EREV ROSH HASHANAH 5785 GRS INSULATION 

‘Well? What is it this year?’ The High Holydays have always been a time of anxiety for me. In my early days, as a rabbi who’d just removed his ‘L’ plates, I was rabbi of Birmingham Progressive Synagogue. It was a congregation that included a number of GPs among its membership. Every year, as Rosh ha-Shanah approached, they would meet me at the door of the synagogue and ask ‘Well? What is it this year?’ I’d always have some physical condition – flu symptoms, a bad back, an upset stomach, some ailment or other often needing prescribed medication to treat it – only for whatever it was to miraculously disappear with the final shofar blast at the end of Yom Kippur. Twenty-five years ago, I actually collapsed right here on Yom Kippur afternoon as a result of the antibiotics prescribed for that year’s illness that I’d continued taking on an empty stomach – and it was the then chair of the Glasgow New Synagogue, Valerie Cram, who revived me.

Now we’re the Glasgow Reform Synagogue and I am a reformed – and much older – rabbi who has been fortunate enough to return to it. There is still anxiety in the build-up to these special days – and I’m convinced I’ll still mess up the Kol Nidrei next Friday night – but in recent years it doesn’t seem to have affected me in quite the same way that it used to.

But the anxiety I am feeling this year comes from a very different place. The celebration of Simchat Torah is a joyful occasion that officially marks the end of the chaggim, when we leave the month of Tishri behind and there’s nothing on the horizon until Chanukkah two months later. It’s a time for rabbis – well, this one anyway – to retreat, to take time out to recuperate from the manifestations – psychosomatic or otherwise – of the autumn anxiety that is an occupational hazard and begin the countdown to the next High Holydays. Indeed, it’s been a long countdown – thanks to the vagaries of the Jewish calendar, it’s been almost a full year since last Simchat Torah which fell, as I’m sure you don’t need to be reminded, on October 7 th 2023.

On October 8 th 2023, I took my traditional post-High Holyday leave and travelled to Argyll, seeking to escape not only from the stresses of the Jewish holidays but also from the horrors of what had just happened – and continues to happen – in the Middle East. And, as you know, it got worse. Even before Israel responded, there were reactions that foreshadowed the anti-Semitism that would follow. And after that response, that often imperceptible line between protesting about the actions of the Israeli government crossed with alarming ease into more generalised manifestations of anti-Semitism. With people on the streets of Western countries expressing sympathy for the brutal actions of Hamas and crying ‘globalise the intifada’, the thought of avoiding the world and remaining in my haven in Argyll seemed very appealing last October.

But I had to return to Glasgow, to this pulpit and try to find words and prayers to help you – to help me, to help all of us – try to find a way through the carnage in the Middle East and the bewildering messages from our streets and university campuses. And I struggled to find those words. I gave Thoughts for the Day on BBC Radio Scotland that talked about peace, I occasionally wrote sermons addressing the situation and pleading for some nuance to be introduced into dangerously polarised debates, I wrestled with my conscience while watching seemingly ceaseless images of destruction in Gaza and terrifying anti-Jewish sentiments being expressed on our streets.

But still I am unable to find words with which to console myself and you, my congregation, when we are confronted daily with news reports and images of the hatred and destruction bringing pain and fear, grief and anxiety into all but the hardest of hearts. And hearts are hardening in the Middle East, across the entire world – the drowning out of voices of reason and appeals for peace and conciliation is a further source of agony and despair.


So what is it this year? It would seem at this late stage of my career that the arrival of the High Holydays no longer inflicts me with some psychosomatic, anxiety induced malady. Mind you, perhaps the cough from which I’ve been suffering since the start of July is a new variant of my old autumn habit… But anxious or not, I owe it to you and to myself to seek to offer a way through the horrors of the past 360 days. I don’t think I’ve done a very good job so far. Every Shabbat morning service since October 7 th last year has begun with a prayer asking God to bring a swift end to the conflict and that ‘acts of violence and bloodshed be replaced with words and acts of conciliation.’ Every Shabbat morning service since October 7 th last year has included a prayer for the release of the hostages. As we approach October 7 th this year, those words have, thus far, been in vain. There are still over a hundred hostages who remain in Gaza and the acts of violence and bloodshed have not only continued, they have increased. What are we to do as the anniversary of the horrific events of October 7 th 2023 approaches? And what can the Glasgow Reform Synagogue and its rabbi offer to this congregation amid this maelstrom of violence and prejudice, hostility and fear?

I could suggest that you turn to BBC iPlayer and watch the documentary about the Nova festival where so many peace-loving young people celebrating joyfully ended up as victims of the attack from Gaza, with its footage of the attacks captured on mobile phones and the body cameras of the Hamas attackers. I could encourage you to attend the Memorial Evening in Glasgow next Monday which includes a video presentation in which ‘some of the images may be distressing.’ For my part, I’ve seen enough distressing images in the last 360 days. I think we have all learned in the past year just how brutally human beings can treat one another, how much indiscriminate violence can be heaped upon innocent civilians, how much prejudice and hatred dwells just below the surface of our supposedly civilised societies. I’m not sure what the benefit might be of continuing to remind ourselves of this by viewing it over and over.

And then I found myself next to a van with a distinctive logo while waiting at traffic lights. It said, in bright green lettering, GRS INSULATION. Subsequent online research revealed, not surprisingly, that this is a Glasgow-based in company that provides insulation. It is not clear what the GRS stands for – I don’t think it has anything to do with us.So what can I offer? A few days ago I took a brief weekend trip to the haven to which I had retreated last October. Driving there, my thoughts turned to the question of what to say on this Rosh ha-Shanah, asking what, to repeat my question, can the Glasgow Reform Synagogue and its rabbi offer to this congregation amid this maelstrom of violence and prejudice, hostility and fear?

But it has offered me a metaphor for what this synagogue, this community of Reform Jews, can be for. In a terrifying world that leaves us feeling vulnerable and helpless, we need a place where we can come to insulate us from the horrors of what is happening in the world beyond these walls. I mentioned the prayers that are offered here every week asking for peace and for the release of the hostages and how they have not affected anything in the situation they seek to address. But they affect us: they remind us of our obligation to seek peace even when it seems so distant, of our human connection with the hostages – and all the innocents who continue to suffer. Yes, we utter these words in the safety of this community, in a society which, for now at least, protects us. But by speaking such thoughts aloud, we remind ourselves of humanity’s potential and its yearning: to live in peace and harmony on this planet, respecting it and its inhabitants. How much poorer would the world be if there were no times and places where such thoughts were expressed and prayers uttered? What would become of us if we either applauded the violence or simply ignored it because it was too overwhelming for us? It may evoke different responses from us, ranging from a desire for peace to calls for revenge. How each individual responds is up to them. But respond we must.


So maybe this year’s anxiety isn’t about whether my sermons will go down well or if people will bring the right prayer book with them tomorrow. It’s a real fear about the world we are in, the dangers we face as human beings and as Jews. I think we all feel that to an extent. A world where so many are cowering in fear, waiting for the next violent manifestation of the hatred that in these days seems to characterise so much of our dealings with our fellow human beings. A world where so many innocent men, women and children cower in terror, waiting for the next explosion or the siren warning of one: hideous messengers of death carried on howling winds of hate. A world where any vision of our shared humanity is obscured by the violent desire for retribution and revenge


We need a refuge from what is happening in this world. We need to find a place where we can tap into the faith that has sustained humanity and, in particular, our people through the ages. Here, in this building, in this Reform Jewish community, here at GRS, we can create such a place. A place that is insulated from the brutal realities and seeming despair of the world out there. We can and must create a haven, a place of safety where we can gather and remind ourselves of the far too many times in human history when innocents have suffered the brutality and violence that are a consequence of our inability to live together on this precious planet.


We can create hope, that most precious and essential human commodity. The belief that things can and must get better. GRS INSULATION. We cannot shut ourselves off from the cruelty of this world. But we must seek ways, find opportunities, create spaces where we can remember who we are and what we have the potential to become.


There are different ways to remind ourselves of this. You may choose to mark the anniversary of October 7 th by attending the anniversary presentation with its distressing images. You may decide to watch the documentary about the Nova festival, which, despite its unspeakable horror, offers a message of hope. You could take part in the GRS venture at 6pm on Monday 7 th October, where you are invited to join other members of this community online to light a memorial candle in your own home. Candles for this are available in the foyer; details in the newsletter you received this morning.


Whether we choose to attend presentations, watch videos or light candles is just a detail. What matters most is that we do not give up hope. Here in this building, in this congregation, insulated from the horrors of the world outside, we can and we must retain the belief that things can improve. My plea to you this Rosh ha-Shanah – and to myself – is that we use GRS, this place of insulation, of protection, as somewhere to come to seek comfort in an uncomfortable world, to find peace in a world so bereft of it, and to share in a vision of hope for the better future humanity so deserves and has the potential to achieve. Amen.

YOM KIPPUR MORNING 5785: RIGOROUS KINDNESS

Im ein ani li mi li If I am not for myself, who will be for me? U-ch’she-ani l’atzmi, ma ani? But if I am only for myself, what am I? These words of Rabbi Hillel from over 2,000 years ago have something to tell us today. It took me some time to understand what Hillel actually meant and it was only when I was half listening to the safety announcement on an aeroplane before take-off that it dawned on me. ‘If there is a loss of pressure in the cabin,’ went the announcement, ‘oxygen masks will fall from above you. Always fit your own mask before helping anyone else.’


That was the key. I won’t be able to help anyone else until my mask is fitted. I have to look after myself, take responsibility for myself first. Those who were here at Rosh ha-Shanah will, I hope, recall a different metaphor I used that morning: GRS Insulation. I proposed the idea that this synagogue, GRS, should provide for us all some kind of insulation from, protection against, the bitterness of the outside world. And how bitter the world has become since we gathered here last Yom Kippur.


On Rosh ha-Shanah morning, in place of a sermon I gave everyone in the congregation the opportunity to have a conversation with other members around them, sharing with them something sweet that they were looking forward to in the coming year. This was intended to do more than just save me having to write a few hundred words and you having to listen to them. It was a genuine exercise in encouraging all of us to create and to recognise the potential of community and how that can bring us together and offer us a place to share sweetness and hope. That is the insulation GRS can provide for us; this is the strength we need to help us through these dark times. Many who were present last Thursday fed back to me about the uplifting atmosphere that was generated that morning, the sense of hope that accompanied us as we left this place.


So should I take up the suggestion of one member who appreciated the opportunity to have such conversations with other members of the congregation and invite you to repeat the exercise this morning? After almost forty years of writing Yom Kippur sermons, the idea of simply letting you all talk to each other has some appeal. How good it would be to be able to recreate that atmosphere of shared hope and leave here with a recognition of how we can support one another as a community. At the risk of mixing my metaphors, it could be said that on Rosh ha-Shanah we put on a collective oxygen mask, looking after ourselves despite what the outside world was throwing at us.


But that was before the anniversary of October 7 th. Since that fateful date less than a week ago, we have witnessed in this very city a manifestation of anti-Semitism, when a vigil of prayer and remembrance was assailed by what can only be described as a group of hooligans issuing a barrage of hateful abuse and vitriol, trying to drown out words of prayer and calls for peace. We definitely needed our collective oxygen mask on that occasion; we were obliged to look after ourselves. And we still do: this is a dangerous and difficult world for us.


But then comes the second part of Hillel’s statement: ‘But if I am only for myself, what am I?’ Is it enough just to look after ourselves, seek comfort as a Jewish community supporting each other as we did here on Rosh ha-Shanah? If we are only for ourselves, what are we? What is required of this community – of any Jewish community and, indeed of people the world over is more than just words. We need actions. On Rosh ha-Shanah we shared with each other the sweet things that await us in the year ahead, reminding ourselves and one another of how much there is in our lives to appreciate and cherish, that can hold at bay the bitterness that assails us beyond the insulation of these walls. And having recognised how much goodness there is in our lives, the next step, I believe, is to endeavour to share that goodness, to bring it into the lives of others – our families, our community, our country and our world. We shared words about sweetness. Now we need to focus on, we need to celebrate and acknowledge the kindnesses we already share as members of a caring community. We should seek ways to continue to bring that kindness to the wider world even when faced with hostility from it.

 

Here’s one of those cute stories that turn up on Facebook every now and then.


‘There is a little coffee shop, where two people arrive and approached the counter.
“Five coffees please. Two for us and three hanging.”
They paid, they took their two coffees and left.
I asked the waiter. “What’s this about hanging coffees?”
“Wait and you’ll see.”
Some more people came in.
Two girls asked for a coffee each, they paid & left.
The following order was for seven coffees and it was made by three women – ‘three for them and four hanging coffees.’
I was left wondering…what is the meaning of the hanging coffees, they leave.
Then, a man dressed in worn clothes, who looks like he might be homeless, arrives at the counter and asks sincerely…
“Do you have a coffee hanging?”
“Yes we do, sir.”
They serve him a coffee…. I got my answer.
People pay in advance for a coffee that will be served to whoever can’t afford a hot drink.
This tradition started in Naples.
Amazingly, it has spread throughout the world’s cities and towns.
It’s also possible to order not only “hanging coffees” but also a sandwich or a full low cost meal.
Wouldn’t it be great if we could all start doing this in the cities and towns where we live?
Small kindnesses like this can impact so many lives, in ways we could never imagine.’


Every day, every situation, every encounter is a possibility to manifest kindness. Giving up your seat in a train to a person who is older or less mobile than you. Helping a young parent struggling with their baby carrier. Just smiling at people in the street instead of staring into the middle distance, studiously avoiding them. Such acts of kindness can seem to be the exception in our society, but they stand in stark contrast to the selfishness and greed, the arrogant and immoral wielding of power and acquiring of wealth that pervade our society at every level.

Random acts of kindness… But suppose it wasn’t just random? Suppose it became an integral part of our lives to look for as many ways as possible to share kindness? A conscious and deliberate effort to bring kindness into our communities, onto our streets, into the lives of all those with whom we have the opportunity to connect, and whom we so often pass wordlessly by? We can bring kindness into our world just as we shared our visions and hopes of sweetness in this place a week ago. We can and we should seek to extend that awareness of the good things in our personal lives into the lives of those with whom we come into contact. But not just randomly. It can and it should be a deliberate and focused effort to improve the lives of those around us, an integral part of how we face the world.

Imagine, then, if this conscious and deliberate effort to be kind were rigorously applied at every level in our lives. In public spaces people treat one another with courtesy and respect instead of endlessly hurrying about our daily tasks. Where we engage with those with whom we disagree in thoughtful debate to address our differences civilly rather than shouting cliched slogans and waving banners in each other’s faces, like the anti-Semitic abuse that was hurled at the vigil last weekend? Where political leaders demonstrate and embody compassion rather than contempt, look for conciliation rather than confrontation. How could our world be if kindness were to be rigorously applied at every level in this way?


Is this about God? Not really – it’s actually about us. There is a famous story told in Chasidic literature that addresses this very question.


The Master teaches the students that God created everything in the world to be appreciated, since everything is here to teach us a lesson.


One clever student asks “What lesson can we learn from atheists? Why did God create them?”


The Master responds “God created atheists to teach us the most important lesson of them all – the lesson of true compassion. You see, when an atheist performs an act of charity, visits someone who is sick, helps someone in need, and cares for the world, he is not doing so because of some religious teaching. He does not believe that God commanded him to perform this act. In fact, he does not believe in God at all, so his acts are based on an inner sense of morality. And look at the kindness he can bestow upon others simply because he feels it to be right.”


“This means,” the Master continued “that when someone reaches out to you for help, you should never say ‘I pray that God will help you.’ Instead for the moment, you should become an atheist, imagine that there is no God who can help, and say ‘I will help you.’”


So where is God in all this? How about this? Some years ago I wrote a book about God. I decided to call one of the chapters ‘Is God a Verb?’. I even wanted to make that the title of the book until research revealed that there were already at least three other books in the world with that title. I think it’s a powerful and maybe helpful concept of God. God’s influence on the world can become real through our behaviour; in the things we do in and with our lives. True spiritual awareness manifests itself in dedication to improving the lot of other people in whatever context. This view, that God is in what we do and how we treat others, offers a very different – and very profound – understanding of the Divine.


So when I talk about ‘bringing God into our lives’, I don’t mean saying more prayers or observing more Jewish rituals. That has value of course, but only if it encourages us to go out into the world and demonstrate attitudes and behaviour that make God real in acts of kindness at every level of those lives. Not acts of random kindness but acts of rigorous kindness: a deliberate effort to have a positive impact on other people and on the world rather than just an occasional smile or hanging cup of coffee.


So here is my plea for these High Holydays, for the coming year. In this community, let us do, as we did on Rosh ha-Shanah morning, look for the sweet things in our lives and be sure to appreciate them as a way of insulating ourselves against the bitterness of the outside world. And let us, as I am asking today, do our utmost to bring kindness into that world, to ‘do God’ if you like, in a way that envisages God as being present in our acts of kindness and compassion. Let us, in the words of the poet Robert Nathan, do what we can to bring light into a darkening world:


God of pity and love, return to this earth.
Go not so far away, leaving us to evil.
Return, O God, return. Come with the day.

Come with the light, that we may see once more

Across this earth’s uncomfortable floor

The kindly path, the old and loving way.

Let us not die of evil in the night.
Let there be God again. Let there be light.


Let there be God again. Let do what we can to bring God back into this godless, frightening, bitter world. Im ein ani li, mi li? We must look after ourselves first and foremost, protect ourselves from the bitter outside world by reminding ourselves of the potential for sweetness in our community. U-ch’she-ani l’atzmi, mah ani? But what good is it just looking after ourselves? The world needs looking after; it is too full of people who are content just to satisfy their own requirements without thinking of others. We need more kindness, not just randomly but rigorously.


Hillel’s saying concludes ‘V’im lo achshav, eimatai?’ ‘And if not now, when?’ The world needs change now. In the coming year let us be the agents of that change. Now. Let us remember the sweet things in our lives and let us rigorously seek to bring kindness once more across this earth’s uncomfortable floor. Let there be light. And let us be among those who bring it to our world. Amen.