by Rabbi Julie Saxe-Taller
I don’t know about you, but when I was growing up and learning about the High Holy Days, I learned that Rosh Hashanah was a celebration – the Birthday of the World, with apples and honey, good food and a family gathering at the home of cousins I didn’t see often enough. And Yom Kippur was solemn, a bit scary with its messages about Judgment, accountability and mortality. I loved being part of the whole season, but these two holy days were definitely holding down different jobs.
Later, I came to look at the two days in almost the opposite way. When I learned about the 10 days of Awe, or Repentance, Rosh Hashanah, while still exciting because of the chance to be with family and friends, was the doorway to a period of facing uncomfortable facts and feelings, and mustering courage to be honest with myself and others. And Yom Kippur, as the culmination but also the finish line of the that difficult period, became almost exultant. On years when I had found a way to repair a significant mistake or heal a ruptured relationship, there was a lightness and relief om Yom Kippur, a true spiritual high. The fast was hard at times but it also felt freeing, like a physical parallel to the emotional cleansing of grief and regret. The long shofar blast at the end of Yom Kippur left me clear and connected with the people around me through the shared experience of each of us facing our challenges.
I share this perspective tonight as an invitation to all of us to spend this holiday using it as the gift that it is – taking time to imagine where you want to be in your relationships with others, with yourself, with God, by the time Yom Kippur arrives, and to think about what you can do during these Days of Atonement to get there.
****
And now, for a second change from the ways we often talk about these Days of Awe. Let’s consider the common image of teshuvah being about achieving a “clean slate” – as if we could rewind, take an eraser to the blackboard of our lives, undo mistakes and rewrite what actually happened. If we did that, we would also lose our experience and wisdom, our learning, memories and the relationships we have built – this fantasy is neither real nor the intent of teshuvah. I hate to break it you, but so far, we can only go forward, from where we are. And the purpose of teshuvah is to heal ourselves and our relationships in order to turn toward our best selves, with all we have learned and experienced, including the repairs we make, and go forward on that basis. Not to become a blank slate.
In discussing teshuvah, which literally means turn or return, the poet and liturgist Marcia Falk writes “’Repentance,’ the English translation of teshuvah that is often found in prayer books, is misleading, for … [repentance] fails to convey the hopefulness embedded in [the word shuv or teshuvah,] with its promise of new beginnings and second chances.”
Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook (1865-1935), the first Ashkenazi chief Rabbi of British Mandatory Palestine (in the period just before Israeli statehood) was a scholar, mystic, poet and politician. Rav Kook wrote extensively about teshuvah in his great work, Orot Hat’shuvah, The Lights of Teshuvah.
“The foundation of Teshuvah always rests upon the mending of the future. In beginning, a person should not get bogged down by what is past, for if a person begins by trying to fix the past, they will quickly encounter many obstacles, and … one’s nearness to God, will be challenged. But if a person is truly engaged in mending their deeds,” – meaning mending our deeds from here on “then …, Heaven will come to that person’s aid, even regarding the past. (13:9).”
It’s worth remembering that the people we have hurt have also gone forward in time – they are not located in the past where our missteps occurred. And so teshuvah requires that we meet ourselves and others in the present. An apology accompanied by an intention, and even better an actual plan to do something differently – these are both reparative and future-oriented actions.
***
As with an individual, so too with a community. We are at a turning point as a congregation. Having started in July, I am your new Rabbi, which naturally creates a time of reflection and even self-definition, for you, the congregation, for me, and for us together. It sparks our creativity and new ways of thinking. We also enter into this stage at a time of immense social and political crisis, a time when creativity and engagement with questions of what we need and what is needed from us are urgent. With the understanding that teshuvah includes not only looking back but also charting our course for the next stage, this season is a fitting time for us to think about what is the essence of who we are, and who we can be, as a congregation.
But having come this far into my sermon, it seems unfair not to tell you a story.
Many years ago, a young man from a small, quiet town set sail to see something of the world. On his way home, he stopped at an island. The people there were very friendly and welcomed the young guest so warmly that he felt he had made friends that he would always remember. He stayed for many days, and they decided to make a banquet in his honor on the night before he would leave.
The young man was so delighted with his new friends and their hospitality, he wanted to give them a gift as well. They seemed to have everything they needed, except for one thing. He had noticed during his stay that they did not have onions. In fact, they had never heard of onions. And so, the young man went to his ship and returned with a huge bag full of onions. He showed the people how to plant them and how to cook with them. And that night they ate a delicious meal cooked with onions. In thanks for his gift and their time together, his new friends insisted on giving him a bagful of beautiful silver coins. And the young man returned home wealthy in both friendship and silver.
Soon after he arrived home, the young man visited a neighbor and told him his adventures, including his wonderful time on the island. This neighbor was a scheming man, and he decided to find out what else those islanders lacked. He questioned the young traveler carefully, until he deduced that just as they had lacked onions, it sounded like they also did not have garlic. He gathered sacks of garlic bulbs onto his boat and set sail for the island. And yes, he too was warmly welcomed and invited to a delicious and festive meal.
When he brought out his gift of sacks of garlic, the people happily received the special, pungent bulbs and told him they would like to give him a special parting gift as well. The neighbor grinned, hardly able to contain himself in anticipation but he politely received the heavy bag that they placed onto his boat. When he returned home, he went straight to his young neighbor’s home to thank him and to show off his wealth, and he invited the young man to be the one to open the bag. When he did, they were both amazed to find that it was filled with onions!
Maybe I like this story because I like onions and garlic. But I have to admit that I also like how the punch line really socks it to the scheming neighbor. I revel in the way the story juxtaposes two ways of being in the world – one based on connection and care, and one based on selfishness and exploitation. Of course, outside of storyland, we can all sometimes be like the scheming neighbor, viewing and treating other people as a vehicle for our own gain. But we don’t act this way for no reason. If we dig just the slightest bit under the surface, we can usually find that when we are acting without regard for other people, we are motivated by fear for our safety in some way. This both grows out of and contributes to a cultural and economic context where people are largely left to fend for ourselves. If we look around and see that no one is really looking out for us, how can we be expected not to be frightened and sometimes focused on ourselves?
How then can we demand of ourselves to be more like the island people and the young traveler? I don’t mean this as a rhetorical question – I am asking myself and all of us: HOW can we call ourselves into ways of relating that build confidence, generosity and commitment to everyone’s welfare?
This question and goal are central to why I became a rabbi. Or maybe I should say instead, it was because of Nancy’s hamburger soup, Mary’s beef stroganoff and the delicious tuna, onion and cheese-stuffed baked potatoes my mom called “potunas.” While I was growing up, my family was part of a group that was working to address social and environmental issues. Four moms in my neighborhood took turns making dinner on Wednesdays to save time and energy – but for the kids it was about getting to go to Nancy or Ellen or Mary’s house with a big pot or pan to carry dinner home, and the feeling of connection among our families that both led to and deepened through these shared dinners. Those family friends still remember my mom’s potunas. We also went camping together and shared in each other’s holidays. It was great, but not idyllic. It didn’t prevent us from having all kinds of challenges and hardships. But it showed me that it was possible to have much more connection to people beyond my immediate family than most people seemed to have – at least in my Bay Area experience.
The year before I entered rabbinical school, I first applied to study for a masters in Community Development. It was holding the acceptance letter to that program and feeling there was a missing piece that pointed me instead back to my dream of being a rabbi and building community explicitly based on Jewish values and culture. The central core of Judaism is the commitment to the idea of one God or Life Source, which leads to the fundamental Jewish understanding that all life is of value and all people spring equally from a Divine Spark. From there, we get the path of mitzvot, the sacred rituals and ethics that guide us to create strong, caring communities, social inclusion and economic fairness, a sustainable relationship with the earth, and festivals and spiritual practices that help us to live in appreciation of each moment. In such a society, people can flourish and it is much easier to conduct oneself more like the island people than their garlic-trading visitor. In other words, Judaism is a master’s course in Community Development!
With this in mind, let’s return to the topic of our teshuvah as a community, and this time of change, self-definition and openness to creativity. I want to ask each of us to dedicate part of the next ten days to open our minds and hearts on the subject of the future of our community as Temple Beth Hillel. Don’t be limited by the voice of “reason” that can censor the best ideas or stop us from imagining things that might sound fanciful. I’m not saying we can instantly become the wish-fulfiller of all of our dreams, but, as Rabbi Sharon Kleinbaum has taught, “People tend to overestimate what can be accomplished in one year, and to underestimate what can be accomplished in 10.”
Here are a few questions to guide our reflections:
- How would you personally like to grow in your Jewish understanding and practice, and what could we do to support you?
- What about our congregation are you most proud of or happy about that you want to grow?
- What are your deepest concerns, and how might our community take steps together to address them?
- How might we celebrate our contributions to our larger community and also deepen the ways we show up?
- What are your highest hopes for what this congregation can do and be?
I have some glimmers, some hopes and ideas for us, but they are not for me alone to decide or accomplish. So I hope you will engage actively in this envisioning of possibilities during this season. And I hope that over the coming year, we will gather to continue on the path of community teshuvah together, finding and refining our essence, mending our future with our actions, our celebrations, our caring and even our cooking together – with onions and garlic, of course.
Erev Rosh Hashanah 2025/5786
October 14, 2025 by tbhrich • High Holy Days
by Rabbi Julie Saxe-Taller
I don’t know about you, but when I was growing up and learning about the High Holy Days, I learned that Rosh Hashanah was a celebration – the Birthday of the World, with apples and honey, good food and a family gathering at the home of cousins I didn’t see often enough. And Yom Kippur was solemn, a bit scary with its messages about Judgment, accountability and mortality. I loved being part of the whole season, but these two holy days were definitely holding down different jobs.
Later, I came to look at the two days in almost the opposite way. When I learned about the 10 days of Awe, or Repentance, Rosh Hashanah, while still exciting because of the chance to be with family and friends, was the doorway to a period of facing uncomfortable facts and feelings, and mustering courage to be honest with myself and others. And Yom Kippur, as the culmination but also the finish line of the that difficult period, became almost exultant. On years when I had found a way to repair a significant mistake or heal a ruptured relationship, there was a lightness and relief om Yom Kippur, a true spiritual high. The fast was hard at times but it also felt freeing, like a physical parallel to the emotional cleansing of grief and regret. The long shofar blast at the end of Yom Kippur left me clear and connected with the people around me through the shared experience of each of us facing our challenges.
I share this perspective tonight as an invitation to all of us to spend this holiday using it as the gift that it is – taking time to imagine where you want to be in your relationships with others, with yourself, with God, by the time Yom Kippur arrives, and to think about what you can do during these Days of Atonement to get there.
****
And now, for a second change from the ways we often talk about these Days of Awe. Let’s consider the common image of teshuvah being about achieving a “clean slate” – as if we could rewind, take an eraser to the blackboard of our lives, undo mistakes and rewrite what actually happened. If we did that, we would also lose our experience and wisdom, our learning, memories and the relationships we have built – this fantasy is neither real nor the intent of teshuvah. I hate to break it you, but so far, we can only go forward, from where we are. And the purpose of teshuvah is to heal ourselves and our relationships in order to turn toward our best selves, with all we have learned and experienced, including the repairs we make, and go forward on that basis. Not to become a blank slate.
In discussing teshuvah, which literally means turn or return, the poet and liturgist Marcia Falk writes “’Repentance,’ the English translation of teshuvah that is often found in prayer books, is misleading, for … [repentance] fails to convey the hopefulness embedded in [the word shuv or teshuvah,] with its promise of new beginnings and second chances.”
Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook (1865-1935), the first Ashkenazi chief Rabbi of British Mandatory Palestine (in the period just before Israeli statehood) was a scholar, mystic, poet and politician. Rav Kook wrote extensively about teshuvah in his great work, Orot Hat’shuvah, The Lights of Teshuvah.
“The foundation of Teshuvah always rests upon the mending of the future. In beginning, a person should not get bogged down by what is past, for if a person begins by trying to fix the past, they will quickly encounter many obstacles, and … one’s nearness to God, will be challenged. But if a person is truly engaged in mending their deeds,” – meaning mending our deeds from here on “then …, Heaven will come to that person’s aid, even regarding the past. (13:9).”
It’s worth remembering that the people we have hurt have also gone forward in time – they are not located in the past where our missteps occurred. And so teshuvah requires that we meet ourselves and others in the present. An apology accompanied by an intention, and even better an actual plan to do something differently – these are both reparative and future-oriented actions.
***
As with an individual, so too with a community. We are at a turning point as a congregation. Having started in July, I am your new Rabbi, which naturally creates a time of reflection and even self-definition, for you, the congregation, for me, and for us together. It sparks our creativity and new ways of thinking. We also enter into this stage at a time of immense social and political crisis, a time when creativity and engagement with questions of what we need and what is needed from us are urgent. With the understanding that teshuvah includes not only looking back but also charting our course for the next stage, this season is a fitting time for us to think about what is the essence of who we are, and who we can be, as a congregation.
But having come this far into my sermon, it seems unfair not to tell you a story.
Many years ago, a young man from a small, quiet town set sail to see something of the world. On his way home, he stopped at an island. The people there were very friendly and welcomed the young guest so warmly that he felt he had made friends that he would always remember. He stayed for many days, and they decided to make a banquet in his honor on the night before he would leave.
The young man was so delighted with his new friends and their hospitality, he wanted to give them a gift as well. They seemed to have everything they needed, except for one thing. He had noticed during his stay that they did not have onions. In fact, they had never heard of onions. And so, the young man went to his ship and returned with a huge bag full of onions. He showed the people how to plant them and how to cook with them. And that night they ate a delicious meal cooked with onions. In thanks for his gift and their time together, his new friends insisted on giving him a bagful of beautiful silver coins. And the young man returned home wealthy in both friendship and silver.
Soon after he arrived home, the young man visited a neighbor and told him his adventures, including his wonderful time on the island. This neighbor was a scheming man, and he decided to find out what else those islanders lacked. He questioned the young traveler carefully, until he deduced that just as they had lacked onions, it sounded like they also did not have garlic. He gathered sacks of garlic bulbs onto his boat and set sail for the island. And yes, he too was warmly welcomed and invited to a delicious and festive meal.
When he brought out his gift of sacks of garlic, the people happily received the special, pungent bulbs and told him they would like to give him a special parting gift as well. The neighbor grinned, hardly able to contain himself in anticipation but he politely received the heavy bag that they placed onto his boat. When he returned home, he went straight to his young neighbor’s home to thank him and to show off his wealth, and he invited the young man to be the one to open the bag. When he did, they were both amazed to find that it was filled with onions!
Maybe I like this story because I like onions and garlic. But I have to admit that I also like how the punch line really socks it to the scheming neighbor. I revel in the way the story juxtaposes two ways of being in the world – one based on connection and care, and one based on selfishness and exploitation. Of course, outside of storyland, we can all sometimes be like the scheming neighbor, viewing and treating other people as a vehicle for our own gain. But we don’t act this way for no reason. If we dig just the slightest bit under the surface, we can usually find that when we are acting without regard for other people, we are motivated by fear for our safety in some way. This both grows out of and contributes to a cultural and economic context where people are largely left to fend for ourselves. If we look around and see that no one is really looking out for us, how can we be expected not to be frightened and sometimes focused on ourselves?
How then can we demand of ourselves to be more like the island people and the young traveler? I don’t mean this as a rhetorical question – I am asking myself and all of us: HOW can we call ourselves into ways of relating that build confidence, generosity and commitment to everyone’s welfare?
This question and goal are central to why I became a rabbi. Or maybe I should say instead, it was because of Nancy’s hamburger soup, Mary’s beef stroganoff and the delicious tuna, onion and cheese-stuffed baked potatoes my mom called “potunas.” While I was growing up, my family was part of a group that was working to address social and environmental issues. Four moms in my neighborhood took turns making dinner on Wednesdays to save time and energy – but for the kids it was about getting to go to Nancy or Ellen or Mary’s house with a big pot or pan to carry dinner home, and the feeling of connection among our families that both led to and deepened through these shared dinners. Those family friends still remember my mom’s potunas. We also went camping together and shared in each other’s holidays. It was great, but not idyllic. It didn’t prevent us from having all kinds of challenges and hardships. But it showed me that it was possible to have much more connection to people beyond my immediate family than most people seemed to have – at least in my Bay Area experience.
The year before I entered rabbinical school, I first applied to study for a masters in Community Development. It was holding the acceptance letter to that program and feeling there was a missing piece that pointed me instead back to my dream of being a rabbi and building community explicitly based on Jewish values and culture. The central core of Judaism is the commitment to the idea of one God or Life Source, which leads to the fundamental Jewish understanding that all life is of value and all people spring equally from a Divine Spark. From there, we get the path of mitzvot, the sacred rituals and ethics that guide us to create strong, caring communities, social inclusion and economic fairness, a sustainable relationship with the earth, and festivals and spiritual practices that help us to live in appreciation of each moment. In such a society, people can flourish and it is much easier to conduct oneself more like the island people than their garlic-trading visitor. In other words, Judaism is a master’s course in Community Development!
With this in mind, let’s return to the topic of our teshuvah as a community, and this time of change, self-definition and openness to creativity. I want to ask each of us to dedicate part of the next ten days to open our minds and hearts on the subject of the future of our community as Temple Beth Hillel. Don’t be limited by the voice of “reason” that can censor the best ideas or stop us from imagining things that might sound fanciful. I’m not saying we can instantly become the wish-fulfiller of all of our dreams, but, as Rabbi Sharon Kleinbaum has taught, “People tend to overestimate what can be accomplished in one year, and to underestimate what can be accomplished in 10.”
Here are a few questions to guide our reflections:
I have some glimmers, some hopes and ideas for us, but they are not for me alone to decide or accomplish. So I hope you will engage actively in this envisioning of possibilities during this season. And I hope that over the coming year, we will gather to continue on the path of community teshuvah together, finding and refining our essence, mending our future with our actions, our celebrations, our caring and even our cooking together – with onions and garlic, of course.