After watching my Rosh Hashanah sermon, my amazing colleague Rachel Rudman, in her tireless efforts to ensure your well being, gently asked me if my Yom Kippur sermon will be less…depressing. The answer is no. And yes. As I said on Rosh Hashanah, we absolutely must lobby our representatives and get out the vote to address our nation’s challenges, especially for vulnerable populations like our kids. Today I am going to talk about something else that is challenging, but you may be able to alleviate it with someone sitting in your row, before you leave today.

On Yom Kippur in 5779 (2018) I spoke about mental illness and how specifically depression had affected me, my family, and many of you.  People periodically ask me to email them a copy of that sermon and I am happy to do so. However there is no recording of it. Not for privacy reasons–I am open about mental illness because it is deeply important to me that you know that you can talk to me about it, and please God someday you will be able to talk to anyone about it. No, my sermon is not recorded and posted on facebook because it was before COVID and there were no video cameras in the room. 

A lot has changed since then. In 5781, our entire service was on Zoom and we ushered in a new year sitting in front of our individual screens. Today, some of us are watching from a livestream, and we still need to be sensitive to protecting the most vulnerable among us. But after what we went through, individually and collectively, it is a big deal that people are sitting here together. That is something to celebrate. 

And we must also recognize that we have changed. Our bodies and minds and schedules were rewired to keep us apart. Some of this rewiring brought about positive changes–now that livestream has become mainstream more people are able to be included. Working from home has allowed organizations, including ours, to include wonderful staff regardless of geography. And perhaps working from home means more laundry is getting done.

But we are also living in a world that is more separate and lonely than it was in 2019. And that is saying something because we were already pretty lonely in 2019. In fact, it was around the year 2000 that data started to emerge that America’s social networks were unraveling. We weren’t spending time with each other in the same way and it was eroding not just our relationships but our bodies.

This past year, United States Surgeon General Dr. Vivek Murthy warned that loneliness can be not just damaging but deadly. He issued a report in which he warned that being socially disconnected can be devastating for our mental and physical health. The risk of anxiety and depression increases. Success in school and job productivity can decrease. But that’s not all. The risk of heart disease increases by about 30% and the risk of dementia increases by about 50%. The increased risk of premature death associated with social disconnection is comparable to smoking daily — and may be even greater than the risk associated with obesity.

This would be worthy of our attention even if only experienced by a few. But some estimates put people suffering from loneliness in the United States at about 50%.  If you are one of those people, you are not alone in your loneliness.

And you are not the first human to feel that pain. In fact, it was felt by the first human.

In Genesis 1, God creates different forms of life and sees that it is tov, good. And after the creation of human beings, when assessing all that God has made, God sees that it is tov m’od, very good. 

The story in Genesis 2 is a little different. God creates a human, Adam, but notices that something is definitely lo tov, not good. Adam is lonely.

In Genesis 2:18, we read

 וַיֹּ֙אמֶר֙ יְהֹוָ֣ה אֱלֹהִ֔ים לֹא־ט֛וֹב הֱיוֹת הָֽאָדָ֖ם לְבַדּ֑וֹ אֶֽעֱשֶׂה־לּ֥וֹ עֵ֖זֶר כְּנֶגְדּֽוֹ׃

God said, “It is not good for the Human to be alone; I will make a fitting counterpart for him.” When God creates Chava, Eve, the text explains that when partners come together, they become basar echad, one flesh–they become whole.

Rambam points out that the tov, the “good” of the days of creation in Genesis 1, is that life was enabled. To be lo tov is the necessary opposite–it  suggests that life can not exist.

As human beings, we need other human beings in order to live.

In Torah Study with Ethan Davidson, he pointed out that there are only two times in the Torah that it says something is lo tov–not good. And they are both at moments of human loneliness.

When Moses’ father-in-law Yitro, Jethro, meets Moses in the desert, Jethro is displeased to discover that Moses is trying to personally adjudicate every case that comes before him. In Exodus 18:17, Jethro warns, לֹא־טוֹב הַדָּבָר אֲשֶׁר אַתָּה עֹשֶׂה

“The thing you are doing is not good” and Jethro continues in verse 18 to say: “you will surely wear yourself out, and these people as well. For the task is too heavy for you; you cannot do it alone.”

Ibn Ezra, a 12th century scholar, points out that the root nun-bet-lamed, translated here as “wear yourself out,” is the same root used to describe a leaf that withers and falls from a tree. In other words, trying to do too much by yourself can be not just tiring but deadly. 

So it turns out that sometimes it is a good idea to listen to your father-in-law. But Jethro’s wisdom also comes from someone from another country, another culture. And we should probably listen to other countries, too. Because Americans, including American Jews, have become weird. Joseph Henrich, a professor of human evolutionary biology at Harvard University, wrote a book in which he explains that some of us have become WEIRD people, i.e. people who are Western, Educated, Industrial, Rich, and Democratic. And when WEIRD people are asked “who are you?,” they tend to respond by giving their profession, or a character trait about themselves. They think of their lives as the story of an individual. But, Henrich found, people from non-WEIRD cultures, i.e. people who are not Western, Educated, Industrial, Rich, and Democratic, tend to answer the question differently. When non-WEIRD people are asked, “who are you?” they are more likely to say, “I am the child of these parents, I am a member of this tribe.” They are a part of a collective.

And it’s a little ironic that by being Western, Educated, Industrial, Rich, and Democratic people we are now the ones who have lost a self-understanding of being part of a collective. Because guess where else we can find the wisdom of communal identity? On p.18 of the book you are holding in your hands. Our invocation to prayer, Barchu, means let us bless. Let us pray in the plural. We often call God Eloheinu, v’Elohei Avoteinu, our God and God of our ancestors, or Avinu Malkeinu, our Father, our Ruler. Even if you don’t know Hebrew, you learn the first person plural suffix–nu. And of course nowhere is that more striking than on Yom Kippur when, as you know, we confess as a collective. Ashamnu, Bagadnu, Al Chet Shechatnu. We have sinned. 

The machzor also cites a text from the book of Exodus which recounts an extreme example of the power of collective responsibility for things we have not done individually. Elana Stein Hain, the Rosh Beit Midrash of the Shalom Hartman Institute of North America, taught a shiur this past summer on how Moses responded to the creation of the golden calf. He is so angry and disappointed and frustrated he smashes the tablets. But he isn’t the only angry one. God gets so angry God threatens to destroy the entire Israelite people. Moses, despite his frustration, pleads with God to not kill the people. In doing so he refers to the Israelites as “this people” and “your people.” 

But then, as one of my favorite Torah scholars, Dr. Aviva Zornberg points out, in Exodus 34:9 Moses moves from “your people” to including himself in an us. He says “Pardon our iniquity and our sin, and take us for Your own.” Moses was not guilty of the creation of the golden calf–in fact, quite the opposite. But he is able to say

 סָלַחְתָּ לַעֲוֺנֵנוּ וּלְחַטָּאתֵנוּ וּנְחַלְתָּנוּ

So…nu? Guess what folks? Regardless of whether you individually are Jewish, you are part of a tribe. This tribe in this room. And on our livestream. And in our building and outside it.

As Rachel said last night, “I believe the value of a synagogue community is in its ability to bring people together - people of different ages, races, and backgrounds - to be in holy relationship with one another.” She, and the amazing team of Downtown Synagogue staff and board members and lay leaders and donors have worked and are working to create opportunities for you to connect and be less alone. Because Judaism did not emerge as a WEIRD religion. Abraham and Sarah had a tent that was open on all sides. We developed the requirement of a minyan, a minimum of 10 people to be together, in order to mourn or to have certain conversations with God. Communal meals are embedded in our holiday celebrations–including the pizza that is now being served to the kids in childcare so their parents don’t have to make them food when they get home. And the one we will have at 8:07pm tonight.

We live in a country in which rather than open tents, sometimes we have very thick doors. And it may not be possible to knock them down completely. So I suggest we first try…windows. George Roberts, who along with past president Vadim Avshalumov, chaired our building renovation committee, spoke about how through the synagogue’s windows on the first floor he is seeing people walking on the street that he hasn’t seen in years. And one of the many, many things I love about working in that building is that when I look out the windows I am reminded that Downtown Synagogue does not exist in isolation. We are part of a city, part of a shared story. Jewish tradition dictates that synagogues must have windows. We have taken that to a whole new level. 

And of course I love that our organizational partners are starting to move in. Working from home has meant that the spontaneous conversations that start at today’s version of the well–the water cooler–have ceased. But people from different organizations are already starting to have spontaneous conversations in the Downtown Synagogue social hall, gathered around our fancy new coffee machine. We are starting to find points of partnership, making us all better at what we do. In our renovated building we also are including more people in the “we”–regardless of physical ability or gender identity or age. And while I look forward to when the elevator is completely operable, we are getting there and it is elevating us all.

On the second day of Rosh Hashanah when we filled every seat in our renovated sanctuary, one of the things people told me about that experience–in addition to how difficult it was to find parking that day–was how powerful it was to sit next to each other. How powerful it was to be squished together in a shared experience. And because of our new HVAC and air filtration systems, we could do so more safely. So here’s the good news. You can do that again this Saturday. Or the Saturday after that. If you don’t come for services, come for lunch, or for the Lunch and Learn, or for a cup of coffee. Or starting again in a few weeks, you can come on a Friday night. Or the Friday night after that. For services, or for dinner, or for conversation, or for a glass of wine. 

I don’t just want you to come because I am the rabbi. And I don’t just want you to come because loneliness can be fatal–although that would be a good reason. I want you to come because someone else in that room needs you. I want you to come because I need you. 

So in about 15 minutes when the Torah service ends, we are all going to take a short break. I am going to ask the folks on the livestream to make a phone call–either then or tonight–to someone you love.  And make plans for when you will speak or visit again. 

And I am going to ask the people in this room to please rise and resist the rewiring. To please move a little closer to another group of people. Don’t worry–it doesn’t need to be for long. A lot of people are probably going to leave at the end of the break. But before you do, I invite you to speak with someone else and answer the question that Professor Henrich posed, but perhaps differently than before–”who are you?” And, perhaps more importantly, when can I see you again? How about for Shabbat? Or for Sukkot? 

I know many of you are thinking, “oh I don’t have to do that.” But actually, you do. We are all descendants of Adam, and we are all taught by not just the Surgeon General, but by Moses and by Jethro. I want you to talk to someone else in this room as if your life depended on it. 

This year brings an opportunity to reconnect with the people who help make us who we are. May God see all of our efforts and call it good. May we be inscribed for a good year.