In this past weekend’s New York Times Sunday Review, an article appeared on the subject of lighthouses. James Taylor used to sing about lighthouses: “I’m a lonely lighthouse, not a ship out in the night, watching the sea. She’s come halfway ’round the world to see the light and to stay away from me.”

But like rotary telephones, typewriters, and S&H Green Stamps, lighthouses are mostly no longer needed. I hadn’t actually realized that technology had overtaken them too. Apparently, GPS works so well on land and sea that boats no longer require visual cues to keep them away from dangers that lurk in the watery depths.

So, like trying to figure out what to do with the first Tappan Zee Bridge once the second gets built, communities must determine whether or not it’s economically feasible to keep decommissioned lighthouses standing. It can take millions of dollars to keep a lighthouse in working order. So unless there’s a way to monetize that, it’s unlikely such maintenance will survive budget-time scrutiny.

Some lighthouses have been turned into out-of-the-way bed and breakfast inns. Others have simply been preserved as museums. The rest are being torn down.

I’ll come back to lighthouses in a moment.

A couple of thousand years ago, our ancestors stood together at a mountain called Sinai and received a document, along with a charge for how to live, that would direct their lives for the next hundred generations. In this evening’s Torah reading, Nitzavim, we will hear about that moment, and about who it included, which may surprise a few of you. In the book of Deuteronomy, chapter 29, we are told that every Israelite stood at the foot of Mount Sinai when Moses carried down God’s Torah. What’s wonderful about this passage is that the moment was not one of privilege or status. While yes, Israel’s leaders are there – they kind of have to be if this people is going to have any chance of following the new book of rules – so is every other Israelite. Spouses, kids, out-of-town guests, and even those at the lowest rungs of antiquity’s social ladder: woodchoppers and water-drawers.

The light from a lighthouse acknowledges no social standing, no financial position, no political connection, no prejudicial bias. That light is for everyone, to help one and all steer clear of danger.

Nitzavim, this week’s Torah reading, is a lighthouse. It offers its gifts to anyone who wishes to partake. I think it’s the perfect text to begin our new year.

Woodlands Community Temple is a pretty special place. I don’t know that it’s dramatically different from many other special places – other synagogues, churches, mosques, bowling alleys, American Legion halls, community centers, or any other room that houses a group of people who are trying to do something to elevate the value and meaning of their lives (a tall order, to be sure, but not at all unachieveable) – but the social experiment of building community to make life better for one’s self, one’s family and one’s world, is not only noble, it’s needed. It’s not a particularly difficult task to care for one another, but we do manage to trip over our own feet quite a bit of the time.

Nevertheless, good things have come out of the lighthouses we call synagogues. We teach our children values by which we hope they will live. We remind ourselves of those same values and encourage one another to strengthen our resolve to live by them. And we shine our light on people and places outside of our synagogue – not to convert, but to embrace. Through social action – tikkun olam, g’milut hasadim – we lend a helping hand to others because this ancient document has been challenging us to do so.

This may be why we read this particular passage from Nitzavim a number of times each year. Our Confirmands will read these verses next spring during their Shavuot service of Confirmation. Why? Because we hope they will internalize the Torah’s message of common vision and action. We will read it on Yom Kippur morning, just two weeks from now. Why? Because its “lighthouse” concept of helping one another to ennoble our lives is the challenge of the High Holy Days. To be written for a blessing in the Book of Life is not something we seek only for ourselves, but for every inhabitant of this planet. That is the Jewish dream, one we renew each year in that tent.

Two brief stories.

One comes from an animated short entitled “Lighthouse.” It concerns a lighthouse whose light unexpectedly goes out. With a ship fast approaching, the keeper of the lighthouse, not knowing what else to do, runs downstairs with the goal of heading into town and appealing for help from his fellow villagers. But when he opens his front door, he finds them already arrived and, lanterns in hand, the entire village ascends the steps of the lighthouse to warn off the approaching ship.

A sweet, powerful little story that reminds us of the importance of being part of a community and of stepping forward when the need is great.

The other story concerns the building of a synagogue. A long time ago, plans were drawn up for the design of the community’s new synagogue. At its dedication, everyone came and marveled at the building’s breathtaking beauty. It wasn’t long, however, before someone notice the building had no light. “Where are the lamps?” someone asked. “How will our new synagogue be lit?” The rabbi indicated a number of brackets that had been mounted on the walls at regular intervals throughout the building. He then presented each family with a lamp that they were to carry with them whenever they came to the synagogue. “When you are not here,” the rabbi said, “part of this synagogue will not be lit. When you remain at home, especially when our community needs you, some part of God’s house will be dark.”

I love this story! And while I doubt that our Board of Trustees would go for implementing it as policy, the metaphor has indeed been implemented. As with any community gathering, Woodlands is strengthened by the participation of many, by your participation. When we come, you and I are strengthened. When we come, our families are strengthened. When we step forward to join our community – in whatever activity it inaugurates – our lives are affected. And like those old lighthouses, when we do step forward and we shine our light, our wider community, maybe even the whole world, is affected as well.

Billy

I imagine that for most of us, there is no story we have heard as many times as that of the Israelites’ exodus from Egypt, their forty years of desert wandering, and subsequent entrance into the Promised Land. Each spring, we devote an entire evening around our dinner tables to retelling this story. And yet, we mostly do so in broad strokes. Rarely do we stop to consider what the Israelites ate throughout those four decades, what it was like to give birth and to rear children as homeless nomads, and (as mentioned in this evening’s Torah reading, Deut. 29:4) where they went shopping for new clothes:

“I led you through the wilderness forty years; the clothes on your back did not wear out, nor did the sandals on your feet.”

As far as this last question, the Torah tells us they didn’t. For the duration of their trip – all forty years of it – neither their clothes nor their shoes ever wore out. They must have had dramatically different manufacturing standards back then because I sure can’t get a shirt to stay free of pilling to save my life.

I doubt, of course, that we were meant to take this literally. That the Israelites were able to make the journey at all, that they managed to get out of Egypt, that they survived as a community during that period post-enslavement and pre-Holy Land, is even more miraculous than a well-preserved pair of chinos.

But it got me thinking about time, and about what changes, what wears down, or doesn’t wear down.

Forty years is a very human chunk of time. For a kid, it’s forever. For a forty-year old, it’s a recognition that time has passed but life is chock-full of promise and achievement. For a sixty-year old, it’s a mixed blessing. I’m fifty-seven. I find myself thinking about “forty years ago” quite a bit. I think about what my body could do forty years ago. I think about where my life’s adventures were unfolding forty years ago. And I think about where, forty years ago, I thought I’d be today. And where I thought the world would be today.

Truth is, we do wear out. Used to be my doctor hardly knew me. Now we finish each other’s jokes.

The other truth is, the world wears out too. Forty years ago, 1974, some of the big music hits included “Billy, Don’t Be a Hero,” Paul Anka’s “Having My Baby,” Paper Lace’s “The Night Chicago Died,” and Maria Muldaur’s “Midnight at the Oasis.” Chinatown, Young Frankenstein and Blazing Saddles were playing on the silver screen. And in the news, India had gotten the bomb, Patty Hearst was kidnapped, first-class postage went up to a dime, Ed Sullivan died, and Richard Nixon resigned.

More importantly, we’re still fighting wars, still struggling with racism and, more than most of us could ever have imagined, we’re confronting more and worse terrorism than the world has ever known.

Thirteen years ago, hijacked commercial airliners brought down the World Trade Center and damaged the Pentagon. Some 3000 human beings perished In New York, Washington and Shanksville, Pennsylvania, on that day. And more in the years following, from illnesses contracted through contact with toxic materials, affecting not only survivors but responders as well.

America was, of course, deeply affected by the events of that day. Our economy was thrashed. Our airport security underwent a sea-change. And our insecurity about Muslims among us rose precipitously. Whether this is a momentary period of difficulty and challenge, or our world has been changed forever, who can tell? For right now, at least, terrorism seems far more possible to upend our lives than war.

Just about the only good that came out of 9/11 was America’s increased sympathy, now empathy, for Israel. Despite grumblings about Israel’s possible lack of proportional response this past summer, Americans now understand what it’s like to live under the spectre of having enemies who want you dead and are happy to rain down destruction not on soldiers but on civilians whenever they are able.

Thirteen years is an interesting length of Jewish time. Thirteen, of course, is when our children reach their traditional majority, when they are old enough to step up and fully integrate into their communities and to become full-fledged partners in building Jewish life. 9/11 is thirteen years old. I wonder if it has been fully integrated into our national consciousness, or what that integration would even mean. I think of Gettysburg and how the horror of that grisly battle has receded far into the memory banks of the American people. What we remember about Gettysburg is Abraham Lincoln’s stirring speech. What about Vietnam? Have we integrated that into our American lives? We make movies about it now; is that the indicator?

We think of thirteen-year olds as reaching a certain level of maturity. And we all know some who have and others who have not. Thirteen is kind of an arbitrary number but, for each of our kids, we celebrate then as if to say to them, “Wherever you are in your journey, we applaud what you have achieved thus far and we look forward to your continued growth.” For the American people, I imagine it’s a similar kind of idea. Some Americans still believe there are no decent Muslims in the world. Others of us remain open to building bridges wherever we can.

Our parashah this evening, Kee Tavo, recalls our most famous story, those forty years in which we matured from slave-children into free men and women. Our outer garments may not have changed, but our hearts and our minds most certainly did. On this 13th anniversary of 9/11, may we continue to learn both strength and compassion, so that we may protect all whom we love and, someday we pray, come to love even those from whom we must protect.

The rabbis-of-old taught that, 2000 years ago, when the Jerusalem Temple was destroyed and people wanted to know where God had been during destruction, and people wanted to know where God was now in their despair and grief, the rabbis told them God was with them — crying with them, mourning with them, and seeking comfort among them.

As we ponder our ancestors’ 40-year journey in the desert, a journey we are told was accompanied by God’s continuous presence, may we never despair. Even when life seems overwhelmed by difficulty, may we ever link arms with one another to insure that goodness never dies, may we be forever confident that God has not abandoned us and that, indeed, it is when we reach for one another that we find God. And in so doing, may we discover, like our desert forebears, that when life’s harshness includes persistent determination and love, not our outer garments nor our inner ones will ever wear out.

Billy

Well, summer’s over. I hope yours was a great one and that you did some really exciting things. I, you may have heard, had an unforgettably wonderful summer. Do you know what I did? That’s right! I went on a jungle safari. Ellen and I were looking for something different to fill our idle days of vacation, and when the idea of sharing our time-off with poisonous snakes and treacherous panthers came to mind, we simply could not resist. So there we were, donning pith helmets and mosquito netting, preparing to embark upon our very first jungle safari. As we prepared to enter the tropical forest, I turned to our guide and I asked him, “Is it true that jungle animals won’t harm you if you carry a torch?” “That depends,” replied our guide, “on how fast you carry it.”

Okay, so I didn’t really go on a safari this summer. But I did see my daughter Katie get married. And that was all the adventure I needed! The love that filled our hearts on that day – from family, from friends, from this community – reminded me just how beautiful an adventure life can be. To watch a child not only step into adulthood but do so with unbridled joy and unbounded confidence, I can’t imagine there could be any more satisfying moment for a parent.

But talk to me again when I’ve got grandchildren.

Pretty cool to attend your daughter’s wedding!

Still, while I haven’t really been thinking about safaris, I have been thinking about animals. Yes yes yes, it all began with Charlie. When that little dog entered my life four years ago, I began a journey of dumbfoundedness and awe at just how “human” a dog can be and, of course, how much this human can love a dog.

But it turns out that lots of animals display what we call “human qualities.” Animals may be far more emotional, thoughtful and socially bonded than we previously gave them credit for. Listen to this list, and note how many of these species exhibit qualities you and I might previously have reserved for ourselves.

Chimpanzees, for example, play peek-a-boo with each other. Crows can hold a grudge. Sandhill cranes mate for life. Albatrosses sometimes choose life-partners of the same gender. Meerkats practice killing scorpions with their young to teach them how to acquire food. Wolves grieve for their dead by seeking solitude. And bonobos (a smaller member of the chimp family) are inclined to share with strangers rather than fight for property.

It would seem that human beings don’t hold a monopoly on human behavior. And, of course, any dog owner will tell you that our dogs are sometimes better people than some people we know.

Which all leads to my point this evening, that most of us (probably all of us) need practice and help with our own human qualities. Like the meerkat, we too benefit from someone showing us the way.

Enter religion and the worship community.

The world is an enormous place. And in the digital age, one can access information from almost anywhere. Our own dystopian present already includes people who rarely move from in front of their computer and/or television screens, living their lives through the pixels of transmitted data and pictures. For many, the synagogue seems like an antiquated, irrelevant archaeological ruin.

But like the animal kingdom, human beings need one another. We need friendship, encouragement, support, laughter, guidance, and a thousand other bits and pieces of living that come from spending time with others. In synagogues, we find people who might be able to offer that.

Ark and Torah Scrolls @ Woodlands

Synagogues have three traditional names. Bet T’filah, house of prayer. Bet Midrash, house of learning. And Bet K’neset … house of communal gathering. While it is certainly possible to find elsewhere everything that a temple offers, houses of worship put so much of it in one place that it’s like a Wal-Mart for human bonding.

With prayer, learning and communal gathering, we who come together in our synagogue share with one another these really vital aspects of human existence. Prayer is the sharing of hope. Learning is the vigorous debate of what constitutes moral living. And communal gathering provides opportunities to join hands in helping others, and to join hands just for the fun of being together.

Life isn’t that different from a jungle safari. It’s really pretty out there. But it can get rough really fast. And a good guide who can tell you whether or not a torch is going to help … isn’t a bad idea.

Here at Woodlands, we try to bring the very best of prayer, of learning, and of communal gathering to our members. From oldest to youngest, we not only share in building this “safari” of ours, but we encourage one another to have a voice and to roll up our sleeves and to work together in building a better synagogue experience for us all.

Why? So that as many days as is humanly possible are filled with the kind of awe and friendship and love that an old rabbi’s daughter’s wedding day was.

John Foster Hall, early-20th century British music-hall and radio comedian, while in the guise of his clerical persona, The Reverend Vivian Foster, the Vicar of Mirth, once quipped, “We are all here on earth to help others; what on earth the others are here for I don’t know.”

While we don’t actually know much of anything about why we are here, we seem to derive great benefit from wondering about that question, and coming up with workable responses that help us to live our lives.

It is the 11th of Elul. There are 19 days until Rosh Hashanah, when our annual review of how we answer the question, “Why am I here?” resumes. This year, may we come up with some great possibilities. And may we find comfort, joy and inspiration in doing so with our fellow congregants by our side.

Shabbat shalom,
Billy