EXPLORING OUR BELIEF IN GOD
- Remarks delivered for Rosh Hashanah, First Day, 5767/2006

I would like to share with you parts of a letter I received this past summer. It is a letter from a member, who resigned from our congregation and joined a Reconstructionist congregation. It is a lovely letter, and it meant a lot to me. I am touched when people who leave the congregation take the time to say “goodbye” rather than just disappear, especially when they and I have enjoyed a good relationship.

The letter says, in part:

This summer [my wife] and I decided it was time to search for a new spiritual home. For my part, I love Tikvat Israel, but [at my age] I have come to realize that I do not fit the mold of Conservative Jewish life. I do not believe in a theistic god, I have no interest in kashrut, I have become numb to the weekly/daily services – even the high holidays have not been connecting to my heart and soul.

My [children] are going… [to] begin their serious pursuit of a bar mitzvah. But for what purpose? Would they capture lasting spiritual power through their education in a conservative mold? Or would they learn about a god that I believe does not exist, stories that I believe are myths, and rules that I feel do not pertain to modern life? I need to believe in what they are being asked to believe in.

I don’t think for one minute that there is anything at all that Tikvat Israel has done “wrong” – it’s simply not the right fit for me at this time.

“Myth:” What does he mean by that word? Does he mean that the Bible’s stories are not historically factual? Is he implying that Conservative Judaism requires us to take everything in the Bible at face value, as literal truth? You have all heard me speak about this on numerous occasions. Judaism does not have a catechism, a set of beliefs spelled out in dogmatic fashion. We teach our values and beliefs through stories – and we believe that these stories have meaning and contain truths, even if they contain, at best, a mere kernel of historical fact. In this, there is very little difference between the Reconstructionist Movement and us. After all, they read the same Torah – and, therefore, the same myths – as we do.

As far as services go, both Cantor Helzner and I acknowledge that he is not alone in not finding services somewhat inaccessible and, consequently, not very inspiring. Both Cantor Helzner and I are open to exploring alternatives to the traditional bent of our services – not “instead of” but “in addition to” what we have now. This past summer Cantor Helzner introduced a Kabbalat Shabbat service that included more communal singing, accompanied by musical instruments. The response was very positive.

Concerning kashrut: I would have welcomed an opportunity to explore with him the meaning and purpose of the dietary laws. He says that he has no interest in them. I would maintain that, in this day and age of moral relativism, a practice that teaches limits and boundaries is more important than ever.

Finally, he says that he does not believe in a theistic God, implying that such a belief is the standard within the Conservative Movement. Perhaps if we had met I could have shown him that his beliefs and skepticism about God do not put him outside of the camp of Conservative Judaism. A statement of the principles of Conservative Judaism, Emet Ve-Emunah, was published in 1988. The section about God is emblematic of the diversity of belief within the Conservative Movement:

For many of us, belief in God means faith that a supreme, supernatural being exists and has the power to command and control the world through His will.

Some view the reality of God differently…. He is not a being to whom we can point. He is, instead, present when we look for meaning in the world, when we work for morality, for justice, and for future redemption.

I feel challenged by what our former congregant said about God. It led me to ponder: what is it that the religious school teaches our children about God? Does that teaching become more sophisticated as our children grow and mature? How do we respond to their doubts about God – or, at least, what we have taught them about God? Furthermore, what do I teach the congregation’s adults about God? And, bottom line, what do I myself believe about God?

I could sound smart here by making reference to one of Albert Einstein’s comments about God, but why quote Einstein when I can quote one of my very own 10th grade students? He said, "I like to think of myself as an agnostic; I believe there is a G-d, but I'm unsure as to whether anyone's gotten it right yet." If one defines agnosticism as a philosophical view that claims the truth about God is inherently unknowable, that absolute or certain knowledge about existence and nature is, by definition, unobtainable, then I too am an agnostic. Then again, theists might counter by saying that they do not claim to know God exists; all they claim is belief in God’s existence – and even then, most would agree there is room for doubt about God’s nature. So, maybe I am a theist after all. Let me leave definitions behind and say this: I was very moved by an essay written by recent convert to Judaism, who referred to Alan Watts when she wrote, “If you can say it or name it, it isn’t God.”

This convert also quoted Rabbi Neil Gillman in her essay: “All of our characterizations of God are human creations… The God of Western philosophical tradition - perfect, unchanging, self-sufficient, emotionless … The biblical God - passionate, caring, involved, changeable, frustrated, but also infinitely hopeful… Both conceptions are metaphorical… One is no more objectively true or false than the other, one no more primitive than the other. We may choose between the two, but the choice is always between contrasting metaphors.”

In other words, we dare not confuse our characterizations of God – the metaphors we use to express our understanding of God’s nature - with the unknowable true essence of God, which defies being captured in human thought or speech.

That’s all well and good, but here we are on Rosh Hashanah, when our liturgy uses some of the most anthropomorphic, concrete metaphors for God – for God’s nature and for the way God rules the world – and then includes a litany of beliefs about God, telling us “v’khol maaminim” – “and all believe.” Where does that leave someone who doesn’t believe or at least not in the conventional way the machzor says we believe or should believe?

Let me start by saying what I’ve said often in the past: just showing up in synagogue is an act of worship. It means that God is important enough to us that we will make time to slow down, allowing ourselves an opportunity to contemplate God, to think about God’s presence in our lives, to thank God for the many ways our lives have been blessed, to entreat God to intervene in our lives, to study God’s word and to find in it implications as to how we ought to live our lives.

(That very wise, articulate 10th grade young man, whom I quoted earlier, is part of a class that I teach on Tuesday evenings. At our first class meeting, I asked them what they liked best about Rosh Hashanah and what they liked least about Rosh Hashanah. There was quite a variety to the responses to Part A but almost universally the response to Part B, what they liked the least was services: they are too long. Interestingly enough, the very next day, at the mikveh, a 13 year-old boy who was converting to Judaism said that, for him, the best part of Rosh Hashanah was services. Why? Because they helped him connect to God. Feeling a connection to God is profound, a prerequisite for a life that is meaningfully worshipful.)

So how do I, someone who has trouble with the anthropomorphic images of God found in the High Holiday machzor, manage to find meaning in the prayers? It is all a matter of perspective and interpretation. When I say the Malkhuyot prayers, when I proclaim that God is sovereign over the whole earth, I try not to visualize a man and a throne, a crown and a scepter. The Malkhuyot prayers mean to me that I should make God a supreme force in my life: to live a life with the awareness of God’s presence everywhere; to live a life that will bring honor to my sovereign; to forgo certain prerogatives because that’s part of my covenantal obligation of obedience to my sovereign; and to perform acts of love and kindness as one of my sovereign’s viceroys here on earth.

It also means, as Rabbi Terry Bookman writes, “We have to accept our limits. It means that we are not in control. It means the world does not revolve around us and our needs any more than the sun revolves around the earth.” When I say the Zikhronot prayers, I try not to think of a man before whom there are two ledgers, a quill, some sealing wax and a signet ring. The Zikhronot prayers mean to me that, in the grand scheme of things, my actions do matter – that I matter – that life is meaningful and that what I do will have consequences, bringing the world to greater wholeness and awareness of God or bringing the world to greater divisiveness and partially eclipsing God’s splendor – and that ultimately I and I alone am accountable for what I did or what I failed to do.

And when I say the Shofarot prayers, I try not to conceive of a man and a shofar, summoning another man to arrive, riding a white horse, to redeem the world from it afflictions. The Shofarot prayers mean to me that the world is redeemable, that we have not come so close to apocalyptic destruction that there is no turning back. But instead of making me long for the day of redemption and wait passively until the redeemer arrives, it calls me to do my part in bringing about that redemption, however humble that contribution may be.

These are the Days of Awe, a time when we are more keenly aware of God and God’s presence in our lives or God’s absence from our lives. Services, if not the prayers themselves, summon us to focus and ponder – they are both an obligation and an opportunity. As Rabbi Simon Glustrom writes:

“The Hebrew verb ‘to pray’ comes from a root meaning ‘to judge’… To judge or examine oneself in the presence of God…remains an essential function of prayer. Many of the prayers that Jews recite during the High Holy Days are intended to help us examine who we really are. What is the direction of our lives and how can we get back on the right track?”

In an email I received yesterday morning a rabbinical student at the University of Judaism in LA, our friend Gershom Sizomu points out that the Hebrew word for year, shanah, is related to the word for change, l’shanot and suggests that RH could mean the “beginning of changes.” He ends his email with a wish: “May the New Year introduce new and positive changes in your lives and may you be renewed.”

I can think of no change that is more significant, more rewarding, and more full of the potential for true blessing than making more room in our lives for God.

And with this I will conclude, with the words of Martin Buber, the last words of his slim but weighty monograph, The Way of Man according to the Teachings of Hasidism.

"Where is the dwelling of God?"

This was the question with which the Rabbi of Kotzk surprised a number of learned men who happened to be visiting him.

They laughed at him: "What a thing to ask! Is not the whole world full of His glory?"

Then he answered his own question:

"God dwells wherever man lets Him in."

This is the ultimate purpose: to let God in. But we can let Him in only where we really stand, where we live, where we live a true life. If we maintain holy intercourse with the little world entrusted to us, if we help the holy spiritual substance to accomplish itself in that section of Creation in which we are living, then we are establishing, in this our place, a dwelling for the Divine Presence.

Shanah Tovah,
Rabbi Howard Gorin

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