The Rabbis of the Talmud, the ancient repository of Jewish Tradition ask, an interesting question about the Holy Days.

Passover has the exodus from Egypt, Chanukah, the Macabian revolt. What about the yamim noraim, The Days of Awe, The Holy Days-- what historical events correspond to them?

Not a bad question considering how ancient and steeped in history we are. Well, according to their reasoning the Days of Awe commemorate the second giving of the Torah on Mt. Sinai.

Let me remind you of the story: Moses comes down the mountain with the Ten Commandments in his arms, sees the Golden Calf and in a rage, smashes the tablets on the ground. He then goes back up the mountain and gets the second set.

The Rabbis of Talmud reason that Moses went up Mt. Sinai for the second time on the new moon of Ellul - the time these holy days are really suppose to begin, received the second tablets on Rosh Hashannah, and descended down the mountain with them in his arms some 3,500 years ago this evening.

Pretty wild story, but that is not all. There is a problem: What happened to the first set of commandments that Moses smashed?

The Sages couldn’t believe that the sacred fragments of the first set of tablets were just left on the ground. After all, the Torah reports that they were created by God alone. So what do the Sages say? According to the Talmud, the broken pieces of the first tabletswere placed side-by-side with the whole second set in the aron hakodesh. The broken and the whole, side-by-side.

The broken and the whole, side-by-side; so many lessons can be learned from this short teaching from the Talmud.

Earlier this year I saw a movie with my kids: "Because of Winn Dixie".

It’s a sweet film (great book) about a broken family in a broken southern town and a girl who manages with the help of her dog - Winn Dixie - to bring some comfort and some wholeness to everyone she touches.

How does she do it? She brings together both aspects of her life - the broken and the whole, for herself and those she meets in the town.

Her mom walked out on her and her dad, the town preacher, when she was a baby. Her dad won't talk about it. She persistently nudges him until he starts to speak of his brokenness. As he opens up to her and tells her the story they both heal.

She brings the broken and the whole together for them; he lost his wife, she lost her mom, but they have each other. It hurts but there is healing.

In the movie there is one thing that symbolizes this healing process and that is a candy called "The Litmus Lozenge." It was a best-selling candy and the sole industry of the town until it closed down. When the plant closed the town began to fail.

What is the secret of the Litmus Lozenge? It tastes both sweet and sad. In other words, it brings the broken and the whole together for every person who eats it.

The broken and the whole is a profound metaphor for our lives and at the heart of our Holy Day experience. Imagine what it would be like right now to taste the magicallysweet and sad flavors of a Litmus Lozenge. What feelings would it bring up for us? What pain? What joy? What longing? What sweet memory?

Returning to our story from the Talmud, we are all like those two sets of tablets.

We are all in some ways broken, we all experience loss, pain, real suffering. For most of us sweetness, wholeness, is also there – both, the broken and the whole make up who we are, b’nai adam b’tzelem elohim, and we bring that mix of broken and wholeness with us to these yamim noraim, these Days of Awe, these Holy Days.

This is my 10th year standing before you on Kol Nidre. I am honored to know and serve many of you. We’ve been through a lot together. We’ve had many celebrations, and we’ve seen sad and hard times as well. Even if we were meeting for the first time tonight, I’d know that some folks here are in mourning, others are struggling with a relationship, with physical pain, with mental anguish, some rightfully wonder if this will be their last Holy Days of their life, others are here for the first time without the love of their life.

Standing here, it is almost overwhelming to think about…

The broken and the whole – we are the broken and the whole, and the Holy Days, especially Kol Nidre, bring all this to the front of our being. Hard to hide when you are standing naked before God!

True for you and it is true for me as well. One example: the first Holy Day sermon I delivered here was on a very similar subject. At that time, my brother Willie was alive and he drove up from Santa Cruz to “see his little brother in action.”

 

I can still picture him sitting right over there … After services he came up to me and said, “You speak the truth bro, you really do…” It breaks me to think about it, but that is notthe whole story. That was over 9 years ago. He died 4 years ago. Since then his family has suffered and recovered in many ways. It was rough at first; they were broken wide open, but life does go on and they are now moving towards wholeness.

The broken and the whole - this is who we are, this is the human condition. We can't escape it.

We can not escape it, but we can work with it. In fact, many of the Holy Day rituals are designed to help us move from the broken to the whole. Three practices especially come to mind this evening –
1. The focus on introspection or a chesbon hanefesh;
2. The use of memory;
3. and being in community.

Essential to the Holy Day experience is the act of introspection. In Hebrew we call it a cheshbon hanefesh, an accounting of the soul. Ideally this ‘accounting’ starts in the month of Elul, but even if you haven’t spent a moment contemplating what your year was like and what you hope the New Year will be, the moment you set foot into the Synagogue (even when it is also an LDS church) you can’t help but begin to think about what is really true for you.

For some just showing up, just setting foot in a Synagogue, gets the whole process going. For others it’s hearing a certain prayer like avinu malkeinu that sets a chain of thought in motion. Perhaps seeing an old friend (or enemy) is what makes you stop and look inside. What ever it is, the Holy Days are set up to foster introspection.

We may spend the rest of the year running away from our brokenness, our pain, our deep longing, but during these Days of Awe, especially tonight, we are given this great, important, even profound chance to stop running and take a deep look inside. It may be painful, it may be hard, but it is the way toward wholeness.

That I believe is what Moses realized while he was on the mountain the second time. Remember, he had smashed the first set of Commandments, and climbed back up the mountain for the second set. He was up there a long time, 40 days and 40 nights according to the Torah. What was he doing up there? My guess is that he was doing a serious cheshbon hanefesh.

Think of what Moses had been through. He killed a man in his youth. Sure, the guy he pummeled to death was a tyrant, but it was murder all the same.

He'd shattered the first set of tablets. In fact, he struggled with anger his whole life. He had also abandoned his wife and children for the Israelite cause.

In other words, the tablets weren’t the only thing broken in Moses’ life. He had a lot to think about. It took 40 days and nights on the mountain, and a serious process of cheshbon hanefesh, before Moses was ready to receive the second whole set of tablets. Only after he faced his brokenness could Moses be a vehicle for wholeness for his people and himself.

What is true for Moses is also true for us. It's so basic - psych 101- yet it is not so easy to do. Sometimes it seems we would rather do anything than face the truth. The problem is this: there is no redemption without telling the truth. The secrets we keep, the lies we tell ourselves, the broken, shattered pieces of ourselves that we hold inside, they fester, they grow inside us like cancerous tumors, sucking our life energy away.

In an essay called "After The Fire," the author, Kate Wenner, painfully describes what happens when the broken past remains buried.

Kate was her father’s caregiver the last months of his life. His illness was unexpected, and swift. She writes, “He had gone…in eight short months from being a skiing, bikeracing, dating man of 70 to a shrunken, (and) exhausted soul with paper-thin skin…” He had been a difficult and harsh father who kept his children at a distance. But nowapproaching death, he would tell them something that brought them together in an unexpected way.

“When he was 14 years old, his mother and sister had deliberately set fire to their dry goods shop to collect the insurance money. It was late at night, and the couple that lived in the apartment above the store came running out from the flames, screaming and carrying their children in their arms. They could have easily been killed.” Her father had witnessed everything and had kept it a secret his whole life. After he told her the story he said, “I came from people who were despicable…to risk killing children so you can have a fancier store is evil. I was a part of that evil. Now you see why I am ready to die.” “But”, she reasoned, “you didn’t set the fire”. “No,” her father responded, but “I am tired of living with the shame. I’ve held on to it all these years. I’m exhausted from trying to cover it up, driving and driving myself. Dying is the way I can let go of it at last.”

A whole life of hiding, a whole life of secret shame that chased him like an angry dog, snapping at his heels, driving his family away.

We don’t have to wait until death to tell our secrets, to face our brokenness, to let go of our past. Nor do our families have to suffer endlessly because of what we can’t face. Yom Kippur is here, atonement is our promise if we only do our part.

Introspection, a cheshbon hanefesh, is one way the Holy Days encourage us to do teshuvah, to repair our brokenness and reach toward wholeness. Another important vehicle toward wholeness is the use of memory. For me, the best example of this is Yizkor.

Yizkor is the time we remember our dead. The longer I live, and the longer I serve our congregation, the heavier my Yizkor experience is. I sometimes wonder if there is another choice; do we have to remember our dead? Do we have to enter into that painful place of hurt and loss? I think we all know the answer to this question. If we want any hope of healing, any possibility for wholeness, acknowledging, and remembering ourlosses is essential. We pay now, or we pay later. There is no other way. It is not closure that we seek – there is no such thing until they put the earth on our grave.

Yizkor is more about perspective than closure. Boundless grief eclipses what is good and whole in out lives. Yizkor offers a framework for our grief so that our grief won’t overwhelm us. But Yizkor is not just about grief. It is also an opportunity to recall with fondness those we love and lose. Their smiling faces, and the qualities of their lives we strive to emulate. Yizkor can also be a time to re-affirm our place among the living. In this way, memory helps us move from broken to broken open, alive anew to what life still has to offer. The image that comes to mind for me is a geode. A geode is a round, nondescript hard rock that when broken open reveals a beauty and splendor which would otherwise never be seen.

Finally, there is the fact that we do all this intensely personal work in community. This is quite remarkable when you think about it. When else would you work in such personal ways in such a public setting? Imagine walking down the street, beating your chest and saying, “ al chet shekhatanu lifanekha, we have sinned before you…” I don’t think so. But our Holy Day journey is essentially a public one – why? Because on some level we recognize that our burdens, our brokenness, our pain is too much for us to carry by ourselves. Wholeness is not achievable in isolation. We need each other to be whole, only together are we really one.

That, by the way, is the wisdom in saying the vidui, the confessions out loud in community. I am sure none of us have transgressed in all the various ways listed. In fact, I would guess that many of them don’t relate to most of us. But some do, for some of us here tonight, and all of us have something we are ashamed of, something that is hard for us to bear by ourselves. Al chet shekhatanu lifanekha, we have sinned before you. We say it together so that no one will have to stand alone and all of us can acknowledge where we have gone wrong, what is broken and what can be made whole again.

Al chet shekhatanu lifanekha, we have sinned, we have missed the mark, we are broken and we shall be whole again.

Moses really started something when he broke those tablets. The rabbis of the Talmud were brilliant in putting the broken set in the aaron hakodesh with the whole set. The broken and the whole, that’s us, that’s fundamentally who we are. The question is, will we be broken or broken open? Will our losses crush us or will we continue to live for what is whole and good in our lives?

Redemption, redemption is not some future time of perfection. Redemption can not be found in forgetting, escapism or denial.

Moses and the Israelites never forgot who they were. The ark of the covenant with the whole and the broken tablets was at the head of the camp every day.

Yet, every day they got out of bed, packed their bags and continued on their way towards the Promised Land remembering, not just what was broken, but also what was whole; not just what was, but also what was yet to be.

We are Moses and the Israelites. Their mission is ours. The broken and the whole, they are in every one of us. The Promised Land, it’s theirs too, in the realization of who we are and whom we can become, now and the year ahead.

The Akeda, the binding of Isaac, is one of the most terrifying and challenging stories in all of Torah. It is also one of the core narratives of Rosh Hashannah, read in most synagogues either the first or second day of the year. Let me remind you of the story:

• From the book of Genesis 22
• Take your son, the one you love Isaac…
• We expect Abraham to argue…
• He rises early, burdens Isaac with the wood…
• They walk in silence…
• “Aba, dad, I’m carrying the wood…”
• They climb the mountain
• The sacrifice is prepared…
• The wood is laid out…
• Isaac is bound to the rock alter – hence the name akeda – the binding
• Abraham’s knife is raised, poised to slit his son’s throat when…
• “Al tishlakh yadkha al hanahar…Don’t raise your hand against the boy!”
• Abraham looks up and sees the ram caught in the thicket…
• The ram is sacrificed instead of Isaac
• Abraham is blessed: “…because you have done this and not withheld your son, I will bestow my blessings upon you and make your descendents as numerous as the stars of the heavens and the sands of the sea…”

This is a terrifying tale and I would skip it all together if it were not so relevant to our lives, especially today. I guess it is always relevant; that’s why we’ve been reading it on Rosh Hashannah every year for the past 2,000 years, give or take…

I can’t think of the Akeda without first thinking about Israel. Why? There’s the setting, har hamoriah, Mount Moriah which, according to Jewish tradition, is the Temple Mount in Jerusalem. That’s right; the near sacrifice of Isaac takes place at the same spot where the great Temple in Jerusalem was built!

Beside the physical setting of this “terror on the mountain”, there is the fact that over the years, Israeli’s have seen their own struggle for peace and security through the lens of this story as well. It is as if every Israeli son sent to do battle is in some way Isaac, and every parent, an Abraham or Sarah. God, God is the silent partner to the seemingly endless saga of pain and sacrifice.

The Akeda is such a powerful myth in Israel today that a whole genre of Modern Israeli poetry has developed around it. All the great Israeli poets have written on the subject, but tonight we only have time for one; a poem by Rachel, a renown poet of the early years of the state. Her poem is called “The Binding:”

The Binding:

And the boy climbs the mountain

On his shoulder a machine gun ready. -

But where is the lamb for a burnt offering, my son! asks the old

Father who stays at home.

I am going to the temple, my father, and on my way Mine and thicket, and on my way

The Angel my father.

Lay not thine hand upon the lad - he cries

Not now, not now

Not until the next war.

“Al tishlakh yadkha al hanahar…lay not thine hand against the boy!” That line is the climax of her poem, and the climax of the story in the Torah. It is also the universal cryof every parent who’s child is sent off to war, “

Al tishlakh yadkha al hanahar…lay not thine hand against the boy!”

In the Torah, Abraham does not ultimately sacrifice his child. In real life, not every Isaac comes home. And even when they do survive, when the knife is held back at the last minute, there is no guarantee that those who go to war and come home can ever truly come home again.

Isaac never does. If you read a little further on in the story, you’ll notice that while he and his father climb Mount Moriah together, Abraham returns alone! I guess they could not face each other after what had happened.

Isaac does not return with his father and, from that point on, he is a shadow of a man. We are told, for example, that he re-digs his father’s wells. What a stunning metaphor. The trauma of the terror on the mountain is so great that Isaac is unable to build a life of his own. Rather, he is caught in the shadow of his father’s actions, a shadow of a man. In fact, we hear very little from Isaac. He is mostly silent, he goes prematurely blind, when he does speak, it is the language of a weak and feeble man, easily tricked and manipulated by his family.

Thankfully, I have been spared war, and the horror of war. But I have spent enough time in Israel to get a glimpse of what war can do to the bnei adam, the plan, human beings that get thrust into the firestorm of military conflict.

During the first Infitada, the first Palestinian uprising, Laura and I lived in Jerusalem. We shared a mirpeset, a porch, with a young couple, Chen & Segal. They were in their late 20’s in school at Hebrew University. Chen was a tall, thin, gentle man, who happened to speak Arabic. His language skills came in handy, and he was often called for reserve duty serving in hot spots like Gaza and Hebron. I saw Chen go and return once while we were there.

I saw what Segal went through while he was away… she slept poorly, she cried a lot. By the time he returned, she had large dark circles under her eyes. I was shocked to see Chen after a month in Hebron. Chen left, healthy, quiet but happy. He returned gaunt, chain smoking, a shadow of the man he was.

So far we have focused on the Akeda as it is played out in Israeli society, but of course, this is not just an Israeli story. This is a universal human story being played out right now in our country as well. Israel is a small country and because of this, it is impossible not to feel the affects of the many wars. Almost everyone serves in the army at some time in their life and every family is touched by the trauma of war, or terror, or both. America is the big wide open, a place where one can easily hide from almost everything, including the fact that we are at war, right now, even as I am talking to you, right now. Right now someone could be dying from a sniper’s bullet, a road side bomb…right now.

We are at war. Almost every day someone’s son, someone’s Isaac, is killed in a myriad of different but equally effective ways and there is no end in sight. When will it end? What will be the ultimate price? Up until recently the war in Iraq was like the great white elephant in the room that no one was talking about. Now, thanks in large part to Cindy Sheehan, we are slowly starting to wake up to the fact that we are at war.

It is interesting to me that it takes the tears, indignation and determination of a bereaved mother to catch our attention. In the Akeda, the voice of Sarah, Isaac’s mother, is silent. The Torah does not tell us her side of the story. The midrash however, does fill in some of the gaps. For example, we are told that Abraham left early in the morning to avoid Sarah and that when he did speak to her he lied about what he and Isaac were up to. Interesting… He lied… The truth would be too damning! Abraham in his zealotry, in his blind faith, perhaps in his insanity, would sacrifice the child. Not Sarah.

The midrash teaches that when Sarah heard what Abraham had done, she died of a broken heart.

The statistics of the war in Iraq are alarming but they are too impersonal. Instead, I want to share an op-ed letter from the New York Times called “Lost Fathers”. It reflects, in some ways, Sarah’s voice, Cindy Sheehan’s voice and the voice of all those others Isaac’s, who’ve never come home:

As the daughter of a soldier killed in action, I'm worried sick about this generation of war-torn families. I read the growing casualty list from Iraq and think about the number of children who are being left fatherless — or motherless. I consider the fourth grader who stands alone at recess trying to recall her father's voice; the weeping bride who walks the aisle alone, wishing with every step that her father was there to escort her; and all those babies not yet born, their memories not yet formed.

I keep a photo of my father on my desk. In it, he's wearing combat boots, Army greens and a grin so sweet it makes my heart drip with sorrow….

I can remember what my father smelled like — sweat and sun-dried T-shirts — but I can no longer recall the timbre of his voice or the warmth of his embrace. Photos and memories are all I have left of him.

He went away in December 1965. "President Johnson has asked me to go to South Vietnam," he said.

"What are you going to do there?” I asked. "Help fight communism”, he replied.

I retreated to my room in tears. I cried, simply because he was going away and I was afraid he would never come back. "I'll come back, I promise”, Daddy said, wiping my tears as he sat on the edge of my bed.

Daddy kept his promise. He did come back: in a silver coffin, draped with a red-whiteand- blue flag.

The sacrifices didn't stop when the war ended.

My parents fell in love as kids. They expected to grow old together, but only Mama has grown old. She eats her soup, beans, and cornbread alone and remembers with heartache the man who enticed her to laugh on sunny days.

I'm troubled by the nightmares that surely await this generation of battle-scarred children. I know they will grow up, longing for just one more embrace. And like me, they are doomed to spend their lifetimes asking - wasn't there any better way?

Karen Pears-Zacharias’ letter brings home the irreversible, multigenerational affect of war on the survivors. For most of us, the war in Israel or in Iraq is happening to someone else. It is their sacrifice, their Isaac, their future that is at risk, not ours. Perhaps if our lives were on the line we’d be more awake to what is at stake?

One of the most chilling things about the Akeda is the silence of Abraham. What happened to Abraham’s voice? Where is the Abraham who, earlier in the story, was willing to argue with God over the fate of the people of Sodom and Gomorrah, saying, “Will you sweep the innocent along with the guilty…?” How can Abraham be so silent when God demands the innocent life of his own son? Where is Abraham’s voice? Where is his voice as they are walking to the slaughter site? Every time I read this tale I want to scream: ‘Speak! Say something!’ In this story, the silence is deafening.

Where is our voice? Are we struck dumb like Abraham, lulled into complacency by our own distance from Iraq? Is Iraq too far away or are we too caught up in the good life here in Sonoma County to give a damn? How many Isaacs will have to be sacrificed before our voices will be heard?

Imagine, for a moment, that there was a draft, and it was your son or grandson, your nephew or friend who was about to be sent off to Iraq – would you be so silent, so passive, so acquiescent then?

I am not a pacifist, at least not yet. I recognize that there are times when war is necessary. Nevertheless, I stand in the long chain of Jewish tradition which sees war as the means of last resort, to be avoided except in self-defense. I’ll leave it up to you to decide whether our actions in Iraq are justified. I will suggest however, when it comes to war here or anywhere, our silence is not justified. At every turn it should be our voice that raises the question: is this necessary? Is there no other way? And when the answer is yes, there is another way, let us not be silent, rather, let us say:

“Al tishlakh yadkha al hanahar…Don’t raise your hand against the boy!”

Rosh Hashannah, the New Year is here. Unlike the secular culture where you party into the New Year, we take this time to do a heshbon hanefesh, an accounting of the soul. This is the time for reflection, introspection and reorientation. It is the time for teshuvah, a return to what we know is the right path.

As part of this process of teshuvah, of repentance and renewal, we blow the shofar. The shofar is our moral alarm clock. Its shrill sound is designed to wake us from our slumber, to arouse within each one of us the desire to do the right thing, to strive, yet again, to be the best people we can be.

This you probably know. What you may not is that the blowing of the shofar is also a remembrance of the Akeda. Remember, at the last minute a ram was found caught in a thicket and it was the ram, not Isaac, which was ultimately killed.

“Why do we sound the ram’s horn,” the Talmud, asks? “Because the Holy One, blessed be God said, ‘Blow a ram’s horn that I may remember unto you the binding of Isaac…and I shall account it to you as if you bound yourself.”

We are bound together with Abraham and Sarah and Isaac, the son that they nearly lost, the son that, in some ways, they did lose. We are bound by tradition and by circumstance. As much as things change, sadly, they stay the same.

But this is a New Year. Our tradition teaches that the doors of teshuvah, the doors of repentance, of renewal are always open. There is no point of no return. We can change, we can make a difference, we can find our true voice in the New Year.

As we enter the New Year, as we gather together to hear the piercing calls of the shofar, may we remember the Akeda, the near sacrifice of Isaac, the “terror on the mountain” and resolve to break the cycle, break the silence and shout with one voice - Al tishlakh yadkha8 al hanahar…lay not thine hand against the boy!” Not Isaac, not anyone, not now and not in the year that lies ahead.

I begin tonight with a story, an ancient tale, recorded in the Talmud some 2,000 years ago. The rabbis who first told this story lived in a very challenging time for the Jews. They had revolted against Roman rule twice, in 70 & in 135ACE, and been crushed both times. The great Temple in Jerusalem had been destroyed, thousands had been killed, enslaved or exiled. Yet, in the midst of all this chaos and pain the Rabbis, the ancient sages who pioneered the Judaism we know today, persisted in their work; they studied Torah, created new Torah and served their communities, passing the Tradition from one generation to the next. They were amazing men, with incredible minds. This story comes from that place of suffering, endurance and hopeful imagination.

One day, the time will come when God will bring the nations of the world to account for their sins. When that day comes -- may it come soon! -- all the great powers of the world (Romans, the Babylonians, the Egyptians, etc. All the persecutors of the Jews) will be brought before the Heavenly Throne and asked one question: did you follow the Torah of the Jews?

What an ironic question.

Each nation is brought before the Heavenly Throne, asked the question, 'Did you obey the Torah of the Jews?'

Each great power from the past tries to find a way to answer 'yes'. Their excuses are many but in the end, of course, none of them can honestly say they 'followed the Torah of the Jews.' They quake in fear for what is about to happen to them...

Then God says something like: "I'll make you a deal.do one simple mitzvah, and I'll let you off the hook, the mitzvah of dwelling in a sukkah."

Immediately, millions of sukkot go up, and all the nations of the world pile in... One problem... God sends a hamsin, a hot wind and they start to shvitiz...

It gets to be too much for them and all at once, like a heard of wildebeests, all the people sitting in their sukkot stampede out from under them, destroying everything in their path, trampling their sukkot into dust...

They fail the test, so it seems, and God prepares to judge them accordingly but there is a question (this is always the way of the Talmud).

We are taught to rejoice in the Sukkah, not to suffer in it! Therefore, Rabba, a famous rabbi from the Talmud, points out that the nations of the world really did fulfill the mitzvah!

"Ah", God replies, "You would be right but for one thing -- they didn't just leave their sukkot, they stampeded out of them, with no regard for the mitzvah or for their own loss" (Talmud, Avodah Zerah: 3 a-b, as taught to me by Rabbi David Hartman).

That's the story, a bit strange and hard to grasp, but profound all the same. The eekar, the essence is this -- it's not that we fail, it's not that we make mistakes. We are human, failure is built into our imperfect nature. We are going to fail; that is a given.

It's not that we fail but how we handle our failures that matters. Do we run away from our inadequacies, trampling over the remains of what we left undone, unconscious and without a care? Or, is there regret, remorse, some sense of loss and a desire to change? That's the eekar, the essence of the story, and of this Holy of Holy times: Yom Kippur.

You see, ultimately this ancient tale is being played out right now. The so called "nations of the world," are us! And here we are, standing before God, at least metaphorically, on this Holy of Holy days, being judged and seeking atonement. We like them, have failed to live up to the Torah, in any form; that's a given. The question is, are we prepared to do teshuvah? Do we care? Are we willing to look honestly at who we really are? Are we willing to try and do better next year?

In truth teshuvah, in the full sense of the word, is hard, really hard to do. It is always easier to run away from our failings than to face them, let alone make a change. On the other hand, realizing that failure is part of the human condition, that we are expected to fail, and that is ok, can be a great relief. In fact, according to the Talmud, God doesn't even expect full teshuvah. God recognizes how hard change really is (certainly Judaism recognizes this fact; why else would we be here, year after year!) The demand is this -- an acknowledgement of where we've faltered, and a desire to be a better person in the year a head.

That's enough, and that's what I want to explore with you now, via the traditional axis of relationships; ben adam l'havero, between a person and another, (the horizontal), and ben adam l'makon, (between a person and God), the vertical. We'll also add another axis I invented this year, ben adam l'olam, "between a person and the world." Let's start with the horizontal.

Many of us here tonight are parents. Some, like Laura and I have relatively small kids, others are "blessed" with teens, some folks' kids are long grown out of the house. Some here have lost their children. Parenting means different things to different people over time, but one thing that is universal about parenting is the sense of inadequacy we all feel. It starts during pregnancy -- is the baby (in utero!) getting what it needs? -- and goes on, as far as I can tell for ever, or at least for a long time. To be a parent is to feel inadequate, to live with a sense of failure on some level.

Sure, there is lots of nakhus... Nevertheless, rare is the parent who is free from worry, free from a sense of "I should have..." "I wish I had...", "If I only had..." A therapist friend once said to me half-joking: "Don't worry George, what they don't get from you now they can recover in therapy."

Lets face it, in the past year, those of us who are parents well, we blew it sometimes. Perhaps we were sharp with our kids, quick to anger, short tempered, even harsh. Maybe we were rushed and distracted by other things. There were also times when we just didn't take the time to figure out what they needed -- reacting instead of really listening. In other words, like any parent, there were times in the last year when we failed our kids. If we didn.t care, if we weren't concerned, if we didn.t want to be better parents, there would be reason to worry. The good news is, we do care, we do want to be better parents, and because of that -- Yom Kippur atones.

That's the point of the story, it's not that we fail, we all do; it's how we respond to our failures. One more thing - did your ask your children for forgiveness? I hadn.t thought about this until I heard a story from Rabbi David Hartman. He told me with tears in his own eyes about how his father would always approach him during the yamim noraim and ask for forgiveness...

If you don't have kids, please don't feel left out. I just used parenting as one example of the challenges of relationships ben adam lhavero. Whether you have children of your own or not, the dynamics are similar for all human relationships.

I don't know for sure, but I bet some folks here tonight would give their right arm to have a parent, a spouse, a sibling, or a friend say, "I'm sorry." I bet just knowing they felt remorse would be worth a finger or two. I am sure there are parents here that feel the same way about their kids -- they are hurting and deserve the salve of acknowledgment and yes, an apology. And of course, the same is true for any of our close relationships with other people. Feeling remorse, saying you're sorry goes such a long way.

I have the pleasure and the honor of working with lots of couples on their weddings. Traditionally, weddings are seen as a taste of the messianic future, and in wine country you really feel it! It is breathtakingly beautiful -- a glorious blue sky, a radiant bride and groom standing under the huppa, vineyards and mountains as a picture postcard back drop. When I am standing there with the couple I often say, half-jokingly to the groom that the 3 most important things he needs to know how to say are:

"You look great," (that one is hard to pull off, because no matter how you say it, it never comes out right!);
"I love you,";
"I am sorry." The truth is, it's not a joke, and it applies to all of us when it comes to our relationships ben adam l'havero... especially the words "I am sorry."
How about ben adam l'makom, between us and God? How do we fair there? If our approach to Judaism is any judge, let's just say, 'we have room for growth.' Why? I can't count how many times I have heard someone say about Jewish practice -- prayer, kashrut, rituals of various kinds -- "Oh we don't do any of that, we're Reform Jews!" It is as if Reform Judaism is defined by what we don't do, not by any affirmation of what we do take on as our own, what we do affirm as our mission in the world.

As a Reform rabbi it is not my job to tell you what you should do religiously. It is my place however, to lead the way toward informed choice. Informed choice, not the lowest common denominator is the standard of Liberal, Progressive, Reform Judaism. The ideal is not ignorance and a disdain for Jewish Tradition, the ideal is that we study, learn, question, struggle, try on, experiment and then decide.

Often, our knee-jerk responses to Jewish Tradition remind me of a child's response to new foods: "Yuk! I won't eat that!" "But you haven't even tried it!" We respond. "I don't care, I know already that I'll just hate it!" We struggle with our kids around issues like this, but do we struggle with ourselves? To sluff-off much of Jewish life without knowledge or experience and often with disdain is, from the stand point of our Talmud teaching tonight, to trample over the sukkah, to fail and simply not give a damn!

That we don't know enough, that we fail to live as full a Jewish life as we'd like; that's a given (I myself am constantly reminded how little I know about Judaism). What counts is our attitude, which I think needs an "adjustment." Franz Rosensweig, the famous 20th century German Jewish philosopher put it well when he said that he was a "not yet" Jew. What he meant by that was simply that he saw no reason to reject what he did not know. "Not yet" leaves the door open to change and growth. "Not yet", shows humility and an openness to what our tradition has to offer. "Not yet" also gives us the choice to say "no" or to find a new way, not yet known to the Tradition or even to ourselves. Franz Rosensweig came to his philosophy through personal experience;

About to convert to Christianity
Decides he should at least check out what he is about to leave behind
Shows up on Kol Nidre evening... overwhelmed by what he encounters
Makes an "informed choice" to realize his Judaism!
Let's stop trampling the sukkah, the sheltering presence of Jewish life and tradition. It's time we move from ignorance and disdain to a place of informed choice. It's time we consider the words "not yet" rather than "no way", it's time we seek to learn and to teach rather than to trample what we don't know.

We've touched on the two traditional axis... Now lets apply this concept, this way of judging life beyond ourselves out into the world -- ben adam l'olam. I am generally not a bumper sticker politician but there is one message pretty common on the old Volvos and VW buses of Sonoma County that sums up the situation. It goes like this: "If you're not outraged, you should be!" We live in a glorious bubble here in Sonoma County. It's like gan eden, a little paradise, a Shangrala, hidden away from the harsh realities of the world all around us. Occasionally we are reminded that there is a scary world out there. It crashes through our TV screens or it comes through our car radio like a message from outer space and we end up staying in our cars long after we arrived at our destinations to take in the complete story. NPR calls these experiences, "driveway moments."

It's pretty jarring when the broken world out there burst our bubble. The truth is it's often overwhelming. How does one imagine a school in Chechnya with 1,200 children in it blown up by terrorists, or the murder of tens of thousands of Sudanese civilians and the displacement of almost 2 million people? How about the daily casualties in Iraq and Afghanistan, not to mention the "collateral damage..."

I haven't even mentioned Israel, an on going tragedy more personal for many of us. And, as if that was not enough there is the environmental crisis which hangs over all of us like a mushroom cloud, yet most of us are barely able to acknowledge it exists.

Are you feeling overwhelmed and a bit beat up? That is often what happens when we leave our paradise here, and venture out into the rest of the world. The truth is you don't even need to leave Sonoma County to encounter a very broken reality. Just cross the tracks, and check out the other side of our town that is less white and much poorer and that other harsh reality will start to seep in.

So, what do we do? We can't "heal" the whole world! We're not, as far as we know the mashiakh. We do have an action hero for a governor -- the governator -- but even Arnold can't handle the list I just brought out. So why even go there? Why, because as our story teaches, the issue is not failure but attitude. The fact that we can't imagine the tikkunim, the repairs necessary to heal our broken world does not relinquish us from the responsibility of trying! In other words, to look the other way is to "trample the sukkah" in our tale from the Talmud.

The Talmud reminds me of a story I first heard Rev. Coffee, the long-time pastor of Community Baptist Church, tell here in Santa Rosa. It goes like this...

1,000's of star fish
a boy is throwing them back in the sea, one at a time
when confronted by a man who says, "Why waste your time, there are way too many for you to save?"
the boy responds, "made a difference to that one..."
Making a difference one at a time is what it's all about, and all we're expected to do.

Let's return back to where we started with that strange story from the Talmud and what it's really all about -- being human.

Being human means we are destined to make mistakes, to fail, to khet, to miss the mark. It's true in our relationship with our children, our spouses, our friends. It's for sure a reality of our spiritual or religious life, how ever we define them. And, out in the world, our sense of inadequacy can only be magnified.

I suppose if I wanted to send us all home depressed, I'd stop right here. But that is not the point of the story or the summation of what it means to be human, because, along with our imperfections we have the capacity, unlike the rest of creation, to be reflective. We are, b'nai adam, b'tzelem elohim, "children of the earth", yet wrought in the image of God. Our godliness is in part the ability to be conscious, to recognize in our strivings both our failings and a better way, in every aspect of our lives.

We take consciousness for granted but it is actually an essential aspect of our humanity, perhaps the single most important characteristic when it comes to our moral development. We don't have to make the same mistakes over and over again. We have built in us the ability to change our behavior.

I have a dog named Sarah. She is a large, loving 95 lb. lab mix. She loves to go for walks and often, especially in the summer, we go for strolls around the neighborhood after services on Shabbat evenings. There is only one problem -- cats! Cats seem to love to stretch themselves out on the still warm pavement, even late into the evening. Sarah is a sweet dog, as sweet as they come. But, when it comes to cats... Well you get the picture and the point is this: she's driven by instinct. She has no control... She doesn't spend a moment contemplating the moral implications of chasing cats. She just does... I love my dog, but I thank God I'm a human being that can think, that can, ponder, that can experience remorse, that can at least try to change my behavior.

Without self awareness, without the ability to reflect on our behavior there is no space, no hope, no place for teshuvah.

The philosopher Israel Knox puts it well when he writes:

"Teshuvah" or repentance, is a realization of our failure to span the gap between conscience and conduct. This gap between believing and living may or may not be surmountable, but the refusal to try and span it is a sin, and the will to bridge it is atonement."

(Jewish Spectator, 1963, pp. 7-9)
As we enter the New Year together may we have the will, the strength, and the courage to continue to bridge the gap between who we are and who we can be.

This famous medieval poem was written by Judah Halevi, the renowned rabbi, poet and philosopher who lived most of his life in Muslim Spain. "My heart is in the East and I am at the edge of the West" expresses the ageless longing of the Jewish people for Tzion, for Zion, for the land of Israel.

Halevi penned these words some time in the early 12th century. Years later he actually left behind .all the good things of Spain,. and attempted to make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. He made it as far as the port of Alexandria in Egypt, where he died 6 months after he arrived. He died, but his poetry lives on as a symbol of the yearning of the Jewish soul to connect with its spiritual center -- eretz yisrael, the land of Israel.

Israel--This morning, on the holiest day of the year, I.m going to speak about Israel. You think I would know better. No subject these days is more polarizing in the Jewish community than Israel. I know rabbis who have lost their pulpits over Israel. I know at least one community that recently declared a moratorium on discussing the current conflict for fear of their own implosion! Of course, Shomrei Torah is a much more civilized place. In fact, we are all over the map with people on the right, and left, and lots in between.

You think I'd know better than to touch this "hot potato", but the truth is, like Halevi, "My heart is in the East," at least part of it, as is the collective heart of the Jewish people; Israel is just too important not to talk about. Besides, I am now a rabbinic Fellow of a Jewish think-tank in Jerusalem called "The Shalom Hartman Institute." I was there for 3 weeks this summer and will be going back and forth to Jerusalem on and off for the next 3 years. It would be a waste for me not to share part of what I am learning and seeing there. In fact, that is my primary goal this morning, simply to describe part of my experience in the hopes that it will inspire you to want to learn and do more.

Jerusalem: About a week into my studies there I had a few hours off between lectures and I went to the Old City to buy the tallit I am wearing now. I walked through the Jaffa Gate and made my way quickly to the Jewish Quarter. I was headed for the "Cardo", a Roman ruin that is now a center for shops that sell mostly Judaica, Jewish art and ritual objects like this tallit.

Before you go into the shopping area there is corridor, left in its half-excavated state. There are pieces of roman pillars, large stones, the remnants of the ancient structures that were once there, and an inscription that describes what this was -- a Roman market which they built after they destroyed the Jewish Temple that once stood not far from here.

I stopped to look at the ruins and read the sign when a large group of Israeli children poured into the room, sat on the floor amongst the ruins and began to eat their sack lunches. It is difficult to express what I felt as I watched these kids simply eat their lunch. First, you have to picture a very diverse group of children -- white, black and every shade of brown, representing the Jewish families from all over the world who have immigrated to Israel in the last 50+ years.

Watching them innocently sitting there, I could not help but reflect on how different their situation is from ours. We take our security for granted, but for the majority of the 6 million Jews that live in Israel, Israel is their refuge, their not-so-safe haven from a very hostile world. Their parents or grandparents didn't just decide to come to Israel -- they fled for their lives to the only place that would take them.

And now here they are, a dream come true, at least from the point of view of Halevi's poem -- "My heart is in the East and I am at the edge of the West." However, it is not quite how Halevi pictured it.

Then again, he never even made it to "the ruined shrine," which is now all built up, and the truth is, even from our mythic beginning in the Garden of Eden, we've had to deal with disappointment.

Another thing that crossed my mind as I watched them eat their lunch is, they're having a field trip just like any other group of kids, and they are oblivious to the history, pain and danger of the place. They're just kids having fun with other kids, on a hot day in Jerusalem.

On the way back from the Old City I took a taxi. I hopped in the back seat and asked the driver the question I asked the driver the question I asked everyone I could: "Ekh ha matzav? "How is the "situation?" "K'tzat yoter tov. A little better," he responded. "Lama?" I asked. "hageder," "The barrier," He responded. He went on to say that since the wall had been under construction there had been many less terror attacks, life was more normal; there were more tourists - the bread and butter of the Israeli economy - and he had more work. Meanwhile, he pulled over to pick up another customer. She gets in the front seat, catches the drift of our conversation and a heated argument ensues between her and the driver, only the gist of which I could understand. Something like:

"How can you say such a thing! The Barrier is a disaster for everyone! Now 40% of the Palestinians are unemployed, they have no life and nothing to look forward to... except to kill us! What can the barrier bring but more hatred and bloodshed?!? We must find another way. The way we are headed is a dead end."

Her stop is before mine and as soon as she gets out of the cab, the driver turns to me and says, "at tzodeket, "You know, she is right." Only in Israel do you get "Point and Counter Point" in the back of a taxi.

Hageder, the barrier, is a big issue in Israel today. It's only partially completed, and its future is on everyone's mind. There does seem to be a consensus (a rare thing in Israel) that at least for now, there needs to be some kind of defendable border between Israel and Palestinians living in the West Bank and Gaza. What's at issue is not the concept of the barrier, but how it is built, and where it is located. In fact, not too long ago, the Israeli Supreme court ruled that the barrier was permissible, and even necessary for now, but in places where it caused undo hardship to the Palestinians, or where it resulted in the unnecessary confiscation of Palestinian land, it must be moved. This is what they wrote:

"We are aware that this decision (to move the barrier) does not make it easier to deal with reality of Palestinian terror. This is the destiny of a democracy: She does not see all means acceptable, and the ways of her enemies are not always open before her. A democracy must fight with one arm behind her back."

It is hard to imagine the current American administration making such a statement, but that.s another sermon altogether.

I went to the geder. I saw first hand its size and its impact on both sides of the dividing line. We received 2 tours of the barrier. The first trip was with a grass roots Israeli organization, neither rightish nor leftish, just, as they put it, "tired of going to funerals."

As they took us around the geder, they showed little concern for the Palestinians. It was almost as if they did not exist. Their concern was for their children riding the bus to school, their family sharing a meal out, or their son, a soldier in Gaza or Jenine.

The other tour was with Rabbis for Human Rights. They offered another view of the same reality...

We actually spoke to Palestinians affected by the barrier.
They took us through check points and road blocks so we could experience its affect on daily life.
They showed us how villages were cut-off from their olive groves; families cut-off from each other.
However, in the end, even the Rabbis for Human Rights believe there needs to be a barrier, they are just more concerned that it be built in as humane a way as possible.

I am sorry if I am frustrating you with unresolved tension, no clear answer, no simple solution to the problems that torment Israel and the Palestinians.

Hamatzav, "the situation" is complex, at least if you are not an extremist on either side.

Another example, a lecture by Moshe Habertol, a renowned scholar, Professor of Philosophy at Hebrew University in Jerusalem, and one of the authors of the Israeli's military rules of engagement. He is also, by the way, a man about my age, a father and a soldier in the reserves.

The essence of his talk was this: In the ideal, Israel has the highest moral standard of any army in the world:

Citizen army.everyone serves....
Takes education seriously....
Tries to operate from a moral frame work - it is, in that sense, a Jewish army....
Does that mean the Israeli army does not do horrible things? No!...

The problem is that the situation itself is corrupting. A few examples:

It is illegal for Israeli soldiers to target non-combatants. Sounds great in theory, but what if you can't tell a combatant from a non-combatant?

Palestinians do not identify themselves as soldiers.
For the Palestinian fighters, there is no .front. to the war, no separation between combatants and non-combatants.
Suicide bomber or a mother trying to get formula for her baby? Killer or a father looking for help to get through the check point...?
It is illegal for an Israeli soldier to unnecessarily damage personal property. Sounds good. Work this one out for yourself:

You are a tank commander ordered to drive your tank to the top of a hill in a hostile residential neighborhood. There is only one problem . a car is in the way. What do you do? Get out of your tank and go looking for its owner? Try to push the car out of the way without destroying it? Or, run it over, destroying the car - a devastating loss to the Palestinian owner - and completing your mission. You decide.

One of the principles of the Israeli army is "proportionality." In other words, only use whatever force is necessary, while weighing what damage might be caused by whatever action is taken. Makes sense in principle, but almost impossible to follow in practice.

How would you like to choose between killing a known terrorist along with his family, or letting him go to later blow himself up on a commuter bus or a crowded restaurant that you or your family may be in! How would you like to be the soldier that must decide whether to knock at the door of a suspected gunman, or knock the door down?

In the end, Moshe Habertol said (and I believe him) "The Israeli standards of engagement are the highest in the world, and regardless of what the press reports, the army tries to adhere to them." The problem is hamatzav. "The situation" is corrupting.

He does offer a partial answer: Withdrawal from the West Bank and Gaza, the sooner the better. It's not that he believes it will end the war. If only it was so simple, it would however, allow Israel to regain some of the moral high ground it has lost as an occupier.

So far, I've shared mostly the challenges Israel faces. You should know, that in the midst of all the struggle, Israel is very much alive. Jerusalem was full of tourists of all kinds from all over the world. Also, thanks to the Birth Rite program, which sends college-age students to Israel for free, thousands of young people poured in and out of the country all summer long.

In addition, our seminary, HUC-JIR, still holds the first year of rabbinical school in Jerusalem and they had a record number of students this summer. I went to the opening night celebration and was so moved to meet so many young men and woman, excited to be starting rabbinical school and really excited to be in Jerusalem.

The matzav is the matzav, but life goes on. In fact, I rarely, if ever, felt at risk in Jerusalem while I was there and I saw things I would never experience anywhere else:

A teenager interrupting her dinner out to daven maariv
A Palestinian woman, covered from head to toe, rollerblading in Liberty Bell Park.
A Jewish Regge street band, playing Bob Marley's "One love, One heart, Lets get Together and feel all right," with a crowd of people, secular, religious, Israeli, tourists, all crowded around to sing and enjoy.
The color of Jerusalem stone as the sun sets on Shabbat.
Toward the end of our study, we and the 20 or so other rabbinic fellows from the institute spent a day at The Tokhnit, The Jewish Agency. The Jewish Agency is focused, more than any other, on what they call "Diaspora Education." Frankly, most of us didn't want to go for fear of being subjected to a day of diatribes about how we weren't doing more to support Israel. In fact, the opposite was the case. We had three presenters that day, and all 3 were trying to define with us, what the role, what the connection, really, what the relationship was between Israel and the rest of the Jewish world. This was unbelievable to us - even the Toknit, the center for "Diaspora Education" is searching for a new, workable framework for connections between us and them. Of the 3 speakers, Dr. Racheal Korazin was the most interesting. A professor of Hebrew Literature and a brilliant speaker, this was the framework she offered: Up until now the relationship between Israel and the Diaspora had been defined by "Solidarity and Censorship." The expectation of Jews living outside Israel was that we would support Israel unconditionally and if we did not, we would be censored.

Now she says, we need a new paradigm, what she called "Commitment and Critique." Commitment is essential. She, like the overwhelming majority of Jews for the past 2 millennium, sees a connection to the land and the people of Israel as essential. However, she recognizes there can be no real connection, no real relationship without dialogue, without give and take, without any real shared vision of what is and what can be.

I agree with Dr. Korazin. Israel needs us, and we need Israel and there are plenty of avenues for involvement that don't require unquestioning loyalty to every move the Israeli government makes. So what do we do? Where do we go from here?

What I'd like to see are 3 things:

1. Jewish communities engaged in Israel where all sides can be heard and where no one is afraid to speak. What I am calling for is an end to the model of "Solidarity or Censorship" and the beginning of a relationship that allows for dialogue and critique with the goal of creating a new generation of Jews committed to a New Israel, one we can all be proud to be a part.
Our own movement has shown great courage in this area. Rabbi Eric Yoffe, the President of the URJ, has been a strong supporter and when necessary, a serious critique of Israel in recent years, while at the same time working tirelessly to build bridges between Israel and the Diaspora. The same can be said for Rabbi David Saperstein (a Scholar-in-Residence here a few years ago), the director of RAC, not to mention ARZA, our movement's Zionist wing. Just reading their publications, like the magazine, "Reform Judaism", and utilizing the many resources on their websites will create a foundation where true dialogue and connection with Israel can happen.

As you leave this morning, please pick up one of the Israel resource pages we.ve put together for you. On it are websites, publications and a short bibliography of books on Israel and the Middle East.

2. Focus our energy on the progressive institutions already working in Israel.
There are literally hundreds of progressive Israeli organizations already in the trenches of Israeli life to choose from. I've listed a few of my favorites on the resource sheets you.ll find on the information table in the entrance way.

Right now I want to spotlight an opportunity to support Progressive Judaism in Israel that Shomrei Torah is already taking a leading role in - Hineini.

Hineini in Hebrew means "here I am". Hineini is all about helping build Reform congregations in Israel. You may not know this but our movement has been struggling in Israel on every level - for recognition, funding, and to get its message out to the Israeli public who knows very little about Progressive Judaism.

What's amazing is that in spite of all the obstacles, Progressive Judaism is actually making headway in Israel. New communities are being established every year, and more and more Israeli-born rabbis are being ordained through our movement. More important than that, where communities are built, people come! They come, for b'nai mitzvah, for weddings, for the Holy Days, and when they come they are exposed to a whole other way to view, not just Judaism, but the world. You see, Israel needs progressive religion for the same reasons we do - to model pluralism, inclusively, and the liberal democratic values that are a part of a progressive religious world view.

There are now over 30 Reform congregations in Israel today. So many lack the most basic of congregational needs and few can afford their own place to meet and worship (we can relate to that!). This is where Hineini comes in. Through Hineini, Reform Congregations in the states can support struggling Progressive congregations in Israel. In fact, earlier this year our congregation responded to the Hineini call by agreeing to adopt a new struggling congregation in Israel called, Kehilat Yozma, whose name in Hebrew means "initiative" and is also an acronym for Yahadut Z'maneinu, Moreshet Ha'Am-- Judaism of Our Time, Heritage of Our People.

This blossoming Reform community is in Modi'in, a new and growing city in the hills between Jerusalem and Tel Aviv where the Maccabees battled the Syrians for religious freedom more than 2,000 years ago. Kehilat Yozma is one of Israel's fastest-growing Progressive communities. Yozma has about 150 member families, but its diverse programming serves hundreds more.

As part of our participation in Heneini a number of months ago, we asked every congregational member to think about donating $18.00 in support of Kehilat Yozma. If you have already done so, great! If not, here's your chance to make a connection and make a difference in Israel. You will find more information about Henieni, along with the Israeli resource page I hope you will take with you when you leave today.

The 3rd thing we need to do is go visit. They say that every tour to Israel creates 15 jobs in Israel. Besides, there is no better way to learn about the country and its people than to visit. We don't have a congregational trip on the calendar yet, but we will in the coming months. I put my e-mail address on the resource sheet so that anyone interested in going to Israel with the congregation could let me know.

"My heart is in the East and I am at the edge of the West." Judah Halevi longed his whole life to be in eretz yisrael. He prayed facing east, toward Jerusalem, uttering many of the same prayers we say today. He died incomplete, a pilgrim on the way.

The 21st century is a far cry from the 12th century.

Our hearts are more divided; our prayers less focused in one direction. We've also learned that being in a sacred space is not as easy as we thought it would be, coming home, not as much a real homecoming as we had dreamed about for all those centuries.

So much for the mythic past or the messianic future - it is today's Israeli reality that we must face through increased knowledge and dialogue, commitment to progressive grass roots Israeli organizations and travel to Israel as well.

Libi v'mizrakh, v'anokhi v'sof maarav...

"My heart is in the East and I am at the edge of the West...."

Yiskor was the hardest of all the services to prepare for this year. I am not sure why. My guess is, as time passes and my list of losses grows along with yours – Yiskor becomes less theoretical;, less in my head and more in my heart, my soul, my guts.

For whatever the reason, this year, I found myself casting around for what to say, a bit confused, a bit unclear – not my norm.

What has emerged from my confusion is a more complex picture of the web of life and death, love and loss, human suffering and redemption and lots of fragments, like a ship broken at sea, its pieces rising and falling in the swell of the ocean, some pieces recognizable others not, flotsam and jetsam, mixed in with the foam, born by the current to who knows where…

The renowned American poet Billy Collins expresses well the complex array of feelings and connections between life and death in his signature poem – “Picnic, Lightning”:

Picnic, Lightning
“My very photogenic mother died in a freak accident (picnic, lightning) when I was three."
Lolita

It is possible to be struck by a meteor or a single-engine plane
while reading in a chair at home. Safes drop from rooftops
and flatten the odd pedestrian
mostly within the panels of the comics, but still, we know it is possible,
as well as the flash of summer lightning, the thermos toppling over,
spilling out on the grass.

And we know the message
can be delivered from within. The heart, no valentine,
decides to quit after lunch,
the power shut off like a switch,
or a tiny dark ship is unmoored into the flow of the body's rivers,
the brain a monastery,
defenseless on the shore.

This is what I think about
when I shovel compost
into a wheelbarrow,
and when I fill the long flower boxes, then press into rows
the limp roots of red impatiens - ?

the instant hand of Death
always ready to burst forth
from the sleeve of his voluminous cloak.

Then the soil is full of marvels,
bits of leaf like flakes off a fresco,
red-brown pine needles, a beetle quick
to burrow back under the loam.
Then the wheelbarrow is a wilder blue,
the clouds a brighter white,

and all I hear is the rasp of the steel edge against a round stone,
the small plants singing
with lifted faces, and the click
of the sundial
as one hour sweeps into the next.

It is possible to be struck by lightening, or squashed by a falling safe, or killed by cancer, or by a drunk driver, or, or, or, or….

And, there are as many ways to live, as there are to die…

Death is something we all face. In that sense, it is the great equalizer – the worm makes no distinction. How we face it, how we experience it, who we lose and when, that makes it all so complex, so hard and always, always very personal.

For a colleague of mine, Yiskori s like having ice cream with her grandmother long gone…. It’s a lovely picture, but I know she has not lost a parent yet, or a sibling, or God forbid, a child,

Am I making sense? I am not sure…

Things happen…

I’m on my way to a wedding… haven’t worn this suit for a while…reached in the pocket of my jacket…what do I find? The notes from a funeral from a number of years ago…

I knew this man, I cared for him…for a moment, I picture him healthy, then not so good, then cold in a hospital bed…the family flashes before me… what pain, it hurts…. I can remember the quality of the light at the graveside, hear the earth hit the coffin…broken sobs… And then, I’ve arrived at the beautiful winery, a person, I think he works there, is telling me where to park…

As I walk over to where the huppah is, I happen to look down at my shoes…there is mud splattered on them…”Oh” I think, “I last wore these when I went down to Colma for another funeral….it’s always foggy there, the grass is always wet, a little dirt from the grave always gets on your shoes, but you don’t notice it….”

I try to rub it off… I can’t.

The huppah looks beautiful, it’s a beautiful day…the bride is always beautiful…life goes on.

Life goes on and we carry our losses along with us. We say, zikhronam l’brkha, “May they be remembered for a blessing.”

And, sometimes they can be remembered for a blessing…sometimes, but not always.

Lightening can strike and it does in more than one way; sometimes life can be more painful to us than death, some times, well…

It’s just not that simple, crisp or clean.

It is, after all, about death and life we are talking.

Tonight, I want to explore with you what it means to be a Jewish American through the lens of the various names for the time we have just entered. I would bet that everyone here this evening, if asked, would say that the Hebrew name for the New Year is – Rosh Hashanah, right? It's true, Rosh Hashanah, literally “The Head of the Year,” is one of the names of the Jewish New Year. However, like most things Jewish, our New Year has many layers of meaning, and thus, many names. There are at least three other names for the New Year that have special relevance when considering what it means to be a American Jew.

The first place the celebration of the New Year is mentioned is in the Torah. You would think that such an important holy day would have an elaborate write-up in the core text of the Jewish people. In fact, the opposite is the case. Of all our holy days, the New Year is mentioned the least. However, what does the Torah say about the New Year? In the Torah, our Rosh Hashanah is called by two names: Yom Hazikaron, Day of Remembrance, andYom Teruah,The Day of the Shofar Blast. Very little else is set down in the Torah about this important time of year. The silence of the Torah on this subject makes it nearly impossible to know what these days meant to the ancient Israelites. However, both names, Yom Hazikaron,and Yom Teruah,are packed with meaning for us today, especially if we use them as lenses through which to view our shared past, and our hopes for the future. Let's start with Yom Hazikaron,The Day of Remembrance.

What a history we have. Jews have been in this country for as long as this country has been in existence. We've shared in its trials and tribulations. We arrived with the first settlers in New Amsterdam, and later we participated in the great migration west. We've plowed her fields, fought in her wars, and in general, participated in most every aspect of her short but great history.

We’ve been here from the beginning, but for most of us, our Jewish American experience started with our parents or grandparents who came to this country as a part of the mass immigration from East to West that began in the late 19th century and ended in the early 20th century. When I think of America and the blessings of this country for the Jews, I think of the story of my grandparents, immigrants to this country and part of that mass of humanity that fled Europe for the hope of a new life on the promising shores of America.

My grandparents like many of yours, fled a Europe aflame with unbridled Nationalism and Anti-Semitism. There was nothing new about this. Poverty, insecurity and persecution were the almost daily story of the Jews of Europe for centuries. Still, the upheaval of the early 20th century was exceptionally brutal.

I don't know much about the story of my paternal grandfather, but I do know a bit about my maternal grandfather. His family was in the lumber business, and after their mill was set ablaze under questionable circumstances, they saw the writing on the wall and decided to head for America. They couldn’t all get out at once, so he was sent first to make his way, and then to help bring the rest of the family over. His story is no different then many. In fact, hundreds of thousands and later millions of Jews fled Europe, joining the mixed multitude of non-Jewish European immigrants: Russians, Poles, Italians, Germans, the Irish and others, all making their way to America. The numbers are staggering; between 1880 and 1920, over 3,000,000 Jews made their way from all over Europe to the teeming shores of the free world.

Sometimes I try to imagine their conversations as they made their momentous trip from the Old World to the New:

“What shall we do? Where can we go?”

“America! We shall go to America!”

“Yes, and in America they have freedom! In America you can be a Jew and not live in fear!”

They fled and they came merging with millions of other people with equally compelling stories. They brought with them little but their yearning for safety, prosperity and peace. Though they carried few bags, their shoulders were bent with the weight of centuries of tzurus: persecution, insult, rape, murder and constant fear.

“ Oh to live in America -- to be free, to not be afraid!”

I imagine them on the boat coming in to Ellis Island:
· the first sighting of land
· the rising flame of the Statue of Liberty

“Keep ancient lands your storied pomp,” wrote the Jewish poet Emma Lazarus. “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses, yearning to be free, the wretched refuse of your teaming shore. Send these, the homeless, Tempest tossed to me. I lift my lamp beside the Golden Door.

They were “the tired”, “the poor”, “the tempest tossed”, and America was their “Golden Door" in so many ways.

My maternal grandfather was 12 when he arrived, one of seven, the head of the household. He arrived in this country with barely the clothes on his back, and like many a new immigrant, began his life here pedaling on the streets of New York City. He eventually moved from New York to Omaha, Nebraska, and traveled from there to the wide-open spaces of the Dakotas selling eyeglasses from farm to farm under the name “Dr. Van Wolf.”

Of course, he was not a doctor! His story is the classic story of first-generation success, for by the time my mother was born, he was a successful commodity broker, among other things, living in Chicago. In his lifetime, besides supporting a large extended family, he built two synagogues, and left a legacy of prosperity and a thriving Jewish community, which he could say he had a hand in building. Like many of our forefathers and mothers, for him in many ways the American dream was.

My paternal grandfather was also a boy when he arrived in this country. The son of a rabbi, he came, I am sure, dressed in traditional garb: a long black coat, a keipacovering his head, tzittzitdangling from his waist, and payus twirling down from the sides of his face. I can only imagine his astonishment when he got off the boat at Ellis Island. He was the son of a rabbi from a long line of rabbis that stretched back at least eight or nine generations. He fulfilled the expectations of his family and his yichus,his lineage, but in a very American way. He quickly shed hispayus,went to public school then on to Rabbinical School, not in the yeshiva, but to JTS, the Jewish Theological Seminary in New York City. He received his ordination there, became a Conservative rabbi, afar cry from the shtetle rabbi, and took his first and only pulpit in Louisville Kentucky. There was a vast difference between Louisville, Kentucky and Pinsk, Poland!

He prospered there. He married, raised a family, and built a synagogue. He was their rabbi for over 50 years and when he died, the streets were lined with mourners as the funeral procession made its way from the synagogue to the cemetery. He was yet another Jewish American success story.

That's just a taste of my family’s story. All things considered, there's nothing unusual about it. In fact, it's not even particularly Jewish, for America has been and still is “The Golden Door” for so many people.

It would be tempting to stop here, feeling warm and nostalgic about our past, but that would not be true to what really happened, nor would it be true to this holy of holy days. For as much as this day is a day of remembrance, it is also Yom Teruah,a Day of The Shofar Blast. For the ancient Israelites, the shofar was a kind of early warning system. “Shall the shofar be blown in the city and the people not tremble?” asked the prophet Amos. Maimonides, the great medieval rabbi, philosopher and physician wrote this about the shofar, “Awake, all you who sleep, arouse yourself, all you who slumber, search your deeds and repent, remember your Creator while you still have time.”

Yom Teruah,The Day of The Shofar Blast, demands that we move beyond nostalgia and good feelings to the truth of our existence then and now.

As much as this country has been a blessing for the Jews, she is far from perfect. First, we must acknowledge that much of what we have we fought for. The forefathers of this country had a great vision of justice and liberty for all, but from the very beginning, there was a gap between their vision and reality.

Many of you have lived through the changes in this country. You remember when housing deeds had clauses that forbad the sale to a Jew. You remember when schools, hospitals, whole professions were closed to Jews. I can’t say I have experienced much prejudice. I can relate, however, part of my father’s experience. I think one story will do:

When he was a child, every winter they would take a trip to Florida. It was something he always looked forward to. But as much as he looked forward to the trips, the shock of seeing signs along the road that read, “No Niggers, Dogs or Jews,” never left him. Times have changed; nevertheless, let’s not forget that what we have, we fought for. We had to fight, and for the most part, we have succeeded.

Nevertheless, we must remain vigilant, even today. For example, one of the major concerns in the design and construction of our new synagogue is security, and security has become an ongoing issue for the daily running of our Jewish Community. We’ve gone from greeting people at the door to requiring them to sign-in and wear a nametag. We used to encourage parents to help with religious school, now we require them to take part in our shomrimprogram. Shomrim means “Guardians” in Hebrew, and it is the program that we have developed to safeguard our kids while they study with us.

Even with our need for heightened security, America is an almost prejudice free environment for us. This, however, is not the case for many. America is far from colorblind; to this day people of color fight a daily battle against discrimination. This struggle is equally as intense for the gay and lesbian community. The brewing battle over the rights for gay and lesbian couples to marry is just one of many examples of their daily struggle.

The gifts of America: freedom, justice, prosperity, are not universal. The issue is not just prejudice. The mainstay of the American dream, economic freedom and prosperity for all is increasingly a question today. In fact, the gap between rich and poor has never been greater. This is especially true in California, and it is all the more evident in Sonoma County where the medium cost of a home is now over $400,000. California ranks 49th out of 50 states in the size of its middle class. According to a recent article in the PD, currently 38% of California workers make less than $12.50/hour, the minimum amount for two parents working full time to support two children. (The Press Democrat, Mary Bennet, Labor Day, 03’)

New luxury homes are being constructed all over the county, yet we can’t find the way to fund our schools, keep vital social services going or cope with the growing homeless population in the county.

One of the cornerstones of our success in America has been the promise of economic justice. Without economic justice, not only are our gains at risk, but also the moral foundation of our prosperity stands on shaky ground.

Not only are America's gifts not universal, the fundamental values of equality and freedom first envisioned by the great forefathers of this country and written into our Constitution are fragile at best. Liberties written in stone have been blown apart by War and fear. It happened during World War II with the internment of Japanese Americans, and it happened during the cold war as well when the label “Communist” often lead to the loss of a job, public disgrace, and in some cases, incarceration and even death.

Perhaps you are thinking that we have learned our lessons, and those things like the Japanese American internment, or the McCarthy era blacklisting could never happen today. I'm not so sure. Since September 11, our country has steered a course perilously close to the dissolution of the rights and privileges that make this country so great for the others and us that live here. No doubt, security is a real issue, but is the Homeland Security Act, or the Patriot Act necessary or helpful? Could it be that these new laws rather than making us more secure, threaten the rule of law and the basic rights of privacy fundamental to living in a free society?

We may be tempted to say that racial profiling, holding people in jail without charge and the liberal use of all kinds of surveillance with limited checks and balances are necessary. Perhaps they are necessary. We may also be tempted, if not with a little embarrassment to think, “Well these new laws won’t affect me. I’m not a terrorist, nor do I fit the profile of a terrorist.” However, surely we know from experience that the safe today can be the persecuted tomorrow.

Also, where in Judaism does it teach that justice only applies to us? Should we not be just as concerned about injustice to others as we are about the rule of law when it applies to us? I don’t have the answers, nor am I convinced that our government’s policies are wrong or without cause. Still, Yom Teruah, the Day of The Shofar Blast, calls me to question the direction we are headed, even while Yom Hazikaron calls me to appreciate the many ways the Jewish community has been blessed here as well.

There is one more thing I want to say about Yom Teruah. I fear that we, as a prosperous minority in this country, have fallen asleep. Fat from our success, happy in our relatively newfound freedom and prosperity we have fallen asleep to our responsibilities as Jews, the heirs to the prophets, the spokespeople of the oppressed. There was a time when we were at the head of every battle. Where are we now? Are we still on the forefront of the fight for justice and equality in this country? Are we still attuned to the cries of the oppressed now that we are relatively free from oppression? Yom Teruah, the Day of The Shofar Blast, calls me – really all of us, to ask this and many other tough questions.

It is one thing to be the spokespeople for the oppressed when you are oppressed; it is another when you are in power. Are we passing the test?

Finally, I have one last name for the New Year I want to share with you, and that isYom Harat Olam – The Day of the World’s Conception! I love this name more than any other because it speaks so boldly of the promise of the future, at conception so little is determined and so much is possible. It is as if every year we begin at the beginning again – no set patterns, no old habits to break, a wide open playing field, a tabla rasa, a blank slate, on which we can write our story for the new year.

Now, the names all come together: Yom Hazikaron,the Day of Remembrance, gives us the opportunity to reflect on where we come from, to recognize our blessings and to assess what is missing in our lives. Yom Teruah, the Day of the Shofar Blast, keeps us honest in our reflection, jarring us from the tendency to be nostalgic about the past, and naive about the future. Moreover, Yom Harat Olam is the nehemta, the message of hope, the promise that nothing is truly fixed and in all of us is the possibility of teshuvah,return and renewal in the coming year.

America has been good to us, but it has not come easily, nor has our success been shared by all of its citizens. Therefore, as we remember our blessings, we must also hear the shrill call of the shofar. The call of the shofardemands a response, which seems overwhelming. Yet, in a world conceived anew every year, the potential for positive change is almost infinite. We can make a change; we can make a difference in the year ahead!

God bless America for being that lamp of freedom and that “Golden Door” for so many people.

God help America to become a place where all, regardless of the color of their skin, their religion, their sexual orientation or their country of origin are truly free, and where prosperity is universal and sustainable for all.

Tonight I am going to speak about memory. Looking over my sermons these past years, it’s interesting to note that “memory” has been a perennial theme for me. Not surprising since the experience of memory is such an essential part of our Holy Day experience, especially Kol Nidre.

Kol Nidre. There is awe in these ancient words that transcend the times. Kol Nidre sings to us from the graves of our ancestors, like a haunted wind, it blows into our souls touching us in a very deep place.

The history of Kol Nidre is cloaked in mystery. The first known mention is in the 9th century, but its roots probably go back as far as the first or second century of the Common Era. The words of Kol Nidre are very old, ancient even, but that, in itself, is not unique to our tradition; most of which is ancient and very little as stirring as Kol Nidre.

Besides the words themselves, we have the melody, a deep eerie chant of origins unknown. Some say that the music of Kol Nidre comes from Spain during the inquisition. Marranos, Jews forced to convert to Christianity under punishment of death, once a year would secretly meet on erev Yom Kippur and chant Kol Nidre, an absolution of vows. Thus, they would seek forgiveness for their apostasy, pouring out their souls, expressing their loss and their humiliation through the words and the plaintiff melody we still use to this very day.

No one really knows the origins of Kol Nidre. Its history is obscured by the centuries. The truth is, we don’t need to nail down the facts of this ancient rite to feel its power, for the power of Kol Nidre and the import of its message transcends its origins. Its power lies not in its history, but in the wellspring of Jewish memory from which it draws.

You see, more then anything else, Kol Nidre speaks to us of our collective past, of the world of our forefathers and foremothers and their lives, which live on through our memory. How else can one explain the power of this prayer?

The Baal Shem Tov, the founder of Hassidism, and one of the greatest rabbis ever to live taught that, “Exile is in forgetting and redemption is in memory.” The Besht taught from the heart of Jewish tradition. He knew that one of our keys to survival was our ability to remember where we came from, our traditions, our stories and our rituals. In Judaism, there are countless examples of how this works; the Hebrew we pray in, the Torah we venerate and study, our Holy Day & Holiday cycle and of course, the ancient words of the liturgy including Kol Nidre. No doubt, the Besht has a point – memory in some ways is redemptive allowing us to survive and even thrive as a unique and distinct people while other great civilizations have long disappeared.

For a long time my thoughts on memory stopped here, with the assumption that it was a central, redemptive feature of our tradition, one of our secrets of survival. Recently, however, I’ve begun to second-guess the Baal Shem Tov, or at least to look more closely at memory and its role in our lives, as a people and as individuals. What I have come to realize is that in fact memory is a tricky thing.

Mark Twain once said, “I have such a good memory that I recall things that never happened.” Mark Twain was making fun, but in fact, his “tongue and cheek” remark about memory points to its mercurial nature. Without a doubt, memory is a great blessing, the vehicle that enables both nations and individuals to survive. Nevertheless, it can also be a curse, which can ruin our lives, deprive us of happiness and destroy our peace of mind. Memory can be troublesome for a number of reasons.

Memory can make yesterday seem better than it actually was. We can become nostalgic and sentimental about the past, about our childhood and family home, about “the good old days.” Thomas Wolfe once observed, “You can’t go home again.” Why? Because what once seemed grand as a child, quite likely now, looks small and maybe even shabby. The enormous tree you climbed is just a scrubby old pine, and the grand synagogue you prayed in, seems small, and dingy…. What changed? Not the tree or the Temple. As the author of Ecclesiastes put it, “Do not say, how was it that former times were better than these? For that is a question not prompted by wisdom.” (7:10)

We are a sentimental people. In fact, I think it is part of how we have survived the centuries of trauma. This seems especially true to me in regards to the way we view life in the shtettle, the old country. You know, back there in the old country, when life was simpler, more meaningful, and when everyone went to synagogue every shabbas! Back then, people really knew how to be Jewish! You know, like Fiddler on the Roof.

Our time in the shtettle was meaningful in many ways. So much of the Jewish life we take for granted developed there. Nevertheless, lets be clear; the old country was a tough, hard, oppressive life. We were mostly poor and powerless, and our days were marked by fear and persecution. There was little freedom, privacy, or the basic rights we take for granted. I think it is safe to say, that no one here would choose to return to the shtettle of old. We wouldn’t go back with a clear sight of what it was like, nevertheless, through the rose colored lenses of memory, it can look pretty good. “If I were a rich man…”

This is true of the shtettle, and it is true in our everyday lives as well. The rose colored lenses of memory can be a real stumbling block to appreciating what we have in the present.

I encounter this often with people who relocate to Santa Rosa. Perhaps their spouse gets a job in the area. Or, perhaps a family moves aging parents/grandparents from where they have lived for many years to an assisted living facility here. In both cases, there is some real loss; the spouse without the new job may have given up a lot to come here, the older parent or grandparent may really miss home. The challenges arise when the past for these people become like the Garden of Eden, that perfect place from which everything else pales in comparison…. When this happens, when those “rose colored glasses” are on, it becomes very difficult to see the blessings of the present, how beautiful the county is, what a lovely quality of life we have here, how much better it is to be closer to our families and loved ones.

Sentimentality can also prevent us from honestly assessing what was unhealthy or even down right harmful in our past. The extreme example of this is battered women, who sadly talk themselves into believing that “he really wasn’t so bad.” Or, “so what if he hits me every once and a while, when we are together it’s so