Jewish World Review Sept. 19, 1998 / 28 Elul, 5758

Rabbi Berel Berkovits

Behind the mystique of Rosh Hashana

WHAT IS ROSH HASHANA REALLY ALL ABOUT? I remember the difficulty I had in explaining it when I was lecturing at a university and told my colleagues that I would be away over the Jewish New Year.

"Is it like Christmas and New Year's Day?" they asked me. "A lot of eating and a few drinks in the pub?"

When I told them that our New Year was rather different, that it was a period of introspection and self-analysis -- a Day of Judgement, a time that we recognized G-d as our King and Ruler -- they were disbelieving. "But what do you actually do on the New Year?"

Well, what do we actually do? Do we just go through the motions of "Auld Lang's Syne"? Do we sit through the services because we like the familiar tunes, because we feel comfortable in our nostalgia, because we wish to be loyal to our families?

Or, are we actually stirred, and moved, so that we experience a spiritual transformation? If so, what is it that stirs and moves us?

And what do we mean by calling G-d our "King" -- actually, "Our Father, our King -- we have no other King but You"?

How do we envisage G-d the King? Do we picture Him as a benign, if somewhat stern, figure, sitting on a heavenly throne?

What do we mean when we describe G-d as our Judge? Do we imagine Him sitting in a courtroom, rendering legal rulings?

As we recite in the Nesaneh Tokef prayer: "In truth, it is You who are Judge and Arbiter; who knows and who is witness ... You remember everything that's forgotten. ... As a shepherd checks his flock, passing the sheep under his staff, so do You cause to pass, and count, and number, and remember every living soul, and You set a limit for every human being ..."

POWERFUL IMAGES

These are evocative, powerful images, but they are the language of metaphor, the images of childhood. Often we carry them into maturity. But, we don't always manage to stop and re-evaluate them: we don't always update them as we gain in understanding.

The shofar (the instrument created from a ram's horn) is supposed to wake us up to reality. But what is reality? What is it that we are supposed to wake up to?

One of the lessons of the High Holy Days is the importance of seizing every opportunity that presents itself --- of using every moment of one's life to positive purpose. "And now, Israel, what does the L-rd your G-d want of you?"

The "now" means teshuvah, often translated as repentance. The "now" means acting in the present, doing what one can.

But sometimes, there are no limits to the extent that one can act; sometimes there are situations when one is powerless to do anything. We are not always in control, even though we imagine we are.

Sometimes we are faced with difficult experiences, in which we are forced to confront the reality of our ultimate impotence. A sobering, humbling, humanizing experience, in which our normal pretences, our usual illusions of grandeur, fall away, and we reassess our perspectives in life.

Sometimes even a heart-breaking experience. There is nothing more precious in the eyes of G-d than a broken heart.

PRECIOUS CHILD

I have recently lived through such an experience, and it is one that moved me to think again about life, to write these lines, in memory of a dearly-beloved nephew who recently died of lukaemia.

Every child is precious, but he was especially precious. He was a beautiful and special child --- one of unusual charm and grace, and gifted with potential greatness. And, at the age of 5, he was struck by a particularly virulent form of leukaemia.

He was not a saintly child, or a "goody-goody" --- he was a child like any other, who loved his toys, and his games, and had a lively sense of mischief.

But he was a very good child.

He was a kind child, a caring child, a considerate. He was a child of great willpower and strength, a child who somehow had the ability to suffer without complaining.

When he fell ill, life changed. A struggle to save the life of a sweet and precious child.

And my life changed as a result. I stood and watched as doctors did all they could --- as they administered chemotherapy and radiation; as they carried on a bone-marrow transplant; as they fought off rejection and infections; as they hoped and prayed.

And, I, too, together with so many other people who were touched and moved by his plight , hoped and prayed, pleaded and wept.

But it was not to be.

After 20 months of struggle and suffering -- punctuated by a three-month period when we thought he had pulled through -- he finally relapsed and died peacefully at home.

We were all broken. We were shattered. We were struck with grief and anguish. We were faced with a loss that can never be replaced.

But the anguish, the sense of loss were compounded by a spiritual desolation.

PHYSICAL PAIN

Why do such things happen in life? What was the purpose of all that pain and suffering by someone so young and innocent --- the physical pain of a child, and the emotional suffering of his family? What was the point of the tenous hopes, first raised and then dashed? What was the meaning of it all?

The fact that man seeks meaning to life is encouraging. The search implies the reality; the question implies an answer. If there is no meaning, if there is no purpose, then there are no questions to be asked.

If the world were not created, if G-d is not in control, if man is merely a chance mutation who happened to evolve out of protozoic slime, if all that we are is a complex and wondrous, but nonetheless accidental combination of DNA strands, then questions are meaningless. There is no "because" and no "why" to the mystery of man's destiny.

But if we do believe, if we do have faith in G-d's care and concern, and in His love and kindness, if we realize and appreciate that there is a purpose to life --- then we cannot avoid the questions.

It is true, as Maimonides observes in his Guide to the Perplexed, that the world, taken as a whole, is a beautiful place --- that the balance of good in this world is greater than that of evil. But it is also true, as the Ramban says, that there is a great deal of individual suffering, and many events in life which appear to be inexplicable.

The fact that we ask questions, that we search for meaning, that we look for answers -- the fact that man everywhere and in all ages instinctively gropes for explanations -- implies that there is indeed an answer to the questions.

Sometimes we see the answer. Sometimes the veil is lifted and we see beyond the curtain. But sometimes it is not; G-d's face remains inscrutably hidden. We struggle, we ask --- and we find no solution.

There are many mysteries in life, many problems, much suffering. Tragedies do happen; to pretend otherwise is to fool ourselves. We may storm, we may rage, we may protest: but afterwards, there is "the still, small voice."

G-d is not in the wind; He is not in the storm; He is in the still, small voice. He speaks to us, in our solitude; He addresses us silently.

And we recognize that we are not in control. We recognize that G-d knows what He is doing. We recognize that there are limits to our understanding. We achieve understanding, and we accept.

That is not to say that we should not search for meaning, or look for answers. Still less does it mean that we should not feel other people's suffering and anguish.

On the contrary. In a little-known work (Shaar Hagemul) dealing with questions of suffering, the Ramban emphatically affirms that it is our duty to try to understand.

Blind faith is not a virtue; it is a cop-out.

But we may have to come to the conclusion that we do not really understand. We may find the answers we are given unsatisfactory, inadequate, inappropriate. And when we reach that point, when we understand that we do not always have to have answers, when we know that we do not know, then, perhaps, we have the beginnings of an answer.

After all, is not life the ultimate mystery? Do we really understand what life is all about, what we are all about? Do we, with all our scientific knowledge of this world, really know about the World to Come? Do we, with our comprehension of the physical, understand the nature of the spiritual?

Sometimes the real answer may be that there is no answer; the real reply may be that there is no real reply. But even if there is no reply, there can still be a response.

The response is acceptance: acceptance that man is man, and G-d is G-d; acceptance that "My thoughts are not your thoughts, and My ways are not your ways."

Acceptance that we cannot know all; that we cannot control all; that we cannot understand suffering; that if we do not have an answer, we can still have a response.

We can respond by improving our lives; by being more humble, more tolerant; by having greater faith in G-d; by living a better life, a life of more Torah and mitzvas; by becoming more sensitive, more caring, more considerate of other people; by helping other people as far as we are able.

This, I believe, is the true message of Rosh Hashana. It is a serious day, yes, but not one of sadness; a sobering day, but not one of sorrow. It is a day when we come face to face with our Maker, when we are able to confront the ultimate realities of life.

"G-d is King", said the Kotzker Rebbe: "we all accept that He is the King. But do we? Ask someone 'Where is G-d?' and just see what he replies. 'G-d is above, below, in all four directions of the universe."

"No," said the Kotzker; "that is not the real answer. The real answer is that G-d is wherever you let Him in."

What is meant by recognizing G-d as King? It means that we accept that He, and only He, is in control; that our lives and existence come from Him; that He alone is the source of all reality; that He alone decides what should happen to each one of us.

SOURCE OF TRUTH

What is meant by recognizing G-d as Judge? It means tht we accept that His ways are not ours; that there are limits to our understanding; that He alone is the source of all truth; that He runs the world in love and kindness.

And it is only by contemplating the world, and contemplating life, that we can gain such a perception. In the beautiful words of Maimonides: "When a person thinks carefully about G-d's great and wondrous actions and creations, when he sees in them G-d's incomparable and infinite wisdom, he will immediately be move to love G-d, to praise Him and glorify Him, and will be filled with an intense longing to understand His greatness.

"And when he gives further thought to these self-same things, he will immediately take a step backwards, and be filled with awe, in the knowledge that he is but a small, unexalted and unelightened creature, standing in his limited and incomplete knowledge before Him who is perfect in all knowledge."

Hence the need for Rosh Hashana: the need for a day when we can stop, when we can think, when we can take an honest look at ourselves, at our aspirations and our lives. The message of Rosh Hashana is that we need to learn acceptance: acceptance of G-d, and acceptance of ourselves.

That is also why read about the "Binding of Isaac" on Rosh Hashana. The story is not one of sacrifice -- G-d did not want Abraham to sacrifice his son. Nor is it merely a story of a trial -- in the sense of a test of Abraham's loyalty. It is a story with a message.

The message is that G-d knows what He is doing, even when we are unable to fathom His actions. Abraham did not challenge G-d. He accepted.