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Hineini- Here I Am

Rabbi Bryan Wexler

Hineini. Here I am. It feels both surreal and utterly awesome to say hineini today as I

stand before all of you. My first two and half months at TBS have been both a whirlwind and a

joy. I have enjoyed introductory meetings and coffee dates with many you, and trust me, there

has been a lot of coffee. There are still many coffee dates to be had and I look forward to getting

to know everyone in the TBS family. Although each meeting and encounter has been different, I

have found myself saying one thing repeatedly in each interaction: I am so grateful to be here at

TBS and to be your new Assistant Rabbi. I still have to pinch myself each morning as I make

the incredibly difficult commute from Chanticleer over to TBS. I feel tremendously fortunate to

be able to say that I am literally living my dream.

It is a dream that began when I was 11 years old. I was at High Holiday services at

Congregation Beth Emeth, the Reform synagogue that I grew up at in Wilmington, DE. A

synagogue of 800 membership units, similar in size to TBS, I remember sitting there as a fifth

grader and looking around the packed sanctuary and social hall. There were thousands of people

present. It felt as if there were chairs filled with people as far as the eyes could see. Then I

looked to the bima and saw the rabbi. He was delivering his sermon as everyone present sat and

listened to his words. In my own 11-year-old way, I realized at that moment, the opportunity and

the responsibility that the rabbi had to speak to people. My love of Judaism and my love of

people came together and to this day, I can feel the chill that went down my spine. I needed to

be a rabbi.

Now, as I like to tell, there was only one problem: I had already decided that I was going

to be a professional baseball player and play for the Philadelphia Phillies. What was I going to

do? Thankfully, my Grandma, as she oftentimes does, came to the rescue. Not long after the

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holidays that year I told her about my conundrum. I distinctly remember her responding: “why

can’t you be both? If you work hard enough, you can accomplish anything you set your mind

on.” And it was settled. For years I told people I was going to play for the Phillies and in the

offseason moonlight as a rabbi.

As the years passed, it quickly became clear to me that I was in fact not going to make it

to the Big Leagues (although I am proud to say that I did get one high school varsity at bat. I

may have grounded out to shortstop, but, hey, at least I made contact!). However, my dream to

be a rabbi never wavered. In fact, I told my wife, Becca, of this plan on our very first date her

freshman year at Brandeis. As she likes to recount, apparently I said: “I just want you to know

that I am going to be a rabbi. So, I think you should know what it means to be married to one.”

Suave. Real suave, Bryan. I have no idea why she agreed to a second date, but I am incredibly

grateful that she did.

And now, as I look out at the congregation today, I am overcome with emotions. This is

what I have been dreaming about since I was a child. I have dreamt about this moment for over

20 years. Thank you for entrusting me with this sacred work. Thank you, from the bottom of my

heart. Hineini. Here I am. Plan executed and dream fulfilled.

However, as I have come to learn, not all plans work out so neatly. And sometimes, not

at all. Some dreams are halted, some must be altered, and some remain only that, a dream. We

have all learned this lesson at one time or another. Maybe you thought you were going to do one

thing professionally, but you ended up doing something else. Maybe you thought you were

going to live one place but ended up living elsewhere. Maybe it was a relationship that you were

trying to build. Maybe it was an illness that halted you on your path. For me, it was when Becca

and I were ready to expand our family by having children. A dream that unlike my path to the

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rabbinate, did not go exactly according to plan. It is a story that I would like to share with you

now.

My Judaics library used to be the most impressive book collection in our home but in the

last year it has been overtaken by an even more impressive collection of baby books. With 13-

month-old twins, and so many loving family members and friends, Becca and I have acquired

quite the robust children’s library. There is one children’s book, entitled “Wish” by Matthew

Cordell, that holds a particularly special place in our hearts. It speaks of both heartbreak and

jubilation, and each time I read it, I struggle to hold back tears. The book represents the journey

of another dream. The book begins as follows:

“At first there is us. There is only us. But even then, even before we can know to know it, we

wish you were here. We make plans for us. We learn. We build. We journey. But more and

more and more, we think of you. Until one day we are ready. Ready for change, ready for

surprise. Ready for you. We wish you were here. So we make plans for you. We learn. We

build. We journey. And then we wait. We listen. So quiet, so patient, so still. And we

wait…but you never come. And everything stops. This is not what we planned. We wish you

were here…”

Becca and I had a plan. In fact, we had many plans. First the plan was to have a child in

my second year at JTS. When that didn’t happen, the plan became the next year and then the

next, but those too were not meant to be. Years of failed plans taught us that when it comes to

family-planning, you simply cannot plan. We struggled with infertility for three years. One

failed cycle led to another until one day we found ourselves at a Manhattan fertility clinic. Our

doctors restored our hope, but it soon turned to renewed disappointment as we turned to

increasingly complex treatments, finally culminating in a failed cycle of in-vitro fertilization

(IVF) nearly two years ago to the day. The physical challenges were significant. There were

hormone shots, medications, and a lack of sleep. The bills were astronomical, though we were

fortunate to have the support of family and a few generous grants. I struggled to get work done

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and even had to take a few incompletes one semester. My relationship with G-d and my

spirituality were shaken.

However, and I speak for both Becca and myself, the most challenging aspect of our

struggle with infertility was the emotional toll that it took on us. It became painful to see

pregnant women, who suddenly seemed to be everywhere. For a while, I struggled to shadow my

mentor as he officiated at a bris or baby naming because it was simply too painful. Worst of all

was that very few people knew about this ordeal that loomed so large in our lives. We simply did

not talk about it much. Our hearts felt ripped open and the feeling of loneliness and despair were

at times hard to bear.

I began with the word hineini, “here I am,” because it represents a personal dream

fulfilled, but also because during much of Becca and my infertility journey, it was a statement I

was unable to proclaim. Despite my greatest efforts, I struggled to be present for others. My

thoughts were frequently consumed by the infertility experience. I was physically, emotionally,

and spiritually exhausted. There were many moments when I wanted to be present for others,

present for Becca, and even present for myself and was unable to step forward in the way that I

wanted. A piece of me was absent. And this is why hineini has become such an important

theological and psychological statement for me personally as it is in our tradition.

It is interesting to note that hineini has shown up in popular culture quite a bit lately.

Jonathan Safran Foer entitled his most recent novel: Here I Am, which is based on hineini.

Meanwhile in Leonard Cohen’s title track to his last album, entitled You Want It Darker,

released a month before his death, he includes the lyrics “hineini, hineini, I’m ready my Lord.”

It is worthwhile to consider why this word of hineini keeps coming up in our modern culture.

Perhaps, as Rabbi Peltz highlighted in his sermon yesterday, since we live in a disjointed and

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frenetic world in which we are so often distracted and not as present as we should be, the word

keeps appearing as a subtle reminder. Regardless, what we know for sure is that we have said

hineini four times so far today. Three times in our Torah reading and once in Hineni, in the

prayer that Cantor Cohen just recited a few minutes ago.

The word hineini comes from the Hebrew root hain, “behold” or “see”. It gives emphasis

to the word that comes after it, in this case the pronoun “me.” “See, me! Behold, me.” In

Rabbinic Hebrew and in Aramaic, hain also means “yes.” So, in its fullest sense, hineini says

yes to the moment. It means: “See, yes, here I am!” In its more typical form of hineni, it

appears 178 times in TaNaKh, the Hebrew Bible. However, in 14 instances in the TaNakh, and

more specifically 9 times in the Torah, the word is transformed to hineini and has a very specific

use.

While ‘hineni’ appears many times in the Torah, ‘hineini’ only appears when there is a

call, specifically from God. It indicates a major moment in a biblical character's life. Rashi, an

11th century French commentator explains that the response of “Hineini” to God’s call is more

than simply a statement of location. It is a statement of readiness to respond to God’s call, a

readiness to act. It also signifies that the one who is responding is standing on the threshold of

transformation.

Hineini serves as a marker. It announces to those who are able to listen that something

important, something key is about to happen, if only they will open themselves up to the

moment, if only they will pay attention. It represents an act of total focus, a complete readiness

to encounter. As a literary device, ‘hineini’ tells us that something is coming for a character. It

also reminds us that many who have come before have said the same thing and have gone on

similar journeys.

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On Rosh Hashana the journey of Hineini begins with Abraham in the story of Akedat

Yitzhak, the binding of Isaac, which we read for this morning’s Torah reading (Genesis 22:1-19).

The passage begins with G-d calling out to Abraham. Abraham responds immediately with

hineini and then G-d continues by instructing him to offer his beloved son, Isaac, as a sacrifice.

However, Abraham says hineini twice more in the story. Next, he says it to his son Isaac. Just

as Abraham responds Hineini when God calls out to him, he is once again attuned to and aware

of his sons’ vulnerability and need for comfort. For the first time in the entire ordeal, we hear the

voice of Isaac, calling out to his father: “avi- my father!”1 Abraham senses his son’s fear and

angst; hears his son’s need for connection and responds, hineni b’ni, “Here I am, present, for

you, my son.”2 Some commentators suggest that the immediacy of his response reveals his

readiness and willingness to connect with his son. He is not just physically present, but fully

attuned to his son, ready and prepared for whatever difficult conversation may follow. But is this

really the case?

I would like to suggest that it is not until Abraham’s third hineini that we truly understand

his mindset. Abraham is prepared to sacrifice Isaac. His arm is raised high in the air, knife in

hand, and then suddenly a bat kol, a heavenly voice, cries out “Avraham, Avraham!”3 The voice

must call his name twice because Abraham is unable to respond the first time. It seems that he

knows that the response is supposed to be hineini, but is he merely going through the motions of

saying it? Is he lost in his own tribulation and grief? Is he truly present? It is one thing to say

hineini and another thing to live it. To live hineini requires being fully present.

Present with our family, present with our friends, even present in the classroom, which

1 Genesis 22. 2 Ibid. 3 Genesis 22:11.

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reminds me of a Yiddish story about a Talmud class.

Now for anyone who has taken a Talmud class before, you know that the text is in

Aramaic and it requires a lot of preparation. The story goes that each week the students would

spend hours preparing the text for class. When they got to the first class, the rabbi called on a

student named Goldstein to read. “Goldstein,” the rabbi said. “Hineini!” Goldstein responded.

“Read for us” the rabbi continued. This went on for weeks. “Goldstein.” “Hineini.” Read.

“Goldstein.” “Hineini.” Read. The other students quickly realized that the rabbi could only

remember Goldstein’s name so they stopped preparing for class. Goldstein meanwhile, became

more and more frustrated. He had more than served his time. But, Goldstein had a plan. He

knew the rabbi didn’t even look up from his text when he called his name and he couldn’t see

that well anyway. So, the next week, class began the same way. The rabbi called out:

“Goldstein!” But this time, Goldstein did not say hineini. Instead, he changed his voice and said:

“sorry, Goldstein is not here today.” The rabbi responded: “Goldstein’s not here? Okay, so you

read.”

Hineini is more than just saying “here” when your name is called. Presence and hineni

go hand in hand. Hineni is being present with all of oneself. It is more than just a verbal

response but also a mode of being. I mentioned before that Rashi understands hineini to be

statement of readiness, zimun, but he also understands it to be statement of anavah, humility.

Picking up on Rashi’s interpretation, Rabbi Norman Cohen writes in his book Hineini in Our

Lives: “…it is interesting that the word anavah looks as if it comes from the Hebrew root anah,

which actually means ‘answer’ or ‘respond.’ Being humble encompasses a willingness to limit

our own activities to act on behalf of others.”4 In other words, living hineni entails both a

readiness and a humility which allow us to be present for others and their needs.

Abraham may say hineini again and again, but I’d like to suggest that he may not be fully

present. At that moment, on the mountain, at the Akeidah, his heart and mind are not aligned.

Yet, at the same time, I think we need to ask the question: Is Abraham the one who needs to be

saying hineini in this moment? Could it be that Abraham actually needed others to say hineini to

him? He doesn’t want to be there- to sacrifice Isaac. He wants to be somewhere else.

4 Rabbi Norman Cohen, Hineini in Our Lives, pg. 9.

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Anywhere else, but there on that mountain. His heart was calling out for somebody to realize

this and to respond to him. But no one did. One of the tragedies of the Akeidah is that Abraham

is left alone in his greatest moment of need. He and Isaac ascend Mount Moriah together, but

they do not descend the mountain together. And in the Torah that follows, there is no evidence

that he and his wife Sarah ever speak again.

As Rabbi Peltz spoke about yesterday, in the story of humanity G-d’s first question to

Adam and Eve is ayeka, where are you?5 To that question, there should be one response: hineini.

A response that Adam and Eve failed to offer. What about us? As we mark the anniversary of

creation, how will we respond to that first question that echoes through the ages? Ayeka?

Hineini? This is the work that we do on Rosh Hashana and really, all year round. Teshuvah,

often translated as repentance, is probably better translated as turning or response. In modern

Hebrew it means answer. Teshuva. Answer. Hineini. The answer must be hineini.

I recently learned something interesting about the Zulu language of South Africa that

speaks to this point. In Zulu, the word for “hello” is sawubona, which literally means “I see

you,” and the polite reply is ngikhona, or “I am here.”6 What if our own greetings were so

meaningful; not just simply saying “hello” but “I see you” — really see you, all that you are,

your essence, your uniqueness reflecting holiness into the world? And what if we could reply,

“Hineini- all that I am is here. With all my being I am here with you.” There are times in

our lives when we need to say hineini and there are also times in our lives when we need to hear

it from others because we are struggling to say it ourselves. Who have you said hineini to this

year? Who has said hineini to you? And how can we better respond to each other with hineini in

the year to come? Here is an example of a powerful hineini experience that I had.

5 Genesis 3:9. 6 Ryan Cheng, “Sawubona,” April 28th, 2017

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Last year, as the Rabbinic Intern at Park Avenue Synagogue in Manhattan, I had the

privilege of working with a particular conversion student, let’s call him David. It was very

special watching David discover his Jewish spark and accompanying him on this journey; from

the first intake meeting, to teaching him how to kasher his kitchen, to giving him a big hug each

Shabbat. One-day last Spring, as we sat together and spoke about his upcoming immersion in the

mikveh, David shared with me that he and his wife, let’s call her Sarah, have been struggling

with infertility. They were currently in the midst of their sixth cycle of IVF. As tears welled up

in my eyes, I shared with him that I knew all too well the pain that they were experiencing. As I

searched for words, I so badly wanted to tell him that everything would be okay, that one day

they would hold their beautiful baby in their arms, but I knew that I couldn’t say that with

certainty. What I could provide was presence- a loving face, a kind hand, and an open heart. To

open ourselves up to the presence of another human being is an act with enormous consequences.

To take the time to be with another, to acknowledge another to say “hineini- I am here, I am with

you, You are not alone,” is the work of G-d and is one important way that we bring more

holiness into the world.

Martin Buber, the great twentieth-century Jewish philosopher, understood the sacred

element of presence. Buber’s book I and Thou gives expression to this theology. In a nutshell,

it says that G-d is not only found in the vertical of Heaven and Earth, but also in the horizontal,

between two people in a living, dynamic relationship. Buber arrived at this theology after a

terrible moment in his own life. After being published widely and becoming well-known, Buber

received a man who sought him out for counsel. Buber greeted him warmly, he answered his

questions in a perfunctory way, and then ended the meeting. Soon after, Buber learned that the

man had committed suicide. He had come to Buber in the hopes of easing his isolation and

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Buber had not taken the time to understand this and acknowledge his struggles. Buber castigated

himself for not seeing the man’s loneliness, and from that moment on, he understood that the

most important thing we can do as human beings is to be present for one another and ultimately

use that presence to engage in relationship. He called this the I-Thou relationship. Buber

recognized that the primary longing of humanity is to be acknowledged, and we have been

endowed with the gift and the ability to make this happen for one another. Shortly after my

conversation with David last Spring, he and Sarah told me that the IVF cycle had again been

unsuccessful. They are currently considering other options including embryo donation or

surrogacy. I have no idea how David and Sarah’s journey will end, but I can only hope that in

that intimate moment of pastoral care and in our subsequent encounters, I was able to help David

and Sarah feel seen and heard, supported and loved.

Rabbi Harold Kushner tells a story of two people who said I am here for you. Maybe not

in words. Maybe better that it was not in words. Their actions said hineini. He entitles the story

The Power of Holding Hands and writes:

I was sitting on a beach one summer day, watching two children, a boy and a girl, playing

in the sand. They were hard at work building an elaborate sand castle by the waterעs

edge, with gates and towers and moats and internal passages. Just when they had nearly

finished their project, a big wave came along and knocked it down, reducing it to a heap

of wet sand.

I expected the children to burst into tears, devastated by what had happened to all their

hard work. But they surprised me. Instead, they ran up the shore away from the water,

laughing and holding hands, and sat down to build another castle.

I realized that they had taught me an important lesson. All the things in our lives, all the

complicated structures we spend so much time and energy creating, are built on sand.

Only our relationships to other people endure. Sooner or later, the wave will come along

and knock down what we have worked so hard to build up. When that happens, only the

person who has somebody’s hand to hold will be able to laugh.7

7 Canfield, Hansen, and Elkins, Chicken Soup for the Jewish Soul, pg. 106.

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The power of holding hands. The power of being present. The power of hineini.

To return to my personal story of struggle, you may be thinking: why exactly did he share

his story of infertility with us? In fact, some in this sanctuary might even be thinking: how dare

he talk about his struggles when it clearly worked out okay in the end! Becca and I do now have

children. I know that there are people in this room who have either previously or currently

struggled with pregnancy issues. Please know that first, I see you and I am here for you, and

second, I in no way mean to cause you grief or pain. Rather, I share our story with you today

because during our time of greatest need, we mostly remained silent. This was likely for many

of the same reasons that people do not share their personal pain with others; perhaps to

not bother worry or burden others, perhaps to avoid embarrassment or feeling too vulnerable,

perhaps out of a feeling that no one will understand, or perhaps because the pain depletes one of

energy and hope. But if we do not share our needs, our concerns, our pains, and our sorrow, how

can anybody ever say hineini. Only when we open up to others do we learn that we are, in fact,

not alone. In part, I chose to speak about this today, in the hope that it begins a conversation

around infertility. I look forward to continuing this conversation as part of our Bioethics

Initiative this year and in the years to come. But infertility is not the only situation that requires

us to say hineini.

Every person in this sanctuary has something with which they are struggling. Like the

children’s story, Wish, we all have dreams and hopes that are yet to be fulfilled. We may not

share it publicly, but we all have challenges and fears. We all at some point will experience

disappointment, heartbreak, and loss. In those moments, we need to hear the hineini of others in

order to reinforce that we are not alone. We need hineini so that we can heal.

But there is also a joyous hineini. Hineini in times of great happiness, simcha. Those

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who supported Becca and me were also there to celebrate with us when our twins, Gavi and

Meyer, were born. Hineini is there when we share simchas. Take an invitation to a simcha, such

as a wedding or a b’nai mitzvah for eaxmple. It comes with a response card. Teshuvah. I will be

there to celebrate the joy with you. That is hineini. We say hineini in times of joy and in times

of sorrow. We say hineini because we care.

Hineini is what we say with our presence here today. We are here with and for each

other as we begin a new year. The shofar cries out to us, challenging us to say hineini. Here I

am, I am present. I am here for you. On the anniversary of the creation of the world, G-d’s first

question echoes through this sanctuary- ayeka where are you? - Hineini. Here I am. I am right

here

Last year in Rabbinical School, in my senior seminar class, our teacher, Rabbi Craig

Scheff, asked us an important question to begin our final session: when you meet your entire

congregation for the first time on the High Holy Days: what do you want them to learn about

you? What do you want them to know about you? What are you going to say to them? So, here

is what I would like to say to all of you: Hineini. I am here. I see you. Each and every one of

you. LOTS of you. You are not alone. No matter what you are going through, no matter what

high or low you find yourself in on life’s journey, it will be my privilege to be by your side.

TBS is a congregation where people show up for each other- in times of sorrow and in times of

simcha. I have already learned that TBS members are everywhere- at Starbucks, ShopRite,

Wawa, Ponzio’s and the like; and more importantly, I have learned that TBS members want to be

connected to each other. TBS values presence. There will be moments of challenge and struggle

for all of us. My hope and my prayer is that we will ease the burdens in the lives of those we

touch through our presence and care. Through I-Thou relationships, may we provide the

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outstretched arm, the warm embrace, and the loving heart to those who need our presence. This

year, let us all work to find the power of G-d that dwells within us, and in doing so, may we

respond to others with a resounding: “I am here. Hineini.”