My derashah from the Shabbos after September 11th

This is the derashah I delivered on Shabbos Parshas Netzavim, September 17, 2001. There are elements I would present differently were I writing it today, but in the interest of authenticity I'm leaving it as is:

I said something on Tuesday night [the night of September 11, at a Tehillim session; see here] , which was not quite true. Of course the Morning Call would quote one line out of a speech and it would be the one line about which I had mixed feelings. I said, “This is not a funeral; America yet lives.”

America yet lives, but thousands of people are dead. America yet lives, but thousands of families have been shattered. America yet lives, but a nation is suddenly terrified at the thought of entering a tall building or entering an airplane. So isn’t it a funeral for the dead? Isn’t it a funeral for a nation which is no longer whole?

On further reflection, though, the answer must be that this is not a funeral, and the answer comes from this week’s Torah portion - Atem Nitzavim HaYom Kulchem, You are standing here today, all of you.

What is the context for this verse? It comes on the heels of a description of horrible punishments which Gd promises he will bring against the Jews if they stray from His covenant. It comes right before a description which is eerily similar to Tuesday’s pictures – Gafris vaMelach Sereifah Kol Artzah, Ash and salt will burn the entire land. Moshe says: Don’t panic, “Atem Nitzavim HaYom Kulchem,” “You’re still standing.”

But how can Moshe say this? Moshe was addressing a group which was a She’eiris, which was a remainder from massive destruction. Thousands died after the Golden Calf, thousands died after the incident with Midian, a generation had been wiped out after the Spies – so how could Moshe say to them, “Atem Nitzavim HaYom Kulchem,” “You’re all still standing?” It’s manifestly false! Most of them were not still standing, at all! Most of them died in the desert!

The answer, I think, lies in the meaning of the word “Nitzavim,” which we translated loosely as “standing.” Onkelos, the ancient Aramaic commentary to the Torah, renders “Nitzavim” as “Kayyamim.” “Kayyam” doesn’t refer to ‘standing,’ in the physical sense; “Kayyam” refers to survival, to endurance. When Moshe says “Atem Nitzavim,” he is saying, “You have Kiyyum,” a lasting existence.

Rav Dovid Kviat points out a similar use of the verb root, “Nitzav.” Yosef had a dream in which he saw himself and his siblings as sheaves of wheat. All of the other sheaves were bowing to his sheaf, and his sheaf is described as “Kamah Alumasi veGam Nitzavah,” “My stalk stood, and was also Nitzavah.” If “Nitzavah” refers to standing, the word is redundant! “It stood and it also stood?!” No – Yosef is saying, my sheaf stood, and endured, and will endure forever. That is the meaning of “Nitzav.”

The Baal haTurim throws in another, similar use of the root of “Nitzav.” The Jews assembled at Sinai, and we are told, “Vayisyatzvu beSachtis haHar.” “They stood at the bottom of the mountain.” They stood at Sinai, yes, but more than that, they committed themselves to an eternal stand, to a covenant with Gd. Their acceptance of Torah rendered them eternal.

In fact, the word “Nitzav” shows up as a base for another word which is, unfortunately, familiar to most of us. How do you say “gravestone” in Hebrew? A Matzeivah. A Matzeivah is a monument, an eternal mark.

Moshe says to the Jewish people, “Atem Nitzavim HaYom Kulchem.” Not “All of you are standing here,” because not all of them were standing there. But “All of you are eternal,” are part of an enduring whole.

What makes the Jew eternal? The answer is also in this morning’s Torah reading – it’s the Torah they accepted at Sinai, but it’s also something extra.

Moshe says to the Jewish people (29:28), “HaNistaros LaShem Elokeinu,” “the hidden deeds are for Gd to deal with,” “veHaNiglos Lanu Ulevaneinu Ad Olam,” but public acts are for us and our children to take care of, forever – Moshe and the Jewish people committed themselves here, as a nation, to the concept of Arevus, and that Arevus is what makes us eternal.

What is “Arevus?” “Arevus” means a mixture, it means joint responsibility. A co-signer on a loan is called an “Arev.” A mixture containing various inseparable elements is an “Irbuvya.” We are Arevim, we have joint responsibility for each other, every Jew has a responsibility for every other Jew. This isn’t meant to be chauvinist against the rest of the world; it’s a family covenant that we accept an extra level of responsibility for each other.

This extra layer of responsibility has important practical ramifications. Rav Soloveitchik held that this joint responsibility is what makes one Jew able to perform a Mitzvah on behalf of another Jew. For example, I can make Kiddush and fulfill the Mitzvah for everyone who says, “Amen.” Why does that work? Because my responsibility isn’t over and done when I complete my Mitzvah; my responsibility includes making sure that everyone else gets done with their Mitzvos. That’s the concept of Arevus.

This is also the source for the concept of Ahavas Chinam, the idea of baseless love. I have a responsibility to love each and every other Jew. Why? What if they haven’t done anything for me? What if I don’t know them? Doesn’t matter – we are part of this contract.

That's the agreement the Jews signed in this morning’s Torah reading, and that’s what made them “Nitzavim,” enduring. When the Jews created a nation – and that’s what they were doing here – they also united themselves with all of their descendants. That verse I just read, about the hidden and public acts, concludes, “veHaNiglos Lanu Ulevaneinu Ad Olam,” the public acts are for us and for our descendants forever – we are all one, across the generations.

And that’s how Moshe could stand before the Jewish people, a tattered remnant which had survived fire, famine, drought, war and plagues, and say, “Atem Nitzavim HaYom Kulchem,” “You are all Nitzavim today.” They weren’t all still alive and breathing – but they were all enduring, all eternal, with the Torah they had accepted and their joint responsibility for each other.

We are still standing, too – as part of America, and as Jews, we are still here. It’s been an awful year, a lifesize nightmare, from stones, firebombs, car bombs, and mortar attacks, to the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. We have lost friends and relatives; we hold out hope that more will make it out of the rubble, or turn up in hospitals. Our confidence is shaken, our certainty that “It can’t happen here” is gone for now – but Atem Nitzavim, but we stand as part of an enduring nation, with a commitment to Torah and a commitment to Joint Responsibility, and a commitment to build a better year.

What could a rabbi have said on September 11th?

[This week's Haveil Havalim is here]

I was 29 years old on September 11, 2001, several weeks into my rabbinate in Allentown, Pennsylvania. I was sitting in the office that Tuesday morning, working on something or other for Rosh HaShanah, when someone called and told me to turn on the radio. I listened, then called my parents, who were working in Manhattan.

I don't remember much else of that day. I remember talking to people in the shul office about how it couldn't possibly be Hamas, because they wouldn't dare to take on America. I remember trying to convince my parents not to go back into Manhattan for work the next day. I remember that Martin Tower in Bethlehem, the next town over, was closed out of fear that it might be attacked. I remember the self-righteous indignation of, "How can they tell Israel to absorb dozens of attacks like this, when Americans react with such furor to just one?"

That night we held a Tehillim session after minchah at shul and I spoke briefly there, and then I spoke about the attack again on Shabbos. I spoke at a municipal memorial program (theme: remembering the candles of heroes). I spoke about it again each day of Rosh HaShanah (1st day: Valuing life, and the mitzvos which are said to earn long life; 2nd day: Dealing with crisis and challenge).

It wasn't enough, at least for some. I was confused when someone said to me during Succos, "Rabbi, we need you to speak more about this." What had I not said?

I thought he was talking about other aspects of September 11th, so for Shmini Atzeres I spoke about the question of giving tzedakah to help 9/11 victims vs. giving tzedakah to help victims of terror in Israel. On Shabbos Bereishis I spoke about the crisis of faith involved, the "Where was Gd" question.

As I've aged, though, I've come to think that he was still looking for something different. Beyond the speeches and tehillim, beyond the one-shot activism of a blood drive or a community unity event, I think he wanted us to be engaged in some kind of on-going action and conversation that would reflect the sea change that had taken place in his life, and in the lives of many people in the community. He wanted, perhaps needed, his own life to become different, to reflect the change in the world around him.

I didn't really understand that at the time. It's hard for a 29-year old, even one who thinks of himself as worldly from his four years in the shul rabbinate, to understand what it means for a 69-year old to experience a paradigm shift. There's a lesson in there somewhere.

Here's what I said at the tehillim program on the evening of September 11, 2001:

The thoughts that cross my mind seem so trite, so ineffectual after seeing those horrific images today on the various websites. What can we say, what can we do, in the face of this staggering level of destruction? New York has this image of brassy invulnerability, Washington is the seat of government of the world’s only superpower, and both have been bloodily violated, what is there for us to say?

Some of us have lost friends. I don’t know yet, but perhaps some of us have lost close family today. I know I spent the morning afraid of the phone because my parents work in midtown Manhattan.

Part of me wants to say, “I told you so.” Part of me wants to turn to all those people who said Israel should absorb terrorism and not fight back, and ask what they think now. Part of me wants to make sure they all saw CNN’s footage of Palestinians dancing in the streets, celebrating today’s attacks. But there will be time for recriminations later; we need a different sort of action now.

The Jew takes action – we donate blood, we offer whatever assistance we can provide, of course. But there is another kind of action we take, and that is prayer – we recite Tehillim, Psalms.

What good is prayer? Will prayer bring back the dead? Will my prayer help the thousands of people who are hospitalized? Can we roll back the last 20 hours?!

No, we can’t. But prayer is a crucial cog of communication in our relationship with Gd, and that relationship must persevere, that relationship must grow, because yes, that relationship defies death and destruction, and even keeps us alive.

We must be able to talk to Gd, directly, to express our hurt, to express our anger, to have a conversation, and prayer is the foundation of that conversation.

It’s hard to pray at a time like this; King David knew this. King David was a warrior, he fought Goliath, he fought the Philistines, he fled for his life and he fought for his life. And yet what is King David most known for, what is his legacy? The book of Tehillim, the book of Psalms. David knew the ineffectual feeling that comes from facing disaster, from facing death, and he knew that prayer would keep his relationship with Gd alive, that communication would help him survive. We read his words, we read what he wrote when struggling against powerful enemies, we read his letters to Gd and make them our own.

Judaism teaches that it is never too late to pray; so long as there is breath in our lungs, so long as our hearts beat, we are alive and we can recover. This is not a funeral; America yet lives, and we yet live. We are here to build, to grow, to recover, to re-visit that Divine relationship which is damaged every time we suffer a loss. We are here to use the words of King David, who was a great general but who knew “Gd is the One who saves me from my enemies.”

Let’s use the words of Tehillim, of Psalms, to connect with Gd, and to pray on behalf of both the victims and survivors of today’s attacks.