Rabbi's Blog

Rosh Hashanah 5785
October 3, 2024
Rabbi Ranon Teller

Our story is who we are.

My story is intertwined with the story of my kippah. This morning I’ve got three kippah moments, some lessons in neurology, and one story.
 
As a young adult, before I went to rabbinical school, I wore my kippah in public most of the time, but not all the time. Sometimes, I wanted my kippah on my head. And sometimes I didn’t. Sometimes I wanted to publicly express my Jewish identity, and sometimes I just wanted to blend in and be a regular guy.

Kippa Moment #1. One night in Los Angeles, before I decided that I wanted to become a rabbi, I was going out with some friends to a jazz club. I walked toward the club with my kippah on my head, and I was on the fence -- should I wear my kippah or should I take it off? Ultimately, I decided to take my kippah off. It wasn’t a big deal, I just wanted to enjoy a night out without making a public religious statement. So, I put my kippah in my pocket.

As I got closer to the club, I could hear the cool jazz muffled through the door. I swung the door open, and the music came alive. I walked inside the club with my kippah in my pocket. The very first person I saw, standing right in front of me, was wearing a gorgeous gigantic white turban on his head. He had a beautifully trimmed beard, his white turban wrapped up tight in an intricate design that seemed to twist and turn up to the very heavens. Slowly, I reached back into my pocket, put my kippah back on my head, and never again took it off in public. If this guy could wear his phenomenal, gigantic turban, then certainly I could wear my little kippah. This moment became part of the story of my life.

Our story is who we are. This moment changed the narrative of my life and launched me toward the rabbinate. The trajectory of my narrative shifted; my story became about a young man experiencing a Jewish renewal. I found my passion, to represent Judaism in the public square. I wanted to deepen my Jewish learning, expand my religious identity and invite others to do the same. I wanted to be a Jewish leader -- part of the colorful religious tapestry that is the United States of America. I wanted to wear my kippah like a freedom flag of Jewish pride. That became my story. That’s kippah moment #1.

Neurologists teach us that our story is the way our minds create meaning in our lives. We connect the dots of our life experiences so that we perceive ourselves as unique individuals with a cohesive story across time. And it’s a neurological process! Experiences create neural pathways from the hippocampus to the prefrontal cortex and other parts of the brain. These neural pathways integrate our personal experiences into our self-identity. We are a collection of moments arranged into a cohesive narrative. We are our stories. Our story is who we are.

That kippah moment shaped a neural pathway. That moment reconnected the dots of all the experiences of my life and launched me toward the rabbinate and secured the kippah on top of my head.

Our story is who we are.

In the past, even when I chose to take my kippah off, I never took it off out of fear. I’ve felt safe to wear my kippah everywhere I’ve lived. From Southfield, Michigan, to Chicago, from Los Angeles to St. Louis, and right here in Texas. I was never afraid to publicize my Jewish identity. Every place I went, in jazz clubs, in restaurants, ball parks, and stadiums. And I also felt comfortable wearing my kippah in airports.

Kippah moment #2. I arrived at Bush intercontinental airport, a few months after October 7th, with my kippah on my head. I was making my way through the crowded terminal to catch a flight to Chicago. The war in Israel was raging. Hamas terrorists were hiding in their tunnels, rockets were falling on Israel, Israel was bombing Gaza…The college campuses were raging with protests. Antisemitic incidents were up 400%!
 
Here I was in a crowded airport filled with…strangers. I looked up at a television monitor and CNN was showing close ups of Palestinian bodies crushed under the rubble…I was in the airport, with my kippah on my head -- and suddenly I felt…unsafe. I swung my backpack off my shoulders, reached inside -- and found my blue Detroit Tiger’s baseball cap…and I hid my kippah under my hat. For the first time in my life out of fear -- I hid my kippah under my hat. That’s kippah moment #2.

Neuroscientists also teach us that our self-identity isn’t static. Neuroscience has a name for when a moment becomes pivotal in shifting our identity. They call that process neuroplasticity. When a transformative moment arrives, our brains change, and our self-identity adapts. These pivotal experiences continually shape our neural connections. Our experiences continually to shape our identity. Here I was, with my kippah under my hat, at risk of losing my sense of Jewish pride out of fear of antisemitism.

My niece, Dassi, lives in Israel in Judea/Samaria, over the Green Line. From time to time, Vicki and I get panicky WhatsApp messages from her, imploring us to make Aliyah because she’s so worried about antisemitism in America. Dassi lives in Judea/Samaria! Even after October 7th, she’s more worried about us living in America than she is about herself living in Judea/Samaria! She’d rather deal with rocket attacks and gunfire than live with antisemitism in America. Why is that? Why does she feel safe there, and meanwhile, I’m taking off my kippah here? Because Dassi lives in Israel. And I live in the diaspora.

Our story is who we are, and neurologists also teach that our stories are influenced by the stories we inherit from our ancestors. The scientific term for it is transgenerational epigenetics. Transgenerational: identity gets passed down from generation to generation. Epigenetics: the study of how our ancestors’ stories can affect the way our genes express themselves. Turns out, we are a combination of our story and the story of our ancestors. When I took my kippah off at the airport, I felt the weight of the antisemitism that our ancestors must have felt in their diaspora.

As I hid my kippah under my hat, I finally understood why my niece Dassi was so worried about us living in the diaspora. I subconsciously felt the transgenerational fear of our parents and grandparents or great-grandparents who lived their lives in the diaspora. I’ve been living here in America and teaching about Israel as if America and Israel were basically equivalent. The two largest Jewish communities in the world, America and Israel, both flourishing in our own unique ways. But Dassi was right.

The reality is that she lives in the Jewish State, and I live in the diaspora. She feels safe in Israel because she has a country. She feels safe in Israel because she has an army. Dassi was born in Israel. Her story is Israel’s story. She inherited the story of Israel from her parents, who made aliyah before she was born. October 7th was a catastrophic breach in Israel’s border, but she is 100% certain that Israel will prevail, and Israel will protect her, and Israel will protect all her citizens, and am yisrael chai. Meanwhile I hid my kippah under my hat, and I felt the vulnerability of Jewish life in the diaspora.

My neurological transgenerational epigenetics -- my ancestral memory -- is connected to our diaspora story of discrimination and persecution. Our ancestors in their diaspora clawed their way to America, bloodied and beaten. Our ancestors were the poor and huddled masses.

We’ve been enjoying decades of American Jewish success. But, in the larger context of Jewish diaspora, we’re a blip on the radar screen, a brief moment in time. We’re enjoying the freedoms of America so much, that sometimes we forget what it really means for us to be living in a diaspora!

On October 7th we were all secondhand witnesses to the massacre and the vulnerability. And we’re all experiencing the aftermath of antisemitism. We sensed the darkness -- and it reminded us that we’re not beyond our transgenerational diaspora trauma. I felt the weight of that trauma -- and I hid my kippah under my hat.

Our story, along with our ancestors’ story, is who we are.

Neurologists also teach that we have the ability to proactively reshape our neural pathways. In the 1980’s, a field of therapy was created called narrative therapy. Narrative therapy was created to help us reshape problematic narratives into more productive narratives. Typically, our brain connects the dots of our experiences for us like a default. However, neurologists and psychologists agree that we can have input into the way our pathways get shaped. We have some control over our own self-identity.

When Hersh Goldberg-Polin was found murdered, I was in Los Angeles. I watched the funeral livestream at 6am and stood witness as Jon and Rachel eulogized their only son, Hersh. I cried as they processed and contextualized their grief. Jon told Hersh’s story. Because stories are who we are. Jon told Hersh’s story and gave shape and meaning and purpose to Hersh’s life…and his death. When Hersh was 3, they would walk hand-in-hand and Hersh would ask deep questions beyond his years. When Hersh was 6, he memorized dates and facts about every U.S. president. When Hersh was 7, he was already self-assured. When Hersh was 12, he became an independent thinker. When Hersh was 13, he became a social activist. When Hersh was a teenager, he was a critical thinker with an open mind and sensitive heart. Jon told Hersh’s story. He prayed that Hersh’s story would become a revolution! Jon spoke to Hersh’s soul, and told him that “maybe, just maybe…your death is the fuel that will bring home the remaining 101 hostages. Od lo avdah tikvateinu,” he said, “we still have hope.” Then, Rachel recontextualized Hersh’ story from a barbaric murder into gratitude for his life.

It was a powerful, overwhelming exhibition of how to proactively change a narrative -- from barbarism to hope -- through the power of story. Jon and Rachel must have been angry. They were the definition of victims. Victims of Hamas and victims of failed attempts at negotiating. At Hersh’s funeral, they didn’t focus on anger and hate and revenge…instead, they told Hersh’s story and began a process of rewiring all of our neural pathways from victimhood to inspiration -- from terror to hope.

Kippah Moment #3. After the funeral, I left for LAX at 7am. I was making my way through a crowded terminal to catch a flight to New York. Once again, I was standing in an airport, surrounded by strangers with my kippah on my head. Suddenly, I felt that familiar feeling of vulnerability. But, instead of reaching for my Tigers cap, I left my kippah on my head for all to see. I felt vulnerable, but I acted resilient. Jon and Rachel inspired me to proactively reshape my story. Jon and Rachel taught me through the power of telling Hersh’s story -- how to rewire my own neurological pathways toward faith, and strength, and resilience.

Our stories are who we are. Stories shape our identity.

One more story. A few months after October 7th, I met an Israeli right here in our Social Hall. Short hair, tall, chiseled jaw, 5 o’clock shadow, muscles -- in short, Israeli. He was born in Israel and moved to Houston. A few years ago, he served in an elite army unit, completed his service, and moved to America.

He was here in Houston when he heard about October 7th. He got in his car, drove to the airport and caught the first flight to Israel to join his elite army unit, which was already in Gaza. He fought in Gaza and now he was back. I told him my theory that October 7th reminded us of our vulnerability here and in Israel. He said, “absolutely not.” He said that the story of October 7th is not about vulnerability. The story of October 7th is about strength, the strength of a country unifying against a common enemy. It’s a story about resilience and courage. It’s a story about duty and honor and country. I walked away thinking, well, I guess we just have different stories.

It took me a while, but I finally got there. He was right. Israel’s story is our story. Yes, our ancestry is from the diaspora, but now we have an additional source of influence on our narrative. I thought to myself, what if my story isn’t only connected to the story of the diaspora. What if my story is also connected to the story of Israel. Our ancestors suffered through life in the diaspora, but they didn’t have a sovereign state of Israel. Israel is in our hands. Medinat Yisrael b’yadeinu.

Now I realize that this Israeli commando, this real-life superhero who I met in the Social Hall is part of my story. We can draw courage from his courage. Now I realize -- my niece Dassi is part of my story. We can draw confidence from her confidence. It’s time that we integrate the narrative of the State of Israel into our own American Jewish narrative. Let’s connect our story to the stories of those who walked the ancient Land of Israel and the modern State of Israel. Israel is also part of our ancestral DNA. Let’s integrate the leadership of Abraham, the strength of King David, the wisdom of Solomon, the fortitude of Herzl, the assuredness of Ben Gurion, the toughness of Golda Meir. We are the children of Israel.

Let’s remember -- neuroplasticity is not only a default. We can choose to expand our American Jewish story to include the State of Israel. We can choose to connect our identity with the State of Israel. Our story is who we are, and we have the power to shape our story with 3 words: Am Yisrael Chai. The Jewish people will live, and we will thrive in Israel and in the American Jewish diaspora. That’s our story.

Ribono Shel Olam, Source of All, thank you creating our complex and beautiful minds. Thank you for guiding our experiences that are the narrative of our stories. As we stand before you today, help us to embrace our story and give us the wisdom to reframe our story. And in that way, we will transform our vulnerability into strength, transform our victimhood into resilience, transform our splintering into unity, our despair into hope, our darkness into light, and our tragedy into blessing. And may we follow Jon and Rachel’s lead and may even Hersh’ memory become for a blessing for all of us. And together we say: Amen.