This is the sermon I delivered on Rosh Hashanah at Congregation Neveh Shalom on September 12, 2026.

Last month, something monumental happened in Oakland, California, and I’m guessing you heard about it. Meta, the company that owns Facebook, Instagram, and WhatsApp, was being sued by a consortium of states. At the end of August, Meta agreed to a settlement of $17 billion. That may sound like a lot of money. It’s not. Last quarter alone, Meta made a net profit of $16 billion. But it’s enough to send a message, and enough for Meta to make some changes to how their social media platforms operate. 

Without getting too much into the weeds, the states alleged that Meta designed Facebook and Instagram to be addictive to children, knew the risks those platforms posed, and hid that information from the public. Meta denied the allegations, but as part of the settlement, agreed to changes including time limits and nighttime blocks for minors. In other words, the company is forcing its customers to stop, because apparently we aren’t very good at doing that ourselves. We’ll come back to this. 

I’ve spent a lot of my life in services, both pre- and post-ordination. Between the sermons I’ve heard and the ones I’ve delivered, they probably number in the thousands. There are two that have really stuck with me. The first was from Rabbi Shawn Fields-Meyer when I was in rabbinical school. She spoke about spending the High Holidays at her childhood synagogue counting the lightbulbs on the enormous chandelier that used to hang in this very sanctuary. Very relatable. Little did I know I would one day work here. 

The other was from Rabbi David Glickman, then at Shearith Israel in Dallas, who began a High Holiday sermon by thanking his congregation for the 54 days of sabbatical he had experienced that year. He took naps, learned, stayed present. We all loved that for him, until we remembered: he hadn’t taken a sabbatical. What was he talking about? 

There’s also a story told about Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, walking slowly home late on a Friday afternoon. A student hurried past him, anxious about everything still to be done before Shabbat. “Rabbi, why aren’t you rushing? There’s still so much to finish.” 

Heschel replied, “I am not finishing my work before Shabbat. I am entering Shabbat before my work is finished.” 

I keep coming back to that idea: entering Shabbat before the work is finished. Because when is our work ever finished? When have you answered every email, solved every problem, cared for every person, completed every task, worried every worry? If the prerequisite for rest is that the work is finished, we will never rest. Torah knows this about us. And so Torah does not suggest Shabbat. Torah commands it. 

זָכוֹר אֶת־יוֹם הַשַּׁבָּת לְקַדְּשׁוֹ — Zachor et yom haShabbat l’kadsho. “Remember the Sabbath day and keep it holy.” 

Not when it’s convenient. Not when the calendar clears. Every seventh day, whether we’re ready or not, Judaism tells us to stop. There is something incredibly powerful about belonging to a tradition that refuses to leave this decision entirely up to us, because left to ourselves, we’re not particularly good at stopping. 

We live in a culture that rewards the opposite: more productivity, more availability, more information, more consumption. We carry devices that allow anyone to reach us almost anywhere at almost any time, and then wonder why we feel as though we are never completely anywhere. We have confused accessibility with connection and activity with purpose. We have become extraordinarily good at filling time and increasingly unsure of how to sanctify it. 

Shabbat is Judaism’s answer, and Torah gives us two different reasons why. In Exodus, we read: כִּי שֵׁשֶׁת־יָמִים עָשָׂה ה׳ אֶת־הַשָּׁמַיִם וְאֶת־הָאָרֶץ… וַיָּנַח בַּיּוֹם הַשְּׁבִיעִי. “For in six days God made heaven and earth…and rested on the seventh day.” 

God creates, and then God stops creating. Surely there was more God could have done. Creation was hardly perfect. There was still chaos to order and possibility to unfold. Yet God stops. 

The first thing Shabbat teaches us is that stopping is part of creation, not a failure of it. We are creatures, not machines. There are limits to our bodies, our attention, our energy, even our capacity to care. Torah places limits at the very center of creation and calls them holy. 

But when Moses repeats the Ten Commandments in Deuteronomy, Torah changes the explanation: וְזָכַרְתָּ כִּי־עֶבֶד הָיִיתָ בְּאֶרֶץ מִצְרַיִם — V’zacharta ki eved hayita b’eretz Mitzrayim. “Remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt.” 

This time Shabbat has everything to do with freedom. A slave does not control their own time. Someone else decides when the work begins, when it ends, and what is enough. And so perhaps one of Torah’s most radical definitions of freedom is this: a free person can stop. That makes Shabbat more than rest. Shabbat is resistance. 

Every week, we declare that there are forces in this world that do not get unlimited claim upon us. Our jobs do not. Our possessions do not. Our phones do not. The news does not. Other people’s expectations do not. Even our own ambition does not. 

Pharaoh’s fundamental demand was: keep making bricks. Shabbat says: put the bricks down. Our personal Pharaohs rarely announce themselves as Pharaoh anymore. They arrive as opportunity, responsibility, productivity, urgency, even importance. They tell us that everything depends upon us and that stopping is somehow irresponsible. Judaism says otherwise. 

Isaiah takes us one step further. It’s not enough to refrain from work. Isaiah says: וְקָרָאתָ לַשַּׁבָּת עֹנֶג — V’karata laShabbat oneg. “Call Shabbat a delight.” 

How many of you came to at least one Shabbat on the Plaza? Wasn’t it delightful? Clearly, for us and for Jews everywhere, Shabbat requires that we do more than stop. It asks us to make room for something else. Maybe even Pickle Fest V. Or simply a conversation uninterrupted by a notification. A meal that isn’t rushed. Prayer. Singing. Walking outside and noticing what’s around you. Sitting beside another person without needing the interaction to accomplish anything. 

Shabbat asks: Who are you when you are not accomplishing something? During the week, the yachid, the individual, carries all sorts of roles: employee, parent, student, caregiver, leader. But Judaism never leaves us only with the yachid. Shabbat moves us toward yachad. 

We gather around tables and in sanctuaries. We sing in voices that sound better because they are joined to other voices. We linger at Kiddush. We walk. We talk. We notice the person we haven’t seen in a while. 

By creating time, Shabbat creates community. 

That feels especially important this year as we explore Yachid v’Yachad: Every “I” Strengthens Our “We.” We cannot build meaningful community entirely in the margins of overscheduled lives. Community requires time that is not optimized. It requires lingering. It requires showing up without immediately asking what comes next. 

So four times in this new year, we’ll try something together. We’ll spend all of Shabbat together. Instead of coming to services and immediately going home, we will pray, eat, learn, talk, play, walk, rest, and simply stay. 

Jewish communities have been doing this for thousands of years, so it shouldn’t feel revolutionary. And yet today, maybe it is. We’ve grown accustomed to treating time as something that must justify itself. Shabbat asks a different question: What did you experience? Whom did you encounter? What did you notice because, for once, you stayed? 

The rabbis of the Talmud teach in Berakhot that שַׁבָּת אֶחָד מִשִּׁשִּׁים לָעוֹלָם הַבָּא — Shabbat is one-sixtieth of the world to come. One-sixtieth isn’t much. The rabbis aren’t promising perfection every Saturday, probably because they understood Jewish families. They’re saying Shabbat gives us a taste: a world in which human worth is not determined by productivity, workers rest, families have time for one another, creation can breathe, and strangers become neighbors and neighbors become community. A world in which we put down our infinite-scroll machines and pick up each other. 

And this is where I think we sometimes misunderstand Shabbat. Shabbat is not a retreat from the world we’re obligated to repair. Shabbat is practice for the world we are obligated to create. 

We spend six days confronting what is broken. For one day, Judaism asks us to live, however imperfectly, as though wholeness were possible. Then we go back to work, responsibility, advocacy, caregiving, building, repairing. But hopefully we go back differently, because once we have tasted what the world could be, we become less willing to accept that the world as it is must remain that way. 

This is why I’m not making the case today that Shabbat is good self-care. Of course rest is good for us. I’m making a stronger claim: Shabbat is a Jewish obligation because without sacred limits, something essential in us is lost. We lose our ability to distinguish urgent from important. We lose time with the people we claim matter most. We lose connection to creation and community. Eventually, we can even lose ourselves. 

Judaism refuses to accept that as the price of living in the world. So it gives us Shabbat. Not when the work is finished. Right in the middle of the unfinished work. 

Which brings me back to Meta. After building technology designed to keep us scrolling, even Meta is now agreeing to limits: at certain times, for certain users, enough. Stop. Because continuing would not just be excessive. It would be harmful. Judaism has been insisting on this for thousands of years. Not because we’re children who can’t be trusted with our devices, but because we are human beings who sometimes need to be commanded to protect what matters most. 

And ten days from now, Judaism will command us to stop even more completely. Yom Kippur is שַׁבַּת שַׁבָּתוֹן — Shabbat Shabbaton, the Sabbath of Sabbaths. For one day, almost everything falls away. Work. Food. Consumption. Distraction. We stand before God and one another and confront some basic questions: Who have I been? Who am I becoming? What deserves the finite time of my life? Perhaps weekly Shabbat is practice for answering those questions. 

And so this Rosh HaShanah, I want to ask each of us to do more than admire the idea of Shabbat. Keep some Shabbat. Choose one act of sacred rest and guard it. Light candles and let them mark an actual transition in your week. Put away your phone for a meal. Take a walk without earbuds and notice the world God created. Come here and pray. Stay for Kiddush. Join us for one of our four full Shabbatot and experience what happens when a community decides that being together is itself worth our time. 

It does not need to be everything. But let it be something. Because zachor, remember Shabbat, is not nostalgia. Shamor, guard Shabbat, is not quaint tradition. They are commandments about the kind of human beings we refuse to stop becoming. Six days a week, there will always be another brick to make. But on the seventh day, put the brick down. 

Remember that you are part of creation. Remember that you are free. Remember that other people are more than interruptions to your schedule. Remember that this world is more than something to consume. Remember that you are more than what you produce. 

And then, when Shabbat ends, pick up the work again, not because Pharaoh commands it, but because you have chosen what is worthy of your labor. For one day, taste the world as it might yet be. And then spend the other six helping to build it. 

Shanah tovah. 

This is the sermon I delivered on the first day of Rosh Hashanah, October 3, 2024. The embedded video contains the full service; the sermon starts at 1:29:45.

When I’m working on a Rosh Hashanah sermon, I ask myself “What would I want to hear?” And I have to say, this year was a little bit more of a struggle than it usually is. Normally, I start off with a very basic concept of a sermon in late spring that marinates and coalesces over the early summer and feels pretty ready to share by September. This year, however, that was not the case.  

There’s no shortage of things to talk about in a year like we’ve had. Do I lean into politics? Tempting, but don’t worry, no. We have many other chances to discuss and listen, now is not that space. Do I talk about Israel? Again, calm your racing heart, no. I’m not sure there’s anything I could say in this particular season about Israel that I haven’t been saying for the last year.  

So what would I want to hear? Of all the possible topics, what has enough weight and importance this year? What’s something that our community and each of us individually could focus on, discuss, and act on as we work through the liturgy and actions of the days of awe and inspiration? 

What I kept coming back to was my cornerstone text Hillel’s own series of three clarifying questions. “If I am not for myself, who will be for me?”, “If I am only for myself, what am I?”, and “If not now, when?” 

In particular, I’ve been looking at this as the ways it relates to identity in a time when so much of who we are as Jewish people seems to be questioned and discussed. First, the version of self we present – in other words, what makes up the me that you see. Second, the version of me that’s biological – what literally makes up who I am. Third, the version of me that I feel deep down – what do I tap into to connect with myself and with others. 

Why three versions and three questions? Because we are doing too much dividing among each other and not enough dividing and examining of ourselves. More than anything else, I believe division is our number one threat today. Not long division, although that’s pretty menacing. I’m not looking forward to checking my kids’ homework when they get to long division. That’ll be Duncan’s job. No, our number one threat is thinking that not choosing sides is the equivalent of moral bankruptcy. We’ve been conditioned to think you have to have a side. You have to think this or that. And because I’ve chosen my side, I’m not going to listen to your opinion anymore. I’m only going to listen to the opinions that validate my side. I’m sure you’ve heard of this, it’s called confirmation bias.  

Which, if you think about it, is self-destruction. We are doing this to ourselves. I promised no politics, but think about some of the issues that are front and center in our politics time and again – climate, sensible gun laws, immigration. How many issues would we be that much closer to solving if politicians didn’t pick a right and a wrong? Or if you didn’t blindly click share on that Facebook post that got your attention without bothering to find out for yourself if there was any truth to it. There’s no quick fix to the things that are driving us apart. So instead of trying to face societal division head-on, I’m proposing that we divide our individual selves in order to possibly put us all back together again. That’s what the High Holidays are about anyway. Taking things apart and putting them back together each year, hoping to make some improvements as we do.  

To review, here’s how I’m dividing myself. There’s the self we outwardly present – let’s use a modern term and call that the “selfie.” There’s the self we are innately and biologically – let’s change the spelling a little and call that the “cellfie” – C-E-L-L. See how we did that? And there’s the self that connects us all through our humanity. Let’s call that the “soulfie.”  

Rabbi Hillel’s three questions match up pretty nicely to these three selves. He challenges us to consider our individual responsibility, our relationship with others, and the urgency of the present moment. Let’s explore these through the lens, so to speak, of the “selfie,” the “cellfie,” and the “soulfie.” 

First, the selfie. The version of us we have some control over, and the version that others see the most of. And if there’s any question as to the selfie’s legitimacy, this year is the 10th anniversary of the word “selfie” being recognized as a playable term in Scrabble. So happy Srabbleversary to “selfie.”  

It’s also an interesting expression of Hillel’s teaching, “If I am not for myself, who will be for me?” Hillel emphasizes self-advocacy and responsibility, and it’s revealed in how you present yourself, whether capturing a single moment in time, like an actual photo, or your sense of style or your social confidence. How do you define and assert who you are?  

At the same time, how do you acknowledge your worth and presence? Taking a selfie is taking the time to say, “I’m here, and I matter.” Hillel’s version of self-care is not a selfish act; it’s a necessary part of our well-being if we hope to put good back into the world. 

It’s also about taking control of our lives. I don’t believe that we should become absorbed or obsessed over what other people think of us, but there’s a healthy element of ownership in Hillel’s wisdom. The act of self-representation encourages us to be mindful and intentional about our presence and our actions. 

So if that’s the outward reflection, what about the inward? What about the C-E-L-L cellfie? Who am I at my core level, and what role, if any, should that play in how I lead my life? 

Let’s say the concept of cellfie with a C is our genetic makeup, which is a fundamental aspect of who we are and remains unchangeable. “If I am only for myself, what am I?” What am I? Of the three parts to Hillel’s teaching, this if-then makes the least sense to me. The “if” phrase supposes that I could be a person who has no regard whatsoever for my fellow human beings. And the second part questions whether I’m even human at all. What am I? As if I had some choice? As if my molecular construction were somehow up to me? 

Maybe it’s this very mortal “what” that Hillel is challenging us to look beyond. Charles Darwin’s cousin Sir Francis Galton, who first pitted nature against nurture, determined that nature was more important. We can’t change who we are. 

But as you just heard, almost two millennia before Sir Galton, Rabbi Hillel seemed to say, “No. We have a choice.” You can either be a part of a community or not. But I still think there’s some validity to the nature side of the argument. I’d suggest that it’s our very nature, our very cells, that carry within us the desire for connection. We divide, we pick sides, we war, but through all of that, we need each other, quite literally. Without that, what am I?  

The cellfie with a C represents a static and unchangeable part of ourselves, while Hillel’s wisdom emphasizes dynamic interaction. And that’s fine. Our true identity and purpose are found in the balance between self-awareness and altruism. Being aware of our inherited makeup doesn’t lead to self-centeredness. It should ground us, giving us the strength and clarity to contribute meaningfully to others’ lives. 

It’s simply an invitation to reflect on how we use our unique innate qualities and strengths in the world. Our genetic makeup and inherent traits are starting points. True significance comes from how we leverage these traits in service to others. 

By connecting the unchangeable, inherited aspects of our identity to Rabbi Hillel’s statement, we get a fuller picture of the human experience: one that values self-awareness but also recognizes the importance of our actions and relationships in defining who we are and what we contribute. 

Going back and forth like this sets us up perfectly for the last piece of the puzzle. What’s a soulfie? It’s a little play on words created by Rabbi Naomi Levy, just like cellfie with a C, but have you ever stopped to think about what your soul reflects? What would a picture of your soul look like? If you could somehow create a portrait of all the ways you’re lifted up and given strength. All the ways you find yourself. All of your joy and fulfillment. Have you ever stopped to consider what that might look like? And if you haven’t, why not? And if not now, when? Think about it now. Think about a snapshot of self-discovery or personal growth or well-being. 

I would hope that we all regularly have moments of soul fulfillment. But if you don’t reflect on them – if you don’t take a soulfie in the moment – how do you hold them and come back to them? Like they say, “soulfie or it didn’t happen.” Hillel’s call to action, “If not now, when?” is about more than the urgency of doing good. I think it’s about the urgency of remembering the good.  

We don’t know if a soul is something that exists beyond us. But we do know that we exist here and now, and the present moment is the most significant part of our journey toward self-realization. Fulfillment of your soul isn’t something that you can schedule on Google Calendar. There’s no Meetup or Facebook group. It’s you. Now. Finding ways in every moment you’re given to be the truest you. There will never be a convenient time. Hillel knew that 2,000 years ago. 

The question I’ll leave you with: What if you spent some time with yourself divided? Take a bunch of selfies, cellfies with a C, and soulfies, and see what’s reflected back. 

May we be for ourselves, recognizing our worth and advocating for our needs. May we look beyond ourselves, finding our true purpose in our connections and contributions to the world. And may we seize the present moment, nurturing our souls and finding joy in the here and now. 

Shanah tovah, and may this new year bring us closer to our truest selves and to the community we cherish. 

This is the sermon I delivered on the first day of Rosh Hashanah, September 16, 2023.

I’d like to let you in on a little secret, but you have to promise not to tell my children. I’m NOT perfect. I know, hard to believe, right? We tend to look to rabbis and teachers as modeling the things we aspire to, and while yes, I am a rabbi, I am also a human being, resplendent in all my imperfections.

Wow, that feels great to get off my chest! Let’s all try it.

Show of hands, how many of you are perfect?

As we’re now officially in the aseret y’mai teshuvah, the ten days of repentance, it’s refreshing to have that out in the open, isn’t it? Wouldn’t it be great if that was all there was to it? But in ten days, we’ll be back here for Yom Kippur, and there’s a lot of work to be done between now and then. The central piece of this work for me comes right after I finish speaking, so I might be up here for a while.

As much as I admire my own rabbinic teachers, I’m not in favor of the “rabbi on a pedestal” attitude. Which I realize is a strange thing to say as I’m literally up here on the bimah. I’m reminded of a line in one of my all-time favorite movies, Keeping the Faith. Ben Stiller and Edward Norton are best friends, one a rabbi, the other a Catholic priest. If you haven’t seen it, you can probably figure out who played who.

The movie is very funny, but also very rich in asking questions about what it is to be a faith leader and the complexities of being held to a higher standard in all aspects of life, when really, we’re all human, as you may remember from two minutes ago. Ben Stiller, as Rabbi Jake Schram, says “Jews want their rabbis to be the kind of Jews they don’t have the time to be.” And Father Brian Finn – Edward Norton – responds, “Yeah, and Catholics want their priests to be the kind of Catholics they don’t have the discipline to be.”

There’s a connection here to Hineni, the prayer which the service leader chants before entering into the Amidah for Musaf on Rosh Hashanah. It’s an unusual prayer. It plays both upon the words we hear repeatedly in the Torah for one of our ancestors standing up and answering a call from God, as well as upon the notion of the humility that it takes to lead a congregation, knowing that they hold you to a higher standard, yet being human nevertheless.

“Here I stand, impoverished in merit, trembling in the presence of the One who hears the prayers of Israel. Even though I am unfit and unworthy for the task, I come to represent your people.” The prayer continues, “Charge them not with my sins and let them not bear the guilt of my transgressions, though I have sinned and transgressed.” There’s more, but we’ll be there in just a few minutes, and I want to leave you with something to look forward to!

Growing up, I remember one of the lessons of the High Holy Days about repentance, which is that the prayers are written in the plural. “We have” done this, “we have” done that. But here, this is in the first person singular. This is the one time when an individual is asked to name their imperfections in front of the kehillah. Why would this be an exception?

It could be the idea of leading by example. After all, it might be easier for you to see your imperfections and name them if I do it too. Surprising no one, we have a method for this as well. Judaism has a process for everything. To quote Rabbi Jake Schram one more time, “What do you want me to do? Flagellate myself? Jews don’t do that, we plant trees!”

True, we do plant trees, but, kidding aside, we also plant the seeds for transformation, regrowth, and the reworking of our own actions and preconceived notions in order to find our next steps forward. We learn this from the Rambam.

Rabbi Moses ben Maimon, philosopher, doctor, scholar, teaches us that repentance and repair require time and intention. He also gives us the steps to take in order to truly make amends and move forward. You’ll note that this process is really more about repairing than forgiving. We are not commanded to “forgive and forget,” as helpful of a sentiment as that may sound. Instead, we’re given steps to follow to change ourselves and work towards earning forgiveness. Here’s what the process looks like, and how we might use these next ten days ahead of us, and perhaps beyond. 

Step one: Own the pain you’ve caused. In order to actually begin any process of healing, we have to move past denial and own our actions. And own them without passing the blame. It could be: “I recognize the words I used were hurtful, even if I didn’t mean them that way.” Or “I wasn’t as responsible as I should have been.” Or “I judged someone by their appearance alone.”

Step two: Make a change. Simply owning your actions alone is like an empty promise. There is real work involved, and it starts with step two. In this space we’re implored to get down to it. Repentance is an active endeavor; it happens when we make actual changes to behavior and thought patterns. That’s not easy. Sometimes we all need reminders to keep destructive comments to ourselves. Sometimes we all need reminders that it’s ok to ask for help when you need it. Sometimes we all need that nudge from a friend for a quick reality check.

Step three: Make amends and apologize. To make amends means putting effort behind repairing a relationship. You’ve changed yourself, now figure out how that change can counteract the damage that might have been done. This one is tricky because it requires both interpersonal contact and the openness of the one who was wronged to hear your apology and either accept it, or hopefully at least acknowledge it and allow room for growth. 

Don’t try to reverse engineer this step three; I know all your tricks because I’ve used them too. Saying “I’m sorry that YOU felt I was out of line” doesn’t count. That completely skips over step one and step two. Again, apologies without action are empty promises. When you actually put in the work of ownership and change, then you’ve earned the right to say, “I’m aware of my actions, and I apologize for the lapse in judgment that was cause for concern.” Or “I realize my actions crossed a line, and I hope you’ll see how I’ve changed.” 

Finally, step four. Step four is the hardest. Of course it is, it’s step four. If it was the easiest step, we’d start with it. Don’t repeat whatever it is you’re trying to change. Don’t fall into the trap of letting this happen again. There’s no magic solution to step four, it just takes practice. And why, again? Because we’re not perfect after all. Don’t we all wish we lived in a world where we could snap our fingers and change behavior? But we don’t. To truly make a change in 5784 or any time requires daily practice and self-control. It takes holding oneself accountable and recognizing when it’s time to return to steps one through three of the process.

This is a good time to remind each other again – this process isn’t really about forgiveness. It’s not about the person who was wronged because you can’t control their feelings, and you shouldn’t try. Repentance is first and foremost about personal change. What’s remarkable in this, as in the Hineni, is that it’s built on trusting the true intentions of another person. Forget all your preconceived notions, forget your snap judgments. Giving the benefit of the doubt is a two-way street. Here’s what I mean. If I’m the one who did wrong, you trust me that I’ve made it to step two. I’m working on me. And at the same time, I trust you that forgiveness will come eventually. It’s not automatic or necessarily quick.

See? Now you know why step four is so challenging. The thing that follows change, the thing we don’t really talk about during the season of repentance, is maintaining. Forgive me – it’s the time for asking, right? – but I’m going to quote a line from a famous Christmas song from 1959, written by a Jewish composer, as all the best Christmas songs were. The great Sammy Cahn, who wrote the lyrics to hits like “High Hopes” and “Ain’t That a Kick in the Head?” wrote the words, “It’s not the things you do at Christmas time, but the Christmas things you do all year through.” I don’t think the Jewish Mr. Cahn would mind if we adapted it just slightly. It’s not the repenting you do at the Yamim Noraim. It’s the changes you make all year through.

In a few minutes, after the act of recognizing the imperfections of leadership, we will recite the Unetanetokef prayer, the one which asks “Who will live and who will die, who by fire and who by water, etc.” We often read this prayer as placing all these decisions on God, removing our personal ownership in the outcomes for the future. Personally, that theology doesn’t make me feel more connected to God, it makes me feel less connected to myself.

To quote Rabbi Ed Feinstein on this text, the answer to each of these questions in the Unetanetokef is “I have the power to decide.” We are not greater or more powerful than God, but each of us does have the small power to change the way in which we live. Not for this small window of ten days, but for much, much longer. However, we use these seasonal reminders of forgiveness and repentance, when done with honesty and conviction, to change our world so there is a little bit less anger, hurt, and judgment in it. 

One of my favorite Jewish musicians, Dan Nichols, in his prayer for the body, sings “I thank you for my life, body and soul, help me realize I am beautiful and whole. I’m perfect the way I am, and a little broken too, I will live each day as a gift I give to you.”

Friends, I’m a little broken too. About two years ago, I myself fell into a very deep depression that I have not talked much about publicly, except for bits and pieces here and there. This is my public opportunity to say that throughout the journey of leaving that depression, I made my share of mistakes. My step two occasionally resembled an out-of-order escalator, and any of you who’ve had similar experiences know how stuck we can get. Therapy, friends, nature, and simply time have allowed me to stand here today, acknowledging my missteps on the journey to being the kind of Jew I want to be, and want to make time to be – thank you, Rabbi Schram.

As we perch on the precipice of 5784, I ask for your forgiveness. As is the High Holiday tradition, I’m moving to step three. But as you already know, forgiveness is not automatic. Neither yours nor mine. But it’s the changes we make in step four – the “all year through” part of the song – that let us rebuild and reshape and recommit. I invite you to join me in tearing down whatever notion of perfection you have and walking through the world seeing each other the way we are. A little broken too. Together, repentance, forgiveness, and a lot of community, kehillah, can bond us to each other and inscribe us in the book of life this coming year.

As we prepare for Yom Kippur, enjoy the audio recording and text from my Rosh Hashanah sermon, delivered on September 26, 2022.

Let’s play a game. There’s a table in front of me, and on it I have eggs, flour, sugar, oil, and salt. What am I making?

Let’s add chocolate chips to the list; now what would you think?

Ok, what if I swapped out the chocolate chips for yeast?

What would I be making if cheese was an ingredient?

Apples?

Poppyseeds?

Now that we’re all hungry, I’m sure you’re relieved this isn’t a Yom Kippur sermon. The ingredients for so many culinary treats begin the same way, and yet, based on the time of year or an added ingredient, the end product could be completely different. Similar ingredients, different result.

Keeping with our food analogy for just another minute, have you ever noticed that you can make the same dish a thousand times, and even though most of the time it comes out perfect, once in a while it just doesn’t quite get there? When I bake challah, I use the same recipe every time, but some weeks I need to add more flour, other weeks a little less, based on the humidity. 

We have routines for our meals at home too. We tend to stick to the same basic weekly menu, and by “we” I mean my children. The repetition helps them feel secure, and the routine gives them space to worry about other parts of their days and weeks. Plus, it takes some of the stress off of us, knowing these meals are fairly reliable.

What are your routines? Maybe you can think of  a few. In the thick of Covid, many of you witnessed me walking outside during a Zoom meeting. The question I’m usually asked is where I’m walking, and the answer is I do loops around my neighborhood. It’s kind of like a big track, so I walk in circles, some days 10 miles, some 20, but this loop is my routine. It’s easy to do because I know the route so well that I can focus on the meeting instead of worrying about crossing the street or getting lost. I know where each crack in the sidewalk is so I don’t trip, which means I can actually be more present in the meeting than I could have been otherwise. 

Repetition is the building block of Judaism. I’ll repeat – repetition is the building block of Judaism. See? It’s a combination of repetition and context that holds us together. You know the old joke that the essence of most Jewish holidays is “they tried to kill us, we survived, let’s eat”? Or, as I like to say, “let’s help make sure everyone has food”? That’s the repetition part. The context is how you distinguish each holiday. You know it’s Rosh Hashanah if you’re eating apple cake, and you know it’s Hanukkah by the latkes. Purim by hamantaschen, Passover by matzah, and any number of fast days by the growling in your tummy, although maybe that’s every holiday when you’re sitting through the sermon. The repetition keeps us grounded, and using the context clues around us allows us to dig deeper into the meaning of the moment, the holiday, or the prayer.

Why does this matter? Well, for one thing, I’m feeling how different this year is from the last two years. For the first time since the High Holy Days of 2019, I’m in a room packed with people davening together. Not to take anything away from the wonderful Shabbat services that have been back in person, but these days of awe always feel different, and the last couple of years, very different. I was in the sanctuary alone, hearing only my own voice when I sang. But what I was singing was the same. Those prayers, the words I’ve said since I was old enough to sit through services (maybe), were the same ones that had always brought me to tears or brought me joy, but in those moments alone, they felt a little foreign. This year, surrounded by voices, feels like a one-eighty from the silence of the past. Same text, different context.

But again, that’s how Judaism works. There’s no Torah without interpretation. It’s called a tree of life not just because it provides for us, but also because it’s alive; it grows with us. That’s because context is key. So much of our lives and understanding of the world around us is about knowing the recent history of people, conversations, and events. And the Torah is very well aware of this.

Think about it this way: we read the Torah again and again each year, and yet each year the same words can strike us in a different way or teach us something we’d never thought about before. And for goodness sakes, the last book of the Torah, Deuteronomy, comes from Greek, literally meaning “second law” or “repetition of the law.” We haven’t even finished the Five Books of Moses before we start repeating ourselves. Why? 

We actually got a little hint of an answer recently. A few weeks ago we read Parshat Shoftim. Here’s a little bit from chapter 17, verses 8 and 9: “If a case is too baffling for you to decide, be it a controversy over homicide, civil law, or assault – matters of dispute in your courts – you shall promptly repair to the place that the Lord your God will have chosen, and appear before the levitical priests, or the magistrate in charge at the time and present your problem.” 

It doesn’t just say, “report the crime.” It says go to “the magistrate in charge at the time.” As if to tell us, the time is important. The authority needs to know not only the law, but also its context in society at that time. Or this time right now. The Torah says only a judge living in today’s world can understand how to apply the law today.

Context. It’s always context. And the good news is you don’t have to wait for me or Rabbi Kosak or the wonderful Downstairs Minyan sermonizers to draw these parallels for you. There are some amazing resources out there that summarize the parshiyot, and finding a spark of connection to your life is actually easier than you might think.

Context isn’t just how we understand ancient Torah today, but how we understand each other. If what you’re going through resonates with me because it connects or relates to something in my life, you’re no longer a stranger. Speaking of the courts, I’m sure you remember literature’s great moral compass, Atticus Finch. Harper Lee gave his character these words: “You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view . . . until you climb into his skin and walk around in it.” We can fill our lives with repetition, but we will not understand the Torah or each other without applying context. We have to live in our time, and that means we make tradition, ritual, and mitzvot meaningful and relevant all over again every year and every day.

Rabbi Ben Bag Bag taught in Pirkei Avot, “Turn it over and over again for everything is in it.” By the way, how appropriate for a sermon about repetition to quote Rabbi Bag Bag, the rabbi with a name so nice he used it twice. Whether we’re talking about the repetition of reading Torah, or reciting the same prayers over and over again, it forces us to examine what’s there in a different way.

Some of you read my weekly d’rei Torah in the Friday email blast. Did you know I started these writings in 2006? That’s a full year before I even met Duncan. Not every single one has been commentary on the Torah portion, but for 16 years I’ve been relating my life to my faith. I can’t encourage this enough. Explore the weekly portion or a midrash or even just rewatch The Prince of Egypt. It’s pretty good. But find something that speaks to you, in your language. Sibling rivalry, leadership development, romance, gardening advice . . . there is nothing else like our text. There is nothing like our Torah. Perhaps we might rediscover our relationship with it, and with ourselves, in the coming year. Shanah tovah.