High Holy Days, Cracked Hearts, Round Challahs, & Ha’azinu

I know it’s been a minute. More like three weeks since I last wrote.

Getting ready for the new year and all that entails, not to mention the news overwhelming our country and world…the anticipation itself was enough to overwhelm me.

And it did. There were celebratory meals to prepare, with funerals and a baby naming sprinkled in as if they were side stories.

But the funerals and the baby naming were in fact integral to the story.

Over these weeks, I’ve been getting ready to write, but not quite ready to tell a complete story, ruminating about the significance of these holidays and my work with funerals: how death forces us to confront the precariousness of life: how we are perpetually shocked by it, despite all evidence to the contrary: how the life-review we inevitably do when someone dies relates to the self-reflection at the center of High Holy Days: the promises we make to do and be better, asking forgiveness, both of our fellow human beings and a God we might not believe in: the drive we have to somehow keep trying, despite all this.

Doing a baby naming in between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur was the other end of the spectrum; the beauty of bringing a baby into the world reflects a commitment to hope and faith in humanity.

Yet in the end, it’s the same; we inevitably think of the future and the kind of world we want to create for this new life, which then forces us to think about our human legacy—which isn’t looking too great at the moment.

And although baby namings are intensely personal, they are not. And although the High Holy Days are never supposed to be solely personal, they felt especially communal right now.

In a few days, it will be the second anniversary of October 7th, a day on which I actually officiated at one of my first weddings—again, a joyful occasion that carries so much hope in the future.

But now, after all the suffering, death, and destruction that has piled onto that original, horrific day, it only felt like these holidays would be harder than they were last year.

When will we as humans decide we’ve had enough with war? When will we take full responsibility for our part in adding to the suffering—as individuals and as a communal people, whichever people that might be?

Were the crimes committed on October 7th even forgivable? And since then?

These were the thoughts overwhelming me on Rosh Hashanah last week as we communally entered the prayers for forgiveness. I sobbed as I asked myself these questions.

Yesterday on Yom Kippur, officially known as the Day of Atonement, one of the rabbis gave a beautiful sermon about personal responsibility. The theme at my synagogue this year was Aleynu, or “It is up to us.” She asked, “When there is so little we can control in life, so much randomness, where does personal responsibility come in?

Her answer? Yes. And.

It was during this sermon that I learned of the attack that had just happened that very morning on the synagogue in Manchester, England. It was a reminder of how, when we seek revenge, we end up holding an entire group of people responsible for our suffering, thus dehumanizing them.

In a different sermon leading up to the memorial prayer service, when we remember our loved ones, the rabbi spoke of the risk of being alive; inevitably, to love is to lose and be hurt. I couldn’t help thinking of the fear that goes along with giving birth, raising a child, and sending them out into the world, unprotected and at risk of—anything.

Again, I cried and cried, as much for the ones I have loved and lost as for the ones I worry about every day, both here at home and abroad, and for all the people that are suffering, some because of randomness, some due to human doing.

The rabbi told the story of two ancient sages in the Talmud, Hillel and Shammai, who debated over two years (!) whether it was worth it for God to create us, given how flawed and fallible we are and what trouble we bring into the world.

The conclusion was: “It would have been preferable had humans not been created (wow!)…However, now that they have been created, they should examine their actions. And some say: They should investigate their actions.” (Eruvin 13b)

Like individuals, I was reminded, nations need to examine and investigate their actions. Are they modeling fear, hatred and revenge, or are they modeling compassion and inclusion? Because countries are made up of individuals, so what are the implications?

But these High Holy Days are not just for taking responsibility for our actions and atoning. They are for cracking our hearts open—because when our hearts are closed, we dehumanize others, and dehumanizing any group only leads to the imposition of greater suffering in the world.

At the very end of the day, during the Ne’ila service, as the “Gates of Heaven are closing” and our prayers become more intense, the rabbi told the story of a woman who walked down to the river daily to fill two buckets with water to carry back to her house, which she carried across her shoulders. One bucket was perfect, but the other had a crack in it. By the time she arrived home each day, the cracked one would be empty.

One day it cried out to the woman complaining of its failure. “Why do you continue to use me? I am useless. I have failed you again and again.”

“But no,” the woman replied, “Look and see what you have left behind.”

And the bucket (that had no eyes and no voice) looked down and saw that on one side of the path, flowers had bloomed all along the way, while on the other side, where the perfect bucket traveled, nothing grew.

This Shabbat we read the very last Torah reading of the year called Ha’azinu. Moses gives his very last speech in the form of a poem directed at the Israelites, reminding them yet again of all their terrible sins and how unfaithful they have been. Then Moses is directed to go to the top of the mountain where he will die.

But the story is not over. With the cycle of the Jewish year, symbolized by the round challah bread we eat for the holiday, we begin again. The story continues. Until we get it right, I suppose. Until we figure it out.

With all the tears I shed over these holy days, I feel cleansed. Not necessarily of wrongdoings, not necessarily forgiven either, but renewed and ready for the year ahead.

Ready to keep moving forward, to continue trying, as hard as I can, to accept the randomness of life with equanimity, while continuing to play my part in taking responsibility for the state of the world however I am able.

And to live in a way that my cracked heart can bring beauty and encourage new growth in the world, ready to renew my faith in humanity and commit myself anew to a better future.