Ann Arbor Reconstructionist Congregation

High Holidays

Rosh Hashanah 2025 Drash by Sam Bagenstos

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By Sam Bagenstos

Rabbi Gabrielle introduced this drash by referring to the power of memory.  I may be taking the point in a different direction than she intended, because I’m going to talk about how memory can sometimes have too much power over us.

For many of us, memory is central to what it means to be Jewish: memory of resilience in the face of oppression, memory of ultimate triumph, memory of the great contributions of Jewish scientists/lawyers/baseball players/what have you.  These collective, communal memories are a part of who I am, just as, I am sure, similar memories are a part of who you all are.

The liturgy tells us that “Nothing is forgotten in the presence of your Throne of Glory.”  But I’ve been reflecting a lot recently on the dangers of too much remembering–too great a focus on our communal memories.

One danger is unwarranted nostalgia.  We may fixate on a time when we remember everything as better than it is today and try to go back.  It’s not just people in red baseball caps that say “Make America Great Again” who do that.  How many of us have secretly hoped to go back to a time before some rupture, some change, something that happened that unsettled all our basic understandings of the world?  (Maybe that something was the rise of all the folks in red baseball caps.)  But there are some facts we can’t ignore: even in our wished-for time before the fall–however we define it–everything wasn’t so great.  And the world has changed too much to go back in any event.

Another danger is unwarranted analogy.  We may fixate on particularly salient collective memories–perhaps especially painful ones–so much that we mistakenly see that history repeating everywhere.  Sometimes, we’re right:  Today, fascism, eugenics, and anti-semitism are resurging.  But we err when we let our painful communal memories lead us to see anti-semitism in legitimate–even harshly phrased–criticism of Israel for the injustices it is perpetrating in Gaza and elsewhere.  In these cases, memory leads us astray–it leads us to act from fear rather than from our basic humanity and the values we endorse when we are our best selves.

And a connected danger is unwarranted partiality.  Our community is not the only one with collective memory.  In Hebrew school, I learned a story about 1948–a brave band of people like me (I could even fool myself that I looked like Paul Newman in Exodus), underdogs who fled or were kicked out of every country in the world, fought for a place where they (we) could finally be safe.  For the people who lived in Palestine at the time and their descendants, though, 1948 marks the Nakhba, the tragedy in which they were kicked out of their homes, had their property taken, and from which they would never know safety.

The point is not to ignore or disparage our collective memories.  They are a source of strength and resilience as we navigate fearful times.  They are a part of who we are as a community and as individuals.  As I was flipping through the machzor during the Amidah, I found this passage from Isaac Leib Peretz on page 385 that captured the point: “If you have no past you have no future either, you are a foundling in this world, with no father or mother, without tradition, without duties to what comes after you, the future, the eternal.”

So the point isn’t to scrap our memories.  It’s to understand the limits of those memories–to recognize that our communal values are also at the center of who we are.  Values like those expressed in our Haftarah portion on Yom Kippur: “To unlock fetters of wickedness, And untie the cords of the yoke To let the oppressed go free; To break off every yoke.”  In 5786, I will recommit to living those values.  Shanah Tovah.

Creativity Kavanah (Rosh Hashanah 2025)

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By Kathryn and Seth Kopald 

Kathryn’s paragraph 

Rav Gav asked Seth and I to share how the power of creativity shows up in our lives and how it has allowed us to step into the fullness of life. 

For me, art making has become a sacred practice, and it’s been especially important during the past year which has had its share of challenges, sorrow, and pain. It is a place for me to connect, shift my perceptions, and know myself better. Engaging in the creative process, using my hands, quieting my mind is a sanctuary that I return to again and again. It allows me to step into my power, and be more fully present in the world. 

Seth’s paragraph 

Creativity is a life force that carries wisdom, potential, and hope. Creativity is not only expressed through making art, or making anything; it’s also a way of thinking and being. I like to use my creativity while woodworking, art making, playing music, writing, and more. It’s a place where I don’t follow other people’s rules, unless I choose to. 

Mitchell Widharma, a friend who was deported this year, just posted this on FB, “Be weird, do art”. To me, he’s an example of holding your power. 

Next, Kathryn and I will read a poem that we co-created. We each wrote ideas that were important to us on strips of paper, and we moved them around on the kitchen table until this poem emerged. We hope it’s meaningful to you. 

Creativity is the expression 
of Aliveness 
We are driven to 
moved by 
examples of 
pure expression 

It is nourishing to the very core 
Of who we are 
Connecting and reconnecting 
To the Divine within 

Creativity is 
Free Will 
My hands 
move 
with 
Divine Sovereignty 
I create for me 

It’s the why 
The purpose 
The heart 
Of all I seek to do 
And become 

Creativity is Freedom 
You cannot control my connection 
to the Divine flow 
There’s no right or wrong 
endless possibilities 
In this moment 
I AM 
Eyeh Asher Eyeh 

It’s unstoppable 
Its public expression 
can be controlled 
Its private expression 
CANNOT 

2
Creativity 
is one of the innate 
powers of all humans 
And it's one of the first 
to be squelched 
But the Pilot Light of Creativity 
can never be extinguished 
We need to give ourselves permission 
to turn on the gas 

As we create 
we are in a state 
of transference 
Ideas transferring 
out of our bodies 
Hands 
Mind 
and spirit 
Engaged 
Bringing hope 
when the world 
feels hopeless 

Creativity 
a force that moves 
through me 
A higher power 
who doesn’t 
follow 
human rules 

Connecting me deeply and fully 
to my own inner wisdom 

Creativity 
will live 
with or without me 
I pick it up 
or someone else will 

To make change 
when change is needed 
To make sense of 
what doesn’t make sense 

3
To feel into sadness and loss 
and see 
the beauty 
in feeling those things 

To release 
what was given to me 
what I didn’t ask for 
and 
what no longer serves me. 
To cultivate joy 
when joy cannot be found 

The way 
to tap into 
creativity 
is to be fully present 
in the moment 
where the fullness of life 
resides 

To be here 
in this moment 
present when the world 
feels darkest 
To be a light 
and point the way

Shedding of Skin (Yom Kippur 2025)

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By Seth Kopald

This is the year of the Snake in Chinese astrology, the wood snake actually. The Chinese Lunar New Year began January 29th, two days after my mother died. The year of the snake is a time of personal growth, transformation, and adaptability. 

I’m curious what comes up for you when I say it’s the year of the snake. Many of us fear snakes and think they are somehow evil or malicious. I’ve always felt they got a bad rap. I think snakes are love, like any other animal. They are animals trying to survive like the rest of us. In Shamanism, related to the four directions, the snake resides in the South and guides us to shed and clear limiting beliefs. We all have seen the medical symbol of snakes coiled around a winged staff. The snake represents healing. 

Upon hearing that this is the year of the snake, I thought to myself, perhaps this is an opportunity to shed my skin and to step into a new level of being, and this year, the snake has been knocking on my door. 

For instance, I invited Rav Gav to say blessings with our family at my mothers bedside, a few days before she died. We all gathered around my mother as she moved about in a dreamlike state. I looked down and saw Rav Gav was wearing a snake bracelet, and it fit the moment as 

she explained how we were cleansing and elevating my mother’s soul. I was like, “Ok Shaman Rabbi.” 

My mom was the root of much of my suffering in life. Her own suffering made her unavailable and even vicious at times. I truly never had the mom I needed and deserved. And during Ravs ceremony, she said we were offering my mother forgiveness and forgiveness for ourselves. Everyone in the family felt what happened there, and when days later my mother died, something in me released. The preparation for shedding my skin had begun. 

Prior to my mother’s rapid decline, I started my own forgiveness process. I read a forgiveness prayer for 32 days, as instructed. I learned in that time that forgiveness is not forgetting, or making it somehow ok that someone hurt you. It’s about releasing the charge of it all. It was the charge that caused me to hurt myself through anger, resentment, and even spite. Letting all that energy go, allowed me to stand next to my mother’s dying body and hold her hand. 

Since then, this year has been a year of healing. So much so, I started to outgrow my skin. I joined many healing circles and practices, and last June I went to Oregon and gave some of my grief to the Pacific Ocean. I don’t think you need to do all that to shed old skin, but for me, it was necessary. 

Snake has followed me throughout all of this. Of course there was Rav Gav’s bracelet. When I was in Oregon I went to a Tibetan shop and bought a few things and when I got home, I found

an earring at the bottom of the bag. It was a golden snake. And just last month while I was at my cranial sacral appointment I noticed my practitioner had a new tattoo on her arm. Can you guess? A snake. I see snake imagery everywhere. Over the last month it felt like my old skin started to flake off bit by bit and just a few weeks ago, while at authentic movement I laid on the ground and wiggled my body out of my old skin. 

So what does it mean to shed your skin? Is it Tshuvah? Returning to Self? This answer came through: in Tshuvah we are shedding old versions of ourselves that block access to our light, to our soul, to our essence, to our true Self. It feels like expansion because we release what doesn’t serve us, and there is more room for me, more room for you, to shine our natural light. When we release the negative thoughts about ourselves and our negative thoughts about others: we forgive and we can expand. 

Our skin holds our current belief system of who we are. If we think we are small, our skin stays small. So, if you feel comfortable doing so, please repeat after me: 

○ I am not what my thoughts tell me I am 

○ I am not what others have said I am 

○ I am not what I assume people think I am 

When we realize this, we start to expand, and our skin begins to notice. Then, it’s time to start to shed. 

Our false beliefs about ourselves and others, our hiding, our protection, our fighting, usually come from drops of bad experiences – over and over – filling our bucket with burdens. And luckily, healing can happen drop by drop too, at your pace. As you continue to empty that bucket, there’s more room for you, and as you emerge, your skin will be ready and will naturally shed. And perhaps, on this Yom Kippur – we can start by stepping into forgiveness. 

Thus, I would like to read The Forgiveness Prayer I mentioned above for all of us. So feel free to take this in if desired. 

If there is anyone or anything that has hurt me in the past, knowingly or unknowingly, I forgive and release it. 

If I have hurt anyone or anything in the past, knowingly or unknowingly, I forgive and release it. 

If I have hurt myself in the past knowingly or unknowingly, I forgive and release it.

Source: Akashic Records Consultants International (ARCI) 

May you Return to Your Self and have a healthy and easeful year. 

Shanah Tovah

Yom Kippur Sermon – 2025/5786

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Today’s Torah reading draws us into the ritual choreography of the High Priest—the one person permitted to enter the inner sanctum and stand face-to-face with Divine power. A relationship wrapped in mystery and inaccessible to the average Israelite.

But I ask you: is such intimacy really inaccessible? And if not, is such intimacy meant to be hoarded by a select few—by only adepts and elites—hidden behind the veils of some imagined Holy of Holies?

On Yom Kippur, we are invited to draw closer to that mystery—to what is true, to what is beautiful, to what is most meaningful. Only on this day do we proclaim aloud the second line of the Shema: Baruch Shem Kevod Malchuto l’olam va’ed. The rabbis say these words are spoken only by angels. But today—we are pure enough to say them. Today, we declare that the Kavod—the Divine Radiance—infuses all creation, here and now.   Our very aliveness itself is an expression of that Divine Radiance, of the Kavod.

The invitation of teshuvah is to work with that aliveness. Not in a far-off mystical way, but in a real, tangible way – that embraces the power of life within us, the power of life that every living being carries.

The architecture of creation is full of powers:

  • A plant has the power to turn sunlight into food.
  • A flower has the power to lure a bee with its color and scent.
  • Fish have the power to breathe underwater.
  • And humans? We have the powers of imagination, language, creativity, and choice—powers that give rise to ritual, community, culture and complex expressions of civilization.

Power is a sacred capacity. And like the High Priest of old, we are entrusted to use our power with intention.  

On this day, we ask: What are our powers? How have we used them? Where have we misused them—or left them dormant? 

Asking these questions is the work of cheshbon hanefesh, the accounting of the soul.   Such work is not only about working on ourselves and becoming better people. It is about coming into our fullness. About being alive, vibrant, magnificent and beautiful.   

We become better people, when we know who we are, when we are authentic, when we are playful, when we are expansive and experimental and dare to love with all our heart, our soul and everything we’ve got.  When we dare to walk through life with holy chutzpah.  

Our tradition tells of the Lamed Vavniks—that in every generation, there are lamed vav [ל׳׳ו] 36 hidden righteous ones whose quiet merit sustains the world. They wear no priestly robes. They walk among us, unrecognized—even to themselves. They remind us that holiness is not locked in a chamber; it is carried in ordinary human lives of compassion, humility, justice and the holy chutzpah to be loving, generous and helpful as a way of being, with everyone, not reserved for our families, besties or curated social circles.  The Lamed Vavnik is fueled by love, radiates love and expresses love.   

We need to fill the world with more than 36 such individuals, don’t you think?   

Maybe hidden in the lamed vav is an even deeper message.  Maybe lamed – which contains the Hebrew root letters for “learn” and vav, which functions as a grammatical conjunction and connector, which means “and” – just maybe the combination of these two letters holds the message that we have to LEARN TO CONNECT.  All of us, not just 36 people.  

And if we do that, if we really learn to connect, we can sustain the world. We need the holy chutzpah to believe it is possible to live such a life.  To love in the face of our fears, to love in the face of our grief and pain.  

This is a year to focus on love – to radiate it with every step and every breath.  To be unashamed in expressing it.  

Let love be the measure of our power. The world is calling for it, aching for it.  We see abuses of power large and small—in our own country, in Israel, in Gaza, and in so many parts of the world. We are fatigued by endless conflict, horrified by unspeakable suffering, overwhelmed by continual waves of information and misinformation. And many of us feel powerless, even in our protesting, petitioning, and activism.  

And yet, Yom Kippur asks us to tap into the powers we do have. To go inward—not out there, on the world stage, but here—[hand on heart]—in the holy of holies of our own lives.  To have the holy chutzpah to love our neighbors, warts and all.  To have the holy chutzpah to be authentic and love ourselves, warts and all.

The task is not to have it all figured out. It is simply to begin: to step into the power entrusted to us, to align our soul with love, to let gratitude and compassion ripple outward. This is teshuvah. This is tikkun hanefesh—the repair of the soul—which makes tikkun olam—repair of the world—possible.

We are commanded to love.    This is the essence of Torah, as Hillel taught: v’ahavta l’rei’acha kamocha, “and you shall love your neighbors as you love yourself.”  The rest is commentary.  Go and learn it.  

Lamed vav – learn to connect.

To love is the biggest mitzvah of all – the spiritual, ethical and moral imperative of our time.  To root every choice in love, in compassion, in justice. Everything flows from there. It is the very heart of Torah. It is the measure of our power, that pulses through each and every one of us.  

So, I say to you today: Step into the Holy of Holies of your own being. Claim the aliveness that flows through you. Let it be shaped by love—love multiplied, love abundant. The world is waiting. The world is depending on you. And maybe—just maybe—you are the one whose hidden holiness will help sustain us.    

G’mar chatimah tovah. 

Rosh Hashanah Sermon – 2025/5786

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By Rabbi Hazzan Gabrielle Pescador

Each Rosh Hashanah, we chant the story of Sarah and Hagar.

Two matriarchs of the Abrahamic lines—Israelite and Yishmaelite.  At odds.  Wounding one another.

Last year, I leaned hard on Sarah—on her harsh treatment of Hagar, her overreaction to Ishmael’s behavior.  I painted her as jealous, reactive, cruel.  And although that interpretation is legitimate, it is just a fragment – only part of a larger story.

We are living in a time when people are focusing on fragments, polarized fragments, partial truths, and it is not getting us anywhere.  We are living in a time that demands broadening our perspective.  We are living in a time of over-reactivity – and we all know that over-reactivity rarely comes from nowhere.


Heaven knows I have overreacted in my own life.   To criticism.  To insult.  To being dismissed.  To the ache of feeling unseen.  

And I know I’m not alone.

Add “power to the mix”—add differentials of power to that mix—and the impact – the pain deepens.

Those of us who value democracy, fairness, justice—we’re sensitive to power imbalances.  Such imbalances stir deep responses within us, and I daresay that over-reactivity is one of them.

Sarah was not without power – she had the power of position—she was wife number one. Hagar also had power—she carried what Sarah wanted most: a son.  Hagar also had the power of voice, and she used that power to taunt Sarah, to make her feel small, less than. Sarah used her power of privilege to influence Abraham to banish Hagar – she used her power to punish, to be vindicative. Both women wielded what they had.  And it wasn’t pretty.

And yet, despite their reactivity, despite their cruelty toward one another – neither was abandoned by God.  Sarah was graced with a child.  And Hagar—exiled, desperate—was met by God – whom she named El Ro’i: The God Who Sees Me.  She did not name God as All-Knowing or All-Powerful—but as The God Who Sees.  The One who promises that even in exile, even in despair, our stories continue.

That name, El Ro’i, has stayed with me. Because being seen—and truly seeing—are two of the more sacred powers we have.

The Midrash tells us that Sarah felt diminished when Hagar conceived – Sarah felt unseen.  Hagar also felt unseen when she fled.  It took exile, pain, surrender before either woman could feel God’s gaze.  Both women—flawed, reactive, human—were still beloved.  Still seen by God.  Still worthy of blessing.  Still worthy of love.  Still worthy of redemption.

And this story is not just about biblical matriarchs.  The pain of being unseen, of feeling overshadowed and dismissed is ubiquitous.  Overreaction to that pain is everywhere—in our families, our communities, our country.  In Israel, in Gaza. Across the world.  In our own hearts.

Deep pain triggers harsh responses.  It drives oversimplification, dehumanization of “the other.”  

Hurt people hurt people.  Hurt communities hurt communities.  Hurt nations hurt nations 

When hurt people, communities and nations—fail to SEE the pain that drives their behavior, reconciliation becomes impossible. 

So, on Rosh Hashanah, we begin here (hand on heart). With teshuvah. With the power of seeing, inwardly and outwardly. That is the power of El Ro’i.  The God who sees us.

This year, I ask myself—and I invite you to ask yourselves with me:

  • Who have we mis-seen?
  • Who have we dismissed because we only knew part of their story?
  • What within ourselves have we turned away from or diminished? 
  • And what do we learn from seeing – How does our ability to see, understand and recognize transform us? 

If I make may speak personally – I’d like to share a story about one of my family matriarchs.  Because let’s face it – if we don’t get real, if we don’t get personal about this stuff, it becomes too abstract, and it’s harder to learn the lessons that we need to learn.

My Bubbe Sarah—my father’s mother—was sharp-tongued and very quick to overreact.  She was also capable of deep love.  She adored my father and my uncle.  I also felt loved by my Bubbe—she taught me how to pray, she made clothes for my dolls, she played with me, and let me play with her hair and experiment with crazy hair styles, which didn’t seem to faze her. And she loved my interest in Judaism.  She would affectionately call me the Rebbetzin—the rabbi’s wife – I wonder what she’d think of me now.

Even though my Bubbe Sarah and I got along well, I recognized the pain that her sharp tongue caused others.  And as I got older, I grew less tolerant of it and even began to keep an emotional distance from her.

As the years have passed, I have gained some perspective and realized that my Bubbe Sarah lived a very hard life: she was the eldest of eight children, an immigrant, widowed young, poor, with the burden of raising two sons on her own.  Two sons who became doctors.  She was SO proud of that, she was SO proud of them.


My bubbe Sarah was tough, intelligent, quick-witted and devout.  And she ached to be seen—for her sacrifices, for her mind, for her experience— for her beauty that faded with age.  And when she felt the pain of being dismissed or unseen, she lashed out.  And I found that lashing out deeply unpleasant and even embarrassing.

So as a young person, I knew I didn’t want to be like her.  I wanted to be gentler, more accommodating, more diplomatic, more of a peacemaker.  And I overdid it, I overcompensated.  You could say that I over-reacted.  When I felt threatened or hurt, I did not lash out, but instead, I bit my tongue and made nice.  It took many years of life experience and self-examination to realize that biting my tongue and making nice – as a reflex reaction – was causing harm to myself.  

I realized that like my Bubbe Sarah, I also needed to be seen and be heard just as much as I need to see and hear others. In seeing my Bubbe Sarah more fully over the years, in seeing my over-reactions to her over-reactions, I see myself differently today.  

I see more possible ways of responding and I have stepped into some of them – I have experimented.  You could say that I forgive her – but that’s not really accurate – I see her and how she affected me – and as a result, I have opened to new ways, to hopefully healthier ways of relating.  I see her in me, not brushing against me.  She was a mixed bag just like I am a mixed bag, trying to do the best I can.  So maybe I forgive her for lashing out or forgive myself for not speaking up or maybe forgiveness isn’t even the point.  Maybe what matters is recognizing that I have space to move, to grow because I can SEE now.  

I wish my Bubbe Sarah could have had the chance to see.  Who knows, maybe she does now, on the other side, as an incarnate soul.  I love to imagine that possibility.

This intergenerational lesson of seeing can ripple outwards.  It is my hope that when we witness people speaking or acting in ways that don’t land well –individuals, communities, or even nations—let’s open our eyes wider.  

I really believe that widening our perspective helps – it does not erase wrong-doing – but it does help us to understand the reasons behind it – and helps us learn how to meet the other with more awareness, more compassion – because on some level, we get it.  If we allow ourselves to see, we’ll get it.  

Over-reactivity doesn’t come from nowhere.  

Seeing and being seen – softens tension, softens pain.  It eases the way for transformation, for healing and repair.  And that begins here [touch the heart] – with rippling effects moving inward and outward. 

That is how I imagine El Ro’i saw Hagar.  And how the messengers of God saw Sarah—not finished, not discarded, but still vital to the story, still unfolding, learning, growing, blooming.

We all deserve a second look—with eyes more compassionate, more curious. This year let’s commit to seeing ourselves and one another more fully.  

May we see.
May we be seen.
May we believe that repair is possible—
even in the mess and the ugliness.

Shanah tovah.

Shanah Tova from Our Rabbi

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by Rav Gavrielle

Dear Ones,

As the new year of 5786 begins, I want to pause with you and take a breath.

This past year has been a difficult one—for our world, for our country, for our community, and for many of us in our own lives. We’ve carried grief and uncertainty, anger and exhaustion. Many of us have struggled to find clarity, balance, and hope.

And yet—here we are. Gathered at the gates of a new year, hearts open to possibility.

The Jewish new year is not about forgetting what has been, but about remembering and transforming. We bring all that we’ve endured with us—our struggles, our mistakes, our resilience—and we offer all that to the Source of Life with the prayer that it may be turned into wisdom, compassion, and renewed strength.

This year, our community’s High Holy Day theme is power—but not the powers we don’t have, the ones that frustrate or elude us. Instead, we’ll be exploring the powers we do have: 

  • The power of teshuvah—to return to our best selves.
  • The power of presence—to listen, to comfort, to notice.
  • The power of imagination—to envision ourselves coming into our fullness as well as a world shaped by justice and love.
  • The power of joy and song—to lift our hearts even in the hardest of times.

My wish for each of you this year: 

  • Health of body and spirit.
  • Deep love and connection.
  • The courage to begin again, even when the path feels uncertain.
  • Moments of joy that surprise you and remind you of the beauty still present.

May 5786 be a year of healing and repair, courage, laughter, and sweetness. May we grow into ourselves and into each other with kindness. 

Shanah Tovah u’Metukah—a good and sweet new year to you and yours. 

With blessings and love,

Rav Gavrielle

Yom Kippur Sermon 5785

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The Torah Reading on Yom Kippur discusses the instructions to Moshe and Aharon concerning the priestly service of atonement for the Children of Israel on Yom Kippur.  The reading begins with the acknowledgement of the recent death of Aharon’s two sons, Nadav and Avihu who were consumed by Divine fire, an acknowledgement that Aaron is in the early stages of mourning and likely reeling from the shock of losing two children on the same day, in the same moment, in such a shockingly dramatic way.  

In an earlier chapter, we learn that right after the dramatic deaths of Nadav and Avihu, Moshe instructs Aharon not to mourn nor be distracted from his priestly duties and reminds Aharon that his job is to distinguish between the profane and holy.   Aharon has to be impeccable regardless of his personal circumstances.

Aharon responds to Moshe’s instructions with silence – vayidom – from the root DaMaM.  Aharon said nothing.  It is interesting to note that in biblical Hebrew there is another verb with the same root letters in the same order, that means “to wail,” which points to the possibility, or even likelihood, that Aharon had to wail in silence.   

Many of us know what that feels like, especially now.  To wail in silence.

Compare Aharon’s response with Moses’s grief after losing his sister Miriam, the story of Moses hitting the rock that many of us know so well.  

The Gemara tells us that Miriam’s well had sustained the Israelites in the wilderness.  After her death, the well disappeared, and the Israelites became thirsty and complained bitterly. As a result, God commanded Moses to speak to the rock to yield its water.  But Moses couldn’t keep it together.  He does not follow God’s directions; instead, Moses insults the Israelites and calls them “disobedient rebels” and hits the rock twice with his staff.  Moses allowed his emotions to take over, which took him off his game, and for that he was severely punished and could not enter the Promised land — even after dealing with Pharoah, leading the Israelites out of Egypt, crossing the Red Sea, after receiving the Torah on Sinai, even after leading the Israelites through the desert for 40 years.

Being impeccable, remaining centered no matter what, is hard enough at the best of times, when everything is running smoothly, but when we are upset, angry and especially grieving, it seems nearly impossible.

So, what can we learn from holding these two biblical narratives together?  

One thing is that life goes on, regardless of what we’re going through.  I remember how devastated I was when my father died, and then when my mother died a few years later, I thought I couldn’t feel any worse, but I was so wrong.  I cried and cried and cried, to the point that my husband worried about me and challenged me: “Do you want to go into the grave with your mother?  Is that what you want?”  

Although his words stung, they affected me deeply.  I realized that I couldn’t stop living because my mother died, because I no longer had parents.  Yes, I loved, adored and missed them, but I realized this is my time to live.   

In Torah, we are taught to choose life – bacharta bachayim l’maan tichyeh – “choose life in order to live,” while we carry the memory of loved ones, while we carry grief.  Both personal and collective grief, and this year we know about collective grief all too well.

Let’s face it.  This past year has been a living nightmare.   And yet we are here, in this sanctuary.  That, in of itself, is an act of hope.   This is our time to do the best we can, to do teshuvah, to live and to be together and find meaning in our tradition, in our lives.  

Another thing we can learn from these two stories in Torah is that we should not be expected to be perfect. Moses who the rabbis say was the highest prophet, the most adept, in closest communication with God, had trouble keeping it together.  He is the one who loses it and hits the rock.  Yet, he instructs his brother not to mourn, to carry on and be impeccable.  Moses did not go into silence.  Frankly, Moses was a bit of a kvetch.  He would complain to God and to the Israelites.  He did not keep silent.  But his brother Aaron, the high priest, did.  Vayidom.  He wailed in silence and carried on with his holy business in impeccable detail.  But at what cost to himself?  We can only imagine.

Uvshofar gadol yitakah, v’kol k’mama daka yishama – when the great shofar is sounded, when it cries out, a small quiet voice can be heard.

As the thunder of grief is screaming in our ears, let it not stifle that small quiet voice within.  Let it not snuff out our inner spark.  Let us not go into the grave with those we have lost, because WE ARE HERE.  Hinenu.  And as we step into hinenu, let us not carry the burden of perfection, as individuals, as a community, as a country, as Jews.  It is too much to bear and it is unattainable.

As we grieve, let us make room for hope.  We can do both.  We’re here to day to do teshuvah, to try to transform, to try to forgive ourselves and others, to try to be more compassionate, interconnected human beings in the midst of this ongoing hurricane.  We’re here to try to do this sanely, with compassion, generosity and hope.  

Within the extreme polarities that are battering us day after day, my teacher, Lori Lipten, tells us that we must “learn how to live within the paradox of embodying authentic power and vulnerability; hope and despair; birth and death; love and fear; wisdom and unconsciousness; resentment and forgiveness; trust and doubt; reaction and responsiveness; distraction and presence; calm centeredness and anxious control; us and them; mine and yours.”  

As we learn to dance within these contrasts, we can touch the beauty of something far different than we believed was possible. We do not need to war with either side of these contrasts to wake up and evolve.   

Let us not allow our grief to make us cynical.  As 20th century Talmudist and Jewish philosopher Rabbi Soloveitchik wrote, “grief and lament have their place, but they cannot, must not, be given the final word.”  The artist Nick Cave puts it a bit differently.  “Unlike cynicism, hopefulness is hard-earned, makes demands upon us… Hopefulness is not a neutral position either. It is adversarial. It is the warrior emotion that can lay waste to cynicism.”  

So let us be warriors for hope that is fueled by love, generosity and compassion that is not undermined by the tyranny of cynicism, the tyranny of fear, nor the tyranny of perfectionism.  

G’mar Chatima Tova – May we all be sealed for a good and fulfilling life in the coming year. May we be safe, healthy, courageous and hopeful.

Rosh Hashanah Sermon 5785

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In today’s Torah reading, we learn that Sarah has trouble conceiving, and instructs Abraham to be with her handmaiden Hagar, who then gives birth to Ishmael.  Hagar lords motherhood over Sarah which makes Sarah resentful, and although years later, Sarah miraculously gives birth to Isaac, she still feels insecure and starts scheming to secure Isaac’s status in the family hierarchy, and has Abraham banish Hagar and Ishmael into the wilderness with limited provisions.

Today’s Haftarah also pits two women against one another over fertility issues, Hannah and Peninah, the wives of Elkanah.  Hannah can’t bear children, which devastates her.  Peninah, on the other hand, is fertile, and lords this over Hannah.  Elkanah tries to reassure Hannah and tells her that she is worth more than 10 sons, but Hannah cannot be consoled, and prays intensely, with bitter tears.  She bargains with God – if God gives her a son, then she will offer him for priestly service.  

Hannah’s way of praying grabs the attention of Eli the priest who notices that her lips are moving but without sound, and so he accuses her of drunkenness.    Hannah explains that she is not drunk but rather praying intently.  Eli believes her and gives her a blessing: לְכִי לְשָׁלוֹם  (lechi l’shalom) – go in peace  – and assures her that God will grant her request.  And Hannah bears a son.

There is another parallel between the two biblical narratives, regarding making an offering of the son with first-born status. In the case of Hannah, she willingly makes an offering of her son Samuel to priestly service.  With Sarah and Abraham’s son Isaac, it is more complicated and one of the most problematic stories in Torah.  God commands Abraham to take a knife to Isaac and offer him as a sacrifice.  Thankfully an angel intervenes, and Isaac is spared.  When Sarah hears that her precious son had almost been sacrificed, she dies of shock.  

In comparing the two stories of making an offering of the first-born son, we see differences in the states of consciousness of the two mothers in question.    Hannah doesn’t give into the pettiness and jealousy that we see in Sarah’s treatment of Hagar.  Hannah doesn’t have Elkanah banish Peninah and Peninah’s children.  Instead, Hannah turns to faith whereas Sarah’s faith appears questionable.  Upon overhearing the angels tell Abraham that she will conceive a child in her old age, Sarah laughs; it seems that Sarah had given up on her dream and loses faith.  Hannah, on the other hand, does not give up, she does not laugh, but cries bitterly and prays. 

We read in Talmud (Brachot 32b): “From the day that the Temple was destroyed the gates of prayer have been closed, but the gates of tears are not closed.”  The Ralbag of medieval France adds that combining prayer and tears brings one closer to God. 

 In other words, our feelings count, our tears count, our grief counts. 

Through Hannah’s tears, vulnerability and authenticity, she draws closer to God, and to her emotional and spiritual truth.  She keeps the conversation going; she bargains and promises to make an unselfish offering in service of the community.  No animals, no people were slaughtered or sacrificed on an altar; the power of words and the power of tears were used instead.

Hannah’s story teaches us that our feelings count and asks us to examine how the yearnings of our heart can be turned into offerings.  What we want and what we long for, what we are grieving over can crack our hearts open and inspire us toward generosity, sharing and giving.  The story of Hannah encourages us to be in conversation with our own hearts and not stifle that inner voice.  

The rabbis of the Talmudic period were so affected by Hannah, that they said (Berachot 31) we must all move our lips when we pray.  We do this together, as a community.  Our individual yearnings, our individual conversations with God, that flow from our own hearts, are held together with the individual yearnings and conversations with God that flow from the hearts of the people sitting next to you, and the people sitting next to those people.  

In this space, we yearn as unique individuals and we yearn together.  We cry as individuals, and we cry together.  

The contrast and parallels between Sarah and Hannah’s stories have a lot to teach us.  We can see that our biblical ancestors were capable of evolving from one generation to the next.  Through her deep, authentic prayer Hannah makes a tikkun on Sarah’s pettiness and jealousy.  Hannah changes the paradigm and breaks a cycle of dysfunction by transmuting her suffering in a more enlightened way, that is not only good for her, but for future generations.  

None of us had perfect parents nor perfect ancestors; none of us are perfect human beings.  Reviewing our developmental and family history safely, with softness and compassionate curiosity, allows us to see patterns of conditioning and shaping.  Some of us may find it useful to do this in a professional therapeutic setting.  Some of us may prefer to journal, meditate, go for cranial sacral treatments or Reiki.  Some of us do all of that to walk the path of self-discovery, which is work worth doing and doing safely.  It is the work of liberation and healing, not just for us, but for the future generations who stand on our shoulders.  

Just as our biblical ancestors have evolved so can we.  If they can break through cyclical dysfunctional patterns and find healthier ways of acting and being, so can we.  These stories invite us to awaken to the dysfunctional patterns that we have absorbed because of personality, ethnicity, culture, history, tradition, and our very religion.   These stories charge us to open our hearts and minds, to be bold, to challenge the status quo, and embrace the sacred wisdom of the past while at the same time release what is no longer working.

Hannah, spoke directly to the Source of Being.  She did not go through a mediator or priest.  She allowed herself to be vulnerable without apology, to stand in her authenticity with strength and resolve.  She did not get rid of the competition nor abuse her privilege.  She prayed with all her heart.  She did not let her grief stifle her inner voice.  She remained hopeful in her pain by continuing to be in conversation with God and as such, she elevated her consciousness and made a commitment to share the gift that she might receive, and in so doing she shifted the paradigm for all of us.   Hannah’s story inspires us to move in this direction.  Zichronah livrachah.  Remember her and her story for she is a blessing for all of us.  Learning from the contrast of her story and Sarah’s is a blessing for all of us.   May we continue on the holy path of learning from our ancestors, for their sake, for our sake and for the sake of future generations.

Yom Kippur Workshops

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Workshop #1: Deborah Dash Moore on Mordechai Kaplan 2:00-3:10pm

Workshop #2: Niggun Circle 2:00-3:10pm

In this “workshop” we’ll be calming ourselves down by chanting melodies and prayers that focus on healing.  Interspersed in this, there will be opportunities to share what you need to.  

There’s nothing I’d rather do on a Yom Kippur afternoon (or any other time, TBH!) than sing.  If you are so inclined, please join us. – Deb K

Workshop #3: Listening through Grief in a time of Middle East upheaval: Communal Yizkor 3:15-4:25pm

This is a listening session for anyone who has experienced grief (in the largest sense) related to the Middle East over the past year and wishes to process it as a community as a step towards tikkun olam and personal Teshuva. This will be a space to listen with respect and kindness. Our intention is not to discuss policy, to engage in debate or to challenge each other’s experience but rather to deepen our sense of community. Sign-up now, if you want to reserve a spot. Please arrive on-time. We will be starting promptly.

Children and Family Programming and Childcare for High Holidays 2024

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AARC offers an engaging and flexible series of High Holidays learning opportunities and services for children and families. To take part, please fill out the Childcare & Children’s Services Signup form below.

Childcare & Family/Children’s Services Signup

High Holidays Family/Children’s Services Schedule

  • Thursday, October 3rd, 2024, 10:30am: Rosh Hashanah Children’s Service at the UU
  • Saturday, October 12th, 2024, 10:30am: Yom Kippur Children’s Service at the UU

If you have any questions about this programming, please email us. We looking forward to sharing this sacred time together!

High Holidays Childcare Signup

  • Childcare is offered for children 2 years of age and older.
  • The childcare room is located in the hall behind the registration table. Vaccinated teens over 12 can be supervised in the teen room across the hall.
  • Both rooms will be staffed by qualified caregivers.
  • Members: Childcare for members who sign up by October 1 is free of charge. Members who do not sign up by the deadline will be asked to pay $10 per child per day. Without advance reservation, childcare will be offered on a space-available basis only. Sign up online below.
  • Non-members: The cost for non-members is $20 per child per day.
  • Payment is due by October 1. Payment can be made by mailing a check or using the Donate link to pay online.
  • Please note that children under 13 must remain in childcare or be supervised by an adult at all times; children are not permitted to roam on their own while on the Unitarian Universalist Congregation premises. Children may leave childcare only if an adult picks them up.