"Humanizing The Robot in My House"

This has been the summer of meltdowns. 116 degrees…that’s what the thermometer read in the Valley just a week and a half ago. Eight straight days of triple digit temperatures. Those of us who were in town during that eerie heat wave are still trying to recover. And despite the way it may feel right now, we will recover from it. Unfortunately, not all of this past summer’s meltdowns can be remedied by simply turning an air conditioner on or having a cold drink.

It is the news of a different meltdown that has filled the headlines this summer, specifically because it does not appear that it will be remedied anytime soon. This meltdown has attracted much attention in my home – and, no, I am not talking about the meltdowns that actually happen in my home, choreographed by a one year old and his four year old brother! Meltdowns, they are. Newsworthy, they’re not. But with the future of those two young boys always on my mind, I, like many of you, have my eyes fixed on the stock market. And for good reason. This summer has been a wild ride on Wall Street – meltdown after meltdown after meltdown. The primary cause for this financial roller coaster ride, as we’ve been told, has been the sub-prime mortgage industry.

Here’s the good news…in recent years, mortgage companies made owning a home a reality for millions of Americans who, before this time, could not afford to do so. No cash for a down payment? Not a problem. Monthly payments hopelessly out of reach? Not anymore. These loans reduced mortgage payments to all-time-low levels. In record numbers, people began to own homes. It seemed almost too good to be true!

Turns out…it was. So here’s the bad news…Late last spring, the interest rates on these variable loans began to skyrocket. The very individuals who were only in the housing market because of sub-prime loans, were the ones who would never be able to afford the new terms. By the time this sub-prime mortgage situation was deemed a ‘crisis,’ it became clear that for those millions of homeowners, the financial machine that made this so-called American dream appear to come true, was just that – a machine. And much like it happens with the meltdowns in my own home, it did not take long before the debate about who was to blame began.

One side argues that the blame falls upon the people who took the loans. They made financial commitments that they could not fulfill. Others argue that the blame falls upon the sub-prime mortgage industry and on Wall Street as a whole. Financial analyst for the New York Times, Gretchen Morgenson, describes it as “financial engineering.”

According to Morgenson, financial engineering requires a ‘dehumanizing’ of the people who are borrowing the money. “Wall Street has come up with this wonderful system of packaging mortgages into big, huge pools of thousands of mortgages.” she said, “Slicing them up, cutting them up, and selling them to investors.” In an unprecedented way, the process of coming to own a home has become mechanized. More than ever, it is about buying and selling and measuring profit margins. Less than ever, it is about building lives and creating homes. Less than ever it is about human beings and human connections.

There was another meltdown this summer – one that most of us missed while we were sweating out the high temperatures and the stock market fiasco. It was the meltdown of “Mertz.” Now, who, you may ask, is Mertz? Are we talking about Fred and Ethel Mertz? Some new crisis on “I Love Lucy?” Or maybe Mertz is a character in the last installment of Harry Potter? No. Mertz is a cutting-edge project of graduate students at MIT. Mertz is what is known as a sociable robot. Like many other robots, it has a metal head on a flexible neck, and it comes loaded with a human-sounding voice, large eyes and eyebrows that appear to respond empathetically to input from people. But unlike your average robot or the computer that we may have in our own homes, Mertz and other sociable robots of this sort, are not programmed with some finite amount of information. Instead, these sociable robots evolve much as humans do – by using their senses to have experiences and their experiences to learn. While humans learn by seeing and touching and smelling, though, these robots “learn” through video cameras and gyroscopes and key words.

Perhaps you learned about this particular robot when it was the cover story of the New York Times Magazine back in July. Robin Marantz Henig, the author of the story, encountered Mertz on an off-day - it was on the fritz – having a meltdown. Instead of looking directly at her and initiating conversation as it was commanded to do, Mertz blurted out a stream of disconnected statements: “You are too far away.” “Please teach me some colors.” “You are too far away.” And what Henig saw was evidence that, no matter how evolved and human-like our computer, robotic and technological world becomes, it will continue to fall short in articulating the answers about life’s real, tough, human questions – questions about what it will take for each one of us, during this new year, to come closer to others. Put simply, what distinguishes us from the most advanced robots is that we have the capacity to connect. Regardless of how evolved Mertz and its so-called ‘peers’ become, it is they who will always be “too far away.”

If we want to be closer, the logical place to start is at home. Bayit. In Hebrew, it is just one small word. One of the things that I love about the Hebrew language is that there are no such things as simple words. A word not only describes an object or action, but an entire values system. Bayit is a prime example of this. Most commonly translated, it is a house, made of bricks and mortar. It is a beit Tefillah, a house of prayer or a beit Midrash, a house of study. But in Hebrew, Bayit is not only a house, a physical object. It is also a home – filled, we hope, with feelings of comfort, safety and love - a place where what we value most is lived. And in this day and age, when the money-lending crisis has created such anxiety about the financial realities of home ownership, perhaps we should be equally concerned about what it will take, beyond money, for us truly to “own” our homes – not just because we’re current on our mortgage, but because we’re current on the human capital that exists between us.

We began our service this morning much like we do any morning service -- with the words of the Midianite prophet Balaam, who was called upon by Balak, the Midianite king, to curse the Israelites. When Balaam came upon the Israelites, camped in the wilderness along their path to the Promised Land, he was unable to curse them because what he saw was good. According to Rashi, the great Medieval commentator, the good that Balaam saw was the fact that the Israelites’ tents were grouped together in community, yet their tent flaps faced away from one another. All along their path, our ancestors built a closely connected community that always allowed for each individual family to maintain a semblance of intimacy. “Mah tovu ohalecha Ya’akov, mishkenotecha Yisrael,” Balaam declared. “How lovely are your tents, O Jacob, your dwelling places, O Israel.” Balaam saw a community of Israelites who had created for themselves a bayit – a safe space, a peaceful place, that allowed each individual within it to be at ‘home.’ For them, it did not matter that these tents lacked the permanency of bricks and mortar. The connections that they made, both within the larger community and within their own families, became the foundation for creating and maintaing a sense of bayit. Balaam knew that what he saw was, indeed, worthy of blessing.

It turns out that our ancient sages found Balaam’s blessing to be so important that they inserted it into the liturgy of the morning service. Each new day, this Midianite prophet reminds us to step back and look at our homes, and to ask ourselves whether or not they are, actually, places of peace for each person who lives within them.

It is during these High Holy Days that Judaism obligates us to do something about it. Today, we enter the 10-day period between Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur. During these Yamim Noraim, these Days of Repentance, Judaism obligates us to reach out to those who are closest to us, whether they literally live under our roofs or not, and to take the risk of exposing ourselves, our flaws and our mistakes, for the sake of connecting. It is when we draw close and work to mend broken relationships that we create homes that are shalem – peaceful, whole.

Shalom Bayit, this core Jewish value, prioritizes creating and maintaining peace in the home. Although it is never named in the Torah, it is clearly one of our most fundamental precepts right from the very beginning of our biblical tradition. It goes straight back to Adam and Eve, whose very existence, we are taught, was for the express purpose of creating a home together. And it was clear that there would be no home – no Garden of Eden - unless there was intimacy. Yes, they needed physical intimacy. But it was the intimacy of the heart and soul that allowed them to transform their garden into a bayit.

The word – intimacy – it comes from the Latin, intima, meaning “inner” or “innermost.” This suggests that intimacy is ultimately created when we expose ourselves – deeply, to our innermost core – in order to bare the truest pieces of ourselves to our loved ones. Taking that risk – finding that vulnerability, mutually embraced – is what makes our most important relationships healthy and safe. It’s what makes a house into a home of shalom.

But as we all know, pursuing intimacy and creating a sense of shalom bayit is easier said than done. The challenges that we face are nothing new. In fact, the family dramas of our biblical ancestors make our own struggles look quite tame. The Book of Genesis is filled with examples of dysfunctional families, silenced by the task of turning their tents into homes. We need look no further than the horrifying story that we read just a few moments ago. Given the circumstances – the wood, the altar, the knife – we can understand how pursuing intimacy might have been a tall order. How could Isaac have even hoped to open himself to trusting his father? What might have been necessary to awaken Abraham to who his son was and what his needs were? How much courage would it have taken for Abraham to share his angst with Sarah, rather than leaving her in the dark? Amid all of that tension – that absence of peace – they walked for three days – three silent days – without even a single moment of honesty or intimacy. Not exactly a home that Balaam would have blessed.

I can’t help but wonder how we would read the story if it had been written to teach us by positive example, instead of negative. Imagine if someone – Abraham, the dad… Isaac, the son… Sarah, the silent mom – imagine if someone, anyone, had mustered the courage to expose themselves, as human beings, and speak a little truth about what was unfolding between them. What a different story – what a different legacy that would be.

In my role as a rabbi, I am often asked questions to which I do not know the answers. Thankfully, if five years in rabbinical school taught me anything, it was how to look things up! But I have learned that no matter how much I search, there is no page of Talmud or encyclopedia article that provides answers to the toughest human questions about how we can draw close and honestly “own” our homes.

Recently, I had a conversation with a father concerning his teenage son. “He seems so angry. I have always done whatever I could to take care of him, to get him what he needed. I only want what’s best for him.” It turns out that, for years, his son has had a different idea of what he wants, of what he needs and of what is best for him, and he feels like his parents are just not interested. Now, it is he who is not interested in much that his parents have to say. “I want to talk to him,” the father tells me, sadly, “But I am afraid. I am afraid to talk to my own son.” Take away the wood, the altar and the knife, and it’s not too hard to feel ourselves taking that silent three-day walk to Mount Moriah .

At one point in our lives, each of us has been a child. And whether we can relate to the experience of this teenage boy or not, I doubt that the challenges that come with trying to do right by our parents are foreign to any of us. The Book of Exodus teaches, “Honor your father and mother” (20:12). Leviticus instructs, “Each person shall revere his parents” (19:3). In looking at these two verses, the ancient rabbis of the Talmud taught that whereas honoring parents has to do with providing them with physical and material needs, revering them has to do with caring for them emotionally – maintaining a sensitivity to their place, and to ours.

And, so, when a congregant in her fifties comes to tell me that she is tormented because every day, the task of caring for her aging parents both physically and emotionally is taking its toll on her, there are no simple answers. She is being pulled from both ends, busy caring for her children and her parents at the same time. Resentment is slowly replacing reverence, and she feels terribly about it. If only she could find the courage to choose intimacy… to tell her parents how she felt… there would be a chance for their house to become home once again.

In the big picture, the fractures often start small. Off-handed comments not considered, phone calls not returned, forgetting a date that was important to a loved one. Despite their seeming insignificance at the time, we know that without the proper care, these small breaks never seem to heal. Unattended over time, they worsen and create obstacles to real, human connection. They can, and too often do, lead to abuse, either of the physical or the emotional kind. Sadly, this cycle of wearing down the foundations of relationships over time occurs most with the people who mean the very most to us – the people who share our homes.

I will admit that I often struggle to act in accordance with my values. My guess is that I am in good company. When I come home after a long day, my mind is frequently filled with temple matters and toddler meltdowns. And without a moment’s thought, I find myself shutting down at the very moment when there is an opportunity to connect standing right next to me. When I stop to think about it, I know that closing myself off from my loved ones only puts stress on my own intimate relationships. I know that I have a partner with whom I have chosen to share my life. But when I get busy with the tasks of living that life, it is he who suffers the most. If only I could remain mindful, even when on ‘autopilot,’ I could build my home. We all could.

Isolated parents who cannot reach their children. Alienated adult children who are overtaxed and worn down. Disconnected life partners. We spend our days answering the ever-increasing demands of jobs, errands, relationships with peers, financial planning, traffic jams…there is so much outside of our homes that fills our days. Too often, it feels as if we have nothing left for the very people who are part of our bayit. And so we distance ourselves. It seems easier, more economical. But the cost is actually quite high. We stand to lose our homes – at the very least, we stand to lose what matters most in them – if the emotional mortgage comes due, and we’re unable or unwilling to pay.

Shalom, peace, wholeness. It is a lofty goal that may seem out of reach. But when forgiveness is possible, and we seek it from those in our homes whom we have hurt…or when we forgive those who have made us less than whole, we distinguish ourselves from machines. We become b’nei adam – human beings who, like the original Adam, give, risk, work to bring intimacy in our relationships.

“Bakesh shalom v’rodfehu,” the psalmist says, “Seek peace and pursue it.” The great 20^th century Jewish thinker, Martin Buber, was one in a long line of commentators who questioned why the text would bother to use both verbs with regard to the notion of peace – ‘seek it’ and ‘pursue it.’ His explanation gives an order to the process of building peace. “Once a man has made peace within himself,” Buber said, “He will be able to make peace in the whole world.”

It makes a whole lot of sense. But when Buber interpreted the psalm, he must not have had this season in mind. We need to seek wholeness in ourselves, yes. But before we can hope to make the whole world whole, each one of us needs to make our own, personal mortgage payments. This morning, our task is to take an accounting of our souls – to look deeply within to see the hard, often scary, and always personal work that needs to be done so that we can draw close to our loved ones. This afternoon…and this evening…and throughout these High Holy Days…our task is to do just that. Now is the time for each of us to be bold enough to seek out our loved ones and pursue intimacy in our homes.

No matter how much it evolves, Mertz will never know the trepidation that comes with reaching out to loved ones who have, for one reason or another, become distant. Mertz will also never know the joy of being truly intimate with those we care about.

In the wake of this summer’s sub-prime mortgage meltdown, millions of people are left struggling to find a house to call their own. But many millions more – us, among them – are struggling to find a bayit – a home – to call their own. Shouldn’t that struggle be every bit as urgent to us?

We may be fortunate enough to have a roof over our heads. But we still face the risk of ‘homelessness’ – living without a solid foundation of shalom bayit.

As we enter this new year, 5768, may we each find the strength to discover that peace within… and the courage to extend it to those who await our love. Mah tovu ohalekha Ya’akov, how good our homes can be.

Cain y’hi ratzon, may it be God’s will.