“The Ties that Bind”

One of the greatest of the Chasidic masters was known as the Maggid of Mezerich. Although already a learned man, the Maggid went to study with the Baal Shem Tov, the founder of the Chasidic movement and a renowned spiritual teacher. When the Maggid returned home for a visit, the whole town came out to greet him. “What did the Baal Shem teach you?” they all wanted to know. “He taught me,” the Maggid replied, “how to tie my shoes.”

On the simplest level, the Maggid was referring to the idea that the ultimate purpose of learning is not just the accumulation of abstract facts. We learn, instead, for the purpose of sanctifying our lives—to elevate the way we actually live them, to fill each of our actions with purpose, with elegance, with love. The mundane things we do, like tying our shoes, are not the stage props for life. We don’t have rehearsals for a real life, which will start at some unspecified later date. The mundane things we do are life, and deserve to be appreciated as such.

Think of tying our shoes. No big deal? Think again. The ability to bend our bodies, to manipulate our hands, to use our brains, are nothing less than miracles—and if you think I’m kidding, consider for a moment what it would be like if, because of a back injury, we couldn’t even bend over to tie our shoes—I’ve been there, it’s not pleasant; if, because of a stroke, we lost the use of our hands; if, because of Alzheimer’s, we couldn’t quite remember how to tie our shoes, or why. Even an action as seemingly simple as tying our shoes is an occasion for ecstatic celebration, a time to reflect on the miracle of our lives, a call to thank G-d for all that we have been given—and that’s why we have berachot to recite to express our gratitude and sense of wonder. How much the more, then, should we be overwhelmed with the gift of love and affection from those around us!

So what the Baal Shem Tov was really teaching the Maggid was how to integrate his spiritual life with his real life. We would be well served if we all did the same—whether we are tying our shoes, dealing with work, struggling with our kids, paying our bills, or watching the Mets blow a 3½  game lead in September.

There is an even deeper level to this story. The image of tying shoes used by the Maggid refers back to a legend about one of the most mysterious and fascinating figures in our tradition, the biblical Enoch. Legend has it that Enoch  never died, but instead was transported, living, to the celestial world. What did he do there? The legend continues that he was a shoemaker, and as he bound together the soles of shoes, with each stitch he linked together heaven and earth.

Building on this theme, the Jewish mystical tradition developed the concept of “perud”, separation, to describe the archetypal crisis that plagues the universe—and the act of reunification, of binding heaven and earth, G-d and humanity, humanity and nature together, as the archetypal tikkun, the restoration of the true divine order.

That, my friends, is the essence of our purpose on earth, and it could serve well as the ultimate mission statement for Tifereth Israel. Here, we bind together heaven and earth.

So the question that we face on this sacred day is this: How do we bind together heaven and earth?

First and foremost, we need to get ourselves together. Then our congregation. Then our neighbors, our community. Then our nation. And then, ultimately, the world.

Wendell Berry, a fascinating agrarian cultural critic, has written that as society “becomes more and more intricate, it has less and less structure. It becomes more and more organized but less and less orderly. The community disintegrates because it loses the necessary understandings…and enactments of the relations among materials and processes, principles and actions, ideals and realities, past and present, present and future, men and women, body and spirit, city and country, civilization and wilderness, growth and decay, life and death—just as the individual character loses the sense of a responsible involvement in these relations. No longer does human life rise from the earth like a pyramid, broadly and considerately founded upon its sources. Now it scatters itself out in a reckless horizontal sprawl, like a disorderly city whose suburbs and pavements destroy the fields.”

What better analogy could there be, for a society where the tight binds of the relationship between heaven and earth have been torn asunder, than the image of “sprawl,” the sloppiness that destroys our physical environs as well as our spiritual harmony.

We have to bring it all together. We have to bind together heaven and earth.

This goal may sound as unusual as it is unattainable. We don’t often think of ourselves as being involved in such a dramatic thing. “Bind heaven and earth together? Who, me?” is probably our most instinctive response.

But that is because we don’t really understand ourselves—and honest self-understanding is what these High Holy Days are all about.

What does it mean to bind together heaven and earth? There is nowhere on earth where that question is more pressing, and better illuminated, than in the city of Jerusalem. The great scholar David Halperin once said of Jerusalem that it really is two cities, one real, one imaginary, that occupy the same geographical space. What he meant was that, Jerusalem is the tangible, rocks-and-dirt-and-trees city in the middle of a conflict-ridden desert; and at one and the same time the heavenly Jerusalem of legend and religious imagination, whose streets are paved with precious stones and whose residents live in ecstasy, basking in the light of the Divine Presence.

So which is the “real” Jerusalem?

It is, paradoxically, both.

And whatever can be said of Jerusalem can be said of each of us. We are, on the one hand, what we naturally perceive ourselves to be: ordinary people doing ordinary things, for the most part of little or no meaning, usually decent enough, with some occasional moral failings, and some serious ones, that we don’t like to think of very much.

And, on the other hand, we are people of extraordinary spiritual audacity and moral grandeur, capable of breathtaking heroism, devotion, and love; fully empowered to serve as the eyes and hands and heart of G-d.

Who knew?

If you haven’t thought of yourself, or of our congregation, in those terms, it’s not surprising. For most people, religion doesn’t seem to work that way at all. Instead, religion seems to be an institution—and who wants to be institutionalized?

The great thinker William James, about a hundred years ago, explained the sad situation very well:

“…religious thinkers attract disciples and produce groups of sympathizers. When these groups get strong enough to ‘organize’ themselves, they become ecclesiastical institutions with corporate ambitions of their own. The spirit of politics and the lust of dogmatic rule are then apt to enter and to contaminate the originally innocent thing…When a religion has become an orthodoxy, its day of inwardness is over: the spring is dry, the faithful live at second hand exclusively and stone the prophets in their turn. The new church, in spite of whatever human goodness it may foster, can be henceforth counted on as a staunch ally in every attempt to stifle the spontaneous religious spirit, and to stop all later bubblings of the fountain from which in purer days it drew its own supply of inspiration.”

In a word: they stop trying to bind together heaven and earth, and instead use the attraction of heaven to bind more tightly the bonds of control on earth.

I wonder: how many Jews are there in America who are repelled by the “corporate ambitions” of organized Jewish life; by synagogue politics (otherwise known as “ego”); by meaningless dogmatism; by the lack of love, sympathy, simple menschlichkeit? How many have had their spiritual life stifled, rather than nurtured, in the synagogue?

Many years ago, I read a shocking survey about religious experience. People of different faiths were asked if they ever had what they would call a mystical experience, an intimate sense of personal contact with G-d.

A surprisingly large percentage, somewhere between 30-50%, said yes. And when asked if they had discussed their experience with their clergy, 90% said no. In fact, their clergyman was just about the last person to whom they would turn to discuss the matter. Why? Because they presumed the clergy would condemn, invalidate, or denigrate their spiritual experience—the spiritual experience that was one of the supreme moments of their life—the last thing they would want to see condemned, invalidated, or denigrated.

When we are touched by the Divine, it creates a lovers’ intimacy. It is a holy moment, to be nurtured and savored, not diminished or violated.

Contrast the crudity and coarseness of such soulless religion with the words of the last Rebbe of the Warsaw ghetto, Rabbi Kalonymus Kalman Shapira, in his spiritual manifesto, Conscious Community: “Our goal is to be thoroughly devoted to G-d with our entire being, so that every capacity of our bodies and every spark of our souls, is connected with the holiness of G-d, which permeates us and surrounds us.”

This is a goal we should take to heart at Tifereth Israel. We do not want people living their Jewish lives “at second hand”, going through motions, prayers, rituals, holidays that someone, once upon a time, found meaningful enough to make central to our faith.

“We can feel ourselves,” continues Rabbi Shapira, “growing closer to G-d—enjoying His radiance, sensing His presence”—but not only when we pray and do mitzvot. “If we focus on holiness with clarity and strength for each and every moment,…we [can make] our sensual perceptions… come around to the perspective of the heart. We can actually see the presence of G-d, which infuses all creation. Each of us can see with our own eyes that we stand in paradise, in the palpable presence of G-d.” This, says Rabbi Shapira, is the goal of his community—and should be the goal of ours.

Put another way:  Our goal is to make our shul, our community, our homes, ourselves, the dwelling-place of the Shekhinah, the Presence of G-d. Our goal is to use the passion of prayer, engrossing study, dedication to mitzvot, inspiring music, and intimate, gentle, loving social contact with our family, friends, and neighbors in order to keep us aware that the place where we stand is indeed, already and always, the dwelling-place of the Shekhinah.

So we must begin with ourselves. We must learn to see ourselves as standing with our feet on earth and our heads in heaven, and learn how, in our very selves, we can link the two together.

But we cannot stop there. As I mentioned, we need to address the needs of  our congregation, our neighbors, our community, our nation. And then, ultimately, the world. No matter what the scale, from personal to universal, heaven and earth must be brought together; and it is inside of us that the first binding of heaven and earth must be made.

We can of course sanctify our lives through study and prayer and mitzvot. And, we can sanctify our lives through a sense of purpose; through elegance; through menschlichkeit; through openness; through mindfulness; through gratitude and wonder and passion, through recycling and through respect. …Through love.

The gap between heaven and earth may seem large today—even insurmountably large. How distant our mundane lives seem from the sacred! How impossible it seems to raise our everyday lives from deadening routine—if not also cynicism, struggle, and perhaps desperation—to glorious acts of grace, transcendence, and love!

To this, I can only share the words of an ancient native American initiation ritual, (as quoted by Joseph Campbell):

“As you go the way of life, you will see a great chasm.

Jump.

It is not as wide as you think.”

And if we take the leap together, it will be that much easier.

Ken yehi ratzon, may it be G-d’s will. Amen.