Yom Kippur: Who I Want to Be

Sermon by Rabbi Sim Glaser
2015/5776

My little brother Jack, well, maybe not so little, but ten years my junior, a professor at the UC Berkeley School of Public Policy, just released a book on racial profiling – entitled Suspect Race—making me more than a little jealous because he beat me to the punch, publishing before I was able to release my forthcoming epic: When Bad Things Happen to Inappropriate Rabbis.

Obviously Jack’s book comes out at a relevant time, but my brother has been studying and teaching about discrimination for about 30 years. In his early days as a graduate student he designed an experiment to measure an individual’s racial bias, and he found an unlikely guinea pig, or maze rat, in his older brother who happened to be visiting.

Here’s how it worked. I was instructed to press a key on a computer keyboard indicating my immediate either positive or negative response to stimuli as it appeared on the screen. A series of random words flashed before me and I batted away at the keyboard, reacting negatively or positively as quickly as I could.

When I finished, Jack told me that the words I saw on the computer screen were not actually the ones I had been reacting to. Rather, I was responding to racially charged stereotypical words related to race, color, creed, nationality, like black, white, ghetto, rap, urban, gang, etc. that had flashed subliminally just before the word I actually saw.

“Oy” I thought. But I had to ask. “How did I do?” My brother replied: “You don’t want to know.”

Fast forward three decades to a couple of months ago when the Downtown Congregations to End Homelessness Steering Committee voted to do a self-assessment of our intercultural competence, both our individual and group orientations toward cultural differences and commonality. We felt that since our work in the field of homelessness so disproportionally affects folks of race and culture different from our own it might be good to know how facile we are in relating to this population.

Answering a 50 question Intercultural Development Inventory, we were then evaluated and placed on a continuum that ranged from denial, and polarization and defense – that is, an “us and them” place of avoidance, judgment and inability to recognize cultural differences; all the way up to adaptability and acceptance of the other; the ability to authentically shift one’s cultural perspective and appreciate others.

So a few weeks later we were given our group result, and where we were as individuals. Ten of us were scattered throughout the continuum, but two were way over there in denial-polarization-defense land.

I don’t know the identity of one of the two, but you are looking at the other one.

So somebody is going to ask you at the break-fast: What was the sermon about this morning? And you may be inclined to respond: “Well, basically Rabbi Glaser told the congregation he’s a racist”.

But before you do that, let me add something crucial to the conversation. There were actually two scores. One was the developmental score that I just mentioned – where you actually are, based on your life’s experiences and life-long development of attitudes. The other score was our self-perception – where I perceive myself to be on that continuum of multi-cultural sensitivity. Who I think I am.

And I am here to tell you that my own perception of my intercultural competence put me way up there at the cusp of acceptance and adaptation. Apparently I believe I am someone who recognizes, celebrates and appreciates cultural differences in my own and other people’s values, ways and behaviors.

My personal perception score – the look-who-thinks-he-is “multi-culturally aware” Sim Glaser, was immensely higher than my developmental. The profile interpretation workbook advised us that a difference of even seven points between the two scores indicates a significant overestimation of one’s intercultural competence.

My differential was 37 points.

Ok, I hear you thinking. Now I get it. Rabbi is a racist – he just doesn’t know it.

On the one hand, this could paint a picture of an individual who is clearly out of touch with his true nature. On the other hand, more positively, here is a person who aspires to be a much more culturally sensitive adaptable person than he actually is.

So I did some research and some soul searching, and I talked to a few folks.

First off I looked up “Racism” in the Webster’s where it says: “Racism is the belief that race is the primary determinant of human traits and that racial differences produce an inherent superiority of a particular race.” And I thought, naaah, that’s not me.

I asked my wife. Barb, source of all real wisdom in our household, do you think you are married to a racist? Her response was: “No honey, I think it means you just need to get out more often.”

I consulted a local Lutheran Minister who was on that steering committee that took the test, and she said: Well, you are being judgmental. Look at the number you are doing on yourself! This is not a shame and blame device – the disparity between your scores is a wonderful challenge!

And I made an appointment to speak with the person who administered the instrument to us. Her interpretation of the generous gap in my score was that I might simply be leading a smaller internal life than what I am capable of, and desirous of! She also mentioned that skewing to the polarization side is often a cultural safeguard for people who have been oppressed or persecuted.

I was comforted to learn that I am far from alone in this challenge. The intercultural development orientation, she said, is not static, rather it is a moving walkway, like the kind at the airport. Because of the way our society works and how we tend to associate most readily with people who are just like us – same color skin, same neighborhoods, same socio-economic status - if we stay on this walkway, we continue to be carried along and become further polarized and indifferent to a world filled with a variety of people. Even if we stand still and do nothing, the walkway will continue to carry us in that direction, because that is the way our society is designed.

However, when we reverse course, or choose to get off the walkway, this is when we can begin to make personal progress. This is where we begin to close the gap between who we are developmentally and who we aspire to be!

And this brings us to Yom Kippur. This is the differential holiday. This is the holiday of heshbon ha nefesh – of moral stock-taking. Not only: Who have we become over the course of our lives? But now that we know it, what the heck are we going to do about it?? Ok. So we opened the book of life, we filled out the questionnaire and saw the results. This is the day we declare that we do not have to accept what is written in those pages as immutable.

Human beings are capable of change. But when a human being finds out he is 37 points different from what he aspires to be, what then?

Just maybe this difference between who we are and who we want to be is the Divine part of ourselves calling out to us to be recognized! To be nurtured and developed!

On Yom Kippur the barriers are supposed to come down so we might acknowledge that our behavior has not matched what our souls know is the right way to behave. Or as one of my favorite bumper stickers reads: Dear God, help me to be everything my dog thinks I am.

Our aggregate score as a committee showed us that this is not only an individual issue, but an institutional one, and maybe even a state and national issue. How surprising it must have been to so many of us last week when the figures revealed that the wealth gap between whites and blacks in the self-described progressive state of Minnesota state is second only to Mississippi. How different is the gap between who we perceive ourselves to be as a society and who we really are?

I was pleased to note that the results of this test did not leave us without goals or homework. It begins with being brave enough to face your flaws, then noting, without judgment where you are. Then to develop a sense of curiosity about this huge world we could be a part of if we could just get out more often.

In a way, this is a very Jewish prescription. We are a deed leads to creed religion, so it makes perfect sense that in order to change our most basic selves we have to perform acts, do deeds, give ourselves missions and challenges in real time, with real people that are not part of our mono-cultural circle. And most seriously, to ask ourselves, what does it mean to remain mono-cultural in an era of Charleston, and Ferguson, and Baltimore.

Curiously, the workbook actually quantified what it takes to move one notch up on the continuum toward a positive more multi-cultural direction. About 40 hours of work. 40 hours!? I thought. I’ve have 60 years of experiences hardwired into me! In the book Outliers Malcolm Gladwell says you need 10,000 hours to become something you are not yet! But not so with the work of sensitizing ourselves to others. Maybe there is a Divine source of energy that just wants us to succeed. The opposite of the hardening of Pharaoh’s heart. Softening the heart can be accomplished in 40 hours! What a concept! Yom Kippur is the Jewish antithesis of “original sin” which we do not teach. We are not stuck on that moving walkway. We can reverse course, and we can get off.

The workbook goes on to encourage taking opportunities to have personal interactions with members of other groups, to travel, but not in a bubble like where you visit a foreign city but wind up eating at Applebee’s, or instead of insisting that everyone there speak to you in your language you learn some of the local vernacular. Or that you keep an intercultural journal, or widen your artistic tastes to include theater, music and film that depicts cultures other than your own.

A few days ago television history was made when in the year 2015 the best actress award went to a woman of color. Viola Davis, in her Emmy acceptance speech, quoted Harriet Tubman, speaking over a hundred years ago –

“In my mind I see a line… and over that line I see green fields and lovely flowers and beautiful white women with their arms stretched out to me over that line, but I can’t seem to get there no-how. I can’t seem to get over that line.” The only thing that separates women of color from anyone else is opportunity.”

Opportunity, it seems, is the only thing that separates any of us from one another. Our divine selves can see that line that divides us, even as our structured, hard wired, developed, entrenched selves seem locked in a pattern of sameness. Today is the day to see that line, to acknowledge the higher self within us that wants to cross it, and to pledge to do so.

At this time of year we make pilgrimages to places where we can witness the grand beauty of the changing foliage. The multi-colored leaves that speak to us of God’s grand creation. We say ooh. We say ahhh… How do we go from that sense of wonder at the bold variety of fall colors right back to a fear or distrust of different colored faces?

I am not especially proud of my developmental test score, but I am excited by the Divine message my aspirational score has brought home to me. Like everyone else, I have work to do.

May we all be inscribed for blessing this year in the ever changing, ever evolving, ever growing books of our lives.

L’shana tova.

Yom Kippur: The Blessing of Failure

Sermon by Rabbi Jennifer Hartman
2015/5776

This morning I would like to talk to you about the blessing of failure.

Moses - known as the greatest leader of the Jewish people, began his career reluctantly, terrified of the task placed before him.  As you may remember, Moses first encounters God at the burning bush.  God says to Moses:  “I am the Lord your God, the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.  I have heard my people cry out to me from their enslavement and it is time for me to set them free.  I will send you to Pharaoh to bring forth my people.  Moses’ responded – and I paraphrase: “You must be kidding.  You want me to go up against Pharaoh?  You think that I can help you?  You definitely have me confused with someone else.  No one will ever believe that I have God on my side.  I am just a shepherd with a lisp.  Please God, choose someone else.”  In this moment Moses had no faith in himself.  He was afraid that he would fail and an entire nation would suffer the consequences.  

I make light of this dialogue, but Moses’ trepidation was very real.  We have ALL experienced doubts and concerns associated with the possibility of failure – whether in our professions, our relationships, our schooling or our finances. We might know, intellectually, that taking a risk is the right thing to do… but wow is it scary.  What if we can’t do it?  What if we fail?  We might be humiliated, we might cost our company, we might lose our job.  Life may not be exactly the way we want it, but what if we take a chance and end up worse off? This is the reason we try to protect ourselves and our children from failure. We are afraid that if we step outside our comfort zone there will be dire consequences rather than great reward.  We forget that so many of the most successful people – Abraham Lincoln, Thomas Edison, Albert Einstein, Bill Gates, Oprah Winfrey - took big risks and faced failure. And here’s the thing – they needed to fail in order to succeed.

What better example of this than the founder of Apple, Steve Jobs?  Jobs, who never graduated from college, was fired from Apple – the company he created!  In his 2005 Stanford commencement speech, Jobs recalled the devastating public humiliation of being ousted, yet states “…. getting fired was the best thing that could have ever happened to me. The lightness of being a beginner again, less sure about everything, freed me to enter one of the most creative periods of my life.  I had been rejected, but I still loved what I did, so I decided to start over.”  

I know what you are thinking.  It is easy to consider Steve Jobs failing.  He had the resources to take risks and not worry about paying the bills.  It is easier to take a chance when we do not have anything to lose – either because we have nothing, or because we are extremely successful. This is why many of the wealthiest people continually try new endeavors.  This is also why sociologists teach that, in the United States, 1st generation immigrants are particularly innovative. They come here looking for a better life; they have nothing to lose and everything to gain.   Political Junkie Ken Rudin suggests that to solve the immigration crisis we should all emigrate after three generations, and start over.  I am not advocating that we all get up and leave, but it is interesting to think about what happens once we are comfortable.   This is when the fear of going backwards restrains us from being creative.  Yet, even if we may not all invent the light bulb, we will all face disappointment in our lives and recognizing how to handle this may determine the outcome of our struggles. 

Knowing that failure is often critical to success, the question becomes how do we accept setbacks gracefully, and teach our children to do the same, when we are so afraid of it?  To do this we need to remember that failing rarely brings the dire consequences we anticipate. There is a famous story about one of the first IBM computer designs.  This computer had serious flaws and was quickly dropped from production.  The project manager, expecting to be fired, asked his boss if he should clean out his desk.  The supervisor replied: “We just spent several millions dollars training you.  Why would we want to fire you?”  This man cost his company and yet his boss understood that this would make him better at his job.  He learned so much about the consumer from his failure.  In addition the employee became more valuable because he showed IBM he could 1. Learn from the mistake, 2. Own it, 3. Fix it, and 4. Put safeguards in place to ensure the same mistake was not repeated. What an amazing lesson to know that failures are to be learned from, not to be ridiculed. 

If we can take risks and learn from our mistakes then we will set an incredible example for our children.  When my aunt was in her mid 40s – after raising three children – she decided to go to law school.  She had been out of school for years and had no idea if she would be able to get in, let alone do the work once she was there.  She ended up having an amazing three years of school and loved every day she practiced as a litigator.  She faced the possibility of failure and it changed her life for good.  She also set a powerful example for her children and nieces and nephews that it is never too late to fulfill your dreams. 

We have a hard time allowing children to fail.  We tolerate misjudgments when we teach them to ride bikes, ice skate, even drive a car.  They fall and we insist that they get back up and keep going.  Yet when it comes to school or relationships we have a much harder time letting go. 

I will never forget how impactful being allowed to fail was for me.  I was 15 and it was my first time behind the wheel of a car.   I was with my dad in his new sedan and we went for a drive around the neighborhood.  He told me to turn right, but I did not turn fast enough.  I ended up driving over the curb and over a sapling.  Yes, I drove over, not into, a tree.  The bottom of his car was punctured and, adding insult to injury, we had to go buy the city a new tree.  I was so embarrassed.  We then went home to tell my family what had happened.  My brother was relentless with the teasing comments. I assumed that as far as my father was concerned, I was done driving for a while, and frankly in that moment I would have been happy to never drive.   Still, the next day, my dad made me get right back in the driver’s seat and try again. I learned more about being a safe driver from my mistake – my failure – than from hours of drivers ed.

Not only did I learn about driving, I learned about making big and expensive mistakes. I learned they are painful, they are embarrassing, and they are scary.  I also learned that I have the ability to fail and that I have the resiliency to pick myself back up and continue.  Unfortunately, this cannot be taught any other way. When we protect ourselves and our children from defeat we rob them of these lessons. When we protect our children from failure we do not give them the tools to tackle the world on their own. We end up with young adults who do not believe in their own abilities.  Renowned therapist and author Dr. Wendy Mogel tells a wonderful story about getting into trouble as a child. When she would present her predicament to her father he would answer: “That is very interesting, how are you going to solve it.”  Mogel’s parents intuitively understood that children usually get themselves into age appropriate trouble and given time and encouragement they can get themselves out of their dilemma.

Psychologists agree that although, at the time, we feel that failure is the end of the world, it actually helps us to move on to the next stage of our lives. Letting kids mess up is tough and painful for parents. But it helps kids learn how to fix slip-ups and make better decisions next time.  Children who are allowed to fail, have a stronger sense of self.  “When they step into a situation, [resilient kids] have a sense they can figure out what they need to do and can handle what is thrown at them with a sense of confidence.”

Failing is not the end of the world, it is the beginning of a new challenge. Failure only becomes a serious problem when we confuse it with our self-identity.  Failing is not the problem; it is how we frame it that is the obstacle.  Rather than admitting we made a mistake we need to fix, we call ourselves failures.  We define ourselves by the setback.  This definitely does not help us learn from our blunder and move forward with new knowledge and confidence to face whatever comes in our way.

Moses, our teacher, leader, and law giver who is arguably the greatest individual of our tradition, failed over and over again.  Even with God's help, he had to go back to Pharaoh 10 times before the Israelites were freed.  After the crossing of the Red Sea, he goes up to receive the 10 commandments and returns to find the Israelites worshipping the golden calf.  Over and over again the people lose faith -- he loses patience and, finally, his temper. He fails to achieve his primary career goal, the ultimate promotion -- to enter the Promised Land.  And in the end, his failures teach us as much as his successes.  Moses teaches us that our goal is not to be perfect, but to improve the world even if it means we will face failure in the process.  On this Yom Kippur, as we stand before God with all of our imperfections, our fears, doubts, and anxieties, let us pray not for certainty but for courage, not for ease but for resilience, not for finitude but for faith, not to reach our destination but to embrace the mystery and wonder of the journey of our lives.

Yom Kippur: Healing, Yizkor and Nefesh Ne’ilah Services

Sermon by Rabbi Marcia Zimmerman
2015/5776

There is no text for this sermon. Please enjoy the video of this Yom Kippur Afternoon Healing, Yizkor and Nefesh Ne'ilah Services.

Erev Yom Kippur: Sanctuary Service

Sermon by Rabbi Marcia Zimmerman
2015/5776

There is no text for this sermon. Please enjoy the video of Rabbi Marcia Zimmerman on Erev Yom Kippur 2015/5776.

Erev Yom Kippur: What’s in a Name?

Sermon by Rabbi Sim Glaser
2015/5776

Being a bit of a “know it all” I like to tell people that on Yom Kippur it is not really appropriate to say “Good Yontov” because it is not a Yom Tov. And Happy New Year is never really the correct greeting.

The usual response is: well what the heck should I say??

Probably the safest bet is G’mar Hatimah Tova, or G’mar tov, meaning “May you be inscribed for blessing in the book of life. And that conjures up the image of our names being inked into some celestial document as the old Jewish folk song says it: “He makin’ a list, and checkin’ it twice, gonna find out who’s naughty and nice.”

But our names seem to hold some importance. One thing we all have in common tonight is that each of us has a name. Some of us love our names, others maybe not so much.

I grew up with a weird name. My parents named me Simeon Israel Glaser. Simeon being the biblical equivalent of Sigmund, named after my mother’s deceased father who perished in the Shoah. Israel is the name given by the Nazis in 1939 to all Jewish men, Sarah was the name for all Jewish women, so that the Germans could identify Jews. In those dark days no newborn German Jewish baby could have a German name. My parents gave me the name Israel in a defiance of that law.

Our names all come from somewhere, and usually to some purpose. The names we bestow on our children are laden with meaning for those who name us, but also of course for us who are named. To some extent, every name becomes sort of an assignment, a destiny even. You learn to live with the name, and it shapes you.

I have been intrigued my entire life by the names people give their children. Rabbi Jared Saks, our previous assistant rabbi used to speak of a friend he had growing up by the name of Nancy Cianci. Yes, the Cianci’s named their daughter Nancy, and it gets better – her middle name was Anne. She was, in fact, Nancy Anne Cianci. I’m sure each of us has a story of a name beyond belief we heard or read somewhere. There is an entire website dedicated to delightfully odd names.

Many years ago there was a popular Johnny Cash song A Boy Named Sue. I have always related to it personally. Goes a little something like this:

My daddy left home when I was three

And he didn't leave much to ma and me

Just this old guitar and an empty bottle of booze.

Now, I don't blame him cause he run and hid

But the meanest thing that he ever did

Was before he left, he went and named me "Sue."

The song then details how “Sue” grew up strong and resilient and able to defend himself in difficult times. He meets up with his dad, they have a fierce barroom brawl, and are about to kill each other when the dad says,

Listen son, this world is rough

And if a man's gonna make it,

he's gotta be tough

And I knew I wouldn't be there to help ya along.

So I give ya that name and I said goodbye

I knew you'd have to get tough or die

And it's the name that helped to make you strong."

The song concludes on a note of acceptance, kind of as Sue, the narrator says:

And I think about him, now and then,

Every time I try and every time I win,

And if I ever have a son, I think I'm gonna name him…

Bill or George! Anything but Sue! I still hate that name!

And people choose to rename themselves. In Rabbinical School I had two classmates, Beth Jarecky and Jonathan Lubarsky who were married and were concerned about the hyphenated  Jarecky-Lubarsky for themselves or their children, so they up and decided to dump both names and adopt the name “Singer”, because they both love music. To this day they are Rabbis Jonathan and Beth Singer, and they are plenty happy in San Francisco as is their choir of little Singers.

Our Jewish tradition places huge importance on names. Sarah in the Torah is told she will bear a child at the age of 90 and says that everyone who hears of it will laugh, so the child is named Yitzchak  - meaning “laughter. Her grandson Jacob becomes Yisrael because he actually wrestles with an angel of God and that is what Yisrael means. His first and eldest son with Leah is to be named Reuven, a perfectly logical choice because it means “look, a son!” Many Hebrew names are given in relation to God. Yonatan means gift of God, Yoel means God is willing.

Modern Israeli names took on natural agricultural themes, like Ital (Island of Dew) or Tamar (date palm) or Tzvi (deer).

It is well known that in our tradition children are named after deceased relatives, often with the hope they will possess the best characteristics of those whom we have loved and lost. Some are named for great heroes. As many Jewish Abrahams are named for Lincoln as for the Torah’s first monotheist. Alexander has been a popular Jewish boy’s name that dates back to the famous Alexander the Great’s historic conquest of 4th century Palestine and his kind treatment of the Jewish people there. We never forget a favor.

Considering how many Jewish celebrities there are, it is interesting to note that rarely are Jewish children named after such notables. Even in biblical times those famous names, Abraham, Sarah, Isaac, Rebecca, Jacob, Rachel, Leah, Joseph and Moses - you know they do not reappear in the Jewish bible after that, and nobody really knows why this is. And curiously, not one scholar in the Talmud is named Abraham, Israel or David. Some names of biblical prophets are used, some not, and nobody seems to know why that is either.

Then there is the superstitious custom of changing a person’s name in the time of serious illness to confuse the angel of death as to whether He is visiting the correct person, like we can pull one over on the Angel of Death.

The bestowing of names is among the earliest themes in the Torah. As soon as creation happened naming things was put on the front burner. The rabbis have a wonderful Midrash for when Adam was created. Seems God was so excited and proud and told the angels: Look! Look at what I created. He’s so bright! But the angels were not impressed. He’s so smart? Come on, they said, what’s so great about him? We’re here in heaven with you. We’re the ones who know everything. But God is insistent and says: “Want to see?” and puts a four legged animal on the earth and says watch this: Adam says “this shall be called dog” and this one giraffe, and this one elephant. The angels are stumped. They couldn’t do this because they had never been to earth. And then Adam names himself Adam saying: I am Adam because I come from adamah – the earth itself.

And then comes a wonderful moment when God says to Adam: and what shall be your name for Me? Adam could have said anything. Could have said: Irving, or Shirley! But Adam said: You shall be called Adonai because you are Lord over all Your works.

Why is this important? Because in giving God that name we are the ones who declare God Master. We need to be servants and do God’s work. The name Adonai is crucial to our relationship with God. But we are the ones who make it so. By way of a name.

A lot of our young people over the years have confessed their difficulties with belief in God and I wonder sometimes if it isn’t a problem with the names and the descriptions we give to God that throws us off. Ruler, King, Savior and Protector… Names are what help us establish relationship. Look at all the nicknames and the pet names we give each other.

The word “God” itself is not of our creation. To truly understand the name of God you have to go to the Hebrew source. Confronting the letters Yud Hey Vav Hey we find it to be virtually unpronounceable. Try as you might the best you would get is the sound of breathing. (demonstrate).

If names are so important, why would the master of all creation have one that isn’t pronounceable? Perhaps it is because the meaning of our lives goes well beyond the name.

There is a story of a Sage who sends his young students out to find the best characteristic of a human being. The first student returns telling his master that the best characteristic of a human being is to have an ayin tovah, a good eye, a good outlook on the world. The next returns saying a person should have a shem tov, a good name. The third says one should be a haver tov - a good friend and neighbor. The last comes back and says the highest value for a person is that he or she should possess a lev tov. A Good heart. The Rebbe tells his students that these are all good answers, and each is a valued part of a person’s character, but he says the best answer is to have a lev tov. A good heart.

Perhaps this story holds a key to the puzzle. Maybe our names really are not our last word. A rose by any other name would smell as sweet, some playwright once said. Montegue or not, Romeo would be as beloved to his Juliet. Yes, we are given names, like labels on cans, but it is the goodness of our hearts that ultimately determine the power of your name, and not the other way around. We read in Pirkei Avot - Al tistakel b’kankan, eleh b’mah she yesh bo”. Don’t look at the label, rather at the contents.

When we ask God to inscribe us in the book of life for a sweet and healthy year, on some level we hope that our name will be listed in that “book”. But what really matters is what heft we are going to bring to our name over the coming year. How are we going to make the name that we were given count, the name we have schlepped hither and yon for lo these many decades, how are we going to make that name be worthy of blessing this year.

Perhaps this is why the great master of Hasidism was called the Ba’al Shem Tov - Master of the good name. There are two ways to translate Ba’al Shem Tov. The one who owns the holy name and therefore brings Divine power to whatever he does. Or the one who is characterized by a good reputation. I prefer the latter. His shem, his name is “tov” - good - because wherever he journeyed he brought good things to people. His name now had power.

However we feel about our names, no matter whom we are named for, or what our parents had in mind when they gave our names to us, maybe this year we will think about what it means to go forth in this world and lead others to associate our name with goodness, with kindness, with love of humanity.

If this happens, then no matter what your name is. Irving, Bertha, Nancy, Sue, Shlemiel Shlemazel, or, God help you, Simeon, your name, when heard by others, will bring joy and healing.

The poet Zelda wrote: Each of us has a name, given by God, given by our father and mother. Each of us has a name, given by our stature and our way of smiling, and given by our clothing. Each of us has a name given by the planets and given by our neighbors, given by our sins and given by our longing. Each of us has a name given by our enemies and by our love. Each of us has a name given by the seasons of the year and given to us by our blindness. Each of us has a name given by the ocean and given by our death.

G’mar hatima tovah, may we be inscribed for blessings in the book of life. May all our names ascend to lofty heights, and be associated with goodness and peace, because it is our will to make it so.

L’shana tova.

Rosh HaShanah: Transformation

Sermon by Rabbi Jennifer Hartman
2015/5776

This summer I had the opportunity to hike in the Dolomites, a beautiful region of the Alps located in northern Italy.  I was amazed to learn from one of our guides, that two hundred and eighty million years ago, this mountain range was completely under water.  The white, rock-like material that comprises these mountains is actually sea coral.  It was incredible to think about how much change has taken place since that time.  The continents moved, the water receded, and the mountaintops are now as high as 11,000 feet above sea level.  Rather than scuba diving down we were climbing up, rather breathlessly at times, to see the stunning views.  Canvassing this mountain range, hiking up farther and farther until we were above the tree line, seeing places where streams had slowly eroded the limestone and the way the rocks had settled into place, I could not help but think about the broader issue of how change occurs in the natural world… and in us.

One thing I realized, as I spent five days surrounded by the serenity and the beauty of this vast mountain range is that nature, when left alone, evolves very slowly.  As we hiked, higher and higher, day after day, pushing ourselves to take one more step, willing our lungs to fully take in the thinning air, wondering why uber was not there to quickly take us home, I realized that we – humans - also change slowly - both our minds and our bodies.  It takes a lot of time and patience for us to change our mindset, our thought process, the lens through which we see the world.  And it certainly takes a lot of time and patience for us to lose weight, to build strength, to gain endurance. I learned this as each morning I woke up and thought to myself, there is no way that I can do this again, and each evening as my calves and my knees and my feet ached I thought I cannot believe what I was able to accomplish today.  It was not until the last day when my muscles and joints hurt a little bit less that I knew I could conquer one more peak, that I appreciated that the reward would be incredible.  It took perseverance to reach this understanding.  If I had given up just a day earlier I never would have realized the full reward.

The transformation that took place to the dolomite mountain range and to me while hiking there made me remember a wonderful TED talk I had heard about one man’s personal transformation. Today, this man is a   prolific author and inspirational speaker who travels to inner-city schools around the country helping students understand they have many paths from which to choose.  This man, Shaka Senghor, knows this because he spent 23 years in jail. 

Senghor was raised in Detroit.  He was an honor roll student with dreams of becoming a doctor when his parents divorced leaving him angry and confused.  In his teen years, he fell in with a rough crowd and at 17 he was shot multiple times.  No one was there to help him through this trauma and instead of confronting his fears and anxieties he became irrational and paranoid.  Fourteen months later, at 19, his life changed forever when he shot and killed a man.  Senghor was convicted of murder and entered prison bitter, enraged and hurt.  He blamed everyone else for his position in life.  In jail Senghor fell deeper and deeper into trouble.  He ran the black market, he sold drugs and he broke all the rules.  Eventually he was sent to solitary confinement for 7 and a half years.  It was during this time that he received a letter from his 8-year-old son.  His son began the letter by writing, in capital letters, MOM TOLD ME WHY YOU ARE IN PRISON - MURDER.  His son went on to say, Dad, don’t kill, God is watching you.  In that moment Senghor learned that his son now knew what he had done and defined him by his action.

Senghor was transformed by this letter in a way he did not know possible.  It struck a chord in him that caused him to reexamine his life. He allowed the words of his son to touch his soul.  He did not become defensive but rather contemplated the message as he stared down at the letters.  He decided he would not allow them to define him.

He needed to take a step back and examine himself in order to bring about a transformation.  For Senghor this process was long, hard and included four key components – (1) mentors, (2) books, (3) familial support, and (4) writing.  Senghor had great mentors, including his son, who spoke to him honestly and candidly enabling him to see uncomfortable truths about his life.  He read inspiring books and poems by brilliant black scholars, philosophers and activists including Malcolm X.  His readings showed him he had other choices available to him and other, more fulfilling, paths to walk.  His family stood by his side while he was in jail, especially his father who was with him every step of the way.  This gave him confidence when stumbled and support when he felt discouraged.  Lastly, Senghor wrote, he kept a journal of all of his actions.  The process of writing down his experiences helped him to confront his choices and to realize his need to atone, to acknowledge that he had been hurt and had hurt others, to take the time to apologize even if he received no response in return.  This allowed Senghor to free himself of his harmful past deeds, to no longer be held hostage to his prior actions. In this way, when he was finally released from prison twenty years later, he was able to begin a new life as an author and speaker – a positive and productive member of society. Senghor was able to do what we are asked to do during the High Holidays, to see life with clear eyes and to begin, slowly, to change the parts of ourselves that are destructive and detrimental.  He began to see the potential blessing and burden in each moment and chose the blessings.  He learned that selecting good over evil, is a matter of life and death.       

So, you may be asking, what does a man who committed murder and a mountain range have in common?  They both teach us that to truly improve, to truly change, takes time.  Today, as we celebrate the beginning of the Jewish year 5776 we search our souls and cleanse our hearts of the trials of the previous year.  We have actions for which we need to atone, there are mistakes we still need to rectify.  We ask God to be lenient with us as we go through our process of teshuva, repentance. Yet, we know that to truly improve, to truly change, to truly transform, we must work beyond the ten days of atonement.  Beginning this work on Rosh Hashanah and ending it on Yom Kippur is akin to dieting between breakfast and lunch and thinking we will lose weight.   Change does not happen in a day.  It takes determination, commitment and resolve.  It takes openness, understanding and compassion.  It takes perseverance and persistence and lots of time to reach a beautiful place of blessing. 

This reality, that change takes time, is our greatest challenge.  Nothing else in our modern society takes time.  We expect responses to our emails within 5 minutes, we can watch whatever show we want whenever we want, and eat anything at anytime.  With our cell phones in our hands we are always accessible and can find information on anything with just a few clicks of a button.   It is no wonder we are frustrated when we do not understand a concept, conquer a challenge, or make a change instantaneously.  Any musician, scholar, linguist will tell you that becoming proficient in their field was partially talent and majority tuchas - sitting and studying for hours and hours on end.  Scientists have even gotten it down to a number.  It takes 10,000 hours or 416 and 2/3 days to become a master.  The greats in any field had to persevere through the tedium and boredom, the set-backs and failures, the frustrations and irritations.  They needed to push themselves to the end and be patient in order to succeed.   

When I think of the Dolomites I think of what majesty and beauty comes from slow and patient change.  They took millions of years, to become what they are today.  Senghor took time, years in prison that he spent working on himself, to turn his life around and become the motivational speaker and author he is today.  These days are not the time to complete the work, but they are a time, every year, for us to renew the work, to continue the work, to jump start the work on ourselves, the work that takes a lifetime to truly finish. 

Life is a journey with many peaks and valleys, at times we will try and try and try and still fail, at other times we will find great success.   The lesson for us to learn is to never give up. It takes time and it is hard to bring about change in our lives, but the reward is brilliant.  These days of awe help us to acknowledge our faults and failures, while still keeping the door open on change and improvement, embracing all that we have ahead of us.  If hiking in the Dolomites taught me one thing, it is that while change can be scary it can also bring about magnificent beauty.  Senghor’s story teaches all of us that even our worst deeds, our darkest moments, do not determine the final outcome of our lives.  Life can only be lived one moment at a time.  Our past does not have to determine our future.  We have a choice to make.  We get to decide what comes next. For this reason, the lessons of the High Holidays are only effective if we can carry them with us throughout the year.  Therefore, we pray that these days will bring about inspiration and give us strength to never give up on uncovering our true potential.   

Shanah Tova

Rosh HaShanah: Gratitude in Our DNA

Sermon by Rabbi Sim Glaser
2015/5776

I was in the nation’s capitol a few weeks ago. A hundred rabbis were having dinner in, of all places, the National Archives, which they had closed to the public. Now you understand how important rabbis are? They closed the National Archives so we could have dinner there. It was surreal to hear someone actually say the words: “Please don’t get any BBQ sauce on the Constitution.” 

After dessert and a speaker, we rabbis had the entire museum to ourselves to party with the founding fathers! There an old buddy, Rabbi Sidney from Chicago and I, found ourselves face to face with the Declaration of Independence – yes, the original!!

My eyes were quickly drawn to the words:  “We have a right, endowed by our Creator, to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.” and I thought about how very seriously we modern Americans take that inalienable right to pursue happiness. 

From there we entered an exhibit of the American history of immigration and inclusion. African Americans, European Jews, Asians, Latinos, the huddled masses who over the centuries have come to these borders grateful to be integrated into a growing thriving democratic society. 

I knew that logged somewhere in the hundreds of millions of records was my own mother’s arrival in this great nation.  She too was ready to seek happiness in her new home, thankful for the possibility of a new beginning, hopeful for the arrival of her parents. 

That, of course, was not to happen. They were trapped in a land where their most basic human rights ,and ultimately their lives, were to be taken from them. 

The Archives tell how Americans have expressed their gratitude over the centuries for the precious gift of living in a successful democracy by a dedication to responsibility, to an active participation in community. In political activism. In shaping our culture. 

It has not been lost on subsequent American Jewish generations that one’s right to vote in free elections is nothing short of a miracle to be thankful for. Just look at the countries these immigrants had fled. At the Archives and at the Holocaust Museum down the street, it is notably documented that Adolf Hitler ascended to power in the last German democratic election largely because of those who did not exercise their right to vote. 

As an election year approaches it is good to remind ourselves of free democratic elections. It has recently been noted that of our youngest voters in this nation, those aged 18-24, less than 20% find their way to the polls to vote in national elections. 

As I speak to you this morning, we see refugees in the millions fleeing horrible situations in search of a better life, and a world that is increasingly fearful of taking them in. Imagine in the year 2015, Hungarian transport trains destined for camps where the inmates are assigned numbers! There is nothing new, it seems, under the sun. The ongoing debate as to how we handle immigrants to this great land should send chills down the spine of anyone in this room who comes from a history of immigration. Excepting our Native American congregants, I believe that is every one of us!

One thing seemed very clear standing in the Capitol and seeing artifacts that chronicle the birth of our nation - Sensitivity to the plight of others has always begun with an appreciation of our own blessings. We simply cannot care about others if we have no gratitude for the goodness that is our legacy.

And yet how quick we are to forget to be thankful. The very character of a nation that provides us with the right of self-determination, the pursuit of happiness and success, and has allowed so many of us to succeed and thrive, may well have lulled us into a sense of sanguine acceptance.

This is nothing new. The final book of the Torah, Devarim, taught a lesson as relevant today as it was 3000 years ago when it first made the Israelite best seller list: When you come into a land already blossoming and fertile and bountiful, with everything prepared and ready for you, you might think you just deserve it. You may even come to believe it was all your doing. 

The biblical author, writing thousands of years ago was aware that even those of us with health, safety, loving friends and family, social intimacy, financial success and material wealth still might sense that there is something missing from their lives. What could it be? 

We have become like the child who is given the gift of a luscious orange from the fruit vendor, and when his mother instructs him: “now honey, what do you say to the nice man?” the child hands the orange back to the man and says: “oh yeah, peel it.” 

And thus the Torah repeatedly instructs us a simple mitzvah: Give thanks!

Gratitude is more than a religious imperative. It is a necessary way to make sense and order out of a confusing complex world. Gratitude may well be the antidote to the cynicism that is all around us and part of us. As our pessimism about a world in turmoil is lifted, new possibilities come into view. 

And if health is your concern, you should know that the cultivation of gratitude has been shown to enhance our physical well-being! 

The Declaration of Independence guarantees our right to pursue happiness, but it doesn’t come with instructions. I looked for footnotes on how to pursue happiness. There are no such footnotes! 

In Washington the author journalist Ari Shavit spoke to us said he always believed that “morality is in the DNA of the Jewish people.” Perhaps, I thought, but then so must gratitude be our DNA! After all, the biblical character Yehuda, from which we get our religion’s name comes from the verb l’hodot and means “grateful”.

You know, our Bar and Bat Mitzvah students write their speeches and they talk Torah and then they thank folks who made their big day possible. I remember years back one Bat Mitzvah girl wrote two pages on the subjects in her Torah portion and 14 pages of thank yous. At the time I was aghast and insisted that she reverse the order of her priorities. But she refused, and thinking back on it I think maybe she had it right. The theme of her speech was gratitude for the people who make up her life and have seen to her well-being. 

Gratitude is hard for some of us because it implies humility. Like the ancient Israelites, how quickly we forget that we could not have reached our lofty status without the help of others. One famous Jewish immigrant, portrayed in the Archives, Albert Einstein, notably said “I have to remind myself a thousand times a day of how much I depend on other people for my success.” 

Gratitude is the song human beings are supposed to sing. A song of humility and awe at what surrounds us. Remember the palpable chill in the crowd when President Obama broke into song at the memorial for the Charleston Nine? And the song? Amazing Grace of course. How sweet the sound. And how beautifully strange to hear the Commander in Chief sing the humble words “A wretch like me”. 

In listening to the first Republican debate several weeks back I was amazed by how each of the candidates, almost without exception, linked himself to his “humble” origins. I think they knew they were touching a national nerve, and wanted voters to know that they appreciated the opportunities this great nation affords people. That such gratitude was an essential part of being an American. 

There is much to be grateful for, even right here and now. A day devoted to prayer may not strike you as a gratitude opportunity, but look at it this way… Like the precious offering of new life given to the immigrant, this is a day given to us to begin anew! What other systems of thought or institutions grant you a “do over” in your life? 

I do think that the inclination to express gratitude is in our DNA. Every earthly being has their song. Coyotes howl at the moon. Rivers flow north to south. Flowers rise up to greet pollinating bees. Birds serenade one another. Children laugh and play spontaneously, smiling an average of 400 times a day! Our song is gratitude. It should be as natural as our breathing. 

This last spring I was invited as a scholar in residence to my old congregation, Beth Israel in West Hartford, CT. I was reunited with, among others, the temple custodians. One of them, a Jamaican gentleman named Bunny, greeted me at the door and it was like 17 years had passed in a day. I shared a reminiscence with Bunny from those many years ago. It was the end of a long day at Temple and as I opened the door to the parking lot I saw that it was pouring rain. “Damn it” I said rather un-rabbinically, and then there was a hand on my shoulder. I turned and it was Bunny the custodian who said words I have never forgotten: “Rabbi, the rain is a blessing.” 

At that moment I felt as though I should be setting up and taking down the chairs and Bunny the Custodian should be preaching on Rosh Hashanah. In typical fashion I had forgotten the integral part of being Jewish is to be grateful and to bless things, especially things that have somehow become ordinary or even burdensome to us. 

In that same congregation the domed ceiling was made up of over 7000 individual bricks. I had been told that over the hundred years of its existence about 6 of those bricks had come loose. On my not so good days at Beth Israel I would stare up at the ceiling and wonder which brick was going to come loose next. And if it was going to land on me! 

I recently learned, to my astonishment, that there is actually a condition known as Missing Tile Syndrome. When one sees the ceiling of tiles and only notices the ones that have become dislodged. When you look at the jigsaw puzzle and only see the pieces missing. 

Or the two shoe salespeople who are sent to an African country to scout out retail possibilities. One writes back, “Situation hopeless, no one here wears shoes!” The other writes: “Glorious business opportunity! They have no shoes!” 

Missing Tile Syndrome runs counter to Jewish thinking. We are supposed to look at our surroundings and engage in hakarat hatov – expressions of gratitude for what IS there… not despair at what is missing. We are supposed to look at each other and rather than note what is missing from their character, seek the good they possess. 

And the same goes for our own self-assessment. In ten days we will be called upon to recite all the sins, the flaws in our character. But why not take some time over the next several days to count the bricks that are still in the ceiling? Note the wonderful things about yourself. The gifts you bring to this world. The blessing you are to others. Be grateful for being you. Nobody else does it as well! And remember - all gratitude begins with the self. If you aren’t grateful for who you are, you’ll have a heck of a time being grateful for the presence of others in your life. 

There is so much going on in the world right now that yanks us to the pessimistic; so much that scares us into the defense mechanism of being cynical and dismissive. So many voices telling us to beware the other voice. And yet there are stories of Amazing Grace that must be a regular part of our life’s narrative. 

Standing in the archives in DC I was moved by the stunning portraits of men who came together in political consensus to shape American policy that would guide generations to come. And I immediately gravitated to thoughts of how divided and cynical we have become as a nation on so many issues. 

How do we move from this antagonism, mistrust, cynicism to a place of wonder and gratitude for what we do have, even in the face of rancor and bitter loss? 

We might start with those who have faced loss and still come out grateful for what they have. When a gunman took the lives of those 9 worshippers in Charleston the violence stunned the nation, but equally stunning was the victims’ families’ forgiveness of the shooter. A man who lost his mother that sad day said: “Love is always stronger than hate, so if we would just love, the way my mom loved, hate wouldn’t be anywhere close to where love is.” From a state of grief comes such a natural outpouring of gratitude for the gift of love that can conquer even tragedy! 

Holocaust survivor Simon Wiesenthal wrote a story he related to a rabbi soon after the conclusion of the Second World War. “In the camp,” Wiesenthal said to Rabbi Silver, “there was one religious man who somehow managed to smuggle in a siddur. At first, I greatly admired the man for his courage—, but the next day I realized, to my horror, that this man was ‘renting out’ this siddur to people in exchange for food. People were giving him their last piece of bread for a few minutes with the prayer book. This man, who was very thin and emaciated when the whole thing started, was soon eating so much that he died before everyone else—his system couldn’t handle it.”  Wiesenthal continued his story to the rabbi: “If this is how religious Jews behave, I’m not going to have anything to do with a prayer book.” 

As he was about to turn and leave the rabbi touched him on the shoulder and gently said: “Simon, why do you look at the Jew who used his siddur to take food out of starving people’s mouths? Why don’t you look at the many Jews who gave up their last piece of bread in order to be able to use a siddur? 

As I flew out of Washington, over the tributes of gratitude to those who gave their lives for this country, over the majestic monuments to great leaders, over the seat of western democracy I gave thanks for a day of learning and inspiration and it felt mighty natural to do so. 

Prayer comes in many forms. The berakhot – the praises we utter to our Creator; the bakashot, the petitions, the requests, and we are pretty good at those. And then there are, and the hoda’ot – the thank you’s. The Talmud teaches that in the end of days, when the messiah has arrived, and every single thing is perfect, and we are all joined together, and one with God, with not a single thing wrong in a perfected universe, the only prayers left to say in our little siddurim will be those prayers of gratitude. The hoda’ot. Yes, even when all hopes and dreams are answered, we will still be required to sing songs of gratitude. 

Gratitude is in our DNA. We have only to let it flow.

Erev Rosh HaShanah: Sanctuary Service

Sermon by Rabbi Marcia Zimmerman
2015/5776

Written text of Rabbi Zimmerman's sermon is not available. Please enjoy the video of this Erev Rosh HaShanah Sanctuary Service.

Erev Rosh HaShanah: Life is a Journey

Sermon by Rabbi Jennifer Hartman
2015/5776

I want to begin by sharing with you a beloved passage by Rabbi Alvin Fine that has been reverberating in my mind as of late.  It is a poem that we often associate with death as we frequently use it to bring comfort to the bereaved, but which really has so much to teach us about life.  It reads:

Birth is a beginning

And death a destination.

And life is a journey taken stage by stage:

Until we see that victory lies

Not at some high place along the way,

But in having made the journey,

A sacred pilgrimage.

As you may know, I became engaged this past February.  It was a truly special evening, cold, of course because it was February in Minneapolis, and my fiancé HAD to pop the question outside…where it was 1 DEGREE!…but no doubt special  Once I said yes, and we were engaged, he then gave me another gift in the form of advice.  At his strong suggestion, we agreed not to speak about the wedding for two weeks.  For two weeks we did nothing but enjoy being engaged.  Wow was that hard…for me.  I wanted to make plans, explore options, and discuss ideas.  I wanted to decide when it would be and where it would be and who would be there.  But Mike was wise in his insistence that we hold off and not dive into the exciting but stressful details of a wedding celebration. He knew that there would be plenty of time to make plans. Mike understood that planning and anticipating the “big day” would consume our thoughts if we allowed it.  So we needed to set the precedent that we were going to enjoy being engaged and not spend the next year waiting for our wedding.  He understood that life is not about going from one life cycle to the next, but enjoying all of the moments in between - the moments we too often allow to slip by.  I needed this reminder.

We all live fast-paced lives.  We are fortunate to have Judaism to help us enjoy and savor every moment, not just the milestones. 

Jewish life actually commands us to find blessing every day.  It helps us to sanctify the days between getting engaged and getting married, between starting our education and graduating, between finishing one job and beginning another.  Judaism helps us adjust to becoming a spouse, a parent, a student.  Even tonight, Erev Rosh Hashanah, and the days that fall between now and Yom Kippur, help us with our transition from all that happened last year to all we anticipate in this coming year.  In fact, Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are the only Jewish holidays not linked to the remembrance of liberation or commemoration of catastrophe.  This is the time for the individual to concentrate on the meaning of his or her life.

As we stand together and contemplate the year past we consider the prospects we have ahead of us and what we need to do to achieve personal growth and fulfillment.   We recognize the time between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur to be one of reflection, of deliberation, of consideration.  We also consider it to be the holiest and most sacred time of year.  Where we often want our lives to speed up, to shorten the time between the peaks we anticipate, we want the days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur to slow down so that we can use them to improve ourselves.  If only we felt the same at other times in our lives.

There was recently a beautiful article in the New York Times entitled “The Myth of Quality Time”.  In the article, Frank Bruni reminds us that so often the most meaningful interactions between people do not occur at large celebrations or at big transitional moments.  They happen when we spend concentrated time with the people we love.  Bruni writes: “With a more expansive stretch of time with loved ones, there’s a better chance that I’ll be around at the precise, random moment when one of my nephews drops his guard and solicits my advice about something private.  Or when one of my nieces will need someone other than her parents to tell her that she’s smart and beautiful.  Or when one of my siblings will flash back on an incident from our childhood that makes us laugh uncontrollably, and suddenly the cozy, happy chain of our love is cinched that much tighter.” 

In my own life, my most vivid memories of my Grandmother come not from when she and my Grandfather would visit for Thanksgiving, which was always fun and exciting but hectic and short. My indelible memories of her, and the moments of our deepest connection came during the two weeks each year before Rosh Hashanah when my grandparents moved in with us in preparation for the holiday. During those two weeks my grandmother would be there day after day when I awoke in the morning and went to bed at night, and we became entwined in the daily routine, the typical, normal, uneventful activities that we take so much for granted but that fill the vast majority of our times. It is because of these weeks together that I know her morning routine, her favorite outfits to wear, he exercise habits.  When I think of my step-mom who died in 2002 I don’t immediately think about the beautiful Passover seder she prepared each year. I picture her at the kitchen stove making our usual Wednesday night pasta dinner. I remember the bag of treats she would make me and my siblings for long car rides. I think of her sitting with us while we did our homework.  I am sure that we can all recall special times such as these.

These two women understood the importance of the ordinary times.  Often though, we need reminders to slow down and cherish the journey rather than just the destination.  Judaism helps us by commanding us to “sanctify the ordinary” rather than wait for the “life changing moments”. We are to recite 100 blessings every day, no matter our mood or desires.  These blessings remind us to be grateful that we went to sleep at night and awoke in the morning, that our bodies work, that we are free people.  The 100 blessings remind us to be thankful there is an earth to walk on, water to drink, and a sky overhead.  We are to see the blessing in the food on our table, the clothes on our body and the roof over our head every day, not just when they are threatened.  Saying blessings, all the time, forces us to acknowledge all of the beauty along the uncertain and windy path of life. 

The essential act of the High Holiday season is Teshuvah.  Teshuvah means to turn toward mindfulness.  We know to be mindful during the High Holidays and the milestones of our lives.  We tell Bar and Bat Mitzvah students to read slowly and enjoy the service because it will be over before they know it.  We take lots of pictures at graduations because we never want to forget the special day and the feeling of the wonderful accomplishment.  We tell parents of infants to soak up their baby’s life because they will be grown and out of the house in the blink of an eye.  We remind wedding couples to be present in the moment because it passes by so fast.  What we forget is how important the moments in between are – the hug or kiss that you give as you are running out the door, the pat on the back after a good practice, the hand that reaches out when we fall.  So often, this is what we remember, what we hold on to, what solidifies memories in our head and relationships in our hearts.

My fiancé’s grandmother, a 92 year old holocaust survivor, loves to say the Shechechyanu.  It is her most favorite prayer – this prayer that thanks God for allowing us to be a part of precious moments.  Before meeting her I had begun thinking that maybe we have come to use this prayer a bit too often, substituting it for other prayers that would be more specific.  But, when I watch her face light up as she identifies a moment she is so grateful to be a part of, that we are all so honored to be a part of, I realize that we can never say this prayer enough, especially if it helps us to appreciate every-day joys.  She understands the need to be thankful for the seemingly mundane parts of life.  Our challenge now, as we go into the New Year, is to learn how to make our lives sacred from day to day rather than from event to event, to cherish the journey, rather than to wait for the destination, to enjoy the bumps rather than anticipate the outcome. For each of us this will look a bit different, but we will all have to make changes to live this value.  For:          

Birth is a beginning

And death a destination.

And life is a journey:

From defeat to defeat to defeat –

Until, looking backward or ahead,

We see that victory lies

Not at some high place along the way,

But in having made the journey, stage by stage,

A sacred pilgrimage.