The Essence of My Life’s Teachings: Why Be Jewish

I still remember sitting at High Holiday services with my family at Baltimore Hebrew Congregation exactly 50 years ago, on a beautiful fall day like today. It was Rosh Hashana, 1973. Knowing that I had just started my senior year of college and would graduate in the spring, I was overcome by the uncertainty of what the future would hold for me. I recall thinking: Who knows where I will be next year and what I will do after I graduate? 

I had not yet decided or even thought about becoming a rabbi. Having worked in Congressional offices on Capitol Hill and lobbying in Annapolis, our State Capitol, and on several election campaigns, my thoughts centered on the possibility of doing something in politics. That, or stand-up comedy. So naturally, I chose to become a rabbi. Actually it was the Yom Kippur War that broke out 10 days later that influenced my decision, but more about that on Yom Kippur.   

Here we are, some 50 years later, and this is the last Rosh Hashana when I will address you as the senior rabbi of Congregation B’nai Tzedek, the synagogue that Symcha and I first conceived of and then worked to create some 36 years ago with a handful of dedicated and devoted founding members. 

I do so, cognizant of the fact that I am not the only one retiring this year. Pat Sajak who has hosted “Wheel of Fortune” since 1981 has announced that this will be his last season hosting the game show. Last time I checked, Tom Brady was still retired. And while there may be those in public life who should think about retiring, but aren’t, Washington Nationals pitching ace Stephen Strassburg has announced he plans to retire, and he is only 35 years old! His announcement was accompanied by a number of articles touting his stats. 

It got me thinking about my stats – how many life cycle events and sermons I have given, how many weddings, namings, funerals and bar and bat mitzvahs I have done. Twice in my career, as my kids liked to say when they were little, I “hit for the cycle.” That was when I had a funeral, baby naming, unveiling and wedding on the same day. 

One time as I was on my way out the door to officiate at a wedding I told the kids that I was going to marry someone. They asked, “Does Mom know about this?” 

Over the past 36 years we have grown up and grown together, and we have grown older together. Everyone that is, except for Bruce Genderson, who hasn’t changed, and who still looks the same. 

When I first started my career as a rabbi, I was worried that perhaps I had trained for an obsolete career. I was haunted by the specter of the horrifying possibility of the diminution and disappearance of the Jewish people. That concern is part of what motivated me to decide to become a rabbi and to devote my life to the survival of the Jewish people. While this still worries me, now I fear that my profession may become obsolete, not because of threats to the survival of the Jewish people, but because of other changes in our world.

To illustrate my point, let me quote for you from a portion of a draft of the introduction to the sermon I worked on to prepare for this occasion, but decided not to use.   

As the golden hues of autumn begin to grace our surroundings, we find ourselves at the threshold of a momentous occasion—both in the tapestry of our congregation’s history and in the narrative of my own life’s work.

With a heart full of gratitude and a soul brimming with memories, I stand before you on this High Holiday season—a season of introspection, repentance, and renewal—to share not only the sacred teachings that have guided us through countless Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur observances but also to reflect on the profound privilege of serving as your rabbi for an awe-inspiring thirty-six years within these very walls, and a remarkable forty-five years within the broader tapestry of our faith community.

This season, as we delve into the words of Torah and open our hearts to the melodies of our tradition, I find myself humbled by the vastness of the journey we have traversed together. From the early days of my rabbinic service, when our congregation was just beginning to bloom, to the countless moments we’ve shared—of joy, sorrow, growth, and transformation—I am deeply honored to have been your spiritual companion through it all.

Not bad, right? It is lofty. Poetic. Inspiring – everything a sermon should be.

The only problem is – guess what? I didn’t write it. Although it may sound like something I could write and would write, I didn’t. Nor was it written by another rabbi. It was written for me by ChatGPT. In less than two minutes, AI, artificial intelligence wrote what usually takes me countless hours to do.

I could go on and deliver the rest of the sermon it composed for me, but that would not be authentic or honest, and I subscribe to the philosophy of the late comedian George Burns who once said, “Honesty is everything. If you can fake that, you’ve got it made.” 

The Torah I teach and preach must be genuine. It has always come from deep inside of me, and is the result of my life experiences and reflections, of how I think Judaism can shed light on how to process and respond to events that happen in our lives and world. 

The messages come from encounters and discussions with our members and my attempt to answer questions you have posed, or that I have grappled with. And it is based on my study and understanding of our tradition and sources.

So, no, I could never deliver a sermon I did not write. It would be disingenuous, which is why I will not read the rest of what AI wrote for me today.  Instead, I will save it for my final sermon in June.

The whole phenomenon of Artificial Intelligence, something which a year ago was little more than an obscure notion that seemed like the invention of futuristic science fiction writers, raises interesting and important questions about life and our future. These and other technological advances coupled with social media may lead us to wonder how can we know anymore what is authentic and real and what is not? How do these developments, which give us almost god-like powers have an impact on what it means to be human.

After all, among the earliest concepts expressed in the opening words of the Torah is that each and every human being is created b’tzelem Elohim, in the image of God. 

With modernity and the tide of progress marching and lunging forward at an increasingly accelerated pace, with technology threatening to dominate and control our lives, and with social media driving a greater wedge between people and rather than drawing us closer, instead, heightening our alienation from each other and amplifying bigotry and exacerbating, intensifying and spreading false information along with ugly discord and distrust, and with our politics being a tool of partisan divisiveness instead of unity, with all this as a backdrop, we come together on this Rosh Hashana, the anniversary of the Creation of the world. 

With all that is going on in our world, we are drawn to this sacred place on this sacred day, to set aside time, to deviate from our normal routines and to worship as a community, to renew our ties to our Creator, to our families and to each other, to recite eternal themes and ancient yet timeless prayers which affirm the dignity of human life and to connect and draw upon the wisdom that has guided and inspired Jews throughout the millennia.   

I still believe that religion and community are important, and that the sense of identity, purpose and values conveyed by our heritage by way of the synagogue have a significant role to play in helping us navigate today’s world and making us better people. And so we turn to the traditions that have served us well, that have been passed down to us by those who came before us. In fact, the Hebrew word for tradition is masoret, which comes from the word masor, meaning, to pass on, or transmit, from one generation to the next. 

At some point we may say or do something that our parents said or did, or take on some of their characteristics and traits that we swore we would never do. I recall a Doonesbury cartoon from a few years ago of someone listening to and enjoying Sinatra on his car radio. Suddenly he exclaims, “I can’t believe it. I have become my father.”

It happens to all of us. Not to worry. There is help. For anyone who has this problem, there is Dr. Rick, the fictitious life coach who appears in TV insurance commercials and conducts group therapy to prevent people from becoming their parents.  I love Dr. Rick and the good-natured humor in the ads featuring him. But I want to challenge the commercial’s basic premise that we need to be protected from becoming our parents.   

But I believe that this is precisely our responsibility as Jews — to maintain and preserve the traditions and customs of our parents and those who came before them, not to abandon them. 

Our journey through history is the story of being part of a proud chain of tradition stretching back to Abraham’s rejection of the society of his birth, and culminating in the wilderness of Sinai where we encountered the Holy One and entered into an eternal covenant as described and inscribed in the Torah. When I read the works our ancestors wrote and venerated, I marvel at the complex and profound philosophical concepts they debated, created and left for us. 

When I ponder the questions they asked which so often parallel our own contemporary doubts, when I see how advanced, sophisticated and humane their morals were, and pray the prayers they composed, I am connected to a brilliant heritage and to all those who came before me, to their ideas, ideals, hopes, dreams and faith. And I am the richer and wiser because of it. 

Over the centuries the prophets and rabbis, ancient and modern offered pithy concise summations of what they believed to be the essence of Judaism and what was to them its most important teaching. 

The Prophet Micah summed up what God asks of us, “Only to do justice, love mercy and to walk humbly with thy God.” Akiba consolidated Jewish teachings into three concise words “v’ahavta leraeyecha kamocha,” which means, “Love They Neighbor as Thyself”. Hillel famously taught that the main principle of Judaism is, “Do not do unto others what you would not want them to do to you.” 

There are numerous other sayings, in Pirke Avot and elsewhere, some of which contradict each other, such as Rabbi Tarfon’s comment that, “It is not study, but deed that is the main principle” which contrasts with Rabbi Akiba’s assertion that study is more important – because it leads to action. 

Perhaps this tendency to redact and offer aphorisms of wisdom summing up their teachings and to express what they believed to be the essence of Judaism may explain why the senior rabbi in my very first job as a rabbi, at Temple Beth Am in Miami, Florida told me that every rabbi really only has one sermon. 

At the time I thought that was boring, unrealistic, and actually kind of depressing. 

In preparing for this morning I looked back on the themes in the sermons I have delivered in years past to see if what he said is true. In reviewing them I see that I have addressed a number of topics.

Among the subjects I have spoken about are – How Jewish Wisdom can Help us Raise children and achieve a Work/life balance; Insights into Love, Marriage, Gossip, determining priorities, Tikun Olam, keys to Happiness and Success; What Judaism says about technology, aging, Cancel Culture, mysticism and spirituality, forgiveness and the meaning of life; the power of hope; How to cope with the pandemic, cancer, sorrow, loss and suffering; the efficacy of observing Shabbat and Jewish rituals, the Holocaust, faith, belief in God, and the role of prayer, the role of Jewish morals, ethics and values in our lives, our responsibility to care for the world and the environment, on being a part of the Jewish people, the importance of tzedekah, and of a Jewish education, the beauty of having a Jewish home, and the vision for the synagogue we have created. 

I have used contemporary references and social issues from the news or popular culture to shine light on how we may respond to the world around us. I have used sports references as a metaphor for life lessons, as well as themes from Broadway shows, such as “Who Am I?” from Les Miz, “Seasons of Love” from Rent to remind us that we have 525,600 minutes in a year, and the movie and song, “Yesterday” by the Beatles to reflect on today. 

Responses to anti-semitism, how “Fiddler on the Roof” reflects the archetypal foundational story of Jews in the modern era, and what I have learned from my travels to other Jewish communities around the world, to name just a few of the things I have spoken about in sermons I have given over the years. And oh yes, I also have spoken about Israel – a few times.

While I understood what the rabbi meant when he said that we each have one basic message, hearing the wide range of themes I have addressed, you can understand why I was skeptical about what he said. 

In retrospect, however, now that I have reviewed the High Holiday and weekly sermons I have written over the past 48 years, and reflect upon his observation, I realize he may have been right about there being an underlying theme which unites the various topics I have spoken about. 

If there is any one message that is the foundation, the core essence of my teaching, it would be to answer the question which confronts us modern Jews living in a free and open post-Enlightenment, post-Emancipation western society. That one theme which is at the heart of all of my sermons is the exhortation to be Jewish and to keep Judaism alive, as I attempt to explain and answer the fundamental question:….“Why Be Jewish?”

I have never taken for granted, or as a given, that people inherently understand or accept why they should be Jewish, which is why the underlying premise and meta-message I have tried to convey is the rationalization, justification and reward for being Jewish and how it provides meaning and enriches our lives.

This theme is manifested in my efforts to teach our history and instill a sense of pride in what we have given the world. I have sought to implant a desire to learn more and encouraged you to do more, to see and appreciate the beauty that comes from a life of meaning and purpose, a Jewish life. The passion that drives me today is the same passion and motivation I felt when I first decided to become a rabbi — to do whatever I can to keep Judaism alive and to encourage you to join that journey. It has not dimmed or diminished with the passing of time. 

The brilliant Rabbi Jonathan Sacks wrote, “One reason religion has survived in the modern world despite four centuries of secularization is that it answers the three questions every reflective human being will ask at some time in his or her life: Who am I? Why am I here? How then shall I live?”

He elaborates, “These cannot be answered by the four great institutions of the modern West: science, technology, the market economy and the liberal democratic state. Science tells us how, but not why. Technology gives us power, but cannot tell us how to use that power. The market gives us choices, but does not tell us which choices to make. The liberal democratic state as a matter of principle holds back from endorsing any particular way of life. The result is that contemporary culture sets before us an almost infinite range of possibilities, but does not tell us who we are, why we are here, and how we should live.”

Living a Jewish life, a life of purpose and of meaning is beneficial to you as an individual, to the entity known as the Jewish people, and the world. But it is not just an amorphous, fleeting, vague, ephemeral concept. It needs to be more than just a feeling or verbal expression. It must be lived. It must be practiced. It entails more than what we think or profess, but what we actually do. Simply put, observing and practicing Jewish rituals and customs is a crucial component of being Jewish. 

It is why I tell those who wish to convert to Judaism that being Jewish requires more than taking classes and reading books. It begins with study, but it is something that must be lived and put into action – on a personal level at home, in our daily lives, and as members of a community. 

Being Jewish requires living a Jewish life, which is why it has always been described as a way of life. Too many approach it as an extra-curricular activity to be squeezed into our schedules, as long as it doesn’t conflict with soccer or cheerleading practice. 

A number of years ago I suggested people ask themselves a series of questions as we face the New Year. Here is a new, updated version: 

Your children have seen you lift a cocktail glass. Have they seen you lift a kiddush cup?

They have seen you text. Have they ever seen you study a Jewish text?

Your children have seen you party. Have they seen you pray?

They have seen you play golf and make deals. Have they seen you make shabbat?

When they are required to come to shul to fulfill a bar mitzvah requirement do you come in and join them, or do you just drop them off? 

Your children have seen you shop. Have they seen you give tzedekah?

Your children have seen you wear costumes on Halloween, and party hats on New Year’s Eve. Have they seen you wear a tallis and tefillin?

They have seen you celebrate birthdays and anniversaries. Have they seen you celebrate Jewish holidays with them?

They have seen you cheer, stand and shout at ball games and concerts. Have they seen you rise to say kaddish to honor a parent who has died? 

You have taken them out of school to go on vacation. Have you taken them out of school to go to shul with them on a Jewish holiday?

I think about the journey many of our ancestors took when they left their homeland for this country, escaping persecution and oppression to come to the promise of America. 

I often think about the kinds of lives they lived, the sacrifices they made so we could live in freedom, and wonder what do we owe them? What of their traditions have we kept and what have we discarded? What would they say if they saw the way we live today? And what would we say to them?

Stuart Schoffman once compared Judaism to a rare family heirloom. Imagine if a violin had been “handed down in a family for centuries. Not every generation will have the talent or desire to play it, but no one would dream of selling or hocking it. You never know who might want to learn to play.” 

So to summarize the essence of my teachings of these past years it would be that we are those heirs who have been given a precious heirloom. We have a sacred obligation to previous generations, but perhaps even more, to those who come after us to uncover and discover its beauty and to perpetuate the precious heritage our ancestors preserved and transmitted to us.

To be perfectly honest, as I look back on my career and life work, if there is any area where I wish I would have been more successful, it is that I did not succeed in motivating more of our members to become more observant, and that I failed to increase Jewish observance and to build an observant community. 

Ah, but that is the beauty of Rosh Hashana. It offers us a new beginning, a chance to fulfill the promises we made or need to make. 

Our weekday morning prayers end with something called “Tahanun”, prayers of supplication which we do not say on Shabbat or holidays. The section concludes with the plea that always gives me pause, “Shomer Yisrael, shmor Shearit Yisrael: Guardian of the people Israel, guard the remnant of Israel, and let not the people who say, ‘Shma Yisrael’ perish. Guardian of this unique people, guard the remnant of that people, and let not the people who proclaim, ‘Adonai Eloheinu, Adonai Echad, the Lord our God, the lord is One’ perish.” It concludes, “Shomer Yisrael: Guardian of Israel, of this holy people, guard the remnant, and let not this holy people perish.”

On this Rosh Hashana, it is my fervent plea that we will each commit to do our part, to live our lives, so that each of us will learn to play the instrument and give voice to the melody of our people. 

I pray you will join me in exploring and deepening your commitment to the magnificent inheritance bequeathed to us. You will thereby have done your part, as shomrei shearit Yisrael, guardians of the remnant of the people Israel, a people we pray shall never perish, but shall, because of your efforts live on.