Erev Tov v’Shanah Tovah – Good Evening and Happy New Year.
Hamavin Yavin. Two Hebrew words best translated as ‘those who understand, understand.’ These words have been used over the centuries in commentaries and classrooms usually for one of two reasons: When printing was expensive, the words served as a way to abbreviate what a rabbi was trying to say. A ‘I would tell you the rest, but you get it.’ So instead of spelling it out: Hamavin Yavin.
The other reason was to avoid trouble from both the non-Jewish and Jewish leaders of a community. You can’t exactly go around saying Jewish thought and law is superior when the government will put you to death. You also run the risk of be excommunicated from the Jewish community if you teach what was known as the truth for centuries is wrong (or at least should be questioned). So when you get to that point where you could get in trouble: Hamavin Yavin, and deny saying anything inflammatory, even though everyone knows what you’re talking about.
We do this as well. I, like many of you, love the Eagles, and let’s take a moment to thank God for scheduling today’s game at 1pm. How many times have we heard someone say: Why do Eagles fans want Andy Reid fired? As we roll our eyes or shake our heads, we think: Don’t they know about the poor clock management, the ill-advised time outs, the refusal to run? Don’t they know there are only so many times we can hear: I’ve got to put my players in a better position?
Yes, they say, but he’s a winning coach and the Eagles have been to the playoffs, even multiple championship games, in those years.
And that’s when we want to grab that person by the collar and shake them (hopefully you don’t). And it is in that moment we say to ourselves Hamavin Yavin -- those who understand, understand.
And it’s not just sports. In twelve years of marriage I have still yet to figure out why my wife has so many of the same color shoes. Yes, I’ve been told that shoes have different size heels and that some shoes are casual and others formal, but I think it is logical to get a new pair of shoes or sneakers when the old ones don’t work anymore – maybe the sole wears out. Perhaps you feel like me or perhaps, like my wife, you will look me right in the eyes and say: Eric, you just don’t get it. In other words, Hamavin Yavin.
So, as we enter into 5773, I want to share a little about my summer with you.
It is odd to hear ‘Welcome home’ after leaving America nine hours earlier, but these were some of the first words Yoav Bruck, our exceptional tour guide, uttered as forty plus members of our congregation emerged from Ben Gurion Airport in Tel Aviv. His words reminded me of another conversation I had nearly fifteen years ago when leaving Israel after my first year of rabbinic school. As I handed the attendant my ticket, she asked: ‘Where are you going?’ I said: ‘I am going home.’ She looked at me, and without skipping a beat, said: ‘Israel is your home.’ I said: ‘Thanks, but I am going home.’ Again, firmly but politely, she said: ‘But Israel is your home.’
Clearly I was not getting anywhere, and I just wanted to get on the plane and see my brother for the first time in a year, my parents for the first time in a couple of months (we had met in Paris over the winter), and hang out with some friends. So I said, ‘you’re right, Israel is my home.’
But I did not believe it. Shockingly, sometimes men will agree with women just to avoid prolonging disagreement.
So, I hugged my brother, spent time with my parents and went out with friends. But almost immediately, I thought: I need to return to Israel, but not in a way I have ever wanted to return to a place before. As I said, I have been to Paris. In fact, it was the sight of one of the greatest moments of my life – it is there that I proposed to Geri. Even so, I don’t care if I ever go back to Paris. But Israel is different. I must go back and each time I step on a plane in America I am filled with an unexplainable feeling– maybe it’s best to say that Yoav’s ‘Welcome Home’ makes total sense to me.
I think of that feeling every time I am asked: Why do Jews consider Israel our homeland? I smile and talk of the covenant between God and our ancestors and the promise the Torah makes to us that Israel is ‘our land.’
And while talking, I am thinking: this person has never been to Israel. I do not need to ask, because no one who has been would ask such a question. It is impossible and I know it with all my heart. But: Hamavin Yavin.
How do I come close to touching or explaining the passion for Israel in the heart of our speaker, Itzhak, at Independence Hall in Tel Aviv? As we sat in the room where over 60 years ago Israel was declared a State, he asked a question: What do you do when you don’t have an address? He recounted how after World War II the Americans, having liberated the camps, after seeing the horror and destruction that no one could imagine, went home to parades, to their families, to their addresses. The German soldiers, evil as they were, ran to foreign countries or returned to Germany, to their families, to their homes, to their addresses.
But what of those who survived, he asked? Where did they go? They had no address. Any deeds to property were taken away. They had no ID and little or no knowledge if any family survived. Why would any of them want to return to the addresses from which they had been uprooted? Many came to Israel and found a home, that address, a sense of dignity and a place to restart their beaten and battered lives. In return those amazing individuals built Israel into a nation at the forefront of technology, agriculture, medicine and other fields.
How can I explain my feelings when Itzhak uttered these words in the room where Israel was declared a State? How do I explain to you the tears in the eyes of those Birthright travelers who the night before we likely partying in Tel Aviv? How do I get you to understand that when Itzhak concluded by saying Israel is my country and your country that I knew what he meant? I can only say Hamavin Yavin.
In between those first days in Jerusalem and last ones in Tel Aviv, we toured the country from North to South -- the Golan Heights to the Negev Desert.
When you stand on Masada in the Summer, you realize two things: 1) It is really hot and 2) Our ancestors somehow survived here for as long as they did. And they did so for one purpose: To keep Judaism and Jewish community alive. Right or wrong, it was more important for them to do so even if it meant choosing to end their own lives. Maybe it is best to say that they stayed alive long enough to keep their Judaism from dying.
I have been to Masada many times. I have hiked the snake path, a forty minute trek, nearly straight uphill. I have stood in the room where our ancestors supposedly committed the final acts of their lives and laughed as our Shir Ami teenagers reenacted King Herod’s life in the ruins of the amazing hideaway he built atop this desert peak.
There is one area of Masada our group did not go to this summer, but I did – I had to. As our group toured the remains of Herod’s palace, I walked across Masada’s vast breadth and stood at one of the edges, where one more step would mean a long plunge to the end of life (don’t worry, there is a railing there). There were no other tourists, no tour guides, no Masada employees. As I looked down into the vast valley below, I thought of my grandparents – those who I am named after and never knew, those who taught me life lessons but are no longer alive to walk with me.
And I started to cry, not because I missed my grandparents, although I do. I was crying because I was holding a six-year-old boy’s hand. A boy they never met but who is a part of them as he is a part of me. And I was crying because I knew what was about to happen. I told my son that this is a magical place and I could prove it. Holding his hand we got very close to the edge and I asked him to call out his name in English – Jay Bertram Goldberg – and then Hebrew – Me’or Nes – as loud as he could. And after he yelled each name there was for a moment total silence. But, as I said, this place is magical. And as his names echoed back, rising from deep in the valley, I knew my grandparents were watching over him and that he will forever be connected to them.
How do I explain what I felt at that moment to you? How do I explain my answer when you ask Rabbi, is my child too young to go to Israel? And I say ‘There is no child too young to take to Israel.’ I just tried, but I failed. I cannot capture that moment – I cannot do it justice. I can only say: Hamavin Yavin.
How do I explain Har Herzl, one of the main military cemeteries in Israel? The countless names, some familiar -- Yoni Netanyahu, Michael Levin – others not. So many heroic young men and women – it is more common to see someone who died at the age of 18 or 19 then 28 or 29.
You may remember last year I spoke to you abut Roi Klein, a husband and father of two young children who, while leading a battalion, dove on a grenade while reciting Shema in order to save the lives of his soldiers. What I did not know then was that our tour guide, Yoav, was very good friends with Roi. They went to the same yeshivah, served in the military together and Yoav attended Roi’s wedding. When Yoav took our group to Roi’s grave I was ready for the story. What I was not ready for was this. That fateful day Roi lead his battalion down a path based on military reconnaissance. The information suggested there would be little resistance and Roi’s men would be able to secure the area with ease.
That information was incorrect -- Roi and his men were led into a trap. They were ambushed and Roi gave his own life to save the lives of his men. It turns out that faulty information was collected by a group of soldiers led by Yoav, our tour guide and Roi’s close friend.
How can I explain to you what I felt at that moment? Standing at the grave of a hero while our tour guide poured out his heart, his feelings that he, in effect, caused the death of his friend?
All I can say is: Hamavin Yavin. Otherwise I would fail.
But, I don’t want to be a failure, so here’s my best shot at what I am trying to say tonight. This is not a ‘it would be nice to go to Israel’ talk. This is me grabbing you by the collar and shaking you. As we begin 5773 I want to say as clearly as possible that you must go to Israel in your life, because until you have set foot on Israeli soil you cannot fully understand what it means to be a Jew and part of the People Israel. I am sorry if this offends or angers you, but, as Maimonides once taught, Ani Ma’amin b’emunah shleimah, I believe with complete and perfect faith that this is true.
Now there are many reasons people give for not going to Israel.
It’s too dangerous. After all, just watch TV: images of soldiers going into Gaza, homicide bombers taking the lives of innocent victims, and constant talk by politicians that suggests war is always ready to begin. But they are wrong.
The United Nations has an Office on Drugs and Crime. They just released their most recent study on the murder rate for every country in the world, which includes terrorist attacks. While many countries have lower murder rates than Israel, I need to let you in on a secret: You are not sitting in one of those countries. The murder rate in the United States is over two times greater than Israel.
I also hope you aren’t planning to go to Turks and Caicos when the weather gets colder. The murder rate there is four times greater than Israel. If you are planning to go to Puerto Rico or Jamaica, I can’t see why – their murder rates are thirteen and twenty-six times greater than Israel respectively.
Tonight I am hear to tell you that I feel safer in Israel than anywhere in the world. I know saying so will make no one who feels Israel is unsafe change their mind. And to you I can only say: Hamavin Yavin.
Others will say: It’s too expensive and I will admit that it is not cheap to go to Israel. Let me just share this with you: On December 22, Ferne Levy and I will be traveling with thirty 8th and 9th graders to Israel. I want to say thank you to those parents for providing this opportunity for their children and to all of those who have donated and/or given of their time and energy to make this trip possible. We will return to the States on January 3rd.
Let’s just say that while we are in Israel, you want to go to Hawaii. It’s December, it’s cold and the warm and sandy beaches sound good to you. To fly from Philadelphia to Honolulu costs $1502.50 with one stop. To fly from Philadelphia to Tel Aviv on those same dates with one stop is $1377.10. I didn’t check on hotels or a rental car, but let’s not kid ourselves: Israel is not any more expensive than any other once in a lifetime type of trip.
Let me be clear: You do not need to go to Israel to be a good Jew. You do need to make Aliyah to live a Jewish life. However, you cannot fully understand what it means to be a Jew unless you have been there. You cannot understand when someone says ‘Welcome Home’ or why Michael Levin would leave Bucks County and go to a land for which he would give his life, and you cannot fully understand what it means to be connected to those who came before you, those members of Am Yisrael who allowed you to sit here tonight.
There is a Chasidic story about a child who is playing hide and seek with his friends – perhaps you have heard it. He hides and, after a long time, realizes that no one is coming to find him. His friends have all left. He returns home, crying, and tells his grandfather, the community rabbi, his sad tale. His grandfather begins to cry, for his grandson of course, but also, because: God says the same thing – I hide, but no one wants to seek Me!
Just as God wants for You to seek Him or Her or however you refer to God, so too Israel.