Rabbi Scott Hausman-Weiss
“Dualing Yetzers”
Rosh Hashanah 5766

In Jewish tradition, within each of us, there are two opposing tensions, the yester hara and the yester hatov. The yester hara is defined, at first glance, as the human inclination towards evil. The yester hatov is defined, at first glance, as the human inclination towards good. At first glance, it would seem that the goal of human beings is to diminish the force tending towards evil, and enhance that one tending towards good. However, with all things theological and philosophical, Judaism never lets us off that easy. As true as it is in so many other cases within our complex, multi-layered tradition, so too it is here – a black and white definition simply will not suffice.

Did you know that in 1903, when the first Crayola crayons were distributed, there were only 8 colors? Black, blue, brown, green, orange, red, violet and yellow. By 1958, there were 64 colors. Bet some of you remember the thrill of opening that box, inhaling the possibilities contained inside: 64 different variations of a beam of light as refracted through a prism. Gosh, now there are 120. And isn’t that peculiar. For, in Jewish tradition, when we wish to offer congratulations upon a birthday of great significance, we wish a person ad meah v’esreem, may you live with the fullness of 120 years of life. 120 years, 120 colors. All of those extra colors are actually shades in between the original primary and secondary colors. The rainbow is essentially the same. Simply, we are given the opportunity to recognize that there is a myriad of variations – of color, of opinion, of life. The shades of gray that we indignantly describe as the no man’s land between good and evil, between black and white, may in fact be far more colorful than we might normally have given credit.

The Talmud teaches the story of a town where the people’s promiscuity was out of control. Where boys and girls, men and women were secretly and not so secretly sneaking into each other’s homes, each other’s beds, to the point that the elders feared they had lost complete control and could not change the ways of their people. The elders prayed fervently for days. They fasted. They immersed their bodies in water and prayed some more. “Adonai, Lord of the Universe, free us from the Yetzer hara, our inclination to do evil, so that we and all our people can live peaceful, committed lives as your servants.” God hearkened to their plea and did ask the elders, “Indeed, are you sure that this removal of the inclination for evil, also the drive for physical attainment and achievement, hunger, thirst, and power as well as sex is what you want?” The elders declared, “Yes! and prayed even more fervently.” Overnight, God granted them their request and the Yetzer hara was removed from all human beings. The morning came, the sun rose, the birds chirped – yet there was no sound of life emerging from the town. The elders came out into the street, bewildered by the absence of their fellow citizens. They found most of them in bed, sleeping or just day dreaming, yet with no urgency, no intention, no desire to go anywhere or do anything. Even when the elders searched for a simple egg to make for breakfast, not even one could be found. Realizing what had occurred, the elders prayed even more fervently to God to return the Yetzer hara to the world. Don’t misunderstand me. I am not advocating promiscuity! This story teaches us that good and evil are, simply, not so simple. Like our crayon box, it is the variations that bring true color to our lives.

In Judaism, the shades of moral behavior – the inclinations of our yetser ha tov and yetser ha ra – are far more complicated than the morality play in which our society, our media and often we, portray them. Every Shabbat, we chant the Hebrew for, “You shall love God with all your heart,” the Hebrew for “heart” here is levav, but usually it is lev. Lev means “heart” but in our chanting of this prayer, we say, “levav.” Why? Our Sages teach that the Hebrew consonant that makes a “v” sound is doubled here to suggest that our heart is united only by the balance we create, between our inclination for the status quo and for our inclination for change. Along with the irresponsible, immoral acts that disappeared in our story, so too went the people’s drive to do anything, to create anything, to act upon any inclination towards growth and change, towards life. And the Yetzer hatov, that inclination for good that too often has a tendency to seek only the status quo, left all alone, faces no challenge to its need to maintain reality.

Imagine in your mind what it was like, would be like or will be like, the first time you allowed your child to run around on an uneven, rocky surface. Your inclination to hold him back, to protect him and keep him safe is your yetzer hatov talking. But your inclination to set him free, to help him grow and develop and learn from his own mistakes, when, not if he falls and scrapes his hands and face, is your yetzer hara talking. Both inclinations are key to a parent’s ability to raise his child. From our tradition’s perspective, the force pushing us to maintain the status quo and the force pushing us toward change, are constantly vying for our attention, energy and pursuit. The question is not, however, how to diminish the power of the yetzer hara, and build up the power of the yetzer hatov. Instead, our inherited tradition demands this question: “How do we learn to strike the balance between the two?”

Recently, I visited a friend in terrible distress. Hours earlier, the phone had rung and she had learned that her husband had died of a drug overdose. For three years, she had stayed devoted to him. For three years, despite his abuse, his neglect, his thievery, and his broken promises, she stayed. “If only I give him another chance,” she would say. “If only I had more patience,” she would say. “If only I were kinder,” she would say to herself every night as she lie in bed, wondering when, then if, he would come home. “If only I join him in his binges, he will be happy.” “If only I could stop nagging him to stop,” she would berate herself. His words became hers. “If only…..” Finally a year ago, he didn’t come home. And soon after that, after his move away and out of town, she stopped giving him money and answering the phone when he called. But he never stopped calling. Something within her knew she just couldn’t do it anymore. Not because he was too abusive, but because she just wasn’t good enough to get him to stop the abuse. He died of an overdose, and she wept in front of me, beating herself up that she hadn’t answered the phone when he called only a week ago. That she could have done something. That she could have stopped him. That she could……

The path that insists that things must be black or white, leads to the following judgment: “My friend was a good girl. She was tried and true and loyal and kind. She was sensitive and caring and forgiving. And if, after three years of trying unsuccessfully to change him, she gives up, it’s simply because she just wasn’t good enough. Her Yetzer hatov just wasn’t strong enough to overcome his Yetzer hara.” But it’s never that simple, is it?

Rosh Hashanah comes every year to remind us that between black and white, gray is truly just one of 118 more colors to choose from. So many more ways to understand our roles, our responsibilities, our selves. So many more ways to paint the contours of our lives. It is here to teach us that to not be good does not necessarily mean to be bad. To not be loyal does not necessarily make one a traitor. To not be forgiving does not necessarily make one a curmudgeon. Rather, as important as the work of teshuvah, that is: identifying the hurts we have caused and seeking to make restitution where we indeed have sinned and gone astray, we also need to do the work of self preservation: demanding that we answer this question for ourselves: “Have I changed my response to those people and situations in my life whose paths only lead toward the death of my and their creativity, renewal and hope? Have I drawn as much from the power of my inclination to change as I have from the power of my inclination to keep things just as they always have been?” That is the balance we seek tonight and over the course of the next ten days. The Torah teaches us that at all times, in all places and in all relationships, we are to choose life! To choose life so that we may live. And how do we do this? We do this by hearkening as much to the inclinations toward change as we do towards those inclinations that seek to keep things the same. Our Yetzer hara, the force for change within us, is that part of us that we must learn to enhance, learn to hear, so that when the status quo is just too dangerous or too stifling or too restrictive or too politicized or just too bland to allow for a decision that affirms life, we are ready to affirm change.

And why is this? Why isn’t it as clear as good and evil, black and white? Why does Judaism seem to complicate things so often? Because life is complicated and because life is short. Because, at the end of the day, we Jews don’t maintain one complete and total understanding of the cosmos, but many. And we do not rely upon signs or a lack thereof to guide the decisions we make. We do not fervently believe that God has set us forth on a path over which we have no control. Judaism demands the sacred and inalienable human right to operate in freedom to make choices. Yes, supernatural signs and messages from the Divine fill the pages of Torah yet they are not the fundamental supports for the covenant between God and the Jewish people. Rather, that fundamental support comes from God’s demand that we act as God’s partners. Our unique, distinct, holy role as partner with God is truly fulfilled only when we come to the relationship out of freedom and not out of fear. If we could say that the Jewish way is indeed guided by one star, it is the star that points in the direction of the fulfillment, enrichment, sharing and encouragement of all the creative possibilities of life.

The academy of Rabbis of Judea proclaimed that a particular new kind of oven, one heated by snakelike coils, was not kosher for use by the Jewish people. Only Rabbi Eliezer stood against the majority and declared that indeed it was kosher. “If the law is with me, may this carob tree uproot itself and replant itself 50 yards away.” And lo and behold, the carob tree uprooted itself, walked on its roots and replanted itself over yonder. But the Rabbis of the Academy declared, “The law is not decided upon by carob trees.” Rabbi Eliezer then announced, “If the law is with me, this stream will flow backwards.” And lo and behold, that is indeed what happened. The Rabbis however, declared, “The law is not decided upon by the flow of streams.” Finally, Rabbi Eliezer declared, “If the law is with me, a Divine Voice will call out from heaven and declare it so.” With a great crash of thunder and lightning, better than any special effects Hollywood could muster, a Divine Voice called out from heaven, “The law is according to Rabbi Eliezer.” The Rabbis, however, once again protested, “Lo Bashamaim he, The Law is not in Heaven.

We Jews have the chutzpah to declare, “The Torah is in our hands. As Moses taught us, only days before we entered into the Promised Land, the Torah is not across the sea or on the other side of the mountains; it is not in heaven. God placed it in our hands and without relying upon signs or miracles or soothsayers, only we, in community, in our time and place, can come to discern God’s message. Not even God can intervene in the role that Torah plays in our lives. As Moses says in last week’s Torah portion, Lo Bashamaim he, the Torah is not in heaven. It is instead, very close to us, in our hearts and mouths.” By virtue of that act of faith and thousands of years of practice, the Jewish people denies that there is only black or white. The Torah is not in Heaven. God’s imprimatur cannot establish the black or the white. We Jews therefore bask in the gray. Not because the gray is some willy-nilly domain where the truths of life are absent. Instead, because the gray is actually brick red and candy apple red and pink and feusha and purple and violet and turquoise. This is where life is lived. And we, God’s partners, are the possessors of the yetser hara and the yetser hatov, in search of life, choosing life, promoting life, all the while drawing our lives with an infinity of colors.

We shall love God, b’chol levavcha, with ALL, with both sides, of our heart. What does God want from us? What is this love that stems from both sides of our heart? Not only the love that comes easily, drawn from all the parts of us that make us grateful for all our blessings, but also the love that comes only from the hardest work of all – the gruff, rough, temperamental parts of us that are dissatisfied with life as we know it. Both sides of our heart beating the blood, sweat and tears of our days into the fabric of our lives. Otherwise, before God and even more important, before each other, we’re only half there. Love, like life, is resolutely complicated. It is our sacred task to embrace the broad expanse of the colors of creation in order to paint our lives. God gives us this dawn of a new year to dare to embrace life in all of its rich, textured, colorful complexity: to choose life; to go forth into this new year with full hearts. I say to you, ‘Ad meah v’esreem’ – May all of our lives be infused with a creative, dynamic, wholesome and nurturing 120 years of life and may it be a rich, colorful and healthy year for us all.