PRACTICING HOPE 

Our story begins in the second century CE after two turbulent centuries of Roman rule over Judea, decades after the Holy Temple in Jerusalem was destroyed. It was a dark time for the Jewish people. The Talmud tells us of a discussion among a group of 3 scholars, Rabbi Yehuda, Rabbi Yosi and Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai, all esteemed colleagues and students of the same master, the beloved teacher Rabbi Akiva. The topic turned to the merits of the Roman Empire. 

Rabbi Yehuda began innocently enough, remarking: How pleasing are the actions of this nation, the Romans. They established marketplaces, established bridges, and established bathhouses.   

[some of the great contributions of the Roman Empire!]

Rabbi Yosi remained silent.

Rabbi Shimon bar Yocḥai retorted: Everything that they established, they established only for their own purposes. Their marketplaces are full of corruption and immorality; their bathhouses serve their own self-indulgence; and their bridges are used to collect taxes from all who pass over them.

Another colleague listening in to this discussion told what he heard to his household, and they told, others until the Roman rulers learned of them. [Betraying confidences didn’t start with social media.]

As a result. the rulers decreed, because Yehuda elevated the Roman regime with praise, he will be elevated and appointed as head speaker of the Sages. Because Yosi remained silent, his voice will be silenced through exile. And Shimon, who denounced the government, will be condemned to death.

Rabbi Shimon managed to escape, along with his son Eliezer. They found a cave to hide in. It is said that a miracle occurred for them. A carob tree grew up there and a spring of water bubbled up by the mouth of the cave. The carobs and the water sustained them. For twelve years they remained isolated in the cave. They spent their days studying Torah. Much of the day, they would remove their clothes, covering themselves in sand up to their necks. When it came time for daily prayers, they would put on their clothes out of respect.

[like putting on a nice shirt for a Zoom meetings] After their prayers they removed their clothes again to preserve them from wear and tear.

For twelve years they survived this way until one day, it is said, Elijah the Prophet came and stood at the entrance to the cave and said: Who will inform Shimon bar Yocḥai that the emperor has died and his death decree has been revoked?

Hearing that, Rabbi Shimon and his son got dressed and emerged from the cave.

[…Think for a moment what it must have been like to leave their isolation after so long. Were they overjoyed? Concerned? Fearful? What did they expect to see after twelve years? How would they respond to a world that was probably different from what they remembered? What skills had they lost in twelve years of living alone together, engaged in their favorite activity, with all their needs taken care of?]

Outside the cave they saw people who were plowing their fields and sowing seeds. Rabbi Shimon declared with anger: These people neglect the eternal life of Torah study and only engage in material and temporal life for their own benefit. And it is said that every place that Rabbi Shimon and his son directed their eyes would burst into flame!

A Bat Kol, Divine Voice, was heard chastising them: Did you emerge from the cave in order to destroy My world? Return to your cave!

Rabbi Shimon and his son were not able to live peacefully in the world. They had adapted to their isolation. They had become trapped in their new habits, and more pointedly, in their limited way of thinking. They could not imagine that good people might think or behave differently from them. They were convinced that their way of being, their passion for Torah—laudable as that is, their world view was the only correct way. They were so blinded by anger, they could not see what had changed for the better. After all, the old emperor was gone! The decree had been lifted! But alas, when the world did not bend to their way of thinking, they were filled with destruction, fueled by despair.

 

This story, sadly, could easily describe all of us emerging from isolation. After 18 months, the world looks somewhat familiar, yet is alternately confusing or frustrating. Eager to come out of our isolation, we return to the world bolstered by our own opinions and our own way of doing things. As it turns out, emerging is not so easy. The world is not the way we had hoped. We are angry. We are grieving. We are frustrated. We are fearful. And now that we are still facing an uncertain and frightening future, some of us are close to giving up hope.

 

But the story of Rabbi Shimon does not end there. Heeding the Divine Voice, Rabbi Shimon and his son did return to the cave. They remained there for another twelve months. At that point, they prayed that a year of judgement should atone for their sins. A Bat Kol, Divine Voice, was heard once again, ordering them to emerge from their cave. And they came out of isolation a second time. This time, the Talmud tells us, wherever they found destruction, they brought healing.

 

What changed for them in those twelve months? A later commentator, the Toldot Yaakov Yosef, explains that the second time they emerged from the cave, they had learned compassion. When they had first left the cave, they were enraged by other points of view. But when they were sent back into the cave, they took on a practice. One could call it a practice of hope. The commentator notes that in those twelve months they learned a better way of being in the world. Those were months of teshuva, of an honest reckoning with the world and their place in it. After a year of working on themselves, of trying to be different inwardly, Rabbi Shimon and his son returned to the outside world differently. The world no longer looked hopeless. In place of anger they brought compassion. In place of hard-heartedness, they brought open hearts. In place of despair they brought hope.

 

We can become like Rabbi Shimon and his son as we take steps to emerge. We welcome a New Year because it reminds us to hope. We begin the year with the hope that anything is possible. This last year has been filled with making the impossible possible. Who could have foreseen that vaccines that are safe and effective would be widely available in record time? Who could have imagined gymnastic superstar Simone Biles taking a step back from the spotlight and standing up for mental health? Who would dream that the star of the Inauguration would be a young Black woman named Amanda Gorman? Who would have thought that families would be brought closer together during the pandemic, whether by living in close quarters or speaking on Zoom across oceans and continents? Who could have envisioned that more people than ever before would join Torah study on Zoom, week after week? Who would believe how much we were able to carry on, to learn, and to grow despite our setbacks?

 

Hope is a practice. It requires diligent attention--especially when we are least optimistic about the future. Sorrow may arise. Disappointment may appear. Anger may visit. Yet we can’t allow sorrow, disappointment, and anger to overcome hope. These three are our guests. But hope is our home.

 

I turn to these words of theologian Reinhold Niebuhr, who reminds us:

“Nothing worth doing is completed in our lifetime; therefore, we must be saved by hope. Nothing true or beautiful or good makes complete sense in any immediate context of history; therefore, we must be saved by faith. Nothing we do, however virtuous, can be accomplished alone; therefore we are saved by love. No virtuous act is quite as virtuous from the standpoint of our friend or foe as from our standpoint. Therefore, we must be saved by the final form of love which is forgiveness.”                    

 

As you reflect on the year that has passed, notice the losses, feel the pain. And then notice the gains, even the small ones. Feel the joys, even the fleeting ones. These are the seeds of hope.  Nurture them. Help them grow and flower and bear fruit.

 

Now what if you practiced hope every day? What if every morning you woke up, brimming with potential, knowing that today, every day, begins a New Year, a year full of hope for the impossible? Just imagine. Ken yehi ratzon.

 

Rabbi Barbara Penzner

Temple Hillel B’nai Torah

Rosh Hashanah 5782