Rosh Hashanah Sermon by Rabbi David Baum 2024/5785
Have you ever heard of a 'Where were you when' moment? They are few and far between, which, most of the time, is a good thing. A 'where were you when' moment is a moment that society or culture experiences together. For example, someone born before 1963 could tell you where they were when astronauts landed on the moon. Someone my age can tell you exactly where they were when America was attacked on 9/11/2001.
Here's something interesting about 'where you when' moments: they are unique, and yet, they seem to happen in every generation, to every country, to every people. Sometimes, those moments are clear to everyone who experiences them, sometimes, the effects of these moments are not seen immediately, but years later. Nevertheless, the impact of these events, whether immediate or long term, change how we think about the world, ourselves, and the future.
As we think about these moments in our lives—some joyful, some tragic—we realize that they connect us across generations and across the world. October 7th became one of those moments for all of us. We were at shul, celebrating Simchat Torah, one of the most joyous days of the year. Simchat Torah is the true culmination of the end of the high holy days, the day when the gates of repentance truly close.
That day was a 'Yom Tov' for us, as Jews outside of Israel observe two days of Yom Tov, and for Israelis, it was a Shabbat after the long high holy day schedule. I do not need to rehash the horrors of that day. News started trickling into the sanctuary; and we knew that Simchat Torah could not continue on as planned. How can we dance when our people were literally being slaughtered? We began with a silent Hakafah - a dance with the Torahs in silence, and with tears.
Our people experienced more than a few 'where you were when moments' since last year's Rosh Hashanah. Where were you when you heard about the October 7th massacre and saw the horrific videos and pictures? Where were you when you heard the question in the Hall of Congress, "Does calling for the genocide of Jews violate your university's rules on bullying and harassment?" And the answer from three president's of the most prestigious universities in our nation answered, "It can be…depending on the context." Or, where were you when you experienced antisemitism for the first time in a long time, or ever. Where were you when you had to talk to your high schooler about what to say when the teacher puts a map of the Middle East on the wall and instead of Israel, you see the name Palestine.
Jewish history has many 'where were you when' moments, unfortunately, more tragic than joyous.
But in Judaism, we don't focus so much on the 'where you when' moments, rather, we focus on the 'hineini' moments. Hineini literally means “I am here”, but it really means, I am present, aware, and I am ready to respond.
Hineini moments are how one responds to the 'where were you when' moments of life.
In his book, Hineini In Our Lives, Dr. Norman Cohen writes, "There are many important terms and word-symbols in the Bible that represent essential themes or values. Some of these we all can call to mind, such as mitzvah (commandment), chesed (favor), and b'rit (covenant). However, no single word is more well known, important, or powerful than the simple word hineini. Only the word hineini is spoke out loud. It flows from the essence of the individuals who say it and teaches us much about who they are.”
When the word hineini is said by biblical characters or by God, it conveys three types of messages:
The ability to be present for and receptive to someone else,
the readiness to act on behalf of the other,
and, at times, Hineini indicates the willingness for one to sacrifice for someone or something higher.
The very first Hineini in the Torah is in the Binding of Isaac story, on Rosh Hashanah, today’s Torah reading.
Regardless of the type behind Hineini, Jews always respond.
Dr. Cohen writes, “Every moment of calling and response is a model for each of usWe are the Abrahams, the Moses, and the Samuels of our time, and we are challenged to hear the call and the cry as they did.”
The scenes we saw in the days after October 7th shook us to the core. It reminded us of the dark days of the pogroms in Russia, and the Shoah. A genocidal enemy, Hamas, succeeded in perpetrating the largest loss of Jewish life after the Holocaust. Hamas's plan was to flood Israel. They had plans to go to cities, and they thought the Arab world would answer the call and invade. Hamas was well aware of the divisions happening in Israel; they chose this time for a reason. They thought the nation would collapse upon itself.
But something interesting happened after October 7th, something Hamas did not account for: the Jewish people's Hineini response.
Israel's Hineini response came during the nation-wide protests over judicial reform. Some said civil war was imminent, and then, like a light switch, the country shifted from division to unity. The government failed the people on October 7th, but the people of Israel, the civilians of Israel, have started running the country, and still do today.
On the other side of the ocean, most of Jewish America found itself again. It is estimated that one billion dollars has been raised by the Jews of North America for Israel since October 7th. We are seeing the beginnings of an exciting revival in American Jewish life, what one study recently described as "an explosion in Jewish belonging and communal participation that is nothing short of historic."
And I believe it all started for us on on November 14, 2023, in Washington DC.
It took only 38 days for our Jewish community, a decentralized and loosely affiliated population of roughly 6 million in the U.S, to hold the largest Jewish gathering in American history in our nation's capitol. 300,000 people gathered for the March for Israel to raise awareness to and the demand the release of the more than 240 hostages still being held by Hamas at the time.
But just as we answered the call this year, so too did a previous generation.
I remember one 'Where were you when?' moment from my childhood: On December 6, 1987, my father traveled to Washington, D.C., to take part in the Save Soviet Jewry rally. At the time, I was just eight years old, but I remember my father, who hated leaving his house, let alone traveling out of Florida in the winter, went to our nation's Capitol for a rally.
For the next four years I looked at the pictures he brought back of him along with hundreds of thousands of other Jews flooding the National Mall to demand freedom for the Refuseniks, the Jews living in the Soviet Union under oppression who were denied permission to leave the country. It was one of the great lessons I learned from my father at a young age: Kol Israel Areivim Zeh BaZeh - Every Jew is responsible for one another, both in America and anywhere in the world.
Our family knew the consequences of Jewish silence in America in the face of Jewish suffering in Europe. During World War II in America, the Jewish community could not unite to speak with one voice about the atrocities perpetrated against our people at the hands of the Nazis. The largest protest to save European Jewry in Washington, DC, was two days before Yom Kippur in 1943. Four hundred rabbis marched to the White House to meet with then-President Franklin Roosevelt. He refused to meet with the delegation, infamously slipping out of the rear entrance of the White House. Forty-four years later, the organized Jewish community returned to Washington DC, but this time, 250,000 strong at the Save Soviet Jewry rally on December 7, 1987.
The rally, the brainchild of Natan Sharansky, the most famous of all the refuseniks, was planned for the day before a historic summit meeting at the White House between President Ronald Reagan and Mikhail Gorbachev, the leader of the Soviet Union.
By then, Natan Sharansky had spent nine years in a Moscow prison on charges of being an American spy until his release and emigration to Israel in February 1986. The rally of 250,000 became the largest protest on behalf of a Jewish cause ever in the United States. It led to a mobilization of the American Jewish community that crossed boundaries like no single cause could do before or after.
The next day, President Reagan pointed out to Gorbachev how large the rally had been to prove to Gorbachev that the issue was real and he wasn't making it up. The proof was the people who gathered on that day—we showed up at the right place and at the right time and answered, Here I am - Hineini.
Thirty-six years later, when we needed to stand up as a people for our people, would we be able to pull it off again?
The Save Soviet Jewry rally was the culmination of fifteen years of organized efforts, and Soviet Jewry was a much easier cause to rally around for Jews than an imperfect Israel today. Have you ever tried to get Jews to do anything, let alone drop their plans at the last minute, and come to DC from all over the country? I made a bet with a rabbi friend: over/under 200,000 people. I quickly took the under - I thought 150,000 people would come. Israel is not exactly the unifying cause it used it be amongst Jews in the U.S. I have to say, I've never been more happy to lose a bet.
As I walked the National Mall with my son, I couldn’t help but think of my father. Thirty six years earlier, he stood in this very place, answering the call for Soviet Jewry. And here I was, a generation later, with my son by my side, standing for Israel. This is the cycle of Jewish responsibility—Kol Yisrael Areivim Zeh BaZeh—each generation standing up for the next
My son and I flew up, and we planned to meet up with congregants and fellow community members from our South Palm Beach Federation, but when we arrived at the National Mall, none of our cell phones worked! Luckily, we found a group from CSK, and we made our way in. Thankfully, one of our teens, Owen Abrams, kept pushing us forward in the standing-room-only crowd. At one point, I told him I wouldn't budge anymore, sandwiched between a grandmother from Teaneck screaming at her husband and a Yeshiva boy from Monsey asking me if I had put on Tefillin yet. But Owen said, trust me, just a little further. And he was right: there was a huge open space near the front of the stage; it was like a miracle!
The speakers were inspiring, but one speaker in particular was especially moving: Natan Sharansky, the architect of the Save Soviet Jewry Rally. Thirty-six years ago, Natan Sharansky stood at the forefront of the fight for Soviet Jewry. And there he was again, in 2023, standing before us as a symbol of Jewish courage and perseverance. It was as if time had folded in on itself—one generation's hero becoming the voice of a new generation's struggle.
After he spoke, he stood behind a steel barrier in my eyesight. I couldn't help myself and yelled out, "Natan! Can we take a picture with you!" He looked around and said, "Sure, why not?" He joined us on the other side of the barrier, and I introduced him to my son, who said, "I wrote a paper about you in Judaics class!"
And I told him that it was an honor to meet him, and that my father was here for his rally years ago and that's one of the reasons I'm here today.
Later on, during the rally, some musicians led us in singing a song that crossed Jewish boundaries and oceans and became the song of the moment.
The name of the song is Acheinu—our brethren. The words are old, found in the world’s oldest siddur. It's been recited at different parts of the service. It's just 36 words.
“Our brethren, the whole house of Israel, who are in distress or in captivity — who stand either in the sea or on dry land — may the Omnipresent have mercy on them and take them out from narrowness to expanse, and from darkness to light, and from oppression to redemption, now, swiftly, and soon!”
At its core, the prayer is a plea to God to have mercy on captives and free them, taking them from "narrowness to expanse, and from darkness to light, and from oppression to redemption." It is our story from the darkness of slavery in Egypt, like in the Hagadah when we speak about moving from darkness to light, to the darkness we've seen throughout Jewish history until today.
The request is simple: "God, please bring home the captives. Just as our ancestors were redeemed from Egypt, may they journey from darkness to light—right now."
The words are old and eternal, but the tune you've heard all year is new. It was written 35 years ago by an Orthodox Jewish musician, Abie Rotenberg. The song was released shortly before the first Gulf War, and Rotenberg noticed it was gaining popularity as people in Israel were buying gas masks, fearing chemical weapons attacks. And here we were, during another dark moment, and yet, I wasn't filled with despair, rather, I was filled with hope.
The main theme of this holiday is Teshuvah, or return. I've seen Jews of all kinds return to Judaism and the Jewish community.
I saw Jewish community that was so divided on Israel, come together. Left-wing Jewish groups were at the rally, some choosing to stand within the rally in a peace bloc; gay Jews, Hassidic Jews, Jews from around the country, religious and secular, were together.
It felt like Sinai.
Young Jewish students locked arms as the artist sang, and my son and I joined in with them. And we sang those words, but to a different tune, written for a different time, and yet, it was so familiar.
It was a feeling of unity that I've rarely felt before, a unity for the people around us and for the people who stood in that same spot in 1987.
What struck me about being there was everyone felt proud to be Jewish - they didn't have to hide their kippot, to hide their identity. I was reminded of that moment many months later, after a rough year of being Jewish in the public square, when I went to my son's school open house for the first time at his public school. When I was a student at a public high school, I never wore a kippah. Now, as a parent, I was returning, and no one would know who I was. Kippah on or off? Kippah off would have been so much easier.
But something interesting happened when I wore my kippah—a woman came up to me frantically asking, "Where are all the Jews?!?"
My answer: "It depends. Who's asking?"
She was a Jewish Israeli woman, and her daughters were attending public school for the first time, and she was scared for them. I told her about the Jewish Student Union club, gave her my phone number, and said, "Call me any time; your children will not be alone."
Wearing my kippah that night was more than just a personal statement—it became a lifeline for someone else. It was a reminder that when we show up as Jews in the world, we aren't just showing up for ourselves; we are showing up for each other. But here's the thing: I wasn't unsafe, I was uncomfortable. In this case, the result was positive… this time. There’s no guarantee that it will always be. Saying Hineini, answering the call, isn’t always easy, and yet, we have no choice but to respond.
Before October 7th, wearing a Star of David or a kippah on a college campus might have felt uncomfortable, but it didn’t necessarily feel unsafe. Now, the lines are blurrier, and we have to carefully assess where that line between discomfort and danger lies.
But at this moment, we have to ask ourselves, what is the line between safety and discomfort? Because when it's merely discomfort, that’s exactly the time to say Hineini, I am here, with pride, because it’s in those moments that our response through our visibility matters most. When we live openly as Jews, especially when it feels uncomfortable, we send a message: to the world, to our fellow Jews, and to ourselves.
The Holocaust surivivor and world renowned Psychologist Dr. Viktor Frankl famously said, “Between stimulus and response there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom.”
Hineini, here I am, is our response, if we choose it. Our tradition teaches us, In a place where there are no mensches, strive to be a mensch.
Today, as we stand here on Rosh Hashanah, I ask you to consider your own 'Hineini' moment. How will you respond to the challenges and discomforts that lie ahead? Will you hide your Jewish star in your shirt, or will you wear it proudly, knowing that your presence as a Jew in the world may be the lifeline for someone else?
The Jewish people have never shied away from standing up for one another, even in the face of great discomfort. We’ve done it time and again, from Abraham at the Akeidah to Moses at the burning bush to our ancestors in the Soviet Union, to those of us who stood in Washington just months ago, and for all of us here today.
Let us commit today to showing up—Hineini. Let us choose discomfort when it is the right thing to do. Let us stand with each other, and may we move from darkness to light, from narrowness to expansiveness, from oppression to redemption.
Shanah Tovah—may this year be one where we answer the call together, where our discomfort leads to growth, and where our 'Hineini' moments make a difference."
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