Sermon: Erev Rosh Hashanah 5772 - In a world where no-one can be super-human, we need to be humans who are super!

Faster than a speeding bullet.
Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound.
Is it a bird, is it a plane.
No … it’s a nice Jewish boy.

It may surprise you all to know that Superman is Jewish. I am not trying to claim him as one of our own in the way that we like to find Jewish roots for every celebrity. The man of steel is really Jewish.

The two creators of Superman, Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster, grew up in the Jewish community of Cleveland in the first half of the twentieth century. And they drew upon the experiences of an immigrant Jewish community to create a Jewish hero who could be embraced by American society, and ultimately the world.

Superman and the American Jews of the 1940s shared defining characteristics. They were immigrants who had come to America from a foreign world; his world was Krypton, ours was Eastern Europe. Superman’s entire family and race had been wiped out by a disaster of epic proportions, his home was destroyed. For the Jews witnessing the Holocaust, they watched as their home communities were devastated and their families killed.

And just like the American Jewish community, Superman sought to find a way to assimilate, and become a part of American society. He assumed the identity of Clark Kent as a way of fitting in, and it was only in secret that his true identity could be revealed. He shed the clothing of Krypton, and assumed the look of a shy and insecure American journalist. Like many Jews, he also hid his Hebrew name. On Krypton, Superman was not Clark Kent, he was Kal-El, a beautifully symbolic name, which is derived from the Hebrew, ‘Kol El’ meaning either ‘All is God’, or ‘The voice of God’. It is in the line of names which includes Israe-El, Micha-El, Gavri-El and my own Dani-El.

I like to think of Superman as Kol-El – The Voice of God. He was sent to Earth to remind us of God’s message, and to help us hear God’s still small voice in the world. Superman’s core values are Jewish values; he pursues truth, justice and the American way. Truth and Justice may seem obvious as Jewish values, but if we take the American way to represent the words of the Declaration of Independence ‘life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness’ we can again see that Judaism is present.

When Superman was sent to earth by his parents; his father said to him about us: ‘They only lack the light to show them the way. For this reason, above all-their capacity for good-I have sent them you.’ Superman was sent to earth to help bring out the good in us, to help us to be the best we can be, and to make this world a better place.

However, Superman is only able to accomplish his purpose on earth when he stays true to his heroic identity. The ‘S’, emblazoned on his chest, and the cape are not the costume, they are his true essence. The costume which Superman dons is the two piece suit of Clark Kent and the cowardice which accompanies it. He is unique amongst the Superheroes; Spiderman is really Peter Parker, and Batman is really Bruce Wayne – they conceal their humanity and assume a costume to be heroes. Superman, on the other hand, strips himself of his heroic qualities to become human; heroism is his nature, humanity is his costume.

This is the disturbing truth concealed in the Superman stories; when the man of steel looks at human society, he sees us as weak, cowardly and unheroic. Clark Kent is his attempt to assimilate into this culture. We require a saviour from Krypton to save us, as we are incapable of saving ourselves. In a comparable vein, neither Peter Parker nor Bruce Wayne are heroes; they need to conceal their human identity, and don a mask, so that they may behave in a heroic way as Spiderman and Batman respectively.

Why can’t humans be heroes? Why do comic book creators require that their heroes come from distant planets or conceal their humanity in masks and costumes? Why is it so unbelievable that humans are capable of heroism?

When we look at the world around us, it is disturbing to see just how similar our reality is to the fantasy created in comic-books. After all, it is our reality on which the fantasy is based. In today’s society, it is easy to spot the villains; it is much harder, however, to locate the heroes. This past year we have witnessed gunmen going on rampages in Tuscon, where Congressowman Giffords was shot, in Carson City and in several other places across the country. We are still suffering the after effects of the greed which brought the global economy to a standstill. And we have listened as the voices of bigotry and hatred have grown louder, both in the Middle East and closer to home.

If this is what humanity has become, is it any surprise that we require a superhero to come down from a distant planet to save us? If this is what humanity has become, is it any surprise that humanity and heroism are adversarial terms instead of interchangeable ones? If this is what humanity has become, is it any surprise that human nature is often used as an excuse for someone’s negative qualities rather than their positive ones?

In a world where no-one can be super-human, we need to be humans who are super.

Superheroes present us with a magic solution for the problems and ills within society. It is highly reminiscent of the messianic idea which dominated Judaism from the destruction of the Second Temple through to the birth of Reform Judaism. Our ancestors accepted their situation as oppressed, humiliated and landless because they accepted an idea that a Messiah would eventually come and save them. They accepted an imperfect world, and more significantly, they accepted their powerlessness to change it. They waited for their Messiah to come, and we are still waiting.

Reform Judaism said something different. We rejected the idea that a Messiah would come and save us, and instead we developed an understanding of a Messianic Age. This time would not come about as a result of God or an external superhero.
Instead, we will be the builders of a Messianic Age.
We will be the masters of our destiny.
We will not wait for the world to become a better place; we will begin the work of making our world better.
The wait for a Messiah encouraged passivity; the need for a Messianic Age is a call to action. We need to hear the call, and we need to respond!

Becoming humans who are super, and repairing the entire world may appear like quite a daunting task, but we achieve it one good deed at a time. The Jewish idea of Tikkun Olam, repairing the world, is built upon the idea that every positive action, no matter how small, helps to make the world a better place, and takes us one step further on the path to fixing our broken planet. Mitzvot are accumulated, and they grow beyond what could initially have been imagined.

Fred Scarf and Shiri Gumbiner met in Study Hall in 2004 during their freshman year of High School in California, and they soon became best friends, going everywhere together. They had plans for the future, and were looking forward to eventually attending their High School prom together. When they met Shiri had already been diagnosed with osteosarcoma, a rare form of bone cancer, and despite the aggressive treatment she received, she passed away that August, when she should have been preparing for her sophomore year.

Fred wanted to do something to honor the memory of his friend, but as a 15 year old he was uncertain about where to start. In a Barnes and Noble, he stumbled across a book: “How to Form a Nonprofit Corporation.” Despite the fact that this seemed like an impossible goal, he also realized it would be the perfect way to honor Shiri. During that year he divided his time between homework and filling in the mountain of paperwork required to set up a 501c3.

His initial aim was to raise money to fund research into finding a cure for osteosarcoma, and he did this by selling t-shirts, which simply said: ‘I’m fighting bone cancer by wearing this shirt’. But he soon realized there were other ways that he could make a difference, and honor the memory of his friend. Shiri was never able to attend her High School Prom, and Fred knew that many other teenagers were also missing out on this opportunity. So in 2007, he set about organizing a prom for teens with life-threatening illnesses, giving these patients an opportunity to enjoy that special night that everyone looks forward to and remembers. At the first prom, there were 16 teenagers. At the most recent prom, held at the Madame Tussauds Museum in California, hundreds of young people attended, many of them taking time out from their treatment to be there.

In 2008 Fred was a recipient of a Diller Teen Tikkun Olam Award, and in 2010 he was recognized as one of CNN’s heroes. Fred wanted to honor the memory of his friend and to help other people in a similar situation. He started out small and he has made a tremendous difference in the lives of hundreds if not thousands of young people. He is a human who is super, offering a heroic example we can seek to emulate.

Rabbi Shimon ben Zoma asks the question in Pirkei Avot: ‘eyzeh hoo giboor?’ ‘Who is a hero?’ And he answers; the hero is the one who suppresses his evil inclination, the yetzer harah. I agree with Shimon ben Zoma, but I would phrase my answer slightly differently. The hero is the one who maximizes his good inclination, the yetzer tov.

We are heroes when we pursue what is good and right. We are heroes when we act courageously in the pursuit of justice. And we are heroes when we help to make the world a better place. When it comes to heroism, we always have a choice. Superman could have hidden his powers, or used them for sinister purposes; instead he chose to be a hero. He chose to follow his good inclination and use his powers to fight for what is right. We need to make the same decision, behaving in a way which is worthy of our best qualities.

I would like to clarify that I am not suggesting that we need to be perfect or infallible; on the contrary, many of our heroes were far from it. Moses, who like Superman was destined to be a guiding light, leading the Israelites to freedom, certainly had his flaws. He tried to avoid God’s call, at times he lacked faith, he was insecure, absent from his family and had a tendency to lose his temper. But Moses overcame his shortcomings to find the good within them; I believe it was Moses’ imperfections that helped make him the person that he was and helped him lead us to be the people we would become.

Even Superman, our Jewish man of steel, was fallible. When exposed to Kryptonite he became weak and frail, and he would on occasion succumb to his anger and seek revenge. But every day was a new day to make it right; every day was another opportunity for heroism to triumph. Being super and heroic does not mean being perfect in an imperfect world; being super and heroic means trying to make our imperfect world a better place. To be superhuman is an impossibility. Such a thing does not exist, nor should it exist. But to be a human who is capable of super acts – therein lies a word of possibility.

In a world where no-one can be super-human, we need to be humans who are super.

When Abraham received his call from God, he was told ‘Lech Lecha’ – ‘Go forth!’ This enigmatic phrase called on him to undertake a journey to an unknown destination. But it also called on him to discover himself, as the Hebrew could also be translated as ‘go to yourself.’ To be the Patriarch of the Jewish people, he did not simply have to journey to a promised land; he had to discover the promise within.

This Rosh Hashannah, as we begin our Jewish new year, I am committing to undertake my own Lech Lecha. Just like Abraham, I do not know the destination to which I am journeying, but I know how it begins. It begins with the internal journey; it begins with self-reflection. I will take time to discover what is inside me, who I am and who I want to be. Then I will attempt to begin the journey towards heroism.

Abraham did not undertake his journey alone; he had a community to support him. Looking out at all of you, my new community; I ask, who will join me? Who will join me on this journey of Lech Lecha? Who will search within themselves to discover the courage, righteousness, and heroism that exists within us all? Who will join me to try to make a difference one mitzvah at a time, until together we can save the world. Together we can ascend Sinai, the mountain of our human potential, reaching up to the stars; rather than looking up to them for salvation.

This coming year, how will we change the world? Whom will we protect? What are we willing to fight for?

The story is told of a man who came up to Heaven, the angels asked him questions about his life and the way he lived. As the final question one angel asked him: ‘Do you have any scars?’ The man was puzzled and thought for a moment before responding ‘No, none that I can think of.’ The angel looked at him and said: ‘So was there nothing worth fighting for?’

The story does not mean that we have to go out into the world ready for a physical fight, but it does suggest that we should be prepared to ‘fight for what is right’ and be prepared to bear the emotional scars and bruises. Humanity is something worth fighting for. Being a hero is not always easy, and it can be difficult to make a difference, but we must be prepared for the struggle.

This new Jewish year, we must fight to make humanity worthy of heroism. We must fight to make humanity synonymous with heroism. We must fight to make humanity heroic.

Kal-El, a nice Jewish boy from Krypton, was endowed with super powers. He chose to use these super powers for the good of humanity, and so he became Superman. Each one of us has the power to be a superhero; each one of us has been endowed with gifts to make a heroic contribution to society. If we can do this, then we will not need a super-human to come and save us, for we will have saved ourselves, saved each other, and in turn, helped save the world.

In a world where no-one can be super-human, we need to be humans who are super.

Shana Tova.

Two Minutes of Torah: Noach - Many languages or just one

In my family, my sister and I have very few complaints about the way that our parents raised us. I still regret the fact that I never got the Millennium Falcon, but over the years I have come to terms with this loss. The one major complaint, which continues as a subject of heated debates, is that fact that my parents did not bring us up bilingually. My mother’s first language is Hebrew and my father’s is English; so we were perfectly positioned to be fluent in both. But for reasons, which are still discussed, and as a result of the scholarship of the day, we were raised only speaking English. I have developed a comfort with Hebrew over the years; but I really wonder what might have been different had I really been bilingual. For one, it would have made my rabbinical studies significantly easier…

While in my family we tend to blame my mother for not speaking to us in Hebrew, perhaps we should really blame those people who decided to build the Tower of Babel. For it was as a result of their endeavor that God filled the world with a multiplicity of languages. And this eventually led to the early 1980s, and my upbringing with just one language.

Following on from the story of the flood it is not so surprising that the people of the time said ‘come, let us build us a city, and a tower with its top in the sky’ (Genesis 11:3). However, according to the text, the building project was not motivated by a desire to survive a potential future natural disaster, instead they desired: ‘to make a name for ourselves; else we shall be scattered all over the world’ (Genesis 11:3). This anonymous group of people was united by their common language and their common goal.

From the text it is evident that God was less than pleased by the prospect of the world uniting together as one, to build a tower with its top reaching up to the heavens. When reading the text it almost appears that their ability to build this tower will be symbolic of their ability to achieve anything they desire, a situation, which God is eager to prevent. The solution to this problem appears to be the common language and so God says: ‘Let us, then, go down and confound their speech’ (Genesis 11:7). Following the introduction of a diversity of languages God ‘scattered them from there over the face of the whole earth’ (Genesis 11:8), causing exactly the situation they sought to avoid. But then the place receives a name ‘Babel’ (Genesis 11:9), something which they had aspired to.

The story poses a whole variety of questions: Why was God scared by the potential of all humanity working together? Do we understand the introduction of different languages as a punishment or as a method to stop human cooperation? And what does God gain by scattering humanity across the planet?

We can imagine what the world would be like with all of humanity united by one language, but this appears to run contrary to God’s plan. Perhaps the clue is in the story which immediately precedes the Tower of Babel. The story of Noah reasserts the fact that we are all descended from the same source; all of us are the children of Noah, as we were all the children of Adam and Eve. And yet God does not desire a world of uniformity and conformity; God wants a world filled with difference and diversity.

The image at the end of the story of Noah is that of the rainbow, a natural phenomenon, where seven different colors come together to form something so much more beautiful and awe-inspiring than the mere sum of its parts. A red or orange bow in the sky would look nice, but a rainbow with seven distinct colors is something spectacular. Perhaps the rainbow is not just the sign of the covenant with Noah, but also the symbol of what humanity could achieve when embracing our differences alongside our similarities.

It is easy to work with, befriend and support people who are like us. The challenge is to work with people who are different, to befriend the stranger and to support people from different races, religions and cultures. Then we will not worry about building towers; we will instead celebrate our combined rainbows.

Sermon: Shabbat Bereishit - Any price is to high, and any price is worth paying

I know that it might not be cool to admit, but I enjoy the Star Trek movies, and even the television series. I wouldn’t classify myself as a Trekkie; I can’t recall details from every episode, I don’t speak any Klingon, and I struggle to do the Vulcan salute, based on our own hand shape for the Priestly blessing. But I like the stories, characters, and I actually think there is a lot that we can learn from those brave men and women who boldly went where no man had gone before.

As many of you will know Captain Spock, from the Planet Vulcan, was noted for his dedication to living his life by logic and reason, with no allowances for emotional responses. In one of the movies, when he himself is about to die, there is a moving exchange with his close friend and commanding officer, Admiral James T. Kirk. With Spock accepting the fact that he is about to die, he reassures Kirk: ‘were I to invoke logic, logic clearly dictates that the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few’. There is no arguing with the Vulcan logic.

And yet in the next installment of the movie series, Kirk and the crew of The Enterprise risk their ship, their careers and their lives to save Spock. And in the poignant moment where the two friends are reunited, Spock is unable to understand why they have come back to rescue him. To that question Kirk simply responds: ‘Because the needs of the one … outweigh the needs of the many’. Human emotion, devoid of logic and reason, can sometimes alter the balance between what should be done, and what must be done.

For the people of Israel, and Jews around the world, this debate between logic and emotion has been played out in the case of the release of Gilad Shalit in exchange for 1,027 convicted terrorists.

On Tuesday last week, as we prepared for the celebration of Sukkot, it was announced that a deal had been signed between the Israeli Government and Hamas for the release of Gilad. When I first heard the news I was overwhelmed with joy and excitement. I could honestly not focus on any of the work at hand, and instead found myself compulsively searching the internet looking for stories and articles, desperate for every piece of information, which would further prove that the reports were true. At the same time there was a part of me that remained hesitant and unconvinced, fearing that something would derail the initiative. I experienced a sense of excitement marked by suspicion, hope mixed with fear.

As that week progressed it became increasingly clear that the exchange would go through and that Gilad would finally be returning home. And at the same time we learnt about who would be moving in the opposite direction. Ahlam Tamimi, the woman who drove a suicide bomber to the Sbarro Pizza restaurant in Jerusalem, which killed 15 people out for lunch. The perpetrators of the lynching of two Israeli soldiers in the Gaza Strip, Abed el-Aziz Salha and Rami Ibrahim were also on the list. And Abed al-Hadi Ganaim who in 1989 seized control of the 405 bus and drove it of a cliff, killing 16 of its passengers. As the list of the 477 prisoners to be exchanged in the first stage of the transfer was made public, there was resentment at the price being paid, anger over punishments going unserved, and fear as to what these murderers and terrorists may do in the future.

And then on Tuesday morning we awoke to pictures of Gilad Shalit as he began his walk to freedom. He was recognizable as the young man in the picture which was on our bimah until Wednesday; but he looked paler and almost emaciated. He walked hesitantly, but for many who had feared that this day would never come it was simply a relief to see him alive and free. We shed tears of joy for a son being reunited with his parents. We celebrated Israel’s commitment to bringing every child home. And we watched the embraces which he received from the Prime Minister, the Chief of Staff and finally his parents.

And at the same time we were forced to watch the scenes from the Gaza Strip and the West Bank, where terrorists and murderers were given a heroes welcome. We listened as the crowds celebrated their triumph and called for more Israeli soldiers to be kidnapped to free other Palestinian prisoners. And I wondered about what hopes there are for our shattered peace process.

It is not logical that 280 people serving life sentences should be released from prison unrepentant and unreformed. It is not logical to release terrorists who have been responsible for death and destruction, providing them the opportunity to kill and maim again in the future. And it is not logical that one person’s life is worth the lives of 1,027 others.

When looked at through the eyes of logic, this is a terrible deal. It encourages terrorists to kidnap more Israeli soldiers. It allows murderers to go free to kill again. And it sends a message that what cannot be achieved by negotiation can be gained by force.

But it is not always about what is logical. Sometimes the logical course of action is the wrong course of action. Sometimes it is about the heart ruling the head. Sometimes the needs of the one outweigh the needs of the many.

In this week’s Torah portion of Bereishit we read about the creation of the world, and how we are all descended from Adam and Eve. The Rabbis were fascinated by the idea that the whole of humanity descends from one single human being, and they interpreted these verses in a variety of directions. In one interpretation, the Jerusalem Talmud suggests that we are all descended from one human being so as to teach us that whoever destroys a soul, it is as though that person destroyed an entire world. And whoever saves a life, it is as though that person saved the entire world. Within Jewish tradition, while it is important to save as many lives as possible, the saving of a single life is given a supreme value, equivalent to saving the entire world. Gilad Shalit was that single life, saved by the Government of Israel in a deal, which despite many many grave reservations, brought him home safe and sound.

On October 7th 2000 three Israeli soldiers: Adi Avitan, Benny Avraham and Omar Sawaid were abducted across the Lebanese border by Hezbollah terrorists disguised as UN soldiers. Their cause was adopted by the British Jewish youth movements, who campaigned tirelessly for information about their fate, and for their release. At that time Haim Avraham, the father of Benny travelled tirelessly around the world meeting with Jewish groups, Synagogues and politicians to campaign for the release of his son. I had the opportunity to meet him on several occasions, and these encounters left an indelible mark.

Haim and his family were trapped in an unbearable situation, not knowing the fate of their son, and whether he was dead or alive. They clung to a hope that Benny would return to them safe and sound, but they worried about how he might be suffering at the hands of Hezbollah and they feared that he may already have been killed. He was stuck in a state of limbo, unable to move forward with his own life, without knowing about the fate of his son. When a soldier is killed, the family is informed and able to begin the process of mourning. But Haim, despite losing his son, could not grieve or mourn; the uncertainty left him trapped in a situation of daily despair, anguish and mental torture.

Almost three and a half years after his son was captured, a deal was agreed between Hezbollah and Israel. Over four hundred prisoners were released in exchange for the bodies of Adi, Benny and Omar. And finally Haim Avraham could begin to mourn for the loss of his son.

According to Jewish law this imperative to redeem captives is a mitzvah rabba – a commandment of great importance. In the Talmud it explains the reasoning behind this by teaching that captivity is worse than famine, the sword or death, because it encompasses all of these three punishments. And it is not just the captive who suffers these trials, but everyone who cares for him is also afflicted by pain and suffering. Redeeming the captives was so significant that Maimonides said that money intended for feeding or clothing the poor should be diverted and used instead for redeeming captives. And it was even permissible to sell a Torah scroll if the money raised would help bring people back home.

This week the State of Israel fulfilled this imperative and brought Gilad Shalit back home. We are filled with joy at the sight of Gilad back with his family, but we know that Israel has paid a heavy price to buy his freedom.

In his article about the release of Gilad Shalit, Rabbi Avi Weiss drew our attention to the contrast between the words of Ecclesiastes and the interpretation of the great Israeli poet Yehuda Amichai.

In Ecclesiastes we read that famous passage: ‘A season is set for everything, a time for every experience under heaven… A time for killing and a time for healing… a time for weeping and a time for laughing… a time for love and a time for hate, a time for war and a time for peace.’ Ecclesiastes imagines a world of ‘either-or’, a world in which there are set times for different emotions, we do not simultaneously love and hate, but independently and separately we experience our emotions.

Yehuda Amichai takes issue with the words of Eccelsiastes, in his poem: ‘A Man in His Life’, he writes.
‘A man doesn't have time in his life to have time for everything.
He doesn't have seasons enough to have a season for every purpose.
Ecclesiastes was wrong about that.

A man needs to love and to hate at the same moment,
to laugh and cry with the same eyes,
with the same hands to throw stones and to gather them,
to make love in war and war in love.
And to hate and forgive and remember and forget,’

We do not experience our emotions independently. There are times in our lives when we love and hate, when we laugh and cry. Life is not black and white; it is a rainbow of colors and shades, blended and mixed together in different proportions at different times throughout our lives. The release of Gilad Shalit is one of those moments when we feel the stark contrast between positive and negative emotions. We celebrate and we mourn, we are filled with joy and regret; there is hope and there is fear.

The Jewish wedding is a reminder of this important lesson. At the end of the ceremony, a moment of supreme joy, as we celebrate two people who have committed themselves to each other in love; a glass is broken as a reminder that our world is still broken. The shattered glass is a highly potent symbol, once broken it cannot ever be repaired. On the occasion of Gilad’s release the broken glass represents the hundreds of lives shattered by terrorists who have been granted their freedom. We experience joy and sadness.

And yet on Tuesday I was so very proud to be a Jew and to be a Zionist.

On Tuesday Israel made a statement about the type of country she is. A country which cares so deeply for human life that it is willing to release 1,027 terrorists to save one of its children.

On Tuesday Israel demonstrated that commitment which she has to every single one of her children, all of whom are required to serve in the army to defend the Jewish State. There was something so powerful about watching Staff Sergeant Shalit first saluting Prime Minister Netanyahu and the Chief of General Staff, only to be embraced by them moments later. This was not about rank or status it was about the joy the entire country felt at the return of their son.

We cannot know the consequences of releasing 1,027 terrorists from Israeli prisons, and if history is any guide the majority of them will in all likelihood return to their violent struggle.
But for now we can celebrate the fact that Gilad Shalit is back home. Today we can enjoy our first Shabbat services for over a year without his picture on the bimah. And tonight Gilad has celebrated Shabbat with his family for the first time in over five years.

Any price which Israel was forced to pay was always going to be too high, but any price was always going to be worth paying.

In the international media Israel will often be accused of having a disproportionate response to acts of terror. This week we saw the real inequality and imbalance present in Israeli society; we saw that Israel disproportionally values the life of each and every one of her citizens.

This week we saw Israel fulfilling the dream that she would serve as an Or LeGoyim, a light unto the nations.

This week I am especially proud to be a Zionist and a member of the Jewish family.

Two Minutes of Torah: Bereishit - In the Beginning

The age old question has always been; what is our purpose here on earth? Could the answer be found in the very first Torah portion?

At the beginning of Bereishit’s second story of creation, there is a sense in which the world is waiting for humans to be created. The world lies barren 'because the Eternal God had not sent rain upon the earth and there was no human to till the soil' (Genesis 2:5). The idea that there is no point to a complete creation without humans to nurture the land gives human beings a great deal of purpose, accompanied by a great deal of responsibility.

Humanity is effectively the key which unlocks creation. This idea stands in stark contrast to the first creation story, which has a fully functioning world before man and woman are created. We are the final act of creation, and the world appears to be fully functional with or without us.

Yet in the second story of creation, not only are we humans important for the functioning of the earth, but we are also literally a part of it: 'the Eternal God formed man from the dust of the earth' (Genesis 2:7). The very name for the first man, Adam, comes from the Hebrew word adamah, which means earth. We come from the earth, and our presence on the earth enables it to flourish.

Though God ‘planted a garden’ (Genesis 2:8), we were the ones created to till its soil. There is a sacred partnership that exists between us and God from the very beginning of creation. It is not just our bodies that were made in the image of God, but the purpose of those bodies as well – we were created to be God’s partners here on earth, to complete the divine act of creation.

According to the Talmud, this partnership is renewed each and every week when we recite the Vayechulu (Genesis 2:1-3). Words in prayer are obviously important, but we must ask ourselves: what are we doing to fulfil our part of the partnership?

Each one of us should ask whether our presence on earth serves to help with the completion of God's creation – Tikkun Olam (repairing the world); or whether our presence is the reason the world needs to be repaired?

In the Talmud, this very subject is debated by Hillel and Shammai, who conclude that it would have been better if we were not created. One need only pick up a newspaper to read about the ways in which we are harming God’s creation rather than tending to it, damaging our environment rather than caring for it, and destroying nature rather than nurturing it.

As we once again return to the story of creation in Bereishit, we have an opportunity to reconnect with our original purpose here on earth. In a week, the Hebrew month of Cheshvan begins, which has been reclaimed as Jewish Social Action Month. With an entire month devoted to social action and Tikkun Olam, there is no better time than now to act upon our obligation, and reclaim the honour of truly being God’s partner in the ongoing work of creation. So we can no longer ask; what our purpose is, but rather if we are fulfilling it?