As you may know, I try to find Jewish content and Jewish meaning in everything. There always seems to be a Jewish moment in even the most secular of things. I have found Jewish moments in baseball. After all, what is the whole point of baseball except finding your way back home? And isn’t that one of the most important themes of the Days of Awe? I have found Jewish meaning in Shoney’s breakfast bar which is a chain of diners in the South that have an open breakfast bar 24 hours a day and, believe me, people take advantage of it again and again. It was there I figured out the reason for the laws of kashrut – of kosher and non kosher foods. No, it has nothing to do with disease. After all, have you ever seen what a chicken eats? Rather the laws are about self-control and self-respect. Not eating everything in sight separates us from the animals and in a fundamental way elevates us to something more soulful.
So, when there is a specifically Jewish thing that happens, discerning the Jewish content is so much easier. But even then, with something so obviously Jewish, there is often Jewish content that’s often overlooked. I found such a thing and its symbolism for these Days of Awe is remarkable.
What I found was something in the most unexpected places. The series Fear the Walking Dead is a zombie apocalypse show which, these days, seems to have quite a bit of resonance. None of the characters have any religious identities at all. There is no hint of religiosity or faith of any kind. So it is interesting that the writers introduced a character who was not just Jewish but who still practiced Judaism.
The opening scene has a rabbi standing in front of his totally empty congregation. It is a Saturday night. We know this – at least Jews know this – because he picks up the Havdallah candle and lights it. Havdallah is the ceremony that ends the Shabbat and begins the regular week. After lighting the Havdallah candle he picks up the wine cup and, in perfect Hebrew says the blessing. (FYI, the actor who is Jewish clearly had known Hebrew. His accent on borei pri haGAfen was superb!) He then picks up the spice box and does the blessing, again perfectly. And in the middle of the blessing over the candle, there is the signature knocking on the door – and its not one of congregants trying to come in to buy a mezuzah.
There is little humor in this series. In fact, I don’t recall even the slightest chuckle. But in the mouth of this character, the writers put in the words, “If you’re alive I’d let you in but we don’t really have much to talk about. And you’re not very good at conversation.” Clearly annoyed but not afraid he goes out into the temple’s courtyard and dispatches the onerous guest only to be accosted by more.
Moments later in the midst of the struggle between the rabbi and the unwelcome guests, the rabbi encounters a teenage girl, Charlie, and they save each other’s lives. And then in the most nonchalant way, he quietly introduces himself: (and I love this line, coming in the middle of a zombie apocalypse): “I’m Rabbi Jacob Kessner. Welcome to Temple B’nai Israel.” (I was almost expecting him to ask if she found the website useful and what brings you here?! Alas, he didn’t!) Still, Charlie tells him she was drawn to the synagogue by the sight of an electric light, a rare sight in a world overrun by zombies. “Aaah, that’s the ner tamid,” he tells her, referring to the synagogue’s eternal light. “It’s the presence of God. [It is God, it is she, who] led you here.”
Charlie has had her first introduction to Judaism class. And, of course, right after explaining what the eternal light – the ner tamid is – he says to her, ‘Let’s get you inside and give you something to eat.’ I guess that was her second class in her introduction to Judaism.
Most people would probably look at the Jewish content of the scene and nod approvingly since it fits the story so well and its new Jewish character – the only character in the series with any religious baggage at all. But I saw something different and it has a message for us on this Rosh Hashanna morning and it is a message we can share with one another even though we are each ensconced in our own homes as we try to ride out this Pandemic Rosh Hashanna.
You see, the symbol of the ner tamid is what struck me. If you know the source, the Torah tells us that the ner tamid, an everlasting flame, was to be kept burning on the altar throughout the night so that the attendants would not have to rebuild the fire in the morning for all the sacrifices.
We read about the ner tamid for the first time in the verse that says:
אַתָּ֞ה תְּצַוֶּ֣ה׀ אֶת־בְּנֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֗ל וְיִקְח֙וּ אֵלֶ֜יךָ שֶׁ֣מֶן זַ֥יִת זָ֛ךְ כָּתִ֖ית לַמָּא֑וֹר לְהַעֲלֹ֥ת נֵ֖ר תָּמִֽיד׃
”You shall further instruct the Israelites to bring you clear oil of beaten olives for lighting, for kindling lamps regularly.” Nothing really overly spiritual there. But over time, the ner tamid became the visible sign of the Presence of God. The flame – the Presence of God – was alive, brightening a dark room, visible to all who opened their eyes and even in the absence of people remains warm and inviting. I can’t believe I found the foundations for a sermon from a series called ‘Fear the Walking Dead.’ But, there it is.
Like the rabbi in the show, we have been in an empty building since mid-March. Our holy place, Beth Miriam, is essentially silent. Sure, lately the office has been staffed and Rosy still comes in to take care of the place and make sure that what is supposed to be working works. And Harry comes in to do the books from time to time and the teachers met with Stella a couple of times to try to strategize teaching for the new year. But absent are the students, the adults yearning to learn, the community of worshippers in a service and then schmoozing and schmoozing in an Oneg afterward. Missing are the programs and the picnics. The temple has gone dark. But its people have not. For even in the depths of this pandemic, the ner tamid still burns.
That light is the light that keeps people drawn to one another. In the Spring, my Teen Academy students wanted to keep meeting and talking and learning. The Torah class, Talmud class and Theology class were neither dispirited or dissuaded from learning. The Men’s Club kept the light burning with a program and there was the wonderful opportunity to discuss ‘Unorthodox’ in three separate sessions and, of course, the discussion on the book ‘The Color of Love.’ We didn’t just keep the temple going. We kept the meaning of the temple alive. And that meaning is, not surprisingly, not about a building but about its people.
We kept each other strong and we are keeping each other strong. We were for one another a ner tamid. And in the midst of this pandemic and Rosh Hashanna like no other, it seems that, once again, the ner tamid has taken on a new meaning. It is no longer simply the Presence of God. It is the presence of another whose light shines on the darkness and frustration of another so much in need of it. It is the presence of ‘Hineyni’ – here I am.
This light of Hineyni is the light that has been coming from each of us at is a light of love and the true desire to take care of one another. It is the light of the anonymous congregant who calls me and says that if anyone needs financial assistance be sure to make sure they are the first ones I call and keep calling as long as necessary. It is the light of the teachers who, with panim yafot – a smiling face – greeted each student every single Sunday morning and taught our kids the very best they could. They punted and they pivoted and I pretty much guarantee that, in years to come, our students and their extraordinary parents are going to remember their religious school teachers who in the midst of this darkness, were their lights. It is the teenagers who normally learn with me once a month on Sunday mornings but who wanted to be in the moment with each other for an hour or so every week and shared hopes and fears in a safe cyber-place.
In moments of strength, our ner tamid burned brightly. In moments of darkness, there was always someone to reach out to and give support even if that support and encouragement was on Zoom or separated by a cell phone.
It reminds me of the story of the revered rabbi who once took a trip to visit a younger colleague. The older rabbi was very impressed with the young rabbi’s total immersion in his prayers and in his study. The rabbi asked him, ‘Tell me. What is the secret of your unwavering piety?’ The younger rabbi said that immersed himself in his studies so deeply that he was able to ignore any outside influences contrary to piety. The older rabbi thought about it for a moment and, as older rabbis are wont to do created a metaphor: he said, ‘When it is very cold, there are two ways to warm yourself. One is by putting on a fur coat the other is lighting a fire. The difference is that the fur coat warms only the person wearing it which the fire warms anyone who comes near it.’
In this pandemic, we started out by hunkering down and keeping ourselves and families safe. That is the way it should be. But as we got used to the situation, we allowed our ner tamid to shine and many of us became beacons of hope and strength to others.
Despite the terrible news that seemed to be reported every day to the seeming disregard for our lives that so many throughout the country have shown to the simple statistic of how many people are sick and who have died comes out day by day – despite all that those who have kept alive their ner tamid and warmed others are the honest spiritual heroes of the time. They are not the ones like the hucksters looking to sell a miracle potion or utter some gibberish to make the disease go away. Nor are they like the denyers who say ‘if I don’t talk about it, it doesn’t exist.’ No, the light of the ner tamid is a light in the midst of the darkness that says ‘no, not all is well, but not all is dark, either.’
The machzor reflects this truth and, for a book codified 1200 years ago, it seems pretty insightful for the 21st Century. The most famous phrase of the prayerbook is probably ‘On Rosh Hashann is is written and on Yom Kippur it is sealed. How many will die and how many will be born? Who at a ripe old age and who before their time? Who by fire, who by water? Who by wind and who by plague?’ In this time of COVID, none of us could hear that prayer and not be impacted by it, perhaps like never before. We probably all know someone who got sick or died. Even though we may try to make the prayer and poem into a metaphor, this year it surely isn’t. It is our wake-up call. It is our shofar sounding arousing us to the truth of the day. And what is the truth of the day? “Ki hu norah v’ayom’ – it is a day that contains an awful truth.
Yet even with the awful truth and the awareness of the plague at our door, we do not despair. The response to the darkness is in the last line of the prayer: Tefillah, teshuvah, tzedakah ma’aravin et roah ha-gezeira’ – usually translated as ‘prayer, repentance and acts of loving kindness ameliorate the harshness of the decree.’
But today I offer a different interpretation:
- Tefillah – prayer – but not for ourselves only but for our entire sick nation. We seek a genuine tefillah that is self-introspective and asks us if our ner tamid burns and warms others of simply smolders on an altar of uncaring.
- Teshuvah – repentance -a real turning to seeing what our words and actions have done over the past year and to reorient ourselves toward menschlikeit. And this year our repentance ought to include repenting of our impatience at those who are as in pain as we.
- Tzedah – sometimes translated as charity but more correctly translated as righteousness. Ours is religion more of doing and less of talking. It is like the story of the great Catholic theologian Thomas Aquinas who spent a good part of his life writing his Summa Theologica. When asked why he abandoned the work in old age, he related the following dream: An angel was emptying the ocean with a teaspoon. Aquinas asked what he was doing. The angel responded: Theology. We Jews can study theology but it is like emptying the ocean with a spoon. It goes on forever. But doing acts of righteousness – keeping the ner tamid alive and illuminating the darkness for others in these strange times – requires no teaspoon but rather a healthy dose of love. That’s all it takes and it is something we are all capable of.
This is the strangest Rosh Hashanna I have ever heard of. There is nothing normal about it. But we are anchored. We are anchored in the liturgy and the prayers of hope and affirmation. We are anchored in a world-wide Jewish community where, at this moment, the universal prayers for a sweet year ascend to Heaven. And we are anchored because each of us has a ner tamid – an eternal light that we refuse to put out. We have proven to ourselves that it still burns. This coming year, may it burn with the passion of presence, with Hineini, with the warmth of understanding and with the quiet reassurance that even in the midst of all this craziness, the Presence of God will never leave.
Shanna Tova
