This is the sermon I delivered on Yom Kippur, September 25, 2023.

I’m Rabbi Posen, for those of you who may be new. Natan Meir, Eddy Shuldman, and Mark Sherman are also part of our fantastic service-leading team. This is how we identify each other, by our names. For all of human existence, we have come to the conclusion that we are the only species that does this, that calls each other by name. Even when scientists study language in other animals, like dolphins, they’ve determined that the changes in their vocalizations aren’t names, they’re simply imitations of the other dolphins’ sounds.

At least, this is what they thought until now. Just a few weeks ago, researchers from Colorado State University released findings suggesting that elephants may in fact call each other by names. Not in the loud trumpet sounds we associate with elephants, but with low-frequency vocal rumbles they use to communicate over long distances. 

The team analyzed hundreds of these rumbles and found, using machine learning, that some were specifically directed at individual elephants, and they weren’t merely imitations of the recipient elephant. Then they played back recordings of the rumblings to groups of elephants, and the ones that heard their own names responded by moving quickly toward those sounds. 

If this study is peer-reviewed and verified, can you imagine what this means? This completely changes the way we see animals and how they interact. Michael Pardo, a behavioral ecologist from Colorado State, said that these new findings potentially “blur the line” between “what we think is unique to human language versus what is found in other animal communication systems.”

I want you to hold on to this news story in your mind, while I share a personal story.

A few weeks ago I was out for a walk in our neighborhood. That will come as no surprise to most of you. I was listening to an audiobook, just in the zone, taking in the world around me, when a neighbor came up to me. “Do you have a minute for a rabbi question?” He must have seen the split-second change of expression on my face as I decided if I was going to be present for him or keep my focus on my book, because he followed it up with: “I’ll keep walking with you so you won’t have to stop.” So we walked. 

His question: Why do some Jews do the unveiling of the headstone at 12 months and others at 30 days? Where did this come from? As with most rabbi questions, this took us down a metaphorical conversation path, not unlike the literal neighborhood path we were on. It lead to a discussion about ritual and tradition, obligations of mitzvot, and how all of this changes over time. We spent about a mile discussing our own traditions, our family histories and origins, and marveled at how we’re connected deeply to our roots by the way in which we celebrate our Judaism today. 

I’ve sermonized about death before. Judaism doesn’t shy away from this topic. As human beings, we’re already naturally fascinated by our own mortality, and Jewish tradition comes along and basically says, “I know, right??” The idea that Judaism has outlined a process for everything, including mourning, is part of what made me want to become a rabbi. The whole Jewish grief procedure is partly about providing comfort to the mourners, but also about encouraging us to remember. These time markers – seven days, 30 days, 365 days – they keep loved ones with us. They lengthen their days even after they’ve died.

Last year at the end of Yom Kippur services, a few of you came up to me to ask about my tallit. Some of you may have noticed that I have two tallitot that I wear throughout this service. This (regular) one which is my every Shabbat and holiday tallit, and this one (my dad’s) that I put on only for Yizkor. I’ve done this for the past 16 years since my father passed away. 

There are ways in which the people who came before us live on. It’s through the stories we tell about them. It’s through the college fund they set up long ago that their great-grandchildren are finally old enough to use. It’s through the dining room table in our house that used to be in Duncan’s grandparents’ dining room, where Duncan and his family had countless Shabbat dinners and Pesach seders. For me, this tallit is how my dad Steven lives on, l’ma’an ya’arichun y’mecha. Because of this tallit, because of stories, because of Shiri’s own name, because of my last name, my father’s days have been lengthened. 

Back to Colorado State University. Do you think that elephants can do what I just did? This would have been a stranger question if I had opened with it. But understanding now what we just found out weeks ago that could possibly make elephants the only known non-human animal to communicate using the abstract construct of names . . . do you think elephants tell stories about other elephants who’ve died? Is it possible that elephants publicly mourn? 

It’s fascinating, isn’t it? And not just for the scientific discovery, but also because it builds on what we already know about elephants and their incredible recall. “Elephants never forget” isn’t just a saying. In one study, scientists who researched elephant packs at an East African national park in the early 90s saw that the mortality rate of elephants during a severe drought was much higher for the packs with younger matriarchs because the older ones were able to recall a similar drought from decades earlier that forced them to go in search of alternative food sources. Memory legitimately lengthened their days.

L’ma’an ya’arichun y’mecha. With our memory, we lengthen our days. By recalling memories of loved ones, we lengthen their days. We use the phrase “till 120” to wish someone good health on their birthday, knowing they won’t live to be 120. But in a very real way, they will live well past 120 in our memories. Gematria, the Kabbalistic numerological system, assigns values to words through their letters. It’s why chai is 18, because the values of chet and yud add up to 18. Fun fact: Want to know what the letters pey, yud, lamed, which spells peel, the Hebrew word for elephant, add up to? 120.

How do we carry people with us? Like the Israelites carrying the Tabernacle through the wilderness, we have a history of looking for tangible ways to carry the intangible in our hearts. We carry people through their tallitot. Through their dining room table. Through stories of family vacations, weddings, retelling of old terrible jokes. And through names. It could be the Ashkenazi tradition of naming after someone who has passed or the Sephardi tradition of continuing the legacy while the loved one is still alive. 

However we carry them, we lengthen their days. By saying Yizkor, that reminder at certain times throughout the year, and lighting the Yahrtzeit candle, l’ma’an ya’arichun y’mecha. We lengthen their days for as long as their names stay on our lips. For as long as those low rumbles pass on from generation to generation.

If anyone has brought with you a beloved item, or even just a lesson or memory, from a loved one, I invite you to share about it if you’re comfortable doing so.

Before we recite Yizkor, as we think about how our loved ones live on with us, I’d like to share a reading with you. This poem is called “A Man Doesn’t Have Time In His Life,” by Yehuda Amichai.

A man doesn’t have time in his life
to have time for everything.
He doesn’t have seasons enough to have
a season for every purpose. Ecclesiastes
Was wrong about that.

A man needs to love and to hate at the same moment,
to laugh and cry with the same eyes,
with the same hands to throw stones and to gather them,
to make love in war and war in love.
And to hate and forgive and remember and forget,
to arrange and confuse, to eat and to digest
what history
takes years and years to do.

A man doesn’t have time.
When he loses he seeks, when he finds
he forgets, when he forgets he loves, when he loves
he begins to forget.

And his soul is seasoned, his soul
is very professional.
Only his body remains forever
an amateur. It tries and it misses,
gets muddled, doesn’t learn a thing,
drunk and blind in its pleasures
and its pains.

He will die as figs die in autumn,
Shriveled and full of himself and sweet,
the leaves growing dry on the ground,
the bare branches pointing to the place
where there’s time for everything.

This is the sermon I delivered on Yom Kippur, October 5, 2022. You can listen using the player below or read the text.

January 27, 1973. The signing of the Paris Peace Accords officially ends U.S. involvement in the Vietnam War. The fighting that had lasted almost 20 years by that point didn’t end, it carried on for a few more years as United States troops withdrew.

Skip ahead to that fall. October, 1973. Forty-nine years ago right now, in fact. Egyptian and Syrian forces attack Israeli forces on Yom Kippur. The Yom Kippur War.

On October 10, Spiro Agnew resigns as Vice President of the United States and pleads no contest to tax evasion.

November 17, 1973. That’s when President Nixon tells 400 Associated Press managing editors “I am not a crook.” Less than a year later, he will also resign.

The world was a mess in 1973, or so it seemed. It makes sense that by January of 1974, people yearned for a simpler time. Because in January, 1974, we got a little reminder of how great things used to be. They were the Cunninghams, and they lived in Milwaukee, Wisconsin in the 1950s. Howard owned a hardware store, Marion was a stay-at-home mom – a phrase that hadn’t been invented yet – and their kids went to school and hung out with their friends. One of those friends became the most famous Jew to ever wear a leather jacket. And suddenly America could relive those happy days, and they were so happy that they lasted 11 seasons.

It’s funny to think that only 20 years separated the filming of Happy Days and the time it took place. It would be like having a TV show now that played on the nostalgia of the 2000s. Does anybody yearn for the 2000s?

But truly, the idea of going back to supposedly better times comes up all the time, in every era. Movies and TV shows romanticize it. Political parties politicize it. So why do we insist that things were better before?

This was heightened even more during peak Covid. How many times did you hear “when things are back to normal” or the phrase “pre-Covid”? You’ve probably heard it at least once just today. But I want to caution us that it can be dangerous to think in terms of going back. In real life, ignorance is not bliss. Ignorance is ignorance, and to go back in time implies going back and losing all of the knowledge we’ve gained since then.

Famously, there was a music teacher who suggested to her students that every time they ran through a particular piece, it should automatically sound slightly better than the time before, because the musicians were three minutes older and wiser than they were during the last run-through. We are now two and a half years older and wiser. When we play together, how will our music sound?

This is the season of teshuvah, of return, but instead of thinking about going back in search of what we’ve lost, I’d like us to imagine going forward with what we’ve gained. I invite you to take a breath, perhaps even close your eyes. Find yourself a center. It has been two long years since we’ve been able to be together, in this space for the High Holidays. Over the last two plus years, so much of our world has changed; some for the worse, but perhaps some for the better. Over these two years, we’ve longed for moments like “before.” Those pre-pandemic times when decisions to go to the grocery store or visit family members were not ones for which most of us had to weigh our health risks.

We missed seeing full, smiling faces, but we learned to better read each other’s eyes. If you closed your eyes, feel free to open them.

Our kehillah, like so many of you, has had to make some big decisions about how we were to return to the building and to in-person programs and services. We joke that we’ve pivoted so much we don’t remember which spot we started in. As a tap dancer in my younger days, they would teach us to pick a spot on the wall when we were doing a turn so that we could focus on it and not get dizzy. Ever since 2020, it has felt like there’s no spot to focus on, which means we’ve had a dizzying two years.

As we enter a new year, personally I find myself trying to balance the act of introspection that’s involved in looking back so that we can make teshuvah and improve ourselves in the coming year, along with trying not to get stuck in the past. I can’t change the past me, but I can change this me and make plans for the future.

This is what our Jewish calendar asks us to do too. Each year we read the Torah again from the beginning, the same story, a look back at our past, and our role as the carriers of this story, is to find meaning in it for our today and tomorrow. It’s misleading though, isn’t it? Because every time we put the Torah back in the ark, we sing “Etz chayim hi” (it is a tree of life) which ends with “chadesh yameinu kekedem.” Return us to the ways that were before, the days prior.

See? We can’t escape the “good old days.” It’s right there in our liturgy. Why? Where does it come from? This verse is a lamentation, literally, from Eicha, the Book of Lamentations. And the “good old days” are the time of the Temple. But when we sing this on Shabbat while we put the Torah away, are we really asking for animal sacrifice again? Just to be clear, I’m not. And I’m fairly certain the rabbis of old weren’t yearning to return to those days either. Well, some might have been, but there’s a reason it’s said and not acted on. It’s reflexive. Renew us. Return us to you, God. Return us to each other and to ourselves.

As much as Happy Days or The Wonder Years or Mad Men or any other period piece would have us believe, there’s no one time we all yearn for. What we yearn for is clarity of purpose, and sometimes in the foggy present, clarity of purpose is only possible when you look back and realize how you’ve been shaped by the time you’ve been given.

My teshuvah is not about returning to some other time or some other me. It’s about returning to that spot on the wall. My focus. The things that fulfill me, that make me . . . me. And I hope the same for you. Chadesh yameinu kekedem. Renew our days, not of old, but of now, for another year, so that we may continue to find the truest versions of ourselves. G’mar chatimah tovah.

This is the sermon I delivered on Yom Kippur, October 9, 2019. You can listen using the player below or read the text.

What you may not know is that I was very hesitant to join this group. Ruth Messinger, the Global Ambassador for AJWS, was gracious enough to write the forward to Pirkei Imahot, the book I co-authored with Lois Shenker. And not long after we finished the book, Ruth invited me to apply to the program. I turned her down. Why? My list of reasons was long: I had a small baby who was still nursing, I was too busy, I’m not justice minded enough, I don’t do well travelling internationally. I probably had a few more “I can’ts” in there just to make my point. So I politely declined and asked to be thought of the next year. I quickly put this opportunity out of my mind, thinking it just wasn’t right for me. 

I then spent the next year teaching the beautiful text Ruth herself had written as the introduction to our book. I want to share her words with you, because they continue to inspire me to this day. She wrote:

I work in and outside the Jewish community to make social change and create a greater degree of justice in the world. What I have learned from this experience is: “We cannot retreat to the luxury of being overwhelmed.” 

I know many Jews who are motivated to act for others but not sure how to proceed and also many who are activists working for social change who become discouraged and cut back or stop being involved. They talk about the frustratingly slow pace at which change occurs, how many setbacks arise, how many different issues and challenges there are competing for their attention.

Often, people say that it is too much, that they are overwhelmed because they cannot do everything, they cannot do anything. I certainly reassure them we all feel this way some of the time, but to feel or be overwhelmed and use that as an excuse to move away from work for social justice is a convenient out. It is a luxury we simply cannot allow ourselves to enjoy when we know there are human beings in trouble, in need of our not retreating.

It is our responsibility to work through the feeling of being overwhelmed, find ways in which we can make a difference, and remember our tradition teaches that to save one life is to save the world.

It’s a powerful message. And each time I quoted these words, I felt a twinge inside me. I was retreating to my luxury. I felt too busy, too unsure, too needed by my family to let myself even try to understand how I could be a part of the greater good in our world. Ruth’s teaching reminded me of my favorite teaching from Pirkei Avot: “You are not obligated to complete the task, neither are you free to desist from it.” 

I can’t solve every problem, but I must try.

My friends, we live in a world where there are daily reminders of how much work there is to do in order to make this a world in which I want to raise my children. It’s a world that can feel more broken than whole, a world where the news leads with hate and violence, and where fear and ignorance too often reign. It was because of this that I took the leap. I agreed to apply and, if accepted, take this journey.

To say the trip was life changing sounds like hyperbole, but it’s true. On a very basic level, I learned some things about myself that I had completely forgotten since becoming a mother. I remembered how much I like to read, how much I really do enjoy travel, and that, when necessary, I can pack lightly. That one shocked me the most. 

Most importantly, I found out what it means to have moral courage. Moral courage is the courage to take action for moral reasons, despite the risk of adverse consequences. Courage is required to take action even in the face of doubts or fears about the consequences. Which means it’s different than bravery. And it’s different than the Jewish value of chesed, of kindness. These can be spontaneous. Moral courage involves deliberation or careful thought.

Atticus Finch, perhaps the greatest moral compass in American literature, offers this insightful explanation of courage to his son Jem. “It’s when you know you’re licked before you begin, but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what.”

Throughout history, we can point to examples of moral courage. From Rosa Parks’ decision to sit firmly in her seat, to Oskar Shindler’s dedication to his workers, we can see what happens when we act from a place of moral courage. When you see what’s ahead, and you proceed anyway.

In Guatemala I met with superheroes like this, men and women, who exhibit moral courage on a daily basis. The safety and security in Guatemala is rather tenuous now, particularly during Morales’ continued state of siege. Due to this, I am not sharing the names of people or organizations. We were guided by the in-country consultant for AJWS. He wove his own story into the history of the armed conflict of Guatemala. The effects of the Cold War reached all the way to his village, and it was burned to the ground. The consultant and his family fled into the jungle, where they lived for seven months, moving every few days, and then into a camp in Mexico where they stayed for 12 years. He shared that only he, one brother, and his father survived their ordeal; other brothers, his grandmother, aunts, uncles, and cousins all perished. He left his work investigating war crimes in the hardest hit areas, the ones that had experienced “unbelievable” atrocities, to join the work of AJWS. He is the direct contact for 19 organizations funded through AJWS who are fighting for justice, equality, democracy, and basic rights throughout Guatemala. 

Two other partners at an AJWS grantee organization told of their extraordinary and courageous work investigating and reporting on what is actually happening on the ground, rather than what’s reported in the mainstream media. The AJWS grantee has a widespread network throughout the country which uses technology in innovative and brilliant ways. These two work tirelessly as journalists to seek justice and share the truth of life in Guatemala throughout the entire country. Their network of journalists risk their lives every day to share that truth and expose injustice. They do it because it is the only way to ensure the world knows what truth is. 

I want to share with you the words of Dr. Rabbi Aryeh Cohen. He was a professor of mine in rabbinical school, but was also going through his ordination at the same time I was, so it was an honor to share the bima with him at graduation in his dual roles as both teacher and student. He wrote:

There is a great word . . . in the Rabbinic tradition: taromet. The word taromet shares a root with the word for thunder: ra’am. Taromet is the reaction which is sanctioned by a court when a person has been harmed in a way that is not legally actionable, and yet she has been morally wronged. Taromet, or righteous rage, does not carry with it any legal remedy, aside from communal vindication in one’s outrage. Therefore: righteous indignation.

The contemporary occurrence of taromet, is the moment when you recognize that your understanding of justice has run up against an immoral situation. When workers are legally paid a salary so low that they cannot afford to feed and shelter themselves. When undocumented immigrants and their children are exploited for their work but are disenfranchised politically, and ultimately criminalized. In whatever issue, taromet, righteous indignation, occurs when you are forced to compare your understanding of justice with the reality of a situation, and you find that the reality does not stand up to scrutiny. 

At that moment you are faced with the next question. What am I willing to do about this? The answer to this question can be anything from “nothing” through clicking on an email to joining a demonstration, to voting, to participating in an act of civil disobedience. Deciding to take that action is the “Here I am” moment. The French Jewish philosopher, Emmanuel Levinas, has suggested that the statement hineni signals an opening of oneself to the Other. “Here I am to respond to your suffering.” The hineni or “here I am” moment is the moment at which you realize that the jarring dissonance between the reality of injustice and the demands of justice comprise an obligation for you to act. The hineni moment is the move from “wow this sucks, somebody should do something” to “I am one of the people who have to do something.”

On Rosh Hashanah I spoke about the power of presence. I asked you to think about how you will answer the question of Ayeka – where are you – with Hineini – I am here, I am present, I am ready. 

Today, on our day of eternal judgment, the Yom HaDin, I encourage you to affirm your answer. Are you here? In a world where we see injustice nearly every day, how will you take a stand? Will you work to combat homelessness in our own city? Will you join us to cook for Outside In each month helping to prepare meals for homeless youth and other marginalized people? Will you participate in Soup to the Streets in the winter months providing warm soup and sandwiches to tent cities? Will you take a stand and stand up for our environment? Will you share your voice against the crisis of the Rohingya people and other genocides in the work that Never Again Coalition does? Will you allow your conscience to be moved by the dire situation at our own borders, not just fighting for due process for asylum, but also to change our policies abroad so that the corrupt governments around the world, whose people are fleeing, will consider the lives and dignity of their own citizens and create countries people want to remain in instead of running from?

Hillel famously teaches us, also in Pirkei Avot: “If I am not for myself, who am I? If I am only for myself, who will be for me? And if not now, when?” 

How can I stand with you? I encourage you to email me after the holiday and let me know what stand you will take. I’d be honored to connect you with others doing this work.

In this moment, we turn towards our community to hold one another as we recall the memories of those we have loved and who no longer walk with us physically on our journeys with Yizkor. The words of the memorial prayer read “In loving testimony to their lives, I pledge tzedakah to help perpetuate ideals important to them.” It is through our deeds, our moral courage to stand up for justice that our loved ones legacy lives on.  

You don’t have to do it all, and in fact you can’t do it all. But you can summon the courage to act. Remember, moral courage isn’t about how many good deeds you can do. It’s about knowing that the task list before us is impossible, and starting anyway. We cannot retreat to the luxury of being overwhelmed.

This is the sermon I delivered on Yom Kippur, September 19, 2018. You can listen using the player below or read the text.

Last year I opened my Yom Kippur sermon by quoting the movie Moana. I mentioned that the music was written by Lin-Manuel Miranda, who created Hamilton, but that I had not yet been fortunate enough to see Hamilton. Well, a lot can happen in a year. I’m going to say upfront this sermon is about Hamilton. But not the man, the musical, because – hear me out – they’re not really the same thing. Hamilton didn’t become a sensation and win 11 Tonys because it was about the secretary of the treasury. Hamilton is really about leaving a legacy. It’s about how we tell our stories.

“Who lives, who dies, who tells your story?” That’s the final song. It has a little Unetaneh Tokef in it, doesn’t it? Who lives, who dies, who by water, who by fire.

I know my timing for this sermon seems a little off since the musical has been around since 2015. I’ll give you a little background as to why I’m just now making this connection this year. I was late to the Hamilton bandwagon, which may be surprising if you know I love musicals. I love going to musicals. I married into a family of theater buffs. For Duncan’s parents, a successful trip to New York means 7 plays in 6 days.

Perhaps I didn’t let myself get sucked into the hype for this very reason. On top of that, I was one of the few people who didn’t start listening to the cast album years before I saw the show. I didn’t want to fall in love and become obsessed with something there was little chance of me seeing live any time soon.

Then I got the text message. Good friends who asked nonchalantly, “Are you busy on April 8 in the evening?” Maybe you’re aware – I keep somewhat of a crazy schedule. But it just so happened we were free. I responded, “Yes, why?” “We have 2 extra tickets to Hamilton, be our dates?” And suddenly my obsession was set free.

My plan was to catch up and listen to the music beforehand to get a sense of the movement of the show. So that’s what I did as I prepared for Passover. I had no idea just listening to the music of this story of one of our founding fathers would bring me to tears.

The musical Hamilton is essentially a biography of the founding father Alexander Hamilton, told from the years 1776 when Hamilton arrived in New York, through Hamilton’s death in 1804. It covers the work that became his lasting legacy on America. And it was the final reprise song: “Who Lives, Who Dies, Who tells your story” that spoke to me as I listened and prepared the matzo balls.

The stories of who we are that are told after we’re gone depend on how we’re viewed when we’re here. Now, for most of us, it won’t be history telling the story, but it will be anyone who knew us. And if you want to leave a legacy, you have to create that legacy while you’re alive. Aaron Burr, who ultimately kills Hamilton in a duel, laments that although he won the duel, he’s the one who’s the villain of the story.

In the next to last song, Burr sings:

Death doesn’t discriminate

Between the sinners and the saints

It takes and it takes and it takes

History obliterates

In every picture it paints

It paints me and all my mistakes

When Alexander aimed

At the sky

He may have been the first one to die

But I’m the one who paid for it

The story we hear is because of the way history chose to tell the story.  

Who lives, who dies, who tells your story. There I was in the kitchen, preparing the traditional culinary story of freedom from bondage, as I listened to the story of America’s freedom. And what I realized as I was cooking is that I was telling my own story through the work of my hands.  I realized Passover isn’t just the Exodus story. It’s my story that I tell through recipes my parents and grandparents passed down to me. My story is the continuation of each of their stories. Who lives, who dies, who tells their story.

Once I listened to it, I wasn’t surprised at all that I got hooked and immediately started seeing the Jewish connections. Life stories just have a way of doing that – they grab me. For most people the The Diary of Anne Frank was required reading at some point, but for me it was one of the first books I remember reading over and over again. I remember reading each entry and imagining myself there with her. I was sharing that experience. Even with historical fiction like The Red Tent or Rashi’s Daughters, I felt closer to my own story through these narratives. When an author is able to tell the story of someone’s life in a way that makes you feel as though your were lifelong friends with that person, that’s magic.

It’s no wonder that I became a rabbi. I fell in love with reading the same story – I’ve read it 36 times now – and understanding in layer after layer how I was connected to the Torah. And for me, as a rabbi and a parent, practically my whole life is about legacy – the one I’ve inherited and the one I want to leave.

When I’m giving a d’var Torah on the week’s parshah, part of my job as I see it is to connect the Torah in some way to our story today. Each portion, each holiday has its own narrative that can resonate with our own relationships. When I officiate at a funeral, my primary job is to help tell the story. When I sit with a family, I learn about a person’s legacy told through their childhood, courtship, career, family life, ambitions. And it’s the people who are left to remember you, the ones you leave the legacy to, they craft the story.

A famous Jewish story tells us of the man who was planting a carob tree and was interrupted by an onlooker who asks, “Why are you planting a carob tree? It takes 70 years to grow, you’ll never even enjoy it.” The man responds, “I have great memories eating dried carob as a child on Tu B’shevat. Those carob trees were planted by people who wanted to leave a gift for the generations to come. I am planting this tree as a gift for the generations who will be living seventy years from now. Then they can enjoy eating carob on Tu B’Shevat, too. Just as my parents and grandparents planted trees for me, so I plant trees for my children and grandchildren.”

Lin Manuel Miranda also uses a version of this teaching in Hamilton, with the line:

Legacy. What is a legacy?

It’s planting seeds in a garden you never get to see

What you do, who you were, and how you are remembered are tied together through connections you’ve made throughout your lifetime. In this season of introspection, we are called to examine our own story. The Unetaneh Tokef prayer, which we recite during Musaf of the High Holidays, reminds us that our lives are finite. We are not immortal. The way we will all leave this world remains to be seen, but our stories, the marks we make in the world, will be measured by teshuva, tefillah, tzedakah.

Teshuva is often translated as repentance, but it really means to return, to look back and then turn forward. Our story is told in part by the ways in which we learn from our mistakes, and not only change our behavior, but teach others to do the same.  

Tefillah, prayer life, is the way in which you engage in spiritual community. It doesn’t necessarily mean you have perfect attendance at daily minyan, although that’s nice. Tefillah is the way in which you turn yourself over to a higher power. This is the recognition that as amazing as you are, you are not God. Rather, you are a part of a community of people who share faith and understanding. Tefillah is your guts, your core, your beliefs. And just like with teshuva, it’s through your moral compass that you teach others how to connect too.  

Finally, tzedakah. What will the story of your giving be? Were you an active community member, giving of your time and expertise? Will your story be one of investment of wealth or wisdom, through your talent or your time? Our stories are told through how we give of ourselves.  

While most of us will never have a smash broadway musical made of our life’s story, believe me there will be a story to tell. A story about who you were and what you did. As we begin Yizkor, we recall the stories of those whose memories live on because we tell their story. Who lives, who dies, who tells your story? And what story will they tell?

I’ve been staring at the edge of the water

Long as I can remember, never really knowing why

I wish I could be the perfect daughter

But I come back to the water, no matter how hard I try

Ready to sing with me yet?

Every turn I take, every trail I track

Every path I make, every road leads back

To the place I know where I cannot go

Where I long to be

If you haven’t heard the soundtrack to Moana, I highly recommend it. The music is by Lin-Manuel Miranda, so what’s not to like? Sadly I haven’t seen Hamilton yet, but if it earns me any street cred, I’ve been a fan since In the Heights.

When it comes to the movie, I was late to the Moana fan club. I don’t usually succumb to the movie musical hysteria at all, but with a four-year-old in the house, it was inevitable. And surprise – I found myself deeply moved by the lyrics and the storyline, especially the theme of the power, mysteriousness, and beauty of water. The ocean is actually a silent character in the movie. If you want to compare it to other Disney films, water plays sort of a Jiminy Cricket/Fairy Godmother type of role. You might describe it as a gentle, guiding conscience.

This got me thinking. Few things symbolize Yom Kippur quite like our relationship – as Jews – with water. Water is actually used in many ways in Judaism, from something as simple as ritual hand washing, to something as powerful as the Israelites crossing the Red Sea, marking their transformation from a tribe of slaves into a free people.

However, the two most prominent uses of water deal with our rebirth into a new stage of life via the mikveh, and our physical body’s final earthly experience with taharah, the ceremonial cleansing of a body before burial. Death and rebirth. In a sense, they are opposites, but this cycle is the essence of Yom Kippur.

In Jewish tradition, the body (met or meta) is never left alone from the moment of death until burial. Shmira is the ritual guarding of the met/meta during this period. In ancient times, the guarding of the body served as physical protection from predators and desecration. In our day, when physical protection is not as necessary, shmira serves the spiritual purpose of guarding the soul. It has been said that when the soul, neshama, departs from the body it has been united with for so many years, it yearns to return to the body, and so must be comforted.

In Jewish tradition, we come into the world pure and are to leave it pure. Tahara is a purification ritual for both the body and soul (neshama) of the deceased. We know this practice goes back at least to its codification in 1626, and the essential form of the tahara is similar throughout the world. It’s performed by three to four members of the Chevra Kadisha  or Chevra Kavod HaMet in our community who are the same gender as the person who has died.

It’s a very intimate process. After initially addressing the deceased by name, the designees then wash the body from head to toe as corresponding verses from the Song of Songs are read. For example, as the head is washed, one recites:

His head is like the most fine gold; his heaps of curls are black as a raven.

And as the body is washed, one recites:

Her body is as polished ivory overlaid with sapphires.

Next is the pouring of purification water over the body, preceded by a quote from Rabbi Akiva, which in part says:

And I will pour upon you pure water and you will be purified of all your defilements and from all your abominations I will purify you.

Using pitchers, water is poured in a continuous stream over the entire body, while simultaneously saying, tahora hee (she is pure) or tahora hoo (he is pure). The met/meta is then carefully dried with cloth and, following a concluding prayer, is ready to be dressed in the ritual garments.

These acts of tahahra ensure that each individual is treated as equal and the same. And there is a striking parallel to our experience on Yom Kippur. Though we live on and mature and grow older, the yearly cycle dictates that the previous year must, in some way, die. TV writer Megan Amram always uses the same joke on Twitter every secular New Year’s Eve. It says “R.I.P 2016” and then in parentheses, in classic headstone style, “2016 to 2016.”

R.I.P. 2016 (2016 – 2016)

— Megan Amram (@meganamram) December 31, 2016

Kol Nidre is, in a sense, the final purification of the year as we wrap ourselves in traditional garments and use our beautiful liturgy to cleanse and guard our souls.

Our other primary water-based ritual, immersion in the mikveh, has its own parallels to the holiday.

Ritual immersion is an ancient part of Jewish tradition, noted in the Torah and in later rabbinic commentaries. Today, there are only a few cases where immersion is still designated as a mitzvah, or an act required by Jewish law: for those converting to Judaism, for brides, and for women observing niddah, which is the practice of immersing monthly following menstruation.

But the mikveh has also been used for other purposes throughout Jewish history. For example, it was used by men prior to Shabbat and other holidays and by women in the ninth month of pregnancy. A mikveh is so important that we just built a beautiful, new community mikveh as a partnership between the Jewish Federation of Greater Portland and the Oregon Board of Rabbis for our community called Rachel’s Well.  

Rabbi Akiva in Mishnah Yoma says:

Happy are you, Israel! Who is it before whom you are able to cleanse yourself and become renewed? And who is it that renews you? It is your God, as it is said: I will pour renewing water upon you and you shall be renewed. And it further says: O hope (mikveh) of Israel, O HaShem – just as a mikveh cleanses, so too does He, Holy One, blessed be He, cleanses Israel.

Mikveh is a fascinating Jewish ritual. It’s a relatively brief experience, yet it is intended to symbolize and even bring about profound change for the individual. The mikveh pool recalls the watery state that each of us knew before we were born; the ritual of entering and leaving mayim chayim, living waters, creates the time and space to acknowledge and embrace a new stage of life.

So too, Yom Kippur is a relatively brief moment in time, a short 25-hour blip in the year. Yet during this short time, the splendor of the liturgy and the heightened awareness from fasting are meant to bring about momentous change. We are reborn; our souls are refreshed. In a time when cleanses are still the rage, this is the ultimate cleanse, a cleansing of body and mind.

I could spend an entire sermon comparing death and rebirth in Judaism – there are seven steps into the mikveh and seven days of shiva, and in each case we are naked and vulnerable – but I keep coming back to this one aspect.

The funny thing is I am a terrible swimmer, yet I love being in and near water. You can tell from old home movies my mom has that I clearly loved bath time. Those will not be posted on the Neveh Shalom Facebook page, in case you’re curious.

Water has just always drawn me – except for my time in Dallas, every place I’ve lived has had relatively easy access to large bodies of water. It has been a source of calm, of comfort. Whether it’s a refreshing shower after a long walk or a summer rainstorm, I love it.

And, perhaps not so coincidentally, Yom Kippur has long been one of my favorite holidays. In both cases, there is something about the majesty and the power, both creative and destructive. In the case of water, you don’t have to reach any further back than the last few months, when we saw how destructive water and wind together can be. At the same time, water is essential to creation; we must have it to survive, and it’s one of the keys we look for to try to determine if there’s life elsewhere in the universe.

Yom Kippur, our day of atonement, is in its own way both creative and destructive. As we see the past year destroyed and put to rest, the new one is created. It is both uplifting, bringing us to the highest high of the year, and purposefully, excessively humbling.

May we use this brief moment in time to tap into – pun intended – the essence of the holiday. For this is our most naked and vulnerable celebration. There are no decorations on Yom Kippur. There is no sukkah, no etrog. No grogger, no spiel.  No dreidels, no candles, except for that of Yizkor, the flame of memory. There is only this moment right now, pure as water. G’mar hatima tova.