These remarks were prepared for a “chapel talk” for the student body at St. George’s School on September 30, 2021.
September brought the beginning of the Jewish new year, and was marked by the Jewish High Holidays, a trio of holy days that commemorate concepts like renewal, repentance, and joy. On Rosh Hashanah, the new year, the primal wail of the shofar- a ram’s horn that is blown like a trumpet- shocks us out of our cynicism and implores us to wake up to the wonder of the world and be amazed. Rosh Hashanah is followed by the Days of Awe, which culminate with Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. This is a time for self-reflection, a time to confront your own failings with honesty and clarity, and to seek to repair your relationships with friends, family, and God. Judaism prioritizes tikkun olam, repairing the world, but on Yom Kippur we pause from looking outward and shift to the hard work of looking inward. We are all flawed and in need of improvement, and we all can grow and be better in the coming year. On Yom Kippur, we gently beat on our hearts while reciting a list of ways we fall short - a ritual that can be viewed as a way of waking up your heart and reminding yourself that your heart can always get bigger; you can always do the work of repairing my relationships. A week after Yom Kippur, Jews observe Sukkot. We build and decorate a temporary hut, or sukkah, and share a meal in the sukkah with friends and strangers. In this way, Sukkot reminds us of the 40 years that the Israelites wandered in the desert, when they had to rely only upon God for food and protection, and also celebrates the last harvest festival before the onset of winter rains in Israel. All of the High Holidays serve as a stunning wakeup call that life is fragile and uncertain. We tend to get comfortable and forget. The High Holidays snap us out of it and remind us to take nothing for granted. This Rosh Hashanah marks the beginning of the Jewish year of 5782. This year has special significance because it is a shmita, or sabbatical, year. Just as the Torah calls for Jews to work for six days and rest of the seventh, it calls for them to work the land for six years and let it rest in the seventh. The 7th year is called a shmita year. Shmita means renunciation, or letting go, and in the shmita year, agricultural lands may not be farmed and the fruits & vegetables of the land may not be bought or sold. Rather, the land is to be left alone so that needy people may pick what grows naturally in the fields and orchards. Shmita is an ancient custom that dates back to the biblical era, and it applies only to the land of Israel, so American Jews don’t think about it much, if at all. But, today shmita is part of the religious, agricultural, and economic reality in Israel. Rabbis have developed clever solutions so that the most observant Jews can keep shmita. Jewish farmers may grow and sell produce grown in hydroponic greenhouses, for example, or only purchase produce from non-Jewish farmers. There are systems that allow observant Jews to pay farmers for only their labor, but not for the fruits and vegetables themselves. Right now, Israelis are having a public debate about the year-long ban on planting trees, shrubs, and flowers in their cities and towns. Some activists argue that in an era of climate change a ban on planting trees is harmful. Others argue that there are practical solutions, like planting more trees in the year before and after shmita, or planting trees and shrubs in pots until the year is over and the trees can be transplanted in the ground. This might sound ridiculous to you...impossibly foreign, archaic, and outdated. But, I believe that shmita can challenge us to think about the space we occupy and how we can make room for others. Like many of you will do, I have spent the decades since graduating from St. Georges striving for professional advancement and influence, which I’ve achieved. And now I’m beginning to understand that part of growing up is letting go of some of the space that I take up so that other people can step into it and grow and flourish too. This is what shmita means to me, and I think that you can challenge yourselves to make space for others too. It won’t be easy. I know how little space you have to give. Your physical space is confined to this campus and a shared dorm room. Your space in time is not in your control; nearly every hour of every day is scheduled by classes, sports, and school requirements. Your mental space is full of the stress and anxieties of high school - Do I fit in? Do people like me? And, seemingly this is all to secure your space in a zero-sum future: space in the college you want to attend, space on the team, and later, space in society and the economy. The stakes are so high that giving up space might seem impossible, but making space for others isn’t about getting small. It is about encouraging others to be big, to live up to their potential. It is about approaching everyone with an open heart and open mind. You can do this right here and now. When you go to King Hall for lunch, make sure there is an open seat at your table and invite someone to join your group. Back in your dorm, leave your door open and invite someone in who might be lonely (which, by the way, is everyone). Ask someone a question and listen with curiosity. Include someone in your study group and ask her to explain how she thinks about the material or problem you’re working on. Releasing the space you occupy isn’t easy. Its serious business and most adults never understand this part of growing up. Letting go of what makes us feel secure, letting go of the assumption that we’re right. It is, perhaps, the hardest thing we'll ever do. The secret that too many adults never figure out is that there is space for everyone. This shmita year is your chance to get a head start. Shalom, Abigail Anthony |