The Complete Jew -- Kol Nidre, 9/23/58

Like many rabbis, I’m sure, my father’s summers were focused in large part on preparing for the High Holy Days. For many years Rabbi Sidney Ballon’s summers were ideally suited for this as he acted as chaplain at a Boy Scout Camp in the Catskill Mountains[i], far removed from the daily grind of suburban New York. There, most of each week was devoted to leisurely reading the stack of scholarly books that he had brought with him. Even when he was not sequestered at camp, the summer provided more time for the scholarly pursuits he valued so highly and refers to in the sermon below. 

With so much attention placed on the four big sermons of Rosh Hashanah evening and morning, and Yom Kippur evening (Kol Nidre) and morning, Rabbi Ballon strived to make them his very best. Therefore, it is understandable that of the many hundreds of sermons in his archives a high proportion of those that I feel compelled to share with others were delivered at one of these services. With this posting we begin a string of such sermons that I will offer every other week right through Yom Kippur of this year. This sermon emphasizes two important traditional Jewish values—study and charity—and concludes with a parable that I heard him share on many occasions and that has always meant so much to me that I have shared it with others many times over the years. Evidenced in his use of the parable is a measure of the humility with which Sidney Ballon led his life.  

And now as I conclude may I say that very often after a sermon of a somewhat personal nature as this, there are people who turn to their neighbor and say, "That was good. He certainly gave it to them." The truth is, however, I did not give it to them. I give it to you and I gave it to myself.

====================================================

In the traditional prayer book for this most solemn occasion of Yom Kippur Eve, the Kol Nidre service begins with the statement, "In the heavenly court and in the court on Earth with the permission of God and the permission of this congregation, we give leave to pray with transgressors." Our reform prayer book has left these words out, and I wonder if it was not because some editors with a sense of humor thought to themselves, "Who else is there that we can pray with, if not with transgressors?" Judaism believes that only God is perfect, and people being what they are, all fall short of the ideal somewhere along the line. “No man liveth that sinneth not.[ii]” If we were to try to organize for prayer this evening a congregation of Jews without any failings, we surely would not be able to get a minyan[iii] together, and I venture to confess not even a rabbi to lead them.

Judaism tells us that the perfect man does not exist, but this is not to say that we as individuals have a right to take refuge in this thought and thus excuse ourselves for anything that we may do that is short of the ideal. Even as we recognize the inevitability of human failings, we nevertheless, are obligated to reproach ourselves for the failures and to improve ourselves as much as we possibly can. Yom Kippur asks us to make honest confession. Our prayer book, particularly in the passage Al Chet Shechatanu[iv], lists the sins of which frail man may easily find himself guilty. I should like to spend a few minutes with you in this Yom Kippur spirit, but I shall dwell not on Al Chet Shechatanu, on the sins we have committed, but rather Al Hamitzvos[v], on virtues that we have turned away from and should be striving to fulfill.

Several years ago a sociological study of the Jew of the towns of Eastern Europe was published under the title of Life is With People. A comment in this book tells us that "the word Yiddishkeit—Jewishness—carries, as an aura, the veneration of learning, [and] the acceptance of obligation..." Here, indeed, are two characteristic Jewish virtues, which we Jews in modern times ought to be more concerned with. In days gone by, a man's rating as a Jew approximated his rating as a Jewish scholar. A Jew without learning was an incomplete Jew, and if a Jew was not learned himself, he at least had a healthy respect for those who were. Many factors entered into determining the social status of the Jew, but the more removed he was from Jewish learning, the more prost—ordinary—he was considered. Wealth was not despised—our people admired success in business—but the primary value in Jewish life was learning. Highly respected Jews in the world of Eastern Europe were known as Shayneh Yiden—beautiful Jews. When someone said of another, “Er is a shayneh yid,” it was a supreme compliment. It involved a beauty which did not depend on physical appearance, but on inner content. Men of learning were automatically classified as shayneh yiden, if they didn't have a dollar. Men of money might attain the same classification, but then it did not come automatically because they had money. It depended entirely on how the money was used. If a man did not have learning, he at least had to spend his money in accordance with the ideals of the Torah which was the object of learning, and he had to live in accordance with its teaching. Men of learning were treated with derech eretz[vi]. Men of learning were listened to in matters of Jewish content, of community life, or even of politics, and their advice was sought out.

Today I am afraid that some of the same anti-intellectualism that has infected the general community, the same disparagement of eggheads[vii], has to a great extent infected Jewish life as well. We live today in an environment which glorifies the business world, and worships the dollar. To acquire wealth, rather than knowledge, is the ideal toward which we strive and if knowledge is acquired, its value is judged by how much income it will ultimately produce. This attitude, unfortunately, has serious byproducts. It influences our efforts in Jewish education with respect to our children, and it causes us to neglect our own adult Jewish development. We are satisfied today, most of us, with altogether too little in the way of Jewish knowledge for our children, and the smattering of education we do give them must not conflict with the convenience of the mother, the whims of the child, nor with a hundred other outside interests the child is involved in. As for adults, Jewish learning is for the rabbis, and rabbis are impractical people whom everybody asks in amazement, "What was it that made you want to be a rabbi?" And even learning in rabbis is not altogether appreciated in the congregation of today. Although many duties are imposed on the rabbi, few people are concerned whether he has time to fulfill the duty to study, and if he takes the time to do so, he is often considered to be taking advantage of the congregation.

I think it fitting, my friends, to remind ourselves on this night of Yom Kippur that on the scale of Jewish values, a man is measured by his mind and his heart, and not the bulk of his pocket; and one of the virtues of the good Jew is a proper appreciation of intellectual attainment and a proper regard for those positions in Jewish life which implies such attainment.

The other quality of a complete Jew that we previously mentioned was the acceptance of obligation. In the Jewish home of Eastern Europe, as described in Life is With People, there was always a collection of tsedoko[viii] boxes in which at appropriate times coins might be dropped. Some of these boxes survived even in this country and perhaps even within your own memory. In times of joy and times of sorrow, particularly before the lighting of the Sabbath candles—now too often a forgotten art—an offering was placed in these boxes which ultimately found itself used to help the poor, to support the synagogue and yeshivos,[ix] to build the Holy Land. Even the poor who receive charity were, according to the Shulchan Aruch,[x] expected to give to others out of what they received themselves. The Jew was helped to give this tsedoko graciously because he was more conscious in those days of the Jewish philosophy of life. It is a philosophy that teaches us that whatever we have is not ours. We find it in our Union Prayer Book for the Sabbath in the words, "We are but stewards of whatever we possess.... May we never forget that all we have and prize is but lent to us, a trust for which we must render account to Thee." Even the wealthiest is not to be smugly self-satisfied with his own achievements. Material possessions are acquired with the help of God and with the will of God, and still belong to God; and it is our obligation to give back in humbled appreciation at least a portion of what is after all not really ours. This is the Jewish spirit.

Our society today is not geared to the tin box type of tsedoko. Our social organization is much more complex than it was in the towns of Eastern Europe, but the principle endures. It is still our obligation to share humbly for the purpose of helping our fellowman and advancing Jewish causes. The box for the poor has grown into the Federation of Jewish Philanthropies. The box for the Holy Land has grown into the United Jewish Appeal. The box for the synagogues and yeshivos has grown into temple dues and contributions to our national religious institutions such as the Union of American Hebrew Congregations[xi] and the Hebrew Union College.[xii] Of course there are many other community causes that might be mentioned, but how many of us, in this land of wealth, manage to lose ourselves in the crowd? Perhaps we cannot contribute significantly to every appeal that comes our way, but we might very well ask ourselves on this holy night, "Have we assumed our fair share of the burden? Have we approach the ancient biblical prescription for tithing—the giving of one-tenth of one's income back to God? Have we demonstrated to proper degree that we have a social conscience?"

Tonight it is perhaps appropriate to add an extra word about our own synagogue. As you entered this evening your eye undoubtedly caught the display which demonstrates what is being proposed by our architects with regard to the new temple we have been planning for so long. I ask you tonight, my friends, do you really want this temple? Of course, if you are at all interested in serving the Jewish community adequately, you do. Of course, if you are at all concerned about our poor school and teenage facilities and the consequent problems, you do. Of course, if you want a house of worship that will indeed be invested with beauty and sanctity, you do. But you will have to remember that it must take effort and sacrifice, that we must all participate according to our abilities and cannot wait for others to do it for us. Temples are not built by people who abdicate their responsibilities, who are offended when the officers who do their work for them remind them of their obligations. Temples are also difficult to maintain when Jews come to them only when the children are of the right age, or when they are in for a bar mitzvah and out right afterwards. If a congregation is to be here when you "need" it, it has to be maintained at all times. If the religious training you give your child is to be meaningful, you must demonstrate its meaningfulness by your own loyalty before and after the formal education of your child. The sage Hillel, in the Sayings of the Fathers,[xiii] said "Do not withdraw thyself from the congregation.” The good Jew, the complete Jew, heeds very seriously this ancient admonition.

There is yet one more virtue that I want to consider with you this evening, and if I need any excuse for selecting this particular one above all other possibilities, other than the fact that my mood impels me to do so, I can find it also in the Sayings of the Fathers. There we find the words of Shammai,[xiv] "Set a fixed time for the study of Torah, say little and do much, and receive all men with cheerful countenance (1:15)." The first two parts of this statement are in the very same spirit as my previous remarks with regard to the generation of learning and the acceptance of obligation. Set a time for study and do much. What Shammai has linked with this is the very suggestion that I want to leave with you as my final thought for the evening. Thus I but follow the precedent of Shammai, when to my previous admonitions I also add the instruction, "Hevai mikabail es kol ha-adam b’sayver panim yafos —receive all men with a cheerful countenance." This is a very simple thought and a very elementary bit of advice, but how often we act as if we had never heard of it. This is, to be sure, a world full of various pressures and frustrations, and we often, indeed, do not deserve to be too harshly judged if our tempers are short and our words are sharp, but we must have a sense of humor about things and a sense of proportion. How often I meet people with long faces—not long with sorrow, not long with pain, but just long because they have forgotten to smile. Very often if they could manage the smile, the fancied problems which exist between them and another person would vanish with the frown, and the real problems, indeed, would be more easily settled. Did somebody aggravate us? A smile will lessen the aggravation. Did something happen in temple that annoys us? A sense of humor can bring tremendous relief. To walk about with a long face, to snap at people because they do things differently than we might have, to condemn because of human error, to resign and to sulk is not only to go contrary to the advice of our rabbis but to invite ulcers as well.

During the past summer a friend sent me, in jest, a printed card on which was written: “When I do something right, no one remembers. When I do something wrong, no one forgets.” When we are tempted to criticize, let us stop to remember the good of the past. It is not that criticism is bad and must never be offered, but criticism to can be yesurim shel ahava—chastisement of love, and can be offered with a cheerful countenance. The psychologists tell us that when we tear our neighbors down, we do so because of our own sense of insecurity and the effort to build ourselves up. Perhaps we would be less prone to excitement if we could remember always that the way we criticize reveals even more about ourselves than about the person we criticize. If I may be permitted to quote the Sayings of the Fathers yet once again, "Let the honor of thy neighbor be as dear to thee as thine own and suffer not thyself to be easily angered (2:10)."

And now as I conclude may I say that very often after a sermon of a somewhat personal nature as this, there are people who turn to their neighbor and say, "That was good. He certainly gave it to them." The truth is, however, I did not give it to them. I gave it to you and I gave it to myself. The Chassidic rabbi of Sanz[xv] used to say,  

In my youth when I was fired with the love of God, I thought I would convert the whole world to God. But soon I discovered that it would be quite enough to convert the people who live in my town. I tried for a long time, but did not succeed. Then I realized that my program was still too ambitious and I concentrated on the persons in my own household. But I could not convert them either. Finally it dawned on me: I must work on myself, so that I may give true service.

And so in the spirit of the rabbi of Sanz, let us, on this night of forgiveness and confession, not concern ourselves futilely with the faults of our neighbor, let us each—you and I included—begin working upon that inadequate person over whom we do have the greatest influence—our very own selves.

---

[i] Ten Mile River Boy Scout Camps, Narrowsburg NY, Keowa Division

[ii] From King Solomon's prayer at the dedication of the Temple, 1 Kings 8:46 “If they sin against Thee—for there is no man that sinneth not—and Thou be angry with them, and deliver them to the enemy, so that they carry them away captive unto the land of the enemy, far off or near...."

[iii] A minyan (Hebrew, literally to count) in Judaism refers to the quorum of ten Jewish adults required for certain religious obligations, especially public prayer.

[iv] The central prayer on Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement is a confession of sins committed both individually and as a community. Each line of the prayer begins with “Al chet shechatanu, "for the sin which we have committed."

[v] Mitzvos (mitzvot in modern Hebrew) plural of the Hebrew mitzvah, "commandment," refers to a moral deed performed as a religious duty. As such, the term mitzvah has also come to express an act of human kindness.

[vi] Derech eretz (Hebrew, literally "the way of the land”) is broadly translated often as decent, polite, respectful, thoughtful, and civilized behavior, "behaving like a mentsh" (refined human being). In this context it suggests those given respect. 
[vii] The term "egghead," an anti-intellectual epithet, reached its peak currency during the 1950s, when vice-presidential candidate Richard Nixon used it against Democratic Presidential nominee Adlai Stevenson, loser to Dwight D. Eisenhower in 1952 and 1956. 
[viii] Tsedoko (tzedakah or Ṣ'daqah in Modern Hebrew) literally meaning righteousness but commonly used to signify charity. 
[ix] Yeshiva (Hebrew: literally "sitting"; pl. yeshivos, or yeshivot in Modern Hebrew) is a Jewish educational institution that focuses on the study of traditional religious texts, primarily the Talmud and Torah study. 
[x] The Shulchan Aruch (Hebrew, literally: "Set Table") is the most authoritative legal code of Judaism, authored by Yosef Karo in 1563. 
[xi] The Union of American Hebrew Congregations (UAHC),  now named the Union for Reform Judaism (URJ), is an organization which supports Reform Jewish congregations in North America. 
[xii] The Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion (also known as HUC, HUC-JIR), with campuses in Cincinnati, New York, Los Angeles and Jerusalem, is the oldest extant Jewish seminary in the Americas and the main seminary for training rabbis, cantors, educators and communal workers in Reform Judaism. 
[xiii] The Sayings of the Fathers, also known as The Ethics of the Fathers or the from the Hebrew Pirkei Avot, literally Chapters of the Fathers is a compilation of the ethical teachings and maxims of the rabbis of the Mishnaic period (c. 10-220 CE). 
[xiv] Shammai (50 BCE–30 CE) was a Jewish scholar of the 1st Century, and an important figure in Judaism's core work of rabbinic literature, the Mishnah. 
[xv] Chaim Halberstam of Sanz (also Tzanz, or Zans), Poland(1793–1876) was a famous Chasidic Rebbe and the founder of the Sanz Hasidic dynasty.