Remembering the Rainbow: Noah.22

 Remembering the Rainbow

D’var Torah for Parashat Noah

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

October 26, 2022

Every season has its beauty, often expressed through colors. But the most wondrous of all natural phenomena is undoubtedly the rainbow. The rainbow is more than beautiful colors, however. It awakens in us a sense of awe and wonder. It stirs feelings of hope and gratitude. Yet at the same time, rainbows also bring up memories of dark clouds and storms. In the story of Noah and the flood (this week’s Torah portion, Noah, Genesis 6:9—11:32), the rainbow assumes yet another meaning: it stands for God’s promise never again to destroy all life. 

God establishes a covenant (b’rit) with Noah, the first of three that the Torah speaks of. The second covenant will be with Abraham, the third with Moses.

For God’s part in this covenant, God reaffirms Creation, establishing it forever. In our text, this is symbolized by the use of the number seven. Just as this number appears in the first story of creation, so it reappears in this portion to reinstate existence following its near annihilation. It is on “the seventh day” that the flood begins; on the 17th day of the 7th month does Noah’s ark come to a rest on top of Mount Ararat. Seven days Noah waits for the return of the dove with the olive branch in its beak. And then there are the seven (visible) colors of the rainbow. 

Throughout the Torah, the number seven symbolizes God’s Presence and involvement in all that exists. The story of Noah’s Flood is more than about God’s anger—it is also about the possibility of forgiveness and redemption

But in return for God’s promise, God expects something back from us. Grace is not a one-way street. For the first time, God establishes a moral code for all humanity, with the expectation that, as our role in the covenant, we live by it. The early rabbis deduced seven commandments from the blessings that were given to Noah and his descendants. Known as the Noahide Laws, these are:

    1. Establish courts of law.

    2. Do not practice idolatry.

    3. Do not curse God.

    4. Do not engage in forbidden sexual relations.

    5. Do not murder.

    6. Do not rob.

    7. Do not eat flesh from a living animal.

The rainbow that appears at the end of the flood signifies more than God’s oath: It reminds us of our moral obligations. Extending from one end of infinity to the other, it signifies the eternal bond that exists between us and the Creator, recalling to us not only the fear of the storm, but also of our sacred role in the ongoing process of Creation.

In the Jewish tradition, it is customary to say a blessing upon seeing a rainbow: Baruch ata Adoani, Eloheinu Melech ha’olam, zocheir ha-brit v’ne’eman bivrito v’kayam b’ma-amarav: “Blessed are You, Adonai our God, Eternal Sovereign of the Universe, who remembers the Covenant, is faithful to the Covenant, and keeps His promise.” It’s our way of saying, “Thank you for this message of hope; just as you remember, so do we, too, remember to follow your path and observe your commandments.”

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

 

Lessons For God’s Children: Bereishit.22

 Lessons For God’s Children

D’var Torah for Parashat Bereishit

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

October 19, 2022

The first parasha of the Torah, Bereishit (“In the Beginning,” Genesis 1:1—6:8) is possibly the most controversial portion in the entire Torah. Fundamentalists read it literally: This is how the world—and humanity—came to be. Others see it as a collection of stories—allegories—meant to explain not so much the “how” of Creation, but rather, the “why.”

Though the section of the portion that describes the Six Days of Creation is filled with active verbs (among them: God saw, God formed, God spoke, God called and of course God made), there is really no explanation of how—the method or means—that God used to make it all happen.

That is because the purpose of these stories is not to be an engineering DIY manual. They are there solely to demonstrate God’s power. Only God—by speech or thought—has the power to create something from nothing; and only God can instill the spirit (ru’ach) of life into inanimate matter and cause it to live. 

The story of Creation is the prelude to everything that follows. The big question it raises however, is Why. What is God’s reason for Creation, and why does God create Human Beings.

In fact, it seems that God had some second thoughts about this last part of Creation. “Na’aseh adam,” “Let us create Man,” God says before actually pulling together some mud for the project (see Chapter 2, a variance from the version given in Chapter 1). From the get-go, the Rabbis inquire to whom God is speaking. Why the “let us?” Who is arguing with God? And anyway, why does God need to consult with anyone about God’s intentions?

The hesitation seems to come from some misgivings about Humanity. According to Midrash, it is the angels who try to talk God out of this plan. “You know what they will be like,” the angels argue. “You know they will cause you to regret your decision.”

And yet God persists.

Why?

Perhaps it was out of loneliness. “One is the loneliest number,” say the lyrics of the song “One” by Harry Nilsson. Or maybe it was God’s need to be recognized. After all, what is a king without subjects to recognize his power? 

Or perhaps it was out of love and longing, the same powerful force that motivates us to give life and love to our children. God demonstrates a parent’s true purpose and role. It is powerful love that causes God to engage in the act of Creation.

The Torah represents only the beginning of Jewish thought. Yet within it lies the entirety of Jewish faith: God’s unity; God’s love; and God’s expectation that we, human beings, God’s children, prove ourselves worthy of God’s call to carry on the sacred work of Creation. 

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

Mission and Blessing: V’zot Ha-Bracha.22

Mission and Blessing: V’zot Ha-Bracha

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

October 12, 2022

By some calendar coincidence—or perhaps intentionally—V’zot Ha-Bracha (“This Is the Blessing,” Deuteronomy 33:1—34:12), the last portion of the Torah, is not read on Saturday, but rather on whatever day of the week the holiday of Simchat Torah (Rejoicing with the Torah) occurs. Special readings for the holiday of Sukkot are read instead on the Sabbath during the Festival of Booths (Tabernacles).

It is fitting that the Torah concludes with Moses blessing the Tribes of Israel. In this, Moses follows the example set by the Patriarch Jacob at the conclusion of the first book of the Torah, Genesis.

But there are differences. Jacob is careful to bless his children in order of their birth. Moses seems to have a different agenda in mind. The tribe of Shimon is left out altogether. Reuven is given his fair share as the eldest, but he is immediately followed by Judah—the most numerous and powerful of the tribes. The Levites are recognized for their role in the ritual practices of the People of Israel, and so are the other tribes, each according to their strengths and contributions. Joseph (represented by the tribes of Efraim and Menashe) is given an extra portion of the blessings, in appreciation for his role as savior and protector of his family and people.

For various reasons, this portion is particularly difficult to understand, and many interpretations have been offered throughout the centuries. It is likely that Moses had in mind the role that each tribe would be playing during the next phase of Israel’s history—its establishment as a nation in its own land. 

In any case, the last part of V’zot Ha-Bracha is the most poignant. Moses is commanded by God to climb Mt. Eber—on the eastern shore of the Jordan River—where he is given the privilege of viewing the entirety of the Promised Land. He himself will not be allowed to enter the Land. The role of leadership will be passed on to Joshua. 

Moses’s burial place is unknown. His role in both Jewish and world history is not contained by any physical marker. His contribution goes beyond any specific bounds of time and place. The Torah is his gift to humanity; its lessons are infinite and ageless. Story and myth, vision and poetry embody moral lessons that transcend history itself.

The Torah is more than the story of the origin of the Jewish People. It marks a path towards a future where people—all people—treat one another with dignity and respect, with love and gratitude. A vision of the world as it can be, the Torah is more than a dream. It shows us a path to holiness. It acts as both guide and map to making the world a better place. For 3000 years the Torah has provided spiritual strength and sustenance to the Jewish People. Carrying it in our midst and ensuring that future generations will learn from it and then pass it on is both our mission and our blessing.

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

 

For Our Children and Their Children After Them: Haazinu.22

 For Our Children and Their Children After Them

D’var Torah for Parashat Ha-azinu

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

October 6, 2022

Ha-azinu (“Listen,” Deuteronomy 32:1-52) is also known as The Song of Moses. A beautiful poem with stunning imagery, this portion presents yet another warning for the Israelites to obey God’s mitzvot (commandments) even after they have settled and grown comfortable in the Promised Land.

The common saying, that there is no atheist in a foxhole, is true. When all hope seems to be gone, only faith has the power to lift us up. The opposite, however, is also true. When danger seems to dissipate, we grow too comfortable, forgetting the dangers that are always there. “Jeshurun grew fat and kicked” (Deut. 32:15) is how Moses foresees the future of the people. Having gained control of the Land and reaped its fruit, Israel is destined to forget God’s ways and even rebel against God. The consequences are sure to follow—God’s anger will flare up, and the People will be dispersed from their Land.

Moses calls up the mountains and the heavens as witness to God’s faithfulness. He also reminds the people to heed the lessons of the past—how God saved them from the Egyptians and guided them across the desert to the Promised Land: “As an eagle awakens its nest, hovering over its fledglings, it spreads its wings, taking them and carrying them on its pinions” (Deut. 32:11). No bird carries its young on its wings; it shelters them beneath its wings. However, God provides shelter from below, warding off the danger presented the enemies down on the ground who may be shooting their arrows upward in an effort to destroy God’s chosen people.

For many of us, this vision, poetic and grand as it is, brings up doubts and misgivings. There have been too many times when this promise failed to materialize. 

While these questions persist, the long-range view gives us a different perspective. The Song of Moses was written about two and a half millennia ago. And yet we—the descendants of Moses and the ancient Israelites—are still here. With all the uncertainty that sometimes clouds our vision, the real proof of the truth of God’s promise is our miraculous survival through history. 

Ha-azinu, this week’s Torah portion, calls God the rock and foundation of all that exists. It is our faith and trust in God that keeps us going, no matter what.

Maybe it’s the precarious nature of life itself that has us holding on to the promise that God will always be there for us. Maybe it’s the richness of the teaching that the Torah offers, lending meaning, beauty and purpose during times when life seems both meaningless and futile. 

Whatever the reason, the Jewish faith persists to this day, as does the Jewish People.

At the end of this beautiful portion, God commands Moses to climb up Mount Eber—the last mountain Moses will ascend. From this peak, Moses will see the Promised Land, yet he will not enter it. So we, too, on rare occasions, are granted a glimpse of the future. Like Moses, we may not be able to witness the moment of the crossing over. But we are filled with faith that, as long as we teach the word of God to our children, at some point in their future, they will be granted this reward.

It is this hope that keeps us steady in our beliefs, that at some unspecified moment in the future, our descendants will reap the rewards of God’s promise. And so we take whatever small steps we can to help them reach that point. It’s the least we can do for our children and for their children after them.

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

Zionism: Making History. Yom Kippur.22

 Zionism: Making History

Sermon for Yom Kippur 5783

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Oct. 5, 2022

In a rare outing from his cluttered office, Albert Einstein and his wife once went to the mountains for a week of camping. On the first night, after pitching their tent, they ate a sumptuous dinner and drank a good bottle of wine. Then they wished each other good night and went to sleep. After a few hours, Mrs. Einstein wakes up and elbows her husband to wakefulness. “My dear husband,” she says, “look up to the sky and tell me what you see.” “Millions of stars,” answers the professor. “And what does that tell you?” his wife asks.” Einstein thinks for a moment. Then, in an effort to impress his wife, he says, “From an astronomer’s point of view it means that there are millions of galaxies, and potentially billions of planets. Chronologically speaking, I would estimate that it is nearly 3 am. Theologically, I understand that God is all-mighty and we humans are puny and insignificant. And from a meteorological perspective I would predict that tomorrow will be a fine, sunny day. But—” continues the esteemed physicist, “what do you see, my dear wife?” Mrs. Einstein waits a moment and then responds: “My dear husband, from one day to the next you are becoming more and more of an idiot. Our tent was stolen!”

Sometimes, caught up in the details of life, we neglect to see the obvious. Caught up with the life of our diverse communities, dispersed all over the world, we Jews sometimes forget that our homeland, Israel, was stolen from us.

Destroyed by the Romans and then run over by one occupying empire after another, for centuries the Land of our Ancestors was left bereft, overgrazed by nomadic tribes, forsaken and abandoned to the ravages of time. The Moslem hordes that overran the land in the 6th century killed or held for ransom most of those Jews who remained, forcing others to convert to Islam. Riding under the banner of the Cross, the Crusaders “washed the streets of Jerusalem with rivers of blood.” Under the Ottoman Turks, Israel became a cultural and economic backwater, traversed by dusty trade caravans, its holy sites visited only by pilgrims, while corrupt, absentee landlords leased any part of the Land that they could to impoverished villagers and goat herders. 

For two thousand years, the Land of Israel was left in ruins, a lesson as it were, for the people who—as our enemies clamored—abandoned and rejected God. 

Only after the British became trustees of the Land, at the end of World War One, did the Land of Israel begin its modern transformation. 

Various dynamics colluded to bring about this change: Empires that had existed for hundreds of years were falling apart, replaced by nationalism—a political and cultural philosophy that inspired, among others, the Jewish People to reclaim their legacy and heritage. Deadly pogroms in eastern Europe and, simultaneously, the rise of anti-Semitism in western Europe, awakened many to the need for self-defense. Some came to Israel, purchasing from the Turkish landowners malaria-infested swamps and non-arable land for exorbitant prices, hoping to reclaim the land by the sweat of their brow.

At the same time, an assimilated Jewish reporter for a Viennese newspaper, Theodor Herzl, was sent to Paris, France, to report on the infamous Dreyfus Affair. Herzl was transformed by the anti-Semitic riots he witnessed there. He realized that assimilation, a process that he himself was part of, would not lead to greater acceptance of the Jews, and so from journalism Herzl turned to political activism. Herzl began to advocate a mass exodus of Jews from Europe, and, three years later, in 1897, succeeded in convening the First Zionist Congress. Two hundred participants came from seventeen countries, and political Zionism was launched on its historical course.

This version of Zionism, however, was not the first. The term Zion means “landmark,” and for thousands of years a hilltop named Zion in the Judean mountains was designated as a fortress and lookout point, overseeing the lucrative southern trade route between Asia and Africa. For one thousand years, re-named Jerusalem, it became the capital, seat of government and ritual, of the Kingdom of Judah and the Jewish People.

After the destruction of Judea by the Romans, Zionism became less of a political idea, and more of a spiritual one. Over the centuries, Jewish pilgrims would visit the ruins of the Holy Land. Some chose to stay, establishing communities in what became known as the Four Holy Cities: Jerusalem, Hebron, Tiberias and Safed—where, in the 1500’s Rabbi Isaac Luria, the ARI— “the Lion,” founder of the teaching known as Kabbalah—settled along with hundreds of the followers 

Throughout this time, periods of peaceful co-existence alternated with pogroms, anti-Semitic riots and forced expulsion. By the time Herzl began working for the reestablishment of a Jewish state in Israel, the Jewish communities in the Holy Land were impoverished and living in constant peril for their lives.

Theodor Herzl’s vision of the massive return of the Jews to their homeland was not going to be easy to achieve, Herzl knew that. He envisioned a land where Jews and Arabs toiled together to make the land prosper; where they would live together in peace, in the knowledge that only through their combined effort would the effort be successful. 

But Herzl realized that there would be political challenges—including the fact that the Ottoman Turkish Empire was still in control of the Land. There would also be theological problems, and so Herzl turned to Pope Pius X. But after their meeting, the Pope issued his final say: “The Jews have not recognized our Lord; we therefore cannot recognize the Jewish people.” 

Then too, the British were stirring up Arab nationalists, hoping to gain their loyalty in the war against Turkey. It was important for Zionism, too, to gain British recognition, and Britain was only too happy to play both parties off against each other.

The modern conflict between Jews and Arabs became inevitable. Periodic local violence turned to skirmishes and then a series of all-out wars. Yet throughout the entire process of establishing a Jewish state in the Land of Israel, most notably in 1922 and1947, at Camp David in 1978 and Oslo in 1993, the Jews offered to share the land between the two peoples—offers that Arab leaders rejected over and over again. It became clear that the fight was never about borders, territories, or settlements. It was all about the Jews’ right to settle in Israel, and Israel’s right to exist.

The wars that Israel fought guaranteed the State’s survival, and the government turned its attention to the main purpose of political Zionism: to gather the exiles. Israel became a shelter for Jews from all over the world. They came from Europe, refugees of the Shoah. They came from every place where Jews lived in fear of persecution: Russia, Latin America, and countries under Moslem and Arab control.

With each new wave of immigrants, the reborn State of Israel came alive again, and as it took giant steps forward, it instilled new-found pride among Jews around the world. The ‘60’s and ‘70’s in America were a haven for young American Jews finding their identity and liberty. 

Since the Six Day War, and particularly after the Yom Kippur War, as the Arabs realized that wars against a Jewish state in Israel couldn’t be won, they turned to terrorism. And when that didn’t work either, they turned to public opinion, through politically motivated news coverage, the BDS campaign, and of course the Internet.

As the Arab narrative took hold, it found support among new-old adherents. Anti-Zionists joined up with more traditional anti-Semites. The rise we’ve seen in anti-Semitic acts over the past few years is fed both by traditional hatred and by Islamic fervor. The two have become inseparable. Anti-Zionism IS anti-Semitism. Both profess the same philosophy of hate, denial and refusal: hate for the Jews; refusal to recognize the validity of our religion; and the denial of our inalienable right and responsibility—rights given to every other nation and group in the world—to determine the course of our history. 

Today, Zionism isn’t only about Israel. It is about Israel’s legitimate place among the nations, yes; but it’s also about the right of the entire Jewish People—wherever they are, in Israel or the Diaspora—to self-determination and self-defense. 

For more than 3000 years, Zion and Jerusalem have stood at the heart of our existence as a people. Today, Zion is no longer just a barren mountain overlooking a dusty trade route. Zionism is more than a dream. It’s a plan of action, meant to ensure the continuity of Jewish life through the ages. Today, perhaps more than at any time since the Romans destroyed Jerusalem 2000 years ago, it is our duty and responsibility, for our own sake as well as for all future generations, to protect the historical and cultural landmark that it is. Our ongoing existence depends not only on our determination to continue practicing our faith, traditions and way of life; but also on our commitment to defend and protect the State of Israel from all its enemies, all those whose sworn covenant calls for Israel’s destruction by war or public opinion.

May 5783 be a year of security and peace for Israel and all Jews, and may we be counted among those who make this prayer come true.

G’mar chatimah tova—may we all be sealed in the Book of Life for a joyous, healthy and sweet New Year. Amen.

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

A Legacy to Live By: Kol Nidrei.22

 A Legacy to Live By

Sermon for Kol Nidre Eve

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

October 4, 2022

[To the Congregation:] With your permission, I would like to dedicate the following remarks to my grandson, Zev Simon, also called by his Hebrew name, Avraham Ze’ev ben Yonatan.

Dear Zevi:

One year ago tomorrow, on the afternoon of Yom Kippur, the most sacred day in the Jewish year, you came into our life, and you immediately captured our hearts. Watching you grow and develop has been a constant source of love and delight. Your most recent achievement has been mastering the art of walking—though not yet without the occasional stumble. As you will see, life is like that. It’s full of challenges, and once in a while we stumble. So, as you learn to negotiate the curves along the road, I would like to offer a few tips that will help you remain steady on your feet.  

Your parents named you Zev, after my father, z”l (of blessed memory). My father was the sole survivor of his family—the others were all murdered by the Nazis during the Shoah. Never one to give in to despair, he took upon himself the responsibility of rebuilding family and nation. An ardent lover of Israel, my father was on a flimsy boat that ran the British blockade, and on a dark night in April 1939 arrived on the shores of the Land of Israel. He found his way to a kibbutz, where, during the next few years, he helped build homes, pave roads and plant orchards. Together with your Savta Ruth—your great-grandmother Ruth—they built a home where they raised my brother and me. My father served in the Israel Defense Force, and later taught Hebrew, Jewish history, literature and Bible to generations of young men and women. 

My father’s name, Zev, means “wolf,” and while in some cultures the animal is associated with witchcraft, in others it carries the more positive connotations of bravery, loyalty, curiosity, intelligence, and a passion for freedom—all traits that my father possessed. And it’s these qualities we hope you will cultivate within yourself as you become the person you already are—and are still meant to become.

In some Jewish communities, a child is introduced to Hebrew at the age of five, or sometimes even younger. However, I’ve spoken and sung to you in Hebrew from that first day that you came into our lives. Today, one year later, your language skills are progressing beautifully. You love books and are quickly learning that everything has a name. Or two. One in Hebrew, one in English. You’ve always loved the English alphabet song. Now it’s time that you learned some of the Hebrew as well.

You are still young, and it’s almost your bedtime, so I won’t try to cover the entire set of Hebrew letters. I’m going to focus only on the first three: aleph, bet and gimmel. 

Now, Hebrew is different from most other languages. Not only does each letter have a sound, its name carries an image or idea that, like a seed, grows and develops, all the while carrying with it its original meaning and message.

Take Aleph, the first letter. Aleph signifies a ram, projecting confidence and excellence. It conveys authority and power while also reminding us that a true leader does not impose their will on others, but rather leads by teaching or setting an example. Words that stem from this letter include ulpan—a school for the intensive study of Hebrew; l’aleph—to teach or to train; and aluf—a champion (and also a general in the army).

Now, your dad is a swim and diving coach, and I’m sure that at least in his heart he hopes that one day you might become aluf—a medal-winning champion. For myself, however, I would be just as happy if you grow to know and be yourself, confident of your skills and abilities, and that you dedicate yourself in the best way you can to bettering yourself and the world around you. You will always be an aluf in my eyes.

Bet is the second letter in the Hebrew aleph-bet. Its name comes from the Hebrew word for house or home, bayit. Your home is where your family is. It is the place where you will always find love and support.

A home is a shelter not only for people, but also for things that are important. A home—bayit—can become a school—beit-sefer—if you fill it with books and learning.

Some say that the word for “book,” sefer, in beit-sefer, refers to the Torah, the book of the Jewish People. But there are also other books: books of general knowledge; books that will open your eyes to the wonders of nature; that will teach you about yourself, and which will provide you with the tools you will need to hone a skill. Let your home, too, be a beit-sefer—a shelter for books and knowledge. 

Bayit—a home—can also turn into a beit-knesset. That’s what this place is [gesture around]: A temple or synagogue. Since our earliest days, beit-knesset is where the Jewish People have always gathered to pray and study our texts. It’s where we come together to learn about our traditions and celebrate them. We come here to rejoice and, at times of sorrow and mourning, to be here for one another. Home of the Torah and other sacred texts, Beit-knesset is where we come for guidance, comfort and companionship. It’s our home, the place where the Jewish People’s heart has always resided. 

Gimmel, the third letter, comes from the ancient word for camel. In many places around the world, the camel was—and still is—used to transport people and cargo. Caravans would bring goods from one place to another, in return for money or other commodities. The letter gimmel has thus come to mean to share or trade, to offer and receive in return.  

In Judaism, g’millut chasadim, a concept that derives from this letter and meaning, is considered one of the most praiseworthy mitzvot, Commandments. The term describes acts of trust and loving-kindness: extending a hand to the needy; giving shelter, or sharing a meal or an item of clothing that we no longer need. Living a life of g’millut chasadim means that just as we offer kindness, so we can expect to receive it in return. G’millut chasadim is the building block of society; it’s the keystone to creating a better world. 

Each letter in the Hebrew aleph-bet contains a message, a lesson that will prove valuable in your life. But we learn best of all from our own experience, and from the people that we meet along our many paths.

Just a few months ago your Abba and Daddy took you to meet my mother, z”l, in Israel. There is a photo that was taken during that visit, a photo that captures a very special moment in your interaction with your Savta Ruth, your great-grandmother Ruth. As you look into each other’s eyes, a river of love and understanding flows unimpeded between you. In a show of caring and trust, your hand reaches out to her, and she is poised to take it in hers. It was a moment when trust and blessing met, one going out to meet the other.

My mother had many qualities: She was kind, loving and generous. Her fridge was always full, and one never walked away hungry from the kitchen table. But my mother also was a fighter. Through sheer strength and determination, she won every battle she ever fought. Her motto was, “We never give up.”

Holding you in her lap was proof that she lived up to that ideal, and won. 

It’s a lesson she taught all of us, her children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and everyone else that she met and touched throughout her life. We never give up. I’m sure it’s a lesson she would also want you to always remember. We never give up.

Zevi, the hour is late, and though there is so much more that I would like to tell you, I think these few lessons are enough for one night. And so I’ll close now with a Native American story:

    An old man told his grandson: “My son, there is a battle between two wolves

    inside us all. One is Evil. It is anger and hate, jealousy and greed, resentment, lies and ego.

    The other is Good. It is joy and love, hope, peace, humility, kindness, empathy and truth.”

    The boy thought about it and asked:

    “Grandfather, which wolf wins?”

    The old man quietly replied: ‘The one you feed.’”

[To the Congregation:] On this night and day of fast and meditation, let these lessons be our food for thought. Life’s experiences shape us and give us direction, but the values we try to live by become our legacy, our gift to all who follow us. Living up to them becomes the proof that even as generations come and go, love and goodness are never gone from this world. By our words and deeds, we can feed the hungry, bring hope to the disheartened and light to those who are oppressed by darkness and despair.

This is the true purpose of Yom Kippur. We have this one day, 24 hours, to examine our lives and decide what values we want to live by and uphold. We may not always succeed, but that doesn’t stop us from trying and trying again. We pray for the courage and strength that we will need as we try to better ourselves and the world around us, this coming year and always.

G’mar chatima tova—may we all be sealed in the Book of Life for a year of health and joy. May 5783 be a year of gratitude, trust and blessing.  Amen.

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman