Broken Heart, Bigger Heart (Rosh Hashanah Day Sermon 5779)

As I’ve shared with some of you, I was married at the end of June. What I may not have shared with you is, in the weeks leading up to Alex and my wedding, my grandfather was seriously ill. Even though he wasn’t at our wedding, I had hoped he would live long enough for me to tell him about our special day. But after the dancing, eating, hora, and toasts, my parents took me and Alex aside and told us Grandpa Howard had died that morning.

So full until then, my heart shattered, unable to hold the joy that moments ago had coursed through it. More than that grief, I felt a rising fear that this would be it. My sadness would replace what should have been my greatest moment of joy. I worried there was no way for me to hold the opposing truths of my experience, the uplift and the pain, the joy and the grief.

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The story we read today is called the Akeida, or the “binding of Isaac.” It is a story of conflicting truths, of joy and grief. The Akeida is the last story the Torah tells in which Isaac speaks with his father, Abraham. The Torah leaves us to imagine the trauma Isaac carries with him after his father ties him to an altar, apparently ready to fulfill God’s command to sacrifice Isaac out of Abraham’s deep faith.

If you’re like me, you might ask, “How could our tradition celebrate Abraham as a hero if this nearly catastrophic act is his defining act of faith?!” Given how long our tradition has been grappling with this question, I don’t know if we can answer it this year — but maybe we can begin to reach towards an answer if we look more closely at our story.

It begins: “[God] said to him, “Abraham,” and [Abraham] answered, hineini” (Gen 22:1). The rabbis tell us when someone says, hineini — literally “here I am” — they are ready to submit their will to Something Greater than Themselves. After Abraham says hineini, God tells him to sacrifice his son. We imagine Abraham, profoundly distressed, packing, fetching his son and beginning the journey. Hineini.

Days later, standing above an altar, Abraham’s knife flashes above his son. Suddenly, “An angel of God call[s] to [Abraham] from heaven: “Abraham! Abraham!” And what does Abraham say? Hineini, “Here I am” (Gen 22:11). This time when the divine voice speaks, it tells Abraham not to sacrifice his son, but to instead offer a ram. Abraham we now imagine relieved of his incredible burden, submits to a completely different command. Hineini.

One hineini, Abraham packs for a journey, gets ready to fulfil the terrible mission he has unwittingly accepted. Another hineini, Abraham’s journey ends, he is relieved of his awful burden. One hineini: Abraham accepts the painful fate he has been given. Another hineini: he submits to a totally different truth. One hineini, Abraham’s life path seems set. Another hineini, he opens up to a totally different destiny.

Clearly, we’re missing something if we conclude Abraham’s big moment, his defining act of faith, was when he said hineini the first time, and nearly sacrificed his son. No. It’s his ability to utter a second hineini. In that moment, his heart doesn’t break in two, unable to open to this new truth. Instead, he allows his heart to be big enough to make room for this new reality. Abraham’s defining act of faith is his ability to utter a second hineini, and in so doing, to trust he is strong enough to hold multiple truths.

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The moment I learned of my grandfather’s death changed the way I understood Abraham. I was moved by his trust in his capacity to hold two conflicting experiences at the same time, to open his heart wide enough to encompass them both. While these experiences were in tension, they could be held together in a spacious heart. So, by submitting to the reality of what was, even if it wasn’t what I wanted, I discovered that I could fully allow myself to grieve. And in the moments I reflected back on our special day, I could also reconnect with its joy.

I could say to myself, “Hineini, I submit my will to Something Greater than Myself. My heart is open to receive what is next, whether light or dark, pain or joy.” This experience also changed the way I heard the prayer we recite at our Shabbat services, called Ma’ariv. This prayer talks about the mixing of light and dark in the sky, and invites us to imagine what it would be like to make space for all the seemingly opposing experiences in our lives: day and night, winter and summer, darkness...and light. Here is how I hear this prayer now — as a blessing of opposites, for holding multiple truths:

Ma’ariv

This is balance:

The world is entirely consumed by darkness,

then brimming with light.

The seasons approach one after the other,

bring unbearable heat, bitter cold and everything

in between. Joy fades. Loss

makes space for growth and new life.

Balance is not a perfect blend

of extremes. It is something that takes place

inside a larger system. It is a perspective,

an awareness that makes space for us

to fully experience winter and then spring,

light and then darkness.

Darkness and then light.

Life of all Worlds, thank you

for giving us the strength

to allow our world, our heart,

to be big enough for it all.

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L’shana tova! May this be a year of saying hineini to whatever comes our way. May we be blessed in 5779 with a year of balance, a year in which we discover the inner strength to respond to the complexity of our lives and our world by becoming bigger-hearted, opening to it all with love.

Ken yehi ratzon. May it be so.