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Rabbi Shulman's Sermons

Rabbi Ron Shulman's Sermons 5786 | 2025-2026

Rabbi Shulman's High Holy Day Sermons are posted below current sermons.

humanity in god's image

Shabbat Bereshit | October 18, 2025
 

 

 
We’ve spent the past month among ourselves. Somewhat withdrawn from the world, at least in theory. Now, this Shabbat on which we begin reading the Torah anew, the first item on the agenda of our liturgical calendar is to look up. Not to think about who we are as Jews, but who we are as human beings. We begin a quest to rediscover our shared humanity with all people.
 
A classic question of Jewish tradition asks. Why does the Torah begin with the mythical and poetic story of God creating the world rather than introducing us to Abraham and his monotheism or Moses and the birth story of the Jewish people, the Exodus?
 
These first chapters of Genesis are the story of humanity. They are universal narratives for understanding human nature. They are not the particular story of one people, which when we meet Abraham, and later Moses, is the Torah’s focused narrative.
 
As we begin Torah again, we are reminded. Before there was us and them, there was only us. Before there was peoplehood there was personhood. The first principle of Jewish ethics is this familiar and vital verse of Torah.
 
וַיִּבְרָ֨א אֱלֹהִ֤ים ׀ אֶת־הָֽאָדָם֙ בְּצַלְמ֔וֹ בְּצֶ֥לֶם אֱלֹהִ֖ים בָּרָ֣א אֹת֑וֹ זָכָ֥ר וּנְקֵבָ֖ה בָּרָ֥א אֹתָֽם׃
“And God created humankind in the divine image, creating it in the image of God - creating them male and female.”
 
How do we understand what it means to exist, to be created, in the Divine image? Two insights intrigue me. One comes from Rabbi Obadiah Seforno, the 16th century Italian commentator, who writes: tzelem Elohim, the image of God is “something which mirrors something divine.”
 
God’s image does not mean we look like God. It means that within us is something that mirrors divinity. The capacity to think, to choose, to create, to act with moral awareness. We reflect the Creator through our consciousness, our creativity, and our compassion.
 
The second insight comes from a new book by Tomer Persico, a scholar who claims that western civilization was shaped by this idea of human beings as images of God. He writes, “God’s image does not symbolize God, it expresses God’s presence. Humans give expression to God’s presence on earth.”
 
In other words, we are God’s representatives. When we act with kindness, when we create beauty, when we pursue justice, we allow God’s presence to be seen and felt on earth. To be tzelem Elohim is not to resemble God. It is to reveal God. Human beings make the invisible visible.
 
If so, then the agenda of Genesis challenges us. Many of us carry disappointments in elements of humanity who have exposed their darker natures. Personally, and collectively, how do we reclaim our shared human bonds with those who have let us down? How do we see others who as mirrors of divinity are cracked, ineffective as God’s representatives?
 
When people disappoint us, when they act cruelly or selfishly, it’s tempting to withdraw, to give up on others. But Genesis calls us to a harder, higher path. To keep looking for the Divine image even in those who have forgotten it about themselves. We don’t seek human perfection. We search for the spark of the sacred where it can be rekindled within another person.
 
Let me share with you a great scene from the popular television program Ted Lasso. I was reminded of this scene reading a recent op-ed piece commenting on the binary divisions coursing through our society.
 
In this scene from the show Ted Lasso, the protagonist Ted and the antagonist Rupert wager on a game of darts. Taking his final turn at the board, Ted – who is losing by a mile – shares a moving story.
 
“Guys have underestimated me my entire life,” Ted recalls, “and for years I never understood why – it used to really bother me. Then one day I was driving my little boy to school, and I saw a quote by Walt Whitman, (which apparently is not accurate!) It was painted on the wall there and it said, ‘Be curious, not judgmental.’ I like that.”
 
“So, I get back in my car and I’m driving to work and all of a sudden it hits me – all them fellas that used to belittle me, not a single one of them was curious. You know, they thought they had everything all figured out, so they judged everything, and they judged everyone. And I realized that their underestimating me – who I was had nothing to do with it. Because if they were curious, they would’ve asked questions. Questions like, ‘Have you played a lot of darts, Ted?’”
 
“To which I would have answered, ‘Yes sir. Every Sunday afternoon at a sports bar with my father from age ten until I was 16 when he passed away.’” (Ted then expertly throws all of his darts to win the game.)
 
Be curious, not judgmental. Or as we learn from Pirkei Avot, “וֶהֱוֵי דָן אֶת כָּל הָאָדָם לְכַף זְכוּת - Judge every person according to their own merit.”
 
May we remember that even when the mirror cracks, light still shines through. Our first Jewish lesson for this New Year is to try and make that light a little brighter when and where we can.
 
Let’s try to be curious about others as often as we can and judgmental toward them only when we can’t. Always striving to be mirrors of the divine and expressions of God’s presence on earth.
 
© 2025 Rabbi Ronald J. Shulman
 

rituals in transition

Shemini Atzeret | October 14, 2025
 
You and I, and people throughout the Jewish world, felt deep emotions as we witnessed Israel’s hostages return home and reunite with their families. Relief. Sorrow for what was. Hope for what can be. Our main feeling, however, was great happiness.
 
The scenes of Israelis cheering and welcoming their freed captives were moving and inspiring. We know the former hostages’ healing will take time and won’t be easy. Still, in those moments of homecoming we felt, and continue to feel, genuine joy and gratitude.
 
Our happiness came from deep inside us, instinctive and powerful. That feeling reminds me of something important. The Jewish people are strong and connected. Despite all the pain and struggle of the past two years, which made it seem like we might be weakened, this week showed us otherwise. On Monday, we were reminded of our resilience and enduring strength. The Jewish people live on!
 
One powerful demonstration of our Jewish bonds these past two years has been our use of rituals and symbols, especially on behalf of those held hostage in Gaza. We’ve lit memorial candles, worn yellow ribbons and dog tags, used pieces of tape to mark each passing day, displayed posters bearing the hostages’ names and faces, and here at Beth El, we recited a daily prayer for those held in captivity.
 
Now that the living captives are free, we find ourselves in a very interesting ritual moment. Which, if any, of these rituals and symbols will continue? Which are now complete? How will individuals and communities decide what to keep or let go?
 
Rituals often begin as spontaneous acts. When they resonate, they become codified, sanctified, and over time, feel as though they’ve always been part of tradition. Yet very little of what we practice today has always been that way. Ritual customs evolve and adapt.
 
On Monday morning at our Daily Minyan, we reached the moment after the Torah reading when, for the past two years, we had sung the Aheinu, the prayer for the hostages. We looked around the room, and a quiet consensus seemed to emerge. We’re done with this prayer. In that unplanned moment, fists rose, smiles brightened, and a collective sense of relief filled the space. It was heartfelt and spontaneous, a shared feeling of “whew… done, done, done.”
 
Of course, some in the Jewish world may continue to use these symbols in new ways. Others are already suggesting new rituals to mark this next chapter. Rituals exist to frame a moment in time, to give tangible form to an idea or ideal. For them to carry meaning, they must be relevant, or as we say in Hebrew, be performed with kavanah, intentionality. Rote ritual, performed without awareness of its purpose or origin, risks becoming empty habit.
 
Consider a few examples. During the Ten Days of Repentance—from Rosh Hashanah through Yom Kippur, we add the words לעלא ולעלא la’eile u’la’eile (“higher and higher”) to Kaddish, marking the unique sanctity of that period. When Yom Kippur ends, the addition is removed. Similarly, at the close of Sukkot, we add a phrase about rain to the Amidah, acknowledging the shift to the fall and winter seasons. When Passover arrives, the phrase is omitted again as spring and summer begin.
 
Our mourning rituals, too, unfold with structure and timing. Shiva lasts seven days, sheloshim thirty. We recite the Mourner’s Kaddish for eleven months, then mark yahrzeit a month later. Four times a year, we gather for Yizkor memorial prayers. While grief knows no calendar, our rituals help us frame its progression, giving shape and rhythm to our emotions.
 
There is, indeed, a time, a season, and a reason for every ritual we perform. Each has its moment and its place. So now we ask.
 
How do we hold the anguish of families still awaiting the return of their loved ones for burial in Israel, a pain not yet complete? And at the same time, how do we celebrate the freedom of the twenty who were released alive?
 
I suggest we honor the nineteen fallen hostages who remain in Gaza through the same rituals we use to remember our loved ones. We call out their names. We record their names. We never forget their names. We honor their names. We tell their stories, who they were, the goodness of their lives, and the legacies they leave for their families and for the Jewish people as a whole.
 
The fallen captives whose families still await their return to Israel are:
Tamir Adar, Sahar Baruch, Itay Chen, Amiram Cooper, Ronen Engel, Meny Godard, Hadar Goldin, Ran Gvili, Tal Haimi, Asaf Hamami, Inbar Hayman, Eliyahu Margalit, Joshua Loitu Mollel, Omer Neutra, Dror Or, Daniel Oz, Suthisak Rintalak, Lior Rudaeff, and Yossi Sharabi.
 
We pray: May compassion extend to the families of these precious souls who await their loved ones’ return for burial in Israel. May they, and all who have buried their beloved, find comfort among those who embrace them and honor the memories of those lost so tragically. Amen.
 
© 2025 Rabbi Ronald J. Shulman
 

b'sorot tovot - good news

Shabbat Hol HaMoed Sukkot | October 11, 2025
 

 

 
A phrase in the Jewish lexicon is on my mind. It’s a phrase of hope uttered wistfully over the past two years, especially in Israel. It’s a phrase fitting for this moment. A phrase honest to our mood.
 
“Sh’lo nishma ela b’sorot tovot -שלא נשמע אלא בשורות טובות- May we hear only good news.” After two years of grief, terror, tragedy, and war. After two years enduring antisemitic tropes and threats. After two years of internal argument and anguish for the Jewish people. Today we feel some relief.
 
After the announcement that the hostages will be freed from their captivity and brought home, hostages for whom we have prayed in this space for 105 Shabbatot, 737 days, and after learning that combat in Gaza will cease, at last, we’re hearing good news, hopeful news.
 
The phrase B’sorot Tovot is a prayer. Enough with the bad. May we only hear good news from now on. Though challenges await and difficult decisions remain to be made, we can say with more conviction than we previously held, “May we hear only good news.”
 
It appears that the war is almost over. The hostages are due home very soon, we expect with bated breath. For the first time in a very long time, reprieve and renewal are Israeli's and ours to sense. I saw it in their hugs and tears as hostage families poured into Hostage Square in Tel Aviv. I saw it in the posted videos of families celebrating and friends cheering.
 
The excitement of Israelis reminds me. For all I have felt personally during this war, for all you and I have shared, discussed, and monitored, it’s personal for every Israeli, not for me. My children don’t serve in the IDF. I have not attended any October 7th related funerals or made any shiva calls here where I live. I’ve met hostage families in Israel and America, but they are not my neighbors.
 
That’s why on every day at every service we have recited, Aheinu, our tradition’s prayer for hostages with which we are all far too familiar. A prayer few of us knew existed became a well-known ritual moment in our communal routine. To tell the truth, I wasn’t always sure we would maintain our communal routines over the past two years. What we discovered, instead, is how much more we really needed that stability and each other.
 
Reciting Aheinu linked our expressions of concern, protest, and hope with those of people gathered in synagogues in Israel and throughout the world. That melody became our shared outcry of emotion and connection. Now, I hope and pray, we are done. May we retire that prayer and never need to recite it again. (Next Shabbat, perhaps we’ll recite Shehehiyanu at the beginning of a new post October 7th chapter.)
 
As we all recall, October 7, 2023, was a Shabbat and the end of Sukkot as we gathered for Shemini Atzeret and Simhat Torah two years ago. We were numb and confused as to what we might say and how we might pray. We were aware that everyone in Israel, and many of us here, knew one of the 1,400 souls who were massacred or abducted. Our grief was raw and real.
 
By the next week, we began to think and react together. By October 14th, our emotions were mixed and many as we reacted to these vicious attacks on Israel and our people and as we monitored the war Israel had to fight.
 
We felt grief for so much loss of life and suffering. We were angry as we saw the barbarism and inhumanity of such unimaginable slaughter and cruelty. We felt compassion and pain for those who mourned, for those wounded whom we prayed may heal, and for those whose lives were changed forever by the horrors inflicted on them.
 
We felt unity with and love for the people of Israel and for the Jewish people worldwide. We felt lonely, aware that some of our neighbors and too many others didn’t understand what we and all of Israel confronted. We felt cautious. Following the news as we did; we tried not to fill our heads with the noise of those who tried to justify or find excuses for the dehumanization of Israelis and Jews. There was as there is no moral equivalence in this conflict.
 
We felt sad that past traumas of Jewish history echoed in the darkness of those days. We felt inadequate as we worked to respond and assist from the safe and comfortable distance of our homes and community. We felt strength in the resilience of Israel’s citizens and in the promise of Israel safe and secure as soon as could be.
 
We thought of all who are our family in Israel, individually as relatives or friends and collectively as Jews. We sent them our support and concern. When our land, our state, and our people are under attack by enemies sworn to our destruction, the most important thing we could do then, and continue to do now, is to let Israel and Israelis know we are with them.
 
I remember those feelings deeply. Even so, as we navigated so many difficult days to reach this one which we dared dream to see, we can never forget what we tried to uphold. War has not defined us. Peace and the pursuit of life engaged us. A future when Israel is secure and at peace with her neighbors was and is our goal, our vision, and our hope.
 
Now we must be ready. There is much for us to do. Work to see the world made right. Assist in reviving the spirit and life of Israel's people. (I wonder if there isn’t a trip to Israel we might plan. I don’t know the itinerary or agenda, just the sense that maybe this is a time to be present.) Engage as the Jews we choose to be, participating in the healing and renewal of our community.
 
That’s why after two years of grief, terror, tragedy, and war; after two years enduring antisemitic tropes and threats; after two years of internal argument and anguish for the Jewish people, that phrase in the Jewish lexicon came to mind. A phrase of hope uttered wistfully over the past two years, especially in Israel. A phrase fitting for this moment. A phrase honest to our mood.
 
I pray our visions for peace come true. A peace we don’t look to celebrate given all that has taken place. A peace, instead, we can deeply appreciate as we say to one another from this day forward “Sh’lo nishma ela b’sorot tovot -שלא נשמע אלא בשורות טובות- May we hear only good news.”
 
© 2025 Rabbi Ronald J. Shulman
 

High Holy Day Sermons below

it's not hard to be a jew

Rosh HaShanah Sermon 2025 | 5786
 

 

 
Shanah Tovah! I greet you this New Year’s Day delighted we are together and grateful for our communal bond. Though the calendar marks just one more year since we were last here, my soul feels like it’s aged much more than that.
 
Maybe that’s why we keep two calendars. One tracks our time. The other tracks our souls. 2025 fills with headlines, joyous milestones, heartaches, appointments, and to-do lists. But 5786 reminds us. Collectively and historically, as Jews, we’ve weathered plagues, exile, millennia of worry, and TikTok. And still today, we show up. We say Shanah Tovah. We hope for the best. We begin again.
 
לְחַיִים טוֹבִים וּלְשָׁלוֹם L’hayim tovim u-l’shalom! For a good life and for peace! Perhaps more so than in recent years, this phrase from our High Holy Day prayers reflects our deepest desires. In a world desperate for healing and humanity, we yearn for goodness in our lives and peace for our people and our world.
 
So yes, as we greet one another today, we are older in age, and older of soul. It’s to our older souls, more than our respective ages, that I wish to speak.
 
By soul, I mean our inner spiritual core, of God, if you wish. In human terms, soul is the essence of our awareness and conscience. It is our moral fulcrum, steadying our balance and sustaining our equilibrium in an unstable world.
 
And yet, on this New Year’s Day, as in so many months past, I find myself off balance. Off balance in heart and soul. Off balance in a way I’ve never quite felt before as an American Jew. Perhaps I’m not the only one who feels this way.
 
On Rosh HaShanah last year, the pain of October 7th was still raw and burning.
 
Today, that pain endures. As Diaspora Zionists, we are learning to live with complexity. We love Israel no less. We defend Israel even more. We know Israel intimately, perhaps better than most. We cherish what Israel means to the Jewish people, our history and our future.
 
We don’t abandon our family, Israel, during difficult days. We don’t punish Israel while she’s undergoing a harsh stress test. We stand up for Israel, and for our concerns, our values, and our hopes. And yet, like so many in Israel itself, we also wrestle with honest questions about profoundly complex circumstances.
 
As time goes by, I find opinions less useful and accurate information invaluable. So many seem so certain about the quandary that is Gaza. I’m just not sure what they’re so sure about. Except this. The suffering is a tragedy.
 
A tragedy for the hostages who languish near death in tunnels and pens on day 717. For their families and all decent people who still cry out in protest for their release and rescue.
 
A tragedy for Israel’s soldiers too long in battle, and for their comrades lost and injured in a just cause. A cause seemingly forgotten by too many outside observers.
 
A tragedy for children needing food and shelter and for their families and neighbors who seek safety and relief.
 
A tragedy for Gazan civilians unable to break free from the yoke of Hamas terror and oppression.
 
A tragedy for the people of Israel who are still living on October 7th while much of the world judges and rebukes them two years later with too much malice.
 
A tragedy for the Jewish people, for you and me. (And I’m not equating our heartbreak to those who truly suffer.) We are daily confronted with circumstances that confound and concern us as caring Jews and human beings.
 
Especially in moments when we see pain we cannot ease. When we respond to choices not of our own. When we hold points of view we don’t feel safe expressing. When antisemitism confronts us daily. Its persistence bewildering. Its flame singeing still.
 
This may be the most difficult experience the Jewish people have faced in my lifetime. I worry that a deep divide is emerging between differing visions of Jewish identity and the ways we live out our values.

We are witnessing a painful clash of ideas and moral sensitivities. On one side stands a chauvinistic nationalism intertwined with religious extremism. A world view that pursues nationalistic claims and religious visions seemingly unmoved by the consequences of their zeal.
 
On the other side stands a particularism paired with religious and secular tolerance. A world view that believes Jewish national destiny and identity must be grounded in both security and principled, safeguarded coexistence.
 
It’s unsettling. I don’t assume we all feel the same way, nor do we all think alike. But I do believe, as a result, being Jewish is harder for many of us right now than it ought to be. We’re off balance in a way we’ve never quite felt before as American Jews. Off balance in heart and soul. We simply weren’t prepared for this. And now, we’re trying to maintain our equilibrium.
 
How many of you have heard the phrase, “It’s hard to be a Jew?” A good many, as I assumed. How many of you know who first uttered the phrase? Also, as I expected, not too many.
 
After the execution of Russian Czar Nicolas II in 1918, as the Russian empire began morphing into the Soviet Union, the great Yiddish author and humorist Sholem Aleichem wrote a Yiddish comedy. A play about the difficulties of being Jewish in those early days of Soviet Russia. It premiered in New York City on October 1, 1920.
 
The play opens in a university café where two students, Jacob Schnyrson and Ivan Ivanov, are talking. Jacob points out to Ivanov the freedoms he enjoys which are denied to the Jews. Ivanov doesn’t believe Jacob. He thinks it’s just bad luck.
 
Here’s their dialogue:
 
IVANOV
What are you proposing?
SCHNYRSON
We swap. For one year. You become “Jacob Schnyrson,” Jew from Minsk. I become “Ivan Ivanov,” Russian student from Kazan.
IVANOV
So I eat gefilte fish, attend synagogue… and face all your “bad luck”?
SCHNYRSON
And I stroll into any club, live wherever I like, and watch doors open without a question.
IVANOV
And the winner buys the other…?
SCHNYRSON
A barrel of beer.
IVANOV
Deal.
 
In quick order, Ivanov struggles to learn Jewish customs. He encounters landlords who demand proof of birthplace. Police who make random checks. Classmates who treat him with suspicion. Meanwhile, Jacob, living as a Russian, finds how easily doors open for him.
 
Of course there’s a love interest. Hiding his true identity, Ivanov falls for a Jewish girl named Esther. Ater a variety of comedy mix-ups tensions rise. Ivanov, as a Jew, is stopped by police for failing to show the correct travel permit. The moment rattles him and deepens his empathy for Jewish struggles.
 
By Passover that year, the identity swap is wearing thin. Ivanov, now deeply attached to Esther and her family, the Shapiros, plans to confess the truth after the holiday. But before he can, two policemen arrive at the family Seder ostensibly for political reasons. In the chaos, both men admit the bet and the swap. At story’s end, Ivanov reflects.
 
IVANOV
If I learned anything this year, it’s this—
No matter the jokes, no matter the arguments…
It’s not easy to be a Jew.
In fact, it’s hard to be a Jew.
 
Not for me. I don’t know about all of you. I guess it depends where you’ve lived. I suppose it depends on what you’ve experienced. It probably depends on what formed your Jewish sensibilities. Given my life’s course, I have never been uncomfortable being a Jew.
 
It’s not hard to be a Jew. It’s hard to conceive of not being Jewish. It’s not hard to be a Jew. It’s hard to describe the depth of meaning, joy and purpose it brings. It’s not hard to be a Jew. It’s hard to be a Jew alone, without being part of a community like this. It’s not hard to be a Jew. But it is hard to be the focus of other’s ignorant hatred.
 
Which is why we find our souls’ balance and spiritual strength by reminding ourselves, or discovering anew, what we believe. What we know to be true. What grounds our integrity and humanity. What is hard, at least these days, is to be a Jew untethered to positive Jewish purpose and pursuits. Not to feel Jewish history and destiny flowing through who we are.
 
Many of us grew up to understand this. We’ve intuited and internalized it. But if you’re 25 or 30, let alone a high school or college student, today it’s not clear to me that you have a broad enough personal or historic lens to understand this. I sense that before the past couple of years it was comfortable and relatively easy for most of our children and grandchildren to be Jewish. I hope and pray it will be soon again.
 
Therefore, in the reality of this current moment, I want us to consider how we discuss Judaism and talk about being Jewish not only for ourselves but with our children and grandchildren. Amidst the noise, how can we help them figure out and affirm their Jewish places in the world? As they venture off with so much else to uncover and attain, what Jewish wisdom and spiritual strength can we help them discover?
 
We Jews are an irrepressible and miraculous people. Through both acculturation within and defiance toward every great (and gone) historic civilization, the Jewish people created a religious and cultural vision of what life ought to be in contrast with what life often is.
 
By every logic of history, we should not be here. Yet, in covenant with God, if you wish, because of every effort and vision of our ancestors, we inherit a heritage that has something to say at all times , in all places, to all people.
 
What is that message? Let’s eavesdrop on a Talmudic argument. At issue is defining eternal values and character traits for Jewish individuals to possess and model.
 
Rabbi Yohanan said: There are six matters individuals enjoy the profits of in this world, and nevertheless the principal exists for them in the World-to-Come.
אלו דברים שאין להם שעור
 
Translation. In all we are asked to be and to do, these take priority. These are our core value concepts. These matter most and endure through time and place.
 
And they are: Hospitality toward guests, visiting the sick, consideration during prayer, rising early to the study hall, helping children to engage in Torah study, and judging others favorably.
 
Translation. These character traits matter most. These are what sustain a community and embrace its members. Openness. Compassion. Contemplation. Learning. Teaching. Decency. An interesting list. A good list.
 
Until other sages ask. Is that so? And did we not previously learn these?
 
Translation. We prefer some other qualities.
 
And they are: Honoring one’s father and mother, acts of loving kindness, bringing peace between a person and another, and Torah study which is equal to all of them.
תלמוד תורה כנגד כולם
 
Translation. Respect. Lovingkindness. Dignity. Wisdom.
 
We can settle this curious disagreement by embracing all these traits for our relationships with each other and the world. Let’s call them the ten traits of a morally astute Jewish personality.
 
If we’re off balance in a way we’ve never quite felt before as American Jews; if we’re off balance in heart and soul; if we’re trying to maintain our equilibrium, then let’s turn inward to what matters most and is most desperately needed in the world.
 
I explain it this way. Show the world who a Jew is by showing the world who you are! Here are the ten traits of a morally astute Jew. Live these traits with conscience and honesty. Openness. Compassion. Contemplation. Learning. Teaching. Decency. Respect. Lovingkindness. Dignity. Wisdom. Simply put. We Jews demonstrate our devotion to God by caring about one another, and others.
 
We in this congregation, in our affirmation of Judaism, believe that the Jewish people profess a rational religion. A tradition, heritage, and culture intellectually rooted in sacred history. Our people’s wisdom for life cultivates conscience and common sense. We openly and honestly express wonder and worry. We ask probing questions and seek relevant answers. We cherish hope and dignity.
 
We affirm a reasoned and religious understanding of Jewish tradition rooted in both history and modernity. Our very presence and persistence in the world advocates for individual distinctiveness and freedom, for the dignity and equality of all human beings created in the image of God.
 
It is a privilege to be a Jew. As .2% of the world’s population, precious few of us walk through life so honored. Larger populations may not really know about us. But we show the world who a Jew is by showing the world who we each are.
 
In response to being so widely scorned and maligned in the public square and being shamed for anguish we did not cause, and choices we did not make, let’s be proud to be ourselves. Jews who demonstrate personal Jewish purpose. People who feel Jewish history and destiny flowing through who we are.
 
I began by reflecting that while the calendar marks just one more year since we were last here, my soul feels like it’s aged much more than that. By soul, I mean the essence of our awareness and conscience. Our moral fulcrum steadying our balance and sustaining our equilibrium in an unstable world.
 
In this New Year, let us delight in being people who bring decency and dignity into a world where they are all too often absent. Live the ten traits of a morally astute Jew. They are the human heart of Jewish values. The moral reasons we study Torah and practice Jewish tradition. This year, may we age in wisdom and conviction for the benefit of this world and a vision of a World-to-Come.
 
It’s not hard to be a Jew. It’s sacred! It’s precious! It’s beautiful! It is a privilege to be a Jew! Show the world. It’s not hard to be a Jew. For God’s sake, for our sake, for the sake of our children and grandchildren, and for the sake of everyone’s humanity: Show the world who a Jew is by showing the world who you are!
 
L’Shanah Tovah!
 
© 2025 Rabbi Ronald J. Shulman

memory and affirmation

Rosh HaShanah II Sermon 2025 | 5786
 

 

 
“Melekh al kol ha’aretz, mekadesh Yisrael v’Yom haZikaron.”
מלך על כל הארץ מקדש ישראל ויום הזכרון
 
Here we are again. A second day on which we welcome the new Jewish year. I’m often asked, not only about repeating today what we did yesterday, but about repetition in all our services.  We repeat elements of the liturgy over and again. Yesterday I was asked why we repeat the Amidah, first silent and then out loud – twice! Four times over the same words. To which I asked, do you remember what you were thinking about the first time?
 
Already five times this Rosh HaShanah (6 if you made kiddush last night as well as on Sunday evening, but who’s counting!) we have recited “Melekh al kol ha’aretz, mekadesh Yisrael v’Yom haZikaron.” We acknowledge God as Sovereign of all the earth, making the Jewish people and this Day of Remembrance sacred.
 
Rosh HaShanah is called the “Day of Remembrance.” On this day we are called to remember God’s covenant with us, the Jewish people, just as we trust God will remember each and all of us for goodness and for life.
 
Our ancestors imagined memory as a Divine quality. God transcends time and place. Our memories, however strong, are fleeting. Of God, memories are eternal. Unlimited by a particular incidence or coincidence. (Which is comforting until we remember how much we’d prefer God forgot.)
 
Human memory imitates God. By remembering we strive to overcome our own limits and reach toward eternity. Yet each of our memories are unique. Unlike any other thoughts we hold.
 
Our memories are not ideas. Our memories are images we see with our mind’s eye and feelings we sense in our hearts and souls. Memories are not abstract. Memories are tangible bonds we share with others, about others, and the fleeting moments of every day’s events.
 
I often wonder. Maybe you do, too. What are my earliest memories? What do I recall by myself? What do I claim to remember because of pictures I’ve seen or stories I’ve been told? More important. How far back do memories of our loved ones go?
 
Here’s another way to put it. Research suggests that most people are forgotten within three generations after their death. Looking back, I remember my grandparents and my parents. Some of you may be fortunate to remember a great-grandparent, too.
 
Still, I wonder. Given the tenor of our times, and the very tangible discomfort we who are Jewish deal with as individuals and as a community, how did my ancestors from a century or so ago respond to and confront the even more difficult and demanding threats they faced?
 
What if we could hear from those we didn't know who came before us? What if their experience could inform and inspire our own?
 
I looked for such insights in a variety of places. I couldn’t find what I wanted. So, I created it myself. In the form of an imagined letter. An homage to my own great-grandfather whom I never knew but for whom my father was named.
 
Imagine I’m holding in my hand a letter written in Lithuania, in the year 1895. Lithuanian Jewry, loving known as Litvaks, played a significant role in Jewish history, particularly as a center of Jewish learning, culture, and religious variety. The writer of this letter is a great-grandfather addressing a great-grandchild he can only imagine but will never know.
 
I place the writer in a small city, Vabalninkas, located in the northeast region of Lithuania today. The town and its Jews suffered a great deal during World War I. With the establishment of independent Lithuania after the war, some Jews began to return to Vabalninkas. Many were Zionists.
 
If you are not “Ashkenormative,” then from whatever your background, try to extrapolate the message here. (“Ashkenormativity” means assuming Ashkenazi Jews as the default, excluding Sephardi, Mizrahi, Ethiopian, and other Jewish identities and histories. Not right, true. But the only ancestry I know personally.)
 
This letter is a form of historical fiction, rooted in facts but told of my own creation. I set it to be written twenty years before the Great War.
 
Dearest Descendant,
Though I write these words in the year of 1895, you shall not read them for many generations hence. My heart stretches across the great chasm of time to embrace you.
 
I live in a town called Vabalninkas, nestled among the forests and fields of the Russian Empire. Life here is simple, often hard. We rise before dawn to pray, to labor, to study, and to raise our children in the ways of our ancestors. Our world is small but rich. Each day steeped in Torah. Each week anchored by Shabbat. Each year circling the sacred rhythms of our festivals. We live with joy, even in poverty, because our lives have purpose.
 
Here, life is tight and close. Our homes are modest, but our hearts are full. I am a tailor, as was my father before me. Crafting coats for gentiles and wedding garments for our own. Stitching together pieces to make something strong, something beautiful.
 
But we live under a shadow. It is not just the hunger or the harsh winters. It is the way the world sees us: with suspicion, with hatred. Czar Nicholas II’s men come with quotas and decrees. There are towns where synagogues burn, and neighbors turn on neighbors. Children are taunted, women spat upon, and men accused of crimes simply because they are Jews.
 
As the Czar’s decrees grow harsher, pogroms sweep through towns not far from ours. We do not answer with violence. We answer with dignity. With Torah. With song. With stubborn existence. We walk with our heads held high, knowing we are a people who have crossed deserts, stood at Sinai, and survived every empire that tried to erase us.
 
Someday, perhaps there will be a place where the Jew is not a guest, but the host. Where the calendar follows our seasons. Where our soldiers defend our cities. If such a place exists in your time, know that it was built by dreamers who were once tailors and teachers, bakers and rabbis, who dared to believe exile was not our destiny.
 
Meanwhile, in Vabalninkas there are whispers. Many are leaving. Crossing the ocean to a land called America. A place where a Jew might breathe freely and walk unafraid. I hope you are reading this there and that the whispers are true. In which case I ask you. Do not forget who you are. Do not forget what was paid for your place at the table. Carry our memory as a shield.
 
Child of my child’s child, I cannot know what trials you face. No time is free from hardship. But I hope you face yours with the strength we have passed down. The stubborn fire of our faith. The resilience of our stories. The wisdom of our sages. Remember, we are a people who bless even the bitter. Who study even in exile. Who light candles against the darkness.
 
Teach your children to question. To laugh at the absurdities of life, and to see holiness even in hardship. May you keep alive what I have only begun to carry. Our people are more than survival. We are covenant. Be proud. Be just. And never forget whose dreams you now live.
 
With trembling hope and eternal love,
Avraham Gershom ben Mordecai
 
“Never forget whose dreams we now live.” That’s our charge. To broaden not only what we see in the world around us, but what we remember from those who came before us.
 
These are difficult days for Jews. Days of being scorned and maligned in the public square. Days of deep distress about the quagmire entangling Israel. Days of disagreement and dispute. Even so, these are not the Jewish people’s worst days, even if they are ours.
 
So, we must learn not only from our experiences and recollections. We must learn from the memories of our ancestors we do not hold personally. Because we live their dreams now. In an American Jewish community, they could never conceive. In a State of Israel, they could only hope would come to be. In a 21st century, though ripe as it is with complexities and convolutions, in a 21st century filled with technologies, potentialities, and innovative opportunities for being Jewish no one who lived before now could possibly fathom.
 
Of our great-grandparents and those who lived before them, we must remember the strength we have received. The stubborn faith of a fire that burns bright and inspires still. The resilience of our stories old and new. The wisdom of our sages. The insights of our own.
 
Remember like they did. We are a people who bless even the bitter. Who study even in exile. Who light candles against the darkness.
 
We Jews are an irrepressible and miraculous people. Through ideals taught in God’s name, we believe we can redeem ourselves from challenging circumstances. We can live in the world that is as we believe it ought to be. The contemporary and evolved character of our Jewish lives reveals all of this.
 
Therefore, let me ask this of you. Every time you pause to complain, or hear someone else comment about, the latest disparaging antisemitic trope or incident, after you concur and console, counter with a Jewish affirmation.
 
Talk about your plans for a coming Shabbat or holiday celebration. Reference your last act of tzedakah by using that term to describe something good you or someone you know did. Mention a recent Jewish themed class, book, film, or cultural event that engaged you. Pull out a picture from your family’s most recent simhah or talk about an uplifting lifecycle event you just attended.
 
Invite whomever you are speaking with to join you at a synagogue service or upcoming gathering. Share some good news about Jews you just heard, be it from Israel (which has much good taking place amidst all the stress) or from other sources or media. Teach a simple lesson of Torah or Jewish lore you carry with you as an inspiring memory. Be a light of hope and a demonstration of positive, meaningful Jewish living. Counter Jewish oy with affirmative Jewish joy.
 
On this Day of Remembrance, we hope to be remembered, and to call upon our own memories, for goodness and for life. By remembering we strive to overcome what we must and raise ourselves up.
 
“Melekh al kol ha’aretz, mekadesh Yisrael v’Yom haZikaron.”
מלך על כל הארץ מקדש ישראל ויום הזכרון
 
God, Sovereign over all the earth, makes the Jewish people and this Day of Remembrance sacred. Throughout the days of this New Year, may we mimic that image of God with sacred purpose.
 
L’Shanah Tovah!
 
© 2025 Rabbi Ronald J. Shulman

spiritual resistance

Erev Yom Kippur – Kol Nidre Sermon 2025 | 5786
 

 

 
More than during any other High Holy Day service, on this sacred night we turn inward. We focus our minds and hearts on the deepest desires of our souls. This first step of Yom Kippur sets the tone for everything that follows, carrying us through until the sun sets tomorrow evening.
 
Each of us arrives here tonight with our own quiet yearnings. They are private, sincere, and unique. Yes, we share many concerns and longings in common. But the prayers of our hearts, our hopes and healing, our wonder and worry, our resolve and renewal, our goals and the good we strive for, belong only to us.
 
For one of us, it may be the prayer of a parent who yearns for patience in the face of a child’s struggles. For another, it may be the whispered hope of a young adult searching for love or direction. Someone may be sitting here tonight praying for healing after illness, or for the strength to face a diagnosis yet unknown. Another may be carrying the grief of a broken relationship, a fractured friendship, or the loss of someone who can never be replaced.
 
Some of us pray for courage, to stand up for what we believe in at work or in the public square. Others pray for forgiveness. For words spoken in anger. For promises not kept. For the silence that hurt more than speech. Some long for joy to return to their homes. Others simply pray to feel less alone.
 
No one else can pray your prayers. No one else can walk your path or make your choices.  Some may understand. A few may walk beside you with love and support. Still, on Kol Nidre night, if we are wise and sincere, we allow ourselves to be honest. We let ourselves be vulnerable. We acknowledge what is broken within us and yearn for wholeness, for personal peace.
 
In ordinary times, the work of inner healing is difficult enough. But these are not ordinary times. These are times in which the world feels disordered, distorted, and dangerous. These are times in which we ask ourselves: How can we possibly repair what is broken inside when so much outside of us is breaking down?
 
When the moral foundations of society crumble; when the sacred assumptions of the Jewish people are dismissed or denied; when hate shouts louder than reason; when violence overshadows peace; when history is erased and truth itself is twisted – we feel as if we’re under siege. When dialogue dissolves into disingenuous soundbites; when verbal attacks inflame instead of healing; when physical danger and spiritual malaise hover in the air, we are left asking: How do we stand firm? How do we not despair?
 
This is our challenge. Precisely in such times, we do not give ourselves permission to surrender. We do not get to say, “It is too much.” Judaism has never allowed us that luxury. Instead, we are called to rise. We are called to wrestle blessing from struggle, light from darkness, holiness from brokenness.
 
The sources are here for us if we dare to claim them. The Torah that insists on justice. The prophets who demand righteousness. The sages who teach resilience. The martyrs who clung to faith in the face of hatred. The generations before us who rebuilt after every destruction. These are not only stories of the past. They are demands upon us now.
 
I want to make the case this sacred evening that one Jewish response to threats against us and persecution of us is spiritual resistance. Deploying the social ethics of Judaism.
 
Social ethics. The moral principles, values, and standards that guide individuals in our interactions. Social ethics are based on the recognition that we human beings are social creatures. We live and interact with others. Our individual and collective actions impact others. Social ethics are the public purpose of Jewish values and Torah study.
 
From the very first words we chanted tonight, we stepped into this vision. Kol Nidrei itself is a form of social ethics as spiritual resistance. In the medieval world, Jews were often forced by others to do and say things they did not believe or desire. In Jewish history, our ancestors crafted Kol Nidre, a haunting legal promise, to be a religious antidote to oppressive obligations. God forgive me for what I said under duress. Hold me accountable only for what I say of my own free will and convictions.
 
To learn more about spiritual resistance and Jewish social ethics for today, let’s look back, far back, to the 2nd century, the formative era of Rabbinic Judaism.
 
But our teacher in this moment is not from that era. It’s Maimonides, Rabbi Moshe ben Maimon, the Rambam. He lived a thousand years later, in 12th-century Spain. And yet, Rambam helps us understand what was at stake in that earlier time.
 
In the introduction to his great work, the Mishneh Torah, Maimonides explains: Our earliest sages did not write much. They taught orally. Each teacher passed down wisdom, stories, and law directly to their students, who, in turn, became teachers to the next generation.
 
That chain endured for centuries. But in the year 70, when the Romans destroyed the Second Temple in Jerusalem, the chain began to weaken. And after the Bar Kochba rebellion in 135, when the Romans executed ten of Judaism’s greatest sages, including Rabbi Akiva, that chain nearly broke.
 
Enter the hero of our story: Rabbi Yehudah haNasi, Judah the Prince. He saw what could not be ignored. The whole body of rabbinic lessons, law, and lore could be lost forever. And so, he did what no previous rabbinic leader had dared.
 
With urgency, Rabbi Yehudah haNasi began to write. He worked to create a lasting record of Judaism’s foundations, not oral anymore, but written. Not fragile memory, but enduring text. He gave us the Mishnah.
 
This was not just preservation. It was transformation. It turned Torah study into something new. It organized rabbinic tradition into a sacred text that could travel, survive, and inspire.
 
Maimonides explains why Rabbi Yehudah haNasi did it: “Because he saw the students becoming fewer. Because new difficulties constantly arose. Because the Roman Empire spread across the world. Because the Jewish people were wandering, scattered to the far ends of the earth. So, Rabbi Yehudah haNasi taught the Mishnah diligently, in public. He made sure it was known to all the people. They copied it, spread it, taught it everywhere, so that the Oral Torah might never be forgotten.”
 
In response to the turmoil of our days, let’s study something of Rabbi Akiva’s Torah as recorded by Rabbi Yehudah haNasi. One of Judaism’s first principles of social ethics. Rabbi Akiva taught, “חביב אדם שנברא בצלם – Haviv Adam sh’nivra b’Tzelem - Beloved are human beings, for we were created in the image of God.”
 
Remember when you started out on your life’s path? Or perhaps you are starting out now. You work hard to achieve. You pursue personal and professional goals with determination and hope. On your journey has anyone ever said, “You’ll never succeed. You’re falling short. You’re not enough?”
 
Rabbi Akiva says: You are beloved. You are God’s image. Your worth is not measured by your accomplishments or status. Your value is your humanity and the unique manifestation of God you bring to life.
 
I also have in mind those of us living with illness, or aging as we must, or grieving sadly. We are not weak or less in these moments. Rabbi Akiva says we are beloved in every phase and experience of our lives. Always we are representations of divinity and dignity.
 
Or more simply. Each of us knows moments of doubt. Times when we feel small or invisible. Rabbi Akiva’s teaching is resistance against despair. It says: We are beloved. We are each cherished images of God in the world.
 
Or as we interact with others. No one of us should be defined by an arbitrary social category to which we may belong. Someone who prays differently, who votes differently, who looks or speaks or acts differently. Treasured are all these human beings. Even someone who has failed, morally, personally, or professionally, deserves to be recognized as having value far greater than their lowest moment.

Social ethics must be applied. Rabbi Akiva taught Torah even under Roman persecution of him and his students. For us, that courage may be speaking up when others are mocked. Choosing compassion when apathy is easier. Standing beside someone vulnerable, so they are not alone. Each act, no matter how large or small, is an act of spiritual resistance because it affirms that human dignity is sacred.
 
As Jews, we possess a wisdom tradition. We seek insights from historical memories that reflect our current experiences and beyond them. We find inspiration from a religious heritage that strives to overwhelm us with counterpoints of goodness and purpose.
 
How many times in this evening’s service has the liturgy bid us to think about peace and ask of God for peace? Even as war wages. On how many pages of the mahzor have we been guided to reflect on love, life, and the gift of being? Even as we encounter meanness and hatred. What do we mean when we read or recite about God, מכלכל חיים בחסד- “You sustain the living through kindness and love.” Orשבענו מטובך ושמחנו בישועתך - “Fill our lives with Your goodness and gladden us with Your deliverance. וטהר לבנו לעבדך באמת - Purify our hearts to serve You truly.”
 
These are all elements of God’s image.  Peace and wholeness, love and kindness, living in service of the good. We can’t change the uncertainty of this moment. We can control how we live in it, and through it.
 
We can seek inspiration rather than more irritation. We can focus on our hopes, not our fears. We can discover counterpoints of goodness and purpose. We respond to what’s unfair by being fair. We respond to what’s wrong by doing right. We respond to hurt by bringing healing. We respond to a bad idea by urging a better one.
 
Rabbi Yehudah haNasi gives us the spiritual strategy. At all times, seeking to preserve, to teach, and to carry forward what is sacred. Rabbi Akiva gives us the moral foundation. Each person exists as a unique and precious image of God in this world.
 
Here’s how the Talmudic rabbis taught it.
“Just as the Holy One, blessed be God, is called merciful, so you too be merciful.
Just as the Holy One, blessed be God, is called gracious, so you too be gracious.
Just as the Holy One, blessed be God, is called righteous, so you too be righteous.
Just as the Holy One, blessed be God, is called faithful, so you too be faithful.”
 
Here’s how my rabbi taught it. He used to answer my question, “Does God exist?” by asking me “Do you exist? If I asked, “Is God good?” he answered, “Are you good?” “Is God compassionate?” “Are you compassionate?” When I wondered, “Does God intervene?” he would ask me, “Do you intervene?” “Does God really care?” “Do you?”
 
We exist in God’s image not by what we profess or believe. We live in God’s image by what we do. Kol Nidre reminds us to hold ourselves accountable for what we say and what we do.
 
We do not hide from the brokenness within or around us. We meet it with courage. We declare that despair will not have the final word.
 
In the face of a world on fire, we resolve to resist spiritually and to live ethically. To be more just, more honest, more courageous, more loving, and more accepting. Spiritual resistance.
 
Nothing outside of us diminishes the majesty and meaning of who we are inside because... Each one of us exists as a unique and precious image of God in this world.
 
G’mar Hatimah Tovah!
 
© 2025 Rabbi Ronald J. Shulman
 

a consequential truth

Yom Kippur Sermon 2025 | 5786
 

 

 
I find Yom Kippur to be one of the most profoundly emotional days of the year. It carries a weight and a stillness unlike any other. A mood shaped by honesty, humility, and the courage to face ourselves without distraction.
 
For some, today is about honoring a sacred tradition passed lovingly from generation to generation. For others, it is a day we endure, a solemn obligation to get through. And for a few, Yom Kippur may feel mysterious, yet something in its pull compels us to show up, to connect, if only for a moment.
 
For me, I am drawn to the deeper reason for what we do today. Yom Kippur reminds us that life is at once consequential and fleeting. Each moment matters, and yet each moment passes quickly. In this tension lies the urgency of the day: to pause, to reflect, to renew.
 
Our regrets are real. Our apologies are heartfelt. The prayers, the fasting, the stillness, all of it is meant to awaken us. To make us more alert and aware. Yom Kippur, then, is not only about contrition. It is about possibility. It asks us to see our lives with clarity. To mend what we can and to step forward with purpose.
 
A year ago, on Yom Kippur, when I stood before you, my emotions were raw and on full display. My mother had just passed from this world, and only days before, my granddaughter had entered it. I was caught between loss and new life, grief and joy, absence and presence.
 
Now, one year later, I feel the weight of that experience still, but I also recognize it was not mine alone. Each of us has lived through a year marked by its own share of hurt and hope. Many of us carry the ache of loss, and many of us have been lifted by moments of renewal.
 
On this day of reflection, we are invited to stand in that fragile space, the lurch between birth and death, between past and future, between the finitude of our mortality and the vastness of eternity. It is in this space, however uncomfortable, that Yom Kippur asks us to dwell. It is here that we begin to see more clearly who we are, what we value, and how we seek to live in the days still granted to us.
 
Listen to this poignant midrash. A comment on the emotional, spiritual, and moral breach in which we stand on Yom Kippur.
 
Rabbi Meir taught, "When human beings enter the world, their hands are clenched, as though to say: The whole world is mine, and I will inherit it. But when they depart from the world, their hands are spread open, as though to say: I have inherited nothing from this world."
 
A newborn’s hand is clenched ready to grab life and all it promises. To hold tight while experiencing every moment and opportunity, while accumulating might and insight. Rabbi Meir’s words, however, point us toward the broader arc of a life lived well.
 
Between the initial clenching and final openness of our hands lie growth, maturity, and transformation. We grow from holding on to letting go. Our lives, as our values, shift from being egocentric to discovering humility as we learn to give of ourselves and our attainments to others.
 
Today, on Yom Kippur, we see that broader arc of our lives. We evaluate. How open or closed are our hands? Whatever our age and life stage, how young or old are we on the continuum toward maturity and character? Standing in this fragile space between birth and death, between past and future, between mortality and eternity, what have we learned about ourselves in the year gone by?
 
The answers to these questions lie at the root of why we are here today.
 
I’ll return to them in a bit. Now I mean to ask about more than observing Yom Kippur. I ask why do religions exist? Why did Judaism come into being? Why ought this matter to you and me every day, not only today? In other words, what [the heck] are we doing here?
 
Religion is a human construct. Designed by humanity to bring order to the chaos of life. Religion’s purpose is to help us mediate meaning in our daily existence. To help us answer the questions we ask from this liminal space between life and death.
 
Religion gives us the vocabulary and symbols to make the ineffable concrete. The mysterious plausible. The possibility of God evident as a real presence for our lives in this world. If life’s mystery is God’s reality, as I believe, then creating a framework of spiritual tools to explore that reality lies at the root of a religious worldview.
 
I say this as a religious Jew, and I am aware of the argument I might get from adherents of other religious traditions, let alone other Jews. Though I believe this framework is true and applies to all religions, let’s think about Judaism itself.
 
There’s a mystery that intrigues me about Judaism. The historical development and evolution of this tradition is so very different from the well-defined, complex, compelling, and contemporary Jewish religious heritage and cultural identity we inherit.
 
Most of us know little of the history. We know the parts that confirm our sense of heritage and belonging. Few here can describe how the scribes of ancient Israel and Judea crafted a narrative, laws set into a memorialized story, about Ethical Monotheism and a people that could sustain their communities in a world governed by foreign powers.
 
Few of us understand that the Hebrew Bible is a response to destruction and exile. TaNaKh, the Hebrew Bible, is the creative, mysterious response of a people unwilling to accept the cruelty, inhumanity, and destructive impulses of the nations among whom they lived, or by whose power they were oppressed.
 
That’s ok. Scholars of various disciplines know and suppose a lot - and agree on only so much. Truth to tell, our sacred Biblical text takes liberties with the past to find meaning in the present. Which is why I always teach about Judaism and all religion, faith is not fact. As a result, what I love more than learning about or imagining the ancient past, is the power and promise of the Judaism the Jewish people created out of that past which we continue to embrace and evolve.
 
That’s among the reasons I’m pained when we and what we are about are misconstrued and abused in the public square. I celebrate the mystery of our historic ingenuity, resilience, and ethical worldview. Aware that I’m part of a very small minority that understands this.
 
Post World War II and the Shoah, the Jewish people recovered, to the degrees possible. We recreated ourselves. Over the past 80 years, our generations have become some of the most vibrant Jews and creative Jewish communities who ever existed. We’ve done so by building on the foundations laid by every previous generation of Jews who reclaimed and renewed Judaism in their days. As post October 7th Jews, we are on the cusp of beginning that process anew.
 
Whatever its origins, divine or human, divine and human, the Hebrew Bible and Judaism as it came into being are about answering our very real and enduring questions about life. We begin and end Yom Kippur with these existential questions, listed in the mahzor and requiring our answers.
 
מה אנו? Meh anu?  מה חיינו?  Mah hayeinu? מה חסדינו?  Meh hasdeinu?  מה צדקינו?  Mah tzidkeinu? What are we? What is our life? Our goodness? Our righteousness? Our achievement? Our power? What shall we say in Your presence, Eternal our God and God of our ancestors?
 
From a place of humility, this fragile space of Yom Kippur between birth and death, between past and future, between mortality and eternity, we seek to know something more about ourselves. The Talmudic poet who authored these questions on our behalf believed in the potential of every human being and the promise of humanity.
 
I want to define what Judaism is so we can know something more about who we are.
 
Judaism is the evolving tradition of an ageless people.
Judaism is the Jewish people’s sacred quest.
Judaism is a religious vision for living with purpose.
 
Judaism calls us to live in the world that is as we believe it ought to be. To demonstrate our devotion to God by caring about one another, and others. To combine spiritual practice, ethical responsibility, and cultural expression as fundamental to our personal Jewish identities.
 
To do all this so that we may mediate meaning in our daily lives and grapple meaningfully with life’s deepest questions. Cultivating conscience and common sense, Judaism celebrates individual distinctiveness and freedom, the dignity and equality of all human beings created in the image of God.
 
That’s what, or who, we are. That’s our piety. That’s our righteousness. That’s our might.
 
Humbly, the Talmud poet asked, “מה אנו? Meh anu?  מה חיינו?  Mah hayeinu? מה חסדינו?  Meh hasdeinu?  מה צדקינו?  Mah tzidkeinu? What are we? What is our life? Our goodness? Our righteousness? Our achievement? Our power?
 
Proudly, the Talmudic poet’s answer in the mahzor is our answer in community. “We are partners to God in covenant. We are descendants of Abraham, heirs to Isaac, the congregation of Jacob.” We are the next generation of an ageless people evolving Judaism as a reflection of our lives’ experiences and needs.
 
Our being and our becoming. Our challenges and our contentment. Our circumstances and our choices. Our families and our friends. Our health and our hopes. Our pains and our pleasures. Our stamina and our strength. Our work and our wealth.
 
I said earlier. On Yom Kippur, we see the broader arc of our lives and ask. What have we learned about ourselves in the year gone by? As we remember loved ones and embrace young ones, we discover a simple yet consequential truth.
 
In this life we strive to hold tightly in our hands, for as long as we possibly can, we realize. Who we are matters. What we do matters. How we do it matters, too.
 
It has to. If this is not the case, if the first principle of Jewish belief is not human worth and dignity, then why should we worry about how we care for ourselves and treat others? And these are the things we worry about most.
 
Is there anyone of us who doesn’t carry some concern over our health, or some concern about our children, grandchildren or parents? Is there anyone of us who hasn’t felt disrespected or been insulted? Who do we admire for the goodness of their character and the merit of their deeds? Who do we mock for being callous or acting in an embarrassing way?
 
Human behavior is inconsequential if people aren’t important. This truth defines us.
That’s what Judaism is. The Jewish people’s sacred quest. A religious vision for living with purpose. A call to live in the world that is as we believe it ought to be. The evolving tradition of an ageless people who believe in every individual’s significance and every moment’s consequence.
 
Life is the most precious gift any one of us ever receives. Last Yom Kippur I asked. How is the gift of life you received transformed into a present for the world?
 
A year later, I’ve learned to ask myself, to ask all of you, another question. The essential question of Judaism. How can we be worthy of our lives in God’s beautiful and glorious world if who we are and what we do are of little consequence?
 
Yom Kippur reminds us that life is at once consequential and fleeting. Each moment matters, and yet each moment passes quickly. In this tension lies the urgency of each day. Live your life as the precious gift that it is. Live as if you understand this. Live your life as a sacred quest.
 
In this fragile space, the lurch between birth and death, between past and future, between the finitude of our mortality and the vastness of eternity, we discover a simple yet consequential truth.
 
How can we be worthy of our lives in God’s beautiful and glorious world if who we are and what we do are of little consequence? Who we are matters! What we do matters! How we do it matters too!
 
G’mar Hatimah Tovah!
 
© 2025 Rabbi Ronald J. Shulman
 

the four questions

Erev Rosh HaShanah Sermon 2025 | 5786
 

 

 
Shanah Tovah! I greet you this New Year’s Eve delighted we are together and grateful for our communal bond. Though the calendar marks just one more year since we were last here, my soul feels like it’s aged much more than that.
 
Maybe that’s why we keep two calendars. One tracks our time. The other tracks our souls. 2025 fills with headlines, joyous milestones, heartaches, appointments, and to-do lists. But 5786 reminds us. Collectively and historically, as Jews, we’ve come through a lot. And still tonight, we show up. We say Shanah Tovah. We hope for the best. We begin again.
 
So yes, as we greet one another today, we are older in age and older of soul. But are we any wiser?
 
One year, on Erev Rosh HaShanah, the founder of Hasidism in the early 18th century, Rabbi Israel ben Eliezer, popularly known as the Ba’al Shem Tov, the Master of the Good Name, gathered his students and asked them to reflect. “If you were to write your own ledger for this past year,” he asked, “what would you write?”
 
As an aside, the Ba’al Shem Tov’s question is a play on an important Talmudic text for this time of year. “Rabbi Kruspedai said in the name of Rabbi Yohanan: Three books are opened in God’s domain on the New Year. One for the thoroughly wicked, one for the thoroughly righteous, and one for the intermediate.
 
The thoroughly righteous are inscribed immediately and definitively in the Book of Life. The thoroughly wicked are inscribed immediately and definitively in the Book of Death. The fate of the intermediate is suspended from Rosh HaShanah until Yom Kippur. If they deserve well, they are inscribed in the Book of Life. If they do not deserve well, they are inscribed in the Book of Death.”
 
We are familiar, if not a bit uncomfortable, with this image. Our lives are consequential. Our days existential. Our Talmudic sages believed in a world beholden to and judged by God. A belief held to inspire and motivate people’s free will choices along with their hopes for justice in an unjust world.
 
Some of us may not hold to that belief literally, but we certainly understand it’s moral imagery. We are to hold ourselves accountable for living our best possible lives. For being our best possible selves. As we will prayerfully ask throughout these holy days. May we be inscribed in the Book of Life, לְחַיִים טוֹבִים וּלְשָׁלוֹם L’hayim tovim u-l’shalom! For a good life and for peace!
 
Perhaps more so than in recent years, this phrase from our High Holy Day prayers reflects our deepest desires. In a world desperate for healing and humanity, we yearn for goodness in our lives and peace for our people and our world.
 
Back to the Ba’al Shem Tov, who asked his disciples, “If you were to write your own ledger for this past year, what would you write?” At first, the students tried to recall only their proudest moments. Kindness shown. Prayers uttered. Acts of tzedakah.
 
After listening to his students’ thoughts, the Baal Shem Tov spoke gently. He reminded them: “The One who loves you most reads your whole book, not just the good pages. The missed chances, the sharp words, the patience you withheld. These also tell your story. And when you read your own ledger honestly, you can write a better one in the year to come.”
 
The students realized the exercise wasn’t to dwell on guilt, but to see clearly. To recognize blessings and shortcomings alike, so they could enter the new year with kavanah, personal focus and intention.
 
The Ba’al Shem Tov imagined that each of us keeps a spiritual ledger of our daily lives. I don’t think it’s literally a written record of what we did. I do think it’s a call to our inner consciousness. The totality of all we have experienced, felt, and become in the year gone by.
 
So, at this liminal moment when one-year flows into the next, let’s pause and reflect. Let’s each try to remember and review that spiritual, personal ledger we all somehow keep.
 
In our memories of the recent past, we may rediscover our joys. Many of them, I hope. Or our sorrows. Fewer of them, I hope. Or our successes and failures. Our fulfillment and regret. This evening, here and at home, sit introspectively and try to bring to mind and heart as many of your life’s moods and modes as you can.
 
In the spirit of the Ba’al Shem Tov’s imagery, we can also ask ourselves questions. Consider these four questions for yourself and your inner work this sacred season.
 
What did this past year give you? Many moments, I imagine. I hope of joy, of connection, of opportunity. Perhaps comfort, challenge, or even clarity.
 
What did this past year take from you? Not too much, I hope. Time, to be sure. Maybe energy or even certainty. Sadly, a dear and missed loved one.
 
What did this past year teach you? Perspective. To listen more and speak less. To learn rather than to know. Other life lessons taught by challenges you didn’t choose, and grace you didn’t expect.
 
What did this past year ask of you? A great deal, most likely. Patience. Effort. Courage. Flexibility. Healing. Resilience. Understanding. Forgiveness. Smiles and laughs. Frowns and tears.
 
Now, because of all you received, and lost, and learned, and answered, consider the impact on who you are and how any of this will guide you in this New Year.
 
It’s hard to know. I suppose that’s exactly what we’re here to contemplate over the next couple of days. Questions from the year gone by that linger. Questions we hope to answer this year by our choices and reactions. In our words and deeds. In happiness and not too much hurt.
 
Heshbon haNefesh, our tradition calls it. Taking an accounting of our souls. We hold ourselves accountable for that which matters most to us and for those who matter to us even more.
 
The Ba’al Shem Tov imagined that each of us keeps a spiritual ledger of our daily lives. What I describe as a call to our inner consciousness. The totality of all we experience, feel, and try to become.
 
Every person born into this world represents something new, something original. Martin Buber teaches that no one of us has ever existed before because, if there had been someone like any one of us, the world wouldn’t need each one of us as it does.
 
Know this as a New Year begins. There is something about each one of us present upon which the world depends. It may be our love. It may be our talent. It may be our passion or compassion. It may be our care, our training, or simply our presence. Maybe it’s something we do. Maybe it’s something we help others to do. Whatever it may be, we can never diminish our respective roles and places.
 
That’s why we keep two calendars. One tracks our time. Yet, on the eve of this new Jewish year, we are cognizant of the other which tracks our souls.
 
As 5786 arrives to remind us. The ledger of our lives is open before us. “וחותם יד כל אדם בו - V’hotem yad kol adam bo.” Inscribed by our own hands.  The deeds we’ve not yet done and the words we’ve not yet spoken will inscribe the ledgers we and, according to our people’s religious lore, God will come to review.
 
May we inscribe ourselves, and may we be inscribed, in the Book of Life, לְחַיִים טוֹבִים וּלְשָׁלוֹם L’hayim tovim u-l’shalom! For a good life and for peace!
 
L’Shanah Tovah!
 
© 2025 Rabbi Ronald J. Shulman
Fri, October 24 2025 2 Cheshvan 5786