Rosh Hashanah and the Art of Getting Knocked Down and Back Up Again

We often imagine teshuvah, the Jewish concept of repentance, as turning around and heading in a new direction. We recognize what went wrong, resolve to change, and begin again. This happens with New Year's resolutions, too. You commit to exercising regularly, but an injury or a demanding work schedule get in the way. You want to spend more time studying Torah, but work deadlines and household responsibilities give you less time than you hoped for. You decide to become more financially responsible, but then a car breaks down or an unexpected bill that wipes out months of savings.

I'm sure we can all come up with personal examples, but the idea is the same: we want to do better, but life gets in the way. And by the time we come back and try to accomplish the goal again, the structure we began to build beforehand has already collapsed. I recently went to a shiur (class on a Torah topic) with a Jewish organization called Hadar. This class offered a different suggestion. Perhaps the metaphor isn't simply turning around or returning. Perhaps it is rebuilding. 

When Moses was at the Burning Bush, he asked G-d the deceptively simple question of "What is Your name?" G-d's answer was אהיה אשר איהי (Exodus 3:14). This phrase has been elusive. It has been translated as "I am that I am" or "I am that I will be." What is interesting is that regardless of translation, the word איהי is a verb. 

This grammatical concept can be helpful with viewing teshuvah. We tend to imagine ourselves as if we were finished things that merely need occasional fixing. But we remain works in progress, shaped by experience and capable of revision. Part of teshuva, therefore, is the recognition that becoming is part of becoming human. 

There is a Midrash (Tanhuma 11:8) that complicates the metaphor of building in a fascinating way. During the dedication of the Miskhan (Tabernacle), Moses repeatedly dismantled and reassembled the Tabernacle. That is a strange picture of construction: building something only to take it apart again. 

R. Shalom Noah Berezovsky, in his text Netivot Shalom, takes that metaphor and applies it to the spiritual work of a human being. We, too, build structures in our lives. Sometimes, they collapse. The answer he suggests is not to despair, but to rebuild. 

That means teshuvah is not just a theoretical exercise. Even after reflection, there is a point where we have to do something with that knowledge. We prepare, we build, we repair, and sometimes, we have to dismantle so we can build something better. Sometimes taking something apart is not proof that the building was a mistake, but a lesson on learning to build it properly. 

That's where the metaphor gets messier. The hardest part of teshuvah might not be recognizing what needs to change. It may be what happens that even when we put in our best efforts to try to change, it doesn't hold. Or even worse, it collapses. The old habit reemerges. A relationship or job falls apart. At that point, it is all too easy to conclude that failure proves that we cannot change for the better. 

To channel Chumbawamba, "I get knocked down, but I get up again. But you're never gonna keep me down." For me, that nostalgic line is reminiscent of better days, but it reminds us that getting back up is not easy. And it's not supposed to be. Sometimes, it can mean taking the beating of your life, accepting that something we worked towards has been decimated, and then deciding that collapse of said vision or goal will not be the end of the story. 

Teshuvah is not about not falling down. If anything, falling down at some point is inevitable because to err is to be human. It is the willingness of persevering when we do fall down. 

But rebuilding does not mean constructing something the same exact way as you did before. If something collapses, we should learn something from that collapse. Maybe the structure was too weak. Maybe it was too ambitious or the design was wrong. Maybe the building was unsustainable. 

Whatever the reason, teshuvah shows us that we should take the reason(s) seriously. But we don't necessarily return to that blueprint. We can revise it the best we can for our lives. Rebuilding is not repetition, but revision based on the new information. Teshuva doesn't ask us to build perfectly. It asks us to be better builders. 

And that brings us to the New Year. Rosh Hashanah offers us a beginning, but not a clean slate. The previous year is with us, whether it is our successes, joys, failures, emotional baggage, or whatever lessons we learned along the way. 

So we don't need to promise to ourselves "This year, I will get everything right." We can instead say something more modest and honest: "I know more than I did before. I know what some of my failures cost. I may still fall, but I am willing to build again." Starting with what we have learned might lead us to a more durable form of hope and faith.

As much of a Type-A perfectionist that I am, perhaps this year I need to ask if I can finally get everything right. Perhaps a better question may be: What am I willing to build, even if I know that some of it may eventually fall apart? 

As scary as it sounds, I don't know what will endure and what will not. None of us do. But we can choose how we respond when something collapses. We can walk away, or we can get knocked down and then we can get up again.....to build. 

Rosh Hashanah Is a Reminder That Blame Is Easy and It Takes Courage to Change

As the Jewish New Year (Rosh Hashanah) fast approaches, Jews are called to reflect and renew. The blowing of the ram's horn, also known as the shofar, is a sound that wakes us both to our potential and make us aware of our failures so we can be the best version of ourselves. To do that sort of deep work, we need both courage and honesty. In a world where preserving image often takes precedence over truth, it is often honesty that ends up being the first casualty in the modern world. 

Why? It is one of the most ancient human forces: the ego. The ego exists to protect us, whether it is from shame, rejection, criticism, guilt, vulnerability, or even the painful fact that to err is to be human. The ego convinces us that if we admit fault, we risk getting hurt; we can lose love, respect, fame, prestige, or face. Instead of confronting, the ego directs us to deflect and avoid. Blame is not new. It is what got Adam and Eve kicked out of the Garden of Eden. What has happened is that over time, this tendency has intensified to new levels and social media has intensified this tendency to new all-time highs. We live in a broader culture where blame-shifting is often rewarded and normalized, whether it is blaming our upbringing, the boss, genetics, trauma, the government, systemic racism, social media, the economy, or societal expectations.

My former rabbi, Rabbi Shmuel Herzfeld, wrote a book called Renewal where he called this mindset towards giving excuses the "Avimelech Syndrome." The Avimelech Syndrome is inspired by the biblical story in Genesis 21. Avimelech, the King of Gerar, behaves in a way that is morally questionable and arguably duplicitous. While he claims ignorance, he ultimately deflects blame rather than owning the impact of his actions, which Rabbi Herzfeld interprets as a moral failing. Instead of taking responsibility, he ends up saying, "It wasn't my fault. There were mitigating circumstances."  

Why does this script sound familiar? Because most of us have succumbed to this mindset at some point or another, myself included. I am not here to say that circumstances do not matter because they play a role, and sometimes a major one. However, we cannot stop at blaming our circumstances. 

Teshuvah, which is the Jewish concept of repentance, begins with the terrifying words of "I was wrong." Rabbi Herzfeld finds the Avimelech Syndrome so problematic because when we say "it is not really my fault," it is not merely about evading guilt. It is a spiritual paralysis that stymies personal growth. We cannot begin to transform our thoughts and actions if we spend all of our energy defending our ego and our faults. In describing the Avimelech Syndrome, Rabbi Herzfeld provides three steps to overcome the Avimelech Syndrome:

1. Acknowledge our errors and mistakes. To make real change, we cannot make excuses for our behavior. Without recognizing where we have erred, we cannot move forward or improve. We have to take the time to ask what errors we have made, whether large or small. 

2. Make a clear commitment to doing better. In the Avimelech story, Abraham signs a treaty with Avimelech that Abraham can dig wells at Be'er Sheva. The treaty should have held at least for a few generations, but Avimelech's henchmen closed up the wells shortly after Abraham's passing (Genesis 26:15-18). This breach of trust shows us how not to act. Teshuvah is not simply about saying sorry, as I pointed out in 2014. It means making meaningful change in our lives. Herzfeld suggests picking one thing and committing to it. It can be practicing gratitude, an act of kindness, or a certain Jewish ritual. 

3. Trust the larger process. The beginning of this Torah portion about Avimelech begins with the phrase "G-d remembered Sarah" (Genesis 21:1). Remember that Sarah had previously laughed when G-d said He would give her a child (Genesis 18:12). After all, she laughed because she gave up hope on ever having a child. Can you imagine that G-d had abandoned you? In the end, Sarah did have a child. Rabbi Herzfeld reminds us that "The message is not that [G-d] will always give what we ask for. If we fully commit to [G-d], then we will gain enormous spiritual strength from that relationship and it will be a source of empowerment for us throughout our lives." Whether we call it G-d, the Universe, or transcendence, the idea is to trust the process. Our goal is effort, not outcome, as difficult as it can be to remember that. By remembering this key factor, we can avoid despair when things more slowly or not at all. 

As strong as this framework is, we cannot stop at commitment or with one act. We need to take it a step further: personal responsibility. To paraphrase self-help author Mark Manson, "Even if it is not your fault, it is your responsibility." None of this means that we are necessarily to blame. There are things that happen to us that are unfortunate and unfair. However, we have the agency in how we respond, repair and grow from that hurt. If we cannot address what transpired, led to the present moment, or what is holding us back, we cannot move forward.  

Teshuvah is a process that begins internally, but needs to extend outwardly to be effective. It asks us to assess the damage we caused with our errors and mistakes in order to make amends and do right. It asks us to change so we behave differently in the future and do better than we did last year. This takes time, effort, awareness, patience, humility, and grace. It is in this personal responsibility in which we become our best and truest selves. Teshuvah is not rooted in guilt, but rather power and self-agency.

It is ironic coming from a perfectionist, but this time of year is not to be a time of perfection. It is meant to be a time of courage. It is courage to tell the truth, even when it is inconvenient. It is courage to face the wrong you have done instead of ignoring it. It is the courage and discipline to change, to grow, and to improve. In a world that encourages denial and deflection of blame, teshuvah is an act of rebellion and courage of one of the highest orders. It is also an act of faith, to believe that we are not defined by our worst moments and that we have the ability to change. 

This year, we should ask ourselves, "Where have I hidden behind excuses?" What conversation have I been avoiding?" "What would it mean to truly take responsibility?" This year, we should not only hear the shofar, but respond to it. So how will you respond to the shofar this year? 

A Yom Kippur Lesson on the Stoic Dichotomy of Control and How to Take the Reins for the New Year

We are currently in another year of the Jewish High Holiday period, which starts on Rosh Hashanah (Jewish New Year) and ends after Yom Kippur (Day of Atonement). It is within this ten-day period (עשרת ימי תשובה) that Jews traditionally lean into introspection, reconnection, and improving oneself. There are a sheer amount of services and prayers that take place during this holiday period. There is one liturgical poem (פיוט; piyut) that is read both on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur that I want to focus on today: Unetaneh Tokef (ונתנה תקף).

The premise of this liturgical poem is that G-d is Judge and He is judging our actions. He has a Book of Life and a Book of Death. On Rosh Hashanah, it is written in which Book we will be inscribed. On Yom Kippur, the Books are sealed. As we see in the poem, the Books act as a metaphor of who is going to live and going to die in the upcoming year. When I analyzed this piyut nine years ago, the framework presented in Unetaneh Tokef is figurative because, well, this is a poem. As we will see, this poem has great insight, even though there are not literal Books. 

This is a poem that helps us to come to terms with our own mortality. One of the ways it inadvertently does so is by using the dichotomy of control. The dichotomy of control, which is most commonly associated with Stoicism, is the idea some things are in your control and others are not. This is true when you divide a task, goal, event, or occurrence into small enough pieces. The dichotomy of control framework has us categorize things into either being in our control or not. We are then to focus on what is within our control. This concept exists in the well-known Serenity Prayer:

G-d grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. 

This dichotomy plays out in Unetaneh Tokef. The piyut list a series of ways that people die, including by water, by fire, by hunger, by earthquake, and by plague, e.g., COVID-19. It also says that it will be determined who will be at ease and who will suffer, who will become poor and who will become rich, and who will be cast down and who will be raised high. We have no control of whether death comes from us. It is not a matter of if we will die, but how, when, and where. As for becoming poor or rich, that one is trickier. We can have control over our performance at work, but we cannot control whether economic conditions shut down our place of employment or certain other dynamics in the workplace. There are many external events over which we do not have control. After this list of events over which we have little to no control, the poem creates a "but" statement to counter a feeling of fatalism:

ותשובה ותפלה וצדקה מעהירין את רע הגזרה

But repentance, prayer, and charity avert the evil [severity] of the decree. 

While there are a myriad of events and actions outside of our control, Unetaneh Tokef reminds us that there are things we can do to help mitigate the circumstances, whether they are our fault or not. The poem provides us with three solutions. As the Lubavitcher Rebbe aptly illustrates, the English translations do not capture the profundity of what these options actually entail:

• Repentance (תשובה). What is interesting about the Jewish concept of teshuvah is that it has the same root as the verb "to return" (לשוב). Rather than become a new person, one is "returning" to one's original self. In Judaism, that original nature is deemed good. I have theological qualms believing everyone is good deep down. I think being human means that there is potential to be good, but that is not the same as being fundamentally good. Perhaps that is what we are returning to: actualizing our potential to be good in the world. In any case, I still like the concept of teshuvah. Whether it is Greek tragedies, Calvinist predestination, Marxism, Freudian thought, or genetic determinism, there has been many schools of thought that believe that we are puppets of fate. What is great about teshuvah is that with effort, discipline, and will, we have the ability and freedom to change for the better. 
• Prayer (תפלה). There is a separate verb that means "to pray, request, beseech" (לבקש). The word comes from the reflexive verb "to judge oneself" (התפלל). While there is an element of interacting with the Divine, there is a major aspect of self-evaluation and self-judgment. This is not about a process of asking for what we need. This is about developing the self-awareness to become better people. 
• Charity (צדקה). The idea of charity comes from the Latin word caritas, which means "from the heart." The closest Hebrew gets to this idea is the word חסד. In Judaism, the word צדקה comes from the root of צדק: justice. We give not because we feel warm-hearted, but because it is the right thing to do. It reminds us that we have a responsibility to help out other human beings. It also reminds us that nothing ultimately belongs to us. While the concept of צדקה is traditionally about how one gives money, I believe that giving one's time or effort, or even extending a kind word, is also an extension of the concept of צדקה. Rabbi Eliyahu Dessler said that the extent to which we love is the extent to which we give. 

Through the actions of self-reflection, changing our behavior, and doing acts of kindness, Unetaneh Tokef teaches us that we turn abstract values into the fulfillment of what Jewish values are supposed to exemplify. By becoming better people through our thoughts, speech, and action, we can bring about a year of sweetness, joy, and abundance. 

Apples Dipped in Honey on Rosh Hashanah: Finding Goodness and Sweetness in the New Year

In many cultures, the New Year symbolizes a time of renewal, celebration, and new beginnings. The Jewish religion is no exception. Judaism has symbolism to that effect. One of the most iconic symbols of Rosh Hashanah is that of apples dipped in honey. Where does this practice originate? Why do we do it? What is its significance? 

It might be tempting to tie it back to the Tree of Knowledge in the Garden of Eden, but the Torah never identifies the type of fruit that grew from that Tree. We do not find any mention of the combination of apples and honey neither in the Torah nor in the Talmud. The practice dates back to the Geonic period, which is somewhere between the sixth and eleventh centuries. As to the why, there are multiple interpretations. However, the simplest and most common answer to give is because apples and honey are both sweet foods. We wish people a sweet, happy new year. As a matter of fact, the phrase we utter after we recite the blessing of the apple on Rosh Hashanah is the following:

יהי רצון מלפנך שתחדש עלינו שנה טובה ומתוקה.

May it be Your will to renew for us a good and sweet year.

We don't just wish for a good year, but also a sweet one. Isn't sweetness a subset of goodness? Why emphasize the sweetness? You can have something purposeful without enjoying it. You can also have something enjoyable without meaning. As Harvard professor Tal Ben-Shahar explains in his book Happier, happiness is a combination between pleasure and meaning. But why the emphasis on sweetness? Sweetness implies richness, goodness, a reward, or something pleasurable. There is something about the experience that you are truly meant to enjoy when having something sweet. I can certainly understand sweetness in the abstract. We want people to have a wonderful year. It almost sounds idyllic in theory, especially since we are combining two sweet foods during this ritual. However, if a ritual is to mean anything, if we are to have a sweet New Year in practice, we need to find ways to make the world a bit sweeter. Otherwise, the consumption of apples dipped in honey remains hollow. How do we have a sweet year? I think the beginning of that answer ironically can be found in the Passover seder.  

One of the requirements of the Passover seder is to eat bitter herbs. Another part of the Passover seder is to eat charoset, which is a paste made of fruits and nuts. Interestingly enough, apples is a common choice for charoset, which is why I bring it up. The bitter herbs represent the bitterness of the slavery that the Israelites endured (Exodus 12:8). The charoset is consumed during the seder to blunt the taste of the bitterness. As I brought up seven years ago, the consumption of the bitter herbs is mandatory, whereas the consumption of charoset is optional. If the Passover seder is to be a metaphor for life, the meaning within the "bitter herbs versus charoset" is that bitterness in life is inevitable, even though we wish for a sweet new year during Rosh Hashanah. At the same time, sweetness is optional. One of the beauties of the Passover story is that we are given freedom, even in such difficult times as the ones in which we find ourselves. But that is the first step: we have to choose the sweetness. 

While a paradigm shift is essential, it is not the only step. In Christianity, the end goal is salvation. In Buddhism, it is karma. Both are focused on the destination. Judaism, in contrast, is focused on the journey. If Judaism reminds us of anything, it is that spirituality is a long-term process. As Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel says in his book Between Man and G-d, "A Jew is asked to take a leap of action rather than a leap of thought" and that "the destiny of man is to be a partner of G-d and a mitzvah is an act in which man is present, an act of participation." We are meant to "walk after your L-rd your G-d" (Deuteronomy 13:5). What does it mean to walk after G-d? According to the Talmud (Sotah 14a), it means to imitate G-d. The examples the Talmud outlines our clothing the naked, visiting the sick, and comforting mourners. We emulate G-d in our actions. When we connect to these actions, at least based on Jewish thought, we are connecting to the sweetness that G-d has given us.  

Bringing us back to the metaphor of apples dipped into honey, we are to bring sweetness and happiness through our actions. After all, Judaism and the system of mitzvot is very much based on one's actions, as opposed to one's beliefs. We have to consistently pursue actions. It would explain why a traditional Jew says the Shema twice a day or why a traditional Jew prays for forgiveness three times a day in daily prayers. While some of these concepts seem straightforward or simple, they are hardly easy to implement. It might be easy to think of justice or kindness when you are putting on tefillin and uttering words about how we should pursue those concepts. But how difficult is it to put in practice and to do so more consistently? If good actions are applied wisdom, which is how I feel about the role of philosophy, then we should see this improvement in our actions. 

One of the things I appreciate about Chasidic thought, certainly at its founding, is that it believed in not just going through the motions. Sweetness is not a mere byproduct of meaningful work, but we are meant to find authentic joy in the process. After all, that happens to be one of the major themes of the holiday of Sukkot. As I brought up about eight Sukkots ago, happiness is not something to be acquired. It is a byproduct of one's action, as well as to what and to whom we connect. Going off my thought about Chasidic thought, I would add it is how we connect to that which is around us. Gratitude is one of many ways that we can make those stronger connections. 

While Jewish rituals and ethics provide a strong base to develop the sweetness, this concept applies beyond Jewish religious practice. Happiness is an elusive concept and can vary from person to person, much like people have different taste buds and have a different take on sweetness. However, what science has revealed, and was made famous by psychology professor Sonja Lyubomirsky in her book The How of Happiness, is that there is a significant percentage of happiness under our control. Let's take exercise as an example. Regular exercise is shown to increase dopamine and serotonin levels, which would help fight off depression. We are what we eat. This does not simply apply to symbolism found in kosher eating, but also in terms of how healthier diet can improve overall physical health. Meditation is also shown to have benefits, including lower stress, improved outlook on life, and a lengthened attention span. While they seem secular in nature, I would argue that self-care, exercise, and anything pertaining to one's health are applications of the mitzvah to "guard yourself and guard your soul carefully (Deuteronomy 4:9)." Not only do we live longer lives, but we are happier and more energetic in our pursuit towards a healthier version of the self. I would also contend that taking control over the things you can control also creates a sweetness because it creates a sense of agency, feeling of accomplishment, and a connection with living in accordance to one's values. 

I want to conclude with two points. The first point is that Jewish thought tends to emphasis the purpose and meaning aspect. With Rosh Hashanah, you get to focus on the sweetness, as well. An ideal life is not solely about living according to one's values or to have goals, but also enjoying the experience. 

The second point has to do with the nature of happiness and sweetness. It is custom to wish people a "Good and Sweet New Year." It is not an automatic process, and G-d is not a vending machine that will give you sweetness or goodness simply because you ask for it. You have to choose sweetness and make the paradigm shift to live a purpose-driven life with a more positive outlook. But it doesn't stop there. Much like anything in life, anything worthwhile takes constant effort, whether that was the Israelites from the Passover story being free or us having a sweet new year. So much of the High Holiday season is about introspection into the previous year and also looking forward. Sweetness is not going to fall on your lap. What are you willing to do differently from last year to make it truly good and sweet?

My Favorite Reasons for Blowing the Shofar on Rosh Hashanah

As the late Aretha Franklin said, "Music does a lot of things for a lot of people. It's transporting, for sure. It can take you right back, years back, to the very moment certain things happened in your life. It's uplifting, it's encouraging, it's strengthening." Believe it or not, this quote is very relatable to Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. While there are multiple features to Rosh Hashanah, the single most important one is hearing the shofar because it is the only active mitzvah of the 613 mitzvot related to Rosh Hashanah (derived from Leviticus 23:24; Numbers 29). The shofar is an ancient musical horn, typically made from a ram's horn. The shofar has been used in multiple areas of Jewish history besides Rosh Hashanah, including announcing the New Moon (Psalm 81:3), announcing the jubilee year (Leviticus 25:9), for starting war (Joshua 6:4; Judges 3:27, 7:16, 7:20; I Samuel 8:3), the coronation of a king (I Kings 1:34, 39, 41), and was part of the orchestra that King David had when instruments were played during Temple services (Psalm 150:3).

But let's bring it back to Rosh Hashanah. I wanted to know why this mitzvah was so instrumental to the holy day celebrations. I looked through reasons provided by Chabad, Aish HaTorah, the Orthodox Union, a list of R. Sa'adiah Ga'on's ten reasons for the shofar (courtesy of Ohr Somaych), as well as books on my bookshelf, and this culminates the list of my favorites:

1. Spiritual Wake-Up Call to Repentance. The shofar makes a piercing sound that jolts us out of our lethargic state, much like an alarm clock. Rosh Hashanah acts as the beginning of the Days of Awe, the ten-day period between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur during which one gets their affairs from the previous year in order and does teshuvah (repentance). Looking at Nevi'im (the Prophets), the shofar was a reminder of our admonitions and reminded us why we need to clean up our act. Teshuvah  was so important that G-d created it before the Universe (Talmud, Nedarim, 39b). By creating teshuvah, not only has G-d shown us mercy, but G-d has provided us with the opportunity to right our wrongs. 
2. Coronating G-d. Rosh Hashanah is to celebrate the creation of the universe. Since the shofar was used to coronate kings, what a better way to recognize G-d's Kingship and our purpose in the universe? Plus, G-d's Sovereignty is such a major theme is Rosh Hashanah liturgy. 
3. Transported Through Time. Aretha Franklin hit this one on the head. Listening to the shofar transports us to another time, such as when the shofar was blown on Mount Sinai when the Jews received the Torah. It was a simpler time, and that is not the only thing that was simpler.  
4. Simplicity. One thing I noticed about the shofar is the simplicity of the instrument itself. In contrast to the trumpet, trombone, or many other brass instruments, the shofar lacks a pitch-altering device (e.g., valves, telescoping slide mechanism). My theory as to why the instrument is so simple is because we are to return to a simpler essence when it comes to Jewish practice, a topic which I have previously covered. There is a place for understanding nuance because the world is a nuanced place. However, people can get so obsessed with the details that they forget the simple essence that permeates throughout Judaism. There are simple truths that dictate those complexities: G-d is One (Deuteronomy 6:4), love your neighbor like yourself (Leviticus 19:18), walk humbly in His ways (Micha 6:8). Perhaps this is a time to re-examine those simple truths and see how we can implement them in the upcoming year.
5. Awe of G-d. The sound of the shofar can be haunting, potentially so haunting that it inspires the fear of G-d. In the Book of Ecclesiastes (Ch. 3), King Solomon reminds us that there is a time for everything. Rosh Hashanah is a time for the fear of G-d. My understanding of fear of G-d is that we should not be so scared where we are paralyzed, which would make it more akin to awe than fear. Ideally, our relationship with G-d should be one of love, but that is not necessarily doable all the time. When love is not possible, we should still be awe-struck by G-d's power and capacity for many things, which is what the shofar reminds us.
6. Celebration. Rosh Hashanah celebrates another year, another period of time in which we can fulfill our potential. The shofar is meant to be blown when the Messiah arrives (Isaiah 27:13). Until the Messiah arrives, we can still recognize the salvation that G-d brings in our daily lives.

Aretha Franklin was spot-on by saying that music is a transformative experience. The shofar blown on Rosh Hashanah takes on that transformative experience, whether it is awe of G-d, a call to repent, to remind us of our true values, or a call to celebration. I hope that your experience with the shofar is one that transforms you.

שנה טובה ומתוקה!

How to Celebrate Rosh Hashanah When Your Judaism Is Shaken to the Core

Normally, at this time of year, I would take a passage from the Torah, Talmud, or some other Jewish text that relates to Rosh Hashanah. I would take that passage, analyze it, and come up with some sort of insight that can carry us through the Jewish year of 5778. This year, I don't have that luxury in my life because I am dealing with the loss of someone who was dear to me. Baruch Hashem, thank G-d that individual did not pass away. Although I shared many intimate moments and developed a strong bond with said person, what this person ended up doing to me recently was injurious enough where making up for the damage caused is impossible. One thing that this is done is change my view on humanity a bit. A redeeming feature of Judaism is that it reminds us that we are imperfect beings, but that G-d has given us a framework that provides us with second chances and the ability to do better through what Judaism refers to as teshuvah. Much like we learned with the Pharaoh in Egypt, an individual can fall into a pattern of behavior that can obscure our humanity to the point where they are irredeemable. A default assumption in Judaism is to believe that in spite of our flaws, we have the capacity to improve upon ourselves and be better than we were before. However, my past relationship with the aforementioned individual reminds me that either some people don't want to work on themselves or that some individuals are incapable of working on themselves. I still believe most people can improve upon themselves, but some people are truly beyond redemption.

Unfortunately for me, my recent loss did not just impact my relationship with this person, but also with my religiosity and how I feel about Judaism. Although I believe in an impersonal G-d, I have found myself in a position I have not found myself in years: angry at G-d. Rather than remember the benefits of living a Jewish life or how I have grown throughout my Jewish life, all I can feel is the pain I have endured as a result of Judaism and the costs of living an observant Jewish life. I feel adrift about my Jewish identity and Jewish practice in a way that I never have before. Fortunately, I have an exceptionally supportive Jewish community, family, and overall social network that is helping me stay afloat, but that still doesn't help me with how I proceed with Rosh Hashanah. How do I continue maintaining introspection while looking forward to how I can be a better person and Jew this upcoming year when I wonder whether I still even want to practice Judaism or be Jewish?

I am sure I am not the first person who has undergone an arduous trial in life during this time of year. Based on recent conversations I have had with my Orthodox friends, I know that I am not the first Orthodox Jew to go through, for lack of a better term, a "crisis of faith." Even in the Orthodox world, there are people who struggle with their Yiddishkeit and what it means to be Jewish. It is just that much like other topics in the Orthodox world, they are considered taboo. Instead of addressing these issues and helping people grow spiritually, the Orthodox world has a propensity to sweep these issues under the rug. With that being said, here are a few things I am going to keep in mind for the High Holidays (Yamim Noraim), as well as some advice for those of us whose hearts or minds are not necessarily or fully into the "holiday spirit" this year:

1. A Jew is supposed to struggle and question. It is nice to think that being religious means unwavering support and never doubting or questioning. This is simply not true. This is not simply a matter of "three Jews, five opinions" or how the Talmud, and indeed Judaism as a whole, has been a discussion and debate that spans over the ages. Being able to struggle is literally a namesake of the Jewish people. The Jewish people are referred to as Israel (ישראל). In Hebrew, the word means "one who struggles with G-d." This name was given to Jacob after he fought and struggled with the angel in the biblical text. If we do not struggle with, doubt, or question Judaism, we are not doing it right. 
2. Yom Kippur is not a hard deadline in finishing processing, grieving, or moving forward. This might seem counterintuitive given traditional Judaism's take on this time of year. At this time of year, Jewish tradition teaches that there is a Book of Life and a Book of Death. At Rosh Hashanah, G-d inscribes names in the Book of Life, and at Yom Kippur, G-d seals the Book of Life, thereby sealing our names in the given Book. While interesting imagery, this is not meant to be taken literally. As we see upon analyzing the prayer of Unetaneh Tokef, this is meant to be a metaphor. This time of year is not an opportunity to manipulate G-d in helping us cheat death for another year, but rather to make us think about the ephemeral nature of life. It is meant to bring us closer to G-d. It also reminds us of the fragility of life. This time of year is meant to inspire. At the same time, the Yamim Noraim do not magically solve all of our problems or remove our pain. The nice thing about Judaism is that it focuses on the journey, not the destination. Rosh Hashanah is meant to rejuvenate and inspire, which means that this time of year is meant to be a starting point, not an endpoint (Talmud, Yoma 87a).  
3. Take it one day at a time and do what you can. On the one hand, a Jew is supposed to step it up a notch at this time of year. In the High Holiday prayer books (machzorim), we see the phrase of "teshuvah, tefillah, tzedakah help us avert the Divine decree." We are supposed to do more repenting, praying, and giving money to causes per Jewish law than we do during the rest of the year. On the other hand, I had a good friend tell me in this context that "If you don't bend, you will break." To quote Ben Hei Hei in Pirkei Avot (5:26), "the reward is in proportion to the exertion (לפום צערא אגרא)." Rashi comments on this passage in Pirkei Avot that the reward is in proportion to the effort and difficulty needed for its performance. This passage means that G-d understands what you're going through, and that G-d is well aware of the mitigating or exigent circumstances. In the context of Rosh Hashanah observance, what this means is this. Ideally, it would be great if you go full-out and do mitzvahs galore. But if you don't, G-d understands. The main mitzvah on Rosh Hashanah is to hear the shofar blowing. Even if you are in a tough spot and only go to one service to hear the shofar, G-d will give you even greater kudos since He knows what you're going through. G-d wants Jews to do mitzvahs, but G-d also understands that for the vast majority of people, Jewish practice and dedication to Judaism has its ups and downs. 
• As I wrote a couple of years ago, the Nazarite provides an example of how taking even a few small steps can help us grow immensely, especially during the Yamim Noraim. It doesn't matter if you're making small steps. As long as you're moving forward in your life, that's what ultimately matters.
4. Forgive yourself and cut yourself some slack. I don't say this point because it's easy because I can tell you I struggle with this, especially given recent days. This time of year is about forgiving others, asking G-d for forgiveness, and asking others for forgiveness. There is a lot of forgiveness, but there is one aspect of forgiveness that is often overlooked: forgiving ourselves. I looked at this idea within the context of the Ashamnu prayer, which I know isn't recited until Yom Kippur, but it is still apropos. Why is forgiving ourselves important? Especially when we feel down, it is all too easy to look at the High Holiday liturgy and feel even worse about ourselves than we do. Yes, reflect on the right and wrong you did this past year. At the same time, if you want to do better this upcoming year, if you want to move forward from your struggle, and if you want to be the best version of yourself, then you have to forgive yourself. We are human, and as such, we will err and fall. We will do so many times. What defines us is not how we fall, but how we get back up. Part of getting back up is forgiving yourself so you can do better. If you can remember that, Rosh Hashanah will be more pleasant.  

Our lives are a process. How we feel about Jewish practice or G-d or Torah can and does fluctuate. It is part of the human condition. Will I return to a non-Orthodox denomination? Will I forsake religion altogether? Will I return to Orthodox Judaism after processing my loss and figuring out what I want in my spiritual and religious life? Quite frankly, I don't know. I want to do what makes me happiest and provides me with the most meaning in my life. While my relationship with Judaism and G-d is currently hurting, I am in the process of seeing where this healing process takes me. Much like I hope for myself, I hope for those of you struggling with their Judaism at this time of year, that you may find solace and peace in your relationship with G-d. 

A Rosh Hashanah Lesson in Seeing What Is Right In Front of You

Have you had that moment where you are looking for your keys and they are in your pocket, or that moment where you can't find your glasses because you're wearing them? It's amazing how something can be right there, and yet we don't even notice it. This occurrence goes beyond the literal, and we see this in Torah portions for Rosh Hashanah.

In the Torah portion for the first day (Genesis 21), Abraham banishes Hagar and Ishmael to the desert. After all the water was consumed, it was uncertain as to whether Hagar and Ishmael would survive. Hagar lifted her voice, and afterwards, G-d opened Hagar's eyes, and she saw a well of water (Genesis 21:19). According to Midrash Rabbah, G-d didn't have a well miraculously appear. G-d metaphorically gave Hagar the ability to see that which was already in front of her.

We see a similar incident in the second day Rosh Hashanah Torah portion (Genesis 22) with the iconic passage about Abraham sacrificing Isaac. As Abraham was about ready to slay his son, an angel came down to stop Abraham (22:12). A verse later, Abraham saw a ram and replaced the ram with his son (22:13). According to Radak, Abraham saw the ram after it had become enmeshed in the thicket. Even if Abraham noticed the ram immediately after it was enmeshed, there was still some time between the ram arriving at the top of the mountain and Abraham noticing the ram. In either case, there a period of time where Abraham did not notice the ram, presumably because he was so entrenched in the moment.

What can we learn from this? In the Tanach, the verb "to see" (לראות) is mentioned over 400 times, whether it is conjugated or in the infinitive. Sometimes our eyes deceive us, but our eyes are also important in being able to navigate life. Even in a metaphorical sense, we are blinded by all sorts of distractions and cognitive biases: negativity bias, bandwagon effect, confirmation bias. There are so many things to distract us from seeing clearly. Perhaps it is why we Jews have a morning prayer for restoring the eyes of the blind (פוקח עברים).

With the month of Elul leading up to the High Holy Days, we are meant to partake in a high level of introspection. We are to reflect on the previous year and take an honest look at how we can improve upon ourselves, and to do so without blind spots. Without distractions or cognitive biases. If Hagar and Abraham teach us anything here, it is that what we see and focus on becomes our reality. Rosh Hashanah presents us with a choice: do we choose to continue seeing things the way we do, thereby perpetuating our status quo? Or do we take a harder, more honest and more introspective look a we approach the High Holy Days? In order to start with a New Year, we need to look at ourselves more holistically, more honestly. We need to get the distractions out of the way and view ourselves in a more sobering light. Once when we know ourselves in all honesty, both the good and bad aspects, can we begin anew.

The Nazarite as a Metaphor of Change on the High Holy Days

The vow of the nazir (נזיר), also known as the nazarite, is one of those more peculiar practices in the Jewish tradition. This vow, which has its origins in Numbers 6, entails three main prohibitions: drinking wine and grape juice (which was later extended to all alcoholic beverages), cutting one's hair, and coming into contact with corpses. After the nazarite completes his term as a nazarite, the individual, whether male or female, is obligated to bring offerings to the Temple. Interestingly enough, while it is possible to be a nazarite today, it is highly discouraged for two reasons. First, the vow of the nazarite would have to be a permanent vow. The second reason is that the nazarite would need to be confined to the land of Israel.

Upon first glance, this vow does not seem to particularly spiritual. The nazarite does not entail a monastic lifestyle. It does not stop one from enjoying life or socializing with others. There is only one nazarite mentioned in the entirety of Hebrew Scriptures: Samson. Upon reading the Book of Judges, we find that in spite of being an ancient rockstar, Samson was violent, short-tempered, and promiscuous. None of those character flaws would be considered lofty goals, and could very well suggest that the nazarite vow is inefficient in inculcating change. Yet there is an entire tractate of the Talmud (Tractate Nazir), as well as a chapter of Mishneh Torah, that is devoted to the particulars of the nazarite vow. What is it about the nazarite vow that is so edifying, and more to the point, what can we glean from the nazarite vow for the High Holy Days?

The Hebrew word nazir comes from the root נ-ז-ר, which can either mean "crown" (e.g., II Samuel 1:10) or "separation" (e.g., Leviticus 22:2). Etymologically speaking, the nazarite is used both the distinguish and distance oneself from certain acts. Why does one who takes the nazarite vow feel the need to distance oneself? Based on the Talmud (Sotah 2a), Rashi asks why the case of the adulteress and the nazarite are juxtaposed. Rashi's conclusion was that whoever sees an adulteress in her disgrace should vow to abstain from wine, for such inebriation leads to lewd behavior. From Rashi's point of view, the nazarite vow can either be viewed as a preventative measure or a measure to change one's current behavior into something holier.

The way I have viewed the nazarite, however, has been something more of a mixed bag to the point where I consider the nazarite to be a holy sinner. On the one hand, the nazarite is willing do make a change in life and is willing to go beyond the minimal requirement to acquire holiness. Abstaining from alcohol provides one with a greater clarity of mind, letting one's hair grow allows for one to be less distracted with one's physical appearance (Numbers Rabbah 10:10), and the separation from dead bodies is a step of ritual purity that goes beyond the laws of ritual purity for priests. The fact that the nazarite is able to make these changes and ascend to such holiness is why Ramban is of the opinion that the sin offering is brought because the vow has ended. Rambam also believes that the nazarite is praiseworthy (Mishneh Torah, Nezirut 10:14) because by abstention, one avoids worse evils.

On the other hand, the individual had to go through such an extreme that they were willing to prevent themselves from elevating the physical world by consuming that which is technically permitted, which is why Rambam views the fact that one had to take on the nazarite vow in the first place as a sin (Mishneh Torah, Hilchot De'ot, 3:1). The Kli Yakar opined that one who could maintain self-control did not need to take the nazarite vow. As the Jerusalem Talmud states (Kiddushin 4:12), one will have to account for all the good food and drink for which G-d put in the world and refused to consume. Shimon HaTzaddik made it a point to not eat the offerings of a nazarite because his view was that the nazarite made the vow either in excessive guilt or enthusiasm (Numbers Rabbah 10:7).  R. Shmuly Yanklowitz brings another thought to why the nazarite vow ends in a sin offering: Instead of dealing with the problem head-on, we are avoiding the problem, which is incomplete personal change. This extreme should not normally be permitted, but perhaps it is a lesson showing us how the changes we make in our lives, even holy and lofty ones, can come with mixed results. The Mei Shiloach teaches that Tractate Nazir comes before Tractate Sotah in the ordering of the Talmud to teach us that we should have enough foresight to make sure we don't have to learn the hard way. It is edifying to learn things that we should not emulate, but what more can we learn from the nazarite about what we should do to changing ourselves?

The first thing is recognizing that one has to make the change. The Gemara (Nazir 11b) points out if a vow is made unintentionally, e.g., the vow was made and the individual had been mistaken to the facts of the situation, one can approach a halachic authority to annul the vow. For change to work, we need to have awareness of what needs to change before we make that change.

While knowing is half the battle, it is not enough to be cognizant of one's need to change. One can be aware and still continue in the undesired behavior. That could explain why if a nazarite vow were made in a cemetery, the period of the vow cannot begin until one is no longer within the cemetery (Nazir 16b). Coming back to the metaphor, one can begin to change until one is in the proper frame of mind and takes that first step to start the change.

The first step towards change might not be the largest step one will take in self-transformation, but it is the most important one because it is the step to start the momentum. That fact is illustrated by the nazarite. As R. Shmuel Herzfeld points out in his recently published book Renewal, the nazarite is making a limited and realistic goal (p. 77).

Not only are the prohibitions limited in nature, but so is the timeframe of the nazarite vow. The default length of a nazarite vow is thirty days (Nazir 5a). Yes, one technically can take on a nazarite vow for longer, and even take on the nazarite vow for life. The fact that one can lengthen the vow shows that one is to determine the length of the vow based on their own determination via introspection of one's own particular situation. When I see the default length of the nazarite vow, I cannot help but conclude that in spite of the fact that we should have a long-term sense of where we would like to go in life, we should put greater emphasis and focus of our goal-setting in the here and now. As I learned in a recent shiur with R. Haim Ovadia, we make a mistake in this sort of goal-setting by asking ourselves what our purpose is in life. R. Ovadia quoted Viktor Frankl and got us to think of the question of what is our purpose in life right now. The nazarite shows that limiting goals is important because it helps put extra effort into not erring. That ability to devote total focus and dedication on certain aspects of our life that truly need fixing is why the root נ-ז-ר means "crown." We crown with ourselves a realistic way to make ourselves into better human beings.

We hear about how goals need to be SMART: Specific, Measurable, Achievable, Relevant, and Time-Bound. As much as George T. Doran is credited with the SMART paradigm for setting goals, it was really G-d who provided us with the paradigm for optimal goal-setting. Only 8 percent of people are able to keep New Year's resolutions, which can be a depressing figure for those of us who want to bring about true change in our life. However, if we follow in the footsteps of the nazarite and keep our goals SMART, we can experience a sense of renewal that the High Holy Days are meant to bring in our lives.

Avinu Malkeinu: Balancing G-d's Love and Justice on Rosh Hashanah

As we approach Rosh Hashanah, I think of the awe-inspiring liturgy that we read and sing on the yom tov. My favorite liturgical piece in all of Judaism, which so happens to be read on Rosh Hashanah, is called Avinu Malkeinu (אבינו מלכנו; Our Father). Avinu Malkeinu consists of a long list of supplications that range from good health to prosperity in the upcoming year. At the end of this liturgical piece, we read the following verse, one that has been sung by many Jewish artists:

אבינו מלכנו חננו ועננו, כי אין בנו מעשים.  עשה עמנו צדקה וחסד והושיענו.  

Our Father, our King, be gracious to us and answer, though we have no worthy deeds. Act with us in charity and loving-kindness and save us.

Rabbi Akiva used the Avinu Malkeinu prayer to successfully end a drought (Talmud, Ta'anit 25b), so what is it about this particular verse that is so alluring? In this concise passage do we see a complicated relationship with G-d. On the one hand, we ask G-d to act with charity and loving-kindness, which denotes the love of G-d. Much like a parent (אבינו), G-d shows His children unconditional love. On the other hand, we come before G-d, our King (מלכנו), saying we have no worthy deeds, thereby showing our awe for G-d's transcendent Oneness. Seriously, who are we to plea with G-d? We see this balance in G-d's treatment of humans in general. If G-d had created a world of strict justice, none of us would be here. If G-d created a world with strict love, our ethics, morals, and behavior would mean nothing because G-d would reward all behavior equally, which would be unfair. How does G-d strike a balance? With mercy. Throughout the High Holy Day liturgy, we see this motif surface, and it's evident here.

How do we see this balance struck? We recognize that we have no worthy deeds (כי אין בנו מעשים). No matter how many mitzvahs and good deeds we perform, they will never be enough in comparison to what we could have done. On the other hand, we as mere mortals ask G-d to treat us kindly and recognize our human nature as a mitigating factor, another theme throughout the High Holy liturgy.

Whether we view G-d as an overbearing parent or a more distant one, we want a relationship with G-d similar to one in which we can please our parents. We all stand in rawness of our frailty, mortality, and human limitations while asking ourselves how we can do better for the upcoming year. In essence, Avinu Malkeinu is the way that we connect with transcendent Oneness on an even higher level than normal and remind Him of His mercy on one of the most holy days of the Jewish calendar.

Unetaneh Tokef: Coming to Terms with Reality on Rosh Hashanah

Rosh Hashanah (רוש השנה), also known as the Jewish New Year, commemorates the creation of the universe. Although Rosh Hashanah is a time of great celebration, it is also a time of unease because Rosh Hashanah begins the Ten Days of Repentance (עשרת ימי תשובה). During Rosh Hashanah services, the liturgy is based on the motifs of G-d's sovereignty and judgement. One of the most controversial and powerful liturgical pieces during Rosh Hashanah is a poem (פיוט) known as Unetaneh Tokef (ונתנה תוקף).

The structure of the piece goes as follows: The heavenly court is assembled and G-d sits at the head of the court as the Judge. What is G-d judging? He is judging our actions. In front of Him sit the Book of Life [and the Book of Death]. On Rosh Hashanah, it is written, and on Yom Kippur, the Book of Life is sealed, which determines who lives and who dies. We are then reminded that no fate is set in stone, which is why Unetaneh Tokef states that tefilah, tzedakah, and teshuvah can avert the severity of the decree (Midrash Genesis Rabbah 44:12). G-d wants us to repent and return to His ways, hence why He gives us second chance. Finally, the poem calls attention to the fact that our origin is dust and our end is dust, and that G-d's existence is eternal.

After reading this piece, I can see why many Jews, myself included, have a problem with reading this piece. At first glance, Unetaneh Tokef illustrates a Deuteronomic view of G-d gathering the names of everyone, figuring out who has been naughty and who has been nice, and adjudicating a simplistic version of punishment and reward that makes me wonder about the role of free will in Jewish thought, especially since the poem states that G-d determines "who will enjoy tranquility and who will suffer," "who will be impoverished and who will be rich," and "who will be degraded and who will be exalted."

A literal reading of the poem forces me to question some things in the poem. G-d is infinite and incorporeal, so at the very least, G-d is literally not writing in a book. Additionally, if we are to read the poem literally, does this mean that G-d actually predetermines who lives and who dies within a given year? I cannot imagine G-d would grant us the gift of free will, the very thing that makes us human, only to take it away. I also find it troublesome that tefilah, tzedakah, and teshuvah during these ten days would merit another year of life, although the Talmudic precept (Rosh Hashanah 16a) applies year-round. How is that tefilah, tzedakah, and teshuvah can prevent earthquakes, cancer, or airplane accidents? But let's say that performing tefilah, tzedakah, and teshuvah can actually avert the decree [of evil]. What about good people who do these three actions and die? Did people who died in the Holocaust, in a hurricane, or in a car accident "get what they deserved?"  And what about evil people who completely ignore all of this: is it G-d's way of saying that evil people deserve another year of life?

How can one accept the poem literally? Poems aren't meant to be taken literally. That is why they are poems. Poetic license undoubtedly means usage of figurative language. Furthermore, given G-d's infinite nature, I feel compelled to read Unetaneh Tokef figuratively, much like I would with any other prayer. On some level, we have to read Unetaneh Tokef as if it were literal. However, we ultimately have to realize that Unetaneh Tokef has to be understood figuratively. So what is Unetaneh Tokef trying to convey here?  

When the poem says G-d determines "who lives and who dies," this is not literal. G-d is omniscient. G-d's omniscience is not the same thing as saying that He is micro-managing, e.g., G-d is not literally determining judgment on Rosh Hashanah. What G-d is writing in the Book of Life [or Death] are not His rulings. Especially considering the line of "who [will die] in his due time and who before" (מי בקצו ומי לא בקוצו), G-d is metaphorically exerting His omniscience and merely describing what will happen in the upcoming year.

The imagery of the Books of Life and Death, as well as Unetaneh Tokef as a whole, are to convey a sobering message: "We are not in control of everything. Life is ephemeral. You do not have forever. Repair that which is broken in your life and return to a sense of wholeness." Unetaneh Tokef reminds us that there are certain things that are within our control and certain things outside our control. We cannot change when or how we will die. We read this poem realizing our own mortality and how frail life can be. The strong language and literary devices that Unetaneh Tokef utilizes make us cognizant of this message.

Even with this frightening imagery of G-d determining who will live and die, the poem proceeds on an upside, mainly that our fate is not determined. We can do something to counter whatever wrong we have committed. Unetaneh Tokef shows us three paths for spiritual transformation: tefilah, tzedakah, and teshuvah. Tefilah, commonly translated as "prayer," is our attempt to communicate with G-d. Since G-d is omnsicient, and G-d is not a vending machine, our role in prayer is that we are vessels for blessing. When we realize G-d's existence and the blessings He bestows upon us, prayer has the powerful effect of changing that which is around us because prayer changes us. Tzedakah, which is mistranslated as "charity," is an externality involving material wealth and shows how we relate towards others through humility and generosity. Teshuvah, which comes from the Hebrew verb "to return" (לשוב), is much more of a repentant process than saying "I'm sorry." It is a process of truly changing oneself for the better and returning to our true essence.  

Performing the actions of tefilah, tzedakah, and teshuvah do not literally change whether we live or die in the upcoming year. G-d is constantly judging us (Talmud, Rosh Hashanah 16a). What changes is the effect of one's current spiritual condition. There is a personal transformation within us by performing these deeds: the blessing we receive, the forgiveness, the drive to become better human beings. The free will that we exert is a response within the confines of the events that are outside of one's control. G-d is a loving G-d, which is why shortly after the line about "tefilah, tzedakah, and teshuvah averting the decree", the poet reminds us that G-d does not desire death, but rather that one comes back to His ways and lives a full life.

The poem then continues on a more lowly note. "He [Man] is like a broken shard, like grass dried up, like a faded flower..."G-d exists and He is eternal. In comparison to G-d, we are "like whirling dust." Compared to G-d's existence, human existence is but a blip on the radar. Even in spite of human transience, the poem ends on a positive note: "[But] You are King, the Living and Everlasting." G-d makes it possible to connect with Him. G-d wants us to connect with Him, which is why He gives us the opportunity to do so.

This poem is not meant to cheat death or try to beg G-d for another year of life. Given the somber time of the year, it is also not meant to make us feel as if everything were hunky-dory and that the world is made of sunshine and rainbows. Unetaneh Tokef  is supposed to scare us and make us think in a profound manner. The poet wants us to recognize our humanity, as well as our vulnerabilities and frailties, at that given moment. Upon grappling, dealing with, and accepting our mortality, we are reminded that living a spiritual life means positively interacting with ourselves, with G-d, and with other human beings. Ultimately, the message behind Unetaneh Tokef is to come to terms with what it means to be human and to have that realization awaken our souls.

Is the Bible "Black and White": A New Look at the Sacrifice of Isaac

Most people in this world are not religious fundamentalists.  For a large majority of people, excessive stringencies and walking a very narrow path is too overwhelming.  However, many people underestimate what it has to offer.  What comes off as constraints for non-fundamentalists are, ironically enough, a form of liberation for fundamentalists.  How so?  If you look at Orthodox Judaism, for example, every facet of your life is codified in various legal texts.  There is no ambiguity whatsoever.  You do it because "that is the way it is," no questions asked.  For those who accept Orthodoxy blindly, or any religious fundamentalism, there is a sense of security and certitude that comes along with it all.  In what one can label a cruel, uncertain world, we need to feel safe and certain of what is ultimately to come.  For a religious fundamentalist, it's simple: if you indubitably go along with the program, G-d will reward you.  If you don't, G-d will punish you for your misdeeds.  There is no gray, only black and white.  The gift-wrapping of fundamentalism is alluring because it's simplistic, and it brings about reassurance.

The real question we have to ask ourselves is whether life comes with the clarity and unambiguity that fundamentalists claim.  What my fundamentalist friends forget really quickly is not only is there a gray area, but there is also an entire spectrum of colors.  Life comes with nuances and complexities.  The problem with the "all or nothing" mentality is that it is not reflective of reality. 

Abraham had to deal with this when sacrificing his son, Isaac.  I'm not even going to discuss the conflict between obeying G-d and giving up his beloved son.  We come across something much more fundamental to the argument than that.  Within this story, Abraham was commanded by G-d to sacrifice Isaac (Genesis 22:2).  Let us fast-forward to the sacrifice itself.  As Abraham has the knife in mid-air and ready to sacrifice his son, an angel comes down and tells Abraham not to sacrifice Isaac (Genesis 22:12). 

Abraham has encountered a major issue.  At the beginning of Genesis 22, Abraham was told to do one thing, and ten verses later, he is told to do the exact opposite of what he was told beforehand.  Abraham has two received two conflicting orders from G-d.  What is Abraham supposed to do?  If he does not sacrifice his son, he will have disobeyed a divine command.  If he goes through with it, not only has he disobeyed a divine command, but he has also violated his very own conscience.  After being given the second command, a ram comes along, Abraham grabs it, and sacrifices it instead of his son (Genesis 22:13).

G-d did not tell Abraham to sacrifice the ram in Isaac's place.  That was a judgement call that Abraham himself made when he saw the ram.  After doing so, an angel comes down and tells Abraham he made the right choice (Genesis 22:15-17).  Note how Abraham did not consult G-d to clear up the ambiguity.  And also note that G-d did not clear it up for Abraham.  Abraham set a precedence here: when you are not sure, you ultimately have to weigh your options and make the choice for yourself.  That is why G-d gave us free will.  He is not going to make the decision for you.

Let us use another example of biblical ambiguity.  The Fifth Commandment is "Honor your mother and father (Exodus 20:12)."  Sounds clear-cut, right?  But what does it mean "to honor your parents" if your father is smoking three packs a day?  Do you do nothing because you have to respect his decision, even though it is a self-destructive one?  Do you flush his cigarettes down the toilet?  Do you [or somebody with more influence and sway] get him over to Nicotine Anonymous to stop?  In this case, you have two values in the balance: respecting one's elders and saving a human life.  Although it should seem self-explanatory that saving a life precedes almost everything else in Judaism, we nevertheless have to realize that there can be certain situations in which actively helping your father cut back is not feasible because respecting one's elders might have that level of prioritization in your family. 

I feel as if I could write at book's length providing examples of how even something as essential as values and morals can be multi-faceted and need scrutiny.  This, of course, is not to belittle the notion of values, but rather to show that it is not as simple and neat as fundamentalists present it.  And what is more is that although G-d has given us the basics for morality, it is nevertheless our task to discern and determine what exactly is the morally acceptable choice within a given situation. 

This blog entry is based on the Second Day Rosh Hashana sermon given by my illustrious rabbi.

Resolving Rationalism with the Superstition Behind Tashlich

During the first day of Rosh Hashana, there is a well-established practice known as תשליך.  The word itself comes from Micah 7:19, where "you will cast all their sins into the depths of the sea."  What the practice entails is finding a body of running water and throwing pieces of bread into that body of water as a symbolic casting of one's sins.

What many do not realize is that this ceremony has its origins in superstitions.  Rabbi Israel Drazin, in his intellectually stimulating book entitled "Maimonides: The Exceptional Mind," outlines the history of this ritual in depth.  Essentially, we are dealing with a practice that emanated from ancient notions, one of them being that G-d and demons can be found near water.  If you believe in G-d's omnipresence, this notion should make you stop and think for a moment.  But many biblical figures thought so, whether it was Abraham who made a covenant before a well in Be'er Sheva (Genesis 21:31-32), King David's son, Adonijah, who thinks he can offer a sacrifice in front of a river and help him succeed his father as king (1 Kings 1:9), or the Psalmist (29:3, 139).  Even the Talmud tells of stories such as feeding spirits to appease them (Chullin 105b) and drinking water from a river at night is bad because of the shabiri, the demons that cause blindness (Pesachim 112a). 

By the time this practice was created in the Middle Ages, it makes sense why the primary theme of this practice was to bribe Satan.  The Kabbalists added the practice of shaking of the ends of one's clothing to shake off the klippah, as if the act itself absolved them of any sins.  This was problematic because taking the non-rationalist approach meant believing that the ceremony literally absolved one from their sins.  Since superstitions such as these make people small-minded, this mentality had the potential from steering people from doing actual repentance, which is why so many rabbis opposed the practice.

This brings me to the important question of "do superstitious origins negate the ceremony's validity?"  If your intention is to bribe Satan with pieces of bread, as if bits of stale bread is going to distract G-d's servant from doing his job, then I would have to say that this practice is absolutely ridiculous.  Even saying מנהג אבותינ תורה הוא ("the customs of our ancestors is law [for us]") would be insufficient because customs can be overturned in Jewish law.

In spite of these non-rational origins, there can be reconciliation between the practice's history and how we perceive the practice today.  Even though I believe that "tradition for tradition's sake" is as dangerous and menacing of an argument as "change for change's sake," I nevertheless enjoy Judaism for its traditions.  Judaism is uniquely beautiful for the continuity it has kept over the centuries, hence its allure for me.  I can perform the same practice as my Jewish ancestors did back in the Middle Ages, but I can derive a different purpose and meaning from it.

To paraphrase R. Aryeh Kaplan in his book Jewish Meditation, a mitzvah can be an action-based meditation.  This insight has changed how I view mitzvot.  The mitzvah is supposed to get your mind engaged and focused on G-dliness.  Let's apply that concept to תשליך.  When you are casting the bread into the water, what should be on your mind?  That these crumbs are a metaphorical representation of my sins, and that by throwing them away, you are starting anew.  There's that Jewish theme of renewal again.   How about the water?  In Judaism, water symbolizes life and renewal.  Much like Daniel (10:4) did, we can experience G-d's revelation in front of water and contemplate the vast wonders that life has to offer.  Let's try an insight with the fish, since one is supposed to find a body of water with fish.  As Rabbi Isaiah Horowitz points out, just as fish have no eyelids and always have their eyes open, we should always "keep our eyes open" by constantly being attentive to G-d and His will.  Even the act of being in front of a body of water can be an opportunity to realize G-d's wonder through His creations. 

As you go to symbolically cast your sins in the ceremony of תשליך this year, take just one of those insights and keep it in the back of your mind throughout the experience.  I guarantee it will enhance your appreciation for תשליך.