Erev Rosh Hashanah Talk 5786

We gather here today at the start of a new year — Rosh Hashanah, the birthday of the world. It’s a Day of Judgment, yes — but also a day of creation, of beginnings, and above all: a day of hope. 

Hope is a word I’ve been pondering a lot lately.  I’ve been thinking about where we find hope, what gives us hope, especially in the times we are living in today.

What is hope?  Well, if you ask my puppy Kevin, hope is found in children dropping microscopic crumbs of food on our kitchen floor.  Hope is the determination found behind his pleading puppy dog eyes that even though we never give him human food, this will be the meal when we will finally be overwhelmed by his cuteness and cave.  

We adopted Kevin this spring. He is a blue heeler mix who came from a kill shelter in Arkansas.  He has a brown patch over one eye, and giant ears, one of which is “broken” and bends. We say that we got Kevin because our 4-year-old dog Mac needed a brother, which is true.  But deep down, I know we rescued Kevin because we needed rescuing ourselves.  We needed hope. 

I don’t know about you, but life turned upside down for me in January.  To say that I am worried about the state of democracy in our country is an understatement.  Things like free speech, the rule of law, are not things we can assume anymore…. It is devastating to read the headlines sometimes, to wonder how to do more to protect the vulnerable.  

There is so much fear and division, and our leaders seem to thrive off of them.  This is the tactic: distract and overwhelm.  I’ve noticed I have to force myself to turn on the news; I can only take so much.

The noted Black poet, novelist, and playwright Langston Hughes wrote, “Hold fast to dreams/For if dreams die/Life is a broken-winged bird/That cannot fly.//Hold fast to dreams/For when dreams go/Life is a barren field/Frozen with snow.”  I used to sing it as a song in my high school youth group, not really thinking about its meaning very deeply.  But it’s so true.  We need dreams like we need air. Our dreams and hopes, big and small, conscious and unconscious, shape our daily lives and direct our steps.  They are literally why we get up every day.  

Unless you are my husband Josh.  In his case, Kevin is why he gets up every morning.  

Rosh haShanah comes to wake us up, not unlike Kevin, to ask us, “What gets you up in the morning?” “What gives you hope?” “What do you have to look forward to?”  What gives you life?” and importantly – “Are you living your life in such a way that you are living into your purpose, your dreams, your highest values, your hope?” 

It seems to me that we measure hope differently depending on the circumstances.  When things are good, we are filled with hope and optimism, like a balloon.  We don’t need to work on it.  When things are challenging and disencouraging, hope is something we need to actively cultivate.  If it seems there is nothing to look forward to, then we need to find those things. 

On Rosh Hashanah we say “Hayom Harat Olam — Today the world is born.” Today we start anew, today the world is washed clean of its disappointments and brokenness.  Today we see the world like a puppy – full of possibility and discoveries and treats.  

We know that tomorrow morning, in many ways, we will wake up to a world that is much like it was the day before, but Rosh haShanah comes to remind us that each day is a gift. Each day is full of infinite possibility. And we are responsible for bringing that promise into reality.

Tomorrow, we will hear the shofar — raw, piercing, and wordless. It’s not polished music. It doesn’t come with lyrics or explanations. And yet, somehow, it reaches deep into the soul. It is a wake up call to our lives, calling us to realize the ways we’ve fallen asleep at the wheel, how we have become stultified and frozen, numb to our brokenness, and gotten accustomed to the awful, unbelievable headlines on the news.  We shrug our shoulders, scroll past them, because what can we do?

The tradition holds that there is always something we can do.  No action is too small. And, it is never too late. The shofar is both a cry of brokenness, and it is also a call of the greatest optimism, a challenge for hope to rise from that brokenness.

People often ask how we got Kevin’s name.  The simple answer is that Josh likes to give his pets somewhat ridiculous human names.  But the name Kevin came from one of my favorite movies.  (No, not Home Alone!)  It’s a Pixar movie from 2009 called Up.  The film centers on an elderly widower named Carl Fredricksen who travels to South America in order to fulfill a promise that he made to his late wife. His plan is to turn his house into a giant hot air balloon and fly there.  But this scheme is unwittingly hijacked by an enterprising young Boy Scout named Russell. Together, they manage to fly – and land! – the house in their tropical jungle destination, where they befriend a talking dog named Doug.  (This was Josh’s original choice of name, but sadly it was vetoed by the girls.)  They also meet a cheerful, goofy, colorful bird and encounter Carl’s childhood idol, who, it is revealed, has sinister plans to capture that bird –  who we come to realize is a rare, exotic bird. Well, that bird is named Kevin. Kevin, as it happens, turns out to be a female and a mother of baby birds.  

Now you are probably wondering what this has to do with hope.  Carl the widower has given up on life. His wife died, and with her, his hope.  They had a dream to travel to this particular destination, and now it would never be fulfilled.  He would get there, yes, but only because he wanted to escape. He lived for the past and only in his memories.  Only when all his plans go sideways does he eventually see that there is a purpose in his present, something to hope for and to fight for.  

I cry every time I see this movie.  Carl’s love for his wife is so beautiful, and when she dies, I wonder how any of us in his place would be able to go on.  But sometimes, it is only when someone or something dies or is under threat, do we realize how much we love it.  

Like this country – I never realized how much of my hopes, dreams and identity was tied up in the fabric of this nation.  I took democracy and certain freedoms for granted, until, like Kevin the exotic bird, they became endangered. Hope is indeed a broken winged bird that cannot fly.

Hope is the most precious thing.  It is as common as air, and just as essential.  And when we get the air knocked out of us, it will take us a minute to get back up again, but we do.  How is because of hope, whether we call it that or not.  And why is because of teshuvah.  Teshuvah is often translated as “repentance,” but really, it means return.

Return to what? Return to your truest self.  Return to the person you know you can be. Return to hope.  Return to believe there is a future for you.  Return to the belief that there is a place for you, and a purpose.

Teshuvah says: You are never stuck. You are never too far gone. Change is possible if you don’t retreat from it. Hope is real.  Even if the person you shared those hopes and dreams with is gone, you are still here.  Even if the country you believed in is crumbling, there is still a place for you, and it’s your responsibility to find it.

Teshuvah says: That time is now.  Every day matters.  You matter. 

These are called the Days of Awe, because the truth is that the work of teshuvah is daunting.  It is no small task.  But we are reminded:  You are not doing it alone.  

There is a teaching, a midrash from Shir HaShirim Rabbah 5:2 (a commentary on the Song of Songs) that says: “God said to Israel: Open for Me a tiny opening like the eye of a needle, and I will open for you an opening wide enough for wagons to pass through.”

What a powerful image.  God doesn’t ask for you to make the whole journey — just take the first step. We just need to have just the tiniest crack of willingness. Just a sliver of hope.

It is traditional to recite Psalm 27 every day of Elul and into the 10 days of repentance, through Yom Kippur.  It concludes, “Hope in the Eternal. Be strong, have a heart of courage, and hope in the Eternal! 

Hope is not naïve. Hope is courage. It takes courage to believe that tomorrow can be better than today, especially when you are not a puppy and you’ve been disappointed and challenged time and again. It takes a heart of courage to believe that you can be better than you were yesterday. That the world, with all its brokenness, can still be redeemed.

This Rosh Hashanah, may we have the courage and the heart to hear the sound of the shofar not just as a cry — but as a call to return, a call to begin again, a call to hope.Shanah Tovah U’Metukah — may it be a sweet, good, and hopeful new year for all of us.