in 1885. He came of age as European Jews were finally gaining citizenship, when universities and professions were opening to them. But legal emancipation never translated into social equality. As Jews became more integrated, antisemitism only intensified. Mobs across the Russian empire waged over 250 pogroms against Jews in the four years before his arrival. And even those Jews who became French, German or Hungarian citizens, were still regarded as strangers among the nations. As we mark America’s 250th this year, we remember the promise this country held for countless immigrants and refugees — like most of our families — who crossed many seas to make a new life here. For America offered Jews something radically new: Full citizenship. Religious liberty. Equality under law. A Jew could be different and still belong. A Jew did not live here as a guest, whose welcome was conditional. A Jew was an American. This alone was revolutionary. And those freedoms were part of a larger revolutionary idea: In America, we believed that all human beings “are created equal.” We rejected monarchy, instead, political power would belong to the people. America has never perfectly lived up to those ideals. Our history includes profound failures. But our founding documents gave to us, the responsibility of closing the gap between America’s promise and its reality . And there was something else radical about the American project. Democracy did not simply depend upon laws protecting our rights. It depended upon something much more fragile: trust. A government “of the people, by the people, for the people” can only survive if we trust our fellow people . Thomas Paine understood this 250 years ago. He wrote in Common Sense that an effective democracy does not rest solely on a strong Constitution; it requires what he called a “great chain of connection” holding people together. A half-century later, the French statesman Alexis de Tocqueville observed our strange American experiment and came to the same conclusion, noting that democracy: “peculiarly requires the free consent of the governed.” He saw: Democracy relies on trust. Tocqueville was fascinated by the way Americans built that confidence: “Americans of all ages, all conditions, and all dispositions,” he noted. “ constantly form associations .” Yes. We created charities and clubs, congregations and civic groups. Americans apparently could not encounter a problem without forming a committee. And in these institutions, we learned what Tocqueville called, the “art of association,” and exercised the essential muscles of democracy: We organized. Disagreed. Persuaded. Compromised. Cooperated. For most of American history, we were exceptional “joiners.” But beginning in the latter half of the twentieth century, that rich fabric of associations began to fray, as Robert Putnam famously chronicled in Bowling Alone. Americans stopped joining Rotary Clubs and PTAs, sports leagues and volunteer groups. As those associations weakened, so did the social capital – and trust –essential to democracy. Among the institutions in greatest decline in America – is religion. Over 4,000 churches have closed each year of the last decade. And 44% of American adults under 30 now identify as “Nones.” No. Not that kind. As in: “What’s your religion?” None. 44% ! And this is not just a problem for God and religion. Tocqueville would view this as a problem for democracy. He regarded houses of worship as “ the foremost of the political institutions of the country.” But he was also an emphatic defender of the separation of church and state. That sounds like a contradiction. But it isn’t. Tocqueville observed that in America, religion’s moral authority derived precisely from the fact that religion took: “no direct part in the government of society.” A house of worship is the pre-eminent political institution not because it tells people how to vote, but because it trains citizens for democracy, in two essential ways. First, houses of worship are like mini-democracies; with self-governing boards, budgets, and committees of all kinds. And trust me, it’s hard to find better ways to practice the democratic skills of disagreement, negotiation, and compromise than on a synagogue committee. Second, and maybe more importantly, Tocqueville observed how religious communities create the moral foundation for human coexistence: Teaching us to love our neighbor. Practice honesty, restraint and forgiveness. Honor elders. Protect the orphan, the widow, the poor. Love the Stranger. Houses of worship demonstrated what Tocqueville called “self-interest rightly understood” — the recognition that our own self-interest depends upon the flourishing of the entire community. And long before Tocqueville recognized this, Judaism taught the same thing. When our people were first exiled from Jerusalem to Babylon — traumatized strangers in a strange land — the prophet Jeremiah taught: Dirshu et shalom ha’ir… ki bishlomah yihyeh lachem shalom. “Seek the peace and prosperity of the city to which I have carried you… because if it prospers, you will prosper too.” Jeremiah insists: you must work for the wellbeing of the society around you, because your fate is bound up with theirs. That’s not just civic advice. It’s a theological claim about how Jews are meant to live in the world. I know this can be a challenging message right now. So many of us over these past years have felt real fear, despair and anger, about what is happening to Jews in America. And our response is often, to hunker down with other Jews. To focus only on Jewish issues. To give only to Jewish causes. We understand more viscerally Rabbi Hillel’s mandate; If I am not for myself, who will be for me? But we cannot forget the second line either; If I am only for myself, what am I? Hillel and Jeremiah, who each lived in times of uncertainty, remind us that we have both a practical stake and moral obligation to stay engaged in the society around us. At a time when the Jewish community wonders if the Golden Age for American Jewry is over, we must recommit to the democratic values that have made America the most flourishing diaspora in Jewish history. We must practice the art of associating, again. Show up in the civic life of our neighborhoods and cities. Take our sacred rite of voting seriously. Defend the rights of others as fiercely as we defend our own. And critically, rebuild trust . Our democracy doesn’t work without it. And we can begin that work right here at Central.This congregation — like America — contains multitudes. Democrats and Republicans. Socialists and Capitalists. Atheists and the God-fearing. Sometimes, remarkably, all in the same family. E Pluribus Unum. Out of the many, ONE. At Central, we are part of an increasingly rare and vitally important American project: making ONE out of the many. And that is hard. Sometimes really hard. This past year has tested us tremendously. We know now – painfully – that even sacred walls cannot keep every threat outside. And when issues feel existential, it can be deeply uncomfortable, even threatening, to sit beside people who see the world very differently than you do. We begin to believe “the other side,” is not just wrong. They’re immoral. Evil . Our enemy. We wonder if the discomfort, strain and compromise is worth it, if holding a diverse community together is even still possible. Because there is a seductive alternative. A rabbinic colleague told me about a longtime congregant who left his synagogue for another. She wanted to belong somewhere where she knew everyone around her voted the same way she did. She said: “When I walk into shul, I want a warm blanket.” I understand that desire. But I’m asking you to resist the comfort of frictionless thinking. Because Judaism — and democracy – ask something harder of us: to build bonds strong enough to hold our disagreements. I have had conversations with congregants I treasure, where our ideas strongly clash. You have heard me speak out from this pulpit about issues where I believe “the other side” is fundamentally wrong. But disagreement should never mean demonization. And I’ve learned that from being part of this extraordinary congregation. Because the “other side” is sitting right next to you in these pews. And you’ve prayed together to bring our hostages home. You’ve served meals to hungry New Yorkers. Shown up at one another’s shiva minyans. Mentored vulnerable citizens returning from incarceration. Blessed new Jewish life at this ark. Even when we challenge each other – we have stayed curious, we have listened. We have come to know – and trust – one another’s fundamental decency. This is the art of associating. And as Jews, we are well practiced in the tools that allow us to debate – without suspicion and defamation. Our very name, Yisrael, means “divine wrestlers.” We practically invented sacred debate. We call it machloket l’shem shamayim — “disagreement for the sake of heaven.” Our tradition preserves minority opinions on the same page as the majority. We understand that there can be more than one faithful reading. That’s how we make one out of many . It’s what we are forging here – when we transcend our differences and serve something bigger than ourselves. And that is why I will stake my rabbinate on holding this inspiring, opinionated, beautifully diverse community together. I see it is my Jewish obligation. And my patriotic one. E Pluribus Unum. It has never been easy. But “we the people” are still charged with creating a more perfect union . _______________ On 9/11 we saw the darkest evil humans can do. But we also saw the best of America. Ordinary people did extraordinary things for strangers. We recognized our mutual dependence. We trusted one another with our lives. We sacrificed for a purpose larger than ourselves. For one terrible, luminous moment, we could almost see Thomas Paine’s “great chain of connection.” Rick Rescorla was the Morgan Stanley security director who evacuated thousands of his employees from the South Tower. The self-described “Celtic Warrior” — who converted to Buddhism as an adult — chose to sing “God Bless America” as he led terrified people down endless stairwells, steadying their nerves and raising their spirits. After his employees were safely out, Rescorla went back up to search for others. He was last seen climbing the stairs shortly before the South Tower collapsed. Think about that for a moment. A Buddhist, “Celtic Warrior,” sang a song written by a Jewish immigrant — to help shore up thousands of Americans of every race and religion as they escaped a burning tower. There, in that stairwell, was America, the Beautiful. Irving Berlin wrote “God Bless America” in gratitude to the country that had given his family refuge. Just as 140 years ago, Rabbi Kohut offered God his gratitude for arriving in this Promised Land. 25 years ago, after the towers fell, our community gathered here, and offered thanksgiving. And now – 250 years after the founding of this great democratic project – we reaffirm our gratitude for this nation and accept our obligation to strengthen it. We think of “God Bless America” as an anthem, but Berlin wrote it as a blessing and a prayer. In this new year, 5787, we pray that our country continues to be worthy of God’s blessing. T he congregation then joined in singing “God Bless America.”