From the desk of Rabbi Phil
September 2025
September is not far off and with its approach we look toward the High Holy Days, our annual
dustup as a people spiritually committed to an immortal covenant between us and God.
Our focus this season is a combination of inwardness refracted against the empirical experience of last year, every year.
And it has been a year.
As Jews, we have been focused on a war in Israel whose end is still not in sight.
As members of Beth Israel, you (I say “you” here because I was not yet the rabbi) have
been focused on the death of your beloved rabbi, Rabbi Carla z’l, who left this world too
early and whose absence you feel deeply. And from all I have heard about Rabbi Carla, I feel
as though I know her.
As Americans, we have been focused on the change of leadership at the national level, and
the many changes that new leadership has wrought.
And as individuals, we have been focused on our own lives, the many changes, good and
bad, that accompany us each year.
The High Holy Days offer us that opportunity, or perhaps better, obligate us, to examine
things inwardly and then outwardly. Who am I? What have I done this year of which I am
proud? What have I done this year that I regret? Who have I helped, and who have I hurt? And even if in an honest search inward you decide your deeds have not been injurious (if you are truly saintly), there always remains the question: How can I be a better man or woman? How can I better serve my family, my community, myself, and my God?
Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur also remind us of the fragility of our lives. Who shall live and who shall die? Who by fire, who by water, who by automobile, who by cancer? We like to think we control our destiny, and, thank God, for the most part, we do. But not always; our human condition simply does not allow it. And in our community, among our families, our Temple, and our town, inevitably there will come the news that something tragic has happened to someone we know and love. The High Holy Days compel us to face the urgency of this truth. The prayer says, tzedakah, prayer, and teshuvah help us build a world in which our fragility allows us to face the uncertain.
And if these elements were not enough, two other tasks visit us on these days.
The first is a great opportunity granted us through prayer, music, song, and study. This is
the chance to be reborn, to rediscover your authentic self, and begin again. Our tradition
calls this teshuvah and kapparah, turning and atonement. As I never tire of pointing out, the
word “atonement” is a conflation of three words: at-one-men. In my view, this state of being, arrived at through self-examination and reconciliation with others, is a force of great power. Atonement allows us to leave the sanctuary at the conclusion of the Neilah service feeling whole, refreshed, renewed in spiritual, emotional, and even physical ways.
This renewal is mirrored shortly after Yom Kippur through the celebration of Simhat Torah.
We conclude the reading of the Torah, and that very night, with the final verses of Deuteronomy still ringing in our ears, we begin again with the opening lines of Genesis.
Renewal is not only a spiritual gift; it is the rhythm of our people’s story. Turn, we fall, we return, we start again.
The second task is the opportunity to personally renew our covenant with God. We need these Days of Awe to once again see clearly that our relationship with the Eternal is real and binding, and sweeps us into the new year connected to God as we reconnect with ourselves.
So as September approaches, let us not shrink from the many jobs the High Holy Days put before us. Let us embrace the focus they demand–on Israel, on America, on our congregation, on our own lives. Let us confront fragility, embrace responsibility, and claim the gift of renewal with oneself and with one’s God. For to be a Jew in this season is to be reminded not only of our mortality but of our capacity to change, to reconcile, and to begin again.
Shanah tovah u’metuka