September 25, 2021October 20, 2023 by Rabbi Mark Glickman

Heal Us Now

Rosh Hashanah Morning Sermon – 2021/5782

By Rabbi Mark Glickman

You should know that, in preparation for these Days of Awe, I usually try to write my sermons at least three to four weeks in advance. Please keep that in mind as you listen to my sermon this morning:

Welcome back, everybody! Isn’t it great for us all to be sitting together here in our sanctuary again?!?!? There were people who doubted that we’d make it back together for in-person worship on these Days of Awe, but we showed them, didn’t we? It’s been a long, hard pandemic for us all – thank God that’s over!

Sadly, of course, that’s not where we are right now. We were hoping – really hoping – to be back together in person this year, but rising virus numbers, not to mention the stubborn refusal on the part of many of our neighbours to get vaccinated, has rendered that impossible. Next year, we pray, things will be different. This year, we’re playing it safe, and most of us are at home.

I don’t need to tell you that this has been one hell of a year. You know it as well as I do. Thankfully, most of us in our congregation were able to avoid the virus, but some of us got sick. Most of us know people who contracted it, many of us lost friends and family members, and all of us have suffered. We stayed at home – some of us with our loved ones, and some of us all by ourselves. As we did, we developed new tools to do our work and our errands, often gaining newfound technical expertise we never dreamed possible. We discovered novel techniques to fill our days. We postponed vacations. We put off visits with family and friends. Parents of small children worked as never before to keep their kids active and engaged. Children of aged parents strove to make sure their loved ones were doing OK and staying connected. The economy constricted, and we all felt its pinch – some of us quite severely. Many of us had the financial and emotional resources to prevent the pandemic from hurting very much; others found the whole thing overwhelming.

And for many of us, the worst part was the isolation – not being able to get together with friends, not being able to celebrate events with other people, needing instead to stay home and isolate. We used replacement activities, but they left us wanting. A Zoom Bat Mitzvah? An online Bris? A funeral without handshakes and hugs? How have such things been possible?

I don’t know, but we made them happen. Some of us – the introverts – might have even enjoyed the alone time in some ways. But along the way, we all had difficult days. We all struggled with the many challenges that that nasty little virus imposed upon our lives.

What a year it has been. And even though we’re not out of the woods yet, it’s important to remember that there are ways in which things aren’t as bad today as they were at this time last year. Now, kids are in school. Now, carefully, we can go shopping. Now, we can even go to Shabbat services in person. And now, thank God, we have a vaccine.

The thing is that, having taken these initial steps to emerge from the gloom, none of us is the same as we were before, for this year has transformed us, changed us. Collectively and individually, we’re different now. Some of the changes have been good. We’ve seen the fragility of human life as never before, we’ve beheld the awesome potential of scientific inquiry and experimentation to better our lives, we’ve grown sensitive to the needs of others. Some of the changes, on the other hand, haven’t been as desirable. We’ve used chemicals to numb our pain, we’ve allowed our fear to make us prioritize selfish needs over shared ones, and some of us have grown very, very grouchy.

Of course, we are far from the first people – and certainly far from the first Jews – to have had to endure suffering. And as I look to the future on this Rosh Hashanah, I’m reminded of the experiences of one particular Jew of the past, and of how his encounter with pain – his own pain and that of others – might be instructive for us today.

The man I’m referring to was named Yochanan bar Nafcha, a Talmudic sage from the third century CE. A kind and erudite man who led the rabbinic academy in the city of Tiberias, Rabbi Yochanan was renowned for being healthy and physically beautiful for most of his life, which is said to have lasted for more than a century. If anyone back then had published a Rabbis-of-Ancient-Palestine calendar, Yochanan would have been its cover-rabbi.

At one point, a student of Rabbi Yochanan’s – Rabbi Hiyya bar Abba – fell ill, and Rabbi Yochanan went to visit him. Sitting at the bedside of his ailing student, Rabbi Yochanan said, “Is your suffering dear to you?” In other words, “Some people say that suffering is a good thing in the end – that it strengthens person, and that it eventually bears its own rewards. Do you agree? Is this pain what you want?”

Rabbi Hiyya’s response from his sickbed was clear. “I welcome neither this suffering nor its reward,” he said. In other words, “This isn’t what I want – not at all. People who glorify suffering probably haven’t had to do it themselves. There is nothing good about pain, and, given the choice, I’d opt out.”

Now, if you were Rabbi Yochanan, what would you have said at that point? How would you have responded to Rabbi Hiyya’s pain and despair. Rabbi Yochanan could have said, Buck up, old boy. You’ll get through this before you know it. Don’t worry, it’s not so bad. After all, who said you’re always supposed to be healthy in the first place? Just bear with it and don’t be a wuss.

Rabbi Yochanan, however, didn’t say any of those things. Instead, all he said was, “Hav li yadcha. Give me your hand.”

Rabbi Hiyya, the Talmud says, gave his hand to Rabbi Yochanan, whereupon the ailing Rabbi Hiyya stood up, and was healed.

From Rabbi Yochanan, unlike from this rabbi who stands before you here today, there were no sermons – no moralizing, no attempts at deep spiritual insight or scintillating lessons. Instead, just he just uttered three words: Hav li yadcha, “Give me your hand.” That’s all it took to heal his student.

Now, the skeptics among you might dismiss this as smacking of the faith healing you can see on TV sometimes: “Watch me place my hand over a tumor and rid this woman of terminal cancer…and please me send your money.”

But I encourage you not to be so skeptical. Because in my work, I have been blessed to see this type of healing happen over and over and over again. A member of our congregation visits an old man unable to leave his home, and after the visit, the old man sits up straighter and speaks more strongly than before, his isolation having vanished during the visit, some of his precious his vitality returned. A brother and a sister who just lost a close friend come to services to say Kaddish, and afterwards, members of our congregation hug them to provide comfort. The hugs don’t alleviate all the pain, but they sure make it more bearable.

Once, Caron and I visited a friend – a woman in her 40s in a nursing home suffering from brain cancer. We walked into her room, and found her sitting in a wheelchair, a glazed look in her eyes, barely responsive. Immediately, I prepared to slip into sermon mode – to say something very insightful and brilliant. Before I could say a word, however, Caron looked our friend in the eye, and said, “Jean, can I put some lotion on your hands.” Jean nodded yes; Caron put lotion on her hands. And for those few fleeting moments, even though Jean couldn’t speak, it was clear to me that she found a sense of peace that would otherwise have eluded her.

Hav li yadcha. Give me your hand. What words in any language could be more healing?

My friends, you are my greatest teachers of this truth. I have seen you practice it with each other and show it to other people almost every day during this crisis. You have visited. You have called. Physically or in spirit, you have sat beside those in need. You have taken the hands of other people, and the healing that has resulted has been nothing short of miraculous. You have shown me time and again that the greatest healing can come from the simple act of being present to those who need us, and taking their hand in yours.

Sometime after Rabbi Yochanan’s visit with Rabbi Hiyya, Rabbi Yochanan himself fell ill. And while he was laid up, one of Rabbi Yochanan’s students – a man named Rabbi Hanina – came for to see him. “Is your suffering dear to you?” Hanina asked Rabbi Yochanan. Is this suffering a good thing in the end? Is this pain what you want?

The question sounded vaguely familiar, and so was his answer. “I welcome neither this suffering nor its reward,” Yochanan said. Just like his student, Rabbi Hiyya, Yochanan himself found no redeeming value in his suffering. Just pain and misery.

You can probably predict what Rabbi Hanina said to his ailing teacher. “Hav li yadcha. Give me your hand.” Rabbi Yochanan gave his hand to his student, Rabbi Hanina, and promptly was healed.

The caregiver himself needed care. He had been there for his students when they needed him, and now he was the one in need. As I picture the situation, I imagine that Rabbi Yochanan might have been reluctant to have to be in this position. He was supposed to be the one attending to others, not demanding their attention. In all likelihood, I’m sure he felt exactly the same thing as many of you have said to me this past year. “Yes, this is really hard, Rabbi,” you’ve said, “but I know other people have it even worse, so I shouldn’t complain.”

When you’ve said that to me, I’ve wanted to respond “What – you think that the fact that they’re suffering means that you can’t? Don’t worry,” I’ve wanted to say, “there’s plenty of torment to go around for all of us these days.”

Even when we are taking care of other people, sometimes we need care ourselves, and that’s OK. In fact, sometimes we need that care especially when we’re attending to others. And when we see other caregivers around us doing their sacred work, one of the greatest things we can do to attend to their needs – the needs of the givers.

Here too, you are my greatest teachers. Over the course of the past year, I have received many calls from members of this community checking in with me. Sometimes, these were congregants I barely knew. “Rabbi,” they said, “you spend so much time taking care of us, I wanted to call to see how you are doing.”

Thank God, I was doing OK when they called, but the kindness they showed in reaching out to me was truly and inspiration. If I’ve succeeded in showing you kindness during these months (as I hope I have), that success is due in large part to the sacred model that they’ve set for me.

Care for the caregivers, and don’t let your own concern for others numb you to your own needs. These lessons, too, we learn from Rabbi Yochanan.

But his story doesn’t end there. In time, another one of Rabbi Yochanan’s students grew ill – this time it was Rabbi Elazar – and Rabbi Yochanan went to visit him, too. Yochanan walked into the dark room; he sat beside his student; he reached out his hand to the ailing Elazar. And as he did so, Rabbi Yochanan’s sleeve rode up his arm a little, and, the Talmud tells us, a light shone off his skin that filled the whole house with its brightness. (Remember, Yochanan was one beautiful guy!)

Elazar looked up at Yochanan, and began to weep, and this time, Yochanan did respond with words. “Why are you weeping, Elazar? Is it because you haven’t studied enough Torah? Is it because you haven’t earned enough money, or because of the suffering of your children?”

“No,” Elazar said, looking at his teacher. “I’m weeping because I see your beauty, and I know that one day, it will decompose in the earth.” Evidently, Yochanan’s beauty reminded Elazar of human mortality. All human lives come to an end – Elazar’s own life would soon conclude, and eventually, even a man as beautiful as Rabbi Yochanan would die, too. That’s what brought him to tears, and the Talmud tells us that Rabbi Yochanan wept with him. They held hands, and while for a time, Rabbi Elazar was restored to health, we know that eventually both men died, just as all of us will.

Rabbi Elazar wept when he saw the beauty of his teacher. Beauty has a way of doing that. And Rabbi Elazar wept when he realized that even this beauty would someday come to an end. Illness and death have a way of doing that, too.

Take a moment to reflect upon the people you know – the glorious lives that are part of yours. Think of the year we just had – the suffering, the learning, the death, the transformation, the magnificent beauty and terror of it all. All of it, everything and everyone we know, is so very fragile, and so very precious. And having gone through what we’ve just endured, sometimes all we can do is weep.

No, we are not the same as we were before. We’re different – wiser, stronger, sensitized, transformed. Life will always be different now on, and we’ve barely begun to realize how.

What we can say is that wherever we are in terms of this horrible pandemic, we remain in need of healing. We remain incomplete. We have yet to have restored ourselves to fullness.

And so, our hearts open in prayer. God, help us. We are grateful beyond words to have survived these past months, but we are still in need of healing. Help us, O God, to find insight. Support us as we strive to continue helping one another. Give voice to the truths we have learned and the need we have to hold one another’s hands.

O God, we pray, please, heal us now.