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Changing the Way We See Ourselves (Rosh Hashanah 5769, Day One)

“Good night sweet prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!”

These famous words, spoken near the end of Hamlet, were whispered softly by the actor playing Horatio. Just a few minutes later, the curtain on this production came to a close, and the audience responded with enthusiastic applause; some were crying as well. The actors stepped forward, one by one, each taking a bow, each filled with an incredible sense of accomplishment.

But this production did not take place on a stage, or in a theater. It took place in a cafeteria, on a bare concrete floor. Sinks and tables were pushed up against the walls; the curtain was made of blankets sewn together, and the small audience sat on hard wooden chairs. There was no special lighting, no special effects – just the bare bulbs in the ceiling, and the light that came in through the barred windows.

For this production of Hamlet was performed in a prison – a maximum security prison. The director was a volunteer from a near-by university; the audience was made up of family members, guards, and prison officials. And the actors? They were white and black and Hispanic; some were huge men, while others were thin and frail; they came from a wide variety of backgrounds; some were poorly educated. But they all shared one thing in common: they were all convicted murderers.

Murderers, who rehearsed together for almost a year without incident; murderers, who listened carefully and respectfully to the instructions of the tiny, soft spoken woman who directed them; murderers, who found themselves utterly and profoundly changed by the play.

I first heard about this unique production of Hamlet from a radio program called “This American Life,” with Ira Glass. I am sure that many of you have listened to this program. This particular chapter was entitled “Act V”, and told the story of these men behind bars, and of how the Danish prince affected all of their lives.

At first, the idea of producing a play using prisoners in a maximum security prison seemed absurd. These men knew nothing about theater, or acting; they were all violent criminals. Some of them had spent the majority of their lives in and out of prison. Some of them had spent time in solitary confinement, due to continuing violence. Some of them could barely read above a second grade level. How could they rehearse together, work together, when all they had known were tense and violent interactions? And how could they read, let alone understand, the complex words of Shakespeare’s greatest play?

But the director, guided by her vision of the transformative nature of theater, persisted, and with the support and cooperation of the prison warden, rehearsals for Hamlet began. The minor roles were filled, with inmates even agreeing to play the roles of Hamlet’s mother and sister. King Claudius was cast, as was Horatio. And there were not one but two Hamlets, who would alternate during the rehearsals and the performances. It was a cast unlike any other. Some had killed a wife or a girlfriend in a “crime of passion;” others had killed a guard or a bystander during a robbery; still others had killed over drugs. Everyone in the cast, from the smallest role to Hamlet himself, had taken the life of another human being.

And as the weeks and then months went by, as the weekly rehearsal in the cafeteria progressed, both the director and the prison officials began to notice changes in these men. The violent trouble makers among the cast were no longer causing trouble; time spent in solitary confinement and other punishments began to decrease, and then ceased all together. There was a greater level of cooperation, in all areas of prison life. With each passing month, they treated the director with greater courtesy and respect. The inmates in the play were constantly reading Hamlet in their cells, over and over, learning their lines; some were observed quietly reading to another, helping those who could not read the play themselves. In the courtyard, during breaks or workouts, instead of causing fights as before, the cast members would gather in a corner, and rehearse scenes together. The behavior of these men, these killers, had changed.

But more importantly, what preceded these changes in behavior, what came first, was a much deeper, much more profound change within the men themselves.

The inmates in the play spoke of how they began to see themselves differently over the course of that year of rehearsals. Many felt a greater sense of confidence, emboldened by being able to understand and recite the complex speeches of Shakespeare. Others spoke of an awakening of a love of reading, having never experienced it before. A few realized that they were not so stupid or slow, as they had always been told, but just needed a little extra time and patience in order to learn. Some spoke of the liberation of expressing emotions on the stage that they could never express in real life. They had all discovered something positive, something they didn’t know existed; they had all discovered something good and worthy within themselves.

But it was the men who played King Claudius and Hamlet who felt the greatest transformation. In the king’s refusal to admit to his crime, in his inability to confront the horrible truth and consequences of his actions, the inmate who played Claudius saw himself. The guilt of Claudius made this man confront his own guilt and his own crimes. He began to realize, for the first time, the terrible impact his actions had had on the lives of others. For the first time, this man felt deep remorse, and true regret, for his crimes. And for the first time, this man realized that he had the capacity to feel compassion.

For the two inmates who played Hamlet, the impact was even greater. The gut-wrenching, soul-tearing introspection by Hamlet, his inability to act, to discern the right course of action, his internal debate between justice and revenge, all caused an equally gut-wrenching, soul-tearing experience for these men. Both of these men had committed one time, sudden “crimes of passion.” They asked themselves: Why hadn’t I deliberated, like Hamlet, before I acted? If I had taken the time to agonize over my actions, as Hamlet did, would those actions still have occurred?”

Through Hamlet’s words of agony, they experienced their own agony over what they had done. By playing the tragic prince, they recognized their own tragedies, caused by their own hands. And they came to realize that they had the capacity to atone, to control their anger, to act differently, and deliberately; they realized that they could change their lives.

The words of Hamlet changed all the inmates involved. Being in the play changed the way they saw their past, and, more importantly, it changed the way they saw themselves. They knew that they could never find full redemption for their crimes; they knew that they could never fully repair the damage they had done. But they also discovered that they could do something, could be something, something else, than the criminals they had been in the past.

One man, once considered almost illiterate, is now a constant presence in the prison library. Another man is completing computer courses, in the hope of finding decent employment when he is released several years from now. Other inmates, who will never be released, are having a positive influence inside the prison, helping to keep the peace, and serving as mentors to new or younger inmates. They have all written letters of apology, letters of atonement, letters asking for forgiveness, to both their families and to the families of their victims. And they all continue to read and study the works of William Shakespeare behind their prison walls.

I share this story of Hamlet and these inmates with you today, on this first day of Rosh Hashanah, because it beautifully illustrates one of the critical truths about these days of reflection and change: that before we can truly, and permanently change our behavior, we must first change the way we see ourselves.

These are the days of self-inspection, and self-reflection. These are the days when we must recognize and acknowledge our bad and sinful behavior. These are the days when we must pledge to change our behavior for the better. Our thoughts of repentance, of teshuvah, center around our deeds, our actions, and the changes we must make in them.

But if we want those changes in deed and in action to last more than a few weeks or months; if we want the resolve we feel today and tomorrow and on Yom Kippur to last; if we want changes in our behavior to be a genuine and permanent part of who we are, then we must first change the way we see ourselves.

Before we can make real and lasting changes in our behavior and in our actions, we first need to believe that we are able to change at all. We need to believe that our better selves can and will triumph over our baser feelings. We need to believe that we have the inner strength to stay true to our resolutions in the months to come. We need to believe that we have the capacity, that we have always had the capacity, to be just, and kind, and good. We need to believe that we really can be a better person that who we are right now.

How do we accomplish this? How do we find this faith in ourselves, this confidence, in our own ability to change?

We could stage a production of Hamlet, like the inmates of that prison. But that would surely take time, certainly more time than what we now have. For in just ten days, on Yom Kippur, we must stand before God with the changes we plan to make already engraved upon our hearts.

Instead, let us spend the next ten days remembering.

Let us remember each time during the past year when we made the right decision, even when it was difficult.

Let us remember each time during the past year when we extended our hand to help another, even when we weren’t asked.

Let us remember each time during the past year when we tried something new, and learned something new about ourselves in the process.

Let us remember each time during the past year when we resisted a temptation, and recall the pride we felt at our own inner strength.

Let us remember each time during the past year when we made someone smile.

Let us remember each and every time during the past year that we lived up to the highest vision of ourselves.

Let these memories fill us, wash over us, and renew us. Let them rebuild our confidence, and remind us of the inner strength we all possess. Let these memories help us recall our abilities and our righteous deeds. Let them remind us of the best parts of ourselves, of the good that we all hold within.

Let these memories change – truly change – the way we look at ourselves. And then, we will believe – we will believe, deep down in our heart, that we really do possess the ability to change what we do. We will believe, in our innermost self, that we really do possess the strength to change how we act. And we will believe, in the deepest part of ourselves, that we do possess the goodness to guide our way.

With this belief, with this renewed confidence, all changes in behavior become not only possible, but probable. By changing the way we see ourselves, we give ourselves the ability to change – truly change - the way we live.

This morning, we read about Hagar in the wilderness. Lost, thirsty, and filled with despair, she places her son Ishmael beneath the bushes, and walks away. She cannot bear to even look at him, but instead sits at a distance, gives up, and closes her eyes. But then, when all hope is seemingly lost, an angel calls to her. God opens her eyes, and suddenly Hagar sees the well. Encouraged, strengthened by this new vision, she acts – she changes her behavior. She gets up, goes to the well, fills her bag, gives water to her son, lifts him up, and takes him by the hand.

Yet surely the well of water had been there all along. Why was Hagar unable to see it before? When God opened Hagar’s eyes, God not only gave her a new vision of the well – God also gave Hagar a new vision of herself. God “opened her eyes,” and allowed her to see that she was capable of changing her actions, that she possessed the strength and the will. God “opened her eyes”, and enabled her to see that there was something positive within her, and within her son, worth saving. God “opened her eyes,” and in that one moment, Hagar changed the way she saw herself. Filled with that new vision, she was then able to change her actions, and save her son.

For the inmates of that prison, it was Hamlet that opened their eyes, and enabled them to see things they had never seen before. They opened their eyes, and saw within themselves guilt, remorse, and repentance; they opened their eyes, and saw within themselves the potential to learn and to grow; they opened their eyes, and saw within themselves the ability to change their lives.

On this day of Rosh Hashanah, with God’s help, may we all open our eyes. May we all open our eyes, and see our better selves, our stronger selves, those divine selves created in the image of God. May we all open our eyes, and change the way we see ourselves, so that we too can change our deeds, and change our lives.

“Good night sweet prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!” May flights of angels sing to us as well, as we look at ourselves, anew.