Rabbi Widzer's Library

New beginnings are always filled with hope and promise.  We can imagine the New Year ahead of us as much better than the one just concluded.  Actually, as long as we are imagining, why not go so far and imagine a New Year that brings us to a time of perfection, of goodness, of wholeness.  I know, given the world we are in, that may be a challenging task, but trust me on this.  Imagine transitioning from the world-as-it-is to the world-as-we-want-it-to-be.  Let’s picture the perfect world, the perfect time, the perfect year, when everything is, well, perfect.  

Judaism has a name for what brings about that perfect time, or, more precisely, who.  The word is Moshiach, which means “anointed one,” but commonly gets translated as “Messiah.”  As Reform Jews, we don’t talk about the Messiah very much, but the figure of a Messiah has been woven into Jewish texts since the writings of the prophets.  The figure of the Messiah appears throughout rabbinic midrashim, Talmudic discourse, the writings of the sages of Medieval Judaism, the visions of the Kabbalistic mystics, and on into the present day.  Though it was developed in a different theological direction by the early Church Fathers and our Christian cousins, the Messiah in Judaism was seen as the one who comes and makes everything just right, ushering in a time of ethical perfection and political and economic prosperity.  In classic Jewish thought, the Messiah brings about God’s Realm and ushers in the World To Come.  By the 1800s, the founding thinkers of Reform Judaism moved away from the notion of a single person being the Messiah.  Instead, they posited that we might arrive at the perfection of our world collectively, with each person doing their part to perfect our world, creating a Messianic Era for all.  That’s the perfection I’d like you to imagine as our ultimate goal as we being the New Year.

To think about how we might get there, to set an intention for this Rosh Hashanah eve that the new year ahead will be, if not perfect, at least better, tonight I share with you a story called, “The Rabbi’s Gift.”  Originally written in 1979 by Father Francis Dorff, a Catholic monk, it was later popularized by Dr. M. Scott Peck, a psychiatrist and consultant on building community.¹  My version of their telling of “The Rabbi’s Gift” goes something like this:

There once was a monastery that had fallen upon hard times. Once, its many branch houses were filled with young monks and its large sanctuary resounded with chant and prayer.  But the waves of anti-monastic persecution in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries and the rise of secularism in the nineteenth had led to the closure of almost all its buildings.  The order had become decimated to the extent that there were only five monks left in the decaying mother church: the Abbott, who was the spiritual leader of the community, and four others monks, all over 70 in age. No one from the surrounding area came to be nourished by singing or praying.  

In the forest woods surrounding the monastery there was a little hut, not much more than a bedroom, a stove, and a roof.  It had been built by a Rabbi from a nearby town and used by him occasionally as a place to fast and pray.  No one in the monastery ever spoke with him, but whenever he appeared, the word would be whispered from monk to monk: “The Rabbi is in the woods.  The Rabbi is in the woods once again.”  For as long as he was there, the monks would feel sustained by his prayerful presence.

As the Abbot agonized over the imminent death of his order, it occurred to him at one such time to visit the small hut and ask the Rabbi if, by some possible chance, he could offer any advice that might save the monastery. 

When the Abbot arrived at the hut after his morning prayers, the Rabbi welcomed him with open arms, as if he had been waiting for his arrival.  Together the two religious leaders sat with cups of tea and discussed the affairs of the world.  Ultimately, when the Abbott explained the purpose of his visit, the Rabbi could only commiserate with him. "I know how it is," he explained. "The spirit has gone out of the people. It is the same in my town. Almost no one comes to the synagogue anymore."  So the old Abbott and the old Rabbi wept together, tears of sadness for what had been lost.  They studied together, too, exploring sacred scripture, sharing interpretations and understandings, speaking quietly of deep things.

Soon enough, dusk began to settle and the time came when the Abbott had to return to the monastery. The two men embraced each other.  “It has been a wonderful thing that we should meet after all these years,” the Abbott said, “but I have still failed in my purpose for coming here. Is there nothing you can tell me, no piece of advice you can give me that would help me save my dying order?”

“No, I am sorry,” the Rabbi responded. “I have no advice to give.”  Sadly, the Abbot turned to leave and was mostly out the door when the rabbi called after him.   “The only thing I can tell you,” said the rabbi, “is that the Messiah is among you." 

The Abbot was stunned in puzzlement and could not form a reply, but took his leave from the hut.  He slowly made his way back to the monastery.  When he arrived, his fellow monks gathered around him to ask, “How was your visit?  Did the Rabbi have any advice for us?  What did the Rabbi say?” 

“He couldn't help,” the Abbott answered. “We just wept and read scripture together. The only thing he did say, just as I was leaving - it was something cryptic - was that the Messiah is among us. I don't know what he meant.” 

In the days and weeks and months that followed, the old monks pondered this and wondered whether there was any possible significance to the Rabbi's words.  The Messiah is among us? Could he possibly have meant that one of us monks here at the monastery is the Messiah?  If that's the case, which one? 

Do you suppose he meant the Abbott? Yes, if he meant anyone, he probably meant Father Abbott. He has been our leader for more than a generation. 

On the other hand, he might have meant Brother Thomas. Certainly, Brother Thomas is a holy man. Everyone knows that Thomas is a man of light. 

Certainly, he could not have meant Brother Elred! Elred gets crotchety at times. But come to think of it, even though he is a thorn in people's sides, when you look back on it, Elred is virtually always right.  Often very right. Maybe the Rabbi did mean Brother Elred. 

But surely not Brother Philip. Philip is so passive, a real nobody. But then, almost mysteriously, he has a knack for somehow always being there when you need him. He just magically appears by your side. Maybe Philip is the Messiah. 

Of course, the Rabbi didn't mean me. He couldn't possibly have meant me. I'm just an ordinary person, no one special. Yet supposing he did? Suppose I am the Messiah?  Oh God, what would that mean?  How could I do it?  Not me!  I couldn't be that much for You, could I? 

As they contemplated in this manner, the old monks began to treat each other with extraordinary respect on the off chance that one among them might be the Messiah. And on the off, off chance that each monk himself might be the Messiah, they began to treat themselves with extraordinary respect. 

Because the forest in which it was situated was so beautiful, it happened that people still occasionally came to visit the monastery to picnic on its lawn, to wander along some of its paths, even now and then to go into the dilapidated sanctuary to meditate. As they did so, without even being conscious of it, they sensed this aura of extraordinary connection that now began to surround the five old monks and seemed to radiate out from them and permeate the atmosphere of the place. There was something strangely attractive, even compelling, about it. Hardly knowing why, the people began to come back to the monastery more frequently to picnic, to play, to pray. They began to bring their friends to show them this special place. And their friends brought their friends. 

Then it happened that some of the younger men who came to visit the monastery started to talk more and more with the old monks. After a while, one asked if he could join them. Then another. And another. So, within a few years, the monastery became a thriving order once again.  The old monks who had taken the Rabbi’s teaching to heart still felt sustained by his prayerful presence.  And somehow, the Rabbi’s gift had transformed them and also transformed the monastery into a vibrant center of light and spirituality in the community, just by the simple thought that the Messiah might be among them.

My friends, as we picture the new year ahead for us, what might it mean if WE acted as the monks did and believed that the Messiah was among US?  Who knows?  You might be sitting next to the Messiah right now!  We might be more conscious of acting according to the values on our fingerprint mosaic banners hanging in the breezeway, treating others with chesed, lovingkindness, and kavod, honor and respect.  We might draw inspiration for our deeds from the tapestries that surround us in this sanctuary: pursuing justice, welcoming the stranger, feeding the hungry, caring for those in need, honoring the generations, celebrating with joy.  We might see people more softly, judge people less harshly, listen more attentively, speak more lovingly.  How might that impact our world, our community, our family if we acted this way in this new year?

My teacher, the writer and tzedakah maven, Danny Siegel, answers that question in a poem he titled, “A Rebbe’s Proverb.”  He wrote:

If you always assume
the person sitting next to you
is the Messiah
waiting for some simple human kindness —
You will soon come to weigh your words
and watch your hands.
And if the person chooses
Not to be revealed
In your time —
It will not matter.²

Acting as if anyone around you might be the Messiah might transform society into the Messianic Era that our Reform forebearers envisioned.

And what might it mean if we believed that we, ourselves, were the Messiah?  How might we act towards ourselves?  Wouldn’t we treat ourselves with the same kindness, the same care we want to show others?  We would recognize our inherent dignity.  We would be gentler with our faults, stronger in our sense of self-worth. We would take better care of ourselves, physically, psychologically, emotionally, spiritually.  Wouldn’t that impact our world, our community, our family, if we acted that way in this new year?

The modern mystic, Rabbi Larry Kushner, envisions each person having the potential to do God’s work in the world, to be Messianic in action, if not in actuality.  He writes:

Each lifetime is the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.
For some there are more pieces,
for others, the pieces are more difficult to assemble.

Some seem to be born with a nearly completed puzzle.
And so it goes.
Souls going this way and that.
Trying to assemble the myriad parts.

But know this: no one has within herself all the pieces to her puzzle.
Like before the days when they used to seal jigsaw puzzles
in cellophane, ensuring that all the pieces were there.

Everyone carries with them at least one,
and probably many, pieces to some else’s puzzle.
Sometimes they know it.
Sometimes they don’t.

And when you present your piece – which is worthless to you-
to another,
Whether you know it or not,
Whether they know it or not,
You are a messenger from the Most High.³

In thinking about the story and the Rabbi’s gift to the Abbot and the monastery, I wonder:  how would the Rabbi know that the Messiah was among the monks?  Did he really believe that to be true?

And I realize that, in the story, as in real life, it doesn’t matter.  Imparting that gift to the monks reminded them to live by their values, to act with goodness and kindness, to treat each other and themselves with dignity and respect.  When they did so, and when we do so, the world slowly transforms from the world-as-it-is to the world-as-we-want-it-to-be.  That’s the message of my fictional counterpart.  That’s the message of Rabbi Kushner and Danny Siegel and Father Francis Dorff and Dr. M. Scott Peck.  Maybe that brings the Messiah.  Maybe that moves us towards the Messianic Era.  

As we enter this New Year, may we treat one another with chesed and kavod, with care and with kindness.  May our values be manifest in everything we do and in every interaction we have.  May this bring us and our world into a year of great goodness.

That is the message of “The Rabbi’s Gift.”  And of this rabbi, too.

L’shanah tovah u’metukah!  May it be a sweet new year for us all.

¹There are many versions of this story.  For Father Dorff’s original, see https://norbertinecommunity.org/rabbi-gift.  For M. Scott Peck’s version, see https://chattanoogaendeavors.org/wp-content/uploads/2019/05/The-Rabbis-Gift-with-Discussion-Guide-.pdf

²Danny Siegel, first published in “And God Braided Eve’s Hair” (1976);  and subsequently in “Unlocked Doors” (1983).

³Rabbi Lawrence Kushner, in Honey From the Rock (1977).