Kol Nidre: 40 Years After Woodstock
This is my friend Ron. Forty years ago, this past August, Ron was waiting tables over at the Swan Lake Resort and caught a ride just up the road to what was one of the greatest weekends he has ever known. Ron found himself just one in a host of half-a-million people, coming together in the name of peace and love. Everywhere Ron turned, there were friends. Friends Ron didn’t know until that weekend.
There was happiness. There wasn’t one iota of conflict. There wasn’t one word of hate. Strangers provided food and water—and quickly those strangers became soul-mates. There were medical tents and helicopter flyovers of supplies and rations. No one caused anyone grief. And even if there were some people who started acting territorially, they were quickly persuaded just to chill out. And they did.
On that Monday morning, with thousands of his brothers and sisters, Ron helped clean up the farm and attempted to restore the outdoor home he had inhabited to some sense of normalcy. Had it not been for that weekend, Ron would not have internalized the unwavering message of patience, love and tolerance, flying in the face of all who try to prevent it.
This is my friend Joy. Forty years ago, Joy was living in Manhattan, but made her way down from Sheffield, Massachusetts with some friends to join what she felt was just a gathering. Joy arrived and naturally she stayed in a friend’s tent. And though the mud is what drove Joy to leave the next day, Joy lived with people who had been kind to each other and were kind to her. No one minded if you came or left. And so, Joy’s close friend took her back to Sheffield when she was ready to leave. The journey, albeit short-lived, was part of the fabric of everything and everywhere Joy happened to be. The whole experience just seemed so normal for Joy, par for the course of living in that mindset. Why wouldn’t someone be open? Why wouldn’t someone be warm and caring and giving? You weren’t judged if you were there or if you were not there. In retrospect, the weekend, the event, was revolutionary. But for Joy, she didn’t know what she was walking into. And she didn’t know what she was walking out of.
40 years ago—last month. August 1969. The Woodstock Festival is widely regarded today as one of the greatest and most pivotal moments in popular music history. Rolling Stone magazine listed it on their list of 50 Moments That Changed the History of Rock and Roll.
It really doesn’t matter what we think about hippies or the ‘60s or war or peace or drugs or free love. Even if you were opposed to it, or what went on there, or perhaps you weren’t yet born or it wasn’t on your radar at all, we were each affected by Woodstock, and, maybe not in ways we notice, but we’re still affected by Woodstock every day.
Over half-a-million attended and hundreds of individuals saw to it that Woodstock went off without a hitch. But there was one man that, had it not been for him, Woodstock never would have even happened.
Both towns of Saugerties and Wallkill, New York, were initially slated to host Woodstock, but each got cold feet and declined to provide a venue for the festival. And as fate would have it, the festival organizers eventually were introduced to Jewish Dairy Farmer Max Yasgur in Bethel, New York.
Max was a conservative republican in favor of the Vietnam War. He was a thin 49-year old man, who wore glasses and had a heart condition. Max was not your “Woodstock type.” But he was inspired. Max said, “If the generation gap is to be closed, we older people have to do more than we have done.” “If we join them, we can turn those adversities that are the problems of America today into a hope for a brighter and more peaceful future.”
Max opened the door to hundreds of thousands. Max opened his home and workplace to the masses. Max was performing the mitzvah of giving hospitality to guests, hakhnasat orhim. And Woodstock took place at Max Yasgur’s Farm.
Our ancestor Abraham had a farm, too. “And Abraham raised his eyes, and he saw, and there three men standing upon him.” Vayisa Eynav, vayar, v’hineh sheloshah anashim, nitzavim alav. “And he saw and he ran to greet them from the entrance of the tent and he bowed to the ground.” Vayar, vayaratz likratam mipetah haohel, vayishtahu artzah. (Genesis 18:2)
Max broke into a run, too. Max was dumbfounded and outraged when heard that some local residents were selling water to people coming to the concert. Almost immediately, Max put up a huge sign with hurriedly stenciled letters at his big red barn on New York State Route 17B: “Free Water.” Max asked the question that no one cared to realize: “How can anyone ask money for water?” Max told all of his family and employees to take every empty milk bottle from the dairy plant and fill them with water. They gave them to the kids, and gave away all the milk and all of the milk products and food they had at the dairy—for free.
And there was Max and Avraham Avinu, our ancestor Abraham, one in the same, running to greet the strangers when he saw them and offer them a meal.
We, as human beings, need hospitality. And we need community. We live in a world that is far too treacherous to navigate alone. We need those around us to help add meaning to our lives. And we need brothers and sisters with whom we can celebrate and grieve.
And through those moments of grief and personal loss, many of us are unfortunately aware of Job’s poignant words: “God has given,” Adonai Natan, “And God has taken away,” V’Adonai Lakah (Job 1:21). But how many of us are astutely aware of his other assertions later in the book: “The stranger didn’t sleep in the street because I opened my doors to the traveler” – Bahutz lo-yalin ger, d’latai la’orah eftah (Job 31:32). Job’s righteousness was defined by his hospitality, by his performance of hakhnasat orhim.
Max’s righteousness was defined by his hospitality, by his performance of hakhnasat orhim.
Many of Max’s neighbors turned against him after the festival, protesting his company, and he was no longer welcome at the town general store. But Max never regretted his decision to allow the concert on his farm.
In 1971, Max Yasgur sold the 600-acre farm, and a year-and-a-half later he died in Florida of a heart attack at the age of 53. Max was given a full-page obituary in Rolling Stone magazine, one of the few non-musicians to receive such an honor. Hospitality at its purest. Unconditionally opened doors.
Unconditionally opened doors because that’s what it means to be part of a community, part of something real and important. We are each responsible for one another.
One of the main reasons people say they love Beth El is because they feel a sense of warmth and family here. But we have the potential and the need to be much warmer. Our beloved Beth El Synagogue has grown immensely over the past 85+ years, and as such a large community, many of us get lost. Many of us fall through the cracks. And we have not yet found the most successful way to make people feel entirely at home, to ensure that those doors are opened unconditionally.
Some of us are fortunate to have roots that are multiple generations deep here at Beth El. But look around you…not including your family, can you name every person in the seats in the row in front of you and behind you? Sure, you might recognize some of them, but have you ever shared more than a “Shabbat shalom” or a “how’s it going?”
With such a vibrant community, we are blessed with many transplants to the Twin Cities. How many of our “five-generationers” have shown the ropes to our newbies? And what about those members without family in town? Who welcomes them into their homes and into their lives and into their families? Like I said: we are warm, but have the potential to be much warmer.
I fear that far too many people have passed through Beth El over the years unnoticed and unembraced. And we need to seize the opportunity to make sure that this does not happen here anymore at Beth El.
The age-old, oft-repeated sermon that rabbis give yearly on Yom Kippur is “come to shul.” “Come back to services.” Well, I’m going to offer something a bit different. We learn from Rav Yehudah teaching in the Talmud in the name of Rav: gedolah hakhnasat orhin mehakabalat p’nei shekhinah – welcoming guests, offering hospitality, hakhnasat orhim, is greater than receiving the Shekhinah, the Divine Presence (Babylonian Talmud Tractate Shabbat 127a). Better to play host to each other and open up our homes than to come to shul and play host to God. Because, the truth is, when we open up our homes to our neighbors, we invite God in just the same.
Max Yasgur’s role 40 years ago with Woodstock should not only be an inspiration to us, but it is also the perfect parallel, for we’ve been here in this building for forty years now. Max was responsible for opening up Bethel, New York and we here this evening can be responsible for opening up Beth El Synagogue.
Tomorrow night, live on the Beth El Website, we are launching Linked In-Beth El. Our mission is simple: we plan to create connections within the Beth El community for both current members and those who seeking for ways to participate in the Beth El community. In short, we will facilitate the matching of hosts (those who do the inviting) and matches (individuals or families that would like to be matched).
Whether it is getting together for a Shabbat dinner at a host home, attending a service or synagogue program, or perhaps meeting at a park, a coffee shop, or the movies, Linked In-Beth El will help hosts and matches establish a strong social connection.
Following the incredibly successful model of Yad V’Lev, we know that this initiative under the direction of Riva Kupritz and Judie Liszt will organically form many warm ties within our community. If you are interested in participating, after Yom Kippur, please fill out the Linked In-Beth El participation questionnaire on the Beth El Website.
And so, this, my friends, is our charge: Go to each other’s homes. Open up your home and invite others in. Open up your lives and invite others in. Weekly, Monthly. If we couldn’t make a minyan at synagogue one day because there were hundreds of homes in our community teeming with people offering hospitality to each other, I would be more than pleased.
When Max opened up his farm, something that made him relatively uncomfortable, he changed the world, and he changed it for eternity. And on this eve of Yom Kippur, it is now our opportunity to change our world.
Kol Nidre Evening is the time for us to embrace a renewed sense of righteousness for the coming year. It is a time to recognize that we’ve been blessed with another year of life and another opportunity to seek renewal.
Forty years ago, Ron and Joy both found that renewal. Forty years later, if we really work as one, moving forward and looking ahead, I am certain that we, too, will each find that renewal, that righteousness and that warmth—together.
I’m not asking that we host a huge music concert or festival, nor that we open our doors wide to hundreds of thousands, but one open door can effect change forever. For one person. For one family. For the entire world. And it’s our turn here at Beth El to finally follow suit.
May we all find the inspiration in the coming year to open both our houses and our hearts, and may we all find the acceptance and place within our community for which we’ve been longing. Amen.
