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L’shanah Tovah.

I would like to start off my sermon today with a question, perhaps the question most commonly asked: Why? Now I won’t be asking about the whys of the larger world, instead, I want to start smaller. I want to start with us. Why are we here? What does this day mean for us? Why do we feel compelled to come back and gather to hear the shofar year after year? What is it about today, this day, this Rosh Hashanah, that touches our souls in a way that hits different from other times of the year? 

As modern Jews and those who are Jewish-adjacent, we have the luxury of asking such questions. Our presence here today is a choice, a free-will offering of our time, our attention, and hopefully of our spirits and our souls. That being said, we acknowledge that given all the challenges, struggles, anxiety, pain, sadness, suffering and anger that currently permeates our world, we are both blessed and challenged to be present, Hineini, at this time to even be asking the question of ‘why?’ And yet, we are thankful to be here, in this lovely setting, with our congregational family.

To answer these questions could take us the whole year let alone, a whole lifetime, to navigate. The reasons are just as varied as the people in this room, if not more so. And then when we do come to gather together, at this time, we hear the same text chanted from Torah year after year, the Akeida, the binding of Isaac.

Every year worship leaders, rabbis, cantors, and the like asks a similar question of: why? Why do we read it the Akeida on Rosh Hashanah? Why did God demand that Abraham offer up his son Isaac as a sacrifice? Why did Isaac, why did Sarah, why did the two servants go along with it? What can almost offering up a child teach us not just about our ancient heritage, but also about ourselves?

The most common understanding, according to tradition, is that the Akeida is a polemic against child sacrifice. According to the Talmud , the very concept of Abraham offering up Isaac, never even crossed God’s mind, let alone Abraham’s. Other rabbis, including Abarbanel  go on to explain that God asked this of Abraham so that God and Abraham could demonstrate to the rest of the world that God does not want child, let alone, human sacrifices. Though, for parents of teenagers, the concept of child sacrifice, can be a tempting idea at times. 

However, this is not the only perspective on this challenging text. According to at least one midrashic interpretation,  Abraham actually failed the test. He misunderstood the command ‘Olah,’ which can mean both to bring up and to make a whole offering. God meant for Abraham to bring up Isaac up to Mt. Moriah, whereas Abraham understood it to mean, to make of Isaac a whole offering.

But even if that was Abraham’s understanding, why did he agree to it? Previously in Genesis, God told Abraham of God’s designs on Sodom and Gomorrah, and Abraham argued with God that as long as there were righteous in the cities, God would should destroy them. 

But in this case, when told to offer up his only son, Abraham, like Noah, remained silent. And because of this Abraham failing to speak up, to question, to challenge, and instead, merely to accept, Abraham’s actions fractured his relationship with Isaac. 

Following the binding of Isaac and ultimately the lamb being offered instead of Isaac, Abraham returned down the mountain alone. He and Isaac parted ways. We don’t know if they ever spoke to each other again. And more than that, even though Abraham lived another seventy-five years, we do know, he and God never spoke again. 

This notion is upsetting, disheartening, and completely understandable. Abraham and Isaac experienced the Akeida in profoundly different ways at it shattered their relationship, all perhaps because of a simple misunderstanding. A notion that is all too tragic, and yet, all too relatable. Each was certain they had done what was right. And each was equally certain that what was done to them was wrong. They both lived in their own spheres of certainty, which made it hard to create space for the other. A lesson all too relevant to our times as well.

Therefore today is going to be a conversation about you and me. It is going to be about us. It is going to be about what it means to be in relationship, and what it means to be in community. And it is also going to be about what happens when tragic circumstances pull at us and threatened to tear us apart.

To start, I wanted to do something which I rarely do, talk about myself. Not about my rabbinate, not about my immediate family, but about myself. I would like to start by stating that I am and have always been a very private person. It may be because growing up, the son of a rabbi, I found it best to often keep my own counsel. There were things discussed in our home best not shared, which means I have always been very careful with my words and thoughts.

The reason why I mention this is because I actually don’t like talking about myself. I like to speak on behalf of tradition. I like to speak on behalf of community. And as someone in the listening profession (ironic as I am giving a sermon), I prefer to hear from you and how you are doing and what is going on in your life. 

So I wanted to take a moment and be very vulnerable with you. As many of you know, my mom Linda died just two weeks ago. Many of you have been kind in reaching out and offering your thoughts and condolences. You have also asked through gentle curiosity about why she died, which I haven’t told too many of you.

Nine years ago, following a few months with a persistent cough, which was originally diagnosed as reflux, my mother was eventually diagnosed with Stage 4 lung cancer. With the help of targeted therapy and a dedicated team, my mom lived with this cancer even as it has spread to other parts of her body. The treatment helped to keep the cancer at bay even though it weakened her over time. That being said, she found the strength to come to Emily’s Bat Mitzvah over five years ago, and she was able to host our visits to Houston including this past Thanksgiving, where should found the strength to be as present as she possibly could.

But the truth is, this cancer has taken its toll, and after my recent visit to Houston in August, we made the difficult decision as a family to cease with the treatment and transition my mom to in-home hospice. 

What we thought would be a matter of months, ended up being just a few short weeks. She died peacefully at home with my father and my brother at her side.

Following the news, Joy, the kids and I then flew down to Houston, and joined by my in-laws and several wonderful colleagues and friends, I had the difficult honor of officiating at my mother’s funeral. I mention this because I wanted to be honest with you about what I have been carrying with me these past few weeks, but really, these past few years.

It is hard to be in relationship if we don’t know what each other is going through. And I am asking all of you for a little grace, especially as I know some of you have been on similar journeys or are currently going difficult journeys of your own.

Grace or chesed, is a concept that we don’t speak about too much in our tradition, especially when it comes to concepts of asking for God’s grace. Nonetheless, we learn from our tradition the importance of grace and compassion. For example, we are often willing to forgive ourselves regardless of our actions because we know our intent, but we are quick to judge others based of their actions in part because, if it is hurtful, we assume ill-intent. This means we can sometimes read into others’ words and actions, something that many not actually be there. 

How can we avoid this pitfall. Our tradition offers at least two ways forward, including one in the Akeida. When the angel called out, Avraham, Avraham, he answered, Hineini, I am here. This Hineini was more than just, I am physically present, he was saying I am emotionally present, I am aware, I am listening.

To be a congregation means that we need to find our way back to Hineini. We are blessed to have a diversity of experiences, thoughts, and opinions on any number of topics and world events. Unfortunately, we currently live in a world that shies away from such diversity of thought and dialogue. I think is this in part not just due to the phenomenon of social media which has certainly exacerbated the issue, but also because of the 24-hour news cycle. Even I remember when, there was 30 minutes of news on in the evening. News was viewed as a public service, and if you wanted to get more in depth into it, you had to read a newspaper.

Nowadays, in the competition for eyeballs for advertisers, with the 24-hour cycle, like with social media, it is about keeping you angry, so you stay engaged. And then this anger and frustration spills over into other aspects of our lives, in our homes, our schools, our friend groups, and even into our congregations.

One of the reasons why I love congregational life, is because there is so much diversity here. Diversity of experiences, diversity of thought, diversity of religious expression. You will find folks who make friends with others that they would not have encountered in any other way except through congregational life. 

But what we cannot do, is let the events of October 7th and the subsequent war, the war and suffering in Gaza, the events in Lebanon, and the most recent attacks by Iran, as well as the events of this most recent political cycle and other such elements of the collective zeitgeist cause us to draw lines in the sand. Meaning, our fallback position cannot be, this is my community only if it agrees with me on X or on Y. Rather, we must seek out the converse, to be Jewish means to struggle, not to have certainty. We need to find our way back to Hineini, I am here.

Every week I am honored to lead a discussion on Zohar. And the only promise that I have made to the class and continue to make is that we will have small moments of insight followed by great moments of confusion. And it is beautiful.

What we don’t want to do is end up like Abraham and Isaac or Abraham and God, so certain of our experiences that we end up never speaking to one another again. There simply are not enough of us in the world that we have the luxury to choose not to be in relationship with one another. Temple Israel was founded on the belief of creating a home for all seeking to express their true Jewish, authentic selves. Like Zohar, it is intended to be a place of beauty and relationship, if not the occasional bafflement.

A few weeks ago, I was honored to attend an event at the JCC featuring Broadway performer Ari Axelrod and his show: A Place for Us. For those who were able to attend, it was a powerful and moving experience. It was about the Jewish journey of Broadway expressed through song and storytelling. But it wasn’t just about the history of Jewish Broadway, and I agree with Ari that the history of Broadway is Jewish; it was also about how we can find our place through the arts in today’s troubling and challenging world.

As Jews, we have faced such challenges before, but this time feels different, probably because we have differing understandings and perspectives as to what is going on. And we are also equally certain that those we disagree with are wrong. 

The challenge is, once certainly sets in, there is little room for disagreement. There is little room for chesed, for grace. And as we come together as a community on this Rosh Hashanah, this New Year, I would like to offer an alternative to certainty, and that is relationship, Hineni, to be present with one another. To do this, we must find ways to build  relationships built upon sacred partnership, sacred dialogue, and sacred compassion.

Therefore, our talk today is not about Israel or Gaza or Lebanon or Iran, even though it is. This talk today is not about this or any election cycle, even though absolutely it is. And that is because, it truly is about you. It is about me. It is about us. And the only way we can move forward together is by being willing to genuinely see, hear, listen and even disagree with one another, which is our tradition’s second response to difficult times, and that is argument, mahloket l’shem shamayim, arguments for the sake of heaven.

In Jewish tradition, we have the concept of sacred argumentation. In our tradition, there are a couple of useful concepts when it comes to sacred disagreement. The first is: mahloket--as conflict, debate, disagreement, controversy. The second is l’Shem Shamayim / Lo L’Shem Shamayim: An argument considered 'for the sake of Heaven' or 'not for the sake of Heaven.'

Sadly, in today’s world, especially in social media, but not exclusively, any makloket is mostly lo l’Shem Shamayim, not for the sake of heaven. It is for the sake of winning, for the sake of ego, or the sake of simply wanting to be right. Rather, our tradition teaches, sacred arguing should be focused on uncovering greater truths and greater understanding, or l’Shem Shamayim, for the sake of Heaven.

But to do this means we need to understand how each of us comes from a place of both hurt and hope. Each of us is trying to bring a sense of repair and to lift up not just our voices, but also the voices of those we are most concerned about here and everywhere we feel compassion and pain. If we get trapped by our own certainty, we will miss the opportunities that are right in front of us. A lesson I learned all too well.

I would like to end with a story that I have not told anyone, not even my wife or my therapist. It is a story that I am only just now able to admit to myself. The last time I saw my mom, she was resting peacefully in her bed. Though I had suggested transitioning her to hospice, my Houston family simply was not ready. I felt that I had failed in my mission to Houston, I was so frustrated, that in my anger and hurt, I did not say goodbye to her because I was certain I would see her again because nothing was changing. I did not kiss her on her forehead. I did not even say, ‘goodbye,’ or ‘I love you.’ I missed the chance to say farewell while she was still among the living. This is something I will have to carry with me, and I will need to learn to forgive myself for. But that is a sermon for another day. What I have learned is a powerful and important lesson through my own pain and grief about stubbornness and anger, that my certainty of the moment made me miss a much more important moment that I can never recapture. I was like Abraham. I was like Isaac. I was stuck, unwilling to reach out.

What happened at the end of the Akeida does not have to be our final story. We do not have to walk alone in silence, hurting and frustrated. Instead, we have a chance to lean in, to build, to repair, to engage, to argue, and to listen. My prayer, my hope, my vision for this 5785 is that we are able to make space for all members of the community to engage in sacred disagreement l’shem shamayim, for the sake of heaven. That we find pathways to build our relationships with one another, hineini, by being present and willing to engage in arguments l’shem shamayim, for the sake of heaven. 

Sadly, all too often being Jewish means that we are lonely and alone in this much greater world, which often seeks to hold us accountable for that which we have not done. But, if we find the ability to grant chesed, to grant grace to one another, maybe we can be lonely and alone together, or at least a little less lonely and alone as we know there is a community that will always accept us and embrace us even if the rest of the world may try tear us apart. 

I hope we can find ways to walk this path together, even if we may disagree in sacred ways. For by being in relationship with one another, we are inviting God to dwell in our midst. And for the Holy to lift up our lives and our souls especially during these challenging times. For where else can we find comfort, compassion, and grace, than if not with each other? In this way, may we all be able to say, “Hineini, we are here.”

L’shanah Tovah Yoteir, may we at least have a better year than the one that just ended. As was said last night, “may our prayers be found worthy, so that we may each have a little more blessing, a little more healing, a little more hope, a little more peace, a little more sweetness, and a little more chesed, grace for ourselves and for others in this day and in the days ahead.”

Kein y’hi ratzon, May this be God’s will. 

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Watch the entirety of Friday’s service here.

Temple Talk is a recap of sermons given from the Bimah for those who missed a Sermon or who wanted to revisit the words spoken at a previous sermon.