Erev Rosh Hashanah Sermon: 5767

Rabbi Greg Wolfe
Congregation Bet Haverim
Erev Rosh Hashanah 5767
Davis, CA

Living Commitments

As we gather together at the gates of a new year, we pause to reflect before charging ahead at the speed of life. In the buzz of the holiday crowd, we look around and are reminded that we are not alone; that we move through life in overlapping circles of connectedness. We live in glorious interdependence with all that lives and breathes. We are mindful, particularly during these days, of our connections, attachments and commitments: to people, to ideals, to traditions, to God.

Do you remember how, when we were kids, we would sometimes impart gravity to the commitments we made by punctuating them with that childhood oath "cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye." These were vows not to be trifled with, complete with the ominous consequences of breaking our promise. All of us enter into commitments each and every day, often without even thinking about them. We sign this form today, promise that client tomorrow, guarantee that action by next Tuesday. A whole range of commitments are part and parcel of the fabric of our lives, shaping them and infusing them with meaning and purpose. But how often do we still attend to our commitments--even the most important ones, to our spouses, to our families, to our people-- with that same childlike intensity? How often do we consider the consequences of not paying sufficient attention to our commitments and the relationships that are bound up with them?

On this Rosh Hashanah, as we engage in our annual reassessment of the web of connections that links our lives to one another; each connection with its attendant responsibilities and rewards, I would like to share with you a story that illustrates the power of promises to shape our lives in ways we cannot even imagine.

This is a story that was told by Author, Roy Hoffman…and it begins on a rainy Saturday in 1912, just outside Mobile, Alabama. A young farmer named John was bringing a load of watermelons to market, but the muddy road made for slow going and by the time John arrived in the city, all the produce markets were closing for the day. So John headed his cart towards a cluster of small shops, one of which was still open. There, another young man, Morris Hoffman, the author's grandfather, was still setting out items in front of his store.

"Howdy," John said. "I see I'm not the only one getting in a last attempt to sell something today." John sensed that Morris was a bit different from the other merchants in town, and so he leaned over to get a closer look. "Where y'all from anyway?" Morris extended his hand. "We're from Romania. We're Jews.

"I'm Baptist myself, name's John." "How'd you like to buy some watermelons? I've got 50." Morris looked at John and said, "Well, I'd like to help, but I can't buy ‘em all. But, listen, is it okay to buy one watermelon, for one pair of socks?" "You got yourself a deal," said John. So John lugged a fat melon from the back of the cart. Morris looked over the load and said, "I will buy your 50 watermelons, if we can make a contract. I promise to buy one watermelon a year for fifty years." And you know what, they shook on it.

The next summer when John appeared with a watermelon, Morris paid him with a handkerchief, and they spent the afternoon in conversation. In 1914, the watermelon was exchanged for a belt. The next year for a pair of pants. By 1917, the watermelon was already an excuse for a yearly conversation on a hot summer afternoon.

The years brought prosperity, until the Great Depression when once again Morris could only pay John with a handkerchief or a pair of socks. The men talked over hard times, but they still honored their promise as though honoring it was a ritual that assured they would both endure one year longer. After the Depression, Morris' merchandise again became valuable and his business picked up again…but more importantly, his exchange with John became a yearly gift. A pot-bellied stove one year, a battery powered radio, an Aladdin lamp.

In the 1940s, Morris' children had children and each summer on seeing John arrive at the store with a watermelon on his shoulder, Morris would recite the Shehecheyanu. He taught the words to John and explained that the Hebrew was a praise of God who extended the gift of life for yet another year.

Yet as the 50s progressed both men knew that the seasons however joyous were not innumerable. In 1955, Morris made a gesture of friendship. In exchange for the watermelon John received bedroom furniture, a mattress and new box springs. But then, in 1956, when John arrived at the store, Miriam met him sadly. John put down the watermelon slowly as Miriam told him of Morris' death that April.

"My old friend is gone," John said quietly. "I always thought I'd be the first not to honor the promise." For three more years after Morris' death, John came each summer, fulfilling a contract, keeping a promise and honoring the memory of a man whose friendship he had come to cherish. In 1959, John did not show up. Folks at the store heard that John had died. The promise had been kept for 47 years.

Author Roy Hoffman, Morris' grandson, continues with the story. My father was a lawyer and he handled some legal matters for John's sons over the years, and John's offspring have shopped in the store from time to time, but the ritual connection between families no longer exists. A watermelon for a pot-bellied stove seems a mark of the past. But for my grandfather and the farmer, a watermelon was enough to inspire a promise that gave meaning and structure to the lives of two men for almost half a century.(Story recounted by Rabbi Gerald Weider, Orchard, 5767)

Initially, it was merely a watermelon that brought two young men together in the deep south nearly a century ago. They certainly didn‘t share much in common to begin with. One a farmer, the other a merchant. One a Baptist, one a Jew. One lived in the country, the other the city. What began more as a contractual arrangement developed quickly into a warm friendship that spanned nearly 50 years. After awhile, it appears that the watermelon simply became the ritual excuse for old friends to see each other. It was not the frequency of the visits that was so important but the friendship that hung in the balance, and the history of a promise that bound the two friends together.

I wondered, reading this story for the first time, how Morris' and John's lives might have been so different, so much poorer, were it not for their fortuitous commitment to convene once a year over a watermelon. It is not often that we appreciate the power of the commitments in our own lives to enrich us and infuse our days with abiding worth. At times our obligations may even appear to overwhelm us. Who among us has not fantasized about a life without some of our commitments, even a life with no commitments. It's enough to make us giddy for a moment or so, imagining ourselves lying on a beach somewhere without a care in the world or trekking the back country to our heart‘s content. Sounds enticing, right? But could we do that for the rest of our lives? I see how so many people retire from their jobs thinking of their new found freedom only to discover that they are busier than ever--volunteering with this project, helping out on that committee, sharing the expertise of a lifetime. In reality, what would our lives be without commitments that structure our days, without the obligations that bind us to each other? How quickly our lives would feel empty, dreary, and devoid of meaning without those obligations of the day to day, for it is our social, religious and familial contracts that imbue our lives with a deep value and purpose.

When we know that others are depending on us, we are motivated to take action. When our actions have the power to make a difference, our lives are worthwhile. When our lives feel worthwhile, we are inspired to imagine a world transformed, and take on further commitments accordingly. Why do people volunteer their time, take on responsibilities, and trouble themselves in countless ways to organize and support the causes that they believe in? There is one simple answer: We want to know that our lives matter, that we matter. If no one needed us or was counting on us, we might just not get out of bed every day. It is our commitments that propel us into the world to make a difference. Rabbi Gerald Weider writes: "I believe that the individual person, and entire peoples, with no promises to keep have no reason to live. But, at the same time, a person and a people who live a full life, keep on making new promises. It is this process that creates hope, light, and peace." (Orchard, Fall 2006)

We are a nation of the brit, a people who are defined by the covenants we make; to ourselves, to one another, to God. The High Holy Days are a time to look at the commitments we want to embrace for the new year. Over these Days of Awe, I want to explore with you the nature of our commitments, and in particular the significant Jewish commitments in our lives: Our bond with Israel, our Jewish homeland; our bond with our Jewish community, Bet Haverim; and our bond with Judaism itself.

Every commitment will be unique to each of us, but we share the central questions we might ask ourselves: What do we want to attract for ourselves into these committed relationships: with Judaism, with our sacred community here at Bet Haverim, with Israel? And, how can we bring more vitality, depth and passion into the way we engage these commitments, and thus into our lives as well?

When we discover the deepest commitments that give our lives meaning, then, like Morris and John, the shopkeeper and the farmer, may we all enjoy the sweet blessings of the watermelon in this new year and for many years to come: relationships that sustain us, joyous creativity and gift giving, the opportunity to honor our friendships and rejoice in our family responsibilities, and the knowledge that commitments made today will be the fruitful blessings of tomorrow.

ken y'hi ratzon

Rabbi Greg Wolfe