PRAYER IS NOT ENOUGH
HONORING OUR VOLUNTEERS

Rabbi Stephen S. Pearce, PhD
Friday, April 17, 2009

Rabbi Israel Salanter once overheard a conversation in which a man moaned in Yiddish: Das leben is a chalom—“Life is a dream.” Annoyed at what he had heard, he interrupted and said: “That is only true if you are asleep all the time.” Of course, there are those who always seem to be napping, who are oblivious to the world about them, who never see the crying needs
that surround them. Indeed, they live as if in a dream world. Of such sleepwalkers, the Talmud provides terse judgment: “If a person closes his eyes to avoid doing righteous deeds of charity, it is as if he had committed idolatry” (Ketubot 68a).

Tonight is Volunteer Shabbat. We honor and recognize those members and friends who are always vigilant, who never sleep when they should be awake, whose dreams are constantly being translated into acts of loving kindness. There is no adequate way to praise or thank you for your constant and generous acts of kindness.

Rabbi Moshe Leib believed that every impulse, good or bad, could be put to the service of God. “How,” he wondered, “could the denial of God become a way of serving God? Even disbelief must have some purpose,” he thought, “or God would not have created it.” He fell into deep thought, and when he realized that even this impulse could be put to good use, he taught: “If someone comes to you and asks
you for your help, you must not say, ‘Have faith; God will help you.’ You must act as if there were no God, as if help could come only from you, and then you must take the place of God, as it were, and act with loving kindness” (M. Buber, Tales of the Hasidim: Later Masters, 1948). Rabbi Leib’s reasoned approach to theology reminds me of a concise haunting statement in our prayerbook that ought to inspire and motivate our lives: “Pray as if everything depends on God; act as if everything depends on you.”

We Jews tend to get Cs in theology, ritual, and practice, for good reason. Our focus is always on the here and now, on acting as if everything depends on us and not on God. That is why prayer and ritual and belief are just not enough, and that is why mitzvot — charitable acts of kindness — tend to be far more important than tefilot—prayer and supplication.

The prophets frequently ask: “Whom will you send?” Those of you on the front lines constantly reply without hesitation: “Send me!” Shlichut or “mission” is the center of a Jewish life of reaching out to those in need. It is our grounding, our self-directed course, and our God-chartered direction. And although we may not realize it, we all have a shlichut—a mission in life. It may be quite different from the one of the person you are sitting next to, but it is, nevertheless, a mission. Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, Micah, Amos articulated shlichut as the mission of justice, peace, equality, and individual responsibility. They taught that living a righteous life is even more important than proper practice or ritual. Isaiah speaks for the shlichut we all hold close to our hearts through his imperishable message:

Bringing oblations is futile, incense is offensive to Me. New moon and Sabbath, proclaiming solemnities, assemblies with iniquity, I cannot abide. Your new moons and fixed seasons fill Me with loathing; they are become a burden to Me. I cannot endure them. And when you lift up your hands, I will turn My eyes away from you; though you pray at length, I will not listen. Your hands are stained with crime” (Isaiah 1:13-15).

The prophets railed against moral segregation, those “who trample the needy into the dust of the ground and drive the humble from their land, who buy the poor for silver and the needy for a pair of sandals, who hold a worker’s garment as a pledge for a loan” (paraphrase, Amos 2:6ff).

It is not only our job to lift the burdens of those who can least care and defend themselves, it is also part of our mission to convince others that they, too, must lift up their hands and not turn away from the poor and the needy but rather, turn toward them. Isaiah reminds the biblical reader that great reward awaits those who aid individuals who hunger for their daily bread: “If you draw out your soul to the hungry, and revive those in misery, then light shall dawn for you in darkness, and your most gloomy hours shall be as bright as the noonday” (Isaiah 58:10).

The social justice ethic is so deeply ingrained in the writing of the Jewish people and in the actions of individual Jews that it was forbidden for a Jew to live in a community that had no organization for public charity. Indeed, the rabbinic system of public charity was centered in two charitable communal institutions: the Kuppah—the communal fund that could provide food and even lodging, if necessary, and the Tamchui—the communal soup kitchen.

Perhaps it is also for that reason that rabbinic tradition mandates that a synagogue cannot be built without windows that open onto the world, because a Jew cannot pray and be separated from the world out there. There can be no isolationism. A synagogue cannot be a hideout, an escape from the concerns of the world. We are
forbidden to ignore the social needs of the unfortunate. We cannot, for example, separate ourselves from the mitzvah of hachnasat orchim— providing hospitality to the stranger:

Rav Dimi of Nehardea said: Hachnasat orchim—the welcoming of guests takes precedence over the beit midrash—the house of study. . . Rav Judah said in Rav’s name: Hachnasat orchim—the welcoming of guests takes precedence over welcoming the divine presence—the Shechinah (Shabbat 127a).

These rabbis held that more important than study and even the acknowledgment of God’s presence is the mitzvah of welcoming a guest, perhaps because the Torah is explicit about welcoming guests: “You shall not wrong a stranger or oppress him, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt” (22:20). “You shall not oppress a stranger, v’ atem yedahtem et nefesh hagehr—for you know the soul of the stranger, having yourselves been strangers in the land of Egypt” (23:9).

These rabbis held that more important than study and even the acknowledgment of God’s presence is the mitzvah of welcoming a guest, perhaps because the Torah is explicit about welcoming guests: “You shall not wrong a stranger or oppress him, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt” (22:20). “You shall not oppress a stranger, v’ atem yedahtem et nefesh hagehr—for you know the soul of the stranger, having yourselves been strangers in the land of Egypt” (23:9).

The word rachmones—compassion, is derived from the Hebrew word rechem or “womb.” It instructs that compassion is the lifeblood of a civilization, if it is to be judged as a just society. You are here because someone must speak for those in need.

Someone must be a spokesman for God. Just as God is conceived of as one who clothes the naked—we must clothe the naked; just as God is seen as one who visits the sick—we must visit the sick; just as God comforts the mourner—we must comfort the mourner. Someone must demand rachmones—compassion for those who are treated without compassion. Someone must be an advocate for those without advocates. Someone must, in the words of Isaiah: “Seek justice, undo oppression. Defend the fatherless. Plead for the widow” (Isaiah 1:17). And that someone must be you and me!

The Torah admonishes: “Kedoshim tiheyu—you shall be holy for I the Lord your God am holy” (Lev 19:2). Not only should we be holy because God is holy, but also because God depends on us to fulfill a sacred mission that cannot be left to anyone else, even God.

In this week’s Torah portion, Shimini, a stunned Aaron is confronted by the death of his two sons. The text tells the reader that Aaron’s response to his unbearable tragedy is absolute silence. Nevertheless, his actions speak louder than words because he does not withdraw from the world, but rather picks himself up along with the pieces of his life; he refocuses himself on his priestly duties and on leading
the people. Even as he mourned his children, Aaron understood the urgency of time that drew him back into the world of the living.

When the Chassidic master, Yitzhak Yaakov, the Seer of Lublin, died, his disciples divided his worldly goods—one took his books, another his notes, still another his study desk, one his tallit, one his kiddush cup. When all his possessions were divided among his disciples, one devotee had neither asked for nor received anything. He was given the rabbi’s clock. But on the way home, he stopped at an inn, but did not have sufficient funds to pay for his meal and lodging; he offered the clock in payment and the inn keeper placed the rebbe’s clock in one of the rooms. A year later, another of the rebbe’s disciplesstayed at the same inn but had great difficulty sleeping. All nightlong he paced back and forth and, when asked by the inn keeper thenext morning why he had been unable to sleep, the disciple asked,“Where did you get that clock?” The innkeeper related the storyof the otherfollower who gave it to him in return for lodging andfood. The follower said that the clock had belonged to the Seer andit was a holy clock. He said, “all other clocks in the world mark timefrom the past—from where we’ve come. This clock ticks toward thefuture—towards redemption. Every time I tried to go to sleep, theclock reminded me how much more there is to do before the futurecan arrive and redemption be realized.”

Faith—it may be true that we Jews do not focus on belief or worship in the way that other faith communities do. That is because life is not a dream, even though we live in a world of dreams—dreams of equity, dreams of a better world, dreams of everlasting peace. To be a Jew of faith means to engage the world, to work toward the fulfillment of dreams, to hear the clock of redemption ticking time away; it also means to be impatient, and to say “Yes!” when others say “No!” Amen!