When the World Seems Hopeless

Opening the ark on Rosh Hashana morning last week were Lynn Klinenberg, her daughter Susan Glick and her daughter-in-law Ellen Klinenberg. The last time Lynn stood before an ark was just after she returned from Maui, where the fires were burning a few blocks away from where three generations of the family were vacationing. They were without essential medication and food for days. When Lynn returned, she came by the temple, shaken by the experience. I brought her into the sanctuary and to help ground her, placed the Torah in her arms. After watching trees in the Maui forests burn indiscriminately, Lynn held onto our tree of life, our Etz Chayim, the Torah, while we recited Birkat HaGomel, the prayer thanking God for surviving seemingly hopeless situations.  

This sense of hopelessness reminded me of the plot of land in Maui that the late U.S. Poet Laureate W. S. Merwin and his wife Paula bought, when they moved there in the early 1980’s. As Rabbi David Stern related, that land had been deforested for firewood to fuel the whaling ships, Then overgrazed by settlers and then truly ruined by the way the pineapple growers indiscriminately planted, causing all of the topsoil to wash away. Decades of abuse had leeched that land so that not even native plants would grow.  

How many of us would have deemed that place hopeless and moved to a more fertile part of the island? But not the Merwins. Each day, the Merwins planted a single sapling. They did the same the next day. And the day after. And the day after. Today, that once desolate 19-acre plot of land Is called the Merwin Conservancy, A lush forest of over 3000 palm trees, which thankfully survived the recent fires in Maui.  

When the Merwins began to plant, they did not know what that once-desolate land in Maui could become. They did not know what their actions, day by day, sapling by sapling, could create. They just refused to believe it was hopeless. 

“Hopeless” is such an interesting word. It is not simply a declaration that our current situation is bad. It is a resignation that there is no way for it to get better. Rabbi Danny Burkeman explains that “[Hopelessness] is the white flag surrendering to the forces of evil; it is the avoidance of the fight for what is right; it is the acceptance that tomorrow will be no better than today.  

But you know the other thing about the word hopeless? It is not a Jewish word. Hopeless does not exist in the Hebrew language. Just let that sink in for a minute. There is no word for hopeless in Biblical, Talmudic or even modern Hebrew. You see, Judaism does not accept that a situation is ever hopeless. The Jewish response to suffering, we have had plenty. The Jewish response to crisis, we have survived many. The Jewish response to our broken world, has always been and will always be tikva, hope. It is not just a belief that things will be better. It is the faith that we have the strength to make things better, in any situation, no matter how desperate it may seem.  

Author and podcast host Brené Brown explains, never underestimate how important hope can be. “We need hope like we need air. To live without hope is to risk suffocating on despair, risk being crushed by the belief that there is no way out (Atlas of the Heart, page 100). To be a Jew, then, or part of a Jewish family is to be like the Merwins, to embrace hope by planting saplings for the future.  

And hope is not about being optimistic. Archbishop Desmond Tutu, survivor of South Africa’s brutal apartheid regime, when asked why he was an optimist, replied, “I’m not an optimist. I’m a ‘prisoner of hope.’” Quoting from Biblical prophet Zechariah, Archbishop Tutu said, “Hope is a much deeper source of strength, practically unshakable which does not change when circumstances change. Hope is being able to see that there is light despite the darkness” (quoted in Jane Goodall and Douglas Adams, The Book of Hope: A Survival Guide for Trying Times, p. 28).  

There is a Talmudic story (Baba Batra 10b) Rabbi Beth Klafter likes to tell, that some 1500 years ago, Yosef became ill and fainted. When he returned to good health, his father Rabbi Yehoshua asked him, “What did you see when you were not conscious?” Yosef responded: “I saw olam hafuch, an upside-down world. Those who are considered important in this world, were below and insignificant. While those who are insignificant in this world, were above.” Indeed, it can seem that we too are living in olam hafuch, a world turned upside down. It can be overwhelming, depressing.  

In the privacy of my office, on confidential phone calls, in conversations where you do not hold back, so many of you are admitting an awful truth, that you no longer believe that better days are ahead. That you think we are living in olam hafuch, a world turned upside down. 

Everybody has their own reasons to explain why the world has turned upside down. Tellingly, many point to mass shootings, that lead them to habitually check for exits and hiding places when entering mundane spaces, like movies or malls, classrooms or concerts, the supermarket or even the synagogue, recognizing the possible inevitability of a mass shooter making our safe spaces their playground to punish those they disagree with. Just ask the congregant who dodged bullets at the Borderline Country Music Club or who too regularly are locked down in their high school classrooms or while away at college. Some of you go further and say, “the world feels hopeless.” 

Yet to be a Jew is to look at desperate circumstances, and to find reason to act for hope. 

Previous generations planted trees in Israel, before there was a State of Israel, before and during the Holocaust, at times when no one knew if there would be surviving Jews to re-inherit the land God promised. But still Jews planted. That is tikva. That is hope. 

Just like, as Rabbi Lana Zilberman Soloway explained in her wonderful Rosh Hashana sermon, 7 million Israelis, protesting each and every Saturday night for 34 weeks and counting, Are fiercely hoping to protect Israeli democracy. They are planting seeds of hope. 

To be a Jew is to fight when the fight seems lost. Like the huge numbers of Jews and Jewish groups supporting the reproductive rights movement. They rightly understand that Torah, in Exodus 21:22-23, in Mishnah Ohalot 7:6, in Talmud Gittin 23b, and in later the Codes, all point us to the conclusion that a woman must, must have access to reproductive choice. Embracing this Jewish law, these groups are now playing the long game, planting seeds of hope for a future of real reproductive freedom.  

And to be a Jew is to say to queer kids and adults and trans people too, do not give up hope. We see you. For 2000 years, our Mishnah, the compendium of Jewish law, in Bikkurim chapter 4, In Yevamot chapter 8 and elsewhere, has recognized not two genders, but eight genders. Such that Judaism at its root is a people and religion that sees you fully. You are our congregants, our congregant kids, our former B’nai Mitzvah all grown up and we, your Or Ami clergy and this synagogue community, continue to be a space of safety and of belonging. 

We know that you are again becoming pawns for cynics who want to use your lives for political gain. You are no threat to my marriage, my bathroom space or my sports experience. And Judaism forbids us to empower those who bully those at the margins to make themselves appear stronger. That is what they used to do to us, Jews. And still do. 

And you have told us how scary it is. 496 bills have been introduced in the states for the 2023 legislative season alone, limiting your rights, endangering your lives, taking away your freedom. Do not give up hope. Because we will not. I will not and I will continue to act. 

And to be a Jew is to be like Asael Shebo, who I learned about from our congregant Marsha Rothpan of the Israel Parasport Center. Asael had plenty of reason to feel hopeless, but…well, listen to him in his own words: 

View ASAEL SHABO Video: https://youtu.be/oiX9L3rNFkE 

Pirkei Avot, the Talmudic Sayings of our Ancestors, goads us to act: Lo alecha ham’lacha ligmor – You are not required to solve the entirety of the world’s problems, V’lo atah ben chorin l’hitbatel minemah – but neither are you free to do nothing. 

When the world feels hafuch, upside down, and you find yourself descending into hopelessness – do the Jewish thing, plant a sapling. 

Like the Merwins who planted a tree a day until a forest was reborn. Like Asael who did pull ups in his wheelchair day after day until he became a champion. 

Find your own cause, whatever it may be and become its champion, planting the seeds for a glorious tomorrow. The world needs each of us! Jews do not get lost in hopelessness. We plant seeds of hope. Make the world your garden. Go out and plant! That would be a blessing! Gamar Chatimah Tovah.   

I began writing this sermon in the days between Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur, the morning after I received a negative Covid test. Racing to complete the sermon before the symptoms come on strong, I turned to rabbinic colleagues and Facebook friends for stories of overcoming hopelessness. 

This sermon owes a debt of gratitude to those who responded, whether their offerings made it into the final draft or not. I especially thank Rabbis Danny Burkeman, Freg Guttman, Beth Klafter and David Stern for their insights and stories. 

Marsha Rothpan of the Israel ParaSport Center’s West Coast Director) shared Asael Shabo’s story, forming the perfect final story for the sermon. The Israel ParaSport Center, formerly the Israel Sport Center for the Disabled, is one of the world pioneers in the field of sport rehabilitation and uses sports to contribute more to the confidence, morale and self-image of those with disabilities. Thanks to Jason Segal and Harry Friedman for expertly editing the video for inclusion in the sermon. 

In Fires, Shootings, Unfenced Roofs, and Uncovered Pits: Lessons from Torah in the Face of Increasing Danger, I addressed increasing gun violence, including the experience of an Or Ami congregant dodging bullets at the Borderline Country Music Club. 

Rabbi Nachshon Saritsky, Amy Kane (Los Angeles LGBT Center’s Associate Director, Mental Health Services and a Congregation Or Ami congregant) and Keshet (working for full equality of all LGBTQ Jews and our families in Jewish life), guided me on the need to and the way to speak out on the growing animosity toward LGBTQ individuals and community.

The National Council on Jewish Women and the Religious Action Center for Reform Judaism are leading efforts in the Jewish community to expand and protect reproductive Justice. 

Finally, crafting a sermon involves both writing the words and then, like with sculpting stone, carefully removing the unnecessary material. Two individuals were crucial to the creation of this sermon: Harry Friedman: producer, writer, mentor extraordinaire and Michelle November MSSW, my wife and most prized editor.