High Holy Days

Thank you for inviting me into your homes this evening. The last time I preached from this pulpit [at Temple Emanu-El] was a quarter century ago. We are blessed. Though physically separated, we are socially connected in this moment – members of two distinct synagogues – and yet we gather – so to speak – to recommit our lives and our very souls to each other and to the blessings we will receive and bestow upon others in this New Year.

The month leading up to this evening and including this evening is supposed to be a time of meditation and reflection, but the rush of events in our world has given us so little opportunity to look deeply into our soul’s needs.

From such events we heard words such as these:

“A situation unprecedented in the history of our State [and our country] presents itself to you [this evening]. By the order of civil authorities, and by the advice [of our local physicians] and of your religious leaders, you will not assemble [for the holiest of the Jewish holy days] …. You are for the first time deprived of the opportunity [to gather as a holy community before your God.]” [1]

“The vigorous efforts made by the health authorities of our city to stamp out the epidemic is, in one form or another, working hardship and discomfort to every single citizen, and this hardship and discomfort is cheerfully endured for the universal good.”

Who said these words? It wasn’t me. It wasn’t one of your local or state officials.

These words, which I paraphrased a bit for your benefit, are those of the Reverend James E. Coyle, pastor of St. Paul’s Church, as they appeared in the Birmingham News newspaper on Sunday, October 20, 1918. The influenza pandemic – the Spanish Flu – started as WWI was ending. Tens of millions died because they had no immunity from previous strains of influenza. And, my friends, do not be mistaken, we are repeating the same mistakes they made 100 years ago. Protests against wearing facemasks. Refusals to physically distance. Cities opening too soon and closing down again. A letter to the same paper by a school missionary and bible teacher said, in part:

“…five doctors were down with this disease. The persons whom we are depending on to cure us and prevent its spread seem to be falling themselves. As this is true, as a Bible teacher I would like to ask the following questions: Don’t you think in time of sickness and distress is the time for us to manifest our faith in God? Don’t you think in such times as these instead of closing the churches it would be well to open them daily that the people might at their convenient hours assemble therein and pray to God, the great Physician, to help the doctors to remove this disease?”

And we have heard those words today by many religious leaders in the country.

We arrive at this New Year feeling fragile, isolated, and lonely. We are confronted daily with death, civil unrest, and a society that is at odds with itself. There is a universal truth that one never appreciates one’s blessings until deprived of them due to circumstances. Adversities of suffering, loss, and death are universal and inevitable, and they appear more pronounced to us now than ever before.

So, here we are again, 100 years later. It seems that we have forgotten the lessons taught a century ago. The pain of the pandemic is real. Many of us are not working, and those who do work are functioning from home or in some limited capacity. There are worries about finances and not being able to see and embrace family and friends, and when will this end, and worst of all, “Am I getting sick? Was I too close to that guy? Why doesn’t she wear a mask? Will she breathe on me?”

We are part of history in this instant. History books will be written describing what happened here. How you respond is a question future generations will study. We survived 1918. We will survive this. This is a lesson of impermanence. Experiences and moments arise, we can embrace or fear them, and then, seemingly in a moment, they pass us by. The difficult and painful ones drag us into the depths of darkness.

My friends, the lesson is that we all have faced both the Good and the Bad. Recall that we have given space for the appearance of both in our lives. The Bad has appeared and then as quickly has evaporated from your thoughts. The Good and the Blessed moments also – those have vanished just as swiftly.

A story about King Solomon:

One day Solomon decided to humble Benaiah Ben Yehoyada, his most trusted minister. He said to him, “Benaiah, there is a certain ring that I want you to bring to me.”

“If it exists anywhere on earth, your majesty,” replied Benaiah, “I will find it and bring it to you, but what makes the ring so special?”

“It has magic powers,” answered the king. “If a happy man looks at it, he becomes sad, and if a sad man looks at it, he becomes happy.” Solomon knew that no such ring existed in the world, but he wished to give his minister a little taste of humility.

Spring passed and then summer, and still Benaiah had no idea where he could find the ring. He was about to give up when he decided to take a walk in one of the poorest quarters of Jerusalem. He passed by an aged merchant who had begun to set out the day’s wares on a shabby carpet. “Have you by any chance heard of a magic ring that makes the happy wearer forget his joy and the broken-hearted wearer forget his sorrows?” asked Benaiah.

He watched the grandfather take a plain gold ring from his carpet and engrave something on it. When Benaiah read the words on the ring, his face broke out in a wide smile.

“Well, my friend,” said Solomon, “have you found what I sent you after?” All the ministers laughed and Solomon himself smiled. To everyone’s surprise, Benaiah held up a small gold ring and declared, “Here it is, your majesty!” As soon as Solomon read the inscription, the smile vanished from his face. The jeweler had written three Hebrew letters on the gold band: gimel, zayin, yud, which began the words “Gam Zeh Ya-avor” — “This too shall pass.” At that moment Solomon realized that all his wisdom and fabulous wealth and tremendous power were but fleeting things, for one day he would be nothing but dust.”

My friends, all things and all people pass. Although our lives seem fragile, and while we suffer isolation and loneliness, let us remember: Gam zeh ya-avor, this too will pass.

It is not hard to guess that many of us feel overwhelmed from time to time. Those feelings may lead to anxiety, stress, depression, irritability, worry and withdrawal: It is a place of powerlessness.

The place of power is found within: It is our ability to see what we must accept as our reality, and, rather than seeing an obstacle, we must look at it as a challenge. To be challenged means that you can engage your problem. It can be a place of power for you. The challenges we face today are no different than those faced by previous generations, especially the generation from the era of the Spanish Flu.

Problems and challenges are inevitable. We are better off when we realize that we cannot get away from challenges. And the sooner we realize that challenges lead to transformation and opportunities, the sooner we will realize that working through them is the only way to emerge into the new reality, stronger and more wholesome, able to accept a new paradigm.

Sure, this is unfair. You did nothing to deserve this. Why me? You ask the question, and the answer will arrive in the silence, in the still of the night.

Our Torah portion illustrates this: Abraham’s challenge from God was to take his son to be sacrificed. In this portion, with which we begin every New Year, Abraham had a good life, much wealth, and a large family until circumstances changed and God challenged him to act. Was Abraham resistant to this new circumstance? The text does not seem to indicate this. Was it unfair what God was asking of him? It certainly was unfair. Did Abraham become worried, anxious, and depressed? We do not know. What we do know is that he responded and acted. For his faith and his actions, he is a revered figure in Jewish folklore.

To resist and attempt to ignore leads nowhere. We must accept what we have, respond positively to circumstances – perhaps even be creative about it – and take actions which will make a positive difference. Then and only then can there be change.

“Not everything that is faced can be changed, but nothing can be changed until it is faced.” – James Baldwin

These moments force us to be honest with ourselves. We need to be able to say, “I do not know why or how this challenge was created, but at this moment I am willing to accept the responsibility for it, and wriggle myself out.”

Friends, I understand that many of us right now feel we are running on empty. I must admit that I have felt that way too. It is from that very emptiness that we will survive and thrive. One of my colleagues noted this too in a recent sermon where she derived this lesson from the Tao Te Ching:[2]

• It takes thirty spokes to make a wheel: But the hole in the center makes it useful for a cart.
• It takes a lump of clay to make a pot: But the empty space within it gives the pot its value.
• A house needs walls and doors and windows: But the empty space is what we call a room to live in.
• Thus, fullness has its role, but emptiness redeems it.

We are at “empty”. We can either be “full of” optimism, and passively believe that things will be better or, we can begin anew emptying ourselves of illusion and finding hope. Hope is the faith that by our efforts, we can make things better. The actions we take may be different than we have ever taken before: to survive these circumstances and to thrive, we must think creatively and differently.

• A wheel is functional with emptiness and spokes.
• A pot is useful with emptiness and clay.
• A house is a home with emptiness and walls, doors and windows.

The emptiness with which we begin this New Year will give form and quality to ourselves, our families, our communities and our world.

Rosh Hashanah means New Year. It also means the “beginning of change”. May this moment, as you step into your New Year, be the beginning of a change for the better. L’shanah tovah tikateivu u-m’tukah – May you be blessed with a sweet new year, and may you be the vehicle to bring those blessings to others.

[1] Bracketed phrases were added by me.

[2] #11 The Nature of Usefulness.

Perhaps you cannot easily see what I am holding in my hand [displaying item]. And I could hardly make out what it was as it lay at the bottom of a Whole Foods care package delivered to me upon my arrival for my interviews here in Tucson. Not until I returned to Chicago and unpacked my overnight did I realize that it wasn’t what I presumed it was; I presumed it was a stick of deodorant, a presumption which gave me pause about what Emanu-El’s search committee thought about my personal hygiene. Rather, it was a stick of sunscreen, a real welcome considering your clime. Very, very thoughtful.

My challenge is to give up this [displaying ice scraper/snow brush] for this [displaying sunscreen stick]. Even in the Miami Beach of my tropical youth I could detect seasonal changes. I am sure I will detect seasonal changes in the Tucson of my interim rabbinate. For many of you, seasonal changes were far from subtle. For those of you who have wandered westward from the snow belt to put down roots in the sun belt, giving up an ice scraper for sunscreen was no big deal. As a matter of fact, you might have traded in one for the other eagerly, without a scintilla of regret. Regardless, for settlers or natives some changes are joyous and easy; yet, some are neither. I suspect that for more than a handful, the changes you have experienced at TE and OC as well as the changes you anticipate at TE and OC may be taxing and tricky, if not both. I hope they will be invigorating and restorative. I know they can be.

Surely, though, the days ahead will be nothing short of Days of Awe — days in which we inscribe our names boldly, anxiously, or reluctantly in the book of Tucson Jewish life. To use the favored pronoun of our liturgy, they will constitute a “we” challenge and demand a “we” effort. At the same time, their awesomeness will be underscored by very personal memories of and very personal histories with this community. As in your own lives, you have suffered through this community’s lows and celebrated its highs, tasted the bitter and the sweet. You have beheld its growth and have witnessed its shrinkage. You have clutched life aborning and released life in other seasons to rest among the saguaros.

Exodus Rabbah 19.4 teaches that the gates of repentance are always open, and anyone who wishes to enter may enter. Heartening is this assurance, and who wouldn’t want to enter those gates? Experience teaches that the gates of change are always open, too. But how many of us can’t wait to enter them? Perforce, many who do enter do so kicking and cursing. Yet, the gates of change can be as inviting as the gates of repentance when the welcome mat betokens opportunities for renewal as opposed to admissions of wrongdoing.

For some the process will require a snow blower; for some, a parasol. For some both, because the weather is not quite predictable in our era of disturbing climate change.

James Haggerty, the only White House press secretary to serve two full terms, both under Eisenhower, once said: “One day I sat thinking, almost in despair; a hand fell on my shoulder and a voice said reassuringly: cheer up, things could get worse. So I cheered up and, sure enough, things got worse.”

The most widely quoted author, Anonymous, said: “What screws us up most in life is the picture in our head of how it’s supposed to be.”

My job is not to tell you how things could get worse or, for that matter, how things could get better. You probably know more keenly than I. Nor is my job to tell you how things are supposed to be. For that, we have parents, preachers, and back seat drivers. My job is to understand with you how things have been and imagine how things might otherwise be, and to walk a while through the gates with you.

Of the thousands of victims of COVID-19, many thousands were the victims not exactly of the virus itself, but of sheer stupidity, misinformation, arrogance, and ill-preparedness. But in a way, a victim of none of the above was Sam Cohen, the lox man at New York’s famous emporium, Zabar’s. Because of his age, 90+, Sam was forced to retire. Mr. Zabar sadly refused to risk Sam’s life by exposing him to both the known and the unknown in one of the hotbeds of the pandemic.

To those who owed their lox slicing skills to this dedicated artisan, one lesson was drilled into their performance behind the counter. BEGIN WITH THE END. Len Berk, a CPA turned lox man and a protégé of Sam, explains why:

I teach my customers that ends aren’t really “ENDS” at all. They’re “BEGINNINGS!” Smoked fish is usually sliced from tail to head — the closer to the head, the more succulent the meat. The end is really the beginning, to the tastiest part of the fish. If it’s good eating you’re after, it’s BEGINNINGS all the way.[1]

Obviously, this is our season of beginning, Rosh Hashanah its fanfare, Yom Kippur, a grand finale. Our days of awe bid us focus on what we want out of the year to come, and more poignantly, what we want out of the rest of our lives. Which brings us, even more poignantly to contemplate our end, to contemplate the legacy of our soul.

In doing so, we will find ourselves in the company of Bartok, Beethoven, Borodin, Busoni, Chausson, Debussy, de Falla, Delibes, Donizetti, Ives, Mozart, Mussorgsky, Offenbach, Prokofiev, Puccini, Respighi, Schoenberg, Schubert, Scriabin, and Tchaikovsky — to name a few of the stars in the firmament of music. You see, each one of these composers left behind an unfinished opus. Many, if not most of their uncompleted works were completed by successor composers, though the most notable of them ascended to the realm of unparalleled beauty in its uncompleted form, namely, Franz Schubert’s unfinished creation, Symphony No. 8 in B minor.

The same could be said of creations by famous authors, sculptors, painters, and architects. So we will also find ourselves in the company of the likes of Dickens, da Vinci, Raphael, and Gaudi, respectively. For in our own ways, we are authors, sculptors, painters, and architects, too — authors, sculptors, painters, and architects of our souls. Some of our unfinished business will be polished or amplified by our heirs seeking to be true to our intentions, if not to our actual accomplishments. Some of our unfinished business will be left just as it was, unfinished and untouched.

The reasons for incompleteness are rather mundane. On the one hand, death indiscriminately and finally puts and end to our efforts. On the other hand, a striving for the unattainable, a striving for perfection, may leave behind just as many ellipses as bars, may leave behind just as many erasures as notes. In the wake of either, of death or perfection, undulates a trail of tears which only the passage of years will dry.

Until then, in beginning at the end, we are bidden to find abiding satisfaction in our strivings, appreciation for our temporary accomplishments. Undeniably, our strivings and accomplishments are adjudged by others. When burnished, they become our eulogies. Yet, no less so, our strivings and accomplishments are adjudged by us.

The two adjudications are hardly separable. The narcissist lives in a world in which only his or her reflection is perceptible to the critical eye. The rest of us mortals viscerally respond, as in some way we ought, to the boos and the bravos, the jeers and cheers of the crowd — of our family, our friends, our neighbors, and yea, our God. In their own way, our family, friends, neighbors, and yea, our God, are keepers of the curtain calls. But unlike the narcissist, eventually we must each answer to the call of our own conscience, to the call of lovingkindness to which only the sociopath is deaf.

Not only here and not only now, but certainly here and now, we aim not to assuage our insufficiencies, but to prick our conscience. Not to engage in self-foolery, but to wrestle with honesty. Not to pooh-pooh the pans or bathe in the raves, but to attend to room for improvement.

As Rabbi Tarfon reminded us:

לֹא עָלֶיךָ הַמְּלָאכָה לִגְמֹר, וְלֹא אַתָּה בֶן חוֹרִין לִבָּטֵל מִמֶּנָּה

It is not your duty to finish the work, but neither are you at liberty to neglect it.
– Avot 2.16

Meaning: We are composing a symphony without a coda, yet, if we try, it will not be wanting in beauty and inspiration.

[1] https://forward.com/culture/ 444817/the-end-is-actually-the-beginning-and-other-life-lessons-from-the-zabars/

A high school teacher decided to honor her seniors by telling them the positive impact each of them made. Then she told each of them how they made a difference to her and to others in the class and presented each of them with a blue ribbon imprinted with gold letters which read, “Who I Am Makes a Difference.”

She decided to give each of them an assignment. Each student received three more ribbons, and they were instructed to go out and spread this acknowledgment ceremony to others.

One of the students honored a junior executive in a nearby company and honored him for helping him with career planning. He took one of the blue ribbons and pinned it on his shirt. He then gave the executive two more ribbons for him to keep this acknowledgment ceremony going.

Later that day, the executive met with his boss. He told him that he was an inspired leader. The boss was surprised. The executive took a ribbon and placed it right on his boss’s jacket above his heart. He gave the last ribbon to him and said, “Would you do me a favor? Would you take this last ribbon and pass it on by honoring somebody else? The young boy who gave me this wants to keep this recognition ceremony going.”

That night the boss came home to his 14-year-old son and sat him down. “The most amazing thing happened to me today. One of my junior executives told me that I had inspired him and pinned a blue ribbon on my jacket. Then he gave me a blue ribbon and told me to give it someone I would want to honor. As I was driving home, I thought about the person I wanted to honor, and I thought about you.

“My days are so hectic, and I realize I do not pay enough attention to you. Sometimes I get mad at you that your grades are not good enough and you don’t help enough around the house. But I thought about it and I wanted to let you know that you do make a difference to me. Besides your mother, you are the most important person in my life. You are a great kid and I love you.”

The startled boy started to sob and sob, and he could not stop crying. His whole body shook. He looked at his father and said through his tears, “I did not know if I could live another day, Dad, because I didn’t think you loved me. Now I know you do.”[2]

I know that the High Holy Days are to remind us that our words and our actions have consequences both good and bad. We do not realize the impact we have on others, as this story clearly illustrates: the students on their teacher, the junior executive on the student, the boss on those who work for him, and the father on the son.

We take a lot for granted, and many live a relatively unexamined life, except perhaps for the month of Elul leading up to the High Holy Days.

Centuries ago in small villages in Germany, a man known as a “clapper” would take a wooden hammer and during the thirty days before Rosh Hashanah would “clap” on the doors of Jews and call out to those in their homes to examine their lives and their deeds, for God’s Day of Judgement, Rosh Hashanah, was soon to be at hand.[3]

Each day Jews are supposed to do a chesbon hanefesh, literally an “accounting of the soul.” We are to count up all the actions we have done throughout the year: how many good, how many bad, how we were generous, how we wasted time, how many times we did something useful. Then we are to decide what we will repeat, what we will dispense with, and for which actions we need to seek repentance from others and from God.

We read during the High Holy Days that God will judge our deeds and determine whether we are to be written into the Book of Life or the Book of Death.  We are taught that there are steps involved in repenting and seeking forgiveness from those whom we have harmed:

1. Recognize you made a mistake.
2. Regret and vow never to do it again.
3. And finally, ask for forgiveness and wait to receive it.

We are told that for wrongs against others, God will not forgive; for wrongs against God, God will forgive if we truly repent.

What is so interesting about this is that these Holy Days are so easy for God — but being a Jew is much more difficult. Why? God only judges us one day out of the entire year (Rosh Hashanah). We, on the other hand, are not just to judge ourselves and do an accounting of our actions during the thirty days before Rosh Hashanah, we actually are to account for our actions the other 364 days of the year as well!

Each night before going to bed, the Chasidic master Nachman of Bratzlav would make a list. At the end of each day he would write down all the wrongs he had committed against people, against God, the ways in which he did not live up to his own character. Once he finished writing, he would read the list over and over again with increasing agitation and remorse, until he welled up with sorrow. He did that every single night of his life.

During our Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur services, we are reminded through our prayers of all the possible sins we may have committed during the year.

We are reminded of the times we exposed others to our anger, belittling, criticizing, doubting, finding fault, harboring resentment, quitting when there was still fight left, saying, “What difference does it make?”, and spending zero time with those we care for. There is an alphabet of sins we have committed.

But for today and tomorrow and this week and this year, I want you to think of only one sin of which you may all be guilty and have done little to redeem yourselves from repeating time and again.

It is a singular sin (but perhaps the most egregious) and, at the same time, it is aligned with the greatest virtue found in our Jewish religion. It is exemplified in the following story. This is a story that applies to two people: two men, two women, a man and a woman, a parent and a child, and even two co-workers. Gender and age are not important in this story:

The Hasidic Rabbi, Levi Yitzhak of the Ukraine, observed two individuals in a country tavern.

While chatting with the owner of the tavern, the rabbi saw the two embracing and declaring their love for one another.

One told his companion, “I love you. I love you so much.” Suddenly the other hearing this, said to his companion, “Do you know what hurts me?” Sobered by such a startling remark, his friend replied, “I have no idea, what hurts you?” The answer was immediate, “If you don’t know what hurts me, how can you say you love me?”[4]

The revelation of this story is that we can be hurting someone we care for without realizing it.[5] That is the sin.

The virtue aligned with this sin, referred to earlier, is what we need to embody fully: above anything else, Judaism is about Teshuvah/Repentance. The idea of teshuvah means turning from the path you are on because it is unsustainable. It is unsustainable because you cause harm and because you are harming a person with whom you have a relationship. And, because there is harm, then the relationship is unloving. To love someone means knowing what hurts them.

The idea of love, the Hebrew word ahavah, found in our scripture, does not mean an intense feeling of deep affection or a deep romantic attachment. Rather, when we read the verse “You shall love the Eternal your God with all of your heart, mind, and soul,” the love of God is about respecting who God is and being grateful for the divine gifts bestowed upon us: “Respect” and “Gratitude”.

We are told also to love our neighbor, love the stranger. Love in Judaism is respecting those with whom you are in relationship. Respect is less about “honor” than it is about “knowing” what gives that person joy, but also knowing what hurts them.

Now we can learn from this story of two companions.

We cannot truly be grateful for the loving gifts we are receive from another person, when we do not respect the person. And we are not respecting that person when we do not truly allow ourselves to

know them,

discover what motivates them,

what inspires them,

but also … what hurts them.

If we cannot do all of these things, then it is not really love, is it?

The interchange between these two companions in our story underscore that a relationship of love involves much more than gazing into your soulmates eyes and feeling an overwhelming passion for them. The true meaning of love involves humility.

Humility is when we recognize that we have harmed the ones we love, those whom we teach, and the ones we should respect — sometimes on purpose and sometimes inadvertently. We have harmed those with whom we have meaningful relationships, and too often, we do not give it but a fleeting consideration.

From a humble position, we recognize the hopes and needs, the hurts and fears of the other. When we view others with this kind of humility, love can be offered and service can be rendered, not with an air of condescension but with the warmth of compassion.

The key to loving others is to keep in mind their internal feelings and thoughts. No one is a mind reader, I know that. Being respectful is having the awareness that there is sometimes more to what is going on than mere words and deeds. You can no longer get away with, “You didn’t tell me!” or, “I didn’t know.”

And, when we have brought harm into that relationship, there is more to repentance and forgiveness than the steps given to us by tradition.

The catchphrase, “love never means having to say you’re sorry”[6] is just not true. Love does mean saying, “I am sorry,” but there is more.

1. Recognize you erred.
2. Regret and vow that you will try to never to do it again
3. Ask for forgiveness and wait to receive it.
4. Most importantly, recognize that we are not to judge another person based on who we are and what we know. We are not to judge them at all. We are to listen and learn and respond to their desires and needs.

I am not suggesting that every relationship is reconcilable. But ones that must be reconciled are between those to whom we are truly devoted.

Today, we read of Jonah, who harmed his relationship with God and the vow and commitment he had made. It took him running away, hiding from his responsibilities, being cast into the ocean, and being swallowed by a whale for him to utter:

Those who cling to empty folly forsake their own welfare; but I will sacrifice for You. What I have vowed I will fulfill. Rescue me, Adonai.

and God commanded the fish, and it spewed Jonah out on dry land.[7]

Jonah repented. He changed his direction for the sake of his relationship with God and his vow to God. It made a difference. He saved an entire kingdom. More importantly, he preserved his relationship with God and understood his relationship to other people.

Today, I am asking you to do the same. You have a kingdom to save as well, if only you will listen and learn. You have made commitments/vows. They need to be salvaged in a different way.

Listening and learning does not mean that you can go back and change the past.

You can remember what you have done and use that information to be better tomorrow than you were yesterday.

Being human means you struggle to love. You fall flat sometimes, and other times you make miraculous breakthroughs.

You can recognize and be grateful for the sense of belonging and love you have received that is not earned. Love has poured into your lives at times of great celebration and in those moments of sadness.

It is up to you now to greet others as they are, not as who you expect them to be.

Treat others with the kindness they deserve.

Treat others with kindness when they do not deserve it. That is the teshuvah gift of turning toward a new path.

Change is hard, and it is about interrupting old habits and patterns that are no longer serving your relationships. The most meaningful way to respond to a hurt you have caused is to come to grips with the understanding that you are capable of hurting others by your words, your actions, and your behavior.

Do not make the mistake of judging the behaviors of others by your own standards. The person you love, respect, and teach has standards different than yours.

We are each different, and the years together with someone does not hide but reveals those differences. We need to learn from them and accept them.

The sign of a healthy relationship is when you have the ability to clean up the hurts you have caused:

1. When you acknowledge the hurt “you have caused,” you are acknowledging the person. That is the most important part of the relationship. Not the action or what led up to it. That you know the person standing right in front of you.
2. Show kindness and willingness to be humble before the healing process can begin. If it is a repeated behavior that has resulted in harm, then the person may feel you lack trust in their relationship because you do not understand the harm you have caused to them over time. Teshuvah, changing direction completely by tuning in, may be the opportunity for trust to start and be earned.
3. Say, “I hear you.” Ask, “What do you need?” When the other understands that you are truly listening and that when you ask what is “needed”, you are open to the pathway to resolve the problem.

In uncertain times, relationships matter even more.

The world is chaotic, and we turn to our partners for security, acceptance, love, and stability.

This year, may we make the extra effort toward humility, listening, and healing. Then and only then will we earn the blue ribbon, “Who I Am Makes a Difference.”

G’mar chatimah tovah, may you be sealed for a good, sweet and healthy year.

[1] This sermon was inspired by a most important conversation that I had with Rabbi Uri Herscher, Emeritus Director of the Skirball Museum, in September 2020.

[2] Adapted from Chicken Soup for the Soul, 1993, pp. 19-21.

[3] As told to me by Rabbi Uri Herscher.

[4] Story told to me by Rabbi Uri Herscher.

[5] “You always hurt the one you love, the one you should not hurt at all;
You always take the sweetest rose, and crush it till the petals fall;
You always break the kindest heart, with a hasty word you can’t recall;” — The Mills Brothers

[6] Erich Segal’s novel, Love Story.

[7] Jonah 2:9-11.