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SH'MA YISRAEL, Listen

09/29/2022 10:25:28 AM

Sep29

Rabbi Dan Feder


Sermon, Erev Rosh Hashanah 2022/5783

How important is the skill of listening? It’s so important that the first experience human beings have of the Divine is an auditory one. Adam and Eve “heard" the sound of God walking about in the Garden. The earliest humans no more saw God than we do now. They heard God. Sometimes they heard God audibly. Sometimes they heard God in their hearts and consciences.

The notion that we do not literally “see” God in our tradition as one “sees” a person or an object, hints that we come to know God in other ways, using our other senses. Elijah the prophet found that the voice of God was not found in the wind, an earthquake, or a fire; but rather in the bat kol — the still, small voice. Elijah had to listen to his own heart to hear God. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, wrote, “Jewish spirituality is the art of listening.”

As we enter the new year, I propose we sharpen the way we listen. To begin, I offer a listening paradigm that comes directly from our tradition: “Sh’ma Yisrael, Adonai Eloheinu, Adonai echad—Hear, O Israel! Adonai is our God, Adonai alone." I want to focus our attention on the verb in that well-known verse: sh’ma—to listen, to really hear. Based on the use of the word throughout the Torah, such as God’s listening to our cries in Egypt and our hearing God’s teachings, it’s about something more than just listening on an auditory and even on an intellectual level. It’s about really taking these words into our heart, our soul, hearing with all our might and internalizing the message. And then doing something about it and acting on it. It’s not enough to just hear the words of God. We need to act as based on those holy teachings.

And it’s the same when we listen to each other. It’s about listening and hearing, but it’s also about internalizing what each other is saying and taking the message to heart. I’ve been thinking, how can we better hear each other, and what avenues open to us when we do? So, I’ve been taking to some people in my life who have shown themselves, over the years, to be outstanding listeners. I’d like to share some of their ideas and some of my own.

Start by being curious. Discover and listen to the other person’s story, seek to know more. Resist the impulse to judge or to fix. Just take in the full picture, the full arc of the story and ask yourself, “what is this person looking for?”

Eye contact is important, focusing on the other person and not being distracted. And naturally, don’t multitask while listening. Don’t have your phone in front of you while listening. Be present.

It’s also essential to pay attention to body language and notice what the other is saying with their body. In this way, we listen with eyes and ears.

Allow space in the conversation. Try not to respond right away. Focus on nuances and shades, pay attention, and absorb. There are times when we need to ask clarifying questions to truly hear and understand.

A common obstacle to truly listening is our own thoughts. Here’s an example: A job interviewer asks the candidate: “Where do you see yourself in five years?” The applicant answers: “I would say my biggest weakness is listening.”

Yes, listening is not easy. And those who can really settle in and listen are a marvel. They absorb what they’re hearing and come at it from the perspective curiosity. My mentor, Rabbi Marty Weiner, who died this past spring, was an extraordinary listener and always approached discussions with me, and everybody else, with curiosity. He was careful not to instinctively jump in with thoughts and guidance, and because of his ability to hold back and let the other talk, he allowed me to listen and take in fully what he said with that much more weight. What I appreciate deeply in the greatest listeners in my own life has been their capacity to listen with kindness and heart, but also to point out my blind spots, let me know when I’m missing the boat, and to know when I just need to open up and let it out.

And in some of the most memorable and probably the greatest moments I have had in the rabbinate, my better moments, I have been able to let the other person feel heard and that I met them where they were, that I shared some perspectives or words that they may not have known they were ready for. Sometimes these are conversations in my study, sometimes they take place in hospital rooms, and sometimes they take place in the person’s home. When I’m listening, and I mean really listening, the words of our tradition flow from me without my even having to think about them. It’s natural, and there is a blessed sense of oneness, between the other person and me. These are what philosopher Martin Buber describes as I—Thou moments, a moment of deep personal connection.

There is a role for listening in every facet of life. To console somebody, we need to listen. To advocate for someone, we need to listen. That’s how we come to understand the other. And this is just as true when it comes to interpersonal listening as it is to listening on a societal level.  

However, there are abundant challenges to listening to the voices, the laments, and the cries that come from various parts of our society. One is simply fatigue. As a congregant shared with me recently, with everything going on in our region, our state, our country, and the world, they were just exhausted. We’ve lived through crises and challenges to normalcy that we’ve never seen before and at an unrelenting pace. It has been exhausting. And we’ve probably forgotten what normal even feels like. This exhaustion can lead to a kind of emotional fatigue, where we get so tired from all that’s going on that we can’t bear to summon the level of caring or moral outrage that we would normally feel.

So what are we to do in this moment? Listen. We need to hear our Jewish tradition. Why? Because our tradition demands that we both listen to and affirm the pain of others and try, in some way, to be involved in the process of repair.

In chapter 23 of Deuteronomy, Moses is speaking to the Israelites in the plains of Moab just across the Jordan River from the Promised Land. Moses tells them everything under the sun that he believes they need to hear before they construct their own society. He wants them to be ready, and he wants them not to make the same mistakes as their parents and grandparents. “Lo tuchal l’hitaleim—you must not remain indifferent,” Moses exhorts.  

But when we open ourselves up to the pain of others, the weight can feel like too much to bear.  There’s the Talmudic example of Rabbi Elisha ben Abuya, who saw the suffering in the world, especially people who were trying to follow the teachings of our tradition, was so pained by the injustices in the world that it was too much for him. His faith was broken, and he turned away from Jewish life. I can imagine feeling that kind of pain and feeling it’s all too much but rather than turn away from our faith, I try to turn toward it and would exhort all of us to do the same.

When I was a counselor at Camp Swig many years ago, I noticed that one of my campers who was normally sociable and upbeat, had been acting subdued. When I checked in with him, he didn’t blink an eye, before saying: “Children are starving right now because of the famine in Ethiopia. How can I have fun at summer camp?”

This young teen had a point. The worst famine in a century was just starting and would ultimately affect almost eight million people. He was feeling the pain of those who had already died, the refugees, and the children who were orphaned. And he felt it deeply, in his soul. I often think of him and hope that over the years, he continued to care just as deeply, but that he also found a way to live his life fully. I also imagine that he found a way to make a positive difference in the world as God’s partner in tikkun olam, in repairing the world.

Not only do we need to find the resilience and balance to listen and care about what is going on in our world, we are commanded in our faith to keep a clear pipeline to the world outside — not to shut ourselves off or forsake our traditions. We learn in the Talmud, in tractate Berakhot, that as Jews we aren’t supposed to pray in a sanctuary without windows. “And on the topic of prayer, Rabbi Hiyya bar Abba said that Rabbi Yochanan said: One may only pray in a house with windows, as then he can see the heavens and focus his heart.’”

The windows also remind us of our obligation to see the world outside and to have our hearts engaged in that world. The Shulchan Arukh, an important code of Jewish law by Joseph Caro, written in the 16th century, tells us that synagogues are to have a certain number of windows: twelve. Why twelve? That’s the number of tribes making up the Jewish people. All of us are to be seen, noticed, and heard. And along with life’s tribulations, windows allow us to see daily reminders that the world can be gentle, loving, and abounding in blessings.

As Rabbi Judy Schindler teaches, “Windows draw us and call us to connect with our community and remind us that our words are not divorced from the world.” As we think about the twelve windows as representing the twelve tribes, she encourages us to ask who are the groups that we need to think about today as we offer our prayers for healing and justice: Our children, the elderly, pregnant women, immigrants, the transgender community, our planet, those seeking asylum from persecution, children who fear when they walk into their school doors that violence may face them, those who are not safe at home, and those communities who are suffering from discrimination and bigotry including our own Jewish community. There’s a text in the Talmud that frames our ancestors’ moment at Mount Sinai as binding us forever to the responsibility to both listen and act. This occurred when the Israelites responded as one to God’s offer to be a treasured possession, even before the revelation at Sinai, with the words “na’aseh v’nishma—we will do and we will hear.” In this passage, Rabbi Simai taught, that 600,000 ministering angels came and tied two crowns to each and every member of the Jewish people, one corresponding to “We will do” and one corresponding to “We will hear.” The angels wanted to make clear that both ideas were central to our being:A “Listening and understanding,” that is being in relationship with our community, are the crowns of Torah that we wear.”

One reason I wanted to talk about the importance of listening tonight is that our Rosh Hashanah customs are designed to help us listen. The blasts of the shofar alert us to the power of hearing. Note that the blessing we say before the first blast speaks of the mitzvah of hearing the sound of the shofar. May these profound sounds—t’kiah, sh’varim, t’ruah, and the t’kiah g’dolah, revive in us our commitment, naaseh v’nishma, to do and to hear. May these jarring sounds, call us to work for security and safety for all in our community and around the world as we strive to fulfill our covenantal responsibilities. As we hear weeping and mournful voices, let us recommit ourselves to creating societal structures that protect and prevent sources of insecurity and unsafety.

As we listen to the calls of the Shofar over the next ten days of our Yamim Noraim, may be recommit ourselves to being better listeners—to each other and to the words of our tradition. To close, I’d like to share a prayer:

“What does it mean to really hear?
The person who attends a concert with their mind on work, hears, but does not really hear.
The person who walks amid the songs of birds and thinks only of what they will have for dinner, hears, but does not really hear.
The one who listens to the words of a friend, partner, or child and does not catch the note of urgency: ‘Notice me, help me, care about me,’ hears, but does not really hear.
The one who listens to the news and thinks only of how it will affect business, hears, but does not really hear.
The person who stifles the sound of their conscience and tells themself they have done enough already, hears, but does not really hear.
The person who studies and listens to God’s commandments and thinks someone else is being addressed, hears, but does not really hear.
May our hearts be open, that we may hear with our soul.
Let us feel the pain of the hungry, the pain of the lonely.
Let us cry out for justice, for dignity, for freedom.
Let us listen with our hearts, that we may really hear and feel love.
Sh’ma, Yisrael, b’chol l’vavcha
uv’chol nafsh’cha uv’chol m’odecha

Listen, Israel, with all your mind, with all your soul, and with all your strength.

Kein y’hi ratzon—so may this be God’s will. Amen.

Thu, March 28 2024 18 Adar II 5784