Will the Circle Be Unbroken? Rosh Hashanah 5784 Day 1

When you step into the rotunda of the Country Music Hall of Fame, if you look up, you’ll notice five words that call out like a simultaneous indictment and invitation: Will the Circle be Unbroken? First written in 1907 by Ada R. Habershon, reworked by A.P Carter in 1935, and finally immortalized by the NItty Gritty Dirt Band in 1971, these words have lived many lives, have witnessed many different versions of themselves. 

In the most well known version of this song, the 1971 version, which features the vocal talents of Johnny Cash, Roy Acuff, Mother Maybelle Carter, Earl Scruggs, and other country greats, the narrator mourns the loss of his mother, and in a haunting and somehow uplifting way, carries us listeners through the deepest and most acute moments of this newfound grief. But more than a song about a funeral, or about the specific loss of a beloved parent, this is a song about continuity, about generations. It is a song about ensuring that a legacy persists, and memory carries us through. And this song is itself a question to the survivors, and the refrain reminds us as much. Will the circle be unbroken? Will this family, will this community endure this loss, this change?

And so when I noticed these words emblazoned across that rounded ceiling at the Country Music Hall of Fame, at the center of Nashville, I couldn’t help but feel held by their delicate urgency. And then, it occurred to me that this question is so deeply and fundamentally Jewish. Because it’s a question we have been asking ourselves for thousands of years– countless generations posing this essential question to children, grandchildren, friends, dear relatives– at the seder table, on the way to High Holidays services, at a Jewish wedding, at a shiva. What are we doing, what will each of us do to ensure that Judaism, that the enterprise of building, of living in, of growing Jewish community outlasts and outlives us all? How will our circle be unbroken?

Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik, also known as the Rav, teaches that teshuvah, the active art of repentance and self-reflection, is in essence a circular motion. He writes:

When one finds oneself on the circumference of a large circle, it sometimes seems that the starting point is becoming farther and farther removed, but actually, it is getting closer and closer. At the return of the year, on Rosh Hashanah, a new calendar year begins, and with every passing day, one gets farther and farther away from the starting point, the new year. But every passing day is also a return, a drawing near to the completion of the year’s cycle, the Rosh Hashanah of the next year.

Soloveitchik points to Samuel the Prophet, Samuel the Judge, as the biblical character who is paradigmatic of this kind of return. In I Samuel chapter 7 verses 15-17 we read:

וַיִּשְׁפֹּ֤ט שְׁמוּאֵל֙ אֶת־יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל כֹּ֖ל יְמֵ֥י חַיָּֽיו׃ וְהָלַ֗ךְ מִדֵּ֤י שָׁנָה֙ בְּשָׁנָ֔ה וְסָבַב֙ בֵּֽית־אֵ֔ל וְהַגִּלְגָּ֖ל וְהַמִּצְפָּ֑ה וְשָׁפַט֙ אֶת־יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל אֵ֥ת כל־הַמְּקוֹמ֖וֹת הָאֵֽלֶּה׃ וּתְשֻׁבָת֤וֹ הָרָמָ֙תָה֙ כִּֽי־שָׁ֣ם בֵּית֔וֹ וְשָׁ֖ם שָׁפָ֣ט אֶת־יִשְׂרָאֵ֑ל וַיִּבֶן־שָׁ֥ם מִזְבֵּ֖חַ לד׳.

Samuel judged Israel as long as he lived.

Each year he made the rounds of Bethel, Gilgal, and Mizpah, and acted as judge over Israel at all those places.

Then he would return to Ramah, for his home was there, and there too he would judge Israel. He built an altar there to the LORD.

Soloveitchik continues:

Samuel went in a circuit. The moment he left Ramah, with the goal of making a full circuit of Bethel, Gilgal, and Mizpah, he was already returning to Ramah, for it was there lived his that he made his home; there in Ramatayim Tzofim, lived his mother, Hannah; there he had spent his childhood; there were his roots. Everywhere Samuel went, he was heading for home. 

And isn’t that what teshuvah is? Isn’t that what this sacred and sometimes impossible talk of finding our way back to the truth of ourselves is? Isn’t it all about coming home?

Soloveitchik makes one more critical observation about Shmuel and his cycles of return. He writes:

Samuel was a leader and a judge for all Israel: he made a circuit of all of Israel’s scattered living places, but everywhere he went, he was heading for home. He belonged to all of Israel, for the land of Israel was his home, but his true home was only in one place, in Ramah, as it is written, “for there was his home.” Only there could he construct the altar of his life to G-d.

On the surface, Soloveitchik reminds us that Shmuel is always journeying to one particular home, despite being comfortable, recognized, and needed in so many other parts of the country. But I think Soloveithchik is actually making a deeper and much more radical claim about the power and necessity of community. Year after year, during the month of Elul, during Rosh Hashanah, the Aseret Yemei Teshuvah, and Yom Kippur, we are called to tread the same path, to visit all of those familiar, comfortable, and often painful places of our past. During the year, we are asked to make our spiritual homes in so many different places. But now, we come home. But making this perilous journey, Soloveitchik teaches us, cannot be done alone. Our journey around the circle, around the brambles and through the thicket of our lives, can be made easier, the sharp, cutting edges of this difficult work softened by the other people who are walking the same large circumference. By the very same people who are also making their way home. 

And the wonderful thing about a circle? A circle that we are all walking together? It binds us, draws us closer to one another. Makes us alike and nearer to each other. The circle makes us responsible for one another, because from any point on the circle’s path, I can see you, and you can see me. On this circle, we are perpetually held, continuously witnessed in our growth, in our progress, and in our healing. 

There is an incredible debate on the first mishnah of tractate Chagigah. The mishnah says:

הכל חייבין בראיה

All are obligated, on the three pilgrimage festivals– Pesach, Shavuot, and Sukkot– in the mitzvah of appearance. 

The Mishnah goes on to detail with more technical specificity anyone who may be excused from this appearance, and also gives instructions for how exactly to show up in these moments. But the use of the word ראיה is critical here, and so very interesting. 

So when the Mishnah says that all are obligated in the mitzvah of “appearance,” does it mean that everyone is obligated to appear, to simply arrive at the Temple, even if your arrival goes unnoticed in such a large crowd. Or, does it mean that everyone is obligated to literally be seen? In order to satisfy the requirements of the pilgrimage festivals, in order to have made the journey worthwhile, you must be fully seen, fully witnessed in your coming so far. Fully witnessed in having made this loving, possibly perilous, dedicated trek to Jerusalem, to G-d’s holy seat.

But being seen is not something we can do for ourselves, on our own. It requires someone else to see us. So when you arrive at the Mikdash, at the Temple, everyone in the community is required to look out for you, to see you, to make sure that you are accounted for. It is a reminder to all of us, that we are responsible to pay attention to who is here, who is in the room, and who is missing. We are responsible for making sure that when a member of our community steps through those doors, that they are seen, welcomed, held, and invited into the magical possibilities of what can happen in a shul. And perhaps more importantly, we are called to notice who doesn’t come through that sacred entrance. And to take note, and reach out. 

I think it’s both. Jewish religion was never intended to be practiced in a vacuum. Yes, we all have unique spiritual and religious inner lives that only we can fully understand, no one else. And we might have profound private experiences with Judaism– of prayer, of learning, of G-d. But Judaism is not a monastic culture or religion. And so to give Jewish ritual and Jewish culture and Jewish life their force, we must show up and we must be seen. We must participate, and we must help the people around us participate, too. There is a deep mutuality, reciprocity, and outwardness that Judaism, thank G-d, requires of us. 

The Talmud, in tractate Shevuot teaches: 

כל ישראל ערבים זה בזה

All of Israel is responsible for each other. 

We are all responsible for one another. This, I think, is the most important principle that we find in Jewish life and literature– because our communities cannot grow, our communities cannot survive, can’t evolve into the very thing we need them to be, without each one of us, if we only think about ourselves. If we put ourselves at the center of our commitment to Jewish community, that commitment runs the risk of growing stale, exhausting, and your own involvement here and in other Jewish communities may begin to feel burdensome and inauthentic. Because as much as we try, it’s not realistic to believe that every moment, that every time you step into this building will be transformative. But there is something perhaps more important, more profound about what can happen here in those moments between the sublime. 

And to be clear, each of us should aspire to have a deeply personal and individual relationship with Judaism, and you should participate in the things that make you feel most connected, that make you feel most enriched. And that is a big part of what we are trying to build here at OZS– a culture that empowers lots of different kinds of opportunities, lots of different points of entry, so each of you can really find yourself here. 

But how would our orientation to community change if instead of first asking, “What will I get out of this” or "what will this program or this class or this volunteer opportunity do for me?” The first question we asked was instead “How will my participation, how will my showing up enable someone else or help someone else in this beloved community to connect, to deepen their relationship to Judaism? How will my being here impact the community in the long-term and for the better?

Parshat Nitzavim takes this idea of communal obligation one step further. The first psukim of the Parsha reads: 

You stand this day, all of you, before your God —your tribal heads, your elders, and your officials, every householder in Israel, your children, your wives, even the stranger within your camp, from woodchopper to water drawer— to enter into the covenant of your God, which your God is concluding with you this day, with its sanctions; in order to establish you this day as God’s people and in order to be your God, as promised you and as sworn to your fathers Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. I make this covenant, not with you alone, but both with those who are standing here with us this day before our God and with those who are not with us here this day.

This is perhaps The Torah’s attempt to answer our original question: will the circle be unbroken? And here, in the case of this renewed covenant in Parshat Nitzavim, as the Israelites are preparing finally to enter the land of Israel, we see a clear answer. Everyone is here, standing before G-d, nobody is excluded or outside of this moment. Everyone, past, present, and future. Every person in the community was present, and every person in the community made this covenantal moment possible. 

The Or Hachaim, Rabbi Chaim ibn Attar, the 17th/18th Century Biblical scholar, talmudist, and Kabbalist comments on these verses:

What Moshe wanted with this new covenant was to make the Israelites responsible for one another in their performance of Mitzvot. Each Jew has to see to it that their fellow does not stumble and sin. 

And our piece of Talmud from tractate Shevuot emphasizes this point by teaching that: 

The entire Jewish people are considered guarantors for one another. So much that any transgression makes the entire world liable to be punished. 

Both the Or Hachaim and the anonymous author of the Talmud teach that it is incumbent upon each of us to support others in their practice of Judaism. This might sound like a daunting and perhaps near-impossible task. How can I make sure that you are praying three times a day? How can I make sure that you are keeping the strictest levels of Kosher in your home? How can I possibly make sure that you don’t engage in Lashon Harah, gossip, or treat your parents, friends, or relatives with disrespect? SUrely, I cannot be held responsible for all of that.

But we are so fortunate to live in a time, and belong to a Jewish community that embraces and understands that living a Jewish life, observing Judaism, belonging to community,  is a far more expansive exercise than simply checking off the list of commandments. That is not to say that we each shouldn’t strive to improve and grow our performance of Jewish ritual, and root ourselves in the anchor of Jewish law. But we know that Jewish observance also means bringing chicken soup to a sick friend; learning something new about Judaism; it’s lovingly peeling the shells of over 100 hard boiled eggs for our community seder; it’s setting up chairs in the social hall; bringing your voice to services or song circles; it’s making sno-cones for our religious school students, even though that means being sticky, cold, and covered in tide-resistant food coloring. It’s also coming to services, volunteering to greet people as they come into the building. It’s teaching or participating in a class here at OZS or leading a book club. It’s ensuring that members of our community are cared for and buried with dignity. 

This is just a small list of all of the ways that each of you contribute to the life and longevity of our community. 

This Rosh Hashanah, we are kicking off our OZS Year of Joy. One of the sweetest and I think most important mitzvot that we have, is to serve G-d with joy, Ivdu et Hashem B’Simcha. I love this pasuk, this mitzvah, because it reminds me of all that’s possible in Jewish life, and Jewish community. And joy, we know, can be so difficult to locate, especially now. Which is why we need this guiding principle, this reminder more than ever. We all need the extra push toward joy right now. 

And how do we achieve, how do we lean into and embrace this radical call to action, in a world that would prefer that we didn’t seek joy, that we didn’t feel joy? How do we pursue joy with an unceasing focus, in a world that is so distracting? How do we make sure that our sacred communities are wellsprings, sources, foundations of joy and life?

We do it together. We do it by making the journey to our Mikdash, to our sweet little shul on Edgewater Court. We do it by stepping out of our comfort zone, even if just for an hour. We do it by inviting a friend to join us for a class, for a service, for a Shabbat or holiday meal. We do it by picking up the phone and checking in.

And if we truly internalize the teaching of the Or Hachaim, we know that we are obligated to make it so for others, too. To make sure that everyone in our community can feel joy, can access joy, can put joy at the center of their Jewish life and identity. We do it to make sure that joy can propel each of us forward in building a community that is growing, that is thriving, that will be here for generations to come. 

We do it all, and I invite you to be part of it, to ensure that our circle remains unbroken.