The Imperfect Etrog
Every year I go searching
For just the perfect etrog
Yellow, but not too green
Round, but elongated
Bumpy, but not too bumpy
And that perfect, fresh lemony smell
With an intact pitom.
I know it when I see it.

This year I opened the box.
Inside the box, wrapped in its protective cushioning
This golden etrog
Missing its pitom

I opened the next, and the next, and the next.
Not a whole etrog in the shipment.
Not a kosher etrog in the box.
Not whole. Not complete. Not perfect

And yet, as we take the lulav, straight as spine
Together with the eyes of myrtle, silently seeing all
And the lips of willow, speaking sweetly words of truth

This etrog, the heart, is not perfect
Is not complete
Is not full

A symbol
Come to teach
None of us is perfect
None of us is complete
None of us is full

And it is good enough.
It is beautiful.

Copyright 2018, MJFK

Sukkot, zeman simchateinu, the time of our joy, has not always been so for me. I have spent years trying to claim the joy that is Sukkot. The gratitude for the harvest. The hope for peace. All the while knowing how fragile that peace can be. “Ufros Aleinu Sukkat Shlomecha. Spread over us the shelter, the Sukkah of Your peace,” I pray.

It is aspirational.

Every year I go looking for events, often I create events that will make me feel peaceful, that will make me feel safe. Every year I put up a sukkah. So that I can sit on my porch, and none will make me afraid.

You see, once, a long time ago, on the full moon night of Sukkot, I was a victim, a survivor of sexual assault. It is not new for me to talk about this. I have frequently. I have served on rape and domestic violence hotlines. I have represented the Jewish community on committees, currently the Faith Committee of the 16^th Circuit Court Steering Committee on Family Violence. There is even a film of me telling my story for Mayyim Hayyim.

And I know, that there is a cost to telling the story. Every single time. But I know that there is a power in my story. And in speaking it. I know that I am a role model of survival, for survivors.

This year is no exception. As I go looking for those things that bring peace in this oh so fragile world.

So to any survivor out there, I say to you, as I have said before. I hear you. I believe you. You are not alone. If you need a shoulder to cry on, or a cup of coffee, or a hug, I am here. Hineini.

Here are the things I did this year. I helped plan and participate in Elgin City of Peace Peace Feast. I made lemon squares as part of my ethnic foods and for Sukkot and I took them and my lulav and etrog and the story of the Hebrew Brothers and talked about Jerusalem, Yerushalayim, City of Shalom, Peace. Do you know where that story comes from? Most will say the midrash. Some will cite Louis Ginsberg’s Legends of the Jews. But if you dig down in the footnotes, you will learn that Ginsburg and others learned it first in the Arab market of Jerusalem. It really is a story of peace for the city of peace.

Then we hosted our Lutheran pastor, his wife and the person who has done most of the tending of the community garden for dessert in the sukkah and more decorating. Lemon squares, perfectly decorated, beautiful fall cookies and ice cream. The conversations went on easily until 10:30!

Then I visited my congressional office to tell my story of sexual assault. It was important to me to tell this story (again!) during Sukkot, since the attack happened during Sukkot. This year especially. Then I supported friends who organized a local rally as part of the national walk out. I wore black to both and brought my lulav and etrog to share a blessing of peace. I wrote letters to my elected officials, explaining my story and Sukkot. That felt empowering. Esther—speaking truth to power.

That night we again ate in the sukkah, this time with the under 36 crowd. Illuminating discussion about maternity benefits. And how long people have to wait. Oy! So much work still to be done.

On the 4^th night, I had “Pizza in the Hut” and made silly faces with the Torah School kids. We made a “rain storm” with our hands and we planted winter rye for the omer crop. It was good to just be. And to rejoice in Sukkot.

On Thursday I met with our local Habitat for Humanity volunteer coordinators. There is something important about talking about affordable housing during Sukkot when we dwell in temporary, impermanent shelters. The

Later we will have dinner in the sukkah with another rabbinic couple and over dessert we will study. Pirke Avot through a social justice lens, written by my friend Rabbi Shmuly Yankovitch. Pirke Avot teaches, “Ours is not to finish the task, neither are we free to ignore it.” This was a week where I could have hid, under the covers. But no, there is too much work to do and the time was now.

In between, as time permitted, I wrote. And I wrote and I wrote. It is part of how I cope. So two poems popped up. I have been working on a book for Jewish women healing from domestic violence or sexual assault. I have been working on it for years. The time is now to finish it.

It wasn’t quite the week I planned but it did celebrate Sukkot, and its hope for peace.

It is quiet in the house now. I am home alone.The dog is resting. The sukkah is lit and ready for company. The apple crisp is baking in the oven, filling the house with fall fragrance. Shalom bayit. Peace of the house. Shalom. Peace.

The Sukkot Moon

The moon is full tonight
Just like it was
Peaking out
Between the clouds
A silent presence
A silent reminder

People ask
Where was G-d?
Perhaps, like a ner tamid
An Eternal Light
The moon is a reminder
Of G-d’s ever present Presence
Sometimes we can see it.
Sometimes we can feel it.
Sometimes we cannot.
But it there.
Filling the world
With hope
With healing

I smiled.

Copyright 2018

Don’t hide Your face from me,
I’m asking for your help
I call to You — please hear my prayers,
O God If You would answer me as I have called to You
Please heal me now — Don’t hide Your face from me (Psalm 27:9, Debbie Friedman)

Yesterday I mentioned the memory of Saul Mariasis, my bimah partner and friend. Today’s teaching is in memory of Myra Becker, my partner and friend in the wider Elgin community.

We just read one of the most haunting and terrifying pieces of scripture ever. Abraham is asked by G-d to take his son, his only son, the one he loves, take Isaac up the mountain and offer his as a sacrifice. Abraham, who dares to argue with G-d just chapters ago, seems to not ask a question here. The rabbis are bothered by this and invent dialogue. We call that midrash. Take your son. But G-d, I have two sons. Your only son—they are each the only son of their mother. The one you love. But I love them both. Take Isaac.

So he does. He takes his son, his only son, the one he loves, Isaac. And no one stops him. Not his two servants. Not Isaac. Not Sarah.

He doesn’t seem to consult Sarah. Just takes Isaac. Because G-d told him too. Imagine you are Sarah waking up in the morning. Where’s your husband, Abraham? Where’s precious son, Isaac?!!!

In fact, in this story, we are missing Sarah’s voice.

She has one—she laughed when she was told she would have a child—she even questioned G-d asking how that was possible considering she was so old, and her husband also. Her prayer for a child was answered. The text tells us that G-d took note of Sarah. She was the one who told Abraham to take her handmaiden Hagar so that Abraham would have a child. She was the one who demanded later that Abraham sends Hagar out.

So where is her voice now?

Sometimes we need to find our voice as women. Yesterday, Risa read Hannah’s prayer as the haftarah. Hannah who desperately wanted a child, prayed for one. Hannah was doubted by Eli, the priest. He thought she was drunk, not praying. Nonetheless, G-d heard her voice and her prayer was answered. G-d took note of Hannah. She called that son Shmuel, for G-d heard.

Yesterday, we read the haunting story of Hagar and Ishmael who were thrown out of Abraham’s camp with just some water and bread. She puts the lad under a bush and calls out (the text doesn’t even use the term prayer—but that’s what it was) “Don’t let me look on while the child dies.”

No name. No hope. She is sure that he will die. Imagine the desperation. Imagine the panic. Imagine the fear. Then the angel of G-d says, “G-d has heard the voice of the lad.” Say what? No name again—this is Ishmael. Wasn’t it just Hagar who cried out…does G-d hear her voice? Does G-d answer her? The rabbis in the commentaries are not kind to her. They call her the other, a pun on Hagar, HaGer, the stranger and say that Abraham was right to listen to Sarah and throw her out. But was he? Yet she is the first one in the Bible to name G-d, calling G-d, El Roi, the G-d that sees.

Sometimes there isn’t a voice. Sometimes people just spring into action. We talked about how our actions matter. How there is a ripple effect. Think about Shifra and Puah, the Hebrew midwives, who saved the baby boys that Pharaoh had threatened to have killed. They risked their own lives to make sure that those baby boys would live. They said (in the midrash anyway), that the Hebrew women gave birth so quickly they didn’t have time to be called. One of those baby boys they rescued was Moses. Imagine the world without Moses. I talked about Shifrah and Puah’s courage when I met with some Guatemalan midwives as part of my American Jewish World Service’s fellowship. Those modern day midwives too risk their lives to help ensure the lives of the mothers and their children. I again talked about Shifrah and Puah when I helped coordinate Elgin Standing Together. It is important to know when to stand up and speak out. Our tradition demands no less. And our voices and actions will be heard.

This is a year where women’s voices have been heard. When we were gathered in this room last year the phrase #MeToo wasn’t a well known movement yet. I applaud the women who had the courage to stand up and speak out and share the very personal, challenging details of their lives. I pray that their words and their actions have made a real, lasting difference. I pray that my words and my actions continue to make a difference. As someone who has worked on the front lines with rape and domestic violence survivors, I am keenly aware that men have been victims too—and that men have also courageously spoken out. As recent news stories point out, those battles are not over yet, and our tradition demands that we continue to speak out so that our voices are heard. For every woman, every man, every child sitting in this room who wonders whether your voice will make a difference, whether the gain will outweigh the pain, whether you will be believed, know that I will listen. I will hear your voice.

And then there is Sarah. What a complicated life. She follows Abraham to the land that G-d will show them. She opens her tent on all four sides to greet any guest. She gives Abraham her handmaiden Hagar to ensure that he can be fruitful and multiply and so that G-d’s promise that his offspring will be as numerous as the stars in the sky and the sands of the sea. She laughs at the time to come, when she is promised a child. Like many infertile women today she would have done almost anything to be able to have a child.

When there is a famine in the land, she goes down to Egypt with her husband—and he tries to give her away—as his sister—to the King. Not once. But twice. Her own #MeToo moments.

She does eventually have that child—Isaac—meaning laughter. And then the unthinkable happens. Abraham hears a voice. And takes her son, her only son, without permission. She is separated from her beloved Isaac.

There is so much commentary on just this brief chapter. There is a great book, But where is the Lamb by James Goodman. Thank you to Chuck Zimmerman for first sharing it with me. A collection of all of the commentaries from time immemorial from three religious traditions and some secular ones as well. It is well worth the slow read. But it doesn’t provide much of an answer to the other question. Where was Sarah? She is only mentioned 100 times in the book.

Where was Sarah’s voice? The rabbis of the midrash don’t give her much.

Goodman in his book wonders, “I thought, that in the hours between God’s command and bedtime, or bedtime and morning, Sarah would have read God’s command on her husband’s face. No Abraham didn’t say anything to anyone, But he didn’t say a word. Not to God. Not to Sarah. Not to anyone. Instead, he rose up early the next morning, saddled his donkey, (page 4).

He left. Without telling Sarah goodbye. He took her son, her only son, the one she loved.

“Some imagined what Abraham might have said to Sarah to comfort her or calm her down. Some explained why Abraham hadn’t said anything to Sarah. What those who imagined him weeping as he took leave of Sarah thought of the stories in which he was giddy with excitement, eager to obey God’s command.” (page 63 and 83).

“Several centuries later, some turned their attention to Sarah. They didn’t have much to work with. G (as Goodman calls the narrator, or the editor, or G-d) had left her out of the story, and the earliest Jewish interpreters, from Jubilees to Josephus, had followed his lead. And by their lights who can blame them? The story wouldn’t have been much of a story if the sacrifice had been aborted in the first few lines. How do you say “Over my dead body” in classical biblical Hebrew?” (page 87) What would you have said?

But the rabbis had to explain this gap somehow. So “many rabbis turned, once again, to Satan, who, having failed to persuade either Abraham or Isaac that what they were doing was crazy, figured Sarah was his last hope. Some said he had approached her disguised as an old family friend and told her where her husband and son had gone. She cried out, the same cry that she imagined would soon come from her son— three short sobs (explaining one way of sounding the shofar, the three short blasts called shevarim). Her heart stopped on the spot, and her soul flew out of her. Others said Sarah had taken off after them, making it only as far as Hebron, where she learned that Isaac had been spared, and she died, on the spot, of joy. Others still said she had awaited their return at the door of her tent. But Isaac lagged well behind Abraham, and when Sarah saw Abraham approaching without him, she assumed her son was dead. She fainted, and never came to. In a fourth version, she lived long enough to hear Isaac tell the tale: “You mean if it were not for the angel you’d already be dead?” she asked.   (p. 88).

So after Abraham and Isaac return, in the very next scene, Sarah dies. In Kiryat Arbah, now Hebron. Some 40 miles away. There is no explanation how there is this gap in the text. And Abraham comes to bury her. He buys a funeral cave—the choicest of them—from the residents. He insists on buying it because then he really owns it—that is one of the arguments for why we as Jews are entitled to the land of Israel—Abraham bought it. And he eulogizes her. Some say that eulogy was the Woman of Valor we see in proverbs. A woman of valor who can find…for her price is far above rubies. She looks well to the ways of her household and eats not the bread of idleness. She gives food to her household and a portion to her workers—Hagar perhaps? And she laughs at the time to come…

The parsha, portion is called Chaye Sarah. It begins this are the years of Sarah’s life. Sarah was one hundred and twenty and seven years. And Sarah died.

Sarah was our matriarch. The first matriarch. The mother of our people. She was a prophetess. A righteous woman. A woman of valor.

To this day, we use the names of the matriarchs to plead on our behalf. When we say a mishberach, the prayer for healing of mind, body or spirit, the matriarchs’ names are always included. Even in the ArtScroll Orthodox prayerbook.

News alert: Jewish women are obligated to pray. Sometimes that has been lost in modern translation particularly at places like the Western Wall. It has played out in the Israeli Supreme Court, at the Knesset, and in headlines the world over. As the Women of the Wall siddur prays:

“We pray that women’s voices will be heard at the Kotel and received with love. “And for our sisters, all the women and girls of your people Israel: let us merit to see their joy and hear their voices raised before You in song and praise.” https://www.womenofthewall.org.il/kol-isha/

Yet women have a responsibility to pray. They have always had an obligation to pray. It is mandated in the Talmud. The assumption is that G-d hears our voices too—That G-d needs our voices. Just like G-d heard Hagar’s and Hannah’s.

Shma Koleneinu. Chus V’rachum Aleinu. G-d, full of mercy and grace, Hear our voice.

Women in the Middle Ages through today actually wrote beautiful tkhines, pleading prayers often for womanly mitzvoth like lighting the Shabbat or Yom Tov candles or immersing in the mikveh. Without even knowing that tradition, my mother would actually give a Shabbat spiel after she lit the Shabbes candles, and we kids better pay attention.

Listen to the prayer of Sarah bat Tovim from the tkhine of the three gates from the mid 18^th century as she prays using the “zecut imahot”, the merits of our mother Sarah:

And through the merit which I gain by preparing the wick for the sake of our mother sore, may hashem yisborekh – praised by He – remember us for the merit of her pain when her beloved son yitshok was led to the binding.  May she defend us before God – praised be He – that we should not – khas vesholem – be left widows this year, and that our children should not – khas vesholem – be taken away from this world in our lifetime.

(Translation from The Merit of Our Mothers by Tracy Gurenklirs)

And this one from Seral bas Jacob a prayer for hearing the shofar from the late 18^th century:

First we ask our mother Sarah to plead for us in the hour judgment that we may go out free from before this tribunal…Have mercy, our mother, on your children.  And especially, pray for our little children that they may not be separated from us.  For you know well that it is very bitter when a child is taken away from the mother as it happened to you.  When your son Isaac was taken away from you, it caused you great anguish.  And now you have the chance to plead for us.  For he is now blowing the shofar, the horn of a ram, so that God will remember for us the merit of Isaac, who let himself be bound like a sheep on the altar [Gen.22]. Therefore, Satan will be confused, and cannot at this moment accuse us.  So you have a chance to plead for us, that the attribute of mercy may awaken toward us.

(Translation from Four Centuries of Jewish Women’s Spirituality)

And listen to these words from the book Outwitting History which the CKI Book Group just read.

“What went on during the [First World] War don’t ask. I was separated from my mother and my sisters, I lived with a neighbor, we didn’t have what to eat. (p. 112).

Or this one:

“A month later, at night, someone came for me. They were taking all the wives. My oldest son, three years old, and his brother, a year and a few months, were lying in their beds. I had to leave them where they were. They took me and I never saw them again.”   And the children? “No one,” she says, “knew where the children were.” To this day she had not found them.   (pp. 246-247).

These words are just as haunting today as when they happened to Sarah our matriarch or in the Middle Ages or in Germany or Russia.

Later this fall, CKI will host a play, Rosenstrasse, a play about women during World War II who spoke up. A play about non-Jewish wives of Jewish men who were arrested, separated from their families by the Nazis in Berlin and about to be deported to their certain deaths. These women speaking up enabled all 2100 men to be spared.

Here is my midrash about Sarah. Maybe this explains her silence and the gap between Beer Sheva and Kiryat Ata:

And they went down the mountain

together

Both Abraham and Isaac

And together they returned

To Beersheva.

How could she have stayed?
When she learned what Abraham had done,
When she learned how G-d had tested Abraham
how nearly she had lost her son, her only the son, the one she loved
How nearly she had lost Isaac,
The one that G-d had promised to her.

And when Sarah learned all this,
She ran away.

What G-d could, would demand this of her, of any mother?
In fact, never even asked her,
Just told Abraham to take their son
To a mountain G-d would show
Take him and offer him as a sacrifice
Like a ram.

She could imagine Isaac’s fear
When he saw the knife poised in Abraham’s hand
And he realized he was to be the ram.

And Abraham, her husband, he was no beter than G-d,
Maybe even worse.
He did it without questioning,
Without wondering why
Without asking G-d
Without consulting Sarah.

And so she fled.
She would go home
To where her family was
Where everything was familiar,
The land, the people, the gods
Not like this strange land that Abraham had brought her to,
Like like this strange G-d who demands everything,
Even her son.

And on her way Sarah died in Kiryat Arba,
Now Hebron,
Even though the text does not tell us why here
We can imagine Sarah’s suffering
At the disintegration of her family

And the years of Sarah’s life were
One hundred and twenty and seven

And Abraham and Isaac came to Hebron
To mourn her.

copyright 1987 Margaret Joy Frisch

Abraham was part of the covenant. God promised that he would be as numerous as the stars in the sky and the sand in the sea. God promised that Abraham would inherit the land. God made the same promise Jacob and to us. It is part of our ongoing legacy. But it is the women—Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel, Leah, Shifra, Puah, Zipporah, Hannah, Ruth and others who through their actions and their voices kept the covenant alive.

We need to return Sarah’s voice to her and in so doing return our voice to us. G-d took note of Sarah. G-d remembered Sarah. We need to help her find her place in the covenant so that children are not separated from their parents.

Sh’ma Koleinu, Chus V’rachum aleinu—G-d, full of mercy and grace, hear our voice. All of our voices. Our men, our women, our little ones. All of us as we stand before You ready to enter into Your covenant.

Then it will be a sweet new year. L’shanah tovah.

Today is Shabbat Shuva. The Sabbath of Return. Historically, this was one of two Shabbatot that the rabbi would give a sermon. Passover, so you would know how to prepare your kitchen and today so you would be prepared for Yom Kippur.

We are told in the High Holiday liturgy that there are three things, tefilah, teshuva, and tzedakah that will change the decree.

You’ve already done a good job of tefilah, prayer, this morning. Last night we looked a little at teshuvah, and how to make amends. Today we are going to look a little a tzedakah. But first, a story:

The Talmud tells us that Rabbi Akiva had a daughter. We don’t know her name. But we do know that the astrologers of their day predicted that she would die on her wedding day. Akiva was naturally “extremely worried about this matter.” But eventually, she was to married. He decided to say nothing about the prediction.  This version is based on the retelling by Rabbi Irwin Huberman: (Babylonian Talmud, Shabbat 156b)

“On the day of the wedding, Rabbi Akiva held his breath. By the end of the day, he was relieved to see that his daughter had survived.

The next day, Rabbi Akiva met with her.

“My daughter,” he asked. “What have you done to be worthy of such a close escape?”

As his unsuspecting daughter began to revisit the events of her wedding day, her father ultimately realized what had happened.

The Talmud recounts that, as she sat in her bridal chamber prepared to enjoy her sumptuous wedding meal, she heard the cry of a pauper in the doorway. He was asking for a morsel of food.

Everyone was so busy celebrating that no one heard him.

But the bride did. She rose from her chair and handed her food to the pauper.

As she re-entered the bridal chamber, she stopped to rearrange her hair — or adjust her veil — and finding no place to lay down her broach, she stuck it in the wall.

When she pulled the broach pin out, she realized that she had stabbed a snake which had been hiding in the wall.

The snake had been poised to strike her in the chair where she had originally been seated. But because she had moved from her original place to help the homeless man, it was she who killed the snake, rather than the other way round.

Rabbi Akiva sighed, and then smiled. “You have done a good deed, an act of charity,” he said. “And charity can save us from death.”” From Proverbs.

So somehow, making sure that the poor had enough to eat she saved her own life.

Now tzedakah, translated here as charity—is really more like righteous giving. It is from the same root as tzedek, justice, a tzadik, a righteous person. Charity is gift that comes from the heart. Tzedakah is an obligation. A commandment. Something we have to do.

So it is appropriate on this Shabbat Shuva, we look at Maimonides (Rambam) 8 levels of tzedakah. He viewed it like a ladder. And if you were here for Hebrew School on Wednesday you would have watched me climb an actual ladder:

1. The person who gives reluctantly and with regret.
2. The person who gives graciously, but less than one should.
3. The person who gives what one should, but only after being asked.
4. The person who gives before being asked.
5. The person who gives without knowing to whom he or she gives, although the recipient knows the identity of the donor.
6. The person who gives without making his or her identity known.
7. The person who gives without knowing to whom he or she gives. The recipient does not know from whom he or she receives.
8. The person who helps another to become self-supporting by a gift or a loan or by finding employment for the recipient.
   (Hilkot, Matenot, Aniyim 10:7-14)

This last one is like the adage, give a person a fish and they will eat for a day. Teach a person to fish, they will fish for a life time. Of course, there was a little store, next to Art’s Tavern in Glen Arbor, MI that used to have art work that said that if you teach a man to fish, he will have expenses to last a life time. Lures, poles, rods, nets.

Our group then discussed the various levels of the ladder, without me climbing on one. One felt strongly that the goal is to be as generous as we can and that the levels in the middle don’t matter as much. There was some discussion of how we budget—and a retelling of the old Tevye story from Fiddler on the Roof. The one where the beggar asks the butcher for his weekly handout. “Here Reb Nahum, here’s one kopek.” “One kopek, last week you gave me two.” “I had a bad week.” “So if you had a bad week, why should I suffer?”

I had always assumed that Lazar, the butcher, was rude and hadn’t met his obligation. Others felt that the beggar was rude. Maybe they both are. Maybe the better model is in the story The Hands of G-d as retold by Rabbi Larry Kushner. When the poor janitor finds the twelve loaves of challah left by the rich man in the Holy Ark, he gives two to tzedakah, showing that even poor people are obligated to give tzedakah. In fact, historically, poor people give more to organizations on a percentage basis than rich.

We talked about making tzedakah a habit. And the fact that our students made tzedakah boxes this year.

Many of us get mail solicitations for charity every day. They are from a range of organizations. One year, as part of an adult study class we collected all of them for the month of December. How you choose which organizations to give to could be a subject for a whole adult study class. How do you decide what makes the most difference. If you take 100 dollars is it better to give $100 to one organization or split it into $25 gifts?

We could study this all day—and study is important. http://www.jtfn.org/sites/default/files/docs/resources/maimonides_ladder_and_tzedakah_texts.pdf

However, the suggestion, the commandment really, is that we do it. At CKI we do it in various ways. To those of you who give so generously to the Rabbi’s Discretionary fund, part of those funds go to organizations like Mazon, Food for Greater Elgin, The Community Crisis Center, where as was pointed out, we know the agency but not the individual recipient. Very rarely do I give a direct hand out. However, our community garden which fills the commandment of leaving the corners of our field for the poor, the widow, the orphan, the stranger. That little, mighty garden has fed a lot of people this year. With fresh produce, which is sometimes the hardest thing for poor people to get through soup kettles and agencies.

And as someone pointed out, don’t forget to bring your canned goods for the Community Crisis Center or your checks for Food for Greater Elgin, for the Kol Nidre Food Drive. This fits within Rambam’s levels. This fulfills the question that the prophet Isaiah asks about Yom Kippur—“Is this the fast that I desire? No, rather it is to share your bread with the hungry and to house the homeless and to clothe the naked.”

May we each be sealed for a blessing in the Book of Life. L’shanah Tovah.

This is a key. A key to what you might ask. I’ll tell you.

Last night we began a year-long conversation about what it means to be part of a covenant. A covenant is a contract. An if-then series of promises. If you do x, I promise to do y. It is a pledge of obligation between two parties, sometimes accompanied by a token signifying the brit—covenant. It is a partnership.

Today we are going to talk about the keys to the covenant. God gives us signs. Symbols to remind us that we are in a covenant. They are keys. Yesterday, during choir, there was some joking about Stew giving the correct pitch. And not sliding into the right note. In fact, baseball catchers do give signs—and pitchers have to catch them to give the right note. It is a good example of a covenant—of the partnership that exists between pitchers and catchers who have a very special and deeply connected relationship. Stew has exactly that kind of relationship with the choir..

In Judaism there are three signs of the covenants between G-d and humanity. The first is the rainbow, sign of the covenant between G-d and Noah to never destroy the world again. We talked about that last night, and concluded that our actions matter.

Then there is Shabbat, given as a sign of creation: “The Israelite people shall keep the Sabbath, observing the Sabbath throughout the ages as a covenant for all time: it shall be a sign for all time between Me and the people of Israel” (Exodus 31:16-17).

And the hardest sign may be circumcision, established as the sign of men entering the covenant: “Such shall be the cove­nant between Me and you and your offspring to follow which you shall keep: every male among you shall be circumcised. You shall circumcise the flesh of your foreskin, and that shall be the sign of the covenant between Me and you” (Genesis 17:10-11). It is the way that people—boys and men—enter the covenant. Abraham circumcised himself and his son Ishmael—who at the time was 13—that’s some Bar Mitzvah ritual! Muslim still circumcise at 13. Isaac was circumcised on the 8^th day. Moses didn’t circumcise his sons—Zipporah, his wife, the daughter of a Midianite priest had to do it, but that’s a story for another time.

Most people want to belong to something. People want love and acceptance. In fact, the world religion, from the Latin religio, means to tie back up. When people leave their birth homes, when they leave their parents’ house, they often feel they are missing something. They want to tie back up into something. They go searching. For something.

Abraham went searching too. He heard a voice. Lech lecha. Go forth. The rabbis teach that it really means Go towards yourself. Find yourself. Leave your country, the place of your birth, your parent’s house and go. To the land that I G-d will show you. And I will make you a great nation and I will bless you and make your name great and you will be a blessing.

We often sing this. “Lechi lach, to the land that I will show you. Lecha lecha, to a place you do not know. Lechi lach. On your journey I will bless you. And you will be a blessing lechi lach.”

G-d promises to give the land to Abraham and his descendants yet to come. To Isaac. To Jacob. To all of us. And those descendants would be as numerous as the stars in the sky and the sands of the sea.

Today and tomorrow we read two of the most difficult passages of Scripture. We read about Abraham sending out Hagar and Ishmael. Then we read about Abraham taking Isaac up the mountain to offer him as a sacrifice. In both cases it would seem there was a fear that there was not enough to go around.

Both Ishmael and Isaac survive their ordeals. But they don’t speak to Abraham again. They come back together only to bury Abraham. They don’t reconcile—with Abraham or themselves before then. After the burial Ishmael goes off his own way and becomes as the text tells us the leader of a great nation, just as he was promised.

My favorite book this summer, in a long time really was, , Letters to My Palestinian Neighbors, by Yossi Klein Halevy. It is a powerful love poem to the ideal of the land of Israel—the promise of G-d as part of the covenant, to all the descendants of Abraham. I swelled with pride as he explained why Israel needs to exist. How Jews have been tied to the land all the way back to Abraham. How Abraham bought the tomb in Kiriyat Arba, the Cave of Machpeleh to bury Sarah after the binding of Isaac.

He tells us that “Being an Israeli is like awakening in a dream.” Once again, I was ready to move there. Yossi Klein Halevy tries to hear the other side. He tries to hear Ishmael’s voice. Hagar’s anguished cries. He reminds us, as we listen into his ten letters that after the destruction of the Temple, “The Jewish relationship to the land of Israel shifted from space to time.” But Jews never forgot Jerusalem and wherever they wandered—really were forced to go—they remembered and longed to return. Return—there is our word of the week—Yossi argues that modern Zionism was the meeting point between need and longing. Need gave Zionism its urgency but longing gave it its spiritual sustenance.

In some circles, even within Judaism Zionism has become almost a dirty word. However, Klein Halevy argues that “But if by “Zionism” one means the Jewish attachment to the land of Israel and the dream of renewing Jewish sovereignty in our place of origin, then there is no Judaism without Zionism”.   (Kindle Locations 436-437).

He ends his book with his 10^th letter describing Sukkot and the fragility of peace. When he describes sitting in his sukkah, on his marapeset, his porch, I hear echose of the lyrics to Bashanah haba’ah and I dream of peace.

“And yet, sitting in my sukkah, I sometimes feel more exposed than protected. From my porch, I clearly see three distinct political entities. The sovereign territory of the state of Israel ends at the wall. In the distance is the Palestinian Authority. And in the farthest distance, the hills of Jordan. Just beyond my field of vision is a Middle East in ruins.   (Kindle Locations 1838-1840)..

Yossi is a realist. Born of necessity. In the middle of his celebration of Sukkot—another missile alert at 4 AM and he goes scurrying to a shelter—a real bomb shelter.

Nonetheless he ends the book with words of hope:

“these letters as I began: with the prayer that we will meet. Now we have spent some time together in spirit, but I hope to host you one day in my home— in my sukkah. B’ezrat Hashem. With God’s help. Inshallah.”  (Kindle Locations 1887-1888).

Unfortunately, he doesn’t have all the answers of how two people can live on the same land. Neither do I. He tries to listen to their argument—to the other narrative. Can a shared narrative be developed? I am unsure. One Palestinian leader wrote a scathing review in the New York Times which then Yossi defended himself. If we the People of the Book, given that name by Arabs, cannot even write about our love for Israel I worry a great deal. If we cannot listen, we a people commanded to hear, Hear O Israel, I worry even more. How can a shared narrative on a shared land be created?

Make no mistake, Israel has a right and a need to exist. But how we treat the Palestinians is important to our very moral fiber. And make no other mistake. It isn’t easy.

That is why I love the quote from Golda Meir, “We can forgive the Arabs for killing our children. We cannot forgive them for forcing us to kill their children. We will only have peace with the Arabs when they love their children more than they hate us.”

It is possible that there are three distinct covenants, with Jews, Christians and Muslims.

Jews believe Isaac was taken up that mountain. Muslims believe it was Ishmael and the Dome of the Rock on the Temple Mount marks the spot. Perhaps we need the vision of Rabbi Arthur Waskow and his chassidiche story of when the Messiah builds the Temple https://theshalomcenter.org/node/309 . Perhaps we need the musical hope of Matiyashu and his rendition of his song One Day recorded in one hour in Jerusalem last February. https://www.lostandfoundtobe.com/3000-jews-and-muslims-sign-up-to-learn-a-song-together-the-result-is-perfect-harmony/

I, too, would like to teach the world to sing in perfect harmony.

Recently, I attended a meeting of the clergy of Elgin—all the clergy from the three groups. Part of the workshop was to design a shared narrative for the city. I love Pastor Bob Whit’s vision that he read as a poem one year.

We dream one day of a city where the founding fathers’ vision and laboring for hope and freedom for all people would not be in vain.

We dream one day of a city where truth is born through love.

We dream one day of a city where injustice no longer exists because the demonstration of love for one another has blanketed our city.

We dream one day of a city where no one goes hungry, have a safe and healthy living environment where every person has been educated, empowered and given opportunity to have a successful life.

We dream one day of a city where all people are heirs to equality and justice.

We dream one day of a city where in the process of renewing our own rightful place as people, that we make a difference in the lives of others.

We dream one day of a city where our children are never again stripped of their selfhood and robbed of their dignity because of the inequality and injustice.

We dream one day of a city where faith in God dissolves discord and creates a beautiful symphony of love.

We dream one day of a city where relationships of respect, trust and honor are demonstrated between churches, municipalities, police, schools, social agencies and interfaith groups that will say, “what can we do together that we can’t do apart”?

We dream one day of a city called Elgin, where black men, white men, brown men, Jews and Gentiles, Catholics and Protestant will be able to join hands in our loving city and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual, “Free at last, free at last; thank God Almighty, we are all free at last”.

We Dream of a City Note: Last three sentences are excerpted from I Have a Dream Speech, Martin Luther King Jr, “brown men, in our loving city, all free” and Elgin were added.“We Dream One Day of a City” is an excerpt taken from the curriculum of R.A.C.E.—Renewing. America’s. Cities.for Equality. Copyright 2016 of Bob Whitt, Building on Collaboration.

It is one of hope and optimism. That is the Elgin that I want to live in. That is the vision of the country I want to live in. That is the vision of the world I want to live in. Here at CKI our embracing diversity, part of our vision, means that we have members from 30 communities, 11 school districts and members who were born in 17 foreign countries. Developing a shared narrative, a shared vision is important.

However, what I learned at that meeting, sadly, is it is not yet the experience for everyone. Some people feel left out. One African American pastor said, “I don’t think too much about Elgin.” As his story, his narrative unfolded, he spent a weekend in jail because he was missing a front license plate. And while that is not exactly law abiding, it probably shouldn’t be an arrestible offense.

Our task that day was to being to articulate

A story of why we are called to lead in this moment.

A story of the community we hope to see realized

A story of why we must act.

Because as Pastor Mark Weinert said in facilitating the meeting, here is what he knows. If we cannot articulate a shared redemptive story for our city…then other narratives will fill the voice. That story might be that some lives are inherently more valuable than others. A story that there’s not enough resources for everybody. The story of hyper-individualism. That I got mine—that’s all that matters. A story of fear, rather than hope.

As many of you know, I went to Connecticut this summer to share that vision. A vision that many city leaders have been working on since before Ferguson. Until this spring I believed in our articulation of that vision. That we in Elgin had a better way. That we are better together than apart. That dialogue and mutual understanding makes us stronger. That even if there was a police shooting, our town wouldn’t erupt. That we had built the bridges between people that would sustain us. It was aspirational.

Then Decynthia Clements was shot to death on the Jane Addams Highway. What verb you attach to the description of the video makes all the difference. Did she stumble, fall, trip, stagger, emerge, charge, get out of the car. Was she ever in control? Did she have two feet planted? What did you see, if you watched the video as did I? Is there a shared narrative here?

This spring tested our ability to respond. I still believe that our ongoing response has been better because we spent the time up front building those bridges between people.We are better together.

How do we get to the point here in Elgin where everyone shares Pastor Whit’s vision—and experience?

In our own family stories, our shared narratives—there can be differences. You might remember that we had brisket for dinner for Rosh Hashanah and I might tell you it was always chicken with apples. We might both be right. Rosh Hashanah gives us the opportunity—like Isaac and Ishmael—to come back together. To return. To be part of the covenant. To belong.

Here at CKI we too have a vision based on our Jewish tradition. To be a Jewish congregation that provides meaningful observance, lifelong learning, community building and embracing diversity.

It is aspirational. We’re not quite there yet either. Some people have different experiences of what it means to be part of CKI.

If you are a regular attender at CKI you may have noticed something missing this morning. Someone actually. One of my bimah partners, Saul Mariasis died over the summer. He was my faithful friend showing up week after week, gracing us with his presence and his knowledge and a little schnapps. He had a very different life story than I having served in the Argentinian army, then the Israeli, US and even the Norwegian Merchant Marine. We probably never agreed on politics. But week after week we would share this bimah and have a great deal of respect and love for one another. We trusted one another. Despite our differences, in age, gender, career, we developed a shared narrative and a deep partnership and friendship, like Ari was talking about last night when he explained that by having friends you develop peace.

Our relationship was part of the covenant. It was an I-Thou relationship.

This summer I attended the Academy for Jewish Religion’s alumni retreat. At a camp in the Poconos, out in the creation I so dearly love. The theme was “Crossing the threshold”, so very appropriate for this season. In one session we learned about keys. The scholar in residence, Rabbi Steve Sager, held up a key and asked, “What does this key open?” Then he let us rabbis and cantors in on a secret. Now I will let you in on the secret. We have all the tools we need. All the keys to the Kingdom. All the keys to the covenenat. The challenge is to recognize them. That’s what the Mensch handbook is about. So each of you is going home with a key—a reminder that you already possess everything you need. You have the tools, the keys to get you through this season of repentance, to open the gates of the gates of righteousness. You have the keys to be participants in the covenant, members in the covenant.

The keys are signs, the central principles or values of Judaism and the ways we show each other that we belong in the covenant.

What are those keys? Judaism gives us some tools:
Pekuach nefesh—saving a life
Bal Tashchit—Do not destroy
Hachnasat Orchim—Welcoming Guests are some we have begun to discuss.

By Shavuot, as a community, we will have developed 12 of these guiding principles. We will then, as used to be done, sign a ketubah—a contract—as a community pledging to commit to these principles.

The keys are what you personally need. It might be the key of compassion. Of patience. Of lovingkindness. It might the key of forgiveness or reconciliation. It might be the key of teshuvah. It could be the key of hospitality. Or vision. But you already possess the key. You belong here. As part of the covenant. This key is a sign of that covenant. Here you will find joy, love, acceptance.

This is an introspective time. One were we are called upon to think about our lives. To do teshuvah, to turn back, to return. Teshuvah is one of the keys of the covenant. And the promise of G-d, is that the gates of repentance are always open and that G-d will take us back in great love, just as G-d promised as to our ancestors.

This knowledge gives me hope. My message to you today is simple. We have all keys to the gates. All the tools to belong. All the tools to be a light to the nations. A shining example. There is a key for each of you in a basket next to last night’s beach stones. They are a reminder. A sign of the covenant. Your actions matter. There is a ripple effect and you can open the gates with the key to the covenant. Come Cross over the threshold with me. L’shanah tovah.

For the next year, we will be studying covenant. Our first teacher will be Ari Kravis, our next Bar Mitzvah:

“A covenant is a promise or an agreement. My Torah portion is about Noah’s Ark and the promise of G-d to Noah. G-d wants us to keep G-d happy. If we keep god happy then we will hope that god will supply us with what we need to survive. Also we need to keep God happy because G-d controls if the sun and water are in balance and if they are not we could die. So god made a covenant between god and the people and gave us the rainbow as a sign of that covenant. That sign is a reminder of the balance between rain and sun, good and bad. G-d reminds us of that covenant in my haftarah. G-d promises a covenant of friendship and peace. At first, we didn’t really understand how friendship is related to peace. The Torah uses the word shalom—peace, but our translation says friendship. So G-d says He gave us a covenant of His peace or His friendship. Then I figured out that without friends you would be lonely and not have peace. Another thing I learned. Noah had put all the animals on the boat and all the people and animals today come from that ark. So what we all need to learn is that the earth today is the ark—protecting all the animals on it. We have a responsibility then, just like Noah, to care for the earth and all the animals on it. Otherwise, like in Noah’s day, everything could die.

What my Torah portion is saying is that we have to protect the animals that live on this earth.”

What Ari just taught us is two new things. That peace comes when you make friends—and are not lonely. That’s part of covenant. And that today, the whole world is the Ark and we have an obligation to protect it and the animals that live on it. Thank you, Ari, for your teaching. For your new midrash.

“G-d has created a new day. Silver and green and gold. Live that the sunset may find me. Worthy G-d’s gifts to hold.”

These are the words of an old Girl Scout grace. For the start of a new day. In that world, at dawn. Based on the very beginning of Genesis, there was evening and there was morning. The day of the One. We, Jews therefore mark the start of a new day at sunset. That is why tonight is Erev Rosh Hashanah, the evening of Rosh Hashanah. The beginning of a new day—and a new year.

L’shanah tovah! Happy New Year! Happy New Day!

Tonight is 5779. The birthday of the world. Happy Birthday World! And what a glorious world it is. Have you ever sat on a porch in the early morning, listening to the birds? Or watched a sunset over Lake Michigan? Or looked up at the stars? Or smelled the rain during a summer thunderstorm? Or walked through a primeval forest with a stand of 500 year old beech trees and watched the dappled sunlight through changing leaves? Then you may have experienced this glorious creation—and felt awe. We call this ten day period in Hebrew Yamim Noraim—the Days of Awe, because there is some fear and trembling with the shift in years. Our lives hang in the balance.

For the next year we are going to talk about covenant. What is a covenant? What does it mean to be in a covenantal relationship?

In Hebrew the word is brit. We know it from bringing a child into the covenant, when we welcome a boy into Judaism with a brit milah, a bris. And as Ari just explained it is an agreement or a promise.

Covenants are typically made between a ruler and (his) servants.

G-d, the King, makes such covenants with us. The first covenant was with Noah…G-d gave us the symbol of the rainbow, the sign that G-d would never destroy the world again—at least by flood. According to G-d, then, it is our job to take care of that world.

“When God created the first human beings, God led them around the Garden of Eden and said: ‘Look at my works! See how beautiful they are– how excellent! For your sake I created them all. See to it that you do not spoil and destroy My world; for if you do, there will be no one else to repair it.’” (Kohelet Rabbah( Ecclesiastes) 7:13)

Noah was a righteous man in his generation. There are seven laws that the rabbis deduce, the Seven Noahide Laws, those very basic things that without them you cannot have a just society. The very basic things you need to be a good person. A mensch.

As part of our exploration of covenant this year, the Hebrew School is using the book, A Kid’s Mensch Handbook, A Step by Step Guide to a Lifetime of Jewish Values. Scott Blumenthal argues on the very first page that our actions matter. That if you throw a rock into a pond, a lake, an ocean, there is a ripple effect. Maimonides, centuries earlier make a similar argument…that our individual actions can tip the scale (citation!)

Both say that your actions matter. It is like the starfish story that I often retell:

A grandfather and his granddaughter are walking on the beach. Every so often she picks up a starfish and throws it out into the water. He stops her and says, “Why are you doing that? You can’t possible save them all.”

She bends down, picks up another starfish and throws it into the sea, “It makes a difference to this one.” Her grandfather then joins her, hurling starfish back into the sea. (Adapted from the Star Thrower by Loren C. Eiseley)

Her actions matter. That’s how it is with many of our actions. It takes all of us to save the starfish. That’s part of being in the covenant.

Think globally, act locally. The roots of this sermon were indeed very local.

One Friday afternoon, walking through the newly revamped Elgin Farmer’s Market, preparing for Shabbat, I ran into Robin Migalla at the Shared Harvest booth. She does a lot of environmental awareness in Elgin. She challenged me, “What are you going to do about the pope’s summit on the climate? It’s September 8^th.” I knew nothing about this event. “Nothing,” I replied. “It’s Shabbat.” Then I began to think. “Why couldn’t we do something for Rosh Hashanah. After all, it is the birthday of the world.

It turns out there are several events this week about protecting the environment. The first, held over the weekend was Rise for Climate ahead of the Global Climate Action Summit which is taking place in San Francisco later this week. The pope did in fact call for the support of citizens’ pressure groups worldwide.” 

http://globalclimateactionsummit.org/

Surprisingly to me, there were very few of the usual national Jewish groups signing on to these events. And even after asking on one of my online rabbinic groups, it is not clear why, except that some saw a conflict with Rosh Hashanah.

I come by this commitment naturally. One might even joke genetically. The first time I was aware of the environment and our responsibility as human beings was 1970. My father wasn’t happy with a Weekly Reader article about the ozone layer. I was in 4^th grade—and mortified when he came to visit my teacher. However, he took the Evanston Public Schools to task. And won. Together with his professor from Washington University in Saint Louis, Barry Commoner, he then went on to be one of the founders of Earth Day. https://www.earthday.org/about/the-history-of-earth-day/ His actions made a difference.

Today, we say, is the birthday of the world. I believe it is possible to, even necessary to hold our knowledge of science and our knowledge of the Bible together at the same time. For my father, that was a problem. For some fundamentalists of many religions that is also a problem. For me, not so much. But that is a sermon for another time.

Before the world was created, G-d alone existed. There are many midrashim, stories about the story, that describe how G-d created the world. How G-d asks the angels to participate. How G-d chooses the letter “bet” to begin creating with which is the story I told Friday night. And one from Midrash Tehilim on the Book of Psalms, that says that G-d got really, really frustrated with His creation and created and destroyed the world 974 times before G-d had it just right. G-d changed the world back into tohu v’vohu, chaos, emptiness and void. Over and over again, G-d kept trying to get it perfect. I imagine G-d like a little kid playing with blocks, building up a tower and then smashing it down. Or maybe like building a sand castle and having it washed away by the waves. One after another, G-d created a thousand worlds that preceded this one. All of them were then swept away in the blink of an eye. When G-d was finally satisfied, G-d said, “For behold! I am creating a new heaven and new earth.” (Isaiah 65:17).

The rabbis debate whether it was 974 worlds or a thousand worlds. The Zohar even wonders whether G-d actually built those other worlds or just thought about building them. It doesn’t really matter.

It doesn’t really matter how many worlds there were or will be. It doesn’t really matter whether those first worlds were in error. Rabbi Levi Yitzhak of Berdicheve insisted that “everything that G-d created exists forever and never ceases to be.” That sounds a little like the first law of thermodynamics, that matter is never created or destroyed. That’s still relevant.

What matters our actions to be caretakers of this earth. Of G-d’s creation. In Deuteronomy we learn that when we siege a city, because sadly war is sometimes still necessary, we cannot cut down the fruit trees. (Deuteronomy 20).

From that we learn the principle of bal taschit. This is what Chabad said bal taschit:

The Torah teaches us that we are not to cut down fruit trees in wartime. Yet the rabbis in the Babylonian Talmud (c. 200–500 CE) understand verse 19 (above) to be a general principle beyond war and The Torah forbids the destruction of edible fruit trees. They employ a common form of rabbinic interpretation, making a logical inference from a more stringent to a less stringent case. If Jews must not cut down fruit trees in the extreme case of a war of conquest, when destruction is the norm, how much the more so does this apply to normal life. (https://www.chabad.org/library/article_cdo/aid/1892179/jewish/Judaism-and-Environmentalism-Bal-Tashchit.htm)

Our actions still matter today.

Rabbi Kalonymus Kalman Shapira, famous for his care of orphaned children in the Warsaw ghetto identifies the creation and destruction of the prior worlds with the Shattering of the Vessels. He explains that God made the present universe out of those broken vessels. The story of the shattering of the vessels and the gathering of the sparks together is the underpinnings of what we call tikkun olam, repair of the world. “The Shattering of the Vessels and Gathering the Sparks,” p. 122.

The story is that when G-d made the world, G-d made it full of light. The light was so bright that G-d created a vessel to hold the light. But the divine light was too strong for the vessel and it shattered into pieces. These bits and holy sparks scattered into the world. Our job as humans is to find the holy sparks through prayer and action and put the pieces of broken vessels, our broken world. In doing so, we act as partners with God in the work of Tikkun Olam (repairing the world). That’s how we are partners, caretakers with G-d in protecting creation. That’s how our actions matter.

 According to one of the midrashim about creation, Sefer ha-Zikranot 1:1 is that this world couldn’t come into being until G-d created repentance, t’shuvah, T’shuvah, therefore is the key element that made our world possible. Tomorrow we will talk more about keys. For now, what is important to know if that repentance is one of the keys to the covenant. One of the tools we need to be menschen, mensches, good people. Doing acts of teshuvah matter, it is what keeps our world alive.

This summer many of you went to our beautiful national parks. I saw pictures of Yellowstone, the Grand Tetons and Mount Rushmore, of the Statue of Liberty and the Washington Monument, of Sleeping Bear Dunes and the Indiana Lakeshores. I saw pictures of the Smokey Mountains—and smoke filled skies out west. That smoke made it all the way to our skies here in Chicagoland. It is part of the ripple effect. Actions that happen elsewhere effect our world right here.

We want those beautiful places to be here for our children and grandchildren. It is part of our legacy. It is part of their inheritance. The Talmud tells a similar story:

“One day, Honi the Circle Maker was walking on the road and saw a man planting a carob tree. Honi asked the man, “How long will it take for this tree to bear fruit?” The man replied, “Seventy years.” Honi then asked the man, “And do you think you will live another seventy years and eat the fruit of this tree?”

The man answered, “Perhaps not. However, when I was born into this world, I found many carob trees planted by my father and grandfather. Just as they planted trees for me, I am planting trees for my children and grandchildren so they will be able to eat the fruit of these trees.” (Ta’anit 23a retold by Peninah Schram)

My message today is that our actions matter. There are things that we can do, right here at CKI, right in your own homes. Be careful how you use water. Recycle. Give up your plastic straws and water bottles. Turn off lights. Drive less. Drive smarter. For each of you, there is a hand-out at the back of 10 Ways You Can Help the Planet: The Ripple Effect. There is also a piece of beach glass—those broken bottles that have been tumbled by the lake making them beautiful—to remind you that your actions matter and that we have an obligation to put those pieces of glass back together again.

The Talmud teaches us that whoever destroys a single life, it is considered as if he or she destroyed an entire world. And whoever saves a life of Israel, it is considered as if the entire world is saved. (Mishnah Sanhedrin 4:5; Yerushalmi Talmud 4:9, Babylonian Talmud Sanhedrin 37a.)

This gives us another Jewish principle of pekuach nefesh. It is possible to break almost any mitzvah, any commandment in order to save a life. One way we can do that at CKI is Mandy’s upcoming blood drive as her Bat Mizvah project. A way to honor the legacy of her grandfather, it is truly a way to save lives. Our actions count! 3 lives for every pint of blood donated.

Another important way to make our actions count this year is by voting. Whatever political party you are supporting. Whoever your favorite candidate is. As my friend and colleague Rabbi Joel Moshbacher said to his congregation before the New York primary—and then picked up nationally by the Reform Movement:

“Voting is about optimism and hope, about envisioning a world more whole and committing to enact that vision, and about seeing ourselves as partners with G-d in the going work of creation,”

Part of the message of Rosh Hashanah is clear. Our actions matter. Our actions are like rocks that we throw into the pond, creating ripples. The ripple effect. Maimonides, the great rabbi and philosopher, challenged us to imagine that even a single action could “tip the balance, our own balance and the balance of the entire world.” In short, our actions matter. As we reflect about our actions this past year and think about our actions in the year to come, know that each of us has the power to tip the scale to the good.

After services, during Apples and Honey Fest, please feel free to take a copy of 10 Things You Can Do to Help the Environment and a beach of beach glass to remind you all year of the ripple effect. Your actions matter. L’shanah Tovah.

Additional Sources:

Genesis Rabbah 3:7, 9:2, 28:4, 33:3; Exodus Rabbah 1:2, 30:3; B. Hagigah 13b; Midrash

Tehillim 90:13; Midrash Aleph Bet 5:5; Eliyahu Rabbah 2:9; Zohar 1:24, 1:154a, 1:262b,

3:135a-135b, Idra Rabbah; Pirkei de-Rabbi Eliezer 3; Sefer ha-’Iyyun Ms. Hebrew

University 8330; Zohar Hadash; Sefer ha-Zikhronot 1:1; Rashi on Shabbat 88b; No’am

Elimelekh, Bo 36b; Kedushat Levi; Or ha-Hayim 1:12; Esh Kadosh; Otzrot Rabbi Yitzhav

Yitzhak Eizik Haver, p.1.

Studies:

The Holy Fire: The Teachings of Rabbi Kalonymus Kalman Shapira, the Rebbe of the

Warsaw Ghetto by Nehemia Polen.

http://www.umsl.edu/~schwartzh/samplemyths_2.htm

10 Ways You Can Help the Planet: The Ripple Effect

1. Use less water. Turn off the water while you are brushing your teeth. Fix the leaky toilet or sink. You can save 200 gallons a day. Or try a low flush toilet like they have at the Morton Arboretum. Install a rain barrel as we will here to water the community garden.. Try tap water—or filtered water rather than all the plastic bottles. Wash your clothes in cold water.
2. Leave your car at home. If you can stay off the road just two days a week you can reduce greenhouse gas emissions by an average of 15,90 pounds per year according to the EPA. So combine your errands. It will save gas and time.
3. Walk or ride your bike to work. Do what Pastor Katie from Highland Avenue Church of the Brethren does. Bike. All over town. Great for health as you burn some calories. If you can’t walk or ride (or run)—try mass transit or carpooling. One of the great things about Elgin is the Metra—quick and easy way to get into Chicago and now the Pace Bus over at Jane Addams. Also the series of bike trails. Try the one along the river.
4. It reduces pollution just by remembering to put the bottle or can in the recycling bin. Here at CKI we have single stream recycling—and we have bins in the office and the kitchen.
5. We used to have compost here at CKI. It would be great to start up again as a way to feed our community garden and keep additional “trash” out of our landfill.
6. Look up. The lights above you are now LEDs, using on average 2/3rds less energy. Our newest appliances at CKI are Energy Star rated. Energy Star estimates that since December 2013 it has helped families and businesses save $295 billion on utility bills and prevented more that 2.3 billion tons of greenhouse gas emissions from being released in the past two decades. My dream is to one day have a solar ner tamid, our Eternal Light. My teacher Rabbi Everett Gendler, installed and dedicated the first solar ner tamid in 1978 at Temple Emanuel of the Merrimack Valley. The sun is eternal—or at least we think. This is an important symbolic act—because our actions matter.
7. Make your home—and CKI—more energy efficient. It saves money. Clean your air filter. Get a programmable thermostat—as CKI has already done. Reduce the temperature when you are sleeping.
8. Maintain your car. Underinflated tires decrease fuel economy and increase air pollution. And underinflation increases tire wear, so you will save money—on gas and new tires. While you are at it:
9. Drive smarter. Drive slower. Save more gas. Save more money.
10. Turn off lights when you are not in the room and unplug appliances when you are not using them.

https://science.howstuffworks.com/environmental/green-science/save-earth-top-ten1.htm

There is a power in this week’s portion—and like every year—it comes just before Rosh Hashanah.

We are in the chapel/library today because the text tells us that it is not too far for you. “But the word is very close to you. In your mouth and in your heart that you may do it.”

You stand here. All of you. Today. Before the Lord your G-d. To enter into the covenant.
Your leaders, your wise old ones, your wives, your little ones, your water drawers and your woodchoppers.

How do we stand before the Holy One?

With reverence and honor. With respect. With humility. With fear and trembling. At attention. As individuals but as part of the collective whole.

It tells us that all of us are standing here. How are we inclusive today?

We are inclusive when we welcome everyone. When welcome our guests and our neighbors. When we welcome differing levels of Jewish observance and interfaith families. When we welcome the youngest and the oldest. By having age appropriate activities and accessible bathrooms. When we think about sound systems and large print books and distance to the coat racks. When we welcome multi-racial families and differing family configurations—families, couples, singles, widows, divorcees, LGBTQ. All those people in our congregation—17 at last count born in different countries.

It seems an odd choice—why water drawers and wood choppers?

Maybe as Rabbi Bradley Shavit Artson teaches, he wood choppers and the waterdrawers are different parts of ourselves as we stand together before the Holy One with our whole community as we enter these Holy Days.

He asks, how often do we see the person across from us or next to us as an object to cut down, prove wrong or shape in the image we think they ought to be? This can happen with our families, our friends, our business associates and workplaces or even, dare I say it, in our synagogue. It can happen with our relationship with God. And I think it can happen with ourselves. Sometimes, myself included, we are our own worst critics, judging ourselves too harshly.   We go too far, we cut too deep and it becomes hard to repair the relationships, with our friends and family, with our fellow workers, with ourselves or with God.

Waterdrawers, however can be a metaphor for how people are wells of inspiration, waiting for us to engage them, learn from them, and to be nourished and satisfied by them. It needs to be a two way street. We need to give and receive. However, I think we need a caution, a well can dry up, if it is not replenished.

Moses, in his last address, just before he dies implores us further…
“See I set before you life and death, blessing and curse. Choose life that you may live.”

That’s a good message on this last Shabbat before Rosh Hashanah. Choose life that you may live—just as we implore G-d to inscribe us and seal us in the Book of Life.

Last week in our last session on Jonah, one of our participants said that when Jonah keeps saying he is so angry he wants to die. He has sunk to the depths—the very depths—he went down to Jaffa, then tried to run away to Tarshish, he went down into the hold of the ship, then was thrown into the depths of the sea, then into the belly of the fish.

Then he is rescued…spewed out, vomited, or as the kids prefer, burped out. But he is still not happy. He wants to die.

As someone pointed out—he seems suicidal. Whether he wants to die by his own hand—or someone else’s, he wants his pain to end.

September is National Suicide Prevention Month. From the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention:

Although there is no single cause of suicide, one of the risks for suicide is social isolation, and there’s scientific evidence for reducing suicide risk by making sure we connect with one another. We can all play a role through the power of connection by having real conversations about mental health with people in everyday moments – whether it’s with those closest to us, or the coffee barista, parking lot attendant, or the grocery store clerk.

It’s also about the connection we each have to the cause, whether you’re a teacher, a physician, a mother, a neighbor, a veteran, or a suicide loss survivor or attempt survivor. We don’t always know who is struggling, but we do know that one conversation could save a life.

The statistics are stark:

Suicide is the 10^th leading cause of death in the US. Almost 45K Americans die by suicide each year. For every suicide 25 people attempt suicide. Suicide costs the US $69B annually.

• The annual age-adjusted suicide rate is 13.42 per 100,000individuals.
• Men die by suicide 3.53x more often than women.
• On average, there are 123 suicides per day.
• White males accounted for 7 of 10 suicides in 2016.
• Firearms account for 51% of all suicides in 2016.
• The rate of suicide is highest in middle age — white men in particular.

• https://afsp.org/about-suicide/suicide-statistics/

I have been thinking a lot about the topic of suicide. I am watching two young people—one here in Elgin and one in Oregon. Both are frustrated. Both have serious challenges. Both have some underlying mental health issues. Both feel isolated and alone.

What is our responsibility?

To connect. To stand with someone. To make them feel welcome. To reach out.

This summer there have been some high profile suicides—Anthony Bodain, Kate Spade. I don’t think we will ever know why. In the old days, the wisdom was we shouldn’t talk about suicide or ask if someone felt like hurting themselves—we might propel them into action. In the old days, there was a sense that talking about suicide was a cry for help. That males suicide and females attempted. Some of that old thinking has gone out the window.

I am glad that our teachers here at CKI were trained by the Board of Jewish Education about mental health and suicide. Because sadly, children are not immune. Once I was called into to the middle school when there were three 8^th grade boys who had committed suicide. At that point, there didn’t seem to be a connection between them—but it turns out there was—they had all been in the same boy scout troop (out of school) and had been at camp together. They played on the same basketball team—and they were being bullied. Maybe they were gay. What I learned in dealing with that episode—

If you have never seen a young man dressed in his scout uniform laid out in his coffin, you haven’t experienced deep sadness.

What is our responsibility? To be community.

It is like Hillel said—Do not separate yourself from your community.

Reach out. I pledge to meet you anywhere, anytime, any place.

Choose life that you may live.

A poem:

Stand for a while in this doorway,
exactly in the place of in-between.
Pause now while we are not yet there,
Lean against the frame of life
Be here between the inside and the outside.
Gather up the known and clear space
for the not-yet
In these days when the harvest is full,
and the year winds toward its inevitable end….
Let leaves blanket the ground and prayers float upward
Let me not pass through this doorway too quickly
Let me be still enough
to hear the pure, exhausted, ecstatic voice of the soul.

(Rachel Sabath Beit-Halachmi, Nantucket Island, August 2000)

Today I took a long walk. It is part of how I prepare for the high holidays. During that walk I listen to birds and I pour my own heart out.

Sometimes it is the words that come from the depth of my being. Sometimes they are the words about being outdoors in nature. Here are a few of today’s offerings:

Kol ha’olam kulo, gesher tzar me’od.
V’ha’ikar lo lefachda klal.
All the world is a narrow bridge.
The central thing is to not be afraid.—Rabbi Nachman of Bratzlav.

Please G-d, let me not be afraid. Give me the ability to embrace life. Give me the ability to reach out. Give me the ability to lead. And follow. Help me to pray. Help me to teach. Help me to convey the beauty of Your creation to all I meet. Help me to be kind and caring. To my family. To my community. To the world. Help me learn patience. Help me to be more like You—gracious and compassionate, loving, slow to anger, patient, full of lovingkindness, forgiving.

Then this one, also from Rabbi Nachman as sung by Debbie Friedman:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8N3tybnduQQ

Rebbe Nachman’s song:
You are the One, for this I pray
That I may have the strength to be alone.
To see the world, to stand among the trees,
And all the living things.
That I may stand alone and offer prayers and talk to You;
You are the One to whom I do belong.
And I’ll sing my soul to You
And give You all that’s in my heart.

May all the foliage of the field
All grasses, trees and plants,
Awaken at my coming, this I pray
And send their speech, my thoughts and my prayers will be made whole,
And through the spirit of all growing things
And we know that everything is one

Because we know that everything is You
You are the One, for this I pray
I ask you G-d to hear my words
That pour out from my heart; I stand before You
I, like water, lift my hand to You in prayer.
And grant me strength, and grant me strength to stand alone.

You are the On to whom I do belong.
And I’ll sing my soul, I’ll sing my soul to You
And give you all that’s in my heart.

You are the One, for this I pray,
And I’ll sing my soul to You.

Debbie Friedman based on the words of Rabbi Nachman of Bratzlav

It is a hard song to sing, with a range that is too big for me. But I hear it in my head—and I appreciate the opportunity to be out in nature, alone, just as Nachman and Thoreau suggested.

Then I was surprised by another song. Really symbolic of the season of turning.

Return again, return again, return to the land of your soul.
Return to where you are. Return to what you are. Return to who you are.
Born and reborn again.

Reb Shlomo Carlebach, z’l sung by his daughter, Neshama Carlebach

http://www.neshamah.net/2009/08/return-again-neshama-carlebach.html

I hear this in Neshama’s voice. She sang at the pre-ordination concert at the Academy for Jewish Religion the night before my ordination. Her father was a gifted singer/songwriter who made all of our prayers skyrocket to heaven but for years I have not sung his music. I know too many people personally caught by his magnetic personality and his wandering hands. This year Neshama has done a great amount of teshuva around this very topic after the #MeToo movement. https://www.timesofisrael.com/neshama-carlebach-writes-about-her-father-victims-and-being-molested-as-a-child/

Can I sing those songs again? They are buried deep in my soul. Can I sing them publicly? Time will tell. But this is teshuvah. True, true returning.

And very, very recently she married one of my dear rabbinic colleagues, Rabbi Menachem Creditor, who amongst other things wrote what will be the themesong of my year talking about covenant. Olam chesed yibenah—Build this world on love.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZHp-jcPlKIY

I wish them both mazel and much, much love.

Then I wound up in Lake Michigan, a full mikveh immersion singing this Hashivenu

Turn us back to you, Lord and we will return.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zy5nV9pwZ9I

And Adonai, Adonai:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DS1WYRmMCaQ

This is my Bat Mitzvah portion, the reason I became a rabbi, the verse I wrote my thesis about, the first book I wrote and the most important verse of the season. G-d taught this verse to Moses to teach us how to ask for forgiveness.

Then my family sat outside on a beautiful early fall, late summer day and wrote a family mission statement and individual positive  heshbon hanefesh.

Ready or not, here I come. Hineini.

I want to share several vignettes this Labor Day weekend. It was a busy one and they don’t fit nicely together. But each of them is important as we continue the preparations and the journey toward Rosh Hashanah.

Part One:
Saturday morning, we celebrated Shabbat and the Bar Mitzvah of a young man. The day dawned stormy. And somehow that seemed right. This Bar Mitzvah boy had a tough year. His mother had cancer and two stem cell transplants, with two hospital stays over six weeks. In downtown Chicago. When we initially set the date, we couldn’t have foreseen how complicated a year it would be—or as it progressed just how far he would come. There were some moments when I even wondered if we would all be there.

I knew that there wouldn’t be many dry eyes—but I expected the tears to come during the Bar Mitzvah boy’s speech. Instead, they came when he was reading Torah. His grandparents had just had the aliyah (Torah blessing) with the curses. We did the misheberach prayer for healing of mind, body or spirit. No one had said the mother’s name—I asked my student if he wanted to or whether she didn’t want a public fuss. He told me her name could come off the list—and I then announced that. Then between her tears and mine—somehow she had her very first aliyah. It was a real shechianu moment. The Bar Mitzvah boy chanted confidently and surely. And the tears flowed. Later, after his Haftarah from Isaiah, the sixth of consolation after Tisha B’av, providing great comfort leading up to Rosh Hashanah, my student talked about how his portion gives hope and optimism. How to turn things that are seeming curses into blessings. His optimism and his humor gives me hope.

His project for Living Well Cancer Resource Center in Geneva, IL. Part of Northwestern Medical, it provides all sorts of resources for patients and their families living with cancer. He has thus far raised over $3600. But his understanding of the issues, of his parsha, and his actions, bring me more hope.

https://www.gofundme.com/aidendonationproject-livingwell

Part Two:

For four weeks, some of us have gathered as part of Kiddush to study the Book of Jonah, the traditional haftarah for Yom Kippur afternoon. Each week we took a chapter and looked in depth. After we greeted the Bar Mitzvah family and enjoyed a nosh and drink, we again gathered to study to finish reading the book ahead of our scholar, Rabbi Steven Bob, who is coming next week. He wrote a book, two really, on the Book of Jonah.

This is a great book to study—at lots of ages—with Hebrew School this week, we turned everyone into a Jonah, as we “arose” and bought passage on a ship, and fell asleep below deck and experienced yet another Illinois thunderstorm, then were awakened and casted lots (by the way, that’s a gambling thing—not a fishing pole!), then were thrown overboard and swam through the social hall until we were swallowed by a giant fish. Then we prayed…

We prayed this week with the adults too. “Lord, I am not sure why you have chosen me to be your messenger. I’m sorry I didn’t listen the first time and tried to run away. I know now that I cannot run away from Your presence. Thank you for saving me and providing me this fish. But it is really dark and moist in here. I’m getting cold and clammy and thirsty and hungry. I’m scared, G-d. I want to die and I don’t want to die all at the same time. If You get me out of here, I promise to offer thanks—and go to Nineveh after all, even though I don’t really want to. I still think I would rather die or run away.”

And then—as the kids said—the Lord “burped” Jonah out onto dry land. The conversation was rich—exactly what text study should be. Is this a story about Jonah or Ninevah? Why did G-d pick Jonah? He’s not a very good prophet. He’s a very small minded prophet, mostly concerned about himself. Why is this connected with Yom Kippur. It seems because it repeats the 13 Attributes of G-d which we use on Yom Kippur and because it illustrates that G-d is a patient G-d, one who forgives and gives second chances. Even to Jonah. Even to us. I am looking forwarded to the discussion next week and learning even more from my colleague, Rabbi Steven Bob.

I already know this. For the 13 people who have studied Jonah with me for the last four weeks, the reading this year will be much more meaningful. It will be for me.

Part Three: Selichot

On the Saturday night before Rosh Hashanah, Ashkanasi Jews begin adding prayers for Selichot, forgiveness. This year because Rosh Hashanah begins on a Sunday evening, it is pushed earlier a week so it was this Saturday night. It is one of the ways we prepare for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. In the old days, it was held before dawn. Then the rabbis pushed it back to midnight. Now some congregations start with seudah shlishit (the third meal of Shabbat) Havdalah, some study and then selichot prayers. Some congregations show a thought provoking movie to spark the discussion.

This year I chose to show the movie Coco, the new animated Disney film. It is about the Mexican Day of the Dead. Día de los Muertos.

As National Geographic points out it is not the Mexican equivalent of Halloween.

https://www.nationalgeographic.com/travel/destinations/north-america/mexico/top-ten-day-of-dead-mexico/

As soon as I saw the movie, I immediately knew that I wanted to use it for Selichot. Why, you might ask. Because Elgin is 47% Hispanic and it might resonate. Every year I talk to someone about their desire to convert or reaffirm their Jewishness because they may be part of the hidden Jews, conversos, who were forced to flee Spain and Portugal during the Spanish Inquisition in 1492.

Día de los Muertos is a blending of indigenous Mayan traditions layered with some traditions of the Catholic Church. It is a way to honor the dead and to celebrate life at the same time. It can be a way to keep memory alive and to heal old relationships and wounds. It sounds very similar to the role of Yizkor (memorial prayers said on Yom Kippur and the three pilgrimage holidays) and Kever Avot (visiting the cemetery typically between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur).

And since it would be the Saturday night of Labor Day Weekend, after a Bar Mitzvah, it might appeal to others including families with children. And it might be fun. An opportunity to nosh on Mexican appetizers. Even have a mariachi band. Or a klezmer one playing mariachi.

The band was not to be—but we did have 27 people show up—from 8-80+ in years. There were Mexican appetizers and a coffee bar. And of course, popcorn because it was a movie and chocolate cake—because why not. There were some technical glitches. (Oy! But thank you to Sarah who helped with the appetizers, the technology and the shofar blowing!)

It is important to not engage in cultural appropriation. I said as much. What I was trying to do was to show how a different tradition addresses some of the themes of t’shuvah—return and zachor—remembrance. The emphasis on tradition and family and memory wasn’t lost on anyone in the room. And again there were more tears. There was not so much discussion afterwards—I think people couldn’t yet talk.

However, they went home with a work sheet from Rabbi Anne Brenner who wrote Mourning and Mitzvah and spoke recently at a Chicago Board of Rabbis meeting. Her concept for Yizkor, especially for the one during Yom Kippur is useful. And was another reason why I wanted to use Coco as this discussion starter.

She implores us to look at Kol Nidre as a way of releasing vows—especially when dealing with a loss and its grief.

We say that Teshuvah (return, repentance) Tefilah (prayer) and Tzedakah (acts of generosity and charity) can avert the severity of the decree as part of our High Holiday liturgy. I have often railed against this sentiment. I know plenty of good people who engage in plenty of teshuvah, tefilah and tzedakah and they still die.

Rabbi Brenner asks us:
What are the “if onlys” and the unfinished business. How do we do teshuvah—return? Can we redeem our regrets? What regrets do you have? What regrets do our loved ones might have? What are the prayers, tefilah, for sincere commitment to change. What do you want to change? And finally, what acts of tzedakah do you pledge to do or give in memory of your loved one?

Yizkor—please G-d, remember my loved one, my teacher. If you do, I will pledge to do tzedakah.

If it one of those if-then statements that is part of the covenant. If You G-d, remember then I too will remember. If I remember, then they will be ameliorated in the world to come. Because of their merit (zecut avot), I too will be remembered for a blessing—and for Your mercy and compassion. By my remembering I can begin to make my family whole.

Here is the analysis of a New York Times writer of why we cry at the end of Coco.

https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2018/08/20/arts/coco-scene.html

Certainly it is cathartic. As is Yizkor. “The restorative power of memory is a recurring theme: To remember someone is to keep their spirit alive. But it’s how one is thought of that is equally important.” That’s teshuvah. The power to return. To heal. To reconcile. Even after someone is gone. It can change the entire shared family narrative.

Then a few prayers of selichot, begging for forgiveness, in High Holiday melody and one single long blast of the shofar, a tekiah gedolah.

Part Four: Preparations Continue

Rabbis prepare for the High Holidays in lots of different ways. Some of us study. Reading books, articles, seeing movies, studying with colleagues and friends. Some of us engage in long, deep conversations. Some of us take long walks—in the woods or along the beach. Some of us meditate. Some of us immerse in a mikveh. Some of us practice music and Torah readings. Sing with a choir. Work with musicians. Choose meaningful readings. Write sermons. Prepare study sessions. Attend selichot. Blow shofar.

There is always a sense of fear and trembling, awe and humility. Will I find the right words? Will I have enough stamina? Will the people have a positive experience, a meaningful experience.

There are lots of little details. Press releases. Topics. Themes. Music. Readings. Swapping out the prayer books. Changing the linens from blue to white. Children’s services. Greeters. Security. Guests to invite. Who still needs a place?

Part of my preparation involves those long walks on the beach or the woods. A slow immersion in a mikveh (or natural body of water). Listening to a summer thunderstorm. Reading. Long conversations—preferably on those long walks. And writing. This weekend my family and I were grateful for the gift of a cottage. Right on Lake Michigan. As I write this, I am listening (and enjoying!) to a summer thunderstorm. A long conversation this morning with one of my rabbis. A walk in the woods in a primeval forest (luckily we got back before the storm) and plenty of time for writing and day dreaming and davenning.

It’s Labor Day. I chose to work today. I chose to work in a beautiful place. It makes my soul sing. It is how I prepare best. And I don’t regret it or resent it. I relish in it.

I am grateful to the people who organized in this country to make sure that there are better working conditions for us all. Much of that happened after the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire. Many of the organizers were Jews. Or women in the textile mills of Lawrence and Lowell. We need Bread and Roses, was their rallying cry.

Unions have taken a bad rap in recent years. Not from me. It is because of the Teamsters in Massachusetts that we had adequate health care coverage. More than adequate. Gold standard! For which we did not pay a dime. My husband continued to have a job when the union went to bat for him because either he was slow, old, or Jewish. It was never really clear. But the union walked him through that process. And because of that union we have a pension. I am very, very grateful.

Bread and Roses. Time for beauty and work. We need bread and roses. Pirke Avot 3:21 tells us, “Ein kemach, Ein Torah. Ein Torah, Ein kemach. Without sustenance, there is no Torah and without Torah there is no there is no parnasa, no income and visa versa. What ever you are doing today, I hope it is beautiful, filled with roses. And when we return to work, may it be meaningful, productive, safe and guarantee us “time off for good behavior”.

I am grateful that I had the opportunity to work today—to share a little Torah amongst the beauty of the world.

Did anyone get awakened last night? There was a storm. Maybe not as bad as the ones that have pounded Hawaii. Or Puerto Rico last year. Storms seem to be increasing in frequency and intensity.

Every time there is a major storm, not like last night’s thunderstorm, there is some preacher who says that it is G-d’s punishment for something or other. We’ve talked about that before.

Our haftarah addresses this directly this morning. 10 short verses packed with so much.

“For a while I forsook you, but I will take you back in great love. In vast love.”

What does that mean? What does that reference?

It is a great promise. That G-d in fact loves us. Something we Jews don’t talk enough about. G-d loves us unconditionally. No matter what we’ve done. And the example that is referenced in this Haftarah, is that even though the Israelites are in exile, G-d will take them back in love.

There are several words for love in Hebrew. This is not ahavah or rachamim although that word is mentioned as well in this portion. This is chesed, a very difficult word to translate that often is lovingkindness.

With great kindness…chesed olam. Everlasting kindness.

My colleague and friend, Rabbi Menachem Creditor wrote a song precisely about this for his daughter, right after 9/11, when it seemed like it did to the Israelites, that the world was falling about.

“Olam Chesed Yibaneh…yai dai dai dai. I will build this world from love. You will build this world from love. And if we build this world with love, then G-d will build this world from love.” He bases the text on Psalm 89:3.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZHp-jcPlKIY

It is an if-then statement. If you do this—build the world with love, then I, G-d, will build the world with love. This is an important message. It is part of the covenant. It becomes the theme song of the year, where we will be talking about covenant and what it means to live in a covenanted relationship.

And G-d, in Isaiah’s voice reminds us of that:

“For this is to Me, like the waters of Noah. As I swore that the waters of Noah would never again flood the earth, so I swear to you that I will not be angry or rebuke you.” (Isaiah 54:9)

Periodically, it seems that G-d needs to be reminded what G-d himself promised. Never to destroy the world again.

How, then, do we remind G-d? Is it presumptuous? It seems to be necessary.

You might think that the G-d who is all knowing doesn’t need to be reminded. However, it seems to be necessary. It seems to be part of the mutuality, the partnership that exists between G-d and each one of us. If you do X—in this case love Me, then I will do Y—love you and not destroy the world.

As much as we need G-d’s unconditional love, G-d needs ours.

And then G-d reminds us that there is a covenant in place. A partnership. This is really interesting language.

“Nor the mountains may move and the hills be shaken. But my loyalty shall never move from you. Nor my covenant of friendship be shaken, says the Lord, who takes you back in love.” (Isaiah 54:10)

How comforting on this seventh Shabbat of consolation. How reassuring. How wonderful. Even if there is a storm or an earthquake, G-d will love us.

G-d will offer us a brit shlomi, My covenant of friendship as the new JPS has it. I might have translated it as a covenant of My peace. How does friendship give us peace, since shalom can be translated as we know as hello, goodbye, peace, wholeness, completeness, fullness?

It seems to be that when we have friends, when we are not isolated, we feel less alone—that feeling of partnership, of community, of belonging, of being together is what, in fact brings us peace.

The text give us one other clue toward optimism. It begs us to enlarge our tent, to not stint. When Bar Mitzvah students have had this portion and we have looked at it together, they are confused by that word. What does stint mean. To not spare anything. To not hold back. My best example of not stinting is the Grand Hotel on Mackinac Island. It is large, palatial, beautiful and beautifully planted. It is so pleasant to sit on its wide veranda and rock away sipping iced tea or lemonade (or even something stronger). The service is impeccable—and so welcoming. They don’t hold anything back.

This is what G-d demands of us then—to love G-d fully, with a vast love, and G-d will love us. And the implication for us at CKI is bold. Don’t hold back love. Welcome everyone. Expand your tent. Build this world with love and G-d will honor His covenant—partner with us and build this world with love.

Today is Rosh Hodesh Elul. The beginning of the new month of Elul. We know the word Rosh, from Rosh Hashanah, the head of the new year. Rosh means head. It also means summit. So Rosh Hodesh is the head of the new month. Traditionally, it was a half holiday for women. Maybe, because as the midrash teaches, the women didn’t give up their gold for the golden calf. Maybe—but where did that gold come from? Their Egptian neighbors. Another explanation is that Rosh Hodesh mirrors women’s natural cycles of the waxing and waning of the moon.

Many of you know that I am a supporter and spokesperson for Women of the Wall, who for each Rosh Hodesh since 1988 have gathered at the Western Wall to pray. Women have an obligation to pray, no matter what the men of the Western Wall Heritage Foundation may tell you.

Rosh Hodesh Elul takes on special significance in the Jewish calendar. It is now 40 days to Yom Kippur. Let the marathon begin! Elul is seen as an acronym for “Ani L’Dodi v’Dodi Li, I am my beloved and my beloved is mine” from Song of Songs. The rabbis teach that this book, one of only two that doesn’t mention G-d is an allegory between G-d and the Jewish people. We are beloved of G-d. G-d so loves us that G-d will take us back in love. This period of renewal and reflection is about our relationship to G-d.

Today is the day that tradition says Moses went back up Mount Sinai to receive the second set of tablets. He came back down with them on Yom Kippur—40 days later.

These 40 days, then, are a period of preparation.

A friend of mine earlier today posted a picture of his last latte before break-the-fast. It is part of his preparation to give up coffee between now and Yom Kippur. Don’t worry. That’s not part of my preparation. But why does he do it?

• To get closer to G-d?
• To really feel the angst of the period?
• To be some how ascetic, giving up espresso in latte but not coffee?
• To make more time for what is really important?
• To mirror or practice the fasting of Yom Kippur?

These were some of the answers. In reality, he does it for a much more practical reason. Giving up coffee avoids that Yom Kippur caffeine withdrawal headache. Many of our congregants also give up coffee prior to Yom Kippur but for much shorter time periods.

How do we prepare then? How do we return? What do we return to?

This is a chance for reflection and introspection. It is a more internal preparation than the physical preparation that is Passover—although for many there is a physicality in preparing festive holiday meals, inviting people and hosting. And the cleaning. Oh, the cleaning. Maybe I will get the Passover dishes put away before Rosh Hashanah this year.

On Rosh Hodesh Elul we begin to add things to help us prepare.

• We begin to blow the shofar at every morning service. It works as an alarm clock. A wake up call. It also helps the shofar blowers practice.
• We add Psalm 27, the psalm recited now throughout the “penitential” season.
• On the Saturday night before Rosh Hashanah we add “Selichot” more penitential prayers. This year it falls on Saturday night, September 1^st which is also Labor Day weekend. Maybe this is the real work of Labor Day. This year we will be watching Coco, enjoying some Mexican refreshments and talking about Yizkor, the memorial prayers.

Often we talk about preparing for the High Holidays in terms of tefilah, teshuvah, tzedakah. Prayer, returning and righteous giving. You’ve started on the tefilah portion being here this morning.

Teshuvah is a complicated concept to translate. Return. Repent. Reconcile. Repair.

Rosh Hodesh Elul provides us the opportunity to “get right with G-d”, to repair our relationship with G-d. I am not sure I like that language. Does our relationship to G-d need repairing? For most of us, probably not. We just sang in Hallel, “Pitchu li sha’arey tzedek, Open for me the gates of righteousness.” That’s what is emblazoned on our ark covering. And we are assured that the Gates of Righteousness are always open. For most of us our relationship with G-d probably suffers from benign neglect. It may be a symptom that our lives our somehow out of balance. This period of preparation provides the opportunity to get the balance back.

One way of working on that relationship with G-d is to study something. Many of you are newer and may not know that I wrote a book for these 40 days. Climbing Towards Yom Kippur, the 13 Attributes of the Divine. https://www.amazon.com/Climbing-Journey-Towards-Yom-Kippur/dp/150084585X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1534080863&sr=8-1&keywords=Climbing+Towards+Yom+Kippur

It provides an opportunity to read something short each day and then journal about it. It is based on the text of the 13 Attributes of the Divine, the very attributes that Moses learned on his journey back up Mount Sinai.

“But on this very first day of Elul, Moses was scared, exhausted and more than a little angry. He seeks some Divine reassurance from God — and he gets it. It is God who will go before him and lighten his burden, giving him rest.

The first questions of the book for you to write about or ponder are:

• What does it mean to you, to have God lighten your burden?
• What burden would you put down?
• What would you give up carrying?
• What does it mean to rest?”

This year, I am pleased to announce that two of my short essays are included in a brand new book, out just in time for this season of preparation. Earth Etudes for Elul, written and edited by my friend Rabbi Katy Allen. She looks to heal our relationship with the earth as we approach Rosh Hashanah, the birthday of the world. https://www.amazon.com/Earth-Etudes-Elul-Spiritual-Reflections/dp/0990536165/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1534080952&sr=1-1&keywords=Earth+Etudes

The Talmud teaches that for sins against G-d, Yom Kippur atones but for sins against another person Yom Kippur does not (Yoma 8:9) . This period of preparation then is also about getting our relationships right with the people around us, with the people who matter most. We ask forgiveness for those we have hurt—most of the time without meaning to. If we earnestly ask three times, the obligation is fulfilled and the issue then is with the person who had been wronged. This year we may need to look at how we heal those relationships in concentric circles. In our own households and families, with our friends, with our neighbors and even with the stranger, the sojourner who lives within our gates.

Sometimes, the work of healing relationships is very painful and is not accomplished before a loved one dies. Sometimes, we believe that our loved ones who have passed on can intercede in someway for us. That is why many have the tradition of returning to the cemetery either during Elul or between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. We have a tradition here of Kever Avot on the Sunday between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur at the Bluff City Cemetery.

Use this time period to “sort out difficult relationships (with people, organizations) that drain you of your creative energy. Think about what kind of closure you need in order to move forward into the next year.” (from Journey, A Journal of Jewish Feminism, published by Ma’yan: The Jewish Women’s Project.) That will also help provide some of the balance we seek.

Others have the tradition of studying. What could be more Jewish. Our administration has the tradition of reading This is Real and You are Completely Unprepared. https://www.amazon.com/dp/B000Q67H5E/ref=dp-kindle-redirect?_encoding=UTF8&btkr=1 I read it for the first time last year and will be reading it again now. I read How Good Do We Have To Be, by Harold Kushner, https://www.amazon.com/Good-Have-Understanding-Guilt-Forgiveness/dp/0316519332/ref=sr_1_fkmr1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1534082809&sr=8-3-fkmr1&keywords=how+good+is+good+enough+kushner …every single year.

This year, we have the opportunity to do some study together. One is a in-depth look at the Book of Jonah starting this afternoon after services. The other is a Hebrew class, Rosh Hashanah 101 so that the words of the prayers will be that much more meaningful and accessible.

Many people have the tradition of giving tzedakah at this season. One thing to examine is how we spend our time and money reflect your vision—your values and your priorities. As we examine each of these areas in our lives our balance is returned and we enter the new year refreshed and reinvigorated. When we hear the sounds of Kol Nidre on Erev Yom Kippur we can stand before the heavenly court and the earthly court and know that all of our vows from this year until the next year will be forgiven.