Rosh Hashanah 5780

Isaac is mentally challenged.

This is not to make fun of him or try to insult him in any way. Isaac has something about him that makes him different. I don’t like calling anyone “on the spectrum” because if it’s a spectrum we’re all on it, and that phrase is therefore not descriptive at all. Yet the text points to a non-specific mental or social disability that makes him different from everyone else. So much so that when we studied this section of the Torah in our Saturday morning class in my first year here, I had taken to calling him, “Special Needs Isaac.” Something about Isaac does not feel like he is like the other characters in Genesis.

Today we are reading the Akeidah, the story of the binding of Isaac. It is a terrible story of Abraham being asked by God to take his son up to a mountain and sacrifice him. Abraham says yes, and goes up to the spot God shows him with Isaac. The he binds Isaac—giving the name to this section, since Akeidah means binding, and raises the knife to sacrifice him, only to be stopped by an angel who tells him that it was all a test. Abraham did not withhold his son from God, and therefore he will be blessed by becoming as numerous as the stars in the sky and the grains of sand on the beach.

The rabbis of the Talmud and the commentators throughout the centuries have struggled with many parts of this text. One of the things that gets their hackles up is the questions of how old Isaac is at this point. If he is younger than 13 it makes sense that he might be overpowered by his elderly father. But the rabbis do not like that math, and they want him to be older—sometimes as old as in his 30’s. But if he’s older, wouldn’t he fight back and not let his aged father tie him up? Something about it does not fit.

Looking back at Isaac’s life, he is never given a voice before or after the Akeidah. They speak about him a lot, but Isaac does not speak for himself. When God tells Abraham that he and Sarah will have a son, Abraham wonders how a man of a hundred and a woman of ninety could possibly have children together, and he laughs. Sarah has the same reaction later when the angels tell her that she will have a child. They both laugh—va’yitzchak for Abraham and vatitzchak for Sarah. For their laughter, they are told they will name their son Isaac, Yitzchak, which shares its root with the laughter they display. 

Even acknowledging that numbers in the Torah are not math, they laugh because they are an elderly couple. They have spent years living together, building a life together, building a faith together. They have done far too much for them to be young. Abraham’s laughter in Genesis 17 and Sarah’s in Genesis 18 are both about how old they are and how silly an idea it is that they could bear children. Isaac’s own name means laughter, and comes from the reaction these two have. So suffice it to say they are comically old for childbearing.

A study was done in Israel in 2006, looking at 132,000 families. Is showed that men who conceive in their 30s are 1.6 times as likely to have a child with a disability as men under 30. Men in their 40s have a sixfold increase in risk. Since then, 5.7 million families have been studied in Denmark, Sweden, here in California, and elsewhere. Nearly all of this research has shown an increased prevalence of mental disability among the children of older fathers.

Clearly the writers of the Torah were not aware of this study, but perhaps they knew the simple truth that older parents were more likely to produce children with disabilities. The Torah wants us to understand that Isaac is mentally different.

We often understand that for their laughter they beget laughter, but what if the laughter they beget is not a friendly laughter, but one of teasing, making fun, and mocking?

Once Isaac is born, he grows up and is weaned. It happens in one verse in the Torah, Genesis 21:8, which says exactly that: “The boy grew and was weaned.” At the weaning feast, a common custom of the ancient world, Sarah sees Ishmael with Isaac, and he is m’tzachek. The word m’tzachek can mean a few different things. It is surely there at least in part because m’tzachek shares its root with Yitzchak, Isaac’s own name. But it can be playing, making sport of, jesting, or toying with. It could be innocent—two brothers playing—or it could be sinister if Ishmael is picking on Isaac.

What further confuses the scene is that we do not know how old either brother is. We know Ishmael is 13 when he is circumcised, and Isaac is born around a year later. So the boys are probably about 14 years apart in age. But we have no idea how old Isaac was when he was weaned. Evidence suggests that societies at the time stopped nursing their babies between 2 and 5 years of age. So if we assume Isaac was weaned around three years old, and that Ishmael is around 18, perhaps Ishmael is playing a little rough for Sarah’s liking. We have likely seen much older siblings or cousins who play a little rough for the comfort of a new mother. It happens.

Or maybe Ishmael m’tzachek with Isaac is a kind of teasing that we would never tolerate today. Perhaps he is making fun of Isaac’s disability. || Until very recently, that was the way people with disabilities were treated—with teasing and a complete lack of understanding and compassion. It also explains why Sarah was infuriated enough to demand that Ishmael and his mother leave their home. She was defending her son, who would not have have been able to defend himself.

Abraham may not have shared her sentimentality over Isaac’s issues. Today’s reading of the Akeidah suggests that Isaac may also have needed defending from his own father. The Akeidah begins with a charge. God says to Abraham, “Take your son, your special son, the one you love, Isaac.” 

The midrash Bereshit Rabbah imagines a conversation between God and Abraham.

God says, “Take your son.”

Abraham responds, “I have two sons. Which one?”

“Your special son.”

“Both sons are special. They are unique in their own way.”

“The one you love.”

“I love both of my sons.”

“Isaac.”

No question when God uses his name. The conversation the midrash creates suggests that Abraham has love for Ishmael as well as Isaac, which is wonderful. It also might miss something. Perhaps Abraham needed to be convinced that he also loves Isaac. 

Imagine the conversation without Abraham’s interjections. Internally, Abraham might be think that God is finally accepting Ishmael as Abraham’s heir. At least until the last word. Take your son, your special son, the one you love, Isaac.

Perhaps at that moment Abraham thinks, “Isaac? I love that kid? But he’s so....different.” Men can have a hard time accepting a son who is different, so for God to tell him, “Abraham, I know you love your son, perhaps more than you realize, and it is time to accept him,” can be a very powerful moment. 

Years after the Akeidah, several chapters after today’s reading, Abraham tells his servant to get a wife for Isaac. He sends him on a journey where he meets Rebekah and invites her to his master Abraham’s home. She agrees, and goes to meet her husband to be, who is sitting alone in a field.

What is interesting is that Isaac needs someone else to get a wife for him. Abraham does not need an intermediary to marry Sarah. Jacob finds Rachel on his own, and though he is tricked into marrying Leah, he agrees to have children with her. Every other biblical character finds their own spouse. Only Isaac has an intermediary sent for him. Perhaps this is due to his lack of mental prowess for negotiating a bride price, or perhaps simply just his lack of ability to have a conversation with another person.

When Rebekah first sees him and he is sitting alone in that field, the rabbis of the Talmud credit Isaac with davening Ma’ariv, reciting the evening prayers, but this anachronistic commentary ignores the likelihood that this is just where he either preferred or was forced to spend his time. Many people with autism, for example, simply like to be away from other people. They find socializing difficult, and do not adhere to social norms. In ancient times, adults with mental challenges were often pushed to the side, told to go away if they could not handle being with the others. Whatever challenges Isaac had, being alone in the field makes sense for him as a character. He was likely out there a lot.

Looking at Isaac as mentally challenged, we might understand Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice his son, even when we do not agree with it. He was a man of the ancient world—powerful, wealthy, a leader in his community, successful in every way except one. Then he conceives a son with disabilities. Isaac could be a constant source of disappointment for Abraham. Though we no longer share Abraham’s feelings of shame over a son like that, we can acknowledge it likely existed in the ancient world for having a son viewed as less-than. A son who, at the time, did nothing but give people something to laugh at.

So in the Torah portion we read this morning, when Abraham is told by God, “Take your son up the mountain,” Abraham’s speedy acquiescence makes sense. But it still does not make it right.

So often we look at this pivotal moment in our Torah and we point out the fact that Isaac and Abraham never speak to each other again. What we neglect to mention is that they have never spoken to each other before this part of the story, either. Their relationship has always been strained, they have never been close. They just go through the motions. Maybe it gets worse after the Akeidah, but it is not a complete sea change.

Recognizing Isaac as mentally challenged, we may learn how we should behave when we have special needs people in our lives, our community, our family. Not like Abraham. He was the denying, angry father. Disappointed and feeling inadequate about the son he and his beloved Sarah produced, he goes through the motions of circumcising him, finding him a wife, setting him up with property and a good life. Sarah dies shortly after the Akeidah and does not even see him married, but even in his early life she was perhaps over protective of him. She shuns anyone who would treat him different, kicking Ishmael and his mother out of their home. Really, neither of these is an acceptable way of treating someone who is different from us.

The rabbis in tractate Berachot of the Talmud actually do teach us how to deal with them. They put Isaac in our prayers every day, three times a day. They credit him with inventing the evening service because of his practice of sitting alone in the field at the end of the day. They say his name along side his father Abraham and son Jacob. We talk about the generations that begin with seven amazing people, the avot and imahot, and we have never swayed from putting Isaac’s name right at the top.

They even point out things that could be seen as indicative of his mental difficulies and laud them as successes. They are excited that he is the only patriarch to have only one wife. They extoll him as the only patriarch to never set foot outside of the land of Canaan. We could easily point to these things as being related to his mental disabilities. Someone without strong social skills would naturally not venture away from their familiar surroundings, nor would they seek more companions when they prefer to be alone. Instead of blaming his condition as the reason he never strives for more, the rabbis compliment him, saying it is his strength of character that grants him the blessing of faithfulness to the land and to Rebekah.

Trying to learn from our longstanding acknowledgment of the blessing all people bring, I worked with a few different B’nai Mitzvah with challenges over the years. In Miami one boy held the Torah and recited Shema. As a severely Autistic young man, that was the most he could do, and it was a beautiful moment. Another Bar Mitzvah we worked with was very musical, and he actually made up the cantillation on the spot, even though he had practiced flawlessly. When he wasn’t singing, it took all of our focus to keep him on the bimah, as his tendency was also to wander off when he fancied.

Here at CBT I have worked with several students of different abilities, too. Hopefully nobody would even notice. Part of instituting our B’nai Mitzvah Revolution is allowing students who do not thrive in an academic arena can still show us what their strengths are. Not everyone can read Hebrew or even English out loud. Not everyone can deliver a D’var Torah. Yet everyone can be celebrated. Everyone can show us their Jewish passions and accomplishments. Everyone can become B’nai Mitzvah in their own style.

This is our responsibility as a community, as a people. When someone is different from us, we do not chastise them, bully them, or tease them for their differences. At the same time, we do not coddle them or keep others away from them because they are different. We learn to work with them. We support them. We learn from them. We take what we would see as a weakness, as less-than, and treat it as normal. Or better, we treat it as a blessing. We support and help strengthen the skills and abilities they do have, and give them the tools they need to be a success in our community.

May we look deep into our ancient texts and learn from the examples of our ancestors. May we continue to reach out to those who are different. May we truly live up to our reputation as a welcoming community by openly welcoming people of all abilities. May find the opportunity to let people with special needs know that they are just that: Special to us and to our community.

Erev Rosh Hashanah 5780

“God is a Woman, and She is Growing Older,” by Rabbi Margaret Wenig

God is a woman and she is growing older. She moves more slowly now. She cannot stand erect. Her face is lined. Her voice is scratchy. Sometimes she has to strain to hear. God is a woman and she is growing older; yet, she remembers everything.
On Rosh Hashanah, the anniversary of the day on which she gave us birth, God sits down at her kitchen table, opens the Book of Memories, and begins turning the pages; and God remembers.
“There, there is the world when it was new and my children when they were young.” As she turns each page she smiles, seeing before her, like so many dolls in a department store window, all the beautiful colors of our skin, all the varied shapes and sizes of our bodies. She marvels at our accomplishments: the music we have written, the gardens we have planted, the stories we have told, the ideas we have spun.
“Now, they can fly faster than the winds I send,” she says to herself, “and they sail across the waters which I gathered into seas. They even visit the moon which I set in the sky. But they rarely visit me.” There pasted into the pages of her book are all the cards we have ever sent to her when we did not bother to visit. She notices our signatures scrawled beneath the printed words someone else has composed.
God is lonely, longing for her children, her playful ones. All that dwells on earth does perish. But God endures, so she suffers the sadness of loosing all that she holds dear.
God is home, turning the pages of her book. “Come home,” she wants to say to us, “Come home.” But she won’t call. For she is afraid that we will say, “No.” She can anticipate the conversation: “We are so busy. We’d love to see you but we just can’t come. Too much to do. Too many responsibilities to juggle.”
Even if we don’t realize it, God knows that our business is just an excuse. She knows that we avoid returning to her because we don’t want to look into her age-worn face. It is hard for us to face a god who disappointed our childhood expectations: She did not give us everything we wanted. She did not make us triumphant in battle, successful in business and invincible to pain. We avoid going home to protect ourselves from our disappointment and to protect her. We don’t want her to see the disappointment in our eyes. Yet, God knows that it is there and she would have us come home anyway.
In a single glance she sees our birth and our death and all the years in between. She sees us as we were when we were young: when we idolized her and trustingly followed her anywhere; when our scrapes and bruises healed quickly, when we were filled with wonder at all things new. She sees us when we were young, when we thought that there was nothing we could not do.
She sees our middle years too: when our energy was unlimited. When we kept house, cooked and cleaned, cared for children, worked, and volunteered—when everyone needed us and we had no time for sleep. And God sees our later years: when we no longer felt so needed; when chaos disrupted the bodily rhythms we had learned to rely upon. She sees us sleeping alone in a room which once slept two. God sees things about us we have forgotten and things we do not yet know. For naught is hidden from God’s sight.
If we were to visit, we might sit down in God’s kitchen with a cup of tea. God might say, “So tell me, how are you?” Now we are afraid to open our mouths and tell her everything she already knows: whom we love; where we hurt; what we have broken or lost; what we wanted to be when we grew up.
We look away. “I never felt I could live up to your expectations.”
“I always believed you could do anything,” she answers.
“What about your future?” she asks us. We do not want to face our future. God hears our reluctance, and she understands.
We are growing older as God is growing older. How much like her we have become.
God holds our face in her two hands and whispers, “Do not be afraid, I will be faithful to the promise I made to you when you were young. I will be with you. Even in your old age I will be with you. When you are grey headed still I will hold you. I gave birth to you, I carried you. I will hold you still. Grow old along with me….”
Ahh, that is why we were created to grow older: each added day of life, each new year make us more like God who is ever growing older.
This Rosh Hashanah we sit in the house of prayer holding in our hands pages and pages of greeting cards bound together, thousands of words we ourselves have not written. Will we merely place our signatures at the bottom and drop the cards in the mail?
God would prefer that we come home. She is waiting for us as she has waited every Rosh Hashanah, waiting very patiently until we are ready. God will not sleep. She will leave the door open and the candles burning waiting patiently for us to come home.
Perhaps this year we will be able to look into God’s aging face and say, “Avinu Malkeinu, our Mother, our Queen, we have come home.”

This is a beautiful midrash on a personal theology that really resonates during the High Holy Days. During these Days of Awe, we so often hear of God as a Father and King, and to think of God as a Divine Mother is very powerful.

It is not too far off from kabbalistic theology, which presents the concept of Teshuvah as “return to the Divine Mother.” Playing on the idea of shuvah meaning “returning,” the kabbalists ask, “to what do we return?” We often say we return to the self we most want to become, but the mystics taught that we were returning to our mother. Perhaps Kabbalah was Rabbi Wenig’s inspiration!

Rabbi Wenig’s poem moves us in ways that I never could. This is not a self-deprecating comment. It is an acknowledgement that she, and half of the world with her, has a perspective that I do not. Her experience of aging and visiting with her own children, children she formed in her body, reminded her of the High Holy Days and how we might experience a visit as we return to our Divine Mother. She takes her understanding from nurturing her children, her own longing for more time with them, her own acknowledgement of things that we want to say to our mothers, to our children. She parallels all of this with an anthropomorphized God, but not the way we usually anthropomorphize. She takes the phrase Avinu Malkeinu of the High Holy Days and flips it to Our Mother, Our Queen. This is a perspective we are not used to, but an important one from which we must learn.

We usually learn from the male perspective. The Tanakh, the Hebrew Bible, was clearly written by men. The most common name for a woman in the Bible is eshet, meaning “wife of.” We learn the names of all the male characters in the Bible, but rarely know a female character. Sure, we can rattle off names of significant female character, but that is precisely because they stand out. Most of the action of our sacred narrative is dominated by male action, mannish interpretations, and men telling us what the lessons are deep within our text.

We are getting better as a society. We are listening to women when they have something to teach. Some of the greatest rabbis of this generation are women. My bookshelves are full of incredible books by Jewish women. Nechama Liebowitz, Anita Diamant, Maggie Anton, and more. One of my favorites is the Women’s Torah Commentary, which features a compendium of modern women commentators on our sacred text, and is edited, written, and published exclusively by women. We also no longer use texts or music from those who have mistreated women. This is why we never do music from Shlomo Carlebach, for example, nor would we show a movie or TV show with Bill Cosby in it. These men have done far too much damage to the feminist conversation, and using their creations can taint the learning and prayer experience for all of us.

Perhaps the most unfortunate truth in all of this is that I am ill-equipped to break the chain of masculinity in our tradition. As egalitarian as I try to be, as promoting of women’s issues as I hope to be, as much as I want us to learn together about women’s issues, I am not a woman. It could even be said that this entire sermon is mansplaining. I cannot help being born male, nor would I change a thing. I enjoy being male, but I cannot teach from the perspective offered by Rabbi Wenig or any other female teacher. My experiences are different. I have never had to read myself in to our teachings. I have never been suppressed by gender hierarchy. I have never been ridiculed or parodied for trying to push the feminine point of view into our sources of knowledge. I just cannot empathize.

But I can sympathize. I can be supportive. I can learn with you women and men alike, and put together a program where we, as a community, learn from some amazing women this year. It is with this in mind that we are announcing that our study theme for the Jewish year 5780 will be Jewish Women Authors.

In addition to studying texts written from women’s perspectives, we will be bringing out several authors so we can learn from the sources. As Ben Zoma says in Pirkei Avot, “Who is wise? The one who learns from all people.” Jewish Women authors have a completely different perspective from mine. While we cannot expect to ever learn from all people, bringing some of these authors to CBT allows us to learn from a perspective that I cannot offer.

Our first author will be Cantor Barbara Ostfeld, whose novel Catbird: The Ballad of Barbi Prim, tells the story of an auspicious and talented 8-year-old who dreams of becoming a pioneer. Cantor Ostfeld is a pioneer herself, as she is the first female cantor in Jewish history. She will be joining us for Shabbat services on November 22, which is fittingly a Musical Shabbat, where she will teach about her book and her journey. There will be a dinner before Shabbat services that evening, and she will give us a preview as we dine, and she will stick around for a book signing and Q&A after services.

In January we are working on hosting Stephane Butnick, one of the hosts of the podcast Unorthodox, and author of the released-last-week The Newish Jewish Encyclopedia. If you are not familiar with the podcast Unorthodox, you should download an episode or two and listen in your car on the way home from services today. If you are not familiar with what a podcast is, she wrote a book.

In February we will welcome USA Today Bestselling author Rochelle Weinstein, who will present her fifth novel, This is Not How it Ends, which will be released on January 1, 2020. I have read three of her other four books, and every time I am enthralled by how she so beautifully crafts her characters, and how descriptive she is of the scenes she creates. Weinstein immerses her readers into the world of her novels, and if you have the chance to read any of them you will not be disappointed.

In addition to Cantor Ostfeld and Rochelle Weinstein, we are working with brand new author Melissa W. Hunter, whose first novel, What She Lost, features a protagonist based on her own grandmother, a Holocaust survivor whose experiences shape the course of Hunter’s story.

A big thank you and shout out to Nancy Danger, who is chairing this series of authors. Nancy and I are working hard to create an interesting and meaningful series for CBT.

You may or may not know the names Cantor Barbara Ostfeld, Stephanie Butnick, or Rochelle Weinstein, and I know you trust us to bring quality presenters to CBT. But you should know we are also courting a certain author who is very familiar to this congregation. Editor of The Sacred Calling: Four Decades of Women in the Rabbinate, Rabbi Rebecca Einstein Schorr is likely to be on book tour next summer or fall with a new offering from CCAR Press, and even though it will likely be after this programming year, we know she will make her home congregation a stop on her journey.

If you are interested in bringing an author to us this year, whether you have connections to her or not, please contact Nancy Danger to get on her Jewish Women Authors team. We are looking to book a couple more authors for the year, and we know this is going to be an amazing series for all of our learners.

More information will come through our weekly emails, texts, and on the new web site. So please keep your eyes peeled, and be sure to let Nancy know if you would like to help.

Throughout the year 5780, may we become wise the way Rabbi Ben Zoma would suggest. May our learning this year bring voices that we might otherwise not hear that open us up to new perspectives. May we celebrate Women Jewish Authors and enjoy another year of learning together as a community. May we allow new points of view to enrich our engagement with our sacred tradition of education. May our learning together make the new year better and sweeter than the years before.

Elul 3, 5779

Our tradition teaches us that we should say 100 blessings every day. Thankfully, there is a blessing for just about everything in Judaism. We say blessings when we encounter a new experience, see the natural wonders of God’s world around us, before we eat, and before we engage in fulfilling a mitzvah. One of my favorite blessings happens to be the blessing before Torah study in which we acknowledge the mitzvah to engage in words of Torah. One can’t help but notice that the blessing does not obligate us to merely “study” Torah but rather to actively engage with words of Torah. The Torah is our guide to living a meaningful and purposeful life. Engaging in words of Torah inspires us to live our best selves. When we recite the blessing before Torah study we commit ourselves to do the work that brings more wholeness to the world around us. Blessed are You, Sovereign of the Universe, who commands us to engage in words of Torah. Now that we said the blessing, let’s make sure to fulfill the Mitzvah. 

Rabbi Matt Cohen

Elul 2, 5779

This summer I was able to see Phish in concert as they passed through the Philadelphia area amid their annual summer tour.  To see Phish is something of a religious experience. First, you navigate a crowded parking lot, excitement building even hours before the show starts.  The pilgrimage from the car to the venue is itself noteworthy, taking in the faces, walking amid the throng. We're never alone. Indeed, the holy day experience is meant to be entirely wrapped in community, a reminder of the love we have around us.

Before the concert begins, people find their way to their seats while shaking hands and hugging those not seen for months.  With our holy days, after a long summer, we come back to ourselves and back to our heritage, and precisely when we need it most, as the incessant busy-ness of the year gets under way.

As the concert begins, we feel adrenaline, nostalgia, hope, as in worship. The concert brings jubilation and energy but also quiet and reflection, just like our services are meant to carry us carefully from place to place.      

The concert ends and everyone feels a combination of relief and exhaustion, pride and renewal.  The holy day season ends in similar fashion with levels of both spiritual fulfillment and emotional weariness.

As we prepare ourselves for the interactive concert that is our high holy days, I pray that you find time to let the music wash over you and, with that, the music of introspection, gratitude and faith.  May we find meaning amid the precious melodies of our remarkable tradition.   

Rabbi Benjamin David

(*This piece is being posted on a day when two different Elul Thoughts contributors are coming home from a weekend of seeing Phish together.)

Elul 1, 5779

1 Elul/September 1

 

The Hebrew month of Elul is the last month of the Jewish year. As such, it is considered a month of spiritual preparation for the High Holy Days. Special meditations are added to the daily service for some, known as S'lichot, or penitentiary prayers. (*The Saturday before Rosh Hashanah is also known as S'lichot, and it is used as a night of contemplation and study.) For several years, a group of Reform rabbis and educators has collaborated on a series of Elul Thoughts, shared with our congregations in a daily email, and accompanied by a daily Tweet. 

This year's Elul Thoughts include contributions from:

Rabbi Rabbi Heidi Cohen, Temple Beth Sholom, Santa Ana, CA

Rabbi Matthew Cohen, Congregation B'nai Israel, Galveston, TX

Rabbi Benjamin David, Adath Emanu-El, Mount Laurel, NJ

Rabbi Brad Levenberg, Temple Sinai, Atlanta, GA

Rabbi Eric Linder, Congregation Children of Israel, Athens, GA

Rabbi Alan E. Litwak, Temple Sinai, North Miami Beach, FL

Cantorial Soloist Jenna Sagan, Congregation B'nai Tzedek, Fountain Valley, CA

Rabbi Nico Socolovsky, Temple Beth Tikvah, Fullerton, CA

Rabbi Charlie Cytron-Walker, Congregation Beth Israel, Colleyville, TX

Rabbi David N. Young, Congregation B'nai Tzedek, Fountain Valley, CA

 You can follow any of us on Facebook or Twitter.

If you have missed any of these daily emails or want to go back and remember something from earlier in Elul, feel free to read them all at https://tinyurl.com/elulthoughts.

Welcome to Elul Thoughts 5779!

Every year a group of rabbis collaborates on a series of emails intended to get us ready for the High Holy Days. These are intended to be brief thoughts about the themes of the High Holy Days, because just like when we exercise we cannot jump in and grab the heaviest weights, so too when working on the self-improvement involved with the act of Teshuvah, we should not begin with the heaviness of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Our souls need time to warm up to this most sacred moment on the Jewish calendar.

In that light, we offer these Elul Thoughts to our congregations as a spiritual warm up to get us ready for the High Holy Days.

This year we dedicate our Elul Thoughts to the memory of our friend and regular Elul Thoughts contributor Rabbi Daniel Treiser, whose first yartzheit was about two weeks ago. May his teachings continue to inspire us, and may his memory continue to be a blessing.

Our Ancestors Understood Our World

A few thousand years ago, our ancestors told us how to live a holy life. It is remarkable that they made sure to give us ideals and laws that are actually achievable and doable!

With this in mind, we reflect on one of the sayings from Pirke Avot: "You are not obligated to complete the work, but neither are you free to desist from it (2:21)".

The heaviness of the world and our lives can lead us to inaction. But keep our ancestors words in your heart. You can't fix everything, but you can (and should) fix something!

Rabbi Eric Linder