Rabibi Perry's Yom Kippor Sermon

Mah Lach – Sacred Encounters

On a beautiful day in early June, I headed to the bike trail across from my home, determined to get some exercise. I put in my earbuds, turned on a Milk Street podcast about cooking, and walked briskly, determined to make it to NARA Park in Acton, about a mile and a half from my home. I was in a zone. I had a goal. I was focused inward. In my mind, apparently, I had become some kind of elite athlete — albeit one walking a 19-minute mile while listening to a podcast about cooking. So it was with just a tiny bit of annoyance — I am not particularly proud to admit this on Yom Kippur — that I encountered a man in a wheelchair coming in the other direction, just as I was getting to my goal, a totally arbitrary point about 20 feet farther down the path. He smiled at me and asked me a question.

You know those old cartoons where there is a little angel sitting on one shoulder and a little devil on the other, each whispering in your ear? Well, the angel and devil suddenly made themselves at home on my shoulders. The inner voice telling me that I could not possibly slow my pace was at war with the voice saying, “Be a mensch. Take out your earbuds and listen to the man.” So, with some ambivalence — again, tonight after all is a night of confession — I disconnected from the voice of Christopher Kimball and heard him ask, in an accent I couldn't quite place, if there were beavers around. Beavers? I mean, we are in New England.

But I still had those 20 feet to go or apparently I would never release my inner athlete. The kinder voice won out. I explained that farther up the trail there were beautiful marshes, and although he probably wouldn't see beavers at this time of day, he could see evidence of them — trees with some pretty impressive gnaw marks. And then we went our separate ways — me looking at my Fitbit as if the balance of the universe depended upon my maintaining 19-minute miles, and him pushing himself along with a smile on his face.

Later, after I had turned around and started heading home, I saw him again. By this point, the voice of conscience — and, frankly, disappointment in myself — had taken root. I could blow by him, maintaining those precious 19-minute miles. Or I could slow down. So I did the human thing. I took out my earbuds, put them in my pocket, slowed my pace to his, and asked whether he had seen any beavers. He had not. But he wanted to know: Were there squirrels? Chipmunks? Again, I had to laugh. We are in New England.

But this man's enthusiasm was off the charts. He had so much joy simply rolling along, taking in the scenery, wondering what he might see next. He especially wanted to see a black squirrel.

And once I slowed down enough to join him on his journey, I noticed he was wearing a soccer jersey. He told me he was from Scotland and had come to America for the World Cup. He would soon meet friends who were coming to see Scotland play at Gillette Stadium. And then my unnamed friend began telling me his story.

He had recently retired after an accident caused him to lose the use of his legs. His family had worried about him traveling alone to America, but he had decided to come anyway. And I have to tell you: the smile never left his face. On his very first day in Boston, he got a flat tire. On his wheelchair. He somehow navigated his way to a bike shop, where people helped him. He didn't tell the story as an ordeal. It was another adventure. He seemed to move through the world with this extraordinary assumption that if he needed help, someone would help him. And they did.

He had traveled from Boston to Chicago and back, navigating public transportation on his own. Now he was staying at a hotel in Chelmsford. Then I noticed a Donelan's shopping bag in his lap. He had wanted food, so he had pushed himself along the bike trail to the supermarket. Think about that — from Chelmsford to Acton, in a wheelchair he propelled himself, with another seven or eight miles still to get back to his hotel.

Suddenly my 19-minute mile seemed a little less impressive.

We continued together — he rolling and I walking beside him — and we talked. We talked about Scotland and America and the World Cup. We talked about the upcoming Scotland-Haiti game and how sad we both were that many Haitians who might have wanted to attend would not be there — some worried about immigration enforcement, others unable to afford the tickets. He was genuinely puzzled. He had imagined America as a place of freedom and openness and couldn't understand why it seemed to be closing itself off from people from other parts of the world.

And then he invited me to Scotland. He told me how beautiful it was and how friendly the people were. I swear, if I had told him I was booking a flight, he probably would have invited me to stay at his house.

Eventually we came to the little path that leads from the bike trail toward my home, and I was strangely sad that our time together was ending. He continued on his way, still hoping to see a black squirrel. And I went home.

But I went home changed. None of this would have happened if I had kept walking at 19-minute miles. I thought slowing down meant giving something up. Instead, slowing down allowed something to happen. I had to take out the earbuds. I had to stop looking at my Fitbit. I had to notice the person traveling in the other direction. Who knew what my encounter with one Scotsman could lead to?

Suddenly there were thousands of them descending on Boston, wearing kilts, blowing bagpipes and — literally — drinking some Boston pubs dry. Bostonians and the Scots fell in love with each other. The Scots already had a slogan: “No Scotland, No Party.” But after the Tartan Army descended on Boston — singing, dancing, wearing kilts and apparently making friends with everyone they met — they changed it to “No Boston, No Party.” They even presented the city with a Glasgow traffic cone bearing the new slogan. Who knew international diplomacy could be accomplished with soccer, kilts and a traffic cone?

But something larger was happening. Visitors from all over the world arrived in cities across the United States, bringing their languages, foods, flags, traditions and enormous enthusiasm. And let's be honest. Our country had spent many months debating boundaries, immigration and who belongs. Then, for this brief period, something different seemed to happen. People came here from all over the world. And people welcomed one another. Strangers talked to strangers. People asked where one another came from. Americans showed some of the best of ourselves, and our visitors did the same.

For that month, even flags seemed to mean something different. A flag didn't necessarily say: “This is my side and that is yours.” Instead it seemed to say: “This is where I'm from. Tell me where you're from.”

How many of us knew much about Cape Verde before the World Cup? Or the Democratic Republic of Congo? How many Americans suddenly turned to Google Maps and said, “Wait — where exactly is Cape Verde?”

And then we found ourselves rooting for them. Why did that make us so happy? Why did our spirits need that? In a world that has felt so frightening and fractured, was there something healing about becoming curious about people we didn't know? For a little while, the World Cup got ordinary people to ask one another: Where are you from? What matters to you? Who are your people? What is your story?

I don't want to be Pollyanna about this. Not everyone experienced the World Cup in the same way, and human beings remain human beings — even when wearing soccer jerseys. But for a little while, we became curious about one another. And I wonder if there isn't something sacred about that.

Over the summer, along that same bike path, I was listening to another podcast — and yes, probably periodically looking at my Fitbit. This time my audio companion was Rabbi Sharon Brous, talking about her book, The Amen Effect: Ancient Wisdom to Mend Our Broken Hearts and the World. Although I have never met Rabbi Brous, I have been deeply inspired by her teaching. If I lived in Los Angeles, I would want her to be my rabbi. And as I listened, she gave me a Jewish framework for what had happened with my Scottish friend — and, in a larger way, for what I had experienced during the World Cup.

At the heart of Brous book is an ancient teaching from the Mishnah Middot. The mishnah describes pilgrims ascending the Temple Mount in Jerusalem. They would enter through the gates and turn to the right, making their way around the sacred complex. Everyone moved in the same direction. The Mishnah specifically names the mourner and the person who has been ostracized. Brous invites us to imagine the circle more broadly: the lonely, the sick, anyone whose life has somehow been broken open. That person turned the other way. Imagine that. Everyone else was walking in one direction, and the person carrying a broken heart walked against the current. When the other pilgrims encountered that person coming toward them, they were expected to stop and ask: Mah lach? What happened to you?

And the person could answer:  I lost my mother. My marriage has ended. My child is sick. I am frightened. I feel lost.

And after hearing the person's story, the pilgrim would offer a blessing: May God comfort you. May you find healing. May you feel the embrace of this community.

What an extraordinary ritual. The brokenhearted person didn't have to stand up and announce, “I'm hurting.” The community had created a ritual in which pain became visible. And everyone else had a responsibility not to avert their eyes.

And here's what I find especially powerful: You weren't responsible for fixing it. You weren't responsible for offering advice — something I occasionally need to be reminded of. You didn't have to explain why it happened. You certainly didn't have to say that everything happens for a reason. Your responsibility was to stop. To ask: Mah lach? What happened to you? To listen with an open heart. And to offer a blessing.

In a sense, to say: I see you. I hear you. You do not have to carry this alone.

That feels profoundly connected to Yom Kippur.

And as you know, our city was not only descended upon by soccer fans this year, we also had elephants. One hundred of them, stretching along Commonwealth Avenue. The Great Elephant Migration brought these exquisitely crafted elephants into the heart of Boston with a message of coexistence. But as intrigued as I was by the elephants, I became even more intrigued by the people coming to see them. By then, I had heard Sharon Brous tell the story of the Temple Mount. So I decided to make a pilgrimage of my own.

I intentionally used public transportation. I wanted to carry with me the memory of my Scottish friend, who had navigated Boston by wheelchair and public transportation with infinitely more confidence than I sometimes navigate the T. I made my way through Boston Common and the Public Garden toward Commonwealth Avenue. And here's something I learned: another word for a herd of elephants is a parade of elephants. Which seemed perfect, because I felt as though I had joined a parade of pilgrims making our way toward them.

As I traveled, I kept thinking about that ancient ritual. Could I actually approach a stranger and ask: Mah lach? What's happening with you? What are you carrying?

Could I tear down one of those invisible boundaries between strangers? Okay. I chickened out. There was not a single person to whom I walked up and said, “Mah lach?” Apparently there are limits to my spiritual courage.

But there was something I could do. Whenever I saw people trying to take a picture — a couple, a family, a group of friends, often with one person left out — I walked over and asked: “Would you like me to take your picture?” And I did it over and over again. It became my own very small version of Mah lach. Because something happened. People smiled. We talked about the elephants. Sometimes we talked about more personal things. And for just a moment, we weren't strangers walking past one another. In its own small way, “Would you like me to take your picture?” meant: I see you. I see your family. Let me help.

And I realized that Mah lach doesn't always have to mean asking about another person's deepest pain. It can also mean asking about their joy. Maybe it simply means: I notice you. I am willing to slow down. For this moment, I am willing to travel the same path with you. And then, while writing this sermon, I learned one more thing. A group of elephants can be called a herd. It can be called a parade. But sometimes, wonderfully, it is also called a memory of elephants.

And now I understand why. I will remember those extraordinary creatures. But even more, I will remember that parade of humanity walking among them — different languages, different ages, different families, different backgrounds — all slowing down together, sharing the same sense of wonder. A memory of elephants. And for me, a sacred memory of what can happen when human beings slow down long enough to notice one another.

I ruminated a lot this summer about what I wanted to speak about with you this Yom Kippur. There are so many profoundly important things we could talk about: being Jewish in America, welcoming the stranger and feeding the hungry, civil liberties and antisemitism, the war in the Middle East, polarization and so much more. But I kept coming back to this ancient ritual. Because it feels important to me this Yom Kippur.

Tonight we did not ascend the ancient Temple Mount. We entered this sanctuary. But we, too, entered through gates.

Pitchu li sha'arei tzedek. Open for me the gates of righteousness. The gates of justice. The gates of kindness. The gates of understanding. The gates of love. And as we enter those gates into this sanctuary and into a new year, the truth is that most of us could walk in either direction. Because none of us is simply brokenhearted. And none of us is simply whole. Every one of us enters this sanctuary carrying something. Some of it we know about. Much of it we don't.

Some of us are friends and some of us are strangers. But on this Kol Nidre evening, we are a community of souls on a journey together. And because we cannot tell simply by looking at one another what someone carries, our task may actually be harder than it was for those ancient pilgrims. We have to notice one another. We have to be curious. And perhaps Mah lach? isn't only a question for the stranger.

Sometimes the harder truth is that we fail to ask it of the people we think we already know. When was the last time we really asked our spouse, our child, our parent, our sibling, our friend: Mah lach? What's happening with you? Not, “How was your day?” Not, “What do you think of the Red Sox?” When we ask, “How are you?” are we actually open to any answer other than “Fine”?

Mah lach? How are you? What are you carrying right now? What are you worried about? What is giving you joy? What do you wish someone would notice?

And then comes the harder part. Can we listen without immediately trying to fix it? Can we hear someone's pain without explaining it away? Can we hear someone's experience when it is different from our own?

And maybe there is an even harder version of this. It is relatively easy to be curious about a delightful Scotsman in a wheelchair who wants to see a black squirrel. It is relatively easy to feel connected to strangers when we are all standing together admiring elephants.

Returning to Rabbi Brous… in her book, she pushes her teaching even further: what happens when the person walking toward us is not someone whose suffering immediately evokes our compassion, but someone whose ideas or actions trouble us? When their opinions frustrate us. When we don't understand the choices they make. When we are absolutely certain that if they would only listen to us for five minutes, we could explain exactly where they have gone wrong.

Can we still ask: Mah lach? Not because we will necessarily agree. Not because every idea is equally right or every action equally acceptable. But because the person standing before us is still a human being with a story. What happened to you? What experiences have shaped you? What are you afraid of? What do you love? What do you hope for?

Maybe one of the tragedies of this fractured moment is not simply that we disagree with one another. It is that we have stopped being curious about one another. Can we make another human being feel, even for a moment: I see you. I hear you. You matter to me. Maybe that is part of the work of teshuvah.

On Yom Kippur, when we ask ourselves how we can become better people, perhaps there is one surprisingly simple answer: Can we become better at seeing people? And I keep coming back to that day on the bike trail. Two people were traveling in opposite directions. One was in a wheelchair, thousands of miles from home, hoping to see a beaver — or at least a black squirrel. The other was listening to Christopher Kimball and apparently training for the Olympics at a blistering 19-minute-mile pace. We could have passed each other by. In fact, at first, mostly because of me, we did. But then I turned around. And eventually I slowed down.

Only now do I realize how much that moment resembles the ancient ritual Rabbi Brous describes. One person walking one way. Another coming toward him from the opposite direction. And somewhere between them, the possibility of a sacred encounter. Mah lach? What is happening with you? What are you carrying? What delights you? What frightens you? What are you hoping to find?

I don't know the name of the man I met that morning. I don't know whether he ever saw his black squirrel. I don't know whether I will ever see him again. But I know that because I slowed down long enough to hear his story, he became part of mine.

This is one of the invitations of Yom Kippur. There will always be somewhere we need to get. There will always be another email to answer, another task to accomplish, another podcast to finish, another 20 feet we have decided we absolutely must walk. But there will also always be someone coming toward us. Someone carrying a story we cannot see. Someone walking against the current. Someone celebrating. Someone hurting. Someone who simply needs another human being to notice. So perhaps in this new year, every once in a while, we can take out the earbuds. Stop looking at the Fitbit. Slow down. Look at the person coming toward us. And ask: Mah lach? What is happening with you? And then listen.

Because sometimes the holiest thing we can give another human being is the knowledge: I see you. I hear you. You matter to me.