September 2023

It was the beginning of the school year at the turn of the century 2000. Luckily, we had all survived that bizarre Y2K ordeal, and the world did not end. I vividly remember walking into the auditorium at the high school sometime in the autumn. The room was so big and overwhelming, I recall always wondering how the auditorium fit in the building. From the outside, the high school did not look like it could even fit such a cavernous space inside of it. My peers and I were brand new high school freshmen. Wearing our newest shoes, the outfits that we thought were in style and would make the most significant impression…there was probably too much cologne. No, there definitely was too much cologne and perfume in the air. We all tried to assume an air of confidence as we sauntered in for a beginning of the year…well a beginning of High School assembly. The school tried, they truly did. There were some videos that we had to watch about what our high school experience might be like. I caught the curious eyes of some who I did not really know who would later become friends. Most of my memories are vague…snapshots. The only specific moment I can actually recall with pure clarity is a new song that the school administration played. In trying to be “cool,” the school was blaring this song during a portion of the assembly.

I had never heard something quite like this before. This was some intense rock music, and the voice of the lead singer was just wailing…screaming really, but somehow directly on pitch. It was like he was crying out from the depths of his soul. In its own raw way, it was actually beautiful to me. He screamed out these words: “Crawling in my skin. These wounds they will not heal. Fear is how I fall. Confusing what is real.” Wow. This is dark. This is intense. The band was called “Linkin Park.” The song was one of their early ones, appropriately called “crawling.” This piqued my interest, as my fascination with psychology and the extremes of human thought and behavior had already manifested itself. Linkin Park eventually had songs with lyrics that included:”In the end it doesn’t really matter,” and “I’m one step closer to the edge and I’m about to break,” and “I’ve become so numb.” 

During this early 2000’s era, it seemed as if all of my friends and peers were listening to the music of people who felt broken. Linkin Park went on to sell over 100 million records, so their message was clearly resonant. I could find the beauty in the raw emotion of it all, but looking back, it saddens me more than ever. Chester Bennington, the lead singer who screamed and sang so strangely and wonderfully died by suicide in July of 2017 at the age of just 41. Upon reading this news, I remember feeling more upset about this than I thought that I would. His voice was so important to some of my most formative moments. To make matters even more strangely tragic, just two months before Bennington took his own life, his band released a song called “One more light”–a soft, thoughtful, contemplative song that was quite a diversion from their usual style. This song had lyrics that included, “Who cares if one more light goes out

In the sky of a million stars? It flickers, flickers

Who cares when someone’s time runs out

If a moment is all we are? Or quicker, quicker?

Who cares if one more light goes out?

Well, I do”

Chester Bennington was one light that went out. According to recent data, deaths by suicide in the United States reached a record high in 2022. There were a recorded 49,499 deaths by suicide in the US last year, nearly 15 per every 100,000 people. These are just the cases that can be quantified. There are undoubtedly so many more. Chester Bennington was famous in rock and roll circles, but also notable to me because I realized that he had been telling the world of his feelings for decades. His feelings of BROKENNESS and disconnection. He directly asked, “who cares if one more light goes out in the sky of a million stars?” He said “I do.”…So do I. So does our Jewish tradition tell us to. Psalm 148 says: ‘HaRofeh lishvurey lev umechabesh le’atzvotam’ – ‘God is the Healer of the brokenness of heart and the binder of their wounds.’ There are so many who feel broken, disconnected, hopeless, lost. Working in suicide prevention myself, I have stayed keenly aware of the suicide epidemic that has plagued our country. Beautiful souls, so full of radiant light snuffed out far too soon. If we look at the issue of Brokenness through a Kabbalistic lens, perhaps we can see another side of this intense emotion. According to Medieval Kabbalists in our tradition, especially followers of Ha-Ari, or Isaac Luria, brokenness is actually innately ingrained in the world’s creation. The light of God was too great prior to creation, and a shattering occurred, spilling light throughout the entire world. This “shattering of the vessels” is called “Shevirat Keilim.” Rabbi Esther Hugenholz puts this concept into beautiful words when she states that, “Our world, according to this image, is both spectacularly beautiful as it is impossibly broken.” She just as easily could have been talking about Chester Bennington’s voice.

We put the pieces back together when we help to repair the world. We put the pieces back together when we engage in mitzvot. We put the pieces back together when we care about each other. Today we read from Deuteronomy, and in particular Parsha Nitzavim. Part of this portion says, “Adonai your God will bring you back from captivity and take you back in love. Adonai your God will return to gather you from all the nations where you were scattered…Should you be banished beyond the horizon, even from there Adonai your God will gather you up and take you back.” At face-value it seems as if God is talking about returning the Jews to their ancestral homeland, no matter where a diaspora would have them living. Perhaps we can look at this a bit more abstractly…Are there those whose lights have been scattered to recesses so distant that they feel as if they can never return. Return to wellness, return to joy, return to repair, return to God? Is part of our job as Jews and as decent human beings in general, to help others along the path of return? Sometimes we do lose lights, despite our best efforts to keep them going. Sometimes we lose people and we don’t know why. I would like to think that they do RETURN. RETURN to God, just perhaps not in the way that our earthly minds would have wished it to be. 

When I was sitting in the assembly listening to Chester Bennington’s soul-bearing pain, could I help him? Perhaps not specifically. He came to represent to me the fact that there are so many others like him that can be reached. If we can return from the corners of the earth to God, are we not reading that we can return to one another. If God is One, then can we not be active partners in returning light to vessels who feel broken, empty and lost? Suicide prevention education, active listening, knowing resources, taking it seriously…these are just some of the ways we can help God to return, renew, and replenish those who feel so broken. Perhaps this is the Mitzvah that our Torah tells us “is neither beyond your or far away. It is not in heaven…it is not across the sea…no this is so very near to you—in your mouth and on your heart—that you can surely do it.”

During these High Holy Days, we have said these words so many times: “Hashiveinu Adonai eilecha, v’nashuvah—Take us back Adonai; let us come back to You.” Where are we returning from? Many of us talk of atoning for “missing the mark,” or we consider doing better in certain areas of our lives in the coming year. All of this is worthwhile and absolutely important. I do wonder about those who aren’t looking inward, who aren’t engaging in cheshbon hanfesh (accounting for the soul)—because they feel that the pieces are too scattered and too shattered to even begin to pick up and piece back together. The Talmud has an Aramaic phrase that says “Kol Yisrael arevim zeh bazeh–All of Israel is responsible for one another.” I would expand this notion to include all people. If we all take an active part in caring for one another, who knows how many lives and lights we can save and restore? 

Every light deserves to be nurtured. Every soul deserves to be cherished. Every single person matters. As we found beauty in the profound angst of the Kol Nidre’s melody, so can we find beauty in the brokenness that exists in the world. Perhaps Chester Bennington was singing his own version of “Shema Koleinu—hear our call!” He was crying out from his beautiful broken soul, and my 14 year-old self never forgot his plea. How many others cry out? If you or someone you know needs help, ask. There could be nothing more holy than seeking to return. Returning to God is returning to health, to help, to life. “Who cares if one more light goes out? Well I do.” 

G’mar Chatimah Tovah

– Rabbi Josh Gray

“What am I supposed to say?” It cannot be too long, but it definitely should not be too short! You need to capture the gravity of the days, but not bog people down and be all depressing and solemn. At least not completely. Maybe a little. But remember joy. Don’t reuse any material, but you can build off of some of it. Current events? You can mention them, of course, but most of that gets political now. Speaking of politics from the pulpit? HA. Don’t even venture anywhere near that. You must remain neutral. You don’t want to offend anyone. “What am I supposed to say?” 

In 2016, Rabbi Debbie Bravo wrote an article entitled, “ The Perfect High Holy Day Sermon You will Never Hear.” I was, of course, intrigued. The piece was rife with the struggle to remain non-partisan, engaging, in-touch with congregants, but also spiritually elevated and meaningful. 

I wrestled, as we do. Am I supposed to say one thing to people who come in with certain beliefs, and one thing to another group who has a different set of beliefs? Some people agree politically in one arena, but are completely disparate in another. Can I find one thing that we might all agree on? Or at least a large portion of us would come to some form of consensus regarding? Rabbi Bravo ended her article with a strong statement; one that reaches out from the pulpit and addresses the division that seems to run counter to our desire to “return” on this day. one that I want to share with you right now: 

“Enough is enough, she writes. Enough with the hatred. Enough with the violence. Enough of the nasty politics. Enough with the media playing in to the political arena. Enough of the pettiness that will never make our country, nor our world, nor our lives any better. This year we cannot say dayeinu – it would have been enough; this year, we just need to say: dai… enough.” This was written in 2016, but does it still ring true today?

We cry out to God during our Yom Kippur prayers, “Avinu Malkeinu, kotveinu b’sefer chayim tovim–Avinu Malkeinu, enter our names in the Book of Lives Well Lived.” If we do not say “enough” to division, if we do not say enough to the illusion of separateness, if we do not say enough to the venom of negativity that drives us apart, how can we, let alone God, feel as if we are living a life “well-lived.” Can we truly be entered or sealed for good in a book of life, when we won’t even venture out of our section of comfort in the bookstore or library? How can we open up our eyes, open up our minds, and our hearts to those who do not believe what we believe. How can we open ourselves up to those who we think, simply…are wrong.

We read in our Haftorah on this Yom Kippur the words of Isaiah. Isaiah asks the ancient and the modern listener in terms of God…”Is this the fast I desire?” Does God care if we eat or not, if our fast is “filled with strife?” If “with callous fist you strike.” Do we sit in the sanctuary with those with whom we disagree? Perhaps there are those in our lives (in this room?) we used to speak to, but for some reason or another, we do not anymore? Is our pulling further and further away from one another, is this the affliction, is this the fast that God desires? When do we say…Dai…enough? Let us not leave here still separate from one another. I plead to God on behalf of all of us, which means I plead to all of you who are created b’tzelem Elohim, in God’s image. Where is Ha-makom? Where is the place? The place we can meet. The place we can return to?

Famed Jewish philosopher and scholar Martin Buber described us human beings as ladders placed on earth and touching Heaven with its top. We often think of God or the Divine acting upon us, acting upon human history. What about us? Do we not act upon God, act upon the Divine? Our actions and our words…our thoughts even. Do they not matter? 

Perhaps it is time to say enough, and then get back to some basics. I started crafting a little piece called “Find Your Baby Voice” for a blog that I used to update regularly until the great scholars Barney the Dinosaur and Peppa Pig dominated my screen time. I found my way back to this piece of writing, and it really struck me in terms of Yom Kippur’s messages. I studied classical voice and singing for quite a while after college and well into my 20’s, really getting deeply into the process of what could truly open up my vocal potential. I made a great deal of progress in my twenties especially, and found myself studying and singing the great pieces of Verdi, Donizetti, and Puccini. My voice teacher, The Maria Callas trained Marko, said something to me during one lesson in his Manhattan studio that I will never ever forget. I have even mentioned this concept to some of you before. He looked up at me (he was a man of small stature and huge voice), and he said in his heavy Greek accent: “Find your baby voice, Joshua!” “Go out into the city and listen to as many babies cry as you can. Listen to the babies and tell me what you hear! What do you notice! Go find the babies!” I left Marko’s home studio that day and did my due diligence. Grocery stores, department stores, strollers on the streets; I tuned in to every baby cry that I could hear. There were so many different types: The hungry, the tired, the overtired, and the plain “I am angry.” But they all shared something in common that hit me over the head. They were SO OPEN. The cries were pure, unfiltered; the voices ringing out without fear, self-consciousness, no hint of repression and suppression. No political views, no voting records, no interpersonal histories. A baby’s voice is a voice stripped of the experience of the world. The Bereishit or beginning of human life, devoid of strife. 

I worked hard to let go with Marko: to free my voice from years of talking in a voice too low to seem more masculine, or from hearing a nasty comment from a classmate or someone else. From carrying around a heavy bag both literally and figuratively, From anxiety, despair, grief…even happiness and joy. All of our experiences pile on, with the evil inclination (our yetzer ha-ra) seeming to be more powerful than our yetzer ha-tov (our good inclination). The most beautiful of trained voices, to me, is a voice that has been trained to be stripped of tension. To be free. The freest voice is beautiful. 

When a baby cries, it lets go. Perhaps we can think of the Days of Awe as a buildup of that tension, and this day of Yom Kippur as our safe place to let out a wail, a big cry. We literally beat our chests during the Ashamnu of the short Vidui (confession). We can become more in touch with our deepest selves. We strike near our hearts as we say: We confess! We betray. We steal. We scorn and on and on. We confess in the first-person plural. We might not have committed all of these transgressions as individuals, but someone in our greater community has. We do this together. We make it open and safe.We let go of all the negative tension that has been building up in our deepest neshamot over the past year. Sometimes we just need a good cry to let it all out. 

We strike our chest as we get things off of our chests. Rabbi Warren Goldstein describes Yom Kippur as the happiest day of the year. Why? This is a day to be liberated from all that has been bogging us down and holding us back. We let go. We strip away the past years buildup of allostatic load (or stress upon the body through the mind). What could be better than a clean slate, a fresh start?

This year, I entreat you to let go of the strife that is not productive. When voices all around us try to convince us to splinter, to engage in lashon hara (evil speech)…this is our time to say DAI, enough… find your baby voice. Your beautiful openness. Find the essence of the words “Elohai Neshamah Shenatata bi t’hora hi.” Underneath all of our masks, our shadows, our clenched jaws and stand-up straights…do we not all long for a reprieve? DAI. Enough judgment. Enough discord. Let us return- return home to at least say hello to our purest selves prior to experience. Let’s forgive if we can. We can be the place we wish to be. Ken y’hi ratzon, may it be so. As we are sealed in the book of life, I pray that this sealing comes with health, happiness, and a deepened sense of empathy and compassion. Let us come together. Perhaps that would be more than enough.

G’mar Chatimah Tovah

– Rabbi Josh Gray 

Shana Tovah beloved Temple Isaiah family and friends. I want to take this opportunity to thank all of you for including me and my family in this beautiful and warm congregation. I feel truly blessed to be here. The High Holy Days, while widely observed by Jews around the world, can be a bit confusing, to be honest. We say Happy New Year, but we are also traditionally a bit solemn, engaging in cheshbon hanefesh (accounting for our souls). Our liturgy discusses a Book of Life wherein on Rosh Hashanah it is written, and on Yom Kippur it is sealed. Who will live and who will die, who by fire and who by water etc. This is some heavy content. How does facing our own mortality, even contemplating the next year’s possible negatives, somehow fit in with the trademark sweetness of apples and honey?

I made a promise that the High Holy days did not have to be completely enveloped in solemnity, but can also be a cause for an extreme level of joy. After all, we are able to take time out from our day-to-day lives to look inward while together as a community–lifting one another up. We are able to figuratively drop the weights that have been burdening us for the year, and then symbolically cast away what we would like to rid ourselves of during our waterside Tashlich service. Perhaps, this is simply a time for us to collectively talk to God. As many of you know, these are my first high holy day services with this congregation. Perhaps this is the first time many of you are seeing me on the bimah, or at all. Since I am here, I want to open up our conversation with God and one another in an honest and authentic way. Since I am here to help guide our prayers, it is only fair that you know where I am coming from. If we are to converse with God together, perhaps you should know from what general angle I approach God.

Right before the month of Elul (which was late August) in 2014, our first child, Cameron, entered this world. Cameron was and continues to be an absolute blessing. However, leading up to,  when he was born, and for months after, my wife, Meghan, was on the verge of losing her life. For at least a month leading up to what I call “the big event,” and To the puzzlement of many high-powered physicians, Meghan was mysteriously slipping cognitively; she couldn’t remember things…her hands began shaking…she was paranoid and confused…all of this culminating in “the big event”:We were at Meghan’s doctor’s office, and she was just a shell of herself. Eventually, she turned sheet white, laid back and went into the first of so many grand mal seizures right in front of her doctors and right in front of me.. I thought I was losing her right there, and I knew life was about to change forever. She continued seizing, eventually going into status epilepticus, or life threatening and uncontrollable seizures. She was whisked away in an ambulance as I, in a shocked state, jumped into the ambulance. I can still vividly remember the EMT’s yelling “The baby’s heart rate is dropping! We have to go!, and so many other alarming phrases. Meghan was subsequently whisked away from me into surgery, an emergency delivery, and I was left by myself. A doctor eventually came out and said to me: “Your baby is fine. But I don’t know about your wife,” as he walked away. I spent the next several weeks and months waking up in cold sweats and waiting for doctors’ updates while sleeping in chairs next to her ICU bed and ventilator, all while trying to bond with our new and beautiful baby boy, who was, thank God, healthy.

During these intermittent and stressful days of waiting and wondering if I would lose the mother of my child, I finally lost my footing. While alone one night, baby Cameron sleeping soundly, and the world quiet, the weight of everything that had happened and that was continuing to happen just struck me like a truck. I dropped to my knees in the hallway and I cried out to God. I prayed to God, not knowing if God would understand or answer. I honestly cannot even recall what I said. I did not know what the outcome would be, but my body and soul pushed me to prostration, and I cried out to God. Meghan did eventually recover, not miraculously, and her journey back to full health would take quite some time. She was diagnosed with a rare form of autoimmune encephalitis by process of elimination. Her brain was swollen, and her body was attacking itself. Looking back on this time of hospital hustle and bustle, traveling back and forth to Neurology units, hearing the results of tests that were inconclusive, I remember never feeling closer to God than I did at that moment with God on the ground. 

On Rosh Hashanah we are inscribed in Ha-Sefer Chayim, the Book of Life. We are told that God decides who will live and who will die. On Rosh Hashanah it is written, and on Yom Kippur it is sealed. I did not think that my crying out to God on the floor saved Meghan’s life, or literally inscribed her name in a different section of a book. I did not believe that my prayers were necessarily answered, as some like to say. At that moment, I simply longed for God. I wanted to know that God was there. I just wanted a conversation, and I let go. I was exhausted from the ordeal, and any semblance of decor, of pretense, none of that mattered. At the end of the day, when it was quiet, and I was alone with myself, I was left with God. 

Did God hear me? Did God answer my plea? These are not simple answers. While recalling this story however, I got to thinking, aren’t we all here on these days to speak to God? We surely don’t know who will live and who will die, and how that might come to pass. Why then do we long to have a conversation with God?

On Rosh Hashanah, we read from the Torah of the Akeidah, or the Binding of Isaac. Isaac’s own father Abraham, is ready to sacrifice his own child. Isaac, if we do the math, was likely in his 30’s, while Abraham was very aged. Did Isaac give in to the will of God…perhaps even more so than Abraham? Eventually God called out to Abraham, stopping him from sacrificing his own son. I always read this portion with a sigh of relief–for both Abraham and Isaac. I imagine the trauma of this potential loss, and the reverberations and ripples it would create that would undoubtedly change not only a family’s history, but biblical history itself. Does God intercede and place Godself in the story of human history? Do we ever have moments where we feel bound as Isaac, seemingly with nowhere to turn? As a people, we have collectively been constrained in Egypt, with the Hebrew “Mitzrayim” literally meaning “narrowness” or “constraint” No matter our age, our view of our health status, how much we exercise, or how well we eat; we just don’t know. Upon hearing of a death, we say in our tradition, “Baruch Dayan Ha-Emet–Blessed is the True Judge.” This time of year perhaps we can view ourselves as Isaac. We do not know what the future holds, but does that leave us powerless?

I felt powerless before I dropped to the floor in the hallway. When I was almost physically forced by the weight of my situation to give in to whatever you believe I gave into, that is when I might have heard that “kol d’mama dakka–the still, small voice” of God. God did not tell me what was going to happen. I did not know who would live or who would die and how. I did not know if my family would be changed forever. I just felt a full wash of emotion come over me. Allowing myself to feel dread, sorrow, agony even–in this surrender, perhaps this was God. I peeled away the layers of the world, and felt the purity of our liturgy, “Elohai Neshama Shenatata bi tehora hi- O God the soul that You have placed within me is pure.” Even if the soul is in pain or sorrow–this can be pure. 

Can we utilize these High Holy Days to awaken the deepest aspects of ourselves—to become in touch with our neshamot (our deepest soul layers)? Can we release some of the self-consciousness that keeps us from letting go, and allowing ourselves to reach a new level of awe and reverence?While my personal experience and the Akeida are both extreme and difficult examples of giving in to God, perhaps this is one of the reasons the content is so dramatic. The ability to sometimes let go is like that cry we needed for so long, and finally felt some relief after letting out. Sometimes, if we allow the Divinity that lives within us to guide the way, we can block out some of the negatives and the anxieties of our busy modern lives. We can show up for ourselves, and in doing so, show up for God. These High Holy Days are our time to say “Hineini- Here I am.” Let me open myself up to being actively invested in what I am doing during these services. As I sit in the sanctuary or at home–Let me be moved, and let me be as Moses. I will speak as directly to God as I can. Panim el panim, or face to face. In giving over ourselves, we can be moved to places that we never thought possible. We become new people after we experience letting go, even for a moment. Let us become the truest versions of ourselves, and start off our beautiful New Year with the joy that comes when our walls come down. If not a wall, perhaps you can at least begin by opening a window. Let us journey together.

Shana Tovah.

– Rabbi Josh Gray

Great songwriter Leonard Cohen put to words in his 1993 novel beautiful losers, what I view  as one of the challenges of not only Rosh Hashanah, but the entirety of our High Holy Days: “How can I begin anything new with all of yesterday in me?” How can we remember, even honor, and put in its place our past, some of which can be painful or difficult, honor this day and this moment, and move forward into the future? How do we reconcile all of that?

Our famous and powerful Untaneh Tokef prayer says to us: “Let us proclaim the power of this day–a day whose holiness awakens deepest awe.” How do we celebrate the power of this day, and all the days that make up our High Holy Days? We hear prayers and some melodies that we recognize and remember- that harken all the way back to many of our childhoods. Some of these memories are perhaps more clearly profound than others. I always think of my mother describing her childhood High Holy Day experience with a smile. She vividly expresses her memories of sitting in synagogue counting ceiling tiles and lights with her sister during her High Holy Day experience. She can also specifically describe the pain of trying not to laugh uncontrollably during the most somber moments of services–the clear creator of a future Rabbi! One of the themes of the High Holy Days is Zichronot, or Remembrances. God is said to Remember how our actions have impacted others over not only the past year, but throughout the history of creation. No pressure. How do we maintain the beauty of our memories and tradition, and also become active and dynamic in the process of celebrating and moving forward, as Leonard Cohen alluded to? How can I begin anything new with all of yesterday in me?

Let’s talk about the right now as a start. How do we live in the spiritual awe of these moments together without them becoming performative, stale, or something to “get through unscathed?” Does the Divine worry about our pronunciation of the Hebrew we are speaking during an Aliyah or an English reading we have agreed to? Do we get bogged down in these types of anxieties, even in our daily lives? Do we ever get lost in the minutiae? Do we ever do what I did when my wife Meghan brought me to a painting class in Saratoga Springs earlier this year. Do I work on one “wrong” tree for an hour, while neglecting the entire landscape? Do we ever become bogged down with the branches while the forest needs attention? What puts you in touch with the power and awe of this day? Many holy arks have written above the place where we keep our Torahs, the Talmudic adage “Dah Lifnei mi atah omed- know before Whom you are standing.” While this might sound a bit foreboding, perhaps the God we are standing before is a God who longs to hear from us. This is not a threat or an intimidation. This is an invitation. Perhaps it is not about “getting it right,” but about our intention, our kavannah. If this is your first time or 100th time in Temple this year, it does not matter. We are here, right now, together, be it in person or virtual. What are the odds that we have all come together to pray, to sing, to simply be congregated for common purpose? One of the great Jewish minds of the 20th century, Abraham Joshua Heschel, tells us that we can live life in “radical amazement” if we try. Everything is phenomenal, and nothing is casual. The great Hasidic Rabbi Nachman of Bratslov advocated for the practice of “Hitbodedut” or self-isolation. Please do not be alarmed by the term “isolation,” as I know we have had more than enough of that during the past few years with the horrors of COVID. This type of prayer simply involves talking to God on our own terms, forgetting the possible pretense and scriptedness of some of our prayers, and just letting go. Perhaps we can practice this type of prayer over the next ten or so days? We are allowed to talk to God anywhere, anytime, in any melody, in any voice.

So, How about all of those yesterdays that Leonard Cohen reminds us that we are so full of? In his work Zachor (“Remember”), Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi tells us that Jewish memory is actually a connection of past and present. Memory is not something that happened, or our ability to recall something. but it serves as a means to act in the present. We remember our deeds from the past in order to fuse them with our actions now. We are also a link in the chain of collective and active memory. Our footsteps in Judaism are not by the water’s edge. They have weight and gravity. They do not fade with the rising and lowering tides. They are etched in marble, sometimes even morphing to support the footsteps of those who have yet to come. Our recitation of Kaddish, observance of Yahrzeits, attendance at Yizkor services, recognizes the power of the past to connect with the present and even create a pathway to the future. 

Speaking of the future; can we use these High Holy days as a springboard into the future? Even packed with the baggage of yesterday, we can use our experiences to learn and grow. In the Torah, before Jacob died, he wanted to bless his children. He said,  “Gather around so I can tell you what will happen to you in days to come. Assemble and listen, children of Jacob; listen to your father Israel.” According to our great commentator Rashi, “Jacob wished to reveal what would happen in the future, but in that moment the Divine presence was removed from him.” Jacob wanted to be able to tell the future, but he was unable to do so. Why is this an important detail? The High Holy Days give us the opportunity to live in the moment, learn from the past, and shape the future. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, of blessed memory, spoke on this exact topic. He said, “ We make the future by our choices. The script is not yet written. The future is radically open.” Jacob couldn’t tell the future, because it had not yet been written. When you pick up your pen after today, what will you write? 

We have stressors, we have anxiety, we have responsibilities in the secular world. We come so full of yesterday, and with the anxiety of tomorrow. Living in the here and now, and where our feet are can become quite challenging. I like to think of the Yamim Noraim (the days of awe), as one long day wherein we are given the holy permission to remove ourselves from separating past, present and future. We can live in all of these moments at the same time, fusing ourselves with tradition and memory, and hope for brighter tomorrows, all within the context of the holiness of the now. 

Let us allow the calls of the Shofar to transport us into a different consciousness. The call ‘Shevarim” literally means broken. I look at this positively. We break down the mirage of disconnection, and begin to piece together the puzzles of who we are. I believe that our active celebration during these High Holy Days is practice for all the rest of the days of the year. If we believe the great aforementioned Rabbi Heschel, who tells us that celebrating is giving attention to the meaning of one’s actions, we are here to look inward, to leave behind a bit of the secular, and to give ourselves permission to look at why we do what we do, and if we want to continue doing it. Do we want to change something this year? Are there aspects of our lives we can approach differently? This introspection is a holy type of celebration. Can there be joy in the temporary discomfort of change?

“How can I begin anything new with all of yesterday in me?”—Perhaps by honoring that yesterday, letting it inform our actions now, and actively creating the future as we move forward.

I want to leave you with a very short story from our tradition. There is a midrash, or a Jewish story if you will, about a man named Nacshon ben Aminadav of the tribe of Judah. It is said that during the Exodus when the people of Israel were stuck between Pharaoh and the vengeful Egyptian army and the Sea of Reeds, the sea did not just part because Moses raised his hands and his staff.. Nachson ben Aminadav walked into that sea. Only once he was fully immersed in the water, did the sea part. Nachson believed with his whole heart that his actions would shape the future. He left the past of Egyptian bondage, had faith in the gravity of the moment, and this created a future on the other side of the sea. It starts with one step. Let us have faith as we enter the sea together. “How can I begin anything new with all of yesterday in me?” How can anything be new without yesterday? Let’s connect the past, present and future together. Let us combine those flames into one beautiful and radiant light. 

Shana Tovah 

– Rabbi Josh Gray