When the World Feels Bleak, Jews Plant Seeds

Daniel walked into my office, sat down, and began to unload. A self-described student of history, he said he'd learned about this before. Too many times.

When the rule of law begins to break down. When foundational institutions are purposefully pummeled. When shared values are sacrificed to expediency, or personal gain, or xenophobic fear. He said that in the most basic reading of history, such occurrences presage the moment when civilizations come apart at the seams.

He felt it was happening now. Here. And he was worried.

"Tell me, rabbi," Dan pleaded, "tell me something that will transform the dread I'm carrying around into a belief that the future is not so bleak."

Now I was filled with a sense of dread… dread stemming from the fact that I feared I lacked the words to shake loose Daniel's own dread.

So many of you have confided in me that this moment feels much the same to you, too. There is a not-so-quiet unease in the air. A growing belief that something fundamental has been shifting. A sense that the values we assumed were stable are more fragile than we once believed. Truth feels negotiable. Compassion feels conditional. Community feels fractured.

And for Jews, for people who longed for and celebrated the rebuilding of the Jewish democratic state of Israel, and for people who believe in the saving power of a robust American democracy, the ground beneath does not feel as steady as it once did. And we wonder: What do we do?

We might turn for guidance to our Jewish tradition, to the Babylonian Talmud, Tractate Ta'anit 23a, where we find a story:

A long, long time ago in Eretz Yisrael, the land of Israel, lived a very wise man named Honi HaMa'agal, Honi the Circle Maker. Honi was famous because he knew especially effective prayers, and how to use them as no one else could. It is said that his prayers once ended a devastating drought.

One day, Honi set off down the road looking for something to eat when he happened upon an elderly woman planting a tree.

"Excuse me," Honi said. "What kind of tree are you planting?"

"It is a carob tree," she responded.

"Carob, huh? How long until it bears fruit?"

"About 70 years."

"70 years!" cried Honi. "Not to be rude, but you're not exactly a youngster. Are you certain you will live another seventy years to enjoy the fruit of this tree?"

"Perhaps not," said the woman. "However, when I was born into this world, I ate from the many beautiful carob trees planted by those who came before me. Just as my ancestors planted trees for me, I am planting trees for my children and grandchildren so they will have carob to eat."

A beautiful story, of generations taking care of the future. But wait, there's more.

For soon after, Honi sat down to eat next to that newly-planted sapling, and fell asleep. Miraculously a cave formed around him while he slept, and he disappeared from sight. When Honi awoke seventy years later, everything looked the same except now he was sitting in the shade of a full-sized carob tree. He stood up, picked a fruit off it, and ate.

Honi asked a nearby woman, "Do you know who planted this carob tree?"

She answered proudly, "Of course. My grandmother planted it. And my father and mother planted other trees after her. And along with my children, I plant my own trees."

Honi said to the woman, "May I ask you one more thing?" "Of course." Honi asked, "May I borrow a shovel?" And Honi began planting seeds for the future.

When the world looks bleak, Jews plant seeds.

We are part of the Jewish people, a people who, like that woman and Honi, have lived long, often beyond the expectations of others, by doing one specific thing — intentionally, purposefully, planting saplings and seeds for the future. We plant knowing we may never taste the fruit, but that future generations will. We plant knowing that others will sit in the shade that we will never see. And we plant because, like Honi, we have discovered that the seeds we plant now will nourish a better tomorrow.

We have done so throughout our history. After the destruction of the Temples in Jerusalem, through the Spanish Inquisition, through the pogroms in Russia, and even during the Shoah/Holocaust, we needed to find a way to survive, endure, and then blossom again. Often it involved taking stock of our most cherished values, and planting them as seeds for the future. Rabbinic Judaism, Converso Judaism, Reform Judaism, and Zionism were just a few of the movements our ancestors seeded for this purpose.

In a moment that feels so fraught, when the protections we counted on, the values we embraced, the safety and sanctity we saw around us, seem to many to be teetering on the brink, we know we must plant seeds to provide our descendants with the tools to rebuild.

But what seeds and which values?

Our rabbis taught that when the Holy One was planning to create human beings, God gathered the angels into the Divine Throne room for advice. God soon discovered the angels weren't too keen on the project.

"Do not create humans," pleaded Shalom, the Angel of Peace, "for they will fill Your world with conflict."

"Do not create humans," argued Emet, the Angel of Truth, "for they will fill Your Creation with lies."

And so it went, as angel after angel argued against it. And God was not pleased.

Until one angel, Chesed, the Angel of Lovingkindness, read the Divine Throne room, and responded differently.

"Create humanity," Chesed said, "for we know you want to. And while humans will assuredly do all that my colleagues conjure up — tell lies, create conflict, harm one another — they will also surprise us and each other with their capacity for great acts of love."

And so, the midrash teaches, God planted seeds for success into Creation. God took Shalom / Peace and placed it within our hearts, so we would want to share the feeling with others. And God took Emet / Truth and placed it inside the human mind, where we could rediscover what we already knew and use it for good. And Chesed? God made Chesed the very blueprint for Creation.

But just what is this chesed, this lovingkindness? Chesed is more than just being nice. More than politeness. More than surface sweetness that disappears when it is inconvenient.

Rabbi Rami Shapiro calls Chesed "the unconditional, unconditioned, limitless love that flows from God into Creation." Chesed is that which calls us to recognize that every human being is created b'tzelem Elohim, in God's image, and thus possesses infinite value, undeniable equality, and blessed uniqueness.

Chesed goads us to be like the Divine, treating each person — whether we know them or not, understand them or not, like them or not — with the highest level of dignity and respect.

How do we live with Chesed?

When I'm contemplating the challenge of living as a fountain of lovingkindness, I try to channel one of God's angels of Chesed, our congregant Judy Friedman, of blessed memory.

Judy Friedman did not just believe in chesed. She practiced it. Persistently. Patiently. Powerfully. Where some extoll "random acts of kindness," Judy lived in ways that were anything but random. Her acts of kindness were intentional and thoughtful. Like Honi's carob tree planter, Judy planted chesed wherever she went. And we are still living in the shade of the trees that sprouted.

Judy practiced Chesed by listening to others. She practiced "radical empathy," a soul-deep drive to understand and uplift others. Her husband Harry Friedman, our High Holy Day creative director, spent years as executive producer of the TV shows Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy! At staff parties, Judy's warmth made every employee feel like family. At one party she sat down with a very junior staff member who was struggling. An hour later, people went looking for Judy. There she still was, lending an ear, making sure the young woman had a shoulder to lean on.

And Judy practiced Chesed by acting on her cherished values. One Thanksgiving, Judy and Harry decided to help their staff celebrate Thanksgiving in the most beautiful of ways. They provided each staff member with an envelope containing two Ralph's gift cards and a note: "here's one card to use for your holiday, and one for you to give away." This became an annual Thanksgiving tradition for the next 23 years.

Mitzvah goreret mitzvah, Jewish tradition teaches. One act of holiness leads to another. Judy insisted that we teach our values by providing others with the opportunity to do good.

When Judy co-founded her beloved Or Ami Village, she did it to build community and wellness for others, so that caring people would care for each other. She co-led it until the cancer that she fought for decades finally overwhelmed her body. Yet as Chesed sometimes demands, even when her days were difficult, she would show up, saying, "Tomorrow will be better."

So how do we ensure tomorrow will be better?

How about this: we treat every person we meet as if they are the Messiah, the one who will usher in an eternal era marked by an end of war and want, violence and need. The Messiah, Judaism teaches, is hidden. Unrecognized. Waiting for the one act of kindness that will allow the Messiah to finally begin this holy work.

Each of us can help. What if you imagine that every stranger, every friend, every person you meet, even those you would rather avoid, could be the Messiah? And then imagine that your next act of chesed toward them could be the very act that could set salvation into motion. And if you are wrong? If they are not the Messiah? Then you have still seeded chesed into a world that desperately needs it.

This is how we build a foundation. Not with grand declarations or perfect systems. We do it by seeding the future with our values.

Small seeds. Sacred seeds. A call returned. A meal delivered. A word spoken gently when harshness would be easier. A moment of presence when absence would go unnoticed. A choice to love without condition.

On this Rosh Hashanah morning, as we stand between who we have been and who we might yet become, let the essential questions be: What have I done wrong this past year? And also: What seeds of chesed will I plant in the year to come?

Friends who are in-person, when you depart today, you will be handed a blue bracelet. The ushers will have them on your way out. Local livestreamers, come by the synagogue for yours. Those livestreaming from a distance, when you make a donation, include your address, and we will send you one.

This blue bracelet reads: Be the Chesed — Act with Kindness. Perhaps you will wear this bracelet this year to remind you that: We are the planters. And we are the ones who carry the seeds of the future within us.

So let us go out and plant chesed upon chesed upon chesed. Until one day, one day, the world we cannot yet imagine is already blossoming because of what we chose to give today.

L'Shana Tova!