Sacred Myth – Sacred Identity

My teacher Rabbi Larry Hoffman recounts the following:

Once upon a time, there was a guru in the mountains of Asia who gathered around him a band of monks dedicated to prayer. The guru owned a cat, which he loved deeply. He took the cat with him everywhere, even to morning prayer. When the disciples complained that the cat’s prowling distracted them, the guru bought a leash and tied the cat to a post at the entrance to the prayer room. Years later, when the guru died, his disciples continued to care for the cat. But, as they say, cats have nine lives, so the cat outlived even the disciples. By then the disciples had their own disciples, who began caring for the cat, without recalling anymore why the cat was present during prayer. When the cat’s leash wore out, they knitted another one in the sacred colors of the sky and the earth; and when the post wore down, they built a beautiful new one that they began calling the sacred cat stand. During the third generation of disciples, the cat died, and the disciples wasted no time in buying another sacred cat to accompany them in prayer. Their worship was eventually expanded to include the sacred actions of tying the cat to the leash and affixing the leash to the sacred cat stand.

Rituals often have their beginnings in the simplest of ways. This is documented again and again by anthropologists who have taught us repeatedly that rituals considered sacred by those who practice them are often the by-product of a sequence of unintentional actions. Memory preserves what has occurred and as time goes by, the behaviors are sanctified and ritualized as one generation seeks to create a line of continuity with its history. It is true in sports. It is true in politics and the civic arena. It is also true in the context of our families and our own lives. It is no less true in religious rituals, including those of our Jewish expe rience.

In spite of the numbers in which we turn out at this High Holy Day season, studies tell us that across the Jewish community, Passover remains the most favored and most widely-observed holiday of the Jewish year. The celebration of Passover often finds families gathering in extended fashion to share the holiday’s foods, its customs and our sacred story. In every family there are stories, jokes, and especially memories that are richly treasured – as much a part of the holiday as the Seder ritual itself. However, beyond the food, the customs, the family jokes, the sacred story and all the memories lies something powerful. On a deeper level, Passover is about who we are as Jews. It is our link to our people’s history and to our continuity as a people. We tell, and in some respects, re-live pieces of our history. We eat the foods and we re-enact the story. Some families have taken to removing the furniture from their living rooms, sitting on over-stuffed pillows and the floor, and dressing in nomadic garb in order to get closer to what we imagine the early Seder experience to have been like. If we partake of any portion of the Seder ritual, we are following a ritual that is, at least in part, among the oldest continuously practiced religious rituals known to humanity. And we follow that ritual in our
homes even as we are mindful that Jews the world over are sitting at their tables with their families at virtually the same moment. There is a sense of oneness – of unity, community and continuity in our gathering to tell our story at Passover time. In our observance we speak of our journey from degradation and slavery to freedom, and not only on the collective level. The Haggadah tells us, Bechol dor vador chayav adam lirot et atzmo k’ilu hu yatza mi-Mitzrayim – “In each and every
generation it is incumbent for each person to see himself/herself as having personally gone forth from Egypt.” The story gets personal – its not just the story of our people’s journey towards freedom long ago. It’s also our journey – here and now. Each of us has our own Egypt. Each of us seeks our own sense of freedom. As we move from the personal towards the communal, we are obligated to work together to make that freedom real for all who are a part of our world. In telling our story we strengthen our bond with the community of Israel – the Jewish people.

In recent years there has been a growing controversy over how much truth there is to our Passover story. About a year and a half ago a Conservative colleague in Los Angeles created something of a stir at Pesach when he delivered a sermon essentially proclaiming to his congregants at one of LA’s largest and most prominent Conservative synagogues that the Exodus was not really a true story. I’m accustomed to discourse in Reform or academic settings which disputes the empirical reality of various Biblical accounts. It is, however, more unusual to find rabbis and scholars from Judaism’s more traditional branches making such statements, at least publically from the pulpit.

Well, did the Exodus really happen? Given the Jewish propensity for a multiplicity of voices and viewpoints on any topic, I suppose it’s easy to understand that there would be those for whom the history we read in the biblical book of Exodus and which we recount at our Seder tables is in fact, if you will, the gospel truth. Others might ask if it really matters whether it all happened in precisely the way the book of Exodus and the Passover Haggadah claim. Like the monks and their cat, what may be more important than the absolute empirical veracity of the story in all its detail, is the impact it has on the behavior and identity of Jews both as individuals and as a community. Perhaps our Passover story, like so many others in our religious tradition, as well as those of other traditions falls into the category of what Larry Hoffman, refers to as “sacred myth.”

In his book, Beyond the Text: A Holistic Approach to Liturgy, Hoffman writes, “The word ‘myth’ has been used so much that it is difficult to know what one means by it anymore . . . By ‘sacred myth’ I mean the subjective and selective perception of our background that we choose to remember and to enshrine as our official ‘history.’ This mythic history is recited liturgically not for its accuracy . . . but for its power to galvanize group identity.” As the monks gathered for prayer in the presence of their sacred cat they simply would not consider enacting their ritual without the cat (or a cat) present. The actual origins of the practice matter not at all. Praying in the presence of the sacred cat is a vital part of that community’s ritual.

In some fashion, our Passover Seder experience does the same for us. We all have a different experience – from those who spend a great deal of time engaged in the ritual and the telling, to those whose experience is more culinary or those for whom the focus is on the gathering of family and friends. Regardless of where your experience falls along the spectrum, for most of us there is a sense of import to the gathering. Whether the story of our people’s experience is told or not – it’s present in every bite of matzah and every spoonful of chrain/horseradish we consume. The impact on Jewish identity is powerful, even if it’s not conscious.

Without a doubt, divergent viewpoints as to the historicity of the Exodus story will continue. But I wonder, does it really matter whether the story’s 100% true? Isn’t our tradition, indeed aren’t all religious traditions based, at least to some degree on sacred myths. In Hoffman’s words, “the subjective and selective perception of our background we choose to remember and enshrine as our official ‘history.’. . .is recited . . .not for its accuracy . . . But for its power to galvanize [our sense of] group identity.” If we are aware that our identity is fashioned around such sacred myth, why then do we seem to need the myth? What’s at work – not only in the Jewish mind and soul – but in the minds and souls of adherents of many if not most communities? Let’s face it, sacred myth is not unique to religious communities. Think of George Washington and his cherry tree, or any of the innumerable tales and myths which form a part of and galvanize our identities as Americans.

Last summer I read a compelling book which, in part, addresses the question of why we human beings seem to be drawn to myths and beliefs based in what is empirically unknowable. The book, Why God Won’t Go Away: Brain Science and the Biology of Belief, by Dr. Andrew Newberg, Dr. Eugene D’Aquilli and Vince Rause presents a fascinating exploration of neuropsychology and biological science in which the authors make the case that the human brain is essentially hard-wired for spiritual beliefs. The authors hold that we are biologically driven to make sense of our world through the formation of beliefs and belief systems. In short, the authors believe we are hard-wired to believe. Like my teacher, Larry Hoffman, they too, focus on the importance of sacred myths. By myths, Newberg and D’Aquilli also do not mean fictional stories. Rather, they view myths as interpretations of our human experiences which help alleviate our existential fears such as death and
suffering. In their words, “Myths focus on a crucial existential concern, then frame it into irreconcilable opposites, and finally reconcile those opposites – often with spiritual powers.”

The authors of Why God Won’t Go Away make a compelling case for a scientific explanation for the human propensity to believe, including the belief in a Divine Being or Power. They demonstrate how our brain machinery and brain architecture are constructed, and operate in such a way as to support our need to explain and cope with the world in religious terms. Surely their arguments won’t convince everyone. But it’s a fascinating study – one I recommend. In the end, the authors suggest that “God Won’t Go Away” because ritual and myth, mysticism and beliefs are good for us. In their view, ritual, myth, mysticism and beliefs have a positive impact on our health – and they are important mechanisms for coping with our often complex and confusing world.

The stories we tell, the sacred myths we embrace and the rituals we enact help us structure our understanding of our world. Perhaps we find deeper meaning when our sacred myths are grounded in some history – as I believe to be the case with respect to our core sacred myth as Jews. The experience of our people in its Exodus from slavery in Egypt, its extended journey to freedom and new lives in the Promised Land of Israel is a vital part of our identity as Jews. It lays the foundation for much of the ethical core of our tradition – from how we are to treat others to our tradition’s high value for freedom. We can, if we wish, quibble over just how much of the story is historically accurate. I find it infinitely more meaningful to derive important historical and moral lessons from our sacred history. The power of our sacred story lies in how we use it to inform our lives as we chart our course and add our generation’s story to those of generations past.

As powerful as the Passover story and experience are for Jews as an identity-bonding and affirming experience, it is not the only time we tell our story. I have come to see our High Holy Days as equally vital in the telling of our story. There is, however, an important difference. Whereas at Passover we tell the story of our people in which we are obligated to find our place, during these Days of Awe the story we tell begins with each of us as an individual. The story we rehearse in these Days of Awe is ours alone. Gathered for our tradition’s holiest of days, we stand this day before God, and we stand before ourselves. We review our lives. We recite a litany of misdeeds and make our promises for the year-to-come. Surely not all the words we speak are directly relevant to our individual lives. Reciting them together, enacting the ritual reminds us that we are not alone. It binds us together as a
community. But even as we enact our ritual as a community, we are also called upon to take stock, to look deeply into the recesses of our hearts and souls as we examine our personal lives. Do the words we utter, both communally and personally on this holiest of days add up to our own personal version of a myth? On this day we must ask ourselves, am I telling myself – and God – a story, and then leaving this day behind to live a life different from the one filled with the high ideals I profess in word this day? Who am I? Which identity will I embrace and affirm in my words and deeds in the year ahead? Ultimately the answers are deeply personal. Only we know, only we can decide. As we reach Neilah tomorrow evening, and break our fast we will return to the world and resume our lives. Will the words we’ve spoken be but a story we’ve told ourselves for today. Our own myth? Or will our words – spoken aloud and in the depths of our hearts constitute a roadmap for being the
best we can be in the year of life for which we plead in our prayers?

The story is told of the Hasidic master, Rabbi Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev that each evening before he would go to sleep he would conduct a heshbon ha-Nefesh. That is, he would examine his thoughts and deeds for the day. If he found in his words or deeds something he regretted, he would say, “Levi Yitzchak will not do that again.” Then he would chide himself, “Levi Yitzchak, you said the same thing yesterday.” Then he would reply, “Yesterday, Levi Yitzchak did not speak the truth. Today he speaks the truth.”

What of each of us? To be sure myth plays an important role in our lives. But this day must not be about myths – sacred or otherwise. This day is about speaking the truth – before God and to ourselves. It is about affirming who we are and remembering what we can be. Yom Kippur is about setting ourselves on the path which, in the deepest recesses of our hearts, we know is the true path to follow. As this long, intense day unfolds, may your fast be an easy one! May you be inscribed for a year – filled with a good story which you will write on your page in the Book of Life – and may each story be joined as together we continue the journey our ancestors began long ago. It is a journey to a world and to lives we yet dream of – filled with blessings, freedom and with peace.