Texts | Congregation Shir Heharim

Knowing that so many of my Muslim friends were at the same time in America, I felt I was representing not only myself, but also in some way representing you as well, when I participated in this holiest of seasons and in the iftar, the breaking of the fast at sundown.

Each day I made it a point to ask someone in these countries what Ramadan meant to that person - how it was special to that person as an individual. Often the question led to rich conversation and insights. Of course I was experiencing all of this as a Jewish American, and I found myself relating much of what I was hearing to our own experiences of Judaism.

Allow me to share with you just a bit of this richness:

I heard several themes over and over again.

One of these recurring themes was the hope that the fasting and the prayer taking place over this month might be heard by God and might be acceptable to God. These words transported me to Yom Kippur, the Jewish day of fasting and atonement when we offer exactly this prayer - Sh'ma Kolenu - may our prayer be acceptable to you, God. These seasons, for Jews the High Holidays, for Muslims Ramadan, are intense times, and for many of us times of the most fervent introspection and prayer. We seek to cleanse and purify ourselves. We see to atone, and we resolve to do better. We try hard. On Yom Kippur as we are told the gates are closing, we try yet harder. And like Muslims at Ramadan, we pray that God will find this prayer and this sacrifice acceptable.

A second theme I heard again and again had to do with help extended to others. It is not enough, I was told, to look inward. We also must look outward and particularly to those at need. Ramadan is a time to extend "zakhat", in Hebrew "tzedakah" - to deliver gifts to the needy, to contribute to organizations which help the poor, and to invite the stranger to be in our midst. I was deeply moved going to the Husain Mosque in Cairo at sundown, and watching as the iftar - the breaking of the fast - meal was served to multitudes of the urban poor outside the mosque.

All of this brought to mind the Passover, a time when it is a particular mitzvah, when it is particularly blessed to welcome the stranger to share our food and our hospitality. Many of us gathered here have vivid memories of strangers participating with us in the Passover Seder and the Passover meal. Louise and I have a particularly vivid memory of being invited, as strangers, to the home of an Egyptian Jewish family newly arrived in America. Both Ramadan and Passover are seasons when we seek to welcome the stranger and to become partners of God in caring for the needy.

The third theme I heard over and over is that Ramadan recharges the batteries. During this month, set aside in time from normal time; during this time when our prayer is yet more intense, our inner lives more alive, our time with loved ones more concentrated, we are able to focus on what's really most important in life, and to take sustenance from our prayer, our reflection, our friends and family. Of course this calls to mind for a Jew, the Shabbat, the Sabbath that we commemorate this evening - a day which, although it comes weekly, takes precedence in its holiness, over all other Jewish holy days. Jews breath a collective sigh of relief when the Shabbat arrives, we welcome it like a bride, we wear special clothes, we put aside the ordinary. And like Ramadan, the experience so nourishes us that we are then able to face whatever comes next with more centeredness, more resolve, and, when these holy times really work, more sense of at one-ness with humanity and with the universe.

Let me add one more brief reflection. In Egypt and Pakistan these days, it
may not be the wisest thing to speak openly about one's being a Jew. And yet, in each country, when I got to know someone well, I often did just that. And every time I did it, the response was much the same. In almost every case these individuals were able to acknowledge that they had been raised with negative impressions of Jews, of Judaism, of Zionism, and, of course, of Israel. But in almost every case, particularly in Pakistan, they also acknowledged that they had never before met a Jew.

And then, inevitably, would come a stream of questions, and conversation, often late into the night, about the comparable stories of Abraham's near sacrifice of Isaac in Jerusalem in the Bible, and Ibrahim's near sacrifice (korban) of his other son Ishmael in Mecca in the Koran

and about the prophets we have in common;

and about the direction we face when we pray;

and about the lunar calendar we both follow, Jews making an adjustment to keep festivals in the same season of the year, Muslims not making an adjustment;

and about Sufis and Jewish mystics influencing one another in Spain in the
Middle Ages;

and about the splendid meetings of Chaim Weitzman and the Emir Feisal, with translation provided by none other than T.E. Lawrence, Lawrence of Arabia, in the post-WWI period, and the vision they shared for peace and understanding between their peoples, a vision which has not yet come to pass.

Always this conversation with an Egyptian or a Pakistani, would close with our eyes moist, with the kindest of words being spoken, and with the feeling that perhaps a tiny, a microscopic, organic change had occurred in the universe - and that it had conferred a small blessing on both of us and on our peoples.

Amen