Rosh HaShanah Morning 5783: This Year is Next Year!

 A version of this sermon was delivered at Temple B'nai Torah - A Reform Congregtion in Wantagh, NY on Rosh HaShanah Morning 5783.

Every year, as these High Holy Days approach, rabbis across the country debate whether or not to touch on topics that might be too divisive.  “Shouldn’t we come up here onto our pulpits and speak words which unite?” many would say.  “Aren’t there enough things that we agree on?  Do you have to focus on those things which divide us?”  Well friends, we take our cues from the Prophets.  From Isaiah who calls us to righteousness.  From Jeremiah who calls us to end corruption in our institutions.  From Ezekiel who saw far into the future.  And so, I know that when the times call for it, it must be done.

Therefore, I begin my remarks this morning with some trepidation, and I ask that if what I am about to say offends you, you at least hear out my argument.  A couple of weeks ago, in Queens, not that far from us, The Chicago Cubs swept the New York Mets at CitiField.  It was so far the only sweep the Mets have suffered this season.

Now, trust me, I don’t bring this up to rub salt on a wound, because let’s face it, not only would that be a not great way to start 5783, but also it was not two weeks later that the Cubs were eliminated from the playoffs while the Mets have secured their spot.  I don’t bring up these three games, whose aggregate score was 15-6, to insult the Mets or their fans.  I don’t mention these three late season games to make myself feel better about a mediocre rebuilding year for my beloved North Siders.  No, I bring it up because of what those three games represented for Cubs fans like me.  

After a season of fewer ups than downs, a season of selling off some of the last pieces that came together in 2016 to finally win the World Series, a season of treading water, those three games in mid-September allowed for us wayward devotees of Wrigley to hold on, for just a little longer, to our most precious of commodities, our hope.  There was no real chance for the Cubs, yet those three games rallied the fans and made it all the easier when the time eventually came to say: “There is always next year.”  

Can you think of a more hopeful statement?

Even though we’ve had a rough go of things of late, experiencing more downs than ups, suffering so many losses one right after the other, even though it may feel like the last two years were an exercise in watching the world around us spin more and more out of control, our tradition teaches us that we are not allowed to give up on hope.  We are not allowed to look at our world and only see the problems before us.  We are not allowed to consider the world as unredeemable, our neighbors as unredeemable, ourselves as unredeemable.  We believe in redemption, calling out to God as the ultimate Redeemer.  We believe in a better future, even when our present is complicated.  We believe in hope.  It has been passed down to us.

As we take our first steps into 5783, let us do so with hope in the future and for the future.  Let us declare that today is next year!

What is it in our tradition that calls us to hopefulness?  The first of our ancestors to use the term was Jacob, who, from his deathbed, blesses his children in turn.  In the midst of his blessing for Dan, Jacob utters the phrase: “liyishuatecha kiviti Adonai, for your redemption, I have hoped, O Adonai.”   In this moment, Jacob is in the middle of blessing his sons and grandsons, setting them up for their future without him, teaching them one final lesson, and seemingly out of nowhere, he utters this call to the Eternal.  Some commentaries  explain this as separate from the blessing, as an aside by Jacob, perhaps due to his faltering health.  Others redouble the prophecy and read in an allusion to Samson.  

Jacob declares his hope at the end of his life, surrounded by the next generations.  Jacob has experienced all of life’s ups and downs.  He is the weaker twin, born second.  His mother manipulates him into coercing his father to giving him his brother’s rightful blessing.  He has to flee his home.  He is conned by his father-in-law.  The love of his life is taken too early from him.  His daughter is sexually assaulted.  His sons conspire to massacre a town and then sell one of their brothers to slavery, only to tell Jacob that Joseph is dead.  He endures so much trauma and hurt, enough that anyone would lose hope.

Yet we also know that God chooses Jacob over Esau.  That in being forced to work so many years, Jacob grows more powerful and wealthy than he could ever imagine.  The son he thought dead later becomes his and his family’s lifesaving provider and has risen to be vice-pharaoh of Egypt.  Along the way, he has seen angels come and go, and he even bested one angel in a wilderness wresting match.  His victory prompts the angel to rename him Yisrael.  

Rather than consider these words of hope in the midst of blessing as merely an aside, what power there is in considering them a part of the blessing to his progeny.  Jacob has lived a life.  And then, at the end, unprompted, Jacob reveals to us how he survived it all.  Hope.  God, I always hoped for your salvation.  It takes more than a blessing from a parent; and Jacob ought to know.  It takes hope.  

We are B’nai Yisrael, descendants of Jacob, blessed with that same hope in our spiritual DNA.  

What blessings of hope will we utter as we make our way into this new year?  What lessons about hope will we teach our children and grandchildren?  

Jacob teaches the generation after him an important lesson about what it takes to make it through this world.  It takes hope.  Jacob’s lesson is passed down through the generations.  Because, while the seed of hope is planted in Jacob’s sons, it is the daughters of Israel who will sow its yield.  

When the people of Israel cross the parted waters and are reborn into freedom and covenant, they honor God’s wonderous act with song.  In famous words, Moses and the people Israel sing a song of salvation and redemption: Who is like, you, O Adonai, among the Gods that are worshipped!?  And then Miriam, the Prophet, takes out her timbrel to lead singing and dancing, followed by all the women taking out their timbrels.  Nowhere earlier in the Torah does it tell us that the women readied their instruments.  Nowhere does the Torah indicate that the women were packing their drums.  We read about the unbaked bread, but no timbrels.  So, the sages, understandably, ask where the women got these “tupim,” these rhythmic instruments in the desert.

Well, sometimes the rabbis answer out of logic.  If the women had them, they must have packed them.  But, why would they?  The Midrash answers that the women packed them, because they were righteous, and because they knew that God would redeem them.  The women’s righteousness is their hopefulness.  Packing for celebration in the shadow of the devastation of Egypt is an act of hope.  The Israelite women have hope, even in the aftermath of enduring a terrible, genocidal regime, they hope in God’s salvation, they believe in it, they expect it.  So, they pack their instruments, always ready to break out into song.  Hopeful at every turn.

Imagine the scene in Egypt as they’re packing to go.  Imagine what their families say to them as they are packing the seemingly useless instruments.  You didn’t have time to raise the dough, but you remembered your drum?!

The drums are only useless if we think we’ll never have occasion to use them.  What timbrels will we pack for the year ahead?  What can we have at the ready so that we are prepared when our hopes come to pass, when we have no choice but to celebrate and dance?

As the inherited hope passed from of Jacob to the generation of the exodus, so too has that hope been come down to us.  Hope is our inheritance!

But is hope enough?  Is hope supposed to pay our grocery bills, our energy bills, our synagogue bills?  Is hope enough to end the difficulties we see all around us?

Of course not, and our tradition understands that alongside hope, more is sometimes needed.

When the people are ready to enter the Promised Land, Moses sends scouts to check it out before they make their way into it.  Is it even possible to conquer?  What’s in there anyway?  When the scouts return, 10 of them tell the people that they will not be able to conquer the land.  There are giants there and they will devour us!  There is no hope to fulfill God’s promise.  They spread this story among the people, causing them to lose hope as well.

But Joshua and Caleb come back and say that it is true that there will be challenges, but that with some hope, and knowing that God is on their side, they will be able to overcome anything laid out before them.  

What does this story teach us about hope?  It teaches us that the place of hope can sometimes be a lonely place.  Joshua and Caleb, the two scouts who come back hopeful, are the minority.  They are outnumbered.  It’s only through God’s intervention that their plan to move forward takes hold.  In spite of overwhelming negativity, they remain hopeful.

But Moses understands, perhaps from this episode, that hope is not enough.  And so at the end of his life, when he passes the mantle of leadership to Joshua, Moses tells the people and tells Joshua exactly what they need.  Chazak v’ematz, Moses tells the people, and then Joshua.  Alongside hope, you need strength and courage.  Alongside hope, you need strength to make it through the difficult times.  Alongside hope you need courage to try and also courage to be ready for when, inevitably, hopes are dashed.

It is for this reason that the Psalms teach us to put these two ideas together.  At the end of Psalm 27, which we have been reading each day of the month leading up to the High Holy Days, in the last verse of that psalm, we read: קַוֵּ֗ה אֶל־יְ֫יָֹ חֲ֭זַק וְיַאֲמֵ֣ץ לִבֶּ֑ךָ וְ֝קַוֵּ֗ה אֶל־יְֹיָֽ Hope in the Eternal, be strong and courageous in your heart, and hope in the Eternal.  As we have been readying ourselves for these High Holy Days, these last words of Psalm 27 reverberate in our ears, leading us to next year.  Hope, strength, courage, and hope.  There is hope for our future, if we are only strong enough to make it there and courageous enough to fight for it.

I want to share one more story about hope, about Tikvah, because I know that when we use that word, we cannot help but think of Israel, whose National Anthem, Hatikvah, announces that we are a people of hope.

Some of you know that I spent about a week in Israel this past summer.  While I was there, I have to tell you, the traffic was…ungodly.  Why?  Everywhere you look, construction and infrastructure projects.  In Tel Aviv, I don’t think there’s a highway that’s not torn up, and major parts of the city are enduring a big dig for a new subway and surface construction for a new light rail.  Imagine if the LIE, Southern State, Northern State, Meadowbrook, and the Wantagh were all under construction at the same time, and also Hempstead turnpike and Jerusalem were too.  It was a mess.  It certainly took strength and courage to drive around!

And then, just a couple of weeks ago, Israel announced and touted a brand new tunnel that is a part of the entrance to Jerusalem, which will hopefully reduce the traffic burden on the holy city.  That tunnel and all that construction in Israel are symbolic of the od lo avda tikvateinu attitude, of the sense that our hope is not lost.  The tunnel represents a sense that the future is bright and busy and peaceful enough that this major highway tunnel was a good investment.  The tunnel and the subway and the light rail represent the hope that Israel is not going anywhere anytime soon.

So, what am I supposed to do about the Cubs?  Well, with all the strength and courage that I can muster, I hope for next year.  There is always next year.  Next year is unformed and void; it hasn’t been created yet.  It is potential awaiting formation, promise awaiting fulfillment.  Next year is a winning season.  Next year is traffic free.  Next year is a chance to do it right.  Next year is opportunity granted.

There’s always next year is a statement of hope.  Next year starts today!  Rosh HaShanah is a celebration of hope, called from mountaintop to mountaintop by blasts of the horn, celebrating the hopeful future that is laid out before us.  It reminds us that where we are going is not yet determined.

Will we bring our timbrels with us?  Will we teach our children the importance of hope, even when life can be difficult?  Will we maintain our hope, even when we are outnumbered, and trust that our hopeful vision is worth the strength and courage we will need to bring it about?

For we certainly know that it will take courage and strength to make the world into what we want it to be.  It will take courage and strength to make ourselves into what we aspire to be.  All of that is sure.  What is also sure is that we cannot and will not accomplish either of these sacred tasks without hope.

Shanah Tovah.

May this year be your next year!

Yom Kippur Morning: Teach Them How to Say Goodbye

A version of this sermon was delivered Yom Kippur Morning 5778 at Temple Emanu-El of East Meadow

           On Monday, September 19, 1796, George Washington published what would come to be known as his farewell address in a newspaper in Philadelphia, Claypoole’s American Daily Advertiser, one of the few non-partisan newspapers in the city, and among the first successful dailies in America.[1]  He chose this paper to ensure that his words would not be tainted with partisanship and that they would be accessible to all.  By the time the paper of that afternoon was delivered around the city, Washington was already on his way to Mt. Vernon, having said his goodbye to the nation. 

It would take up to six weeks for the outposts on the western frontier to hear the news, as city by city, town by town, paper after paper, published his words of goodbye.  Washington’s farewell address was for a long time considered the shining example of patriotism and public service, above personal political gain and ambition.  In publishing his address in the newspaper, it was disseminated in the most democratic of ways, through the free press.  By doing this, Washington, to paraphrase the words of the hit Broadway show Hamilton, taught the nation how to say goodbye.  He taught citizens of a new country, under a new political system, what it means to let go of the only President they’ve ever known.

Washington’s farewell address is filled with reminiscences, warnings, and advice to the new nation, based on his 45-year-long tenure in leadership, which had begun long before the Revolutionary War.  His words resonate in our ears, even today.  He begins by thanking the people for their trust in his leadership.  He advises against partisan bickering and the formation of political parties, preaching moderation.  He warns against undue foreign influence.  He warns against relying too much on alliances with other nations.  He preaches morals and virtue.  He advises that there be good education available to prepare the next generation.  He advises that the nation can achieve peace, but must be strong enough to do so.  For 1796, and the first modern democracy on earth, this was ground-breaking political theory.  Much of his advice fell on deaf ears, even immediately, as the election for his successor split the nation into a two party system we are familiar with today.

Aside from all the political advice, Washington ends his farewell with two important ideas.  First, he says: “I am unconscious of intentional error, [but am] nevertheless too sensible of my defects not to think it probable that I may have committed many errors…I fervently beseech the Almighty to avert or mitigate the evils to which they may tend.”[2]  He ends by apologizing to the citizens, while recognizing he tried to do the best at all times.  He asks the citizens for indulgence for his faults.  He wants the people to know that even if they may have disagreed with him and his decisions, he was always doing so with the best interests of the country at heart.

He closes his farewell with what amounts to a benediction.  “I anticipate, with pleasing expectation…the sweet enjoyment of partaking, in the midst of my fellow citizens, the benign influence of good laws under a free government, the ever favorite object of my heart, and the happy reward, as I trust, of our mutual cares, labors, and dangers.”[3]  Washington wants the future to be bright.  He wants to revel in what he has helped to build.  He knows that this goodbye, like all goodbyes, is the start of a new chapter, and he wants to leave the nation in the best place that he can.  He wants to leave the people and the government ready to move on to whatever comes next, but ready to handle it thanks to the work he has done.  Washington becomes the model for how it is a President says goodbye, and makes space for the next generation.

In crafting a goodbye to the nation, Washington emulates Moses in the final chapters of Deuteronomy, the end of the Torah.  Moses, who has led the people through the wilderness, out of their bondage in Egypt, through battles and plagues, and new government and religious institutions, and who has had the closest possible relationship with God, has come to the end of his life and his journey, and he takes his opportunity to make his farewell address.  Both Moses and Washington understood that for any transition to happen, for any change to take place, there must be a moment of goodbye.

Moses’s goodbye to the Israelites comes in two forms: first a farewell poem, then a blessing.  Each serves a different purpose, and in each Moses teaches important elements of what it means to say goodbye. 

The goodbye poem, takes the role of warning, and the Torah makes a point to tell us Moses recited every last word, in front of the entire congregation.  He begins:

Give ear, O heavens, let me speak; Let the earth hear the words I utter!  May my discourse come down as the rain, My speech distill as the dew, Like showers on young growth, Like droplets on the grass.  For the name of the Eternal I proclaim; Give glory to our God!  The Rock!—God’s deeds are perfect, Yea, all God’s ways are just; A faithful God, never false, True and upright is God.[4]

         

          Moses calls out to the heavens, invoking God’s presence and beginning a distinction between God and the people. God is perfect and just, but we humans are not always.  God, allow my final words to be heard by all, and allow them to nourish the people.

Even though Moses is about to go through a list of the people’s faults, he knows that these words of gentle rebuke are meant to nourish like the rains, not punish like a flood.  He challenges the new generation to grow in ways they might not have thought possible.  In this moment of goodbye, Moses forces the Israelites to confront their past, telling them: “Remember the days of old, consider the years of ages past; Ask your father, he will inform you, Your elders, they will tell you!”[5]  

Look back.  Ask about the past.  Look back. Bring with you what you have been, what you have done, and where you have traveled.  Do not forget the past just because another chapter is about to begin.  Do not forget those who came before you, and let them share with you all that they learned, so that you may grow from it as well.  In looking to the past, we prepare ourselves to face the future, uncertain though it may feel.  There will be new leadership once we cross the Jordan.  There will be new rules, new people to meet, new disputes, new friends, new difficulties, and new triumphs.  Don’t allow the past to be forgotten, Moses urges, let it guide us toward the new horizon.

After Moses’s poem, he shifts to words of blessing.  But first, Moses gives the people this instruction:  "Take to heart all the words with which I have warned you this day.  Enjoin them upon your children, that they may observe faithfully all  the terms of this Torah.  For this is not a trifling thing for you: it is  your very life; through it you shall long endure on the land that you are to possess upon crossing the Jordan."[6]

            By remembering the words he shared, the people will be able to thrive.  By recalling the past, and teaching it to their children, the people will be made secure.  By looking to the past, and not cutting ourselves off from it, we will be strong, no matter where we may end up.  To say goodbye properly, we make a commitment to bring the past with us as we move forward.

Moses then moves on to blessing the people for his final words.  Rabbi Samson Hirsch notes that unlike the poem and the rest of the Torah which were dictated to Moses by God, the blessing comprises Moses’s own words.  He doesn’t need God’s help on this last one.  When Moses finally finds his own words for the people, at the very last moments of his life, as his goodbye, he teaches that each person has to find his or her own words to say goodbye.  Each person has to find a way to transform the difficult task of bidding farewell into a blessing.

 The message of the blessing follows this theme, but Moses does it in a special way that helps to make his point about remembering the past.  Moses goes through each of the tribes by name, in the same way Jacob does on his death bed, calling each of his sons, and blessing each of them.  When Moses does this, he calls to mind Jacob, and the end of the generation of the patriarchs as a way to practice what he preaches about looking to the past and looking to a new chapter.  He is able to make it so that each tribe gets its due, their special mention.  Each tribe, while being a part of the Israelites, has had its own journey.  Each tribe has had its own struggles and celebrations.  And each tribe’s story is as important as the story of the whole.

When we say goodbye to our synagogue, of course it’s important to look at the big picture, but it’s also important to look at the individual stories, the small moments each of us has had here at Temple Emanu-El.

Todd W shared with me the story of his first time coming to Temple Emanu-El.  He didn’t want to at first.  He thought he’d be more comfortable at another congregation.  But he gave us a shot.  “While we were getting the tour, Michael and Shari Salomon had their girls look after Alex and Evan doing arts & crafts while we were given the tour by the most welcoming person, Nadine Salzman. When we left after an enjoyable afternoon I said to Robyn, "You win. They sold you." We joined.”  Todd’s story of a place where his family felt comfortable is his story and our story, and we bring it with us as a blessing, though we have to say goodbye at the same time.

            Rona K shared with me many stories, many moments in her family’s life here at Temple Emanu-El.  Among them, she recalls:

Jeff Kraut's "off-shore excursion" to the Judaica case during Temple's Cruise Night event was probably the funniest experience ever.  Jody [Ratner] playing viola at Kol Nidre, Henry [Damashek] blowing shofar, our shofar "chorus" surrounding us during the Holidays.  Not sure what the best words are to describe this but they are [or] were moments of beauty and great importance to me. 

Rona’s recollections of the powerful ritual moments we’ve shared here are important touchstones in her story, her family’s story, and our story.  These moments won’t happen again, at least not in exactly the same way.  Through our dedication to remembering our stories, we bring these moments with us as blessings, even when we say goodbye.

            Jason N, in addition to rightfully kvelling over the memory of his son Brady’s Bar Mitzvah, shared memories of last year’s Men’s Club dinner in the Sukkah.  “What stands out most to me, despite the excellent food and tasty drink selection, is the camaraderie that always exists with the guys. They are a wonderful and inviting group, especially to me, a younger member without many peers my age.”  Jason’s story of finding a place here at Temple Emanu-El is his story, his family’s story, and our story, and we bring it with us to bless us though we say goodbye.

            Janet G shared a memory of Simchat Torah, and the Torah unrolled in our Sanctuary with the students in the middle.  “

The black and white sacred Torah being held by our trusted adults against the backdrop of our beautiful colored hexagon windows. The look of awe on my daughters’ faces moved me as I realized the magnitude of the moment. They were surrounded by our rich history, they were surrounded by their present, they were surrounded by their future, they were surrounded by our lessons of life...When I looked up at my fellow congregants, many of them young parents also, I realized I wasn’t alone in this dream turned reality for my family and my children. 

Janet’s beautiful memory of feeling the pull of our tradition and the connection to something bigger is her story, her family’s story, and our story.  It blesses us, as we say goodbye.

            Roz W shared beautiful memories of our sanctuary and the life her family lived in this congregation.

The sanctuary of our beloved congregation holds a special place in my heart.  The first time I entered that holy place, the sunshine was streaming in through the beautiful panels of stained glass windows, a myriad of bright colors bouncing off the wooden pews.  That was 40 years ago…The sanctuary was the place that I was called to the Torah as an adult bat mitzvah in 1978…My three children as well as four nieces and nephews became bar and bat mitzvah in our beautiful sanctuary.  This was also the site of our son’s aufruf, my granddaughter’s baby naming, and grandson’s bris.  It is also where memorial plaques were dedicated in my parents’ names after their passings. 

Roz’s words remind us that entire lives have been lived here, celebrated here, sanctified here.  Roz’s story is the story of family and faith, ritual and divine awe.  It is our story, and we will bring it with us, to bless the next generation to experience these moments in their lives.

            Each of these stories, while unique and special, could have been written by any of us with only minor changes to names and dates.  We have all found our place or a place for our family here.  We have all felt the presence of the divine here.  We have all had occasion to kvell here.  We have all been moved to grow in our relationships with each other and with God.  Each of us and each of our families are important to the story of Temple Emanu-El and now, though we say goodbye, we make these stories into blessings through the act of memory, and through a dedication to bringing them with us.

            If only it were that simple and joyful to say goodbye.  We know that for all the joy we remember, and all the blessings we feel, we are also sad, disappointed, and probably, for at least some of us, wishing things could have come to a different conclusion.  You’re not wrong to feel this way.  You’re not alone. 

            At the end of his life, according to the Midrash, Moses pleads with God, as he grieves his impending death.[7]  “After all my labor!”  Moses shouts at God, you tell me I’m going to die!?  No.  He says, quoting the Psalms: “I will not die, but live.”  God gently responds with the words of Ecclesiastes: “You cannot prevail in this matter, for this is the destiny of all men.”  Moses, you are special, but only a man.  This is what happens.  Stories end.  New chapters begin.

            Moses goes on to angrily joke about his death, and stubbornly refuse to listen to God.  God enlists the ministering angels to reason with Moses.  And Moses bargains with God: “Master of the Universe, if You will not bring me into Eretz Yisrael, leave me in this world, so that I may live and not die!”  God responds, telling Moses that if he does not die, he cannot come to have a place in the world to come, where he belongs.  Everything must come to an end.  Even Moses.  Even a synagogue.

After more protestations, Moses is finally told by God that he is out of arguments, and Moses seems to relent.  Then God sends the angels to bring Moses’s soul.  But none of them feel they are strong enough to do so.  Even Sammael, the angel of evil is stopped in his tracks when he sees Moses writing the final words of the Torah.  It is ultimately only God who can will Moses’s soul to leave his body.  The Midrash teaches us:

Moses’s soul replied: Master of the Universe, I know that You are the God of all spirits and all souls, the souls of the dead and the living are in Your keeping and You have created and formed me and placed me within the body of Moses for a hundred and twenty years.  And now, is there a body in the world purer than the body of Moses?  I love him and I do not desire to leave him. 

Moses’s soul does not want to leave his body, even imploring God a second time, “Let me remain!”  God will not and cannot allow it.  The time has come.  It is time to say goodbye.

            We may not want to leave.  We may feel so connected to this place that we cannot even fathom leaving.  Even though we know that it’s not the bricks or the address that matter.  Even though we understand that a community and a synagogue are more than the physical space.  This place is special in our hearts and our souls.  This place is special in our memories and in our family circle.  This place is important and has been filled with our souls for 68 years.  And it always will be so, even when we are no longer here, because we will bring it with us.

            When God finally takes Moses’s soul with a kiss, the Midrash teaches that God wept.  God is saddened by the death of his servant Moses.  God weeps for what has been, and what is no longer.  God weeps, the heavens weep, the earth weeps, Joshua weeps.  It is a sad time.  An era has come to an end.  A journey has reached its conclusion.  “Never again did there arise in Israel a prophet like Moses.” [8]

            Tradition says that it was Moses’s tears which filled in the last letters of the Torah, in the moments before his death.  The tears make up the final words of the story.  The tears make the ending.  The tears mean it’s time to say goodbye.

Until the last moment, Moses was strong and in complete command.  Let us learn from Moses’s final moments, that even through his sadness, anger, denial, and bargaining, he never let up and never faltered.  He never weakened.  In describing Moses’s final moments, the Torah says: “his eyes were undimmed and his vigor unabated.  As we make our way through this final year, let us commit to do our work with purpose until the very last moment.  With clear eyes and unabated vigor, in the model of Moses. 

Let us close this chapter with strength, purpose, and blessing, even while mourning our loss, and accepting our grief.  Let us also remember that we never read the final words of the Torah in isolation.  We never close one chapter without opening another.  At Simchat Torah, when we complete the words, we immediately continue with the beginning, to remind us that even though a story has ended, it’s time to start anew.  It’s time to create from the beginning.  It’s time to make the trek once more.

            Never again will there arise in East Meadow a congregation like Temple Emanu-El, where people came together, broke bread, blessed each other, and were blessed by the divine.  A place where families found a home, mourners found comfort, and brides, grooms, children, parents and grandparents celebrated their joys.  A place where each of us and our families found a home, a community.  A place where we spoke with God, and God dwelled among us.  Never again will there arise in East Meadow a Temple like Emanu-El.

We have reached an ending. 

It’s now time to start a new chapter.

Shanah Tovah.

---

[1] For a full history of Washington’s Farewell Address, see: Avlon, John, Washington’s Farewell.

[2] See Avlon, John. P 305

[3] Ibid.

[4] Deut. 32:1-4

[5] Ibid. v. 7

[6] Deut. 33:46-47

[7] See Midrash Petirat Moshe

[8] Deut. 34:10