Temple Beth Sholom New City NY

I know that many of you are curious: Did I re-write all my High Holyday sermons because of the heinous attack on our country by what now seem to have been terrorists associated with Osama Bin Ladin? Believe me, I thought about it. But all last week, from the pulpit, at weddings, and in private conversations with many of you I said - because I deeply believe it to be true - that if we change our lives one iota more than necessary, then we have handed the terrorists at least a partial victory.

So, I have made changes in my sermons where I thought necessary and appropriate. But I have not changed the basic theme or the messages of the sermons. I believe them to be as meaningful now as they were before Black Tuesday. I will speak at length about the attack, but not yet. The wound is still too fresh…

Some genius in TV-land has come up with the idea of a reality show just for men, modeled on the amazingly successful show, Survivor:

	Twelve men will be dropped in an unidentified suburb with a van, six kids (each of whom play two sports and take either a musical instrument or dance class) and no access to fast food.
	They must keep the house clean, correct all homework (receiving at least a "C+" on all papers), complete one science project, cook (OK, they can bring one cookbook), do laundry, care for the dog and the cat, grocery shop, hunt for birthday presents for their kids' friends, etc.
	Oh, and they also have access to television only when the kids are asleep and all chores are done, and none of the TV's have remotes. Plus they have to shave their legs and wear makeup which they must apply themselves either while driving or while making six lunches.
	The competitions will consist of such things as attending a PTA meeting and accurately reporting the results; cleaning up after a sick child at 3:00 a.m; getting kids to church/temple/religious education on time; making a model of an Indian hut using only six toothpicks, a tortilla and one magic marker; and getting a one year old to eat a serving of peas.
	The kids vote on the contestants, eliminating one a week.
	The grand prize? The winner gets to go back to his old job.

Reality shows are an amazing phenomenon. There's something about them that speaks to a lot of people. I think there are also a lot of things the reality shows have to say to us as Jews as we begin our New Year. Together we will explore what they are, as we explore a different reality show and its meaning for us in all this year's High Holyday sermons.

The newspapers are still full of heartwarming - and heartbreaking - stories of how people struggled to survive on that fateful day. Yet in real life, as opposed to the unreal "reality show," being the only survivor brings no million dollar prize. Instead, it brings only anguish. On one of the most poignant episodes of the old TV show, Twilight Zone, a nebbishy, half-blind librarian played, I believe, by Burgess Meredith, wanted to be left alone to read his beloved books. Live people were an annoyance and a distraction.

As happens only on television, some sort of catastrophe wiped out everyone - except Meredith, who was deep in the bowels of the library, reading. When he emerges he's not at all sad to be the only survivor. Quite the opposite. He's elated! No more distractions! No more people to bother him! But of course, in his exuberance, he knocks his glasses off, and they shatter. Now he is almost unable to see, let alone read. Being the sole survivor brings anguish, not joy.
Surviving when almost everyone you knew and loved is gone is not a blessing. It's more like a curse. One of the saddest conversations I ever had was with an elderly woman I visited at her home. She had outlived all the friends and relatives who were her own age. She even outlived her only child. Her grandchildren and great-grandchildren, although very much alive, were scattered all over the world and paid little attention to her. This was a person who had traveled widely including, every summer, going salmon fishing by canoe in the wilds of Alaska. She'd been active in the community her whole life and used to know just about everybody. But now there wasn't even one person she could call just to chat. She survived for a very long time, but for what? She told me that she had survived long enough. She wanted her life to be over.

Others suffer by surviving even though they are not alone. Many of those who managed to escape death in the concentration camps suffer a life-long sense of guilt that they survived while so many others did not. The awful events of last week caused many to suffer the same thing, bewildered as to why they were spared and thousands were not. This "survivor guilt," as the textbooks call it, can rob whole lifetimes of joy and happiness.

We all know that none of us will survive forever. Someday we will all be gone. In the very beautiful words of the funeral service:

Early or late, all must answer the summons to return to the reservoir of being.

Our tradition teaches that the importance of the survival of the individual is an absolute, unquestioned value. Our tradition also teaches that we need to understand that physical survival alone is not enough. We need something else to survive, something that, while more ephemeral, will last longer than these fragile bodies of ours. We need something else to survive to give our physical survival meaning and purpose. That "something else" is the value system, the ethical system we affirm and abide by during our lifetime.

Our values can even help us survive physically against incredible odds. Holding on to our values can help us hold on to life itself:

	A devout Polish Jew whose last name was Reich was especially scrupulous about the adage in the Ethics of Our Fathers to "Receive every person with accepting warmth and joy." (3:16).
	The Polish town where he lived was near the German border, and each morning on the way to the synagogue to pray , he would meet a German nobleman out walking his dog, and every morning Mr. Reich would be the first to warmly address his neighbor. "A gutt morgen Herr Guttman, a gezunten tag Herr Guttman." And Herr Guttman would coolly nod in return.
	Years passed, and Mr. Reich was sent to Auschwitz. One day, weakened from pneumonia, he found himself on the line for selection, certain he would be sent to the left, where the crematorium awaited. As his turn neared, he began to recite the final vidui, the final confessional. And then he was standing in front of the Nazi guard, who looked vaguely familiar.
	The Jew barely whispered, "A gutt morgen Herr Guttman, a gezuntan tag Herr Guttman." The Nazi guard looked at the Jew, and a flicker of recognition crossed his eyes. "Rechts!" ("To the right!") he called out. And Mr. Reich lived, to survive the Holocaust and to tell this story. [Rabbi Shlomo Riskin, Emor, May 9, 2001.]

We also want and need our values to outlive us, to live on in ways we cannot. As you know, we have the parents of the Bar or Bat Mitzvah share some of their wisdom as we pass the Torah, the symbol of all Jewish wisdom, to their children. Many other congregations do the same thing. In one of them a mother explained to her daughter that the girl's grandmother, who lived in Israel, was too old and too sick to be there that day. Then she continued:

	[Her] eyes filling with tears, [she] struggled to explain how [at] the advent of the Second World War, [when] the grandmother was about the same age as her granddaughter is now, she was unexpectedly and violently uprooted from her home, and transported by the Nazis to Auschwitz.
	She was all alone in this camp of death with only one remnant to connect her to her former life. When she turned thirteen, her parents had given her a ring, a simple gold band with two small diamonds in it. It was this ring that was her only link to her secure and loving past…
	The terrified young teenager made a fateful decision. At the risk of her very life, she would hide this ring that was her only link to her heritage and family. She was somehow able to loop it over a small space between two back teeth. Every day she was interred at Auschwitz, while she slept, while she worked, while she ate her meager rations, the ring was kept hidden in her mouth.
	[somehow, she survived, and ] now the grandmother is advanced in age, and a long-time resident of her beloved Israel.
	Mother and daughter stood before a congregation of riveted eyes filling with blurring wetness. The mother then slowly opened her hand. In it rested a ring with two small diamonds. "This is from sabta, from grandma. She wants you to have it. Treasure it always. It represents her love, her bravery, and it represents a blessing that came out of a terrible curse. [Rabbi Bernie King, The American Rabbi, Fall, 1999, pp. 22-23.]

Someday when that grandmother is gone, the ring and her courage will live on after her. Thus her values will survive in ways her physical being cannot.

Not only do our values help us survive, not only do we want our values to live on, we also want them to continue to influence the generations that come after us. Only in this way do we have a lasting effect on the universe. Another true story, written by a granddaughter to another grandmother about such influence begins:

	Grandmother… it was your first Shabbos eve at home. You were known, even as a young bride, for your love of cooking. That afternoon, chicken soup, into which you would later toss thin egg noodles, simmered on the stove. The gefilte fish was made earlier in the day. The challah rose on the kitchen counter. Later you would brush egg whites over the twisted braid and sprinkle poppy seed. The house filled with the aromas of freshly baked bread and roasted chicken.
	When the cooking was completed, you spread a white cloth, a wedding gift, on the dining room table. Cream colored china plates rimmed with a fine spray of pink roses were carefully set for you and your groom. At either side of the still warm challah were two bronze candlesticks. Glasses of wine stood ready for the kiddush prayer.
	You must have heard grandpop's footsteps on the stairs leading up to your apartment, and he had to smell the warm sweet aromas that poured from your kitchen into the hall. I imagine you running a comb through your light brown wavy hair and straightening the blue floral print dress you wore. Grandpop opened the apartment door. He saw you standing there, his new bride. He saw the table set to receive the Shabbos bride. "I will not have this!" he yelled. He pounded his fist on the table and the glass trembled. With no further explanation, he turned his back and slammed shut the door.
	I learned as I grew up that my grandfather was a proud Jew and an ardent Zionist. But religion was different. It was of the old world. He would have none of it. Oh yes, there would be a seder filled with song but no synagogue, no prayer, no Shabbos.
	I still see you standing there in the dining room, tears reflected in the Shabbos candlelight. Grandpop's brother came to visit that night. "Don't worry, Fannie," he said. "I'll eat with you."
	… That evening Uncle Lou said kiddush, and you said nothing.
	Grandpop returned later that night when the dishes were put away and the Shabbos candles had burned down. Neither of you spoke about what happened that evening. You never made Shabbos for Grandpop again, but you did make Shabbos. Every Friday night you placed white tapers in the freshly polished bronze candlesticks, placed them on the kitchen counter, covered your eyes, and said the blessing. When Grandpop would return from work on Friday evenings, he would pretend not to notice that the candles' flame made long shadows on the red Formica counter.
	Years later when you had children, three sons and a daughter, you made certain that your sons were tutored in Hebrew, so each could become a Bar Mitzvah. Grandpop wouldn't hear of it. When the days came for each of them to read from the Torah you went with Uncle Lou to the synagogue and sat behind the Mehitzah alone. Everyone raved about the sponge cake and strudel Fannie had baked for the kiddush.
	Grandmother, you were a wise woman. You had a generous heart and a religious soul. You found a way to keep the peace and the faith. You died just a few days after my third birthday. I wish I could have known you longer.
	I would like to believe that somehow you can hear me, your granddaughter, retelling this story. I hope you will look in my window on Friday evenings. There on the table are your bronze candlesticks and the flickering white tapers welcome the Sabbath bride. Grandmother, the cooking is not as good, but I hope you are pleased. [Sandy Eisenberg Sasso, The American Rabbi, Spring/Summer 2001, pp. 268-9.]

I'm sure she is. Not only does her granddaughter keep the Shabbat, she became a Rabbi and is now serving a congregation in Indianapolis.

There is much that we Jews have learned over the centuries that will be of help to all our neighbors as our country heals from this terrible tragedy. We have learned that as much as we want to survive, the survival of our bodies alone is not enough. What makes our survival worthwhile, what gives it meaning and purpose are the values that live on after us. They are our lasting message to a future we'll never see. The best survival of all is to know that others are valuing the same ideas and ideals we did during our lifetime. It will not bring back loved ones who were so brutally murdered, but keeping alive what they believed and what they stood for may bring some measure of solace to their grieving families and friends.

This is how, generation after generation, one person at a time, one family at a time, we maintained our sanity in the face of horrible persecution. This is how we survived as Jews. By being here tonight we become another link in that ongoing chain. If our ancestors are looking down upon us now, I'm sure that they too, are very pleased.