What does God want from us? Peace.

What does God want from us?  Peace.

Kol Nidrei 5774 – 2013

Rabbi Gary S. Creditor

Richmond, Virginia

Forty years ago tonight Ruby and I went to sleep in our room in the Seminary building of Neve Schechter in Jerusalem contemplating our Kol Nidrei prayers. Little could we have known that the next day would change the course of Jewish history. The Bar Lev line on the Suez was pierced, Israeli jets fell from the skies, and Medinat Yisrael’s very existence was in grave jeopardy, as were our lives. As communications with the outside world were severed, as windows were blacked out and food rationed, we sensed the danger even as the battles were being fought at a distance from the city. You knew more here than we knew there.

Once there was a war that we thought would be our last.

Once there was a war which we prayed would be a harbinger of peace.

Once there was a Yom Kippur whose silence was shredded by sirens and by bombs.

Once we hid in a make-shift bomb shelter, and implored God that we should emerge in safety.

Once there was a war on Yom Kippur.

I never looked at life again the same way after that Yom Kippur.

I never looked at Israel the same way again.

            I thought of the destruction of Solomon’s Temple and the Babylonian exile.

            I thought of the destruction of the Second Temple and the Roman exile.

            I thought of the defeat of the Bar Kochba rebellion and the end of Jewish life in Judea.

I could not bear, abide the thought of life, of Jewish history, of being a Jew, without Israel.

Sometime afterwards a song was written by Dov Seltzer and sung by Yehoram Gaon that encapsulated all the tumultuous emotions. It was written and sung as an oath, that that war would be the last. A poetic translation of “Ha-Milchamah Ha-Achronah” – “The Last War”:

A.

“In the name of all the farm boys who let fruit spoil on the vines

To die, themselves unripe, on shrapnel-spitting mines;

In the name of all the pilots who streaked out with somber aims,

Who fused with missiles and were purified in flames.”

Ani mavti-ach lach, yaldah sheli k’tanah, she-zot tihyeh ha-milchamah ha-achronah

I swear my little girl, I swear to you once more,

I swear that this will be the last of all the wars;

I swear, I swear to thee,

I swear on all that’s free,

I swear that this war will be the last you’ll ever see.

B.

“In the name of gentle teachers who went out to take their stand

And left their marks on blood-red blackboards in the sand;

In the name of children forced to sleep in sandbag sheltered holes,

Or front line doctors who pumped blood back into souls.

Ani mavti-ach lach, yaldah sheli k’tanah, she-zot tihyeh ha-milchamah ha-achronah

I swear that this war will be the last you’ll ever see.

C.

In the name of men of vision who came out with blinded eyes,

Of grief –struck mothers who saw sons burst into skies;

In the name of fathers bandaged white – but still in place,

Who dream each night of going home to kiss your face.

Ani mavti-ach lach, yaldah sheli k’tanah, she-zot tihyeh ha-milchamah ha-achronah

I swear my little girl, I swear to you once more,

I swear that this will be the last of all the wars;

I swear, I swear to thee,

I swear on all that’s free,

I swear that this war will be the last you’ll ever see.

Yom Kippur comes every year, but it has been forty years, a number fraught with Biblical meaning and power, since “Yom Kippur.” And times does not erase the memories nor remove the ache as I recall embracing friends who exchanged talit for khalki green, and machzor for an M-16. The synagogue was so empty at Mincha on Yom Kippur. In place of confronting God, they were now on their way to the front.

Left behind in their absence, we sat and contemplated more seriously than ever before the words of our prayers. On Yom Kippur 1973 we wept as we chanted the U’ne’ta’neh Tokef:

“B’rosh Hashanah yiy-katay-vun, u’v’yom Tzom Kippur yay-cha-taymun.”

“On Rosh HaShanah we are inscribed, and on the fast of Yom Kippur it is sealed:

Mi yichyeh                  - who will live

U’Mi yamut                 - and who will die

Mi b’kitzo                    - whose life will end in its appointed time

U’Mi lo b’kitzo             - and whose life will be cut short

Mi ba-aysh                  - who by fire – of tanks, artillery and napalm

U’Mi ba-mayim           - who by water – in the Bar Lev line on the banks of the Suez

Mi ba-cherev              - who by sword

Mi  ba-ra’av                - who by hunger – after days of unending battle on the Golan Heights

U’Mi ba-tzamah          - and who by thirst in the Sinai sands

Mi Yishaket                 - who will be tranquil, in the still after the battle

U’Mi yitaref                - and who will be torn apart – by mortar and mine, grenade and bullet.

B’rosh Hashanah yiy-katay-vun, u’v’yom Tzom Kippur yay-cha-taymun.

On Rosh HaShanah we are inscribed, and on the fast of Yom Kippur it is sealed.”

“Ani mavti-ach lach, yaldah sheli k’tanah, she-zot tihyeh ha-milchamah ha-achronah

I swear that this war will be the last you’ll ever see.”

When Secretary of State John Kerry announced the resumption of negations between Israel and the Palestinian Authority you may well imagine every thought and emotion that flooded through me, every shred of optimism and pessimism, every wisp of skepticism and cynicism, every memory of Camp David and of Prime Minister Yitzchak Rabin z”l on the White House lawn. I had an instantaneous flash of Jewish history from the Dreyfus Affair and Russian pogroms to the Holocaust, of Israel’s four major wars – 1948, 1956, 1967, 1973, two in Lebanon, those with Gaza and the Intifadas, of buses blown up and of the school Ma’alot, a name hardly recognized or remembered. I can, but not here, make every case for every position, for two states, one state, confederation or domination. I can explicate the Palestinian views even as I reject them yet acknowledge them. Everyone is right. And everyone must be somewhat wrong. I do not care about the shape of the table or who sits around it. I do not plead nor pray for a particular plan or line of border, settlements here or there.

I plead and pray for sanity,

   for reason,

   for humanity,

   for the end of pain and death and destruction.

I plead for peace.

   A real peace.

   A true peace.

  A peace for everyone.

  A peace that will last forever.

            And I plead to hear an echo to my plea from every church and mosque.

Embedded in Yom Kippur is the expectation of the coming of the Messiah. The purpose of Yom Kippur rituals of the Temple and of Judaism ever afterwards is the cleansing of our souls, represented by the color white. In removing our sins we are able to unite with all other human beings and with God is pristine purity. And  thus when the Messiah finally comes, after the millennia of our tears and prayers, our belief is that there will be perfect peace. But that peace is not just for Israel and for the Jewish people. We are not self-centered. Judaism has a universalistic vision for all humanity. So, we believe in peace for all peoples in every place on earth. It is for Israelis, Jews, Palestinians, Moslems and Christians, Egyptians and Syrians, Iraqis and Iranians, Libyans, Afghanistanis, and on the streets of Richmond too. I don’t know how he or she will arrive, what language they will speak, or how they will look. As Danny Siegel once wrote, we don’t have to worry if we will recognize the Messiah. The question is: will the Messiah recognize us? We believe that when the Messiah really does come, there will be peace for all and forever, and borders will not matter.

What Israel needs from us, what God wants from us, is our love, our unmitigated support as it navigates treacherous and unknown paths, our public voice of encouragement, and as Americans, to our government to continue to be Israel’s undying partner for its existence which is beyond any particular issue. We live in a dangerous world and Israel lives in a most dangerous neighborhood. Perhaps God has directed us to be a strong community in this country so that we can advocate for our people who have rebuilt and populate our homeland, who in blood, sweat, tears and sacrifice created the Third Commonwealth in our history, gathered in the exiles, saved those in distress, rescued the saving remnant of the Holocaust, and redeemed our honor and dignity. And God, by His very name, wants peace, for them, for all, for the world.

So I want to share with you tonight, and share with the world, with all those who say “I can’t,” “I won’t” or any other negative, contrary and adversarial verbiage, the following story. I read it in the publication “Teaching Tolerance” published by the Southern Poverty Law Center. It is entitled: “Rabbit Foot: A Story of the Peacemaker,” told by Joseph Bruchac.

Many hundreds of years ago

before the Europeans came

the Five Nations of the Iroquois,

Mohawk and Oneida, Onondaga, Cayuga and Seneca,

were always at war with one another.

Although they had a common culture

and languages that were much the same

no longer did they remember

they had been taught to live

as sisters and brothers.

Once they had shared the beautiful land

from Niagara to the eastern mountains,

but now only revenge was in their hearts

and blood feuds had made every trail

a path leading to war.

So it was that the Great Creator

sent once again a messenger,

a man who became known

to all of the Five Nations

by the name of the Peacemaker.

To help the people once again

make their minds straight

he told them stories

about peace and war.

This is one of his tales.

Once there was a boy named Rabbit Foot.

He was always looking and listening.

He knew how to talk to animals

so the animals would talk to him.

One day as he walked out in the woods

he heard the sound of a great struggle

coming from a clearing just over the hill.

So he climbed that hilltop to look down.

What he saw surprised him.

There was a great snake

coiled in a circle.

It had caught a huge frog

and although the frog struggled

the snake was slowly swallowing its legs.

Rabbit Foot came closer

and spoke to the frog.

“He has really got you, my friend.”

The frog looked up at Rabbit Foot.

“Wa’he! That is so,” the frog said.

Rabbit Foot nodded, then said to the frog,

“Do you see the snake’s tail there,

just in front of your mouth?

Why not do to him what he’s doing to you?”

Then the huge frog reached out

and grabbed the snake’s tail.

He began to stuff it into his mouth

as Rabbit Foot watched them both.

The snake swallowed more of the frog

the frog swallowed more of the snake

and the circle got smaller and smaller

until both of them swallowed one last time

and just like that, they both were gone.

They had eaten each other,

the Peacemaker said.

And in much the same way,

unless you give up war

and learn to live together in peace,

that also will happen to you.

I would like to dream that in whatever number of years from now, perhaps a Sabbah, a grandfather, or a Sabbah Rabbah, a great-grandfather, will sit his grandchildren or great grandchildren on his lap and will tell them about Yom Kippur, 1973, where he were and what he did, what he saw, and how he lived.

And then he will sing to them in slight variation:

Ani mavti-ach lach, yaldah sheli k’tanah, she-zot hayitah ha-milchamah ha-achronah (2x)

I swear my little girl, I swear to you once more,

I swear that this was the last of all the wars;

I swear, I swear to thee,

I swear on all that’s free,

I swear that this war was the last war there’ll ever be.

I pray that we will live to see the coming of the Messiah.

I pray that tears, and cries, and pain and anguish for all will end.

I plead and pray for peace.

On this night of Yom Kippur, this is my only prayer to God.                                                  Amen.