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Yizkor Pesach 5770 Rabbi Gaylia R. Rooks 5 April 2010
I hope you've had a wonderful, sweet, and fulfilling Passover. It's truly an amazing holiday, filled with such powerful symbols and rituals, and such touching memories. Pesach is the single most observed Jewish holiday of the year. More Jews were at a seder last week than were in a synagogue for Rosh HaShannah or Yom Kippur. And why? Because Pesach is the quintessential Jewish holiday. It appeals to the child in each one of us. It fills our need for connectedness and rootedness. It fills our souls with awe and appreciation. It fills our hearts with joy and song. It fills every one of our senses, especially that most Jewish sense: taste!
The power of taste and smell to bring memories to life is one of the great
wonders of this festival. From the bitterness of slavery found in horseradish to the sweetness of freedom in charoset, these are some of our most compelling memories as a people. And the traditional foods, melodies, and games of the seder recall tales of the more recent past, as well.
At Shabbat dinner this week at Temple we were telling stories of Pesach memories. I was asking people to share their favorite matzah ball memories. You see my Nana Rose, my mother's mother (alehah hashalom), was an amazing cook. Her matzah balls were so light, so fluffy we had to tie them down with strings to be sure they didn't just float away!!! And such flavor-mmmmm. When I was a child, my own mother attempted to make matzah balls with apparently much less success. Each time she tried, my father would taste them and say, "Not bad...not as good as MY mother's, but not bad....." My poor mother. Somehow we never quite recollected at those moments, that my father's mother, Nana Nancy (may she rest in peace), wasn't really a great cook. With four sons, she was what you would call a prolific cook, but not so much a good cook.
Well, I still remember the night when my mother was in a tizzy because for some reason (the moon and stars not being properly aligned), her matzah balls just didn't rise, or fluff, or whatever you call it that matzah balls do simmering in their sea of sweet chicken soup. These were more like golf balls, in size, shape, and density. Really, they were so hard, if they didn't break your foot on impact, they would bounce.
Two hours later we are all seated at the table ready for dinner. Comes the dreaded moment when my father (alav hashalom) cuts into one with his spoon. "Hmmmm" he says lifting the steaming broth surrounding a piece of matzah ball. He puts it in his mouth and slowly chews--an odd expression on his face. Then he slams his open hand down onto the kitchen table and exclaims: "Now THAT'S a matzah ball!"
Did I mention that his mother really wasn't a very good cook!!! But somehow, the best matzah balls are the ones like our mothers made, or our grandmothers!
One more quick story that actually surpasses my usual favorite about the Texas sized matzah balls with gravy I ate during my student pulpit experience in Texarkana (with fork and knife, mind you, never in soup). I heard this story just last Shabbat from Joe and Lois Fineman. Apparently their son was away from home for the first time during Pesach when he started studying at Yale University. Imagine how excited this young Louisville Jew was upon discovering that there in the cafeteria at school was chicken soup with matzah balls! It was going to be Passover after all! He sits down at the table, lifts his spoon, dips it into the broth and cuts into a piece of the little matzah ball. Salivating with anticipation he puts it into his mouth prepared to taste a little memory of home when....
uh! It was a gefilte fish ball!!!!!
I've been asking myself four new questions this Passover, starting with: Why is it that no one can make matzah balls like your mother's?
Why is it that the most famous Jewish recipes are often for Passover foods?
Why are some of our favorite Passover memories tied in with chopped liver or gefilte fish, tzimis, kugel or finding the afikomen?
And finally, why do we observe Yizkor on the festival of Pesach?
I think all of these questions are really tied together. Especially the ones about food. Traditionally all recipes get handed down from one generation to another, but there is something extra special about Passover recipes. They carry within them a unique challenge, the challenge of being a Passover recipe. After all, anyone can make good mandlebrot (or so I've been told). Cheesecake isn't that hard with its delicious graham cracker crust. But on Pesach, when you are limited by law as to the very ingredients that are permited, now that's a challenge! Foods that are kosher for Passover carry an inherent challenge within them; it's not so easy to make matzah balls rise or tasty Pesadike desserts. There are extra rules that make these foods extra special. And these rules for the recipes of Passover are Jewish rules that have been passed down from generation to generation, just like the Judaism of which they are a part. It's not just recipes that are being taught with the special challenges they entail, it's the Jewish challenge of creating a just and righteous system of living.
Far more than the rules and the recipes get handed down--the values of Passover get handed down, as well. We all know these values, we teach them and repeat them every year, just as we have been commanded, just as we heard in the Torah portion this morning. The poor bread--the bread of affliction that reminds us to provide so that "all who are hungry may come and eat." We are commanded to care for the needy and the poor, the hungry and the homeless.
Repeated more times than any other phrase in the entire Torah are the words, "you shall not oppress the stranger for you were strangers in the land of Egypt." We know what it means to be persecuted and oppressed and we are reminded again and again to treat the stranger who dwells among us as the home born. It's not just recipes that are being passed down through the generations of our people with the special challenges they entail, it's the values, a Jewish challenge of creating a world worthy of God's holy Presence. Last year we were slaves, next year may all be free; for as long as some are not free, we are, none of us free.
And so, to answer my fourth and final question: when we gather for the Passover seder and eat these special foods made with their special challenges, when we tell and retell these tales of liberation, participate in rituals that have been passed down throughout the generations of our people, what better time for Yizkor?
What better time to remember with gratitude those who taught these sacred lessons to us? Our grandparents and parents...What better time to remember with devotion those who once sat at the seder table with us as we relived the miraculous story of our deliverance? Our sisters and brothers, uncles and aunts, cousins and friends.....What better time to remember with love those who sang the songs of Dayeinu and Chad Gadya? Our husbands or wives, our loved ones, our life's partners, our precious children....
Yes, at this time of our rejoicing, our celebration of freedom, our thanksgiving for rebirth and renewal and redemption, we still choose to pass down one more challenge: the holy task of honoring the lives of those who have died. We remember them, each and every one, who added so much meaning to our lives. We remember them and give thanks for the love they shared with us and the memories they have bequeathed to us. We remember them and rededicate ourselves to passing on their stories and their values, their recipes and their faith in the goodness of this world. May this Yizkor bring warm and loving memories that mingle with Pesach tastes and smells and unique challenges--to build a world filled with justice and freedom for all God's children.
And let us say, Amen.
Yizkor Sermon for Pesach 5769
"Each Person Has a Name"
A Yizkor Sermon for Pesach 5769
Rabbi Gaylia R. Rooks
The prayer we just read was written by an Israeli prize winning poet called simply, Zelda. Born in the Ukraine on June 20, 1914, Zelda Schneersohn Mishkovsky came from an illustrious line of rabbis. Her father was the great, great, grandson of the third Lubavitcher Rebbe (Menachem Mendel Schneerson) and her mother was the descendant of a Sefardic dynasty that traced its roots back to 11th century Barcelona. They were among the founders of the Chabad movement of Chassidic Judaism.
Soon after 1925, when the family moved to Mandate Israel, she experienced the traumatic deaths of both her father and grandfather. Zelda attended a religious girl's school and became a well-known and highly respected teacher. One of her most famous students, Israeli novelist Amos Oz, relates having had a schoolboy crush on her.
It was not until 1967 that her first book of poetry was published but it was immediately embraced by both religious and secular readers. She drew on her deep-rooted knowledge of Judaism, her passion for Jewish mysticism, and a love of the Russian fairy tales from her youth. Her most famous awards include the Brenner Prize ('67), the national Bialik Prize ('77), and the coveted Wertheim Prize ('82).
Zelda married in 1950 but her husband died after only 21 years. They had no children.
What I love best about her poetry is the way she draws on the Bible, particularly the Psalms. Her deep familiarity with these poems of praise and supplication prepared her to relate to the Divine in meaningful and intimate ways. She also reveals her profound understanding of Jewish mysticism and draws heavily on images from the prophet Ezekiel and his mystical visions. The depth and breath of her religious education enabled her to embrace a contemplative style in the tradition of early Chabad Chassidism and she takes the reader with her as she delves into her search for the Divine in the world.
One of her hallmark features is found within her lyrical style: searching for inner meanings hidden within ordinary things and daily events. Zelda possesses a singular fluidity in her division between the emotional and reflective, the mundane and the holy. The integrity of her search for meaning invites us to join her in the sacred task of recognizing the Presence of God in the world.
The poem in our Siddur, "Each Person Has a Name," is called in Hebrew, "L'chol Ish Yeish Sheim." I first learned of it in the late 1970s when I was a student at Brandeis where I heard a version of it set to music on a record by my favorite female, Israeli vocalist, Chavah Alpershtein. The words were so compelling and moving, and more importantly, I could actually understand most of them. I'm still proud to say that I looked up the definitions of every word I didn't already know! But it was the meaning behind the simple vocabulary that captured me and that has made this into a lasting poem, worthy of inclusion in our new Mishkan Tefillah prayerbook.
Each person has a name given to them by God and given to them by their father and mother.
Well, we all know the name that our parents gave us, but what exactly does she mean about a name that God gave us? And we are immediately drawn into the contemplative. She invites us to consider what God our Creator might have chosen for a name for us at the very moment the breath of life, the Spark of the Divine, was breathed into us. And what that honor might require of us...
And what about the name that our parents gave to us? Were you named after someone in particular? Perhaps a relative that the family wanted to remember, even if it was someone you never personally knew. What traits of theirs might your parents have hoped you would inherit?
Each person has a name given to them by their height and the nature of their smile and given to them by what they wear.
But we cannot control our height, unless perhaps the deeper meaning is to stand up straight and tall, both figuratively and literally. Since it's Yizkor, I encourage everyone to consider these words not only as they apply to themselves, but also as they might apply to our loved ones who we remember at this sacred time. Our fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters, husbands or wives, grandparents and friends, even, painfully, sometimes our children or grandchildren....
So much can be expressed by the nature of our smiles. Remember how your loved one smiled. Broad and with lots of teeth showing or more closed mouth but with twinkling eyes? Let us pause to remember...
Each person has a name given to them by the hills and given to them by their walls.
This verse always makes me think about the line from the Psalms, "I lift my eyes unto the hills, from where will my help come? My help comes from Adonai, Maker of Heaven and Earth. The hills for me (and its the same word for mountain in Hebrew) always represent the lofty places of God's abode. "Who may ascend the mount of the Lord, who may stand in God's holy place?"
And walls, well, we all have walls. How much did our loved ones let us in behind their walls, and more importantly, how much did we allow them in beyond ours? We all have walls, boundaries, sheltering us and protecting us. This is natural and important, but if we use them as barriers to keep others out then we are doing ourselves a disservice. How can we ever truly touch and be touched by another person if our armor is so thick that we never let anyone in? Let us consider how the loved ones we remember on this Pesach day let us in to their hearts and their lives...
Each person has a name given to them by the stars (or constellations) and given to them by their neighbors.
I imagine there are those of us who pay attention to zodiac signs and horoscopes, but I believe that Zelda is using this word as a double entendre, for as we all know, mazal means luck. The question is, how do we view this concept of luck? Is it fate or do we make our own luck? This has a great deal to teach us at a Memorial Service, for we can either curse God for taking away those who have died, or we can thank God and feel how truly blessed we are to have had them in our lives for however long we were fortunate to share their love.
Each person has a name given to them by their sins and given to them by their yearnings.
We all have sins, we all have yearnings. And so did those who have died. Their virtues may grow larger with each passing year as our memory of their failings dwindles away, but its good to remember them as they really were, as God created them (and us)--not perfect, just trying hard to be better each and every day.
Each person has a name given to them by their enemies and given to them by their love.
Let's focus on love. Each one of us here has been loved by someone special. That's why we gather to recite Yizkor and Kaddish and honor their memories. They touched us by their love and we would not be who we are without it. This is a two-fold blessing: we ourselves are more able to give love to others because we have grown and flourished in the love that was given to us, and, of course, we can still feel their love if we but open our hearts "for love is stronger than death" and even the grave cannot sever the bond that love has created. (Song of Songs)
Each person has a name given to them by their holidays and given to them by their work.
Obviously we miss our loved ones most at holidays. How long has it been since we sat at the seder table with them? How much would we love to share each holy day and celebration?
As far as the name given to us by our work, it is clear that not only what we do but how we do it has a tremendous impact on that name. Its hard not to sermonize here, but I would be "preaching to the choir." I'll simply point out that those who have followed the tradition of not going to work, but rather joining a congregation in prayer to memorialize their loved ones, are the ones who not only honor them and their faith, but hopefully gain the blessing of feeling reconnected to them and to the Holy One, Blessed Be.
Each person has a name given to them by the seasons of the year and given to them by their blindness.
Seasons come and seasons go, but were were blessed by their love, and now their memories, winter, spring, summer, and fall. And was it their blindness to our faults and weakness that enabled them to love us unconditionally? Or our own blindness to the reality of human frailty, that sometimes stands in our way of experiencing true love and acceptance?
Each person has a name given to them by the sea and given to them by their death.
I find my self wondering if the Sea that Zelda is referring to, is the Sea of Reeds; the birth canal, if you will, from our slavery to our freedom.
Each person has a name given to them by the sea and given to them by their death.
As we pause now to consider these images, I encourage everyone to contemplate not only the name that death has given to your loved ones, but the name that death will one day give to you...
How do we live up to the best that our parents, grandparents, siblings, spouce, child... saw within us? How do we best honor their precious memory? By remembering that "each of us has a name", many names, and that there is no greater glory than "the imperishable crown of a good name."
We pause now for Yizkor, our private memorial prayers.
Where is the Ram?
Rabbi Gaylia R. Rooks Rosh HaShannah 5769
So, a Rabbi, a Priest, and a Minister are discussing their different beliefs regarding the eternal question: When does life begin? The Priest explains that Catholicism teaches life begins at the very moment of conception. The Minister says that in his Church they are taught that life begins as soon as there is a heartbeat. The Rabbi, shrugs and answers that among the Jews the belief is widely held that life begins when the dog dies and the kids go off to college !
Last Thanksgiving, our 17 year old puppy, Lailah, died, and just last month, our "baby", Lev, who is 6 feet tall, dark and handsome, entered the class of 2012 at Centre College. That's right, Rabbi Rapport and I have just entered (kicking and screaming, I might add!) the ranks of the "empty nesters." We are undeniably caught up in the contemplation of parenting and the delicate balance of relationships between family generations.
I wanted to let you all know about Lev's success because I remember so clearly the outpouring of love and support we received after we gave our joint Yom Kippur sermon sharing our struggles since he had been diagnosed with Autism.
At the Weiskopf Child Evaluation Center they refer to our son as "the miracle child" and of course, we agree! After all these years of speech therapy, occupational therapy, and intensive effort on all our parts, Lev is a remarkable young man who is sweet, kind, bright, very verbal, and becoming more social as each year passes. Will he need some accommodations at college? Yes. Did they ever imagine he would leave home and go off to college? No! And so we celebrate this remarkable accomplishment, even as we suffer with the adjustment to "letting our baby go."
Did you ever notice how much our personal lives relate to Biblical characters and how our own individual struggles are so clearly connected to historical Jewish and spiritual issues? Our recent "transition" reminded me so vividly of the Torah portion "Lech Lecha"-- when God tells Abraham and Sarah to leave their home, the place of their birth, their family , and go off on a journey that would mark the beginnings of all three of the world's major religions. As we prepared to send Lev off to Centre College, that was the Biblical story that spoke to me.
But now that he has left, and now that the High Holy Days are here, it occurs to me that while Lech Lecha may perhaps be Lev's portion for this passage in our lives, the portion for my journey is the one that Jews all across the world will be reading tomorrow for Rosh HaShanah, the Binding of Isaac, the Akeidah. A powerful story that for generations has left children terrified, parents appalled, and rabbis struggling to find hidden meanings that lie deep beneath the surface of the tale.
Allow me to summarize and refresh your memories. All their lives, Abraham and Sarah wanted only one thing...a son, an heir, a successor, the assurance of their continuity, their immortality. But that was the one thing denied to them. God promises to make their descendants as numerous as the sands on the shore and the stars in the sky...but all Sarah and Abraham want is a child. God will change their names from Sarai to Sarah and Avram to Avraham -- the father of many nations...but all they want is a son. And with each passing year, the desire and expectation only intensifies.
Finally, Isaac is born -- the miracle son of Abraham's beloved 90-year-old Sarah. Isaac -- the child of laughter. And then one day, Abraham hears God call to him to sacrifice his son, his only son, the one he loves, his Isaac. Abraham saddles his donkey early in the morning and takes the boy and the knife and the wood, along with two servants, and heads off toward the wilderness. The traditional midrash has many legends about what happened during their travels, but most agree that Abraham must have been plagued by doubt. Would God really ask him to offer up the child of his old age? The Biblical account simply says that he continued on his journey for three days. In my own midrash, I can't help but wonder if he spent much of the time (for Isaac was an extraordinary child) reflecting on how much he had learned from his son: to see the world through different eyes and count blessings in unexpected ways. I believe that the only things that sustained him were his love for his son, his faith in the Eternal One and the promise God had made that his descendants, through Isaac, would be a large and blessed nation.
The terse telling in the Torah continues: As father and son begin to climb Mt. Moriah, Isaac looks at the wood for the altar, sees the knife for the sacrifice, and asks his father, "Where is the ram for the offering?" And Abraham, the man of God, responds gently, "God will see to the ram, my son." When they reach the top he binds the boy, and sets the wood, and raises the knife. And at that crucial moment when both the Holy One and Abraham our father know for certain that he actually has perfect faith, and believes that God will somehow guide them safely home, an angel calls out to stop him saying: "Lay not your hand upon the boy!"
And then the text says: "Abraham lifted up his eyes and saw, and behold, there in the thicket was a ram with its horns caught in the branches." Amazing! Where did this ram come from? How did it happen to be caught just in the right way, in the necessary place, at just this momentous time?
Pirkei Avot, the Sayings of our Ancestors, contains a fascinating list of special, miraculous things that were formed on the last day of Creation just moments before the beginning of Shabbat. They are unique creations that can't be explained in any rational or scientific way but that God knew would one day be needed in the world (Pirkei Avot, 5:8). On this list of miraculous things we find, for example, Miriam's Well that followed us on our journey through the wilderness to provide us with sustenance along our way. Forty years we wandered in the desert, always worried about food and drink, and yet God had prepared for this since the beginning of time. Miriam's Well offered more than just lifesaving drink, the sweet water was a living symbol of God's Presence among the people; a continual reassurance that we could trust Adonai, our Creator to protect us and provide for us always.
What else can be found on this list of incredible items created just before dusk on the last day of Creation? Lev's favorite is "the first pair of tongs." He studies blacksmithing with our member, Craig Kaviar, and, true son of two rabbis, contemplates possibilities of how the very first pair of tongs could be created without a pair of tongs to help make them! By the way, it wasn't until after we named Lev that we found out he would be carrying the same name as his great-great-grandfather, Leib de Shmidt, Lev the Blacksmith....
But the answer to our question about the "Binding of Isaac" may also be found on that list in Pirkei Avot, because one incredible item of the fourteen miracle creations is "The ram for Abraham our father." And therein may lie the lesson. Each year on Rosh HaShannah we read the awe-filled story of Abraham preparing to follow God's command and sacrifice his beloved son. Each year rabbis struggle with the age old challenge to find deeper meaning in the Akeidah, the Binding of Isaac. There have been volumes of midrash explaining and re-explaining this story that our tradition has intentionally assigned to be read on the holy day of the New Year.
Was it really a test of Abraham's faith? Doesn't God know everything and already realize what the outcome would be? And if it is meant as a test to prove to Abraham himself just how much he trusts in God, isn't that rather suspect since God had already promised him that Isaac would carry on the line and spread out like the sands of the sea & the stars of the sky?
But perhaps our story is not really about Abraham. Perhaps in reality, it is meant for us. We who may not have the perfect faith of Abraham our father. Let's return to the text. Just at the moment when Abraham raises the knife, the voice of an angel calls out to stop him. The Torah tells us that ?Abraham lifted his eyes and saw a ram caught in the thicket and so sacrificed the ram in place of his son'. We know that this is part of the origin of our tradition to sound the ram's horn to bring in the New Year. And this ram had been there waiting for this very moment ever since the time of Creation.
But what if the miracle in this story is not in the ram itself? What if the miracle is not that the ram was where it was exactly when it needed to be there. What if the real miracle in our story was actually in Abraham? Our verse says Abraham "lifted up his eyes," and saw something that he hadn't noticed before- a ram caught in the briars, in the thickets. Perhaps before that moment he was so focused on his dreadful task that he couldn't see the opportunity that was there, right nearby, in plain sight, before his very eyes. Abraham had to redirect not only his hand- away from his son- but also his perception- away from the idea that God really demanded such an awful sacrifice. With this understanding of our verse and the midrash on it, the miracle of the great Rosh HaShannah story is that Abraham is able to undergo a change of spiritual understanding just in time, and see alternatives just at the moment he is most "caught by the horns" in a horrible situation.
What a powerful lesson into our own potential to grow in understanding and insight, finding miracles to be grateful for even under the most dire of circumstances. While the list of mysterious creations includes this very ram caught by its horns, it does not mean to suggest only that the ram was always there. The thought is completed by the part of the verse that says, "Abraham lifted up his eyes." The miracle is not that the ram was always there, so God never intended for Abraham to really kill Isaac, the miracle was in the ability to see the ram, to perceive the better choice. And these kinds of miracles can be understood as the deeper and yet more ordinary kind of miracles, if we would only "lift up our eyes" and really see.
But lifting our eyes takes a conscious effort and a desire to change, to be aware, to learn new ways of seeing. Why is it that we don't see the ram in the first place if it really is right before our eyes? We walk the same narrow path year after year. We see our world through the same pair of jaded eyes focused on the mundane. In reality, we are not truly looking for the opportunities and grandeur God has indeed placed just within our field of vision.
My favorite rabbi, Lawrence Kushner, wrote that the miracle of the Burning Bush is not that it burned and was not consumed. The real miracle is that Moses noticed it at all. Just how long would you need to look at a bush burning in the desert in order to notice that it wasn't actually burning up? That, Rabbi Kushner teaches, is the real miracle in the story. That Moses paid attention enough to even notice. And we, in our overprogrammed, instant-messaging, micro-wave world, are so busy multi-tasking we are even less likely than before to notice the miracles that daily surround us.
What a powerful message for us all that we reinforce each year when we come to Temple for Rosh HaShannah. There are miracles all around us, if we would but "lift up our eyes" and notice them. Another one of my favorite rabbis, Chester B. Diamond, always says that his most beloved reading in the old, blue "Gates of Prayer" is the one that says: "Days pass and the years vanish, and we walk sightless among miracles. Lord, fill our eyes with seeing and our minds with knowing...Help us to see, wherever we gaze, that the bush burns unconsumed." (GOP p. 373)
The miracle of change can happen in an instant. The ram is always there, if we will but lift up our eyes. And that is the most important lesson for us to learn as we enter this New Year because that is how we might truly change our lives. That is the process of forgiveness, healing and transformation. We always discover miracles when we lift up our eyes and really see. And this is true in each and every life. For in the end, the opportunity for change is always there, just like the ram.
What is asked of me, of you, of us, on Rosh Hashanah before Yom Kippur? To recognize the blessings of the Holy One and our ability to make a difference not only in our own lives but in the lives of those around us: our families, our congregation, our community, our world. Seize the sanctity of this moment. Break the impasse. Break down anger. Break through stubbornness. Open your heart, open your mouth. Offer the first call to an estranged friend or relative. Initiate the first piercing of the wall of silence. Reconcile--with yourself and others. That may be a better term than forgiveness. Seek to reconcile. Bend.
Bend! Dare to bend. The curvature of the Shofar is kafuf, it is bent, to teach us to bend our stubbornness and our pride. The sound of the Shofar includes shevarim, the sobbing staccato of broken notes to remind us that tshuvah, repentance, the road to reconciliation, is a process, a series of steps. The sound of the Shofar is broken for in God's eye nothing is more whole than a broken heart.
It is Rosh HaShannah, the New Year. Ten Days before the Day of Days, the Day of Awe. What is asked of us during these ten days of tshuvah, of repentance and return? Only to lift up our eyes to the possibility of change. To take ourselves seriously. To realize that the power of reconciliation is in our hands, in our heart, and in our mouth to do it. This is our sacred task that we might enter the Day of Atonement really ready to be forgiven because we have already learned forgiveness. Just as the twisted shofar has the most beautiful tone, when we turn on our path from the straight road that was leading us away from a life of holiness, we become like the ram's horn. And the breath of life, the Spirit of Adonai, blows through us and calls us and others around us, to a new and better future.
Recently while meditating after my son left for college, the text that came to me was from the Book of Psalms (118), "Zeh hayom asah Adonai. This is the day Adonai has made." My mantra to everyone who asks about Lev has been, "This is what we've been working for and praying for all these years.
"Zeh hayom asah Adonai, This is the day Adonai has made, let us rejoice and be glad." And yes, of course, we are glad. We are thrilled. "This is the day Adonai has made," and today is That Day for all of us. "This is "The Day" Adonai has made. Rosh HaShannah, the beginning of a New Year. Let us take hold of it. Let us realize that the ram and other miraculous creations are right here within our field of vision if we would only see. God is eternally Present for us. Healing comes with forgiveness. New possibilities and life-giving alternatives await us every where we look.
On this New Year of 5769, may we truly lift up our eyes and see the possibilities for renewal and reconciliation. Let us seize the day; make it count. May the New Year be filled with love, hope and new vision, reconciliation and forgiveness, joy and peace. Amen.
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