You Can't Hide

Rabbi Michael L. Feshbach

Temple Beth Am

Williamsville, New York

Did you know that the United States government gets a copy of all checks over a certain amount of money? I learned this only recently, as we closed on our home in Erie, and purchased a house in Buffalo, handling in the process checks written out for slightly more money than I tend to carry with me on an average trip to to the grocery store. But now I know: when the stakes are high, the government wants to know where the money goes.

I guess this wasn't the first time I had thought about the government in the context of fairly large checks. A few years ago Julie and I received an interesting piece of mail. It was from the IRS. And it was a friendly refund. A very friendly refund. I don't remember the exact details, but I think it had a couple of extra friendly zeroes in it. Hey, what's a few zeroes between friends? Nothing, right?

There was nowhere to go. There was nowhere to turn. There was no choice about the matter. Well, there was one choice. We called our accountant. Can't we cash it, and send them back the difference between their check and the refund we expected to get? That way we could at least get what we were supposed to get without waiting who knows how long. So we learned then that there were no choices. Don't cash the check, we were told. It wouldn't look right. We sent it back. And fast!

The morality of the issue was, of course, never in doubt. But you would have to be devoid of all curiosity and lacking a pulse not to wonder the same thing we did for just a moment: could we have gotten away with it? But the answer is no. For when dealing with the IRS, I am reminded of the old Yakov Smirnoff line, of how he nearly skidded off the road, this new Russian emigree, when, while driving out west, he heard the following pronouncement from his car radio: "This is KGB -FM, and we know where you are!"

Not that we would have, but sure, we could have cashed the check. But we knew we couldn't hide. From some things, you just can't hide.

There was a funny television commercial a few years back. Now, I made reference to this in Erie once, and no one remembered the commercial. That's because the product it advertised was never sold in Erie. And so the commercial never aired there. But perhaps it was seen where you live.

The commercial opens with a picture of a tall, distinguished looking Uncle Sam, handling a plump hot dog. The voice says: "The United States government says that we can put..." and it went on to name some barely pronounceable, unappetizing sounding chemical "in our hot dogs." Uncle Sam smiles, and gets ready to take a bite. The voice goes on. "But we don't." Sam stops, and gives a puzzled look. The sequence repeats several times, ending with the words: "we're kosher." And, with a Hebrew National symbol on the bottom of the screen, Uncle Sam fades away, to be replaced by a shot of clouds. "We answer to a higher authority than the United States government."

Al achat kama vakama, the Talmud says, meaning, let us reason from a minor point to major one. Or, to put the matter another way: how much the more so. If you can't hide from the government... how much the more can we not hide from God.

"Lo tireh et shor achicha, o et sayo, nidachim, v'hitalamta mayhem; if you see your fellow's ox or sheep gone astray, do not ignore it; you must take it back to your fellow." These words from the book of Deuteronomy are a clarion call to involvement, an appeal to civic duty, a reminder of our responsibilities.

But, actually, they are more than that. For the words "v'hitalamta mayhem" do not translate exactly as "do not ignore it." What they mean is: "do not hide from them." And again, several verses later. One common translation reads: "regarding anything that your fellow loses, and you find, you must not remain indifferent." But here, too, the Hebrew is stronger. "Lo tuchal lihitalem," means, not, "you must not remain indifferent" but "you can not hide." Or, even: "you cannot hide yourself." Not even "you must not hide." But: "you can not hide." It is not even an option. There is no choice.

It is one of the most important messages of Judaism, one of the greatest lessons of life. We can not hide. Not from others. Not from God. Not even from ourselves. Especially not at this season. On Yom Kippur our sins and our soul are laid bare. We are vulnerable. Visible. Exposed.

We can not hide from others. And yet we spend so much of our time with other people with games and guesses, energy spent on revealing as little of ourselves as possible, sizing up and shaking down, dealing with each other as if we were a bunch of onions, and our task to unpeel the layers of other people's lives.

Hiding from others -- even using the same example as a moment ago, the subject of lost or unclaimed property -- has been much in the news these past several months. First the veneer and myth of Swiss neutrality has been pulled away, and all the world is witness to the rottenness inside. More recently still, questions erupted all over the art world about the rightful ownership of priceless paintings and other objects, stolen from the Jews of Europe a half century ago, claimed now by the original owners and their descendants, claims which are hotly contested by dealers and others who purchased these pieces knowing nothing of a tainted past. The bankers and the dealers who did know that something was amiss must have been pleased with themselves. They must have thought they had gotten away with something. But even with all the years gone by, the old detective's creed still holds. "Follow the money." Or, in this case, the Picasso. You can run. But you can't hide.

Far more common than covering crimes are our efforts to cover ourselves, and discover others. What we forget is that we reveal ourselves to those around us in everything we do. The best example of this remains those with the least history of guile: children. Most of you have heard it said that you can't fool a kid. They have special noses. They know immediately who is "real" and who is not. Who is relating to them, and who is talking down to them. Who really listens, and who speaks only with an adult agenda. Their judgements are harsh, swift, final -- and usually dead accurate.

I remember the day a few years ago that I switched to a new computer, and I graduated from DOS to Windows. Finally, I had achieved an on-screen ability I had long craved, and which most of you are probably using now. There is a special word for it. It is the ability to see on the screen exactly what is going to come out of the printer. In computerese, this is called WYSIWYG. WYSIWG is an acronym for a very important concept. It's called "What you see is what you get."

There are moments when we are called upon to act, times when, despite any words we may use, how we respond, and what we do is what defines us in the eyes of others. These moments are not all made for headlines. There are more of them than we realize. They are as simple as what we do when we find a check in our favor. Or an earing on the street. At times like these we are all users of windows. For with all of us, what we see is what we get.

How much the more so... If we can not hide from others, if we can not hide from the government... we cannot hide from God.

Many synagogues have words or phrases they have chosen to adorn their ark, or surround it. There are common phrases, and you have seen many of these in different synagogues you have been to. Often you will see the words "It is a tree of life" written on the ark, emphasizing the centrality of Scripture, the living Torah. Or: "It has been told you, O mortal, what is good, and what the Lord your God does demand of you," which points to our tradition's passion for justice and righteousness. But, to me, the most spiritual, and at the same time, the most bone chilling words I have seen inscribed above an ark are these: "Da lifnei mi attah omeid -- Know before whom you stand."

Know before whom you stand. For when you do you will know... there is no place else to go. There is no place it is more important to be. You can run. But you can not hide.

Very often, the Torah will provide us with an extra incentive to fulfill a commandment, an additional clause following the instruction to us, which tells us why we should do something, or what will happen to us if we do it -- or if we do not. These added words are called motive clauses. One of the most controversial motive clauses in the entire Torah occurs just a few verses away from the commandment to return lost property. "When you come upon a bird's nest, with fledglings or eggs, and the mother bird in it at the same time, chase away the mother bird, before taking the fledgling or the egg." Why? The reason we are given focuses on the result that will happen to us. Do this, "in order that you may fare well, and have a long life." That phrase is perhaps the most disturbing incentive, the most controversial motive clause in the whole Torah, worth several sermons on those twelve words alone. But that is a rare motive clause. By far the most common incentive, the most common reason given to follow a particular commandment, are these words: "Ani Adonai Eloheichem." Do such and such; I am Adonai your God!" Look, you can cheat in business. You can have dishonest weights and measures, and your customers might never know it. You might curse the deaf, and they would never hear it. You could keep the wages of a day laborer with you until the next morning, for they are weak, and cannot do anything about it. You can give NASA the wrong mirror for the Hubble space telescope, or cut corners on hurricane inspired building codes in South Florida, or walk away from a restaurant when the change is wrong in your favor, or try on clothes you have absolutely no intention of buying, as a struggling salesperson working on commission loses several real customers while attending to your whim. But you will know. And God will know. You can do many things. But you can't do something wrong and not be called to account... somehow. Somewhere. For you can not hide.

The very first question God is said to have asked any human being is a rhetorical one. The question was this. Adam. "Ayecha?" Where are you? But the power of the question is in its existential impact. For it is clear from what follows. There is no doubt. God already knows the answer. Even if we do not.

Even if we do not. For the one we try to fool the most, the most common person we try to hide from, is ourself.

The time is here. The time is now. At the end of this week is Yom Kippur. And the hiding must end.

A difficult confession, a struggle to admit our weakness... we say of those who honestly delve into such contrition that they come forward with naked hearts. A revealing term. It implies vulnerability. Exposure. Openness. But we must uncover our lies, even to ourselves, to recover ourselves. To be whole again.

"Ashamnu. Bagadnu. Gazalnu. We are guilty. We have acted treacherously. We have stolen. We are arrogant, bigoted and cynical." The vidui, the confessional prayers of Yom Kippur. Every year we read the same list. Every year we say the same things. We say all of these things out loud. In public. And in plural. Even when -- look, I know sometimes we have a bad year. But even in a bad year, we haven't done all of these things. (And, as an aside: shouldn't we replace the x-sin. In Reform synagogues we recite an alphabetical acrostic of sin, first in Hebrew, and then in English. The x-sin listed in the Reform movement's High Holy Day prayerbook is "xenophobia." That's a pretty bad one, but, you know, if we want to hit something more people have done, wouldn't illegal Xeroxing be a better choice?) So why do we say them all?

It has to do with the psychology of the human spirit. Some traditions treat confession differently. It is private, and individual. It is sacred -- but it is sealed in silence.

Our rabbis took the same question -- how do we get people to take a really honest look at themselves, to look inside, and hide no more -- and they approached it differently. They thought that, for all of us, if we stand up, if we recite the whole list together, if we say the words out loud, but with no one looking at anyone else, if we are not singled out, but supported by the voices of a full community while looking in our own souls, that in that moment it might actually be easier to be completely honest with ourselves than if we were the only one talking. It is a wise strategy, if an ironic one, that during the one service of the year with the biggest attendance, surrounded by the largest number of other people, we might be able to find ourselves. To hide no more. And begin to heal.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are!" They are the words that end a round of hide and seek, when the hiding is so well done, the seeker so frustrated, or dinner on the table. But they are also the words of a last chance. Of a game that is almost over.

Abraham Joshua Heschel wrote that hide and seek is not just a children's game. It is also for adults. For adults, and for a higher authority than the United States government. But we don't play it right. For when God calls for us, we do not always emerge. And at troubled times, when God is hiding, we are not always willing to seek.

"Ole, Ole in come free." I'm not sure... but I think the phrase from a children's game means that all who are hiding can come in now, without a penalty. Without shame or embarrassment. A limited time offer.

The High Holy Days are also a limited time offer. To uncover, discover and recover. To turn, and return. To come back. To come home. To come here.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are!" May we provide a place we can call a spiritual home. Where we are supported with enough love to ask hard questions of ourselves. And where no body has to hide.

L'shanah Tovah. .