"Hineni - I'm Here"
Sermon
September 13, 200
Rabbi Anthony D. Holz
From our earliest beginnings, life is difficult. As tiny babies, learning to separate ourselves from the world that surrounds us, we experience loss and loneliness. From our earliest childhood, it is an unavoidable part of the human condition.
And yet, as little babies we learn that we are not alone, and we find relief and comfort. We hear the soft, calming voices of parents: “I’m here.” As the biblical Hebrew phrases it, Hineni: I’m here, little one, don’t cry, it will be alright. The presence of those who love us and their voices soothe us and we are able to sleep; we feel safe and loved. Sadly, those infants who do not know the calming touch and the soothing voice of loved ones will grow up to be permanently insecure, frightened and disturbed. The message “I am here” hineni is fundamentally important for us to reach our full human stature.
Some years pass, and we hear these words again. As we grow and interact ever more with the world around us, our dreams sometimes become nightmares and we cry out in the darkness. But the nightmare gets interrupted as the lights in our room are turned on and we feel the warm presence of loved ones. The words and voices are the same: “I am here” – hineni -- it’s alright, you were only dreaming. The calming human contact, the soothing words help us to become less anxious. And so we go back to sleep.
In time, we learn to say these words ourselves. When a teacher calls out the names of the children in the class, and our names are called, we respond with “I am here.” What we mean by this response to the calling of our name is: “I exist, I am in fact the person who has that name. I am unique, and distinct from everyone else.” “I’m here,” means that I am here in my individuality. It is only later that, moving beyond simple factuality, we learn how to use these same words to calm and comfort others in their confusion and pain.
The message hineni, “I’m here,” is with us all our lives. We hear these words and feel their warmth when we are loved, and we say them to those whom we care for. When there is no one to say them to us, we feel miserable. When they are said insincerely, we feel worse, not better. And when we use them and our words are neither heard nor accepted, we may feel ignored and painfully isolated.
In our Rosh Hashanah morning Torah reading, the expression hineni “I’m here,” this thought that is so central to our human relationships, is used three times, in verses 1, 7 and 11. In verse 1, God calls to Abraham and Abraham immediately responds: “Hineni, I’m here.” The rabbis of the Midrash commented on this verse to say, “This is the way of the pious, ‘the language of humility and readiness,’” (Midrash Tanchuma). In very few words, Abraham identifies himself and indicates his readiness for whatever lies before him.
The narrative continues by telling us how Abraham prepares for the journey. We know nothing about his inner feelings, his doubts or reservations about the task that he understands God has given him, the task of sacrificing his son. On the third day of the journey, Abraham arrives at the appointed place and the only words he uses are those instructions he gives to the servants that they should remain and wait at the foot of the mountain. He then continues to walk in silence with his son Isaac. At a certain point of this continuing silence, Isaac apparently cannot restrain his anxieties any longer and so he asks his father: What is going on? Why are we carrying all the ingredients of a sacrifice -- wood, fire and knife -- yet there is no lamb, no animal for the offering? The silent journey and Isaac’s question are filled with heavy emotion.
And Abraham responds, “Hineni, I’m here my son, but I cannot make everything all right. God will provide the sacrifice.” Abraham’s response is less than clear, and is not exactly satisfying. Isaac’s thoughts and feelings can only be imagined. But Isaac asks no more questions and continues on the journey with his father.
They reach the mountain summit. Abraham prepares an altar for the sacrifice and places his son, Isaac, on it. As Abraham lifts up the knife to sacrifice Isaac, dramatically an angel calls out from heaven: “Abraham, Abraham.” And once again Abraham responds, “Hineni, I am here.” The angel commands him not to sacrifice his son, because God now knows the strength of Abraham’s faith. Instead, Abraham offers up a ram.
What does this last hineni sound like? Nachmanides, a great medieval commentator, finds a real urgency in the repetition of Abraham’s name. Abraham is about to use the knife, and there is no time to lose. It seems that Abraham is so wrapped up in the task of obeying God’s will that he cannot listen or hear anything or anyone else. The angel has to call him repeatedly before he answers, “I’m here, yes, I’m here – Hineni.” In a daze, in confusion, probably in hope and in joy, hineni -- thank God you showed up. Thank God this journey has a different ending.
Let us consider these three different biblical hinenis and see how they relate to our 21st century lives. First, there is the joyful, enthusiastic, “I’m here; I’m ready; let’s go.”
Then there is the sadder, more uncertain, “I’m here; let’s help each other out of this predicament.”
And finally there is the almost desperate willingness to change direction, “I’m here; I’m really ready to do things differently.”
There are moments when we are all like Abraham at the beginning of our narrative, ready for whatever tasks lie before us. For many of us here today, the beginning of our High Holy Day season seems to be such a time. Summer is over, and we gladly turn to the year that now begins. As Jews, as members of the household of Israel, as Americans, we are ready to strengthen our congregation and bring improvement to our world, to respond not only to the confusing blare of the present, but especially also to respond to distant echoes of the past, and to the whispered pleas of a future that we alone can nurture. But in reality, looking beyond these sacred days, we may wonder how ready will we be to remain involved in the year that lies before us, as the crowd thins out, as we face frequent frustrations and many, sometimes contradictory calls on our time and limited energies.
Near the end of this High Holy Day season our Haftarah reading from the book of Jonah reminds us that we are all reluctant, only too ready to run away and try to hide from difficult tasks, however worthy they may be. During the coming year, who of us will try to hide, and who of us will continue to say, “Hineni – I’m here, I’m involved and active?” Positive, enthusiastic beginnings count, but they only get us started.
Abraham’s second hineni in the middle of a difficult journey is a much more shaky response, the kind that we give to a friend or a loved one who wants to know if we are doing the right thing, if we really still care, if we really are still in touch. It’s the kind of answer that says: “Oh yes, I am still here, but I’m not so sure; I don’t know if I have the answers or sufficient strength, or if I can bring this task to happy conclusion.” And so, while recognizing that much of our world is beyond our individual control, we, like Abraham, answer shakily, “Yes, I am here, hineni.”
And what if on the great journey, Isaac never asks the question? Do we listen well enough to the silences in our relationships? In our hectic and over-programmed lives, do we take enough time to pay attention to our family, our friends and our work associates?
Our Torah portion may well teach us to listen more sensitively to one another. In life’s confusions, there may be people like Isaac who voice their concerns; but we also need to listen to the silences. And if we hear one another, it is appropriate to say: “Hineni, with all my limitations and ignorance and helplessness – I’m here. You are not alone. We are in this crazy life together.” Especially in times of personal crisis, what matters is simply to be there. The Christian religious community describes this as a ministry of presence, simply being there.
In reality, all of us sometimes fail to be there fully when we are needed. And perhaps that is one of the main reasons why we congregate in such large numbers at this time of the year; the collective hinenis that we share with one another give us all strength for our tomorrows, in all their uncertainty. A lasting strength of our Jewish heritage is that time and again we are given another chance.
Abraham’s third hineni at a time of great danger reminds us that change can bring fulfillment. Abraham was so distracted, so absorbed in what he was doing, that he almost destroyed his future. His own child’s life hung in the balance, and yet the angel had to call him twice before Abraham could hear. The medieval commentator Nachmanides suggests: “An angel is an ordinary individual who, without even realizing it, brings a divine scheme to fruition.” He suggests that Abraham’s angel was perhaps a simple passerby who saw what the great religious patriarch could not see, and helped bring him back to his senses. The voice of the angel makes a momentous demand: “Turn around, change your mind, alter your course.” Our Jewish religion repeatedly calls on us to do things in better ways. Sometimes the old patterns of behavior just no longer work. Then it is time to take a different path.
In the year that lies before us, are we ready for this kind of hineni? How do we say hineni to the members of this congregation who need our support and our caring; to our brothers and sisters in Israel who struggle again and again to reach peace in their lives and the lives of the Palestinians; to the victims of genocidal attacks in the Sudan; to the American soldiers who serve in Iraq and Afghanistan and other difficult parts of the world; to all who are neglected and in pain?
As Jews and as human beings, our lives are not lived alone, but always with others. Living in an imperfect world, we need the fresh confidence of those who are ready, willing and able to tackle difficult tasks.
And we also need the caring support of those who become aware of life’s complexities and the often unspoken suffering of our companions on the way.
And finally and always, we – as individuals, as a congregation and as a country – need the ability to stop and turn and begin all over again.
These are our human tasks and our Jewish responsibilities. In Pirkei Avot, Sayings of the Fathers, Rabbi Tarfon tells us: “It is not incumbent upon us to finish the task, but neither are we free to avoid it.” This is an essential teaching of our Rosh Hashanah narrative and our Judaism.
Amen.
(The starting point of these remarks was a sermon by Rabbi Mindy Portnoy, “‘Hineni’ Our Adult response,” which was published in The American Rabbi (High Holy Days 2006 – 5761), pages 51 – 58.