A few weeks ago I confessed that I missed the solar eclipse completely. Now there’s a bigger crowd so I’ll expand my confession. Unlike so many people, I didn’t arrange to be in the path of totality. I didn’t pay $1000 to rent a small room in Wyoming. Worse than that – even just staying here in Great Neck, I didn’t get my act together. I didn’t buy the right sunglasses. Many people ordered them in advance and I didn’t. I thought about it but in the end I didn’t order them.
So when the big day came, I realized I would miss the eclipse. During the brief moments when you could look up and see the eclipse if you had proper eyewear, I walked from my house to the synagogue. I was so afraid of damaging my eyesight that I looked down the whole time. So there was a major cosmic event going on and I was looking at my feet and hearing the voice of my mother saying, "Don't look up!" Feel free to interpret that however you wish.
Maybe it was important to see the eclipse, maybe not. I don’t need to spend any more time on that right now.
But I do want to share with you, to invite you into, an exploration of what significant things we might be missing in our own lives. And why.
I remember when Deanna’s grandmother had cataract surgery. The bandages were removed and she looked around and she expressed the following basic sentiment – I don’t remember her exact words. “Oh my God. The world is so bright. The colors are so beautiful. I can’t believe I’ve been missing all of this all these years.”
I am going to imagine that if someone asked us, “Do you want to live as deeply as possible. To see as deeply as possible. To love as deeply as possible. To experience the world as deeply as possible.” Most of us would say, “Sure. We don’t have forever on this earth. Let’s go deep. Let’s not miss out on significant things.”
But that’s often not what actually happens. We miss things that, when we stop and reflect, we wish we weren’t missing.
We may each have a different sense of what we’d really like to experience. Of what our lives, deeply lived, would look like and feel like.
I want to reflect on why we’re missing what we’re missing. It’s personal, it’s cosmic, and it’s very timely for Yom Kippur.
First of all, we’re missing things because we’re preoccupied. There’s a curious rabbinic teaching that says – if you are walking around and thinking about some passage of Torah and you stop to admire a tree – you put your life at risk. There is much in our tradition that emphasizes proper focus. Think about Torah. Get your work done.
But there are at least as many passages that encourage us to appreciate the world around us. We’re supposed to say a blessing when we see a rainbow or a beautiful piece of nature. De and I traveled in New England and eastern Canada this summer. We saw lots of beautiful natural things.
At the end of our trip we drove back, crossed the Throgs Neck Bridge, and Mrs. Waze told us to take the Cross Island which we did. De was driving. I looked at the view of Little Neck Bay and the Douglaston/Great Neck shoreline and said, “This is really pretty” and we commented on how we drive by that view all the time and how often we miss the chance to acknowledge the beauty of the place where we live because we’re preoccupied.
We also all tend to miss out on each other because we’re preoccupied. We don’t necessarily recognize the beauty in one another – the pain, the joy – because we’re too busy to stop, to notice, to ask. And then there are the people we don’t even meet, who may have something sweet or profound to offer. Because we’re preoccupied.
If you’re missing natural and human beauty because you are preoccupied, I invite you to think about it. Maybe you can make small changes that prevent you from missing out on what the rabbis called נסים שבכל יום עמנו nisim she’bkhol yom imanu. The miracles that are with us every day.
Moving on. We’re missing important things because of fear. Roughly 10 years ago we were on vacation, we went to an amusement park, and my sons tried to convince me to go on a specific roller coaster. One that has 10 loops that makes you go upside down 10 times. I’m afraid of sudden movement and I’m afraid of heights and I don’t like being upside down. And I have an innate resistance to entrusting my safety to technology.
Which makes me - Not a great candidate for roller coasters and a bad candidate for this one in particular. I went on it. Kierkegaard might have said, by virtue of the absurd. I think the real reason I went on was to convince my sons that I wasn’t a wimp. I didn’t like it. But my sons had a great time. They thought it was amusing to watch my facial expressions during the ride and we still have the automatic picture the amusement park takes which they insisted on buying cause it looked like I was about to have a medical emergency.
After that I went on another crazy ride and then I was pretty much done.
But that exercise of pushing myself a little bit past my fear zone gave me the practice to do it in areas that are more significant.
So the deeper question, which we each can only answer for ourselves, is what important things are we missing because we’re afraid? Are we missing out on important conversations? Romantic opportunities? Professional opportunities?
Are we afraid to be rejected? Afraid to tell our partners deeply how much we love them? Not “love ya” as we leave the house and shut the door.
Are we afraid to pursue a professional path that is unconventional or risky? Afraid to try something new that might fail? Afraid of something else I haven’t named?
The Israelites were standing at the sea, paralyzed by fear. Sea in front of them, angry Egyptians behind. According to rabbinic tradition, even after the sea split, they were afraid to go in. One person overcame his fear enough to go in and then others were able to follow.
Our oldest son works at a vineyard in northern Vermont and he just sent a picture to our family. He took the picture from a tractor that he was driving. He was working on the grape harvest and the picture showed vines on either side. He wrote, “Greetings from the Vermont grape harvest. I have the best seat in the house.”
I looked at the picture and I was really happy for him and I realized – he may have the best seat, but I have a great seat too. From my seat, I have a view of my son doing what he loves to do. He didn’t just land in that place. He got there by design. He pursued a path that some of his peers and family might regard as an unconventional choice, one that they wouldn’t necessarily make for themselves.
But he was, and is, unafraid to do honest, hard, interesting work that combines farming, chemistry, marketing, community outreach, work that gives him pleasure and also produces something very tasty. As he result, he’s not missing out on this dream and – I can’t resist saying – we’re all reaping the benefits.
By the way – do you know when the next solar eclipse will appear over the United States? April 8, 2024. And do you know where it’s going to pass over in glorious totality?
Northern Vermont. Right over my son’s vineyard. I’ll tell you this. I’m not going to miss it next time. Assuming it's not on Passover – I haven't checked – I'm going to order the glasses way ahead of time. As the moon passes over the sun, I’m hoping to be sitting next to my son (assuming he’s still there), in the tractor, sipping a Riesling and thinking, This is great.
One more thing I’d like us to think about. We’re missing things because of anger. We’re angry with other people – sometimes for really good reasons. This isn’t simple. Each situation of course is unique. But I want to invite all of us to think about the cost of our anger, our grudges, our pride.
In Farsi the word ghar means angry, but has the sense of anger that leads to resentment, a grudge, perhaps even a separation between people.
In Yiddish there are a variety of ways to convey that you’re angry, each having a distinct intensity and significance. My Tante Fay, my dad’s aunt, my great-aunt, would sometimes walk into a family gathering and announce the following to my father, Harold, whose nickname was Heshie:
Heshie, ich bin base. I’m angry. That was bad enough. It usually resulted in a fair amount of tension. Maybe there was resolution; generally there was just a less than helpful deepening of resentments all around.
But then there was the next level:
Heshie, Ich bin b’roygez. I’m really angry. B’roygez is anger on steroids. A rendering of the Hebrew – ברוגז b’rogez – meaning in a state of agitation. But I digress. When Tante Faye was b’roygez, time stood still.
B’roygez, I learned, can keep families from getting together more often. B'roygez/ghar/call it what you will - I discovered growing up - can create rifts that prevent people from speaking for weeks or months or years.
You may recall that in the Torah, Joseph and Benjamin were very close brothers. There was a major family falling out which I would summarize as follows:
Joseph annoys his brothers, they sell him into slavery – he lands in Egypt, ends up not seeing any of his brothers for decades. When the family is finally reunited, Joseph and Benjamin embrace one another.
And Benjamin introduces Joseph to his children. Who have strange names. One of Benjamin’s son's names is Hupim. According to a midrash, a rabbinic interpretation of the Torah portion, Joseph asks Benjamin why he named his son Hupim. And Benjamin says, I’m named him Hupim because I wanted to acknowledge the following reality, namely that I wasn’t present at your hupah. I didn’t get to go to your wedding, dear brother. And you didn’t get to go to mine.
It’s important to point out that Joseph and Benjamin themselves didn’t actually have a falling out. I didn’t do the math, but Benjamin was pretty young when the falling out occurred. I don't think we can hold him responsible.
Broygiz/Ghar/Anger/Pride/Falling Out. It doesn’t just affect the immediate participants. It has collateral damage. It affects people who had little to do with the original situation.
In my own family there was some interpersonal conflict that took place maybe half a century ago. When my sisters and I discuss it we have only a basic idea of what ostensibly took place. Someone from that generation said something to someone else of that generation.
As a result of which, in that part of the family, there was a limit on family get togethers. Words were spoken on both sides. And – drumroll – it affected the next generation, our generation. Such that in this part of the family, we missed out on getting to know each other well and our children missed out on getting to know each other pretty much at all.
I am not suggesting that we should get past everything and I am not here to tell anyone how to handle a family issue. I just want to pose the following questions:
Because of what happened. The slight. The offense. Whatever the nature and depth. What have we missed? What have our children missed? What have their children missed?
And is it worth it? I didn’t come to your hupah. And you didn’t come to mine. Is it worth it?
Yom Kippur is the day that we acknowledge our sins. You may know that the Hebrew word for sin also means to “miss.” To miss the goal. To miss the mark.
It annoys me when rabbis try to soft-pedal sins by saying, “You just missed the mark.” Some sins are really bad. They’re not just “missing an opportunity,” they’re invasively damaging.
However. I do believe that behind the meaning of the word, and behind the significance of this day, there is the suggestion that we give careful thought to what we’re missing.
על חטא שחטאנו
על חטא שחטאנו
Al het shehatanu. Al het shehatanu.
Another year has gone by.
What are we missing?
What are we missing because we are too busy?
What are we missing because we’re too afraid?
What are we missing because we’re too angry?
A few days ago one of my teachers, Yossi Klein Halevi, posted a video of a Moroccan Jewish prayer אל חי ומהולל בתשבחות el hay um’hulal batishbahot – "Living God Exalted in Praise." It starts slowly and builds to ecstatic heights. It speaks of the transition from exile to redemption, predicated upon our belief that God will not abandon us.
I find the final verse especially uplifting and I wish to offer it to all of us as a blessing. תורות סתומות נפתחות תימלא הארץ דעה Torot s’tumot niftahot. Timalei ha’aretz de’ah.
"Teachings/insights which were closed will be opened up. And the whole land will be filled with knowledge and understanding."
This is the cosmic, spiritual equivalent of cataract surgery for everyone. Seeing and experiencing more clearly and brightly.
This is the dream that we allow ourselves on Yom Kippur, a dream of what our lives would look like “without het,” if weren’t missing what we’re missing. Knowing that the day after Yom Kippur, we can wake up and take small steps toward that dream’s fulfillment.
So here’s the blessing:
Whatever has been closed to us – whatever we’ve been missing – that we’d like to experience in our lives. Whatever colors we haven’t seen brightly. Whatever connections we haven’t explored deeply. Whatever occasions we haven’t shared fully.
May we have the patience and the courage not to miss.
So that we can live life in emotional and spiritual Technicolor. So that de’ah - knowledge, understanding, true connection – can inhabit our lives and our land.
Originally delivered at Temple Israel of Great Neck on Yom Kippur 5778
"Best seat in the house"
So when the big day came, I realized I would miss the eclipse. During the brief moments when you could look up and see the eclipse if you had proper eyewear, I walked from my house to the synagogue. I was so afraid of damaging my eyesight that I looked down the whole time. So there was a major cosmic event going on and I was looking at my feet and hearing the voice of my mother saying, "Don't look up!" Feel free to interpret that however you wish.
But I do want to share with you, to invite you into, an exploration of what significant things we might be missing in our own lives. And why.
I remember when Deanna’s grandmother had cataract surgery. The bandages were removed and she looked around and she expressed the following basic sentiment – I don’t remember her exact words. “Oh my God. The world is so bright. The colors are so beautiful. I can’t believe I’ve been missing all of this all these years.”
I am going to imagine that if someone asked us, “Do you want to live as deeply as possible. To see as deeply as possible. To love as deeply as possible. To experience the world as deeply as possible.” Most of us would say, “Sure. We don’t have forever on this earth. Let’s go deep. Let’s not miss out on significant things.”
But that’s often not what actually happens. We miss things that, when we stop and reflect, we wish we weren’t missing.
We may each have a different sense of what we’d really like to experience. Of what our lives, deeply lived, would look like and feel like.
I want to reflect on why we’re missing what we’re missing. It’s personal, it’s cosmic, and it’s very timely for Yom Kippur.
First of all, we’re missing things because we’re preoccupied. There’s a curious rabbinic teaching that says – if you are walking around and thinking about some passage of Torah and you stop to admire a tree – you put your life at risk. There is much in our tradition that emphasizes proper focus. Think about Torah. Get your work done.
But there are at least as many passages that encourage us to appreciate the world around us. We’re supposed to say a blessing when we see a rainbow or a beautiful piece of nature. De and I traveled in New England and eastern Canada this summer. We saw lots of beautiful natural things.
At the end of our trip we drove back, crossed the Throgs Neck Bridge, and Mrs. Waze told us to take the Cross Island which we did. De was driving. I looked at the view of Little Neck Bay and the Douglaston/Great Neck shoreline and said, “This is really pretty” and we commented on how we drive by that view all the time and how often we miss the chance to acknowledge the beauty of the place where we live because we’re preoccupied.
We also all tend to miss out on each other because we’re preoccupied. We don’t necessarily recognize the beauty in one another – the pain, the joy – because we’re too busy to stop, to notice, to ask. And then there are the people we don’t even meet, who may have something sweet or profound to offer. Because we’re preoccupied.
If you’re missing natural and human beauty because you are preoccupied, I invite you to think about it. Maybe you can make small changes that prevent you from missing out on what the rabbis called נסים שבכל יום עמנו nisim she’bkhol yom imanu. The miracles that are with us every day.
Moving on. We’re missing important things because of fear. Roughly 10 years ago we were on vacation, we went to an amusement park, and my sons tried to convince me to go on a specific roller coaster. One that has 10 loops that makes you go upside down 10 times. I’m afraid of sudden movement and I’m afraid of heights and I don’t like being upside down. And I have an innate resistance to entrusting my safety to technology.
Which makes me - Not a great candidate for roller coasters and a bad candidate for this one in particular. I went on it. Kierkegaard might have said, by virtue of the absurd. I think the real reason I went on was to convince my sons that I wasn’t a wimp. I didn’t like it. But my sons had a great time. They thought it was amusing to watch my facial expressions during the ride and we still have the automatic picture the amusement park takes which they insisted on buying cause it looked like I was about to have a medical emergency.
After that I went on another crazy ride and then I was pretty much done.
But that exercise of pushing myself a little bit past my fear zone gave me the practice to do it in areas that are more significant.
So the deeper question, which we each can only answer for ourselves, is what important things are we missing because we’re afraid? Are we missing out on important conversations? Romantic opportunities? Professional opportunities?
Are we afraid to be rejected? Afraid to tell our partners deeply how much we love them? Not “love ya” as we leave the house and shut the door.
Are we afraid to pursue a professional path that is unconventional or risky? Afraid to try something new that might fail? Afraid of something else I haven’t named?
The Israelites were standing at the sea, paralyzed by fear. Sea in front of them, angry Egyptians behind. According to rabbinic tradition, even after the sea split, they were afraid to go in. One person overcame his fear enough to go in and then others were able to follow.
Our oldest son works at a vineyard in northern Vermont and he just sent a picture to our family. He took the picture from a tractor that he was driving. He was working on the grape harvest and the picture showed vines on either side. He wrote, “Greetings from the Vermont grape harvest. I have the best seat in the house.”
I looked at the picture and I was really happy for him and I realized – he may have the best seat, but I have a great seat too. From my seat, I have a view of my son doing what he loves to do. He didn’t just land in that place. He got there by design. He pursued a path that some of his peers and family might regard as an unconventional choice, one that they wouldn’t necessarily make for themselves.
But he was, and is, unafraid to do honest, hard, interesting work that combines farming, chemistry, marketing, community outreach, work that gives him pleasure and also produces something very tasty. As he result, he’s not missing out on this dream and – I can’t resist saying – we’re all reaping the benefits.
By the way – do you know when the next solar eclipse will appear over the United States? April 8, 2024. And do you know where it’s going to pass over in glorious totality?
Northern Vermont. Right over my son’s vineyard. I’ll tell you this. I’m not going to miss it next time. Assuming it's not on Passover – I haven't checked – I'm going to order the glasses way ahead of time. As the moon passes over the sun, I’m hoping to be sitting next to my son (assuming he’s still there), in the tractor, sipping a Riesling and thinking, This is great.
One more thing I’d like us to think about. We’re missing things because of anger. We’re angry with other people – sometimes for really good reasons. This isn’t simple. Each situation of course is unique. But I want to invite all of us to think about the cost of our anger, our grudges, our pride.
In Farsi the word ghar means angry, but has the sense of anger that leads to resentment, a grudge, perhaps even a separation between people.
In Yiddish there are a variety of ways to convey that you’re angry, each having a distinct intensity and significance. My Tante Fay, my dad’s aunt, my great-aunt, would sometimes walk into a family gathering and announce the following to my father, Harold, whose nickname was Heshie:
Heshie, ich bin base. I’m angry. That was bad enough. It usually resulted in a fair amount of tension. Maybe there was resolution; generally there was just a less than helpful deepening of resentments all around.
But then there was the next level:
Heshie, Ich bin b’roygez. I’m really angry. B’roygez is anger on steroids. A rendering of the Hebrew – ברוגז b’rogez – meaning in a state of agitation. But I digress. When Tante Faye was b’roygez, time stood still.
B’roygez, I learned, can keep families from getting together more often. B'roygez/ghar/call it what you will - I discovered growing up - can create rifts that prevent people from speaking for weeks or months or years.
You may recall that in the Torah, Joseph and Benjamin were very close brothers. There was a major family falling out which I would summarize as follows:
Joseph annoys his brothers, they sell him into slavery – he lands in Egypt, ends up not seeing any of his brothers for decades. When the family is finally reunited, Joseph and Benjamin embrace one another.
And Benjamin introduces Joseph to his children. Who have strange names. One of Benjamin’s son's names is Hupim. According to a midrash, a rabbinic interpretation of the Torah portion, Joseph asks Benjamin why he named his son Hupim. And Benjamin says, I’m named him Hupim because I wanted to acknowledge the following reality, namely that I wasn’t present at your hupah. I didn’t get to go to your wedding, dear brother. And you didn’t get to go to mine.
It’s important to point out that Joseph and Benjamin themselves didn’t actually have a falling out. I didn’t do the math, but Benjamin was pretty young when the falling out occurred. I don't think we can hold him responsible.
Broygiz/Ghar/Anger/Pride/Falling Out. It doesn’t just affect the immediate participants. It has collateral damage. It affects people who had little to do with the original situation.
In my own family there was some interpersonal conflict that took place maybe half a century ago. When my sisters and I discuss it we have only a basic idea of what ostensibly took place. Someone from that generation said something to someone else of that generation.
As a result of which, in that part of the family, there was a limit on family get togethers. Words were spoken on both sides. And – drumroll – it affected the next generation, our generation. Such that in this part of the family, we missed out on getting to know each other well and our children missed out on getting to know each other pretty much at all.
I am not suggesting that we should get past everything and I am not here to tell anyone how to handle a family issue. I just want to pose the following questions:
Because of what happened. The slight. The offense. Whatever the nature and depth. What have we missed? What have our children missed? What have their children missed?
And is it worth it? I didn’t come to your hupah. And you didn’t come to mine. Is it worth it?
Yom Kippur is the day that we acknowledge our sins. You may know that the Hebrew word for sin also means to “miss.” To miss the goal. To miss the mark.
It annoys me when rabbis try to soft-pedal sins by saying, “You just missed the mark.” Some sins are really bad. They’re not just “missing an opportunity,” they’re invasively damaging.
However. I do believe that behind the meaning of the word, and behind the significance of this day, there is the suggestion that we give careful thought to what we’re missing.
על חטא שחטאנו
על חטא שחטאנו
Another year has gone by.
What are we missing?
What are we missing because we are too busy?
What are we missing because we’re too afraid?
What are we missing because we’re too angry?
A few days ago one of my teachers, Yossi Klein Halevi, posted a video of a Moroccan Jewish prayer אל חי ומהולל בתשבחות el hay um’hulal batishbahot – "Living God Exalted in Praise." It starts slowly and builds to ecstatic heights. It speaks of the transition from exile to redemption, predicated upon our belief that God will not abandon us.
I find the final verse especially uplifting and I wish to offer it to all of us as a blessing. תורות סתומות נפתחות תימלא הארץ דעה Torot s’tumot niftahot. Timalei ha’aretz de’ah.
"Teachings/insights which were closed will be opened up. And the whole land will be filled with knowledge and understanding."
This is the cosmic, spiritual equivalent of cataract surgery for everyone. Seeing and experiencing more clearly and brightly.
This is the dream that we allow ourselves on Yom Kippur, a dream of what our lives would look like “without het,” if weren’t missing what we’re missing. Knowing that the day after Yom Kippur, we can wake up and take small steps toward that dream’s fulfillment.
So here’s the blessing:
Whatever has been closed to us – whatever we’ve been missing – that we’d like to experience in our lives. Whatever colors we haven’t seen brightly. Whatever connections we haven’t explored deeply. Whatever occasions we haven’t shared fully.
May we have the patience and the courage not to miss.
So that we can live life in emotional and spiritual Technicolor. So that de’ah - knowledge, understanding, true connection – can inhabit our lives and our land.
Originally delivered at Temple Israel of Great Neck on Yom Kippur 5778
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