Drasha – Rosh Hashana 5780
Dahlia Shaham
Kehillat David Hamelech (Kedem)
Melbourne, Australia
Shanah Tova,
Once more I am fortunate to begin the new year with you, here. To feel so much at home on the other side of the world from my home. I know this feeling is not foreign to you. In many of the conversations I’ve had with people here this year and last, I heard the exact same feeling about Israel – this sense of familiarity, deep connection that transcends space and time. This feeling of a continuous conversation – easily picking up from where we left off.
And so it is with my Drash.
As I started preparing it, I simply picked up from where I left off last year - Once again diving into the text we recited three times after the blowing of shofar:
היום הרת עולם
Today the world is conceived. “Born anew”
Last year I was drawn to the idea of הרה of conception: the miracle, anticipation, longing that is involved in a new beginning.
This year it is the עולם the world, that is on my mind and in my heart.
The common explanation for the connection between Rosh Hashanah and the concept of a world created, is the ancient Rabbinic narrative which considers this day as the anniversary of Genesis, of the initial creation story. According to this belief it is this moon, the moon of Tishrei, which was first to shine over the nascent earth and the first androgynous human. We are here to celebrate creation and humanity.
How phenomenal then, how strange, that this single most universal commemoration day in our tradition is also by far the most particular!
It seems to me that all other holidays have equivalents in other traditions, not only in Christianity, which has grown from the same stem (Pentacost/Shavuot; Passover/Easter); Yom Kippur and Ramadhan share textual roots and similar practices; even Purim and the Hindu Holi occur on approximately the same time and have common traits.
But Rosh Hashanah, with its elaborate prayer services, the sound of Shofar, the blessings on food, or the Tashlich, combined with repentance, with divine judgement– it is quite unique, to say the least. What do these particular customs have to do with the entire world being created or reborn?
Perhaps the notion of a world reborn is even more particular. Earlier in the service we read the Mishna that Rabbi Simcha Bonim advises us to carry always in our right pocket: “For me the world was created”. He is quoting from Sanhedrin tractate, that instates the rule of law.
The same Mishna explains why we should be extremely careful when bearing witness and testifying to the deeds of our fellow beings - saying:
“if any man has caused a single life to perish from Israel, he is deemed as if he had caused a whole world to perish; and anyone who saves a single soul from Israel, is deemed by Scripture as if he had saved a whole world.”
Each person, each of us, is a world. We are invited on this day to renew ourselves. We reminded on this day to take our selves, our souls, seriously, and – ואהבת לרעך כמוך –that this self-love, self-respect is to be given to our fellow beings - each an entire world.
During the year we may forget it. In what people call “Real Life” we may feel like mere particles in a vast machine of cause and effect, supply and demand. We sometimes glimpse the reality of our being through the cracks of life and death.
Quite a few people here have had new babies born in their families this year . When that happens we know the truth of an entire world coming into being.
Quite a few people here have lost people dear to them this past year. When that happens we know the truth of an entire world gone, a black hole of absence created within our galaxy.
Each of us a world, but all of us connected.
Each a world, but like all material, ever changing, fragile, perishable.
This is the reminder Rabbi Bonim calls us to carry always in our left pocket: I am but dust and ashes. As God said to Adam as he stepped out of Eden: כִּי עָפָר אַתָּה וְאֶל עָפָר תָּשׁוּב – “Until you return to the soil — For from it you were taken. For dust you are, And to dust you shall return.” (Genesis 3:19)
Dust and ashes are not nothing. They are tiny particles of something greater – not a machine or system, but the entire ecosystem of the earth.
Each being is an entire world. At the same time, the entire world is one Being.
In what people call “real life” we tend to forget this too, perceiving this singular being as divided into entities, territories, resources.
I was pondering this as I was standing in line for passport control a week ago. And I had quite a long while to ponder. As I saw the lines of people with preferred citizenships, aircrew members, and other express line members proceed past the line I was standing in, which by and large included people my height with a range of skin tones darker than my own. Our line proceeded sluggishly, taking two-three steps forward every two-three minutes towards the single officer that was free to handle our papers. No one protested. We all accepted this random division, this total reduction of the singular worlds we each are into a single word written on a piece of paper that is referred to as our “identity document”. All of this, based on just-as-random and temporary lines drawn by other human beings, on other pieces of papers that represent the lands of the earth.
Faced with these Lines and Lines, my mind found refuge in a Song-Line:
הַשָּׁמַיִם שָׁמַיִם לַה' וְהָאָרֶץ נָתַן לִבְנֵי אָדָם,
My mind kept reciting this line from the Hallel (which we will sing together in Sukkot): The heavens are heavens for the Eternal, and the Earth given to Mankind (Psalms 115:16)
And we have not been kind to this Earth. Maybe we took the wrong lesson from this division between Heaven and Earth, Divine and Human, and kept on dividing this united world given to us.
But on this new year, it is clearer than ever that these divisions are superficial. Climate change is affecting us all. The green lungs of the planet burst spontaneously in forest fires across the globe, droughts and floods offsetting each other in opposing sides of the earth. It seems to me that the only true division in this world is between those who recognize our interconnectedness and common fate – and those who are in denial of it.
In such a world – what is the relevance of rituals such as the one we are currently involved in?
Last year I met with Tami Zori, one of Israel’s leading environmental activists. We met to study Torah. She told me that for many years she objected to the notion of the “holy land”, since she considers the entire planet to be sacred and naming one part of it “holy” seemed to negate the sanctity of other parts. Still, she could not shake off the feeling that there is something special in the land of Israel, not just for various groups and communities, but for herself as well. Recently, she said, she recognized that holiness is not exclusive, and that it is possible for parts of the one sacred earth to hold unique attributes – in much the same way that the human body is one sacred creation, but still has vital organs and acupuncture points.
ירושליםcould be such vital organ. So could Uluru, Lhasa, Mecca.
Each organ with its unique function, working in its own rhythm, sending it unique signs through the nervous system, speaking its own language. What happens when such an organ is sick? What to do when the entire body runs a high fever?
Two months ago I met another wise woman, Dvorah. She has been living peacefully in the Galilee for 40 years now. But 19 years ago, when Jerusalem burst into flames with the second Intifada (which began on Rosh Hashanah), she heard a calling and started going up to the old city every week. She explained to me, what she could not articulate back then, that Jerusalem is the Heart of the world. Like a heart, it is divided into four quarters. Like a heart, its health relies on the healthy flow through the veins and arteries. In September 2000 it suffered a stroke, a heart attack. The once vibrant alleys shut down. Fear clogged the arteries connecting the quarters.
Dvorah went there every week, walked the alleys of the non-Jewish quarters and greeted everyone she met with Salaam Aleikum – May peace be upon you. To which no Arab can respond in any other way then retorting: Aleikum A-Salaam – May peace be upon you. Just like that, week after week, for years, she would go to open the closed arteries of Jerusalem with a renewed flow of communications and peace. She was not the only one. Other people, like single determined blood cells were there to walk the talk of peace and renew the heart’s vitality with her.
Now, 19 years later, the heart of Jerusalem is beating regularly again. Yes, sometimes there is still sharp pain, but people flow day and night through the streets, up and down the mountain, greeting each other.שלום עליכם. עליכם השלום
This coming February a multi-faith conference will be held in Jerusalem by a global organization called Unity Earth, that has held similar gatherings already in Ethiopia, Thailand, India and Australia. It is the initiative of one man from Melbourne named Ben Bowler. The name Bowler may sound familiar to you – he is the son of Professor Jim Bowler, the Australian geologist who discovered the 40,000 year old skeleton in the Mungo Lake area (known as “Mungo Man”) and proved the previously unrecognized antiquity of Australia’s indigenous people. Now his son, Ben, is working hard at raising awareness to sanctity and unity across the world. The conference will be under the title “Living Water”
This may be a lot of anecdotal information for a Drash, but as they say – God is in the details. At least in my world – divinity often takes the shape of seemingly random lines connecting people, places, facts, ideas, beliefs creating an elaborate, yet simple picture that fills me with awe and gratitude.
My mother in law asked me to make sure we open the year well here, because we get to go first, and it’s up to us to make sure this new year arrives in good condition to the rest of the world. 😊
The word נורא in Hebrew has the double meaning of something that inspires awe; and something awful. These Yamim Noraim are therefore, at once, days of awe and awful days – depending on our circumstance and perspective.
Martin Buber wrote:
In the turmoil and noise of the great seas around us we can only see the world that surround us. Let us deepen the view that is given to us in the hours of great silence: let us observe ourselves, and perceive ourselves: let us raise our lives into our hands the way we raise a pail from a well.
And I am thinking of the well that God showed Hagar, as she was banished, despaired lost in the desert with her son. As if saying: this world has enough to provide for all worlds on their journey.
As we enter this new year, let us raise our lives into our hands like a pail from a well, acknowledge, with awe, the living water that spring from the depth of our being, as those that spring from the depths of this kind earth. May we see with the clarity and accept each other and ourselves as the worlds that we are, and may we keep connecting and mending the rifts – Tikkun Olam – in the one world which we are together with creation.
Thank you.
Dahlia Shaham
Kehillat David Hamelech (Kedem)
Melbourne, Australia
Shanah Tova,
Once more I am fortunate to begin the new year with you, here. To feel so much at home on the other side of the world from my home. I know this feeling is not foreign to you. In many of the conversations I’ve had with people here this year and last, I heard the exact same feeling about Israel – this sense of familiarity, deep connection that transcends space and time. This feeling of a continuous conversation – easily picking up from where we left off.
And so it is with my Drash.
As I started preparing it, I simply picked up from where I left off last year - Once again diving into the text we recited three times after the blowing of shofar:
היום הרת עולם
Today the world is conceived. “Born anew”
Last year I was drawn to the idea of הרה of conception: the miracle, anticipation, longing that is involved in a new beginning.
This year it is the עולם the world, that is on my mind and in my heart.
The common explanation for the connection between Rosh Hashanah and the concept of a world created, is the ancient Rabbinic narrative which considers this day as the anniversary of Genesis, of the initial creation story. According to this belief it is this moon, the moon of Tishrei, which was first to shine over the nascent earth and the first androgynous human. We are here to celebrate creation and humanity.
How phenomenal then, how strange, that this single most universal commemoration day in our tradition is also by far the most particular!
It seems to me that all other holidays have equivalents in other traditions, not only in Christianity, which has grown from the same stem (Pentacost/Shavuot; Passover/Easter); Yom Kippur and Ramadhan share textual roots and similar practices; even Purim and the Hindu Holi occur on approximately the same time and have common traits.
But Rosh Hashanah, with its elaborate prayer services, the sound of Shofar, the blessings on food, or the Tashlich, combined with repentance, with divine judgement– it is quite unique, to say the least. What do these particular customs have to do with the entire world being created or reborn?
Perhaps the notion of a world reborn is even more particular. Earlier in the service we read the Mishna that Rabbi Simcha Bonim advises us to carry always in our right pocket: “For me the world was created”. He is quoting from Sanhedrin tractate, that instates the rule of law.
The same Mishna explains why we should be extremely careful when bearing witness and testifying to the deeds of our fellow beings - saying:
“if any man has caused a single life to perish from Israel, he is deemed as if he had caused a whole world to perish; and anyone who saves a single soul from Israel, is deemed by Scripture as if he had saved a whole world.”
Each person, each of us, is a world. We are invited on this day to renew ourselves. We reminded on this day to take our selves, our souls, seriously, and – ואהבת לרעך כמוך –that this self-love, self-respect is to be given to our fellow beings - each an entire world.
During the year we may forget it. In what people call “Real Life” we may feel like mere particles in a vast machine of cause and effect, supply and demand. We sometimes glimpse the reality of our being through the cracks of life and death.
Quite a few people here have had new babies born in their families this year . When that happens we know the truth of an entire world coming into being.
Quite a few people here have lost people dear to them this past year. When that happens we know the truth of an entire world gone, a black hole of absence created within our galaxy.
Each of us a world, but all of us connected.
Each a world, but like all material, ever changing, fragile, perishable.
This is the reminder Rabbi Bonim calls us to carry always in our left pocket: I am but dust and ashes. As God said to Adam as he stepped out of Eden: כִּי עָפָר אַתָּה וְאֶל עָפָר תָּשׁוּב – “Until you return to the soil — For from it you were taken. For dust you are, And to dust you shall return.” (Genesis 3:19)
Dust and ashes are not nothing. They are tiny particles of something greater – not a machine or system, but the entire ecosystem of the earth.
Each being is an entire world. At the same time, the entire world is one Being.
In what people call “real life” we tend to forget this too, perceiving this singular being as divided into entities, territories, resources.
I was pondering this as I was standing in line for passport control a week ago. And I had quite a long while to ponder. As I saw the lines of people with preferred citizenships, aircrew members, and other express line members proceed past the line I was standing in, which by and large included people my height with a range of skin tones darker than my own. Our line proceeded sluggishly, taking two-three steps forward every two-three minutes towards the single officer that was free to handle our papers. No one protested. We all accepted this random division, this total reduction of the singular worlds we each are into a single word written on a piece of paper that is referred to as our “identity document”. All of this, based on just-as-random and temporary lines drawn by other human beings, on other pieces of papers that represent the lands of the earth.
Faced with these Lines and Lines, my mind found refuge in a Song-Line:
הַשָּׁמַיִם שָׁמַיִם לַה' וְהָאָרֶץ נָתַן לִבְנֵי אָדָם,
My mind kept reciting this line from the Hallel (which we will sing together in Sukkot): The heavens are heavens for the Eternal, and the Earth given to Mankind (Psalms 115:16)
And we have not been kind to this Earth. Maybe we took the wrong lesson from this division between Heaven and Earth, Divine and Human, and kept on dividing this united world given to us.
But on this new year, it is clearer than ever that these divisions are superficial. Climate change is affecting us all. The green lungs of the planet burst spontaneously in forest fires across the globe, droughts and floods offsetting each other in opposing sides of the earth. It seems to me that the only true division in this world is between those who recognize our interconnectedness and common fate – and those who are in denial of it.
In such a world – what is the relevance of rituals such as the one we are currently involved in?
Last year I met with Tami Zori, one of Israel’s leading environmental activists. We met to study Torah. She told me that for many years she objected to the notion of the “holy land”, since she considers the entire planet to be sacred and naming one part of it “holy” seemed to negate the sanctity of other parts. Still, she could not shake off the feeling that there is something special in the land of Israel, not just for various groups and communities, but for herself as well. Recently, she said, she recognized that holiness is not exclusive, and that it is possible for parts of the one sacred earth to hold unique attributes – in much the same way that the human body is one sacred creation, but still has vital organs and acupuncture points.
ירושליםcould be such vital organ. So could Uluru, Lhasa, Mecca.
Each organ with its unique function, working in its own rhythm, sending it unique signs through the nervous system, speaking its own language. What happens when such an organ is sick? What to do when the entire body runs a high fever?
Two months ago I met another wise woman, Dvorah. She has been living peacefully in the Galilee for 40 years now. But 19 years ago, when Jerusalem burst into flames with the second Intifada (which began on Rosh Hashanah), she heard a calling and started going up to the old city every week. She explained to me, what she could not articulate back then, that Jerusalem is the Heart of the world. Like a heart, it is divided into four quarters. Like a heart, its health relies on the healthy flow through the veins and arteries. In September 2000 it suffered a stroke, a heart attack. The once vibrant alleys shut down. Fear clogged the arteries connecting the quarters.
Dvorah went there every week, walked the alleys of the non-Jewish quarters and greeted everyone she met with Salaam Aleikum – May peace be upon you. To which no Arab can respond in any other way then retorting: Aleikum A-Salaam – May peace be upon you. Just like that, week after week, for years, she would go to open the closed arteries of Jerusalem with a renewed flow of communications and peace. She was not the only one. Other people, like single determined blood cells were there to walk the talk of peace and renew the heart’s vitality with her.
Now, 19 years later, the heart of Jerusalem is beating regularly again. Yes, sometimes there is still sharp pain, but people flow day and night through the streets, up and down the mountain, greeting each other.שלום עליכם. עליכם השלום
This coming February a multi-faith conference will be held in Jerusalem by a global organization called Unity Earth, that has held similar gatherings already in Ethiopia, Thailand, India and Australia. It is the initiative of one man from Melbourne named Ben Bowler. The name Bowler may sound familiar to you – he is the son of Professor Jim Bowler, the Australian geologist who discovered the 40,000 year old skeleton in the Mungo Lake area (known as “Mungo Man”) and proved the previously unrecognized antiquity of Australia’s indigenous people. Now his son, Ben, is working hard at raising awareness to sanctity and unity across the world. The conference will be under the title “Living Water”
This may be a lot of anecdotal information for a Drash, but as they say – God is in the details. At least in my world – divinity often takes the shape of seemingly random lines connecting people, places, facts, ideas, beliefs creating an elaborate, yet simple picture that fills me with awe and gratitude.
My mother in law asked me to make sure we open the year well here, because we get to go first, and it’s up to us to make sure this new year arrives in good condition to the rest of the world. 😊
The word נורא in Hebrew has the double meaning of something that inspires awe; and something awful. These Yamim Noraim are therefore, at once, days of awe and awful days – depending on our circumstance and perspective.
Martin Buber wrote:
In the turmoil and noise of the great seas around us we can only see the world that surround us. Let us deepen the view that is given to us in the hours of great silence: let us observe ourselves, and perceive ourselves: let us raise our lives into our hands the way we raise a pail from a well.
And I am thinking of the well that God showed Hagar, as she was banished, despaired lost in the desert with her son. As if saying: this world has enough to provide for all worlds on their journey.
As we enter this new year, let us raise our lives into our hands like a pail from a well, acknowledge, with awe, the living water that spring from the depth of our being, as those that spring from the depths of this kind earth. May we see with the clarity and accept each other and ourselves as the worlds that we are, and may we keep connecting and mending the rifts – Tikkun Olam – in the one world which we are together with creation.
Thank you.
Drash Yom Kippur 5780
Dahlia Shaham
Our attention on this holy day is often turned to the things we choose to avoid, or be more aware of, putting into our mouth. It is a suitable time to also consider the things that come out of our mouth. And by things, I mean words. In Hebrew, thing and word are the same: דבר. This is in line with our creation narrative that is based on the divine ability to express ideas in words.
ויאמר אלהים. – and God said…
Words are the main “things” in all Jewish rituals. Yes, we have physical objects: Ark, Torah, Tallit; and we move a bit: stand, sit, bow. But mostly we verbalize. Using our vocal chords, tongue, and lips to express words. In Hebrew there are two words for “language” – שפה – which means “lip”, and לשון which means “tongue”.
The work of preparing and leading the Yamim Noraim services is all a matter of verbal architecture – which words to express, read, sing, skip, whisper, repeat, which in Hebrew, Aramaic, English…
So I have been thinking:
What are these things we call “words”, for lack of a better word?
Luckily, I didn’t have to come up with answer myself. Hayim Nachman Bialik did so, exactly 104 years ago in an article published in Odessa, October 1915 named גילוי וכיסוי בלשון “Revealment and Concealment in language”.
It begins:
“Human beings cast unto the wind every day, intentionally and inadvertently, words of all kind and matter, single or combined. But only few know or consider what these words were in their days of glory.
Some of these words were created after long painful birth pangs that lasted generations; others struck suddenly like lightning, illuminating an entire world; some of them carried through them generations of living souls arriving and departing each leaving behind a shade or a scent; and some served as cases for gentle & complex mechanisms of deep thoughts and elated emotions in their intricate combinations. There are words of heavenly mountains, and words of vast abyss. […] But in our days words have fallen from glory, and cast to the marketplace, traded by people in bulk as if they were lentil.”
Only 10 days ago on Rosh Hashanah, we celebrated the anniversary of creation itself. From that moment of first creation of human life it was ages before human beings became the speaking, story-telling, communicating, counting, accounting and recounting creatures we identify as our ancestors.
How long did it take for the word “food” to first be uttered, understood, and repeated? How long for the word “God”?
In our creation story, which is more like a creation song, before God began using words, there was only תהו ובהו – Void, endless abyss of shapeless water. The words covered the void with light, soil, sky, stars, flora, fauna then humans.
Bialik calls our species “the speaking human” האדם המדבר (it probably sounds more scientific in Latin). He portrays our linguistic endeavour as a continuation of the first divine attempt – to conceal the void, the chasm that lies underneath it all.
By saying “food” we create a clay-shard that hides the fragility of our existence. By saying “God” we are creating a handle-bar, something to grasp at, so we do not slip into the unspeakable mystery of life. Bialik is astounded by this. He explains:
“What is so astounding? The sense of security and serenity with which humans speak, as if they are truly delivering their expressed thoughts or feeling on calm water, or a steel bridge, and they do not imagine at all how unstable that word-bridge is, how deep and dark the abyss below it, how miraculous is every peaceful step. “
I thought this was a good reminder for Yom Kippur, this day of awe and reverence: to Revere Words. To acknowledge them as miraculous vessels of deliverance – delivering spirit into matter, delivering feelings between hearts, thoughts between minds, running a constant risk of wobbling and failing, of missing the mark, of hurting and deceiving – ourselves and others.
And doing all that through such soft organs as our lips and tongues.
We are here in the building of King David School.
I love that the great monarch of our tradition started his career as a musical therapist brought to ease the mind of a disturbed ruler. I also love that his single most significant heritage is a song book. The kingdom he fought and killed so much to attain and bequeath to his son Solomon (another word wizard) did not last two generations. But the book of Psalms is the single most reiterated, widely translated song book of humanity. How simple it is to say or sing הללויה – as easy as a pop song. How often have we said or sung it? And how often have we stopped to think how miraculous or strange it is that it made its way into our mouths, over two millennia, all the way from the actual or imaginary mind of a harp-playing, sheep-herding, giant-slaughtering, womanizing, conniving king?
The words of Psalms are vessels of the soul. I think the reason that they lasted and are so broadly used is because they give us a stable foothold, a place to rest our most unspeakable thoughts and emotions. הללויה is there for us to step on when we are speechlessly elated by magnificence, happiness or beauty.
But הללויה cannot help us with our regrets, guilt, shame, fear – all the feelings that we are called upon to face and air out through this day’s liturgy.
It is Psalm 51 is there to help with those. It begins:
For the leader. A psalm of David,
לַמְנַצֵּ֗חַ מִזְמ֥וֹר לְדָוִֽד׃
when Nathan the prophet came to him after he had come to Bathsheba.
בְּֽבוֹא־אֵ֭לָיו נָתָ֣ן הַנָּבִ֑יא כַּֽאֲשֶׁר־בָּ֝֗א אֶל־בַּת־שָֽׁבַע׃
David the leader had taken a married woman and sent her husband to die (along with other people) in a pointless battle in a pointless attempt to conceal his misdeeds. All this he had done by using words. Ordering life and death. This is what kings do. The prophet Natan comes to reproach him. And faced with the blame he could have just as easily killed the messenger as well. But he doesn’t. He sings. Leaving us with a story that makes no point on power, or blame, or justice – only about words.
We are left with is a poem that we quote every time we rise for Amida:
On verse 17: אדוני שפתי תפתח ופי יגיד תהילתך
It is not the Adonai substitute for the י-ה-ו-ה name. But the origin from which this substitute was taken : Adonai, my masters.
Open my lips so that my mouth shall say your praise.
In 5 words, an everlasting invitation to the forces that drive our life choices to speak from within us, to do the talking for us.
I invite you to believe in this invitation. To surrender your speech, on this day, to listen to the words that emerge from your lips and tongue with the same awe and wonder they inspired in what Bialik calls their “days of glory”.
It is a scary thing to do, surrender our speech in this way. The words that come out may break down our pretenses. They may incriminate us. We use the word תפילה so simply, even technically, that it is easy to ignore its common root with the word הפללה – incrimination; and the word לפלל – to express deep hope, yearning.
Like the yearning expressed in two other verses from the same psalm – which we will also chant through the services of this day ( you will find it attached in additional notes that you may use as bookmarks in your machzorim):
לֵב טָהוֹר בְּרָא-לִי אֱלֹהִים; וְרוּחַ נָכוֹן חַדֵּשׁ בְּקִרְבִּי.
אַל-תַּשְׁלִיכֵנִי מִלְּפָנֶיךָ; וְרוּחַ קָדְשְׁךָ, אַל-תִּקַּח מִמֶּנִּי.
I won’t attempt translation now. Every single word here is an invitation for a deep dive into the soul. We’ll get to do a bit of that during the study session tomorrow after Mincha.
There is something about Hebrew words with their roots and biblical ancestry that has this power – over me at least – this ability to immerse in meaning. But truly, all words are magic – As Leonard Cohen wisely sang:
There’s a blaze of light in every word
It does not matter which you heard
The holy, or the broken Hallelujah.
Let this day be a day of glorified words immersing us in their lights.
Having given all this respect and consideration to spoken language, Bialik ends his essay with somewhat of a disclaimer:
So far for the language of words. Nevertheless, divinity speaks other, wordless, languages: music, tears and laughter – and the “speaking human” has been gifted with those as well. These begin where words end. And they do not come to close and conceal, but to open and reveal, bubbling and rising from the abyss, they are the voice of the abyss itself. So they may flood and sweep us into an irresistible vortex; they may even drive humans out of their minds, or out of the world; but any spiritual creation that does not echo one of them, is not worth living and should not have been born.
With this in mind, with the recognition of the power of music, tears, and laughter to take us to the worlds beyond words – we turn to the Slichot a series of the Piyyutim – devotional songs. In sepharadi tradition, these are sung by the community every day before dawn starting the beginning of Ellul, for 40 days then, creating a constant flow of music carrying those vessels of deliverance to a place beyond logic, to the realm of compassion רחמים.
They begin with יעלה תחנונינו – an acrostic going backwards from ת to א – let the words and music carry us backwards to where we come from חדש ימינו כקדם to our origins of pure hearts, old souls, glorious words.
Dahlia Shaham
Our attention on this holy day is often turned to the things we choose to avoid, or be more aware of, putting into our mouth. It is a suitable time to also consider the things that come out of our mouth. And by things, I mean words. In Hebrew, thing and word are the same: דבר. This is in line with our creation narrative that is based on the divine ability to express ideas in words.
ויאמר אלהים. – and God said…
Words are the main “things” in all Jewish rituals. Yes, we have physical objects: Ark, Torah, Tallit; and we move a bit: stand, sit, bow. But mostly we verbalize. Using our vocal chords, tongue, and lips to express words. In Hebrew there are two words for “language” – שפה – which means “lip”, and לשון which means “tongue”.
The work of preparing and leading the Yamim Noraim services is all a matter of verbal architecture – which words to express, read, sing, skip, whisper, repeat, which in Hebrew, Aramaic, English…
So I have been thinking:
What are these things we call “words”, for lack of a better word?
Luckily, I didn’t have to come up with answer myself. Hayim Nachman Bialik did so, exactly 104 years ago in an article published in Odessa, October 1915 named גילוי וכיסוי בלשון “Revealment and Concealment in language”.
It begins:
“Human beings cast unto the wind every day, intentionally and inadvertently, words of all kind and matter, single or combined. But only few know or consider what these words were in their days of glory.
Some of these words were created after long painful birth pangs that lasted generations; others struck suddenly like lightning, illuminating an entire world; some of them carried through them generations of living souls arriving and departing each leaving behind a shade or a scent; and some served as cases for gentle & complex mechanisms of deep thoughts and elated emotions in their intricate combinations. There are words of heavenly mountains, and words of vast abyss. […] But in our days words have fallen from glory, and cast to the marketplace, traded by people in bulk as if they were lentil.”
Only 10 days ago on Rosh Hashanah, we celebrated the anniversary of creation itself. From that moment of first creation of human life it was ages before human beings became the speaking, story-telling, communicating, counting, accounting and recounting creatures we identify as our ancestors.
How long did it take for the word “food” to first be uttered, understood, and repeated? How long for the word “God”?
In our creation story, which is more like a creation song, before God began using words, there was only תהו ובהו – Void, endless abyss of shapeless water. The words covered the void with light, soil, sky, stars, flora, fauna then humans.
Bialik calls our species “the speaking human” האדם המדבר (it probably sounds more scientific in Latin). He portrays our linguistic endeavour as a continuation of the first divine attempt – to conceal the void, the chasm that lies underneath it all.
By saying “food” we create a clay-shard that hides the fragility of our existence. By saying “God” we are creating a handle-bar, something to grasp at, so we do not slip into the unspeakable mystery of life. Bialik is astounded by this. He explains:
“What is so astounding? The sense of security and serenity with which humans speak, as if they are truly delivering their expressed thoughts or feeling on calm water, or a steel bridge, and they do not imagine at all how unstable that word-bridge is, how deep and dark the abyss below it, how miraculous is every peaceful step. “
I thought this was a good reminder for Yom Kippur, this day of awe and reverence: to Revere Words. To acknowledge them as miraculous vessels of deliverance – delivering spirit into matter, delivering feelings between hearts, thoughts between minds, running a constant risk of wobbling and failing, of missing the mark, of hurting and deceiving – ourselves and others.
And doing all that through such soft organs as our lips and tongues.
We are here in the building of King David School.
I love that the great monarch of our tradition started his career as a musical therapist brought to ease the mind of a disturbed ruler. I also love that his single most significant heritage is a song book. The kingdom he fought and killed so much to attain and bequeath to his son Solomon (another word wizard) did not last two generations. But the book of Psalms is the single most reiterated, widely translated song book of humanity. How simple it is to say or sing הללויה – as easy as a pop song. How often have we said or sung it? And how often have we stopped to think how miraculous or strange it is that it made its way into our mouths, over two millennia, all the way from the actual or imaginary mind of a harp-playing, sheep-herding, giant-slaughtering, womanizing, conniving king?
The words of Psalms are vessels of the soul. I think the reason that they lasted and are so broadly used is because they give us a stable foothold, a place to rest our most unspeakable thoughts and emotions. הללויה is there for us to step on when we are speechlessly elated by magnificence, happiness or beauty.
But הללויה cannot help us with our regrets, guilt, shame, fear – all the feelings that we are called upon to face and air out through this day’s liturgy.
It is Psalm 51 is there to help with those. It begins:
For the leader. A psalm of David,
לַמְנַצֵּ֗חַ מִזְמ֥וֹר לְדָוִֽד׃
when Nathan the prophet came to him after he had come to Bathsheba.
בְּֽבוֹא־אֵ֭לָיו נָתָ֣ן הַנָּבִ֑יא כַּֽאֲשֶׁר־בָּ֝֗א אֶל־בַּת־שָֽׁבַע׃
David the leader had taken a married woman and sent her husband to die (along with other people) in a pointless battle in a pointless attempt to conceal his misdeeds. All this he had done by using words. Ordering life and death. This is what kings do. The prophet Natan comes to reproach him. And faced with the blame he could have just as easily killed the messenger as well. But he doesn’t. He sings. Leaving us with a story that makes no point on power, or blame, or justice – only about words.
We are left with is a poem that we quote every time we rise for Amida:
On verse 17: אדוני שפתי תפתח ופי יגיד תהילתך
It is not the Adonai substitute for the י-ה-ו-ה name. But the origin from which this substitute was taken : Adonai, my masters.
Open my lips so that my mouth shall say your praise.
In 5 words, an everlasting invitation to the forces that drive our life choices to speak from within us, to do the talking for us.
I invite you to believe in this invitation. To surrender your speech, on this day, to listen to the words that emerge from your lips and tongue with the same awe and wonder they inspired in what Bialik calls their “days of glory”.
It is a scary thing to do, surrender our speech in this way. The words that come out may break down our pretenses. They may incriminate us. We use the word תפילה so simply, even technically, that it is easy to ignore its common root with the word הפללה – incrimination; and the word לפלל – to express deep hope, yearning.
Like the yearning expressed in two other verses from the same psalm – which we will also chant through the services of this day ( you will find it attached in additional notes that you may use as bookmarks in your machzorim):
לֵב טָהוֹר בְּרָא-לִי אֱלֹהִים; וְרוּחַ נָכוֹן חַדֵּשׁ בְּקִרְבִּי.
אַל-תַּשְׁלִיכֵנִי מִלְּפָנֶיךָ; וְרוּחַ קָדְשְׁךָ, אַל-תִּקַּח מִמֶּנִּי.
I won’t attempt translation now. Every single word here is an invitation for a deep dive into the soul. We’ll get to do a bit of that during the study session tomorrow after Mincha.
There is something about Hebrew words with their roots and biblical ancestry that has this power – over me at least – this ability to immerse in meaning. But truly, all words are magic – As Leonard Cohen wisely sang:
There’s a blaze of light in every word
It does not matter which you heard
The holy, or the broken Hallelujah.
Let this day be a day of glorified words immersing us in their lights.
Having given all this respect and consideration to spoken language, Bialik ends his essay with somewhat of a disclaimer:
So far for the language of words. Nevertheless, divinity speaks other, wordless, languages: music, tears and laughter – and the “speaking human” has been gifted with those as well. These begin where words end. And they do not come to close and conceal, but to open and reveal, bubbling and rising from the abyss, they are the voice of the abyss itself. So they may flood and sweep us into an irresistible vortex; they may even drive humans out of their minds, or out of the world; but any spiritual creation that does not echo one of them, is not worth living and should not have been born.
With this in mind, with the recognition of the power of music, tears, and laughter to take us to the worlds beyond words – we turn to the Slichot a series of the Piyyutim – devotional songs. In sepharadi tradition, these are sung by the community every day before dawn starting the beginning of Ellul, for 40 days then, creating a constant flow of music carrying those vessels of deliverance to a place beyond logic, to the realm of compassion רחמים.
They begin with יעלה תחנונינו – an acrostic going backwards from ת to א – let the words and music carry us backwards to where we come from חדש ימינו כקדם to our origins of pure hearts, old souls, glorious words.
Drash Sukkot 5780
Dahlia Shaham
I have noticed one similarity between the experience of Sukkot in Israel and here in Melbourne: a general upward gaze accompanied by the question: is it going to rain? It seems like all springtime plans here are weather dependant, with a mixed feeling – we need the rain, especially in these years of draught, but sunshine makes us happy and enables us to go on with our plans, to be in control.
(Reference to Shabbat picnic?)
In Israel it is the same, but from the other side of the year cycle: there is a rising anticipation of the rains of autumn and winter, accompanied by an ever-present anxiety of draught; on the other hand a need, a plea, for suspense. Please, just a little while, let us stay outside a little longer to prepare the fields and gardens hold on to the kedusha of Tishrei holidays a little longer.
So every cloud is accepted with mixed feelings.
And as I was preparing this drash with this notion of cloud watching, I couldn’t string my thoughts like a chain. Instead I felt my ideas forming clouds in my mind. This is my offering: three clouds of context. Like clouds they are loosely connected, but put together may create some picture. I tried to give each a title.
Cloud One : Hot Air and Sheep
One of the customs of Sukkot is to read the scroll of Kohelet, attributed to a peculiar alter-ego of King Solomon. It begins:
The words of Koheleth son of David, king in Jerusalem.
דִּבְרֵי֙ קֹהֶ֣לֶת בֶּן־דָּוִ֔ד מֶ֖לֶךְ בִּירוּשָׁלִָֽם׃
הֲבֵ֤ל הֲבָלִים֙ אָמַ֣ר קֹהֶ֔לֶת הֲבֵ֥ל הֲבָלִ֖ים הַכֹּ֥ל הָֽבֶל׃
Utter futility!—said Koheleth— Utter futility! / all is Vanity
I observed all the happenings beneath the sun, and I found that all is futile and a chasing after the wind / pursuit of wind.
רעות רוח.
Dictionary definition of הבל is:
But the first appearance of הבל in the Torah is as a name, of the son of Eve and Adam, humanity’s famous first shepherd, brother – and murder victim – of the first farmer, קין. Murder motive: jealousy; grounds for jealousy: God likes Hevel (Abel) more.
This violent act does no deter God from continuing to prefer shepherds. All the great biblical role models are shepherds: Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Moses, David – before becoming the king David, father of King Solomon (or Koheleth) – was a shepherd.
Sheep-herding is a corrective vocation. At some point, not much longer after the people of Israel are redeemed from Egypt, and given the Torah, God realizes that you can take the people out of Egypt, but you can’t take Egypt out of the people.
In Egypt, we learn in Genesis 41,[1] Sheep-herding was considered "תועבה" despicable profession, an abomination. The kingdom of Egypt was built on an agricultural society. Cain’s vocation, and those of his progenies – the builders and the blacksmiths - were considered valuable.
God needed his Abels back. After the one too many times the ungrateful people of Israel complain about ever leaving Egypt’s certainties and comforts, they are informed of their sentence: None of your doubters will enter the promised land. “your sons will be shepherds in the desert for 40 years”,[2] (Numbers 14) and as such they may enter.
The tension between shepherds and farmers represents a tension between two contradicting human tendencies.
On the one hand, that of the farmer, the builder, the blacksmith, is that of the drive to grasp and understand the forces of nature in order to utilize them. In doing so, humans take the role of the creator: turning rock into tools, thorns into food. It is the motivation and persistence required for continuous trial and error, the root of all scientific progress, all the comforts of urban life.
The shepherd, on the other hand, does not manipulate nature, but finds the ways to work with it, caring for the animals, moving from one grazing ground to the other in harmony with the conditions of the land and the sky, the Shepherd does not use the wind to grind wheat, but to admire the music it creates through the weeds and the trees. The shepherd knows where the earth reveals its underground water and does not divert rivers for irrigation. The shepherd is a nomad that sees life as an everlasting journey.
While the farmer aspires to upward pointing graphs, the shepherd is content with circles. It is not that one is good and the other evil. Both are an expression of the divine within us.
In Kabalah, the spirit of the farmer corresponds with that of Netzach , “eternity” representing notions of endurance, strength, triumph. It is about getting closer to god by aspiring upwards, pushing our limits, coming closer and closer to the role of creators.
The sephira, realm of Netzach, is balanced by that of Hod, “Glory” representing gratitude, awe, prayer, submission - in the spirit of the shepherd it brings us closer to god by surrendering to the majesty of creation.
The two sephirot are across from each other, two edges of a spectrum on which we try to balance out our lives.
With the majority of humanity living in cities, hierarchical structures governing most aspects of our daily lives, and scientific progress accelerating in all directions at once – it seems like the pendulum has swung towards Netzach and remained there.
But then comes Koheleth, Ecclesiastes, and from the pinnacle of his monarchy tells us: It’s all Hevel. All hot air. Eventually, all these illusions of order and control, of structure and progress, they tumble down. We go round and round and round in the circle game.
In the short run – the farmer kills the shepherd. Cain kills Hevel again and again. King David kills the shepherd he used to be, leaving behind his lute and slingshot, taking on a crown and a sword, Securing his rights to the mountain on top of which his son Solomon builds the great temple and the grand palace, and reigns and the smartest richest man – only to find, at old age, that nothing truly differentiates him from that first shepherd. הבל.
I see Sukkot as an invitation to allow greater room for the הבל within us. To pull the pendulum back towards הוד. Practice gratitude by singing the הלל in full, spend more time outside, in contact with both earth and heaven, surrender to the mercy of the clouds.
Cloud II : Transience , Happiness and Refuge
The name of the Holiday Sukkot is derived from two verses in Leviticus 23[3] which specify the customs of the holiday and their historic reason:
“You shall live in Sukkot seven days; all citizens in Israel shall live in Sukkot, in order that future generations may know that I made the Israelite people live in Sukkot when I brought them out of the land of Egypt, I the Eternal your God.”
As we have been taught, Sukkot is the plural of Sukkah, which literally means “hut, booth, shed” – temporary or rudimentary structures.
Another Sukkot Mitzva is to Rejoice: וּשְׂמַחְתֶּ֗ם לִפְנֵ֛י יְהוָ֥ה אֱלֹהֵיכֶ֖ם שִׁבְעַ֥ת יָמִֽים׃ – And you shall rejoice before the Eternal your God for seven days. (Leviticus 23:40)
For me the two are linked through personal experience. I have many memories of sleeping in huts and sheds, in Sinai, between the red sea and the desert and they are the deepest memories of joy in my entire life. Almost all our family vacations through my childhood had been to Sinai. Nothing compares to the freedom and calmness I experienced there.
I kept going to Sinai regularly until 2005 when the alerts on kidnaps and bombings were too much for my parents to bear. But last sukkot My mother returned there with relatives of ours, and two months later she took my father back with her, and last Passover we joined them and I was able to give Nouri a taste of my childhood paradise.
When we arrived Nouri went to our hut with Aran, and returned glowing to report that I must come quick, because this hut is “magical” and it has within it “something that looks like a pink cloud that will surround our beds when we sleep.”
By “beds” he meant three mattresses laid on the cement floor, and the pink cloud was a dusty mosquito net that may have been white once.
But it was magical to him – and his joy was magical to us.
And more joy came to me when I discovered that Nouri was not the first to conflate huts and clouds under one Sukkah.
The Talmud (Sukka tractate 11b) presents a debate between two rabbis: Rabbi Akiva who presents the common wisdom: that the Israelites built huts for themselves in the Sinai desert after crossing the red sea; And Rabbi Eliezer who says that these Sukkot wereענני כבוד – Clouds of Glory, on which the children of Israel dwelled. How is that for a soft landing?
The Talmud brings this debate to explain why a Sukkah always maintains its purity, it cannot be contaminated by impure things.
And there is something in transience and simplicity that brings pure happiness – being for a little while in a time out of time, as if living in a pink cloud of Glory.
This is the same feeling that the ancient historian Philon described in the celebration of Sukkot during the time of the second temple in Jerusalem:
“The Temple was like a shared refuge, a safe harbour shielding from the storms and mayhem of life. People were seeking to find quiet within it, to discard the worries that have burdened them since childhood, to relax a bit and spend their time in joy and happiness”
I wish us all to find such refuge, that the times we manage to carve out of the ongoing race of life, will truly revive our souls and give us a sweet taste of heaven.
Cloud III : Hospitality and acceptance
Sukkot is also about hospitality. The custom of אושפיזין encourages us to invite guests into our transient dwellings – both dead and alive. Inviting our ancestors in along with our neighbours – not completely different from the traditions of Halloween…
And I can’t say the words “refuge”, “neighbors” and hospitality without bringing Syria and Kurds into the conversation. With all the desire to be shrouded in a cloud of glory – a cloud has no borders or boundaries, and the whole point of a sukkah is that there is no door and no way to lock reality outside.
Being transient willingly for a known amount of time can be bliss. Being forced into temporary dwellings, suspended out of life, with no choice or knowledge when you would be home again – is hell.
We know it, through the stories passed to us from the previous century, and the centuries before.
I live in Israel, and some of my neighbours to the north are suffering unimaginable hardships and cruelty, driven away from their homes, facing locked gates, and forced into detention camps. You live in Australia, and some of your neighbours to the north that have tried to sail away from hardship have met locked gates, and forced into detention camps.
I feel that recognizing our good fortune is not enough. Acknowledging the similarities between our historic suffering and their present suffering is not enough either. I pray that I will find something better to do. A way to make a change. I pray in the words of king David from the Hallel:
פִּתְחוּ־לִ֥י שַׁעֲרֵי־צֶ֑דֶק אָֽבֹא־בָ֝ם אוֹדֶ֥ה יָֽהּ׃
Open the gates of Justice for me that I may enter them and praise the Creator.
And I seek inspiration from the son of David – this time not the alter-ego sage Koheleth, but from Solomon himself in his hour of Glory, when he inaugurated the Great Temple, in the same chapter we read of the Haftarah this morning, and declared before God:
Kings A, 8: 38-43
“If a foreigner who is not of Your people Israel comes from a distant land for the sake of Your name— for they shall hear about Your great name and Your mighty hand and Your outstretched arm—when he comes to pray toward this House, oh, hear in Your heavenly abode and grant all that the foreigner asks You for.
Thus all the peoples of the earth will know Your name and revere You, as does Your people Israel; and they will recognize that Your name is attached to this House that I have built.”
May this holiday of sukkot be a reminder that we are all transient. And may all houses built this year be houses of God, where the homeless find refuge, and their pleas heard and granted. And let us say Amen.
[1] "כִּי-תוֹעֲבַת מִצְרַיִם, כָּל-רֹעֵה צֹאן" (בראשית מ"ו:34),
[2] "וּבְנֵיכֶם יִהְיוּ רֹעִים בַּמִּדְבָּר אַרְבָּעִים שָׁנָה" (במדבר י"ד:33).
[3] "בַּסֻּכֹּ֥ת תֵּשְׁב֖וּ שִׁבְעַ֣ת יָמִ֑ים כָּל־הָֽאֶזְרָח֙ בְּיִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל יֵשְׁב֖וּ בַּסֻּכֹּֽת׃ לְמַעַן֮ יֵדְע֣וּ דֹרֹֽתֵיכֶם֒ כִּ֣י בַסֻּכּ֗וֹת הוֹשַׁ֙בְתִּי֙ אֶת־בְּנֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל בְּהוֹצִיאִ֥י אוֹתָ֖ם מֵאֶ֣רֶץ מִצְרָ֑יִם אֲנִ֖י יְהוָ֥ה אֱלֹהֵיכֶֽם׃" (ויקרא כ"ג: מב-מג)
Dahlia Shaham
I have noticed one similarity between the experience of Sukkot in Israel and here in Melbourne: a general upward gaze accompanied by the question: is it going to rain? It seems like all springtime plans here are weather dependant, with a mixed feeling – we need the rain, especially in these years of draught, but sunshine makes us happy and enables us to go on with our plans, to be in control.
(Reference to Shabbat picnic?)
In Israel it is the same, but from the other side of the year cycle: there is a rising anticipation of the rains of autumn and winter, accompanied by an ever-present anxiety of draught; on the other hand a need, a plea, for suspense. Please, just a little while, let us stay outside a little longer to prepare the fields and gardens hold on to the kedusha of Tishrei holidays a little longer.
So every cloud is accepted with mixed feelings.
And as I was preparing this drash with this notion of cloud watching, I couldn’t string my thoughts like a chain. Instead I felt my ideas forming clouds in my mind. This is my offering: three clouds of context. Like clouds they are loosely connected, but put together may create some picture. I tried to give each a title.
Cloud One : Hot Air and Sheep
One of the customs of Sukkot is to read the scroll of Kohelet, attributed to a peculiar alter-ego of King Solomon. It begins:
The words of Koheleth son of David, king in Jerusalem.
דִּבְרֵי֙ קֹהֶ֣לֶת בֶּן־דָּוִ֔ד מֶ֖לֶךְ בִּירוּשָׁלִָֽם׃
הֲבֵ֤ל הֲבָלִים֙ אָמַ֣ר קֹהֶ֔לֶת הֲבֵ֥ל הֲבָלִ֖ים הַכֹּ֥ל הָֽבֶל׃
Utter futility!—said Koheleth— Utter futility! / all is Vanity
I observed all the happenings beneath the sun, and I found that all is futile and a chasing after the wind / pursuit of wind.
רעות רוח.
Dictionary definition of הבל is:
- Steam, vapor, mist, breath
- Speech, utterance (sometimes unintelligible)
- Foolishness, nonsense, futility.
But the first appearance of הבל in the Torah is as a name, of the son of Eve and Adam, humanity’s famous first shepherd, brother – and murder victim – of the first farmer, קין. Murder motive: jealousy; grounds for jealousy: God likes Hevel (Abel) more.
This violent act does no deter God from continuing to prefer shepherds. All the great biblical role models are shepherds: Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Moses, David – before becoming the king David, father of King Solomon (or Koheleth) – was a shepherd.
Sheep-herding is a corrective vocation. At some point, not much longer after the people of Israel are redeemed from Egypt, and given the Torah, God realizes that you can take the people out of Egypt, but you can’t take Egypt out of the people.
In Egypt, we learn in Genesis 41,[1] Sheep-herding was considered "תועבה" despicable profession, an abomination. The kingdom of Egypt was built on an agricultural society. Cain’s vocation, and those of his progenies – the builders and the blacksmiths - were considered valuable.
God needed his Abels back. After the one too many times the ungrateful people of Israel complain about ever leaving Egypt’s certainties and comforts, they are informed of their sentence: None of your doubters will enter the promised land. “your sons will be shepherds in the desert for 40 years”,[2] (Numbers 14) and as such they may enter.
The tension between shepherds and farmers represents a tension between two contradicting human tendencies.
On the one hand, that of the farmer, the builder, the blacksmith, is that of the drive to grasp and understand the forces of nature in order to utilize them. In doing so, humans take the role of the creator: turning rock into tools, thorns into food. It is the motivation and persistence required for continuous trial and error, the root of all scientific progress, all the comforts of urban life.
The shepherd, on the other hand, does not manipulate nature, but finds the ways to work with it, caring for the animals, moving from one grazing ground to the other in harmony with the conditions of the land and the sky, the Shepherd does not use the wind to grind wheat, but to admire the music it creates through the weeds and the trees. The shepherd knows where the earth reveals its underground water and does not divert rivers for irrigation. The shepherd is a nomad that sees life as an everlasting journey.
While the farmer aspires to upward pointing graphs, the shepherd is content with circles. It is not that one is good and the other evil. Both are an expression of the divine within us.
In Kabalah, the spirit of the farmer corresponds with that of Netzach , “eternity” representing notions of endurance, strength, triumph. It is about getting closer to god by aspiring upwards, pushing our limits, coming closer and closer to the role of creators.
The sephira, realm of Netzach, is balanced by that of Hod, “Glory” representing gratitude, awe, prayer, submission - in the spirit of the shepherd it brings us closer to god by surrendering to the majesty of creation.
The two sephirot are across from each other, two edges of a spectrum on which we try to balance out our lives.
With the majority of humanity living in cities, hierarchical structures governing most aspects of our daily lives, and scientific progress accelerating in all directions at once – it seems like the pendulum has swung towards Netzach and remained there.
But then comes Koheleth, Ecclesiastes, and from the pinnacle of his monarchy tells us: It’s all Hevel. All hot air. Eventually, all these illusions of order and control, of structure and progress, they tumble down. We go round and round and round in the circle game.
In the short run – the farmer kills the shepherd. Cain kills Hevel again and again. King David kills the shepherd he used to be, leaving behind his lute and slingshot, taking on a crown and a sword, Securing his rights to the mountain on top of which his son Solomon builds the great temple and the grand palace, and reigns and the smartest richest man – only to find, at old age, that nothing truly differentiates him from that first shepherd. הבל.
I see Sukkot as an invitation to allow greater room for the הבל within us. To pull the pendulum back towards הוד. Practice gratitude by singing the הלל in full, spend more time outside, in contact with both earth and heaven, surrender to the mercy of the clouds.
Cloud II : Transience , Happiness and Refuge
The name of the Holiday Sukkot is derived from two verses in Leviticus 23[3] which specify the customs of the holiday and their historic reason:
“You shall live in Sukkot seven days; all citizens in Israel shall live in Sukkot, in order that future generations may know that I made the Israelite people live in Sukkot when I brought them out of the land of Egypt, I the Eternal your God.”
As we have been taught, Sukkot is the plural of Sukkah, which literally means “hut, booth, shed” – temporary or rudimentary structures.
Another Sukkot Mitzva is to Rejoice: וּשְׂמַחְתֶּ֗ם לִפְנֵ֛י יְהוָ֥ה אֱלֹהֵיכֶ֖ם שִׁבְעַ֥ת יָמִֽים׃ – And you shall rejoice before the Eternal your God for seven days. (Leviticus 23:40)
For me the two are linked through personal experience. I have many memories of sleeping in huts and sheds, in Sinai, between the red sea and the desert and they are the deepest memories of joy in my entire life. Almost all our family vacations through my childhood had been to Sinai. Nothing compares to the freedom and calmness I experienced there.
I kept going to Sinai regularly until 2005 when the alerts on kidnaps and bombings were too much for my parents to bear. But last sukkot My mother returned there with relatives of ours, and two months later she took my father back with her, and last Passover we joined them and I was able to give Nouri a taste of my childhood paradise.
When we arrived Nouri went to our hut with Aran, and returned glowing to report that I must come quick, because this hut is “magical” and it has within it “something that looks like a pink cloud that will surround our beds when we sleep.”
By “beds” he meant three mattresses laid on the cement floor, and the pink cloud was a dusty mosquito net that may have been white once.
But it was magical to him – and his joy was magical to us.
And more joy came to me when I discovered that Nouri was not the first to conflate huts and clouds under one Sukkah.
The Talmud (Sukka tractate 11b) presents a debate between two rabbis: Rabbi Akiva who presents the common wisdom: that the Israelites built huts for themselves in the Sinai desert after crossing the red sea; And Rabbi Eliezer who says that these Sukkot wereענני כבוד – Clouds of Glory, on which the children of Israel dwelled. How is that for a soft landing?
The Talmud brings this debate to explain why a Sukkah always maintains its purity, it cannot be contaminated by impure things.
And there is something in transience and simplicity that brings pure happiness – being for a little while in a time out of time, as if living in a pink cloud of Glory.
This is the same feeling that the ancient historian Philon described in the celebration of Sukkot during the time of the second temple in Jerusalem:
“The Temple was like a shared refuge, a safe harbour shielding from the storms and mayhem of life. People were seeking to find quiet within it, to discard the worries that have burdened them since childhood, to relax a bit and spend their time in joy and happiness”
I wish us all to find such refuge, that the times we manage to carve out of the ongoing race of life, will truly revive our souls and give us a sweet taste of heaven.
Cloud III : Hospitality and acceptance
Sukkot is also about hospitality. The custom of אושפיזין encourages us to invite guests into our transient dwellings – both dead and alive. Inviting our ancestors in along with our neighbours – not completely different from the traditions of Halloween…
And I can’t say the words “refuge”, “neighbors” and hospitality without bringing Syria and Kurds into the conversation. With all the desire to be shrouded in a cloud of glory – a cloud has no borders or boundaries, and the whole point of a sukkah is that there is no door and no way to lock reality outside.
Being transient willingly for a known amount of time can be bliss. Being forced into temporary dwellings, suspended out of life, with no choice or knowledge when you would be home again – is hell.
We know it, through the stories passed to us from the previous century, and the centuries before.
I live in Israel, and some of my neighbours to the north are suffering unimaginable hardships and cruelty, driven away from their homes, facing locked gates, and forced into detention camps. You live in Australia, and some of your neighbours to the north that have tried to sail away from hardship have met locked gates, and forced into detention camps.
I feel that recognizing our good fortune is not enough. Acknowledging the similarities between our historic suffering and their present suffering is not enough either. I pray that I will find something better to do. A way to make a change. I pray in the words of king David from the Hallel:
פִּתְחוּ־לִ֥י שַׁעֲרֵי־צֶ֑דֶק אָֽבֹא־בָ֝ם אוֹדֶ֥ה יָֽהּ׃
Open the gates of Justice for me that I may enter them and praise the Creator.
And I seek inspiration from the son of David – this time not the alter-ego sage Koheleth, but from Solomon himself in his hour of Glory, when he inaugurated the Great Temple, in the same chapter we read of the Haftarah this morning, and declared before God:
Kings A, 8: 38-43
“If a foreigner who is not of Your people Israel comes from a distant land for the sake of Your name— for they shall hear about Your great name and Your mighty hand and Your outstretched arm—when he comes to pray toward this House, oh, hear in Your heavenly abode and grant all that the foreigner asks You for.
Thus all the peoples of the earth will know Your name and revere You, as does Your people Israel; and they will recognize that Your name is attached to this House that I have built.”
May this holiday of sukkot be a reminder that we are all transient. And may all houses built this year be houses of God, where the homeless find refuge, and their pleas heard and granted. And let us say Amen.
[1] "כִּי-תוֹעֲבַת מִצְרַיִם, כָּל-רֹעֵה צֹאן" (בראשית מ"ו:34),
[2] "וּבְנֵיכֶם יִהְיוּ רֹעִים בַּמִּדְבָּר אַרְבָּעִים שָׁנָה" (במדבר י"ד:33).
[3] "בַּסֻּכֹּ֥ת תֵּשְׁב֖וּ שִׁבְעַ֣ת יָמִ֑ים כָּל־הָֽאֶזְרָח֙ בְּיִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל יֵשְׁב֖וּ בַּסֻּכֹּֽת׃ לְמַעַן֮ יֵדְע֣וּ דֹרֹֽתֵיכֶם֒ כִּ֣י בַסֻּכּ֗וֹת הוֹשַׁ֙בְתִּי֙ אֶת־בְּנֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל בְּהוֹצִיאִ֥י אוֹתָ֖ם מֵאֶ֣רֶץ מִצְרָ֑יִם אֲנִ֖י יְהוָ֥ה אֱלֹהֵיכֶֽם׃" (ויקרא כ"ג: מב-מג)
Drash Yom Kippur 2019
Caryn Granek
The shammes of the synagogue in a small town woke early on Yom Kippur morning. He dressed carefully and arrived at the synagogue early to take up his duties as usher for the first part of the service. As he welcomed an elegant woman, he asked her where she would like to sit. She replied that the front row would be perfect.
“Are you sure?” the shammes asked. “The rabbi can get awfully boring and there is nowhere to hide if you want to doze.” Raising herself to her full height, the woman asked in an outraged tone: “Do you know who I am?” The shammes replied: “No”
“I am the rabbi’s mother” she announced. The shammes then asked her “Do you know who I am”? to which the woman replied “No.” That’s good” said the shammes.
Do you know who I am? This is the question we should be asking ourselves today. Who are we? The theme of Yom Kippur comes down to confronting who we really are.
Last night we began with Kol Nidre – where we faced ourselves both individually and as a community and we asked: can we do better?
Reflecting on vows made and not kept. Can we do better?
This morning our shacharit service emphasised themes of forgiveness and repentance. We recognised our sins, felt regret for having committed them and then resolved not to do them again.
At Kedem our mussaph service is unique – for many of us it is a glimpse into the future. A time to pause, to breathe and to reflect.
In the early 1970s NASA psychologists identified a condition that beset astronauts returning to earth. The experience of viewing our planet from afar was so overwhelming that it induced a changed perspective that came to be known as “the overview effect”. Astronauts saw not just the beauty of our blue planet suspended amid the blackness and the emptiness of space, but also the fragility of life.
So it is with us on Yom Kippur. We take a step back and see the overview. During Mussaph we see the fleeting comet of childhood before us and we are moved to ask “What is important in our lives?”
Then we reach Mincha. The majesty of Kol Nidrei has long passed.
The possibility of dawn and its prayers are gone and now we are at our thirstiest and hungriest. We become Jonah. We desire to return to our homes – to have a sip of water and sit in the shade. And yet we know that Yom Kippur is coming to a close, that the gates will soon be shut. There is some internal yearning within us, some unquenchable desire to achieve what we dream for ourselves, to rise to the challenges put before us.
Rabbi Soloveitchik in his essay, The Lonely Man of Faith, noted that the Torah contains two accounts of the creation of man, one in Genesis 1, the other in Genesis 2.
Genesis 1 is about creation of humans as part of natural order, Homo sapiens, the biological species.
Genesis 2 is about individual people, Adam and Eve, capable of loneliness and love.
The reason the Torah does this, he suggests, is because there are two basic elements that make us what we are. There are, as it were two Adams.
There is Adam 1, “majestic man”, the language-speaking, tool-making animal, highest of all life forms, capable of monumental scientific and technological achievements.
Then there is Adam 2, the “covenantal” personality defined by our relationships with other people and with God.
The majestic human has the résumé virtues – a great CV- consisting of all those things society values - our achievements, our qualifications and our skills.
The covenant human has the eulogy virtues – those attributes that are remembered long after we are gone: humility, gratitude, integrity, joy, the willingness to serve and to make sacrifices in the name of high ideals.
We are a composite of Adam 1 and 2. As Jews and as human beings we strive for majesty, success and accomplishment but we also yearn for meaning and connection. Success is not only about what you take out of the world but what you put back into it.
These are days of great change when the world is faced with many challenges ranging from climate change to failed and failing states, from a huge tide of human misery, to a growing inequality between rich and poor, from Isis to crisis. It’s easy to feel overwhelmed, to turn inwards, to focus on the I – the IPhone, the IPad, and the IPod – to zone-in on the alone-ness of Adam.
Yom Kippur does not allow us to just focus on our own selves. Soon it will be Ne’elah which literally means “closing” and refers to the symbolic closing of the gates of heaven.
There is a spiritual urgency motivating prayer at this service, as the sun is beginning to set and most people are light-headed and exhausted from the long day of fasting and praying. The service builds in intensity until it concludes with a final Tekiah Gedolah, a great blast of the Shofar.
Before that happens, there is Yizkor – the time for remembrance.
It has been a tough year for many of us at Kedem. On a community level there has been much sadness as we have witnessed violence, war and injustices all over the world. The shootings that took place in Pittsburgh, almost a year ago, at the Or Simcha – Tree of Life congregation touched us deeply. Eleven members of the community were slain and seven injured. Rabbi Danny Schiff and HaCohenet Keshira Lev Fife, whom we know well, were amongst those who brought comfort to the bereaved and counselled and supported the entire community.
At the shloshim service a month later, Rabbi Jonathan Sacks spoke about the idea of remembering saying: “In every other culture remembering is about the past,” he said. “In Judaism, all remembering is about the future and about life. We cannot change the past, but by remembering we can change the future.” He taught that we must turn from grief to life and to beginning again. What they died for we must live for – we can overcome death by the sanctification of life.
We live in a society that encourages us to have a great career but leaves many of us inarticulate about how to have a great life. This day of Yom Kippur, and in particular Yizkor, sharpens our awareness of time passing, of life’s fleeting loveliness and gets us to move towards our real selves – to discover who we are and what we wish to live for. We reflect on life’s transience. We turn from our majestic selves to our covenant or eulogy selves.
In the words of Yehuda Amichai: “I am sitting here now with my father’s eyes and with my mother’s greying hair on my head. In the middle of my life, I begin gradually to return (to many things) for I wish to be a decent and orderly person when I’m asked at the border: Have you anything to declare?”
Ken Yehi Razon
Caryn Granek
The shammes of the synagogue in a small town woke early on Yom Kippur morning. He dressed carefully and arrived at the synagogue early to take up his duties as usher for the first part of the service. As he welcomed an elegant woman, he asked her where she would like to sit. She replied that the front row would be perfect.
“Are you sure?” the shammes asked. “The rabbi can get awfully boring and there is nowhere to hide if you want to doze.” Raising herself to her full height, the woman asked in an outraged tone: “Do you know who I am?” The shammes replied: “No”
“I am the rabbi’s mother” she announced. The shammes then asked her “Do you know who I am”? to which the woman replied “No.” That’s good” said the shammes.
Do you know who I am? This is the question we should be asking ourselves today. Who are we? The theme of Yom Kippur comes down to confronting who we really are.
Last night we began with Kol Nidre – where we faced ourselves both individually and as a community and we asked: can we do better?
Reflecting on vows made and not kept. Can we do better?
This morning our shacharit service emphasised themes of forgiveness and repentance. We recognised our sins, felt regret for having committed them and then resolved not to do them again.
At Kedem our mussaph service is unique – for many of us it is a glimpse into the future. A time to pause, to breathe and to reflect.
In the early 1970s NASA psychologists identified a condition that beset astronauts returning to earth. The experience of viewing our planet from afar was so overwhelming that it induced a changed perspective that came to be known as “the overview effect”. Astronauts saw not just the beauty of our blue planet suspended amid the blackness and the emptiness of space, but also the fragility of life.
So it is with us on Yom Kippur. We take a step back and see the overview. During Mussaph we see the fleeting comet of childhood before us and we are moved to ask “What is important in our lives?”
Then we reach Mincha. The majesty of Kol Nidrei has long passed.
The possibility of dawn and its prayers are gone and now we are at our thirstiest and hungriest. We become Jonah. We desire to return to our homes – to have a sip of water and sit in the shade. And yet we know that Yom Kippur is coming to a close, that the gates will soon be shut. There is some internal yearning within us, some unquenchable desire to achieve what we dream for ourselves, to rise to the challenges put before us.
Rabbi Soloveitchik in his essay, The Lonely Man of Faith, noted that the Torah contains two accounts of the creation of man, one in Genesis 1, the other in Genesis 2.
Genesis 1 is about creation of humans as part of natural order, Homo sapiens, the biological species.
Genesis 2 is about individual people, Adam and Eve, capable of loneliness and love.
The reason the Torah does this, he suggests, is because there are two basic elements that make us what we are. There are, as it were two Adams.
There is Adam 1, “majestic man”, the language-speaking, tool-making animal, highest of all life forms, capable of monumental scientific and technological achievements.
Then there is Adam 2, the “covenantal” personality defined by our relationships with other people and with God.
The majestic human has the résumé virtues – a great CV- consisting of all those things society values - our achievements, our qualifications and our skills.
The covenant human has the eulogy virtues – those attributes that are remembered long after we are gone: humility, gratitude, integrity, joy, the willingness to serve and to make sacrifices in the name of high ideals.
We are a composite of Adam 1 and 2. As Jews and as human beings we strive for majesty, success and accomplishment but we also yearn for meaning and connection. Success is not only about what you take out of the world but what you put back into it.
These are days of great change when the world is faced with many challenges ranging from climate change to failed and failing states, from a huge tide of human misery, to a growing inequality between rich and poor, from Isis to crisis. It’s easy to feel overwhelmed, to turn inwards, to focus on the I – the IPhone, the IPad, and the IPod – to zone-in on the alone-ness of Adam.
Yom Kippur does not allow us to just focus on our own selves. Soon it will be Ne’elah which literally means “closing” and refers to the symbolic closing of the gates of heaven.
There is a spiritual urgency motivating prayer at this service, as the sun is beginning to set and most people are light-headed and exhausted from the long day of fasting and praying. The service builds in intensity until it concludes with a final Tekiah Gedolah, a great blast of the Shofar.
Before that happens, there is Yizkor – the time for remembrance.
It has been a tough year for many of us at Kedem. On a community level there has been much sadness as we have witnessed violence, war and injustices all over the world. The shootings that took place in Pittsburgh, almost a year ago, at the Or Simcha – Tree of Life congregation touched us deeply. Eleven members of the community were slain and seven injured. Rabbi Danny Schiff and HaCohenet Keshira Lev Fife, whom we know well, were amongst those who brought comfort to the bereaved and counselled and supported the entire community.
At the shloshim service a month later, Rabbi Jonathan Sacks spoke about the idea of remembering saying: “In every other culture remembering is about the past,” he said. “In Judaism, all remembering is about the future and about life. We cannot change the past, but by remembering we can change the future.” He taught that we must turn from grief to life and to beginning again. What they died for we must live for – we can overcome death by the sanctification of life.
We live in a society that encourages us to have a great career but leaves many of us inarticulate about how to have a great life. This day of Yom Kippur, and in particular Yizkor, sharpens our awareness of time passing, of life’s fleeting loveliness and gets us to move towards our real selves – to discover who we are and what we wish to live for. We reflect on life’s transience. We turn from our majestic selves to our covenant or eulogy selves.
In the words of Yehuda Amichai: “I am sitting here now with my father’s eyes and with my mother’s greying hair on my head. In the middle of my life, I begin gradually to return (to many things) for I wish to be a decent and orderly person when I’m asked at the border: Have you anything to declare?”
Ken Yehi Razon
Drash Shabbat Shuva 2019 (VAYEILECH, DEVARIM 31:1–30)
Bev Gelbart
Today, Shabbat Shuva, the Shabbat between Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur, is a time of reflection, with the focus historically on repentance. ‘Shuva’ literally means return, and is taken from the first word of the Haftorah, where the prophet Hosea says “Shuvah Yisrael – Return O Israel”. The drash given on this Shabbat often uses the word “shuva”, return, to connect with concepts of “teshuvah”, repentance.
However, this morning, I would like to look at the idea of return from a different perspective. I would like to talk briefly about the life cycle each of us journeys through. At Rosh Hashanah we return to the start of the yearly cycle. We have reached the end of one year. We spend time in these few days and particularly on Yom Kippur, reflecting about what we have done, or not done in the past year. And then we look forward to the New Year with its cycle of chaggim and all that is to come. So too, we are reminded of our life cycle – the journey we each go through from birth, through life events and ultimately to death.
We read in one of the prayers from our machzor:
“Birth is a beginning
And death a destination
And life is a journey”
Birth is a beginning - the start of the cycle. Andrew and I have been fortunate to very recently, experience the miracle of a beginning of new life. Our grandson was born just ten days ago, and we had the privilege of being part of this new start to life. Watching a new born baby adjust to life reinforces the wonder and blessing associated with creation. It is a brand new beginning; the start of his journey, filled with excitement, hope, possibilities and potential. We know that others in our community have also recently experienced this. We wish Vicki and Norman and their family, as well as Devorah and David and their family much joy with their new grandchildren.
“Birth is a beginning
And death a destination” – the end of one life cycle.
So how do we mark death in Jewish tradition? When we spend time reflecting on the seasons of our lives and of our family, we include time to remember those who were once part of this, but are no longer with us. Particularly in the Yom Kippur Yizkor service, we remember family members or friends who have died during the year, as well as those who have passed on in years gone by.
And in our weekly cycle, at each Shabbat service we recall those whose yahrzeits have occurred during the week. In our Shabbat service we read the prayer Eilu D’varim: These are the obligations without measure, which enhance our world. One of these obligations is to accompany the dead for burial. It is described as one of the finest mitzvot one can accomplish, particularly as the deceased can’t thank you for your care. And so when someone dies, part of our Jewish burial traditions involve performing Tahara – the ritual washing, drying and dressing of the deceased in special white garments, so that they may be restored, or returned, to spiritual purity.
“Birth is a beginning
And death a destination
And life is a journey”
And so, what about our lives - the journey between birth and death?
In today’s parashah, Vayeilech, Moses tells the people that he will not be leading them into the Land of Israel. God informs Moses that he will soon die and that he should prepare Joshua to lead the people. In other words, Moses is to die before he will reach the goal that has absorbed much of his life!
As we look back on this past year, we could ask ourselves if we are reaching our goals or have achieved what we hoped for.
On the Reform Judaism website, a D’var Torah by Carol Ochs looks at the inevitability of death and how we live out the journey of our life. She says: “By the time we reach a certain age, we know that we are mortal. We have lost grandparents. Later, we lose parents. And, still later, we lose peers. And yet we spend our days as if we were not mortal. We initiate projects, we form relationships even though all we cleave to, we must hold very loosely.
At some point we will learn that now it is our turn. When we are told that we may look over into the Promised Land but will not reach it, how do we live out our final days? So many of our days have been spent anticipating times to come. Do we know how to live in the present when we have been told we will not be part of the future?”
Ochs talks about some of the rituals for Yom Kippur and their connection to those for death. Our traditions include not eating or bathing, and dressing in the kittel, a reminder of the shroud used for burial. But, she suggests that this holy Day of Atonement is not about death. It is about rebirth. We let die the many ways we have grown uncaring, been spiritually asleep. Then the twenty-five hours of intense introspection, repentance, and physical affliction bring about liberation, a fresh start, a year, new not only in time, but also in the opportunity to start again.
Martin Buber talks about the concept that “every person born into this world represents something new, something that never existed before, something original and unique…Every single person is a new thing in the world and is called upon to fulfil his particularity in the world”
According to one Jewish blessing, there are three names by which a person is called: One called by our mother and father, one called by people - our community and one we earn for ourselves. The best one of these is the one we earn for ourselves.
And so at this time of Rosh Hashanah, beginning a new year with all the possibilities a new start offers, let us look at our lives and the journey we are on, as individuals, as part of families and as part of our community. Let us strive to fulfill our own potential and let us continue to care for each other in both life and death.
“Birth is a beginning
And death a destination
And life is a journey”
Bev Gelbart
Today, Shabbat Shuva, the Shabbat between Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur, is a time of reflection, with the focus historically on repentance. ‘Shuva’ literally means return, and is taken from the first word of the Haftorah, where the prophet Hosea says “Shuvah Yisrael – Return O Israel”. The drash given on this Shabbat often uses the word “shuva”, return, to connect with concepts of “teshuvah”, repentance.
However, this morning, I would like to look at the idea of return from a different perspective. I would like to talk briefly about the life cycle each of us journeys through. At Rosh Hashanah we return to the start of the yearly cycle. We have reached the end of one year. We spend time in these few days and particularly on Yom Kippur, reflecting about what we have done, or not done in the past year. And then we look forward to the New Year with its cycle of chaggim and all that is to come. So too, we are reminded of our life cycle – the journey we each go through from birth, through life events and ultimately to death.
We read in one of the prayers from our machzor:
“Birth is a beginning
And death a destination
And life is a journey”
Birth is a beginning - the start of the cycle. Andrew and I have been fortunate to very recently, experience the miracle of a beginning of new life. Our grandson was born just ten days ago, and we had the privilege of being part of this new start to life. Watching a new born baby adjust to life reinforces the wonder and blessing associated with creation. It is a brand new beginning; the start of his journey, filled with excitement, hope, possibilities and potential. We know that others in our community have also recently experienced this. We wish Vicki and Norman and their family, as well as Devorah and David and their family much joy with their new grandchildren.
“Birth is a beginning
And death a destination” – the end of one life cycle.
So how do we mark death in Jewish tradition? When we spend time reflecting on the seasons of our lives and of our family, we include time to remember those who were once part of this, but are no longer with us. Particularly in the Yom Kippur Yizkor service, we remember family members or friends who have died during the year, as well as those who have passed on in years gone by.
And in our weekly cycle, at each Shabbat service we recall those whose yahrzeits have occurred during the week. In our Shabbat service we read the prayer Eilu D’varim: These are the obligations without measure, which enhance our world. One of these obligations is to accompany the dead for burial. It is described as one of the finest mitzvot one can accomplish, particularly as the deceased can’t thank you for your care. And so when someone dies, part of our Jewish burial traditions involve performing Tahara – the ritual washing, drying and dressing of the deceased in special white garments, so that they may be restored, or returned, to spiritual purity.
“Birth is a beginning
And death a destination
And life is a journey”
And so, what about our lives - the journey between birth and death?
In today’s parashah, Vayeilech, Moses tells the people that he will not be leading them into the Land of Israel. God informs Moses that he will soon die and that he should prepare Joshua to lead the people. In other words, Moses is to die before he will reach the goal that has absorbed much of his life!
As we look back on this past year, we could ask ourselves if we are reaching our goals or have achieved what we hoped for.
On the Reform Judaism website, a D’var Torah by Carol Ochs looks at the inevitability of death and how we live out the journey of our life. She says: “By the time we reach a certain age, we know that we are mortal. We have lost grandparents. Later, we lose parents. And, still later, we lose peers. And yet we spend our days as if we were not mortal. We initiate projects, we form relationships even though all we cleave to, we must hold very loosely.
At some point we will learn that now it is our turn. When we are told that we may look over into the Promised Land but will not reach it, how do we live out our final days? So many of our days have been spent anticipating times to come. Do we know how to live in the present when we have been told we will not be part of the future?”
Ochs talks about some of the rituals for Yom Kippur and their connection to those for death. Our traditions include not eating or bathing, and dressing in the kittel, a reminder of the shroud used for burial. But, she suggests that this holy Day of Atonement is not about death. It is about rebirth. We let die the many ways we have grown uncaring, been spiritually asleep. Then the twenty-five hours of intense introspection, repentance, and physical affliction bring about liberation, a fresh start, a year, new not only in time, but also in the opportunity to start again.
Martin Buber talks about the concept that “every person born into this world represents something new, something that never existed before, something original and unique…Every single person is a new thing in the world and is called upon to fulfil his particularity in the world”
According to one Jewish blessing, there are three names by which a person is called: One called by our mother and father, one called by people - our community and one we earn for ourselves. The best one of these is the one we earn for ourselves.
And so at this time of Rosh Hashanah, beginning a new year with all the possibilities a new start offers, let us look at our lives and the journey we are on, as individuals, as part of families and as part of our community. Let us strive to fulfill our own potential and let us continue to care for each other in both life and death.
“Birth is a beginning
And death a destination
And life is a journey”