The Talmud tells a story about two Rabbis, Shmuel and his student Yehudah, who are sitting in judgement one day in an ancient court. Suddenly, in walks a woman, haggard and angry. A few days ago, an injustice had been committed against her. She pleads to Shmuel to do something, but he does not act. She turns around and leaves defeated.  

Soon after, Yehudah turns to his teacher Shumel and questions him. “Didn’t we learn in the book of Proverbs, ‘Whoever stops his ears at the cry of the poor, he also shall cry himself, but shall not be heard?’ (Proverbs 21:13). Knowing that God wants you to act on behalf of the downtrodden, why would you remain silent?”  

Looking at him, Shmuel responds. “You’re right, one day I may be punished for my inaction. But my punishment will be light. I don’t have the power to change things for her.  Rather the real leader, the one with the real power is Mar Ukva, who sits as head of the court. He is responsible for those matters she seeks. When someone is punished, it’s going to be him.” (Based on Shabbat 55a) 

This past year, I have often felt like Shmuel, looking out into the face of real suffering, with little agency to fix it. I want to change the world, to heal its brokenness, to bind its wounds, but I know my authority and influence is limited. I have little power to change the big problems around me.  

Pay even a modicum of attention to the events around us and we are hit with a barrage of needs and priorities that call out for our attention.  

Children and parents are separated from one another at the border. Children are locked away in detention centers, without adequate care and space, many forced to sleep on the concrete floor or wooden bench and some with no soap, toothpaste or blankets. Like Shumel, I know I share some of the burden, a part of the responsibility for their treatment, but like him, I am powerless to stop it. 

Likewise, I see environmental degradation everyone. Larger storms, rising seas, mass extinctions have all become commonplace, and are becoming more. I know one day Lev and his children will approach me and ask why I didn’t do more. In shame, I will hold up my hands and say, “I wish I could have, but I didn’t have the power.” 

The endless list of tasks around us often seems too much. Mass incarceration, poverty, homelessness, inadequate healthcare, hunger, racism, gun violence, lack of access to mental health resources. The list goes on and on and on.  

Faced with these hurdles, it’s not uncommon to feel despair.  How can we hold out hope for an end to the world’s ills when we lack the agency to change them?  

Judaism has a word for how I feel, kotzer ruach, a term that appears in the Book of Exodus when discussing the way the Israelites feel while in Egypt (see Exodus 6:9). Reflecting on the fact that kotzer ruach could mean shortness of spirit or shortness of wind, Rashi explains that to be kotzer ruach, is to be so distressed that we can barely catch our breath, as if our wind can only come in short gasps and not long deep breaths. 

Kotzer ruach is the feeling of drowning, which is exactly how I feel every time I turn on the television, open a newspaper, or log on Facebook. The world is broken, and we don’t the vehicles to fix it. We are sinking without a life-raft. There is nothing we can grab onto.  

It’s at times like this that I turn to one of my favorite teachings in the whole Jewish cannon. Rabbi Tarfon said, “The day is short, and the work is plentiful...It is not your job to finish the task, nor are you free to desist from it” (Avot 2:15-16).  

And thus in one phrase, Tarfon provides a subtle rebuke to Shmuel, to me, and to all of us, paralyzed by the task at hand.  

Reflecting on this famous teaching, Rabbi Yitz Greenberg explains, “Rabbi Tarfon's metaphor is that God put us on earth with a mission. There is more to do than there are hours in the day. People often do not push themselves; they settle for mediocre performance. Yet God asks us urgently to step up.”  

Indeed, just because we cannot catch our breath does not mean we should stop breathing all-together. Rabbi Tarfon understands that change happens slowly. But each of us have a responsibility to work toward that change, to seek to make this world better.  We have to leave our mark, even if the main body of the picture looks unchanged from moment to moment. 

I imagine that Rabbi Tarfon learned thus truth from his teacher, Rabbi Akiva, one of the greatest sages in Jewish history. Although Akiva was hero in his time, he did not start out like this. Beginning his studies later in life he was sure he would never achieve the kind of great learning that would make him a great Rabbi. But one day he was walking by a river and noticed that over time water had born a hole in a rock. Realizing that one drop of water could do nothing but a steady stream over many years could make a huge impact, he started to study, little by little, until one day he reached a tipping point. It seemed to an outsider who was not involved in Akiva’s day to day that overnight, change had happened. Over a few years he was transformed from an illiterate pauper to a great sage. But in truth, it was because of the slow, deliberate accumulation of knowledge inspired by watching that water flow over the rock that we know his name. 

Akiva’s story is mirrored in the work of many of our greatest social movement.  Marriage equality surely has its heroes, but in truth the reason we have it, the reason we went from an overwhelming majority of Americans opposing gay marriage in the 1980s to a majority of Americans embracing it today is not because of those heroes. It’s instead because of small acts that subtly and narrowly moved the ball until our country reached a tipping point. What did it, was that millions of Americans came out of the closet. Suddenly, marriage equality was not an abstract ideal. It impacted your son or daughter, your neighbor or friend, your co-worker or cousin. It was the bravery of individuals, who had little agency outside of their own homes, many of whom faced tremendous pain, that helped us reach a tipping point, a paradigm shift in our country. They were the water, dripping over the impenetrable rocks of hatred and animosity around them.  

Both of these stories teach us that small actions matter. And in the absence of power to change the largest systems and the most insurmountable problems, the best way to deal with potential despair is to double down on local change. 

There is a powerful teaching in our Talmud about each person’s need to do what they can: 

 

Everyone who can protest the sin of his household and does not, is responsible for the people of his household. For the people of his city, he is responsible for the people of his city. For the whole world, he is responsible for the whole world (Shabbat 54b).  

 

In a way, I’ve always wished this text went in the opposite order. Moving from one’s household to city, it climaxes in us changing the world. But most of us don’t have that power. Instead, read backward it teaches us to keep looking smaller, until we find an impact we can make. 

And if you look around here in Bloomfield, in Essex County, in New Jersey, there is a lot of need that calls out for each of our hands. 

Take hunger for example. Essex County has the highest rates of “food insecurity” in all of New Jersey with around 18% of the population lacking enough to eat. This number include 16.8% of all children. There are lots of answers to how to deal with this staggeringly high number, from political to economic solutions, but even without those steps, we can still zero in on the smaller, specific actions that can change lives today.  

In a given month, Temple Ner Tamid has a host of opportunities to make an impact on hunger. We run a monthly soup kitchen, called Bloomfield Café, housed in the basement of Park Methodist Church in Bloomfield. There dozens of people come each month, many of them looking for the one hot meal they will have that day. Likewise, each month we have volunteers standing outside of Shop-Rite, passing out flyers to those who enter asking them to buy an extra can of soup or box of cereal on their way out the door. Through this effort, each year, we collect thousands of pounds of food to be donated to the Human Need Food Pantry.  

Multiple times a year, we also run a respite shelter for homeless families through the Interfaith Hospitality Network that includes opportunities to cook, play with the children, and chaperone overnight.  

Each of these projects give us an outlet to do good. In world where we often feel like we lack power, they give us a vehicle to work toward change. 

But local, small change doesn’t just need to come in acts of direct service. We may not personally have the authority and power to impact policies at the border,  or be able to solve the problem of millions of undocumented individuals in our country, but every one of us can make lives better for the undocumented immigrants we see every day in the supermarkets, streets, and parks we frequent. 

Locally, I have been part of a coalition of clergy who are meeting with Essex Country Freeholders and administrators in an effort to improve procedures and conditions at the Essex Country Correctional Facility. As criminal justice reform has shrunk the prison population, Essex County has been filling beds with immigrant detainees and is receiving Federal grants of up to between 30-40 million dollars to do so. At first, we thought to change this but quickly, as we explored this issue, we realized that we did not have the agency to do much with the contract. There is too much at stake for the county to change.  

So we thought smaller, more local, more practical. Now the asks are more finite: increase funding to make sure that every detainee has legal representation, make sure there is an independent advisory board made up of stakeholders and members of non-profits like the ACLU to hold the prison accountable for safety infractions, ask the prison to appoint an independent person who detainees can go to with complaints about their conditions so they don’t have to approach the warden directly with them.  

Each of these actions may seem minor, but they each move the needle in their own way. As we have already talked about, in the absence of movement, think smaller! 

I’ve been inspired by countless lay leaders at Temple Ner Tamid who do just this. As many know, we’ve been working this past year with another broad coalition of religious groups on a bill that would give drivers licenses to undocumented immigrants in New Jersey. Living in Jersey, each of us know how important it is to have access to a car – to go grocery shopping, to take our kids to the doctor, to get to work. Together this broad coalition has been pushing our elected officials to pass this bill on moral grounds; easy access to food or health care are basic rights that should be afforded to all.  

I went into the year feeling like this would be an easy win. But New Jersey politics being what they are, the bill has not moved. Yet, even without action, our community has still had some wins. We’ve gotten the Governor on record as supporting the bill. We’ve met with our local senator Nia Gill and began engaging her on her discomfort with aspects of the legislation, connecting her with the non-profits on the ground who have the ear of those who might fix them, we’ve published op-eds, and currently have a clergy letter, written in-part by our member Trish Perlmutter, that is currently getting signatures. 

Sometimes, working toward good changes the world. Sometimes, it changes our city. Sometimes our family. But even the smallest change will change us. Even at times when our acts are so small that we wonder if we are wasting our time, they can still shape our character. I am different because of my justice work this year, even if I can’t see the fruits of my labor.   

When we feed one person, we get in the habit of thinking about hunger. When we house one family, we get in the habit of thinking about homelessness. When publish one op-ed, meet with one senator, sign one letter, hold one forum, we become people who care more, day after day, about the ills of the world. 

As the 18th century Rabbi and philosopher, Moshe Chayim Luzzato wrote: 

 

Just as enthusiasm can result from an inner burning, so it can create one. That is, one who perceives a quickening of his outer movements in the performance of a mitzvah, conditions himself to experience a flaming inner movement, through which longing and desire will continually grow. If, however, he is sluggish in the movement of his limbs, the movement of his spirit will die down and become extinguished. Experience testifies to this (Path of the Just, 89).  

 

In other words, the more we get going, the more we force ourselves to act, even toward the smallest of changes, the more we will condition ourselves to keep acting, to keep yearning to make a difference. That’s why Maimonides wrote in the 12th century that if we have the ability to give $100 to one person or $1 to 100 people we should choose the later option. Although $100 may make a real difference for someone in the short term, after 100 distinct acts of good, we are transformed into someone who perpetually gives back. Then our future giving, our future engagement will far exceed that one-time, larger bequest. 

But lack of agency is only one reason we don’t act. Even as we think smaller, one of the greatest challenges we face when we seek to do good in the world is the sheer number of things calling for our attention. With all the need around us, how do we not become crippled by choice? To that I would say, don’t be afraid to choose.  

Our Talmud teaches: 

 

Where there are two boats traveling on the river and they encounter each other, if both of them attempt to pass, both of them sink, as the river is not wide enough for both to pass. If they pass one after the other, both of them pass. And similarly, where there are two camels who were ascending the ascent of Beit Ḥoron, where there is a narrow steep path, and they encounter each other, if both of them attempt to ascend, both of them fall. If they ascend one after the other, both of them ascend. (Sanhedrin 32b).  

 

What these metaphors teach us that that we should let an issue, just one, rise to the top of our priorities. Listen to the chorus of needs and instead of getting lost in the cacophony, find a single voice, singing a single song. And even though you might feel guilty about letting the others go, know that you have every right to. As Jewish law states, “One who Is involved in a mitzvah, they are exempt from (another) Mitzvah” (Sukkah 25a).  

One of the things that makes Judaism countercultural is that it asks things of you. To be Jewish means to engage your hands in healing the brokenness around you, even if you don’t want to. I’m not going to pre-suppose that everything we do at TNT will speak to everyone here. If it doesn’t, then find your own way to give back. But if it does I want to make it easy for you to be involved. 

For this reason, we are going to send out an email after Yom Kippur to help you as you look for a way to make a difference through existing programs at TNT. Often the sheer volume of what we do can feel hard to navigate. I mean, I spoke tonight about three distinct programs that all deal with feeding the hungry. What I hope you will do is choose something, one thing, you will do next year, and if you want to do it in partnership with us, then add your name to an existing initiative, some of which I mentioned, and some of which like inter-religious dialogue or taking care of the sick and bereaved in our community through our Chesed committee, that I did not. Then, over the course of the coming weeks someone will be in touch with you about how you might get involved in that initiative. 

Every one of us has power. Every one of us has control. Every one of us has agency. This year, find a way to match that power with those who need it. Hope conquers despair when we can see a path forward. You own that path. You are that path. And even if you can’t get to the end, the fact that you tread on it matters. 

There is a teaching, often told during the High Holy Days about a king who has a son who lives far away. He knows he cannot get home and afraid to leave. Start walking, says his father, and I will too. And when you grow too tired, I will meet you at that point and carry you the rest of the way home.  

Start walking, even those few steps, and have faith that even in your smallest acts of love, you will make it to see the binding up of this broken world.