We're Going on a Bear Hunt

 We’re Going on a Bear Hunt

Yom Kippur Morning 5786

October 2, 2025

Rabbi Alan Cook

Sinai Temple, Champaign, IL

 

We’re going on a bear hunt

We’re gonna catch a big one

What a beautiful day!

We’re not scared.

Oh, oh- grass

Oh, oh- a river

Oh, oh- mud

Oh, oh- a forest

Oh, oh- a snowstorm

A swirling, whirling snowstorm

We can’t go over it

We can’t go under it

Oh, no!

We’ve got to go through it![1]

 

Many of us are familiar with this classic children’s book by Michael Rosen, and possibly with the illustrations by Helen Oxenbury.  The repeated patterns of the text create a comfortable rhythm that quickly grabs our attention.  We follow our protagonists through their adventure as they encounter obstacle after obstacle yet still manage to forge ahead.

 

The bear hunt that unfolds in the book is ultimately the stuff of fantasy and fiction.  Nevertheless, we are all undoubtedly quite familiar with impediments that may arise for us as we journey through life.  We may wish that our stories could unfold in a straightforward, uninterrupted manner, but inevitably, there are bumps along the road.  When we encounter them, we can’t go over them, we can’t go under them.  And I believe part of the purpose of these High Holy Days is to help to strengthen our resolve so that when we are faced with challenges, we have faith in ourselves that we have the courage and the skill set to meet them head on, and to go through them.

 

You don’t need me to tell you that we are living through incredibly challenging times.  Whatever your personal politics may be, domestically or globally, I think we can each understand and identify with some portion of the malaise that is impacting our society.  Even if it is your favorite politician who happens to be holding a particular office at the moment, even if you and your family members are fortunate enough not to be impacted by the latest changes in legislative policies or budgetary priorities, even if you have managed to remain personally unscathed by the toxicity of contemporary public discourse, I hope that we have sufficient compassion and empathy to recognize the fear and angst that has gripped much of our American society.  At the very least, as Jews witnessing the sharp increase of antisemitic incidents in recent months, we have ample reason to be on edge.  Nevertheless, though it feels frightening, though it seems like a slog, there’s nothing for us to do, except to “go through it.”

 

The feelings to which I am referring are not theoretical.  I will attest that I have felt them personally impact my mood; a number of you have reached out to me for pastoral conversations in which you have expressed such concerns.  Speaking about our anxieties and attempting to confront them is a healthy and courageous engagement with the world.  We are called by our tradition l’takein olam b’malchut Shaddai[2], to perfect the world so that it may be worthy of God’s majesty.  In order to do so, to bequeath to future generations a world that looks like the one to which we aspire, we’ve got to “go through it.”

 

My friend and colleague Rabbi David Young recently noted that hiring managers for major companies report that the candidates to whom they are most likely to offer positions are the ones who have extensive background playing video games.[3]  Why is this?  Because gamers tend to show resilience; if they find themselves defeated in a particular battle or unable to puzzle out a certain level, they’ll usually return to the game multiple times until they can overcome that obstacle.  These “Game Over People” confront challenges from multiple perspectives and revisit a task repeatedly until they ascertain the best solution.

 

Jews, Rabbi Young argued, are “Game Over People.”  From the time of the Torah to the present day, at several points when it seemed that the game was over, that we had exhausted all possible solutions and there was no way to come out one top, the Jewish people have nonetheless persevered, even reinventing ourselves at times.  Take, for instance, the renewed allegiance to God after the sin of the Golden Calf, or the innovation of rabbinic Judaism following the destruction of the Temple and the end of the sacrificial cult.  Our B’nai Mitzvah class teacher, Sara Topolosky, has made the theme of the year for her students the video game Minecraft, in part to underscore this idea—we learn more, and we prepare ourselves to be leaders in the world, when we stick to our task, and strive to move forward even in the face of challenges.

 

A Midrash tells us that when the waters of the great flood had subsided, it was time for Noah to exit the ark.  However, he was reticent.  He said to the Holy One, “I entered the ark with authorization from You,” as it is said: ‘Come you, and all of your household, into the ark.’  So shall I now go out without authorization?”  The Holy One replied to Noah, “Are you seeking permission?  Here is permission for you: ‘Go forth from the ark.”[4]

 

How have we closed ourselves up in an ark of our own making, refusing to confront the outside world, failing to engage in the advocacy that can help to build a brighter world that will not be beset by the storms of partisanship, bigotry, xenophobia, and other contemporary plagues?  What stimulus do we need that will impel us to get up off of our tuchises and get out of the ark?

 

Later in that same midrashic text, Rabbi Judah bar Ilay says to his colleagues, “If it had been me in that situation, I would have broken the ark in order to get myself out of there.”[5]  How can we learn to be like Rabbi Judah, to move forward with conviction even when the challenges ahead of us seem daunting and insurmountable, to get off the ark?  How can we, like the family on the bear hunt, learn to “go through it?”

 

I’ve posed several questions.  Now would be the time in the sermon where I begin to suggest some answers.  And I’ll be honest with you: I don’t have many.  I wish there were some magic kernel of wisdom that I could offer to all of you right now that would instantly transform the world as it is into the world as we believe it should be.  The truth is, such transformation doesn’t happen overnight.  As Lao Tzu reminds us, “The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.”[6]  If we find enough like-minded people to dream with us and strategize how to make positive change, then at least we won’t need to “go through it” alone.  We’ll find strength in numbers as we engage in this work.

 

The American Constitution enshrines important tools of democracy including freedom of speech and freedom of assembly.  Though there have been some efforts of late to place limits upon these rights, we are fortunate to live in a nation that has woven these opportunities into the very fabric of our national identity.  When things just aren’t right—when our elected officials are putting party fealty ahead of the good of the country; when friends and neighbors are having their identities and livelihoods questioned and are being told they can’t live as they want to live, love whom they want to love, care for their own bodies, use the restroom that conforms with their personal identity, keep themselves and their children safe from guns, learn and teach the truth about our nation’s history of racial injustice; when we face these and other challenges to our sense of self and our sense of country, we need to shake off the paralysis born of fear and a sense of powerlessness.  We can compel ourselves to “go through” the scary moments.  We can get off the ark.  We can speak up and speak out.  We can vote.

 

I am of a generation that learned how to navigate this world not only from parents and teachers in traditional classroom settings, but also from children’s television programming like Sesame Street and Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood.  Fred Rogers was fond of saying, “When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’”[7]  Like many, I often presumed that Mr. Rogers was referring to those with greater status than I: law enforcement, politicians and the like.  But I’ve come to realize that each of us needs to live in a way that we may be counted among the helpers.  Centuries ago, the sage Hillel taught, “In a place where no one else is being a mensch, you must nevertheless strive to be a mensch.”  I think Fred Rogers’ corollary would be, “In a place where you can’t find any helpers, YOU must be the helper.”[8]

 

That, in and of itself, can be a frightening, anxiety-provoking realization—to recognize that help is not coming from elsewhere, that no superhero lurks in the shadows to rescue us from our travails.  If we seek to bring about change, we have to roll up our sleeves and be willing to get involved in the often dirty, often arduous work of bringing it to fruition.

 

A number of generations ago, the editors of Reform liturgy decided to replace the traditional Yom Kippur morning reading, which speaks of the sacrificial ritual on Yom Kippur at the time when the Temple stood, with a passage from one of Moses’ final speeches in Deuteronomy.  The reading is drawn from chapters that make up the weekly portion known as Nitzavim, read just two weeks ago in our Shabbat reading cycle.  Moses reminds the people:

Surely, this Instruction which I enjoin upon you this day is not too baffling for you, nor is it beyond reach.  It is not in the heavens, that you should say, “Who among us can go up to the heavens and get it for us and impart it to us, that we may observe it?” Neither is it beyond the sea, that you should say, “Who among us can cross to the other side of the sea and get it for us and impart it to us, that we may observe it?” No, the thing is very close to you, in your mouth and in your heart, to observe it.[9]

 

The Talmud further amplifies this text, essentially making the argument that while God has laid the framework of laws and precepts to help us shape a just society, it is now up to each of us to do our part to ensure that we continue in that manner.  It is not in the heavens; no magical Divine intervention is waiting in the wings with some great miracle or wonder that will give wrongdoers their comeuppance and help to right the ship.  Instead, our tradition reiterates what I think Mr. Rogers’ message was trying to convey—that it’s incumbent on each of us to do our part. Together, we can “go through it.”

 

The prophet Elijah had it rough.  To be honest, the job for any prophet in the Hebrew Bible was often thankless.  You didn’t make friends easily; after all, your core message was that people needed to change their ingrained behavior and get back to more stringent observance, or God would surely punish you.  If you were really lucky, you were responsible for delivering this message not only to the general public, but also to the king and the royal court.  And Elijah lived and worked during the time of King Ahab and Queen Jezebel, two of the most ruthless and immoral despots described in the Tanach.  Jezebel had already murdered, exiled, or converted most of Elijah’s colleagues.  So it’s understandable that Elijah would have a crisis of faith.  He walked away from civilization for forty days and nights, after which God called to him and said, “מה לך פה אליהו- What are you doing here, Elijah?”[10]  It was more than a question about Elijah’s physical location or even his future plans; it reminded him to do some introspection and consider what he wished to accomplish in his life.  In a sense God was saying, “You’re a prophet, Elijah.  That’s your vocation and your destiny.  Are you going to give up while the chips are down, or are you ready to stand your ground and fulfill your destiny?”

 

We have entered our Elijah moment.  What are we doing here?  What is our purpose?

 

Part of the teshuvah process for these High Holy Days involves not only reforming our behaviors and trying to return to the proper path, but also encouraging others to do the same.  The burden of being in a family, a community, a society, a democracy is recognizing our interconnectedness and interdependence.  When one individual, or group of individuals, errs in a way that disrupts the smooth function of the group, we are called to help put things back on track.

 

We’re going on a bear hunt.

It’s a journey into a New Year.

We’ll face hurdles and setbacks—from grass to rivers to mud to forests to snowstorms to challenges we haven’t even dared to yet imagine.

At times we will indeed be scared.

But we’re in this together.

And together, we will go through it.

 

Shana Tovah.  G’mar chatimah tovah.

 

 

 

---

[1] Adapted from Rosen, Michael. We’re Going on a Bear Hunt (London: Walker Books, 1989).  Much appreciation is due to Rabbi Michael Marmur for suggesting this framing in a keynote to the Central Conference of American Rabbis convention in March, 2025.

[2] This notion appears, for instance, in the Aleinu l’shabe’ach prayer that is a fixture of Jewish liturgy.

[3] On the “Torah Smash” podcast, co-hosted by Barak Malkin and Ethan Lane Miller.  Episode released August 27, 2025.

[4] Midrash Tanchuma Buber, Noach 13-14.  The verses cited in the quote are Genesis 7:1 and 8:6.

[5] Ibid

[6] From the Tao Te Ching, ca 4^th century BCE

[7] This oft-circulated story seems to have originated in an interview that Fred Rogers did with the Television Academy in 1999.  The interview can be found at https://interviews.televisionacademy.com/

[8] Mishnah, Pirke Avot, 2:6

[9] Deuteronomy 30:11-14

[10] I Kings 19:9

What It Means to Me to Stand With Israel

 What It Means to Me to Stand With Israel

Kol Nidre 5786

October 1, 2025

Rabbi Alan Cook

Sinai Temple, Champaign, IL

 

There’s an old joke from the era of vaudeville that I’d like to share with you tonight.  It’s known by its punchline, which became the title of a play—and later, a movie—by Herb Gardner.  Here’s the film version of the joke, with Walter Matthau and Ossie Davis, and a cameo by Martha Plimpton. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F8yT24fnGJo

Nat: Hey, Rappaport! I haven't seen you in ages. How have you been?

Midge: I'm not Rappaport.

Nat: Rappaport, what happened to you? You used to be a short fat guy, and now you're a tall skinny guy.

Midge: I'm not Rappaport.

Nat: Rappaport, you used to be a young guy with a beard, and now you're an old guy with a mustache.

Midge: I'm not Rappaport.

Nat: Rappaport, how has this happened? You used to wear nice clothes, now you’re in an old ratty sweater.

Midge: I'm not Rappaport.

Nat: And you changed your name, too![1]

 

Like all good jokes, there’s truth beneath the humor.  Too often, we become so certain that we know who someone is—what they believe, how they’ll respond—that we stop listening.  We rush to label and categorize, and in doing so, we isolate ourselves into silos where only those who think like us are welcome.

 

There’s another well-worn joke: “If you ask two Jews, you’ll get three opinions.” Again, there’s truth here. Jews hold range of views on many topics, shaped by our backgrounds, biases, and beliefs.

 

For instance, I consider myself to be a Zionist. 

Now, there’s a word that carries a lot of baggage.  If you feel a strong reaction to my self-identification, I’d refer you to another quotation from pop culture: [Inigo Montoya clip- You keep using that word.  I do not think it means what you think it means. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G2y8Sx4B2Sk ][2]

 

I’m not trying to be flippant.  But I find that when I’ve mentioned my Zionism here in CU, particularly during the past two years or so, I’ve been met with a wide spectrum of responses.  Some people bristle or grow angry.  Others celebrate my embrace of this label.  Still others insist that I’m not “Zionist enough.”  Very few stop to ask what I mean when I proclaim my Zionism.

 

I’ll get to that in a moment.  But first, I want to name something I find deeply concerning: we rarely take the time—or have the curiosity—to explore what someone means when they identify with a particular group or idea.  I have met people who call themselves non-Zionists or anti-Zionists because they oppose actions of the Netanyahu government or they feel deep concern for the Palestinian people in Gaza.  They are often surprised to learn that, as a Zionist, I feel much the same.  Others reject Zionism because they believe Zionists support cleansing all Palestinians from Gaza and the West Bank.  They’d possibly be shocked to hear that I, as one who readily affirms that I am a Zionist, don’t believe those things.  

 

I’m not naïve: our communal tensions over Israel run deeper than these sorts of misunderstandings.  But I do believe that lack of honest communication does exacerbate those tensions.

 

There are many forms of Zionism, including but not limited to the cultural Zionism of Ahad Ha’am, the religious Zionism of Rav Kook (no relation), and the revisionist Zionism of Jabotinsky.  For me, the defining characteristic of Zionism is the belief that the Jewish people have the right to establish, develop, and protect a state in the land of Israel, a place in which our people has historic and religious ties.  I wear that Zionist identity and ideology proudly and unapologetically.  I recognize that there are those in this world—likely even within this room—who have different parameters for their Zionism, so I certainly don’t mean to suggest that mine is the only definition.

 

Because of the way I understand my Zionism, I see Israel as central to my identity.  I am neither a jingoist nor an apologist.  I acknowledge that Israel, like any nation, has its flaws.  And because of my Zionism, because of my belief in what Israel canand should be, I believe it is important to affirm: I stand with Israel.  

 

This statement also calls for some definition and clarification.  A number of you have raised questions or concerns with me or with Temple board members regarding the yard sign at our entrance which makes a similar expression of solidarity.  Because of objections to policies and actions of the Netanyahu government, some have shared that an expression of a commitment to stand with Israel feels uncomfortable or wrong.  They worry that the wording of the sign implies full agreement with all actions undertaken by Netanyahu and his deputies, actions with which they do not wish to be associated.

 

If that is your personal response to the sign, I am empathetic to your concerns.  I, too, reject the corrupt acts of Benjamin Netanyahu, oppose his expansion of the Gaza campaign (even as I uphold Israel’s right to self-defense), and vehemently decry the wanton violence perpetrated by settlers in the West Bank against the local Arab population.  Were I in Israel at the moment, I would be in the streets with the millions of Israelis who regularly protest against the administration and would stand in solidarity with those who called for a general strike in mid-August. 

 

As Rabbi Lewis Eron has written, 

“We Stand With Israel” [does not express] unconditional support for Israel and its current government.  It was not [invoked as] a political statement. It was our way of saying to Israelis and to the world that we will be with Israel and Israelis in this terrible moment, we will witness their loss, we will hear their pain, and that they are not alone.  As an expression of care and concern, “standing with” does not mean “agreeing with”. “Standing with” is a way of saying: “Here I am;” “I will listen to your story;” “I will accompany you even when you take false steps;” “I will not abandon you even when I think you are wrong.” It is an expression of solidarity and spiritual support.[3]

 

For me, standing with Israel does not mean ignoring the dreams, aspirations, and daily needs of the Palestinian civilians or any others from the diverse amalgam of ethnicities that call the region home.  I pray that one day negotiators will sit down in good faith and create a negotiated framework for peace in the region that ensures justice, self-determination, and the promotion and preservation of human rights for all of the residents of the Middle East.  I reject the xenophobic rhetoric; the violence perpetrated by overzealous settlers; and the annexation and expansion of construction in the West Bank; just as I reject the celebrations in the streets of Gaza following the horrific acts of October 7, and those who continue to call for global jihad.  All of these only prolong conflict and distance us from just and lasting peace.

 

Standing with Israel calls us to reject the status quo as promoted by the Netanyahu administration.  It means standing for what I, and many others, believe Israel canand should be.  Many of the values of which I speak are expressed in the country’s Declaration of Independence, which promised to: 

 

foster the development of the country for the benefit of all its inhabitants; …[to] ensure complete equality of social and political rights to all its inhabitants irrespective of religion, race or sex; [to] guarantee freedom of religion, conscience, language, education and culture; [and to] safeguard the Holy Places of all religion.[4]

 

I continue to believe that Israel can and should fulfill such promises.

 

Last Yom Kippur, I stood on this bima and spoke about hope.  “Od lo avda tikvateinu,” I proclaimed, “Our hope is not yet lost.”[5]  I know that many days it can feel exceptionally challenging to hold on to hope.  I understand that the dire circumstances of the war; coupled with the cynical attitudes of politicians, the ongoing reports of death and devastation, the relentless news stories detailing hunger, the ongoing plight of the hostages, and numerous other disheartening headlines can send us into angst and despair.  More than 700 days have elapsed in a conflict that seems destined to continue indefinitely, while the civilians of the region continue to suffer and sixty hostages still languish in Gaza’s tunnels.  We can pray that the proposal unveiled by the Trump administration earlier this week will provide a framework for bringing a meaningful end to this conflict.  Whatever the immediate future may hold, the message of Yom Kippur, and the spirit of the Jewish people, assures us that the peace and coexistence of which so many of us dream is indeed still within reach.

 

It is that dream I think of when I read that sign—when I proclaim that I stand with Israel.  Tomorrow morning, the prophet Isaiah speaks of a day when “your light shall burst forth like the dawn…you shall rebuild ancient ruins.”[6] Elsewhere Jeremiah assures us that on that day, “None shall be made afraid.”[7]

 

Rabbi Eron asserts—and I concur—that there are a number of other understandings to the expression “We Stand With Israel” that speak to ongoing efforts to fulfill our aspirations for the state and her people and are not offered to condone the continuation—or God-forbid, the escalation—of warfare and violence.  He offers three other possible ways to parse the statement, and one of the beautiful things about language and nuance is that doubtless we could find many others.  “We Stand With Israel” could be understood as “We Are Concerned With Israel,” “We Are Connected to Israel,” and/or “We Believe in Israel.”

 

“We Are Concerned With Israel.”  You may recall a sermon I gave two years ago on this subject.  I presented a quadrant, proposed by Rabbi Dr. Donniel Hartman, plotting the degree of one’s concern about Israel on one axis and the degree of one’s commitment to Israel on another axis.[8]  Some people will determine that they are both untroubled by how Israel conducts itself on the global stage and uncommitted to her future.  Others, precisely because they are so troubled by the actions of Israel’s leadership, have moved away from a commitment to Israel.  Amid the diversity of mindsets that comprise Jewish peoplehood there are, of course, those who find no issue with the Netanyahu government and have redoubled their commitment to the Jewish state.  And the final camp represented by this graph—the camp in which I find myself—consists of those who are disturbed by the policies and tactics of the current leadership but dedicate ourselves to speak out and push back, because we remain committed to the ideal of what Israel can and should be.  

 

Concern about Israel also extends to the people of Israel, and to those in the worldwide Jewish diaspora who maintain ties to the country.  The trauma experienced on October 7, 2023, and in its aftermath, have exacerbated physical, spiritual, social, and economic concerns that call for our empathy.  Of course, this empathy should not be exclusive; our concern extends also to the Palestinian people who are suffering the impacts of this ongoing war and to all those in the region suffering under the failed leadership of Hamas, Hezbollah, the Houthis, and other terrorist regimes that have prioritized bloodthirst and personal wealth over the welfare of their people.  We are concerned about Israel, and when we say that we stand with her, we are saying we care deeply about all who are caught in this conflict.

 

“We Are Connected to Israel.”  The land of our ancestors, spoken of in our treasured texts and in our liturgy, has beckoned us throughout our history.  In more modern eras, we have celebrated the spirit of the chalutzim in the early part of the last century, who made the desert bloom; we marvel at the innovation and creativity in modern Israel that has led to numerous technological and medical breakthroughs, not to mention tremendous strides in the arts, in agriculture, and in numerous other fields.  Israelis are not only our spiritual family; they are our brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, cousins and nieces and nephews.  We have been taught, “Kol Yisrael arevim zeh ba-zeh, All of Israel is responsible for one another.”[9]  Today, this phrase means that we are responsible for advocating for the well-being of the worldwide Jewish community, including those who reside in Israel.  What happens there affects us all here.

 

“We Believe in Israel.”  Some have lamented that the idealized vision of Israel they recall being taught of in Religious School and youth group activities does not match the realities of modern times.  They question whether their teachers and youth leaders lied to them.  I’d gently offer an alternative: maybe we misunderstood our role.  If we believe in an Israel that is a beacon of democracy in the region; if we believe in an Israel that maintains continuity with centuries of Jewish culture, history, and tradition; if we believe in an Israel that preserves the Jewish right to national self-determination and upholds the rights and dignity of others residing in the region, then it is incumbent upon us to help build that Israel.  Belief must be paired with action.  We must work to bring the prophetic vision, the “2000-year-old hope” into being.

 

These understandings of “We Stand With Israel” remind us that the phrase is not about blind loyalty.  It is about relationship—complex, challenging, and deeply felt.  It does not prevent us from holding compassion for the Palestinian people and others living in the region.  It calls us to hold grief and hope together, to face pain without surrendering our vision of what might yet be.

 

This is the way we stand with Israel, with all of its complexity: sometimes weeping and rejoicing in the same breath, our hearts holding crushing pain alongside resounding hope.   We turn our eyes eastward and dream of a future where all can live in peace and dignity.

 

In this New Year, may that age-old hope come to fruition.

 

---

[1] Adapted from a classic vaudeville joke.  This version was written by Herb Gardner for his play, “I’m Not Rappaport,” originally staged at the Seattle Repertory Theater in 1984.

[2] Mandy Patinkin as Inigo Montoya in The Princess Bride, 1987, directed by Rob Reiner, screenplay by William Goldman. 

[3] Rabbi Lewis Eron, “Unpacking the Slogan ‘We Stand With Israel’,” in The Times of Israel, May 5, 2025.  Retrieved from https://blogs.timesofisrael.com/unpacking-the-slogan-we-stand-with-israel/ June 26, 2025

[4] Declaration of Independence of the State of Israel, adopted May 14, 1948.  

[5] Referencing the Israeli national anthem, Hatikvah.  Words by Naftali Hertz Imber.

[6] Isaiah 58:9; 58:12

[7] Jeremiah 30:10

[8] Donniel Hartman, “Liberal Zionism and the Troubled Committed,” in Sources Journal, Fall 2021.  Retrieved from https://www.sourcesjournal.org/articles/liberal-zionism-and-the-troubled-committed?fbclid=IwAR3WF0aoA2q12j_8raWt2pY-Hvz498Z5e-hyoG1D4em-y5tTaSlojTgOtvw , August 28, 2023.  My sermon on the subject can be found at https://ravcookie.blogspot.com/2023/09/troubled-committed-kol-nidre-5784.html

[9] Babylonian Talmud, Tractate Shevuot 39a

A Celebration of Life

 A Celebration of Life

Rosh Hashanah Morning 5786

September 23/24, 2025

Rabbi Alan Cook

Sinai Temple, Champaign, IL

 

Eighty-five words.  The newspaper obituary for my mother, of blessed memory, who died this past November, was eighty-five words long.  The obituary the funeral home posted on their website, which allowed us to go into slightly more detail, clocked in at 223 words.  What an economy of words to retell the life story of a woman who lived for more than 692,000 hours during her existence on this earth.

 

How, in that minimal allocation of column-inches, were we expected to summarize the essence of her life, to help those who might choose to read about her over their morning coffee to understand the vibrancy of her many relationships, the brilliance of her educational career, and the multitude of activities into which she immersed herself?  Sure, there were—and continue to be—more verbose remembrances in eulogies, condolence letters, remarks shared in loving remembrance.  But at the end of the day, we know that no amount of words could ever be sufficient to fully illustrate who she was, and what she continues to mean to me, and to all who loved her.

 

My mother was a teacher.  I mean not only that it was her profession; it was also her defining trait.  Beyond the years spent in elementary school classrooms, beyond the mentoring of countless student teachers, she had a knack for transmitting information in a fun and engaging manner, and doing so with clear passion.  It was not unusual for former students to reach out to her many years after leaving her class in order to acknowledge her impact.  She excelled not only at elementary education, but also was sought after to teach art, cooking, Jewish studies, and many other topics.  She taught macrame at a Jewish summer camp; was one of the first in South Florida to lead a class in basic computer skills for kids; and designed and taught a wildly popular hands-on elective course based on the 1970s book The Jewish Catalog[1], teaching teens how to braid challah and craft their own mezuzot.  Later in life, she became trained in the classroom management technique “Responsive Classroom,” and mentored countless teachers around the country in its implementation.  And of course, there were the indelible life lessons that she taught me and my siblings as she helped to guide us through life.  So much of my mother’s life was about teaching—not only facts and skills, but also how to live life fully and meaningfully.  In a sense, the stories we continue to tell about our loved ones after they have died attempt to fulfill a similar role, guiding us to draw inspiration from their legacies as we now strive to forge our own paths.

 

The author John Kenney wrote a humorous novel with the irreverent title, I See You’ve Called in Dead.  Though it’s a work of fiction with some rather acerbic wit, it uncovers some profound truths about how we in the western world confront death.  The protagonist, Bud Stanley, is an obituary writer for a major news syndicate.  In the midst of a personal crisis, he is encouraged by a love interest to attend funerals and wakes for strangers.  In the course of doing so, he ruminates on his career, and on the meaning of life.

 

Kenney notes that perhaps our reticence to think and talk about death is predicated on the fact that we’re afraid to die, because we’re not sure we’ve ever really lived.[2]  One character opines that “the brevity [of life] forces you to make choices about what things to focus on and care about…like life itself.”[3]

 

 

My mother had many passions she focused upon which enriched her life.  For at least a decade, she chanted the Akeda, the story of the binding of Isaac that is our Torah portion for today, at Congregation Emanuel in Denver, Colorado.  Many of you know that I often tell our B’nai Mitzvah students of my belief that the parsha and the student mystically find one another.  That is, I think that each student ends up with the Torah portion containing a kernel of wisdom that is precisely appropriate for them.  I think the same thing happened with my mother and the Akeda.  I regret that I never took the opportunity to ask my mother for her own drash on this well-known story, but at least for this year, I’d like to suggest that a key theme of this narrative is how we live when we know we are dying.

 

In Kenney’s novel, a character speaks about a group of nuns who practice memento mori— the act of remembering that you die.  He says, “They sit and pray, meditating on this notion, that in every action we should remember, have to remember, that we die. When they were asked if it was depressing, they said no, quite the opposite. They said it makes life so…almost impossibly beautiful.”[4]

 

Each of us knows, in the back of our minds, that we are mortal.  Unlike the nuns, we probably don’t consciously incorporate that knowledge into our daily lives.  As I noted earlier, Western society has maintained a longstanding cultural taboo against talking openly about death.  A Sanskrit text called the Mahabharata points to this discomfort, teaching, “The greatest wonder is that every day, all around us, people die, but we act as if it couldn’t happen to us.”[5]

 

The fact that the action in the Akeda narrative revolves around child sacrifice provides a discomfiting backdrop.  At least for the first time reader or listener, the tension is palpable; there is a very real chance that Isaac will not survive the ordeal.  But if we can bring ourselves to look beyond this terrifying possibility, we can see that arguably, the entire Akeda story unfolds because the three key players in it—Abraham, Isaac, and God—are each starkly aware of human mortality.  The narrative plays out with each of them responding in markedly different ways to this reality.

 

For Abraham, the Akeda would appear to be about cementing his legacy.  He wants to prove his fealty to God who has given him a direct command.  At the same time, he must recognize that if he goes through with the act, if Isaac is killed, then he will have no one to carry on the novel experiment of monotheism.  Through his obedience he underscores the importance of his faith; thanks to Divine intervention, he is also able to have Isaac carry his name and his renown into the future.

 

My mother left me and my siblings a similarly strong legacy, built on both pride in our Jewish heritage and on celebrating the importance of family.  In partnership with my father, she instilled in us a passion for Jewish tradition and culture which each of us, in our own way, have carried forward.  And she has her loving husband, children, daughters-in-law, and grandchildren—in addition to countless other relatives, friends, and students—who continue to draw inspiration from her teaching, her energy, and her passions.

 

For each of us, the Akeda challenges us to consider what we wish our own legacies to be.  How will we be remembered?  How will pass on our core values to those who come after us, so that our names will continue to be remembered for blessing?

 

In contrast to his father, Isaac in the Akeda narrative is contemplating a life not yet lived.  While he is no longer a mere boy—midrash teaches that he was 37 at the time of the event[6]—he knows that he still has experiences ahead of him including marriage, raising children, and forging his own legacy.  Rabbi Jonathan Sacks taught that the key lesson that the Akeda teaches us through Isaac’s presence is that “a child is not the property of their parents.”[7]  Abraham cannot just presume that Isaac will follow in his footsteps worshipping only one God.  Indeed, tradition tells us that each of our patriarchs (and matriarchs) had to forge their own relationships with God, which is why we mention them each individually in our liturgy during the Amidah.

 

Author Brandon Sanderson has written, “We are not creatures of destinations. It is the journey that shapes us.”[8]  Isaac is certainly shaped by this journey to Mount Moriah and the events that take place there.  The Akeda represents the only recorded direct interaction that he has with his father, and one of only a handful of stories in the Torah that give us any insight into his life.  But whether we read the lack of contact between Abraham and Isaac as stemming from a gentle laissez faireapproach to parenting or a colder estrangement, we can see that Isaac is given ample opportunity to forge his own path as he determines what he will take with him from his father’s instruction and what he will create for himself.

 

In many ways, my mother was like Isaac, allowing herself to be shaped by the journey.  She was not blessed with a great sense of direction, so in the days before GPS, every car trip was deemed an adventure, and required one to maintain faith that eventually you would arrive at your destination.  But perhaps more significantly, my mother was always seeking new opportunities, building new friendships, learning new skills.  Even in her final weeks, she shared how she aspired to do more travelling, play more pickleball, and take more walks with friends outside. Moreover, she cheered on others as they forged new paths.  Neither I nor either of my siblings are in the careers we initially pursued, and each of our turns to these alternate tracks were gently encouraged by both my mother and father.

 

Isaac and my mother each embody an ideology that reminds us to leave no stone unturned in the pursuit of a meaningful and fulfilling life.  As the protagonist of Kenney’s novel states, “The thing we’ve been waiting for?  It’s right here, right now in front of us.  Do it now.  Whatever it is.  Do that thing that honors life.”[9] As we prepare to enter a new year, we should embrace this chance to discover new talents and explore new horizons.

 

At the heart of the Akeda story, we find God.  What is God’s role in this narrative?  How does the Divine Presence drive the action?

 

In the Akeda, God can be seen to represent the continuity of tradition.  Like each of the human players in the story, God is similarly concerned with legacy—God’s own legacy, that is.  Abraham has proven himself faithful; Isaac has thus far gone along for the ride.  But in the long-term, will humanity’s end of the covenant be maintained?  Will there still be people around to celebrate the faith, to call upon God, to enable God to do what God does best?

 

According to the rabbis, the Akeda was God’s tenth and final test of Abraham’s faith.[10]  Whether Abraham passed or failed is a question for another time.  What is clear, as odd as it may be to say such a thing about God, is that like all of us, God wants positive feedback—an assurance that even when the stakes are high, we will reciprocate the unequivocal love that God has shown to us.

 

When our loved ones depart this earth, perhaps that’s the most important assurance we can provide to them, as well.  We pledge to carry forward their traditions as we honor their memory.  We promise to spread to others the same love that they showed us during their lifetimes.  As Morrie Schwartz reminds us in Tuesdays With Morrie, “Death ends a life, not a relationship.”[11]

 

I made promises to my mother, both explicit and implied, to keep her memory alive by celebrating her personality and her traditions.  I reflect upon how she would take pride in her grandchildren’s achievements, and how they have each continued to develop traits and interests that echo hers.  The past ten months or so of my mourning process have felt at times like a test.  I find myself pondering what my mother might have advised in a given situation, or wonder whether a choice I’m making suitably honors her memory.  Of course, this is part of the normal grieving process; I don’t claim that I’m unique in this regard.  And I also understand that this is not a test that my mother has consciously imposed on me, but rather one I’ve created for myself through longing and through love.

 

In the Torah, the Akeda ends with a bit of a question mark.  Isaac has been spared, with the ram offered in his place.  Abraham emerges from the test with his son still alive, and his relationship to God secure.  And God is assured that the covenant established with Abraham will be carried forward into the next generation.  But what comes next?  Abraham and Isaac’s relationship is indelibly changed; they do not speak again in the Torah text.  God never again refers to the incident.  There has been a seismic shift, but no one wants to directly address it.

 

Those of us who have experienced bereavement have sometimes felt the same way.  We lack the vocabulary, not to mention sufficient time and space, to adequately celebrate the ones we loved.  Next week during yizkor we will make mention of many other beloved individuals from our congregation and community; my mother certainly was not the only soul lost this year.  But she was mine.  I pray that this insufficient ode, like the other obituaries and tributes already shared, will help to honor her memory.  And I pray that those of you whose lives have also been touched by loss this year find your own meaningful ways to keep love and memory alive.  Kenney’s book reminds us, “What death dares us to do, is celebrate it.  To celebrate the gift of life in its fleeting face.”[12]

 

It's a new year.  May we celebrate it, and its many blessings, with joy, even as we treasure the memories of people and years that are no longer with us.  As Kenney writes, “[Our] script is unfinished.  But we believe the story we’ve been telling ourselves about who we are and where our life leads.  The story isn’t written yet…[So] here we are, all of us, on this lovely day, alive.  What are we going to do with that?”[13]

 

May we live this year, and all future years we each are blessed to enjoy, in such a way that when our script is finished—God-willing, many years from now—the story of our life will be one to be long-remembered.

 

Shana Tova.

---

[1] Siegel, Richard, Michael Strassfeld, and Sharon Strassfeld The Jewish Catalog, (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1973).  

[2] A paraphrase of a segment from p. 225 of Kenney, John I See You;ve Called in Dead (New York: Zibby Publishing, 2025)

[3] Ibid, p. 67

[4] Ibid, p. 50

[5] Quoted in ibid, p. 265

[6] Genesis Rabbah 56:8

[7] Retrieved from https://rabbisacks.org/covenant-conversation/vayera/the-binding-of-isaac/ September 10, 2025

[8] Sanderson, Brandon The Way of Kings (New York: Tor Books, 2010)

[9] Kenney, p. 181

[10] See, for instance, Rambam on Pirke Avot 5:3

[11] Albom, Mitch. Tuesdays With Morrie (New York: Doubleday, 1997)

[12] Kenney, p. 262

[13] Kenney, p. 216; 267