In 1973, a small Midwest Jewish community opened a brand-new skilled care senior facility. A major attraction of the new nursing home was its state-of-the-art kosher kitchen - large enough to serve all residents hot kosher meals at the same time. The nursing home opened in the early spring, just before Passover. In preparation for Pesach, the director of the facility called a local orthodox rabbi and asked him to come and make the kitchen kosher for the holiday. The rabbi came to the facility, and he told the director that he would need to use a blowtorch to ensure that the ovens were sufficiently prepared for Passover. This posed a real problem, the director explained, since blowtorching any part of the ovens would void their warranties. The kitchen equipment was very expensive and had been paid for by generous contributions from members of the Jewish community. The director told the rabbi that she would be irresponsible if she allowed the warranties to be voided.

How could this problem be resolved? The rabbi had just explained to the director what he would have to do to the kitchen so that it would meet his strict orthodox standards, and she had rebutted by telling him that his method would be impossible. It seemed that this would end in one of two ways: either the ovens would not be made kosher for Passover or the warranties would be lost. This is an example of the question I would like to explore this Yom Kippur morning - how do we attempt to reconcile Judaism with contemporary realities to ensure that Judaism can continue to be practiced in the modern world?

Ours is an ancient religion, and we have inherited a rich tradition of laws and folklore. This morning we read in the Torah some verses that connect us to the generation that stood in the wilderness with Moses: “You stand here this day, all of you, before Adonai your God… Those who are present this day and those who are not yet.” We are bound by sacred texts and practices to every generation of Jews that has preceded us, and we ourselves continue to add new layers of meaning to the richness of Jewish history. Our people's history has not always been easy, and the fact that Judaism has survived these millennia of “ups and downs” is testimony to its strength and flexibility. Every generation of Jews has adapted its practices and beliefs to meet contemporary needs, and our generation is no different. If Judaism is not constantly being reformed, and if Jews are not constantly re-forming themselves, then our chain of tradition will be broken. Every Jewish community and every individual Jew seeks ways to bridge the gap between Judaism and contemporary life, hoping to guarantee the vitality of both.

So back to 1973 and the mystery of the kosher nursing home ovens at Pesach. The orthodox rabbi thought about the conundrum of the ovens for a moment. He then instructed the director to turn all of the ovens to five-hundred degrees, leave them at that temperature for ten minutes, and then they would be kosher for Pesach. The rabbi had addressed the question of how to reconcile Judaism with contemporary realities, and his answer was quite satisfactory. Though quite orthodox in his interpretation of Jewish law, he recognized that flexibility is necessary if Jewish law is to be followed.

Perhaps that wise rabbi had in mind a credo from the Babylonian Talmud (Horayoth 3b). In a discussion amongst various authorities regarding the application of the laws of the Torah, it is written that “Our Rabbis relied upon the words of Rabbi Shimon and Rabbi Eliezer who said, 'No law may be imposed upon the public unless a majority of the people can endure it.'” From that passage in the Talmud we learn that as early as more than fifteen-hundred years ago our ancestors recognized the need for Judaism to be adaptable. Instead of forcing people to accept laws that were burdensome, no matter how “correct” the interpretation of scripture supporting the law might be, the rabbis of the Talmud knew that a system of laws that cannot be followed is a system that will soon collapse.

By being lenient in his ruling about the ovens in the nursing home, the modern rabbi-in-question made Judaism and Jewish practice accessible to the director and residents. He imposed a law that people could endure and in the process he made an eternally grateful friend out of the nursing home director.

As I mentioned a few moments ago, the Torah portion from which we read this morning brings every one of us personally to the Sinai wilderness with Moses. We are all present for the instructions that he gave to the Israelites when he said “Surely this teaching, this Torah, which I give to you this day is not too baffling for you, nor is it beyond your reach. It is not in the heavens, that you should say, 'Who among us can go up to the heavens and get it for us and teach it to us, that we may observe it? It is very close to you, in your mouths and in your hearts.'” With these words Moses reminds us that the Torah belongs to every Jew, not just to Moses, not just to the generation that was freed from slavery, not just to the generation that entered the Promised Land. Moses' words ensure that the Torah that he brought down from Mount Sinai would forever be an earthly possession.

A wonderful story from the Talmud (Baba Metzia 59a) illustrates this point. It is the tale of another oven that needed to be declared kosher. This oven was a new invention created by a certain man named Achnai. Achnai brought his new oven to the rabbinical court at the house of study for them to give his contraption their imprimatur and deem it appropriate for Jewish use. With the exception of Rabbi Eliezer, every sage at the house of study declared that the oven was un-kosher. Rabbi Eliezer brought forward every imaginable argument to try and convince the other sages that the oven was kosher, but none of his colleagues was convinced. Rabbi Eliezer was getting frustrated, and he shouted at them: “If Achnai's oven is in fact kosher, as I say it is, then let this carob tree prove it!” And the carob tree flew out of the ground and landed a hundred cubits away. Unimpressed, the other sages retorted: “No proof can be brought from a carob tree.” Again Rabbi Eliezer implored them: “If the oven is kosher, then let the stream of water prove it.” And the stream of water flowed backwards. “No proof can be brought from a stream of water,” the rabbis rejoined. More frustrated than ever, Rabbi Eliezer cried out: “If the oven is kosher, as I say it is, let the walls of this house of study prove it!” And the walls began to fall inward. But Rabbi Joshua rebuked the collapsing walls saying: “When scholars are engaged in a disagreement over a point of Jewish law, what right do you have to interfere?” And the walls did not fall in honor of Rabbi Joshua, nor did they resume their upright position in honor of Rabbi Eliezer. Again Rabbi Eliezer said to the sages, “If the law agrees with me regarding the fact that Achnai's oven is kosher, then let it be proved by heaven.” And a heavenly voice cried out: “Why do you rabbis argue with Eliezer? He's always right in his interpretation of the law!" But Rabbi Joshua arose and exclaimed to the sky: “It is not in Heaven” (Deuteronomy 30:12). One must follow the majority!” At that moment, the sages say, God laughed, saying “My children have defeated me! My children have overruled me!” (So that oven remained technically un-kosher. You win some, and you lose some).

But the point is clear. The authority and the wisdom to change Judaism do rest with human beings. We are the agents of change, and ours is the task of adapting our religion and ourselves to meet the needs of new times and new surroundings.

Judaism changes over time, often slowly, responding to different cultures and various communities. We are guided by our leaders, by tradition, by precedent and by our own consciences. In organizations and institutions change means committee meetings and Roberts Rules of Order, and we all know how long that kind of work can take!

Individual Jews can change more quickly. Yom Kippur is a day when we focus our minds on significant issues and we resolve with all our hearts to change and do better in the New Year. Today our liturgy and scripture remind us of blessings and curses, forgiveness and sin, eternal reward and divine retribution. Today is a day set aside from all other days, a special time to reflect on who we want to be and how we want to improve in the coming year. Today is a day for new beginnings.

As for the question I stated at the outset: how to begin reconciling Judaism with contemporary realities to ensure that Judaism can continue be practiced, I believe that we each begin with ourselves.

We can ask ourselves what aspects of Judaism hold more meaning for us than do others? What practices do we find enriching? What beliefs bring us comfort and strength? What troubles us about Judaism, and how can we better understand how others have dealt with these troubles? What kind of people, what kind of Jews, do we want to be? In trying to answer that ever-present question of how to reconcile modernity with Judaism, we can begin by reconciling it first in our own minds and hearts. We can redefine and rethink our own understandings of our place in this vast universe by looking to our tradition for meaning and guidance. And there is no better day to start than Yom Kippur.

Today we can acknowledge that Judaism remains practical and practicable because it is not in the heavens. It is ours to interpret and ours to change. The sacred stories are our sacred stories, and we are present in the ancient texts. We are all embodiments of Torah, Mishnah, Talmud and Midrash. As much as we are products of the worlds with which we are so intimately familiar and comfortable, we are also inheritors and guarantors of a four-thousand year-old tradition of Jewish life and learning.

And in our daily lives we are all presented with the opportunity to make the kind of decision that that one rabbi made for the nursing home. Every day we make choices in our dealings with other people - at home, at work, at school, with friends. We choose between being obstinate and being amenable, between being strict and being lenient. We choose to stand on principle because it is easier than standing on fact, and we choose to be hard on ourselves and others because we are often afraid to be the one who says “yes.” Too often, I think, we build barriers between ourselves and those around us, and between ourselves and our tradition, because the relationships and the fusions are unknown and frightening. But those times when we make room for other people and for new ideas, these are rewarding beyond measure.

This Yom Kippur, reflecting on who we want to be and how we can better ourselves and our world, let us work to ensure that our religion and everything else in which we believe remains practical and practicable, by daring to take paths towards integrating our lives with each other and with Judaism.

We have inherited a rich and vibrant Jewish tradition, let us use it wisely to choose life and blessing.

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