Springtime Hope on Rodeo Shabbat
Sermon, Parshat Tetzaveh 5784 Rabbi Sam Cohon
It’s Rodeo Shabbat, so naturally we must begin with some Jewish cowboy jokes. Three guys are sitting next to each other on a plane flying out of Texas: two big guys with big cowboy hats and a little old Jewish man with a little cowboy hat. They get to talking and one of the big fellas says, “Boys, I own a spread. Thousand acres, thousand head of cattle. My name is Hoot, and I call it the Big H.”
The other big fella says, “That’s nothin’. I’ve got a spread, too. Ten thousand acres. Ten thousand head of cattle. My name is Luke. I call it the Big L.”
The little old Jewish man says, “That’s very nice. I only own a hundred acres, and I got no cattle. My name is Yitz.”
Both big guys scoff, and Luke says, “Oh yeah, Yitz? So just what do you call your spread?”
And Yitz answers, “Downtown Dallas.”
Or this one: Outlaws attack a stagecoach and kill everyone but one terrified Jewish guy. They say, “Look we got the strongbox, but we’re not going to kill you because we need you to be the lookout while we drive the stagecoach. This is Apache territory, and there are Indians here. So, you sit up top on the coach, take this rifle, and if you see an Indian, you tell us and when we tell you, you shoot the Indian!” The Jewish guy says, “Oy, vey” but what choice does he have? So, he takes the rifle and sits on the stagecoach as it bounces along and the outlaws call out, “Do you see any Indians?” and he says no, no Indians.
A little while later they call out again and say, “Do you see any Indians?” and he says, “Yes, way up ahead, I see an Indian up on that ridge, he’s this big.” And the outlaws say, “OK, wait, when we tell you, you shoot the Indian.”
A while later they call out again and say, “Do you see the Indian?” and he says, “Yes, up ahead, I see the Indian, he’s this big now.” And the outlaws say, “OK, wait, when we tell you, you shoot the Indian.”
A bit later they call out again and say, “Do you see the Indian?” and he says, “Yes, I see the Indian, now he’s this big.” And the outlaws say, “OK, wait, when we tell you, you shoot the Indian.”
Finally, they come around a corner and there he is, the Indian, he’s big as life, he’s huge! And the outlaws say, “OK, NOW, NOW! Shoot the Indian?”
And the Jewish guys says, “How can I shoot him, I’ve known him since he was this big!”
OK, so while sometimes here in the southwest we can get a little testy about the stereotypes of deserts and cowboys, of cactus and overgrown cowtowns that are foisted upon us, occasionally we actually seek out and embrace those stereotypes. And this is one of those times. How do you say Yipee ki yay in Yiddish? Yipee oy vey?
Look, when you live in the heart of the west, not far from Tombstone in what was Apache country not much over a century ago, rodeo weekend is still, at least superficially, a pretty big deal.
In fact, the last act of the famous shootout at the OK Corral took place right here in the Tucson railyards when legendary OK Corral gunslinger and lawman Wyatt Earp gunned down the last of the gang that killed his brother.
Wyatt Earp’s common-law wife—well, his last one, anyway—was a Jewish woman named Josephine Marcus, who was originally from San Francisco, and whom he met in Tombstone; she was called Sadie and she was quite a looker. They ended up being together for 46 years. And although you might not immediately associate Jews and cowboys, there were quite a number of prominent Jews in the old west. There were many peddlers and merchants, but there were Jewish mayors of Tucson; Charles Moses Strauss, who was a prominent merchant in Memphis—he opposed Ulysses Grant for President because of Grant’s Order expelling the Jews from his district during the Civil War. Strauss moved to Tucson in 1880 for his health—a year before the shootout at the OK Corral—and was elected mayor in 1883. He built the City Hall, and was part of a council that met with and negotiated with Geronimo in 1886. He also helped found the University of Arizona in 1887.
And there were even Jewish sheriffs and Jewish outlaws. If you aren’t sure of that, go and visit Boot Hill’s Jewish cemetery in Tombstone itself; it’s not far from the main Boot Hill in Tombstone, where the victims of the OK Corral shootout are theoretically buried among other outlaws, and it has its own unique Jewish character and both prominent Tombstone Jewish citizens and some clearly Jewish outlaws buried there, too.
And of course, in addition to the west’s more colorful characters, there were Jewish merchants, including some of my own ancestors, the Reinharts, who had a store in the Gold Country near Auburn, California. They sold various items including dungaree trousers there, especially the newly invented ones produced by a German Jewish entrepreneur named Levi Strauss. I’m pretty sure some people still wear that brand.
Levi Strauss, a Jewish immigrant from Bavaria first came to the gold country in 1850. He didn’t succeed in prospecting for gold, but he did succeed in co-inventing the denims that sat on all those saddles that blazed through the Wild West. He and his partner, another Jewish tailor named Jacob Davis, who patented the rivets that hold on the pockets, made Levi’s the preferred pants of cowboy set.
In any case, I hope you are all enjoying this Rodeo Shabbat celebration of our superficial western-ness. To me, Rodeo is a sign that spring has sprung here in Tucson, that we are ready to embrace a season of pleasant warmth and natural growth. And I must note that this year we are going to enjoy our usual excellent spring weather.
It reminds of our first Rodeo Shabbat as a congregation when we had our Rodeo Shabbat horseback ride and service, as we did for several years. It actually snowed the day before, and we had a magnificent panorama of white spread out around us as we rode along. That made the Fireball Cinnamon whiskey at the kiddush after the Minchah service and ride all the more pleasurable…
Spring is, of course, the time when life seems new, fresh, dreamlike; in short, washed in the pastel shades of hope. Now, while Rodeo is one signal of the arrival of hope-filled spring, there was another crucial one this very day. Baseball spring training has officially begun, and with spring training comes the eternal rebirth of hope that is always associated with that blessed arrival.
Baseball spring training camps are filled with 21 year old lefthanders dreaming of the big time and 40 year old relievers coming off arm surgery and hoping for one more shot. Spring is the time when, for a few brief shining weeks, every youngster is a prospect, and every veteran is a star. They say the marriage is the triumph of hope over experience, but I think it’s really spring training baseball that matches that description.
At the beginning of spring everyone is healthy and happy and poised to flourish. And of course, every team has an excellent chance to win the World Series. We know that over the long course of the season some of these predictions will vanish in the heat of summer, but hope springs eternal in the human being in this season, and that’s something we all need. And baseball’s spring training is hope wrapped up in sunshine and flowers.
And we need hope. We live, in a way, for hope: the hope and promise of joyous occasions, of simchas like the birth of new babies, like the pleasant notion that life will get only better, that things are improving. Hope gets us through days of trial and pain, of which we Jews have had too many the last four months, and makes us accept that here in our own world there is the promise of blessing and goodness even when they are invisible.
And springtime hope is more than just the dreams and prayers of well-paid and semi-amateur athletes.
Now on the subject of hope, I have to share an important message from this week’s Torah portion of Tetzaveh. It comes when God, through Moses, instructs the Israelites to light a ner tamid, an eternal light that will be kept burning in the Tabernacle, the first temple of our people, at all times. As long as the people of Israel continue to keep that light burning God will be present, the Shechinah will dwell among us.
If you have ever kept a fire burning around the clock—say, a campfire or bonfire, or for heat on a cold winter’s night—you know just how much fuel you need to do it. You are always either stoking it or bringing in more wood for it to burn. If neglected for any length of time it will burn out.
The Ner Tamid was not just a symbol, but a process, requiring regular care and feeding to flourish.
That is, that if we could—can—keep that light burning, that light of hope, and if work and cherish that dream and not only preserve it but nurture it with love and support and care, well, we can in fact accomplish anything.
What is that famous Kevin Costner movie phrase, set in Iowa, embodied in the baseball midsummer classic held each year now? If you build it, He will come? Well, you could actually say, if you keep that fire burning, if you make sure that Ner Tamid is truly continual and eternal, well, God will be with you.It’s a promise of hope.
That’s truly hopeful, of course, not just a field of dreams, but a temple of them. Remember, this wild west was once a wilderness, too. And it was hope, and hard work, and dedication and commitment that transformed it into a place of growth and goodness where all flourish today.
On this springtime Shabbat of Rodeo and Tetzaveh, may we all find ways to keep our light burning brightly, to renew our own hopes, and bring about our dreams.