Congregation Beth Torah

A king had a son whom he loved very much. In his teens, the son went quite crazy. He thought he was a turkey! To the palace’s dismay, the son stripped off all of his clothing, crouched down under the dining table with his hands behind his head, and bent over to the floor, gobbling up crumbs with his mouth: All the while making turkey noises.

Then the king promised the people of the realm that anyone who could cure his son would receive more riches than he had ever imagined possible. Scores lined up at the castle gate, each claiming to be able to cure the king’s son. But no matter how many remedies the king tried, each failed to return the prince to sitting at the table.

A year later an itinerant rabbi passed through the kingdom. He heard the troubles of the king, and what great wealth awaited any person lucky enough to be able to cure the son. The rabbi decided to give it a try.

The next day the wandering rabbi appeared at the palace gate. The king was not accustomed to receiving guests dressed as itinerant rabbis; but when the rabbi announced his purpose – and, given that no one had successfully cured his son -- the guard announced him immediately and admitted him to the king’s presence.

The king, his family and his entourage sat regally around a table splendidly decorated, from which they ate the most luscious of foods; while under the table, resting on his haunches, gobbling, groveled the king’s own son.

The king viewed the rabbi skeptically. How could this peasant Jew accomplish what the wisest men of the realm could not? “Rabbi,” said the king with both doubt and denigration in his voice, “do your best, and I hope it’s good enough.” The rabbi answered, “I will do what I must do; and you must trust me without criticism.”

The rabbi peered under the table at the king’s son, and on all fours, removed his clothes. Without saying a word, the rabbi, resting on his hind legs with his hands behind his back, began to consume some of the very crumbs at which the king’s son was pecking. This continued for days.

After one week’s time, the rabbi spoke, “You know, it’s very lonely for us turkeys down here; it’s good to have company.” “Yes it is said the king’s turkey of a son.” Nothing more was said.

The next week, when the son was asleep, the rabbi instructed the king to put a pair of the prince’s pants next to the table. The next day the rabbi said, “You know, this is a very large and drafty room, and it is quite cold here under this table. I think it is very possible for a turkey to wear pants to keep warm, and still remain a turkey,” and the rabbi, still under the table, donned his pants. The prince looked doubtfully at the rabbi, and feeling cold himself, put on the pair of pants and returned to pecking at crumbs under the table. Another week passed.

The rabbi said, “You know, it is very cold and drafty in this room, and it is the middle of winter, I suppose it is possible for a turkey to put on a shirt and still be a turkey.” And the rabbi, under the table, put on a shirt, and the prince followed suit. And so it went, each week: socks, shoes and a hat. Finally the rabbi said, “You know, it is very cramped down here, and bending over like this makes my back ache all day and all night. I suppose it is possible for a turkey to still be a turkey and to sit in a chair and still eat the crumbs from the table.” And the rabbi sat in a chair, and the king’s son did the same.

So it went, that the young man who became a turkey, over many months reverted to a turkey that ate and acted like a man, until he was so like a man, that not even he could distinguish the difference.

The story is, of course, about us. God gave us the capacity to be God-like in our actions, but we adamantly mimic the rudest of animals, which neither recognizes its Creator nor its own innate abilities.

A year ago, sitting right here, we promised to act like humans, like mensches, and to sit at God’s table. But in the course of this year we descended, and many of us became turkeys once again. But the rabbi has shown us the way out: if we will act like God’s image, even when we insist on being turkeys, over time we will not be able to distinguish our actions from sacred actions, and eventually become whom we hope to be able to be.

The point of Judaism is to train the soul. We tend to turkeyness, but all Jewish customs: seders, Kiddush on Shabbat and holidays, tzedakah, kindness to neighbors, are intended to feed that part of us that makes us most human, little lower than the angels. Judaism intends us to be God’s image active in the world.

The prophet Malachi teaches that human nature doesn’t change much. Blind animals were then like today’s old cars sitting unused in a driveway: the best way to use them was to donate them to charity. Malachi wrote, “When you present a blind animal for sacrifice – [you act as though] it doesn’t matter! When you present a lame or sick [animal] – [you act as though] it doesn’t matter. Just offer it to your governor: Will he accept you? Will he show you favor?” (Malachi 1:8) Giving only what must be given away anyway does not train the soul.

Rabbi Sholom Schwadron … was known for his generosity to those in need. One afternoon, just before a holiday, a poor man came to his house for assistance, and Rabbi Schwadron's daughter was chagrined to see her father taking out a new and expensive shirt he had purchased on a trip to England … "Take it! Take it!" he said. "You should have a new shirt. Good Yom Tov."

When the poor man left Rabbi Schwadron's daughter was upset: "If you had to give him a shirt, why the special shirt from England, the shirt you had bought for your own holiday celebration? Why?"

Rabbi Schwadron went over to his bookcase, took down Maimonides' code of Jewish law, and read aloud from it: "One who wishes to offer a sacrifice [at the Temple] for his own merit should suppress his evil inclination and bring of the best quality there is of the type he is offering. This is the law with everything … When dressing the naked, he should offer his finest clothing." ("Laws of Issurei Mizbeach [Things Prohibited for the Altar]" 7:11). (from A Code of Jewish Ethics, Joseph Telushkin, p. 48)

Schwadron’s goal was not merely to benefit the poor man, but to rein in his material desires. Lord knows many of us need the same training. Don’t worry, you are allowed your Halls and Gucci, your Coach bags and Brooks Brothers. But also, try giving sacrificially to something you believe in, and you’ll discover how much that one gift means to you. So many of us stretch for ourselves, and scrimp for the needy. If you give sacrificially to benefit something you believe in, you’ll dote on it for years. You’ll treasure it. You will have achieved something entirely for good: whether it be a monetary or a time donation.

On the third Thursday of each month, about 8% of our workforce spends a day with Habitat for Humanity. All employees are encouraged to participate.... Employees receive full company pay as a normal workday, plus recognition for participating in the program … We are actively looking for additional long term programs that provide a way for our employees to have meaningful community involvement during normal work hours. Converting charitable giving into an employment benefit is smart for everybody!

“But,” you say, “that’s great if you are an employer, or have a lot of money, or you work for someone who gives you time to work for a charity. I would love to do that, but I can barely find the time to devote to my family and my job, let alone take time away for service to others. And as for donating sacrificially, well, I’m barely able to make my own payments let alone sacrifice to benefit others.”

Jewish tradition teaches that not everyone can give in every way, but everyone can give in some way. Each of us has the ability to draw out the human being and suppress the turkey in others, like the rabbi getting under the table to model how the prince might live.

Aviah Cole died this past year. Aviah spent most of her many months in the hospital alone, except for the few people who visited, her husband who was as faithful as can be, her service dog and her assistant provided by Jewish Family and Children’s Service, and a couple of Beth Torah congregants. But let me tell you what it was like to visit Aviah.

Aviah had the worst history of illness of any person I have seen in my 30 years in the pulpit. You’d think that visiting would be depressing. But instead visiting Aviah was a joy. She enjoyed talking about her hopes and family, her service dog and her activities and thoughts. She rarely complained to me. She loved life and loved God; she was grateful for every day of living. Aviah, in other words, inspired those who knew her to use every available aspect of life as a blessing. Aviah ate at God’s table. No turkeyness in Aviah.

Aviah Cole was given very little control in life: except her attitude. She chose to bless life. If you find yourself disgruntled because of illness in your family, or your own sickness, or whatever downturn: remember that Aviah Cole modeled cheerfulness about life and blessed others not only in the face of extreme illness and pain, but also when her husband lost his job, and therefore they lost their health insurance which compounded their pain, and also when they had to downsize their home, and again when she didn’t think she would be allowed a service dog. Aviah just kept facing every obstacle. We should think to ourselves when we begin to complain: if Aviah Cole could find the goodness in life through all of that, there must be some blessing in my life I am failing to mine for its gold.

We do have some extraordinary human beings at Beth Torah. Several doctors sitting among you take their time and money to travel on medical missions to Eastern Europe or Central America. There they correct crossed-eyes, or bring advanced medical equipment and train local people how to use it; or do free surgeries. Not only do they solve problems, but their generosity builds hope, the most precious human quality to endure pain.

And there are at least a couple of families at Beth Torah who take children into their homes and love them, discipline them, educate them, and together they create a family: different skin colors, perhaps from different cultures, and they prove that we don’t love through our genes, we love through our hearts. What a quiet inspiration they are to us all.

We Jews fear lapsing into “turkeyness,” because it drives us away from God. One congregant told me years ago that she learned a lesson about gossip from her children’s studies. She said she didn’t know that in Judaism we should never idly say anything, either good or bad, about anyone. For the last 15 years I have never once heard this woman speak a single word about another human being. It’s really quite incredible when you consider how much most of us talk about others. The Torah teaches us to use our talents and to go to great lengths to do the right thing.

You know, in Jewish law we are supposed to not stand idly by the blood of our neighbor. That means that when you see someone about to be harmed, you must intervene. But you don’t have to intervene if you might suffer harm as a result. You don’t have to jump into a raging river to save a drowning person if you might also drown.

But what’s our response to someone who does heroically jump in the river to save another, and then the river changes direction unexpectedly, and the saver himself needs saving? Do we just say, “hey, sorry for your bad luck,” and walk away?

Members of Beth Torah took in a family member to literally save her life. They changed their life style and spent plenty of money doing so. And then their own luck changed drastically. A family member lost a job and health insurance. Another family member became sick. How do we respond when a person who, taking a risk to do the right thing, gets dragged under the waves?

Fortunately, at Beth Torah, the Women of Beth Torah have raised money through the gift shop to help out those in need. And others have sent money to our Social Justice funds, so that we can extend a pole into the river and save a drowning family that is swimming for shore with all its might. You are very good people, dedicated to helping out very good people.

One of the things I do on the pulpit each year for the High Holy Days is look at you. I go around the room in my head and I think: this one lost a parent, this one lost a child, and this one lost a spouse. This one feels so very alone. This one goes to AA. This one doesn’t love her spouse, and this one has difficult kids. This one’s brother doesn’t speak to him. This one just got divorced and is raising children alone, this one is miserably married, and this one doesn’t spend enough time at home. Everyone has something wrong. One person grieves for his parent years after death; and one person sits with a parent that is dying slowly. Have I hit yours yet? All of us suffer, many of us alone.

And yet nearly all of us are very fortunate people because we are loved; and we have a community; and we know where our next meal is coming from; and we have a roof over our heads and we are warm in freezing winter months. Most people’s lives are difficult. Turkeys peck on the ground to feed just themselves. Human beings sit God’s table with everyone else.

Why are we here tonight? So that we can say to ourselves – hey turkey, get out from under that table and be a mensch, be a human being, the image of God. I know you’re suffering, but so are we all, and you know what, you are suffering less than the person sitting next to you. We need to help our neighbors with their suffering. One final story of the rewards of training the soul:

Medicine has become a business within defensive guidelines bound by finances and fears of lawsuits. How often have I heard the words, “It’s just not fun to practice medicine anymore.

In Panama we taught laparoscopic surgery. One of my patients developed post-operative bleeding and required a return to surgery. Bleeding is a known complication of any surgery. Still it is never pleasant to tell a patient that she has bleeding from her operation and requires an emergent return to surgery—now try telling her in a different language. Rosa only told me that she trusted me to continue making good decisions.

Doctors from both countries returned to the operating room. Controversy erupted regarding the best approach to the problem. Our host physicians were surprised and amazed that the bleeding was quickly located and coagulated through the tiny laparoscopic incisions. They accompanied me and translated all the news to the anxious family in the waiting room.

The following day at my hotel I heard my name paged in Spanish – “Doctora—Doctora” “Now what?” I thought as Rosa’s husband came into view. He was accompanied by his four-year-old daughter. They were dressed in their very best clothes. They placed a beautiful beaded necklace from their tribe around my neck with heartfelt thanks for the care of their precious wife and mother.

I remembered why I became a doctor—it all came back to me. This family knew of the many complications in life. This family knew that I cared for them and had never put forth any less than my best effort. They did not blame me. They blessed me. I felt fortified and fulfilled.

Now, late at night in the long hours I remember the lessons of Panama. Believe in yourself—share all news honestly and truthfully. Be brave and do the right thing. I am not so afraid of all the complications of life.