Let’s Talk About It: A Drash on Suicide by Rabbi Steven

On March 24th, 2023, Mishkan participated in the Lakeview-wide Mental Health Shabbat. Rabbi Steven delivered a drash on breaking the silence around suicide in the Jewish community. Please be advised that this sermon contains discussion of suicide.
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This sermon is from our March 24th, 2023 Shabbat service at Second Unitarian Church. For upcoming Shabbat services and programs, check our event calendar, and see our Accessibility & Inclusion page for information about our venues. Follow us on Instagram and like us on Facebook for more updates.

Produced by Mishkan Chicago. Music composed, produced, and performed by Kalman Strauss.

Transcript

Transcript

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A quick note before I begin, that I will be touching on themes of
depression and suicide. There is space in the lobby that you’re
welcome to use, with folks to keep you company until I’m done
talking. Seth, our phenomenal rabbinic assistant who is also
training to be a social worker, is there too. There is no shame in
needing to step out – at any time.
The Book of Leviticus (which we begin reading this week) opens
with a description of the various sacrifices offered by the
Israelites. These offerings of meat, grain, oil, and incense were
less gifts for a demanding deity, and more a mode of maintaining
a kind of closeness between humankind and God. The visceral
nature of sacrifice – the blood, sweat, and smoke of these rituals
– was meant to provoke us both spiritually and physically. It was a
reminder, as we handed over our hard-earned offerings to the
priest, that we are connected to the source of creation: each of us
the impossible consequence of elements colliding over billions of
years. The Hebrew word for sacrifice, korban, is etymologically
linked to another word, karov - to draw close, to come near. And
standing just a few feet from the altar – reminded not only of our
origin but the origin of all things – we were called back into
intimate, immediate relationship with life itself.
And it is precisely for this reason – to reconnect us with the
source of life – that the various kinds of sacrifices were
prescribed. There was the peace offering for people who had
found that, in a time of uncertainty, they had persevered with
courage and integrity. There was the guilt offering for people who
had alienated themselves from society through theft or lies. There
was the sin offering for people who had committed various other

transgressions, including leading others to harm. There was the
burnt offering given by people who had experienced illness or
survived childbirth. Each of these individuals, whether through
their decisions or the decisions of others, had experienced doubt
– can I make it, do I belong, am I good, will I survive? – and in
that moment – afraid, vulnerable, or broken – are called, through
sacrifice, back into relationship with the very thing that affirms the
one, precious life we have been given (whether you call that thing
god or something else).
It was the responsibility of the individual to bring their sacrifice to
the altar – no one else could do it for them. But it also would have
been impossible for this to happen without community: the farmer
who harvested the grain, the shepherd who reared the sheep, the
woodcutter who gathered the logs and the attendant who kindled
the fire, the artisans who built the altar, the levites who carried it to
its appointed place, and the priests who anointed it. This sacred
moment of (re)connection was facilitated by countless individuals,
whether acquainted with the person coming to the altar or a
complete stranger to them. So yes, it was the responsibility of the
individual to bring their sacrifice – but it was also the responsibility
of the community to ensure that this could occur. As each person
placed their offering on the altar, they did it in the presence of
others – some there to celebrate, some there to mourn, some
there to give thanks, some there to make amends – who in their
coming provided witness for one another. No one stood in the
mishkan, that sacred gathering place, alone.
When we started Maggie’s Place six years ago, it came from the
recognition that the health and wellbeing of each individual should

be the responsibility of the entire community. You can find a lot of
what we offer at other synagogues: referral lists, support groups,
safe social spaces. But what sets us apart (and what I am so
proud of) is that Maggie’s Place makes explicit – through the
allocation of thought, time, and resources – that our physical and
psychological health is essential to our spiritual well being. It is an
extension of our stated mission of radical inclusivity: that Mishkan,
this sacred gathering place that we have built together, is not only
for our best selves – but our fearful selves, our vulnerable selves,
and our broken selves.

This is the blueprint for sacred community outlined in the Torah.
The rabbis explain that when the mishkan was finished, the
tablets bearing the ten commandments were placed in the ark:
the centerpiece of this incredible construction, the dwelling place
of God. Yet not only the whole tablets were contained in the ark –
but also the fragments of their predecessors, the tablets thrown to
the ground and broken by Moses when he witnessed the
Isrealites worshiping the Golden Calf. At the sacred center of the
mishkan, the very place where God’s presence was said to
reside, the tablets that were a symbol of our highest aspirations
and the tablets that reminded us of our faults were contained
– both welcome, both sacred.

You are welcome here, whole and broken – even when that
brokenness feels irreparable.
Sometimes that brokenness feels irreparable.

I want to take a moment to talk about suicide. I want to talk about
suicide because it is one of the leading causes of death in this
country regardless of age, ethnicity, religion, socio-economic
status, gender, or sexual identity. I want to talk about suicide
because it is more pronounced among individuals who have been
pushed to the margins of society, the very people that our tradition
calls us to protect: people who live in isolation, people who are
overworked and underpaid, people who have been subjected to
the violence of war, people who have been told that – because of
who they are or whom they love – that they are in some way
deviant or defective. I want to talk about suicide because it is here
with us in this room, a silent scar carried by survivors and the
loved ones of those who did not survive.

Suicide is an answer to the same questions that caused our
ancestors to doubt their ability and worth: can I make it, do I really
belong, am I good, will I survive? It is an affirmation of the
message that the world is better off without us, whether it’s
because that is what we’re hearing from others or whether it’s
because we feel like we’re a burden on those around us. Suicide
is a rupture with the value of our own existence.
I know this message, that the world is better off without us,
because at one point I believed it myself. And while it was up to
me to reconnect with my inherent worth and dignity, it took a
community to facilitate that journey. I owe the fact that I am alive
today to the mishkan, the sacred gathering place, that was built
around me by countless individuals: the mother who loved me,
the family who chose me, the friends who celebrated me, the
therapists who counseled me, the teachers who inspired me, the

mentors who believed in me. While it was my responsibility to
bring my korban, my offering of love for this one, precious life – it
could only happen because a community saw it as their
responsibility to ensure that this could occur.
Here is something I firmly believe (and our tradition believes as
well): if you are alive at this moment it is because you bring
something so desperately needed by the world that the universe
conspired you into being. Each of you is the consequence of
billions of years (4.6 billion for the formation of this solar system
alone) of cosmic dust ripping apart and colliding so that your life
could occur right here, right now – and if that is the case, it must
be because you (yes, you) are the only possible result of that
incredible celestial dance. Or as Rabbi Nachman taught: the day
you were born was the day that God decided the world could no
longer exist without you in it.
So how do we help each other remember and reconnect with the
miracle of our being alive? How do we build a mishkan that allows
us to bring our whole and our broken selves (back) into the
sacred center of community?
The Book of Leviticus begins with the line: Vayikra el-Moshe
vayidabeir Adonai eilav mei’ohel mo’eid leimor... And God called
to Moses, speaking to him from the tent that stood at the center of
the mishkan, saying to him. The rabbis are curious about the
three different words used for this dialogue: “Vayikra, vayidabeir,
leimor,” that is “God called, God spoke, God said.” Why use each
of these synonyms? Leviticus is largely concerned with teaching
the Israelites how to build a functioning society, with an emphasis

on ritual, law, and ethics. Yet the necessary precursor of
community is to enter relationship with one another – modeled
here by God and Moses. To call out when in need. To speak
words of comfort and care to one another. And to remain in
dialogue, through the words that we say and the actions that we
take.

To call out when in need. It is okay to ask for help, even if you
don’t know what kind of help you’re looking for. Remember
that, like the whole and broken tablets bundled together in the ark,
your broken self belongs in the center of sacred community just
as much as your whole self.
To speak words of comfort and care to one another. In a recent
training, I was exposed to the idea of observational language:
words that say I see you, without making an assumption about
what we’re seeing. I saw that you stood up during kaddish. I
noticed that you seem a bit down. I missed you at class the other
day. These are all ways of saying I see you, I care, and I’m here
to listen.

To remain in dialogue, through the words that we say and the
actions that we take. It is essential that we talk about suicide and
mental health. By continuing the conversation, as we are able,
together we can end the stigma that prevents so many from
seeking the help that they need. Give of yourselves, of your time,
of your resources to ensure that spaces like Maggie’s Place
remain an open and essential part of our community.

The Torah tells us that the mishkan was created when each of the
Israelites gave what they could give. Some brought the materials
for its construction. Some brought the skills required for its
assembly. Some brought the vision for its execution. Some
brought very little and some brought a lot, each according to their
ability – yet we’re told that every gift, big or small, was essential to
its creation. This mishkan, this sacred space, can only be created
when each of us shows up and recognizes that what we offer is
not only enough... it is good enough.
You – with the one, precious life you have been given – are good
enough.