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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