The Jewish New Year, which begins next week, is one of the most widely observed rituals on the American Jewish calendar. Close to two-thirds of American Jews habitually mark the season by fasting or attending services or both — at least, that’s what they habitually tell the pollsters. Only Passover and Chanukah, the family festivals that celebrate freedom, surpass the New Year in popularity.

There’s something deeply poignant in this loyalty. American Jews are notoriously free-thinking. Most attend synagogue only episodically. Their Jewish attachments tend, by most accounts, to focus mainly on family celebration, opposition to antisemitism and oppression and commitment to a social gospel of freedom, all of which find expression on Passover and Chanukah. The New Year, by contrast, is a time for solemn reflection, for soul-searching and self-criticism, both individual and communal. The words "we have sinned" seem to echo deeply for most Jews. Most, we suspect, don’t quite know what to do with a lot of the verbiage in the prayerbook. And yet they come back, year after year, hoping that this year they’ll crack the code and find some meaning.

That American Jews still reach out en masse for that sort of spiritual cleansing is both an affirmation and a rebuke — an affirmation of the hardiness of the Jewish soul, and a rebuke to those who have failed to find it, nourish it and inspire it.

The new year approaches, and we are filled with awe and foreboding. Such is our tradition. This year, though, the trepidation is more than mere custom. Our world seems to dangle precariously on the precipice, presenting us with perils that appear truly awesome. We may soon be in a shooting war, possibly facing the horrors of chemical or germ warfare. The terrorists who attacked us a year ago reportedly have regrouped and are preparing the next round. In Israel the bloodshed continues with no end in sight. On top of all this, the environment continues to deteriorate at an unexpectedly rapid pace. And the stock market continues its wild ride, playing havoc with our personal plans for the future.

As Jews gather this weekend and recite the new year liturgy, we would do well to consider its message: introspection, self-criticism and repentance. Other holidays — Chanukah, Purim, Passover — are about the evils done to us by others. This season is a time for reflection on what we have done to create our own fate and what we might do to change it. Even at times like these, with real evil in the world, there’s plenty we can do differently. Events are not beyond our control. What’s needed is wisdom and will.

The Forward wishes all its readers a healthy, happy new year.

Bruce Feiler has come full circle. Nearly 25 years ago, he became a bar mitzvah at Mickve Israel Synagogue in Savannah, Ga. The Torah portion he read was the one in which God instructs Abraham to leave his father’s home for the Promised Land.

This Rosh Hashana Feiler will once again address his boyhood congregation. And again the topic will be Abraham — only now Feiler is something of an expert.

Feiler, 37, is the author of the forthcoming "Abraham: A Journey to the Heart of Three Faiths" which is being published this month by William Morrow. The book explores the biblical patriarch’s central importance to Judaism, Christianity and Islam, and his role as a prism for looking at religious conflict and possibilities for reconciliation.

"You can see in Abraham the unity of all the religions, all the religions rallying around that moment when God chooses Abraham," Feiler said. "And you can also see it as a rivalry of all the religions fighting among one another for control of that moment."

In his last book, "Walking the Bible: A Journey by Land Through the Five Books of Moses" (William Morrow, 2001), Feiler recounts his travels to the sites of seminal events from the Bible’s first five books. "Walking the Bible" was a sensation. It has sold around a quarter-million copies, with Feiler delivering nearly 150 talks on the book, often at synagogues and churches.

Last year at this time, Feiler was preparing to pick up where he left off with "Walking the Bible" and write a sequel for which he would travel to sites described in the later books of the Jewish Bible and the New Testament. Then there was that morning when Feiler looked out the window of his Manhattan apartment, and saw the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center burning. Middle Eastern religious extremism had hit home.

Like so many others, Feiler found himself asking what was behind the fanaticism and hate that manifested itself on September 11. And it was only natural given his experiences for Feiler to look back to the distant past for answers.

"During all those years of traveling in the Middle East, I sort of learned that the past is never really that far away. It’s always just lying right under the sand, waiting for someone to kick up the dust and put their ear to the ground and hear it. So if you listen really closely to that conversation of September of last year, one name echoed behind that conversation: Abraham, Abraham, Abraham," he said, noting the patriarch’s central importance to the three main monotheistic faiths.

So Feiler put his plans for a "Walking the Bible" sequel on hold and delved into the subject of Abraham.

Although Feiler visited sites critical to the life of the patriarch such as Jerusalem and Hebron this past winter for "Abraham," the book is mostly a journey through time rather than space. It is based upon Feiler’s textual research and interviews with Jewish, Christian and Muslim religious leaders and scholars.

What Feiler discovered surprised him. Feiler said he knew beforehand that there was not too much hard evidence out there about the patriarch. But nevertheless, he said, he had expected to find an "Ðber-Abraham" that spanned the different faiths. What he discovered instead was that each of the three religions had its own accounts and interpretations of Abraham’s life and its meaning, interpretations that borrowed from one another but also provided the basis for conflict. "He who controls Abraham controls God. That basic formula has existed for 2,000 years," Feiler said.

Most notably, of course, there is the longstanding disagreement among the faiths over which of Abraham’s two sons he offered up as a sacrifice unto God: Isaac or Ishmael.

He also saw just how easily Abraham’s legacy could be divisive. For instance, in his book Feiler recounts meeting with a Muslim cleric in Jerusalem who tells him the descendants of Isaac are cursed and suggests that Hitler was doing God’s will.

Feiler also learned that there are not just three Abrahams; there are, as he put it, "250 Abrahams," for within each of the three faiths each generation reinterprets Abraham, drawing from him different lessons. In his book, Feiler shows how interpreters from all three religions have elaborated upon the core narrative of Abraham’s life as recorded in the Bible.

Indeed, for Feiler it is Abraham’s malleability that makes him a potential, if flawed, "vessel for reconciliation."

While writing "Abraham" Feiler gained a passion for the cause of interfaith dialogue. He is now trying to ensure that Abraham lives up to his potential. Toward that end, Feiler and his publisher are convening a series of "Abraham summits" this fall that will bring prominent Jewish, Christian and Muslim clergy together before audiences in cities across the country to discuss Abraham’s legacy. He and his publisher are also preparing packets that will enable groups and individuals to host their own smaller "Abraham salons."

On a smaller level, for his Rosh Hashana sermon, Feiler is thinking about ways to convey both the potential and dangers of Abraham’s legacy. "The fact that Jews read the story about Abraham sacrificing his son in the holiest week in Judaism is something so extraordinary that we should not overlook it," he said. "And we should also not overlook the fact that Christians read the story of Abraham sacrificing his son in their holiest week, the week of Easter — and that Muslims read the story of the sacrifice in their holiest week, in the last week of the pilgrimage. And so once again, though this is a story of violence and this is a story that shows the difference, this is a story that shows how bound Jews, Christians and Muslims are to one another, especially since this is the week before September 11."

But, he added, "Another legacy of the story of Abraham is being prepared to kill for God, and that is something that our story has contributed to the conversation about religion, and we have to accept that also."

The two-day Torah reading for Rosh Hashana displays an intricate choreography between Abraham and his two sons, Ishmael and Isaac. In two separate pas de deux, Abraham hears the word of the Lord and prepares a son for a martyr’s death. In each case, the father zealously offers his child to God. The first time Abraham does so, it is with Ishmael, who is reluctantly sent into the wilderness to die. The second time, God commands and Abraham binds Isaac to the altar, knife to his son’s throat, as an offering to the Lord.

In both cases, God has promised Abraham that his sons will prosper, have numerous offspring, each become 12 princely tribes. In both cases, God stops the martyrdom — in Ishmael’s case through a well of water in the wilderness, in Isaac’s case by angelic intervention to stay Abraham’s hand. In the Torah reading for the first day of Rosh Hashana we are told, "God heard the cry of the boy." On the second day, the lifting of the knife was sufficient for God to intervene.

A little over a month ago, I shared dinner in downtown Manhattan with a group of unusual young women. They had spent the day shopping together, as teenage girls are apt to do. What made them unusual was that they were a mixed group: Israeli Jews, Israeli-Arab Christians and Palestinian Muslims. They came together in a program called Building Bridges for Peace. They spent their time together shopping, learning the difficult skills of listening to one another, eyeing the enemy and, as teenage girls are apt to do, becoming friends.

Riyam, an 18-year-old Palestinian, was here for her second summer. She said she came back because she needed a few weeks of peace and quiet. When I asked her how this summer differed from her earlier experiences in the program she said, "In the past, I came because I thought there would be peace, and I needed to know the Israelis. Since the intifada, I do not believe there will be peace. Because I’ve seen too many of my friends get shot, I live for the moment. If there is a moment here when I can be friends with an Israeli girl my age, that has to be enough."

I ate dinner with the young women because I needed some sign of hope. While eating with these brave young women, I took a secret test for myself that I am proud to have failed. Try as I might, I could not tell just by looking who was Israeli and who was Palestinian, who was Christian, Muslim or Jew.

The next morning, I came to my office to learn that a terrorist bomb had exploded in the crowded cafeteria of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. Nine people were killed, dozens wounded, Arabs included. Many of them were young men and women, college age.

The Haftarahs of Rosh Hashana tell the story of Hannah and then, on day two, Jeremiah’s beautiful paean to "the people who have survived the sword." According to the Talmud, Hannah, the young woman of the first day’s Haftarah, teaches us all how to pray.

What, then, shall we pray for? What hopes might we have as this new year begins? The Torah reports that when Abraham was buried, both of his sons, Isaac and Ishmael, were there at his funeral. The Torah reports no conversation between Ishmael and Abraham after Abraham has sent him away. Nor does the Torah report any conversations taking place again between Isaac and Abraham after the Akedah. Yet still the brothers came together over their father’s grave.

How many more graves must we stand over until we learn that Isaac and Ishmael are brothers, bound in so many ways by their zealous father? How many more children must be killed? When we are tempted to despair, we must recall the words of Menachem Magidor, president of the Hebrew University, who wrote after the terrorist attack, "Despite everything, we must not let them kill our dream of peace."

We must all, like father Abraham before us, learn the difficult skill of listening to and heeding God’s command, "Do not lift your hand against the child!" Paraphrasing the prophet Ezekiel we sing, "Od lo avda tikvatenu" (we will not give up hope).

"Rosh Hashana is coming with September 11," murmured Rabbi Stephen Roberts, chairman of disaster spiritual care at the American Red Cross of Greater New York, who reflected the nervous anticipation with which many rabbis view the coming High Holy Day season. "It’s been a long, long year for the whole New York-area community."

It has also been one of the hardest years on rabbis, as each month seemed to usher in a new disaster. It began with the September 11 attacks, which fell in between an already-raging war in Israel and an economic downturn that became a full-blown recession. With each piece of bad news, congregants’ faith and emotional states were shaken, demanding rabbinic skill and persistence. As clergy near the 2002 holiday season, many say this has been a year like no other in memory.

"This has been the most difficult year for tristate-area rabbis," Stephens said. "Even more than last year because the themes came pouring out. Now it’s a lot harder on the clergy." According to Roberts, last year many congregants were in a state of shock and simply needed to be comforted. They have since processed the events of the past year and now they are looking to their rabbis to give meaning to them.

Rabbi Don Weber of the Reform Temple Rodeph Torah in West Monmouth, N.J., lost three congregants in the World Trade Center attack. Since then he has been on the receiving end of an age-old question in times of catastrophe. "People asked me, ‘Where was God?’" he said. "I told them He was in every one of the people who offered their help at that time."

But people have been struggling as well with their own intentions, as many find themselves clearly feeling hate for the first time, according to Rabbi Regina Sandler-Phillips, director of spiritual care programs at the Sol Goldman YM-YWHA of the Education Alliance. She is also the coordinator of spiritual care and social services for the Downtown Kehillah, a multi-denominational consortium of rabbis and synagogues working in the area around Ground Zero.

Sandler-Phillips acknowledges that her answers have often been as complicated as the question. "It’s not a simple answer," she said, "It’s not, ‘Take two prayers and call me in the morning.’"

She has told people to release anger by sharing their stories, and she encourages them to turn inward. "In the face of our mortality, to the extent that we’re able to access acts of loving kindness, we’ll make it more bearable for ourselves and others," she said.

But with the Middle East in turmoil as well, Rabbi Kenneth Hain of the modern Orthodox Congregation Beth Sholom in Lawrence, N.Y., said that many people are facing a "compounded challenge."

"People are still suffering the consequences of a two-year war in Israel that has been demoralizing in many ways, as well as the shock of 9/11," said Hain, who added that this holiday season many will be facing two difficult tasks: reaffirming, in the face of tragedy, both their relationship to God and to their fellow Jews.

Additionally, some Jews are facing more earthly problems. "Our community has been devastated economically," Weber said. "This recession is a depression in our town." Weber said that at least 35 people in his New Jersey congregation who had good jobs before the attacks still remain unemployed.

"It was a tough year also with Israel — and with Enron," echoed Rabbi Avi Winokur of the Conservative Society Hill Synagogue in Philadelphia. "All around us these things are collapsing."

While most rabbis say that their own faith in God has remained strong, many confess that the year has taken its toll on them.

Hain, who was in Israel on September 11, was sure that he would never experience burn-out. Then, in the middle of the year, he started having problems sleeping, and he soon realized that he had been strongly affected by the year’s events.

"Over the past year," Hain said, "I’ve experienced a sense of overload, a sense of wishing I had better answers for people and a sense of realizing that what I can best do is to be present — to be there in difficult moments, rather than try to explain them."

Weber said that he experienced "compassion fatigue," which occurs when one wants desperately to help but is overwhelmed by the amount of energy that helping seems to require. "I so wanted to bring healing to my community, and I could do it in small ways, but I couldn’t do it in the large way," Weber said. "I couldn’t undo 9/11."

Now rabbis are faced with another challenge: Congregations, shaken by a year of various catastrophes, are facing a season in which they are called upon to focus on their moral failings and the need for repentance. The liturgy, many rabbis accede, may be a hard pill for many to swallow this particular year.

"Who shall live and who shall die?" Roberts asked, intoning from the liturgy, "Who by fire and who by earthquake? These questions will resonate in a different way now."

Winokur agreed that themes in the liturgy may be offensive to some, and, since he cannot change the prayer book, he believes that it falls to him to offer the proper guidance. "People are going one way and the tradition is going another," said Winokur. "My job as a rabbi is to bend both without breaking either."

Some rabbis, however, will be shifting away from the traditional High Holy Day themes. Rabbi Niles Goldstein, rabbi of the New Shul in Greenwich Village and author of "God at the Edge: Searching for the Divine in Uncomfortable and Unexpected Places," predicts that he will not focus on repentance this year. "To quote from Ecclesiastes, there’s a time for everything under the sun," he said, "and this is not the time to focus on our failings, but rather on healing."

Finding the Words for the Unspeakable

Last year at this time, Rabbi Don Weber stood in front of a packed audience, minus three of his congregants who had died in the attack on the World Trade Center. Weber evoked the yellow traffic lines of his suburban community streets in a sermon about what is within human control and what is not. When people don’t care to stay in the lines, Weber asserted, there’s nothing we can do.

One year later, Weber has a new problem to address: frustration. "People say, ‘I gave money; I gave blood; I gave food, and I still hurt, and the bad things are still out there,’" he said. To address this, Weber said he will stress that congregants must make a choice about how they want themselves to be, rather than how they want others to be.

Most rabbis have spent months preparing their High Holy Day speeches, though many acknowledge that they cannot manage to finish them — perhaps out of fear that yet another disaster is around the corner.

"People in general are asking, ‘Is there going to be another terrorist attack?’" said Rabbi Stephen Roberts. "There’s a fear that they don’t want to finalize their speeches."

Rabbi Kenneth Hain of the Modern Orthodox Congregation Beth Sholom in Lawrence, N.Y. invested more time and energy into this year’s speech than any other, because he believes that, especially now, people will enter his synagogue looking for guidance. In addition to general themes of reaffirming one’s relationship to God and his fellow Jews, Hain plans to invoke the ideas of Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik, who wrote of the "guaranteed promise that the Jewish people will continue to exist and be redeemed."

To adapt the famous categorization of Claude Levi-Strauss, if such wind instruments as clarinets and cornets are "cooked," the shofar is definitely "raw." The question arises: Why has this wild horn, the only biblical instrument still in use, come to represent so much to Jews, especially in the holiday season we are entering?

According to tradition, the shofar is the closest thing to the voice of God. Almost every time the Jewish or Christian Bibles mention a trumpet or horn, it means the shofar. Whether it is at the giving of the Ten Commandments to Moses, Gabriel blowing the last trumpet, the raising of the dead or the tuba mirum (wondrous trumpet) of the Catholic mass — all are referring to the shofar. Composers throughout history have vied to conjure the magic of the biblical shofar, but most have done so fancifully, perhaps the most spectacular being by the 19th-century atheist and genius Hector Berlioz, who dreamed up four spatially separated brass bands for the unforgettably rousing Dies Irae of his "Requiem Mass" to illustrate what the shofars at the end of the world would sound like. Or on the opposite end of the spectrum, the sweetly singing tuba mirum of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart’s "Requiem," which seems to have been equally inspired by the call of the wood thrush.

Other composers have been more literal in invoking the shofar. Without doubt the most famous music inspired by the call of the shofar is Leonard Bernstein’s masterpiece, "West Side Story." The very first notes of the introduction are nothing but a full-throated orchestral evocation of the sound of the shofar. And this theme is the musical kernel from which Bernstein derived most of the music in this score. In the earliest version, the musical was called "East Side Story" and the female lead was not the Puerto Rican immigrant Maria, but rather a Jewish girl who falls in love with an Italian Catholic boy in Greenwich Village. It was this interfaith conflict that informed the thematic development of the score. Even though the ethnic elements of the plot were changed, the original inspiration in the music remains embedded throughout. But perhaps Maria was secretly a Marrano?

It’s not just Jewish composers who’ve been inspired by the sound of the shofar. Surprisingly, the Edwardian English composer Sir Edward Elgar — yes, the one famous for the "Pomp and Circumstance March" that everyone knows from graduation ceremonies — was inspired by the mystical vision of the shofar sounding to announce the daybreak over the temple in Jerusalem in his oratorio "The Apostles."

Although there were many composers who imitated the sound or the idea of the shofar in their music, there were very few who had included actual shofars in their compositions when I started to do so almost two decades ago. Now there are many, and currently we’re seeing a renaissance of interest in the musical possibilities of this extraordinary and evocative instrument from composers as diverse as Alvin Curran (shofar and electronics) to John Zorn ("downtown" shofar) and John Duffy (shofar on the "Heritage" soundtrack).

In synagogues, there are two divergent traditions of shofar calls: the Ashkenazi (German), which is dramatic and outward, and the Sephardi (Spanish-Portuguese), which is more tremulous and inward. It is possible that the patterns of shofar calls are derived from military trumpet calls, which are described in several ancient texts, including one of the Dead Sea Scrolls. Te’kiah would correspond to "assemble," Sh’vorim to "advance," T’ruah (described as "like raindrops") to "pursue" and Te’kiah G’dolah as "regroup." (It should be noted, though, that Plutarch, traveling in the Nile delta, sarcastically described hearing a debased version of these calls used for traffic control that sounded to him "like donkeys.")

Historically, the sound of shofar has always been treated as something in a category by itself — not quite music, but a sound endowed with mystical and magical powers.

My own research has linked everyone’s favorite fantastical animal, the unicorn, to the shofar. The Bible specifically says that when the messiah comes, the "big" shofar (shofar ha-gadol) will sound. This led Maimonides, who was a medical doctor as well as philosopher, to speculate that since the left side of animals is always slightly smaller than the right only the right horn should be used for a shofar. And in medieval times Jews followed this thinking and were careful to use only the right horn for their shofars.

Of course one of the major disagreements between Jews and Christians was whether the messiah had already come or was yet to come. My theory is that medieval Christians, as a way to express their belief that there should be no doubt on this question, created the unicorn — so there would be no left or right horn. In this light one can easily see the unicorn in the famous "Lady and Unicorn" tapestry series in the Cloisters as symbolically pre-figuring the Annunciation (that is, the acknowledgment of Mary’s pregnancy with Jesus by immaculate conception). Similarly, why else are there the otherwise inexplicable substitutions of "unicorn" in place of "ram" in the King James translation of the Bible? No doubt the translators of the King James Version knew that the original Hebrew text did not say unicorn, but felt the need to use the medieval myth to enforce this eschatological revisionism. There is a Jewish legend that God created the ram at twilight on the sixth day of creation, so that it magically bridges the two worlds: the everyday world and the holy. So what better pasture for a unicorn to graze in? Nowadays Jews use both right and left horns for shofars.

Unicorn or ram, the shofar-bearing animal is one of the most powerful symbols in the monotheistic traditions. The most famous ram of the Bible is the one sacrificed by Abraham in place of his beloved son Isaac, which to many symbolizes the archetypal movement of civilization from human to animal sacrifice. The sound of the shofar is certainly a convincing reminder of those roots.

Modern tradition has it that only men are required to hear the shofar calls; women may do as they wish. Surprisingly, however, the Hebrew word "shofar" is feminine. Moreover, it has many feminine associations. For example, Psalm 81 connects the shofar with the cycles of the moon — including the commandment to make a joyful noise and sound the shofar for the new and full moons — which seems to underline this intriguing feminist relationship, as well as a general party atmosphere.

And in seeking the roots for music itself, the Bible claims that all musicians are descended from the great-great-great-grandson of Cain, Yuval, whose name is related to "mountain goat." The word "jubilee" derives from the same linguistic root. As an instrument in biblical times, the shofar was used to signal not only the cycles of the moon, but as an alarm for natural calamities such as floods and earthquakes, and to announce the coming of the harvest season and celebrations, especially at the Jubilee.

At the time of the temple in Jerusalem, a full orchestra — including winds, brass, strings and percussion — performed. All were played by musicians, but only priests were entitled to play the ram’s horn, underscoring the shofar’s ambiguity: Is it music, or something else?

Of all of the instruments used in the Temple, only the shofar survives today. In this season of remembrance and introspection, the call of the shofar focuses our minds on what is essential, what is eternal. If we are asking who will live and who will die, who will be raised up and who will be cast down, it is a sound that brings us up short, with no possibility of arrogant response. No one can be indifferent to its rude wail. Of how many other musical devices can this be said?

There’s a difference between casually humming along with an old Naomi Shemer tune on the radio, maybe absentmindedly tapping along with the beat, and sitting in front of the tube at 6 A.M., listening to oldies-but-goodies and shedding tears. Weeping - over old familiar landscapes and the songs that went with them, like panoramas of the Kinneret and the Jordan Valley, as presented at the Israel Song Festival from 10 or 20 or 30 years ago. Believe it or not, the highest-rated daytime show today is the "Songfest for the Sleepless" ("Nedudei Shira") on Channel 33, starting late at night and ending mid-morning. It is no longer a curiosity: Its viewers are legion.

The name itself, however painful, is certainly accurate. We hardly sleep at night anymore. We sit around at odd hours watching old familiar clips - years and years of Nahal ensembles singing, say. We dive right in, and sometimes we cry. I heard about this show from my daughters and their friends, who tape it. It’s an epidemic.

We’re all feeling that crazy nostalgia for something that may never have been, and which our children certainly have never known. The real 1960s, not the mythic Sixties. There was no air-conditioning, no Internet and no cellular-phone advertising campaigns, but you knew what you meant, and you thought you were right.

How can I describe it? One time, I caught myself nostalgically thumbing through an old, pre-political-correctness playbill and was immediately embarrassed. Now when I read the mega-headlines about a mega-attack, I dive right back into that pre-PC place without apologies. Half the country is conversing in Spanish on account of that Argentinian orphanage in "Chiquititas," and the other half is stuck in a telenovella no less surreal: the naive, fairy-tale youth of our dear, beloved country. Right now we have no answers at all. We find it hard to define what it is we yearn for. (Or maybe not; how about New Zealand?)

Look at us now - chanting blessings in some desert backwater for a long-dead sage, or meditating at a Poona ashram. It’s only natural to feel an urge to reach back to that fantastic clarity of the old days, into that beautiful place we believed a kibbutz to be, at 4 in the afternoon, remember? Anything but permit ourselves the slightest glimpse of what the coming year portends: Chemical warfare? Biological? Mega attacks? Airborne viruses? What is coming? Tell us already.

WE STAND ASHAMED BEFORE OUR CREATOR

by Rebbetzin Holly Pavlov
Arutz Sheva News Service
On Yom Kippur, we stand before the Holy One Blessed Be He and we are constantly reminded of our state of shame:

My God, before I was formed I was unworthy, and now that I have been formed, it is as if I had not been formed. I am dust in my life and will surely be so in my death. Behold before You, I am like a vessel filled with shame and humiliation. May it be Your will, Hashem, my God and the God of my forefathers, that I not sin again. And what I have sinned before You, may You cleanse with Your abundant mercy, but not through suffering or serious illness.

Do not enter into judgment with us, for no living being can justify itself before You. What can we say before You, Hashem, our God, what can we declare, what justification can we offer? Our God, we are ashamed of our deeds and humiliated to lift our faces to You, our God.

These prayers precede the vidui, confession of Yom Kippur, because shame is a spiritual state, a place on the line of proximity to God. As we stand before our Creator to measure our lives, we feel shame.

Rav Shimshon Rafael Hirsch explains that shame is the feeling of a person who has fallen short of his own expectations. When a person has not acted in the manner he expects of himself, he feels ashamed. Each of us has a picture of our ideal self, of who we would like to be, or who we would like to become. When confronted with a version of our self that does not look like this picture, we feel shame.

This feeling of shame is a gift from God, implanted deep in our consciousness. It prods us to an understanding that we have failed to live up to our potential. Although God created us in His image, and gave us a mission to serve Him, there are times when we fail to act in the ways of greatness that He set out for us. Of course, God knew that we human beings would not always succeed in achieving this lofty goal, so he gave us a tool that would make us our own monitors and guardians.

The mechanism God has given us to enable us to judge ourselves is conscience. With it, we are able to examine the distance between who we are, and the ideal self we would like to be. The condemning verdict when we fall short of our vision is shame, busha.

The modern world of psychology has made it a goal for every person to be normal. Sometimes it changes the definition of what normal is, but nevertheless, the goal doesn’t change. Indeed, in the twentieth century, the objective of child rearing and of self-development has become to raise normal, healthy children and to be OK ourselves. While these are fine goals that cannot be challenged, they remain limited and small. They confine us to a role that is standard and common. They say little about the potential for greatness that the Torah assigns us:

What is man, that You are mindful of him? The son of man, that You visit him? For You have made him a little lower than the angels, and have crowned him with glory and honor. (Psalm 8: 5-6)

Our capacity as human beings goes way beyond normal. We can be great, "a little lower than angels." This is not to say that we are born that way, but rather that we have the ability to achieve something just a little less than the pure spiritual level of angels. In fact, if we serve God from free will, we have a tremendous advantage over the angels, because the angels are preprogrammed to serve God while we are not. Therefore, when we choose Divine service, we are "crowned with glory and honor".

How do we achieve this? How do we move beyond "normal" to greatness? We achieve this through using our intellect to control our thought, action and emotion. The first step is to know ourselves: our weaknesses and our strengths. Honestly evaluating who we are, so that we know where we need extra firm safeguards and what tools we can utilize to grow. We must also know our goals as Jews. What do we want to become? What qualities do we want to develop? What negative tendencies do we want to curb? What is right and what is wrong?

Checking in with our conscience enables us to know where we are. How much shame we feel will correspond directly to our knowledge of right and wrong. The more we understand and become sensitive to Truth, the more busha, shame, we feel at falling short of its demands. The more sensitive we are to the will of God, the bigger our conscience, the more we are embarrassed at having strayed even a "little" bit from the path of Torah. Therefore, shame is a force equal to its counterparts, intellect and knowledge.

Shame is the external revelation of an internal connection to God.

This nation is distinguished by three characteristics: We are merciful, we feel shame, and we are benevolent.

Shame is a Jewish trait. Since the Torah delineates a high standard of behavior, it would be impossible to monitor ourselves without feeling shame. The more learned and integrated a Jew is, the more his shame functions to push him to teshuva, repentance.

This is not a crippling kind of guilt. Shame is not neurosis. It is future oriented, opening up the wonderful possibility of positive change. Shame is the first step to teshuva, the impetus to do better. It has a purpose, a direction. There is no room in the Torah for neurotic guilt. In fact, when shame leads to change, then any guilt is erased.

As we stand before God on Yom Kippur, let us feel shame. Shame at what we have failed to do, or have done inappropriately. Let us, in our shame, recognize the tremendous potential we have as individuals, and let us begin the path back to God.

Our friend Rav Dovid Kaplan relates that one of his talmidim called just before Yom Kippur to ask if it was halachically necessary to ask for Mechila (forgiveness) from his wife. Reb Dovid replied: "You don´t have to ask your wife to forgive you; you have to BEG her!"

We place an awful lot of emphasis we upon repairing and renewing our relationship with G-d during these Aseret Y´mai Teshuva, don´t we? We add numerous Tefilot to the regular davening; we say Selichot each night or day; we pound our chests in the Al Chet prayer and recount the litany of our spiritual shortcomings.

All of that is, of course, necessary and absolutely appropriate. But it´s not nearly enough.

The Torah refers to the Day of Atonement as "Yom Ha-Kippurim." Have you ever wondered why it is in the plural form, rather than the singular "Yom Kippur?"

I suggest to you that the true meaning of Yom Ha-Kippurim is, "the Day of Reconciliations." This is a day when - if we truly desire to perfect our soul - we must work, and work hard, to reconcile with all those around us.

If we have a grudge against a neighbor, this is the time to walk over with a bottle of wine and make things right. If we have become alienated from a former friend, or an aunt or cousin, now is the time to make amends. If we aren´t right with our kids - or especially our spouse - then we must repair the relationship now. Even if we are sure that WE are the wronged party, let us break the cycle of animosity and bitterness by humbly apologizing and asking for a new start. A hug and a kiss are often the most eloquent prayers that we can ever utter.

I may have told you the true story about the boy from a prominent Jerusalem family who ran away to India, and the Rav who was hired by the parents to bring him back. The Rav located the young man and began to castigate him: "How could you do this to your wonderful family? They are such ba´alei tzedaka, such ba´alei chesed. Not a single Shabbat or Chag goes by when their table isn´t filled with numerous strangers from off the street!"

"That´s exactly the point, Rabbi," said the boy, with a piercing stare, "I am trying to become so much of a stranger to my parents, that they will welcome ME with equal love and intensity!" The Rabbi´s face turned white. He returned to Jerusalem and instructed the parents to reserve at least one Shabbat each month when only family would grace their table and receive undivided attention.

Chesed begins at home, and Teshuva waits at your doorstep. All you have to do is reach out.

This week’s Torah portion Ha’azinu is known for it’s lengthy explanation by Torah’s foremost commentator, Rashi. Let us delve into the depth of one of those explanations."And G-d spoke to Moshe on that very day". The Torah uses the phrase "on that very day" in three places:

First, regarding Noah, the Torah states, "On that very day Noah entered [… the ark]" that day referring to the glare of full daylight. Noah’s contemporaries said: "We swear by such and such, that if we notice him about to enter the ark, we will not let him proceed! Moreover, we will take axes and hatchets and split open the ark!" So G-d said: "I will have Noah enter at midday, and let anyone who has the power to prevent it, come and prevent it!"

Second, regarding Egypt, The Torah states, "On that very day, G-d brought [the Jewish people] out [of the land of Egypt]". The Egyptians said: "We swear by such and such, that if we notice them about to leave, we will stop them! And not only that, but we will take swords and other weapons, and kill them!" So, G-d, said: "I will bring them out in the middle of the day, and let anyone who has power to prevent it, come and prevent it!"

Thirdly, regarding Moshe’s death, the Torah states, "On that very day." The Jewish people said, "We swear by such and such, that if we notice Moshe [ascending the mountain to die], we will not let him do so for he is the man who brought us out of Egypt, divided the Red Sea for us, brought the manna down for us, made flocks of quails fly over to us, brought up the well for us, and gave us the Torah - we will not let him!" Thereupon, G-d, said: "I will have Moshe ascend the mountain [to his resting place] in the middle of the day!"

From this repetition Rashi understood that the Torah is trying to give over a message hidden in the words ‘On that very day’. It is difficult to understand how the Jewish people planned on preventing Moshe from dying. One can stop another from entering an ark or leaving a country by use of physical force. Life and death however, is not in man’s hand. What was it that they could have done to keep Moshe alive?

In the case of Noah there seems to be no need to explain why his contemporaries didn’t want him to enter the ark. But in the case of Moshe the people only said ‘We will not let him’ and we find a long list of good things he did for the Jewish people, giving them good reason for not wanting him to die. Isn’t it obvious they wouldn’t want their beloved leader to leave them forever!

Rashi gives us a detailed list of the favors Moshe had done for the Jewish people as their leader. But there were many other good things he had done for them. (Waged wars, he once pleaded with G-d to make the waters of a bitter well drinkable etc etc.) Why is it that Rashi chose to list these particular favors? All Rashi comes to explain is the mention of ‘that very day’.

There is one very obvious difference between the first two cases and our case. In the cases of Noah’s contemporaries and the Egyptians, we deal with people who were non-believers. It’s obvious why they would oppose Noah and the Jewish people. If they did not believe in G-d’s existence, then there was no reason to believe a flood would come and destroy the world or that an entire nation of slaves would be released from the super power of that time.

The people opposing to Moshe’s death were the people on which Moshe had said "You who cleave to G-d your God are alive, all of you, this day". These were holy people. It is therefore hard to believe that they would oppose G-d’s will. That is why Rashi has to tell us that the Torah uses the words ‘On that very day’ in three places. If by the first two cases the people were opposing G-d’s will, in the case of Moshe’s death we can assume that the Jewish people were also opposing G-d’s will.

In the first two cases there is the idea of prevention (from going from one place to another), so too this idea must be in the case of Moshe. By Noah they planned to stop him from entering the ark; by the exodus they panned to stop the Jews from leaving Egypt, and by Moshe, the Jews thought they would prevent his death by not physically allowing him to go up to the mountain. G-d told Moshe to ascend the mountain where he would die. The Jews figured that if they could only keep Moshe away from the mountain, they could keep him alive forever.This also explains why there is no need to tell us what physical action they would do to prevent Moshe from dying (as opposed to the other two cases where they were planning on destroying the ark and killing the Jews.)

The people in Noah’s days did not really believe in G-d’s words. When Noah relayed the message that they had only one week left to return to G-d if they wanted to prevent a flood, they were not certain about the exact timing. They thought G-d to be flexible with his promises and that even if the flood did not start on the promised day, He would possibly send it a day or two later. That is why the wanted to completely destroy the ark, thinking that by doing so G-d would never bring the flood.

The Jewish people however believed in G-d’s timing. Since they knew that Moshe was meant to pass away on his 120th birthday, they had no need to prevent Moshe from ascending the mountain. To explain the two details mentioned by the "preventions" (or preventive acts): Noah’s contemporaries did believe in G-d to a certain extent. They knew there was to be a flood if they continued in their sinful ways. They also knew that Noah was going to be saved from this flood because he did not deserve do die.

Their strategy to prevent the flood therefore consisted of two parts. first, to prevent Noah from entering the ark, and secondly and just as important, keep Noah alive. If he would die, nothing would keep G-d back from bringing a flood.

The Egyptians prepared swords and other weapons. In scripture the term swords always applies to a killing instrument. The Egyptians intended to kill as many Jews as possible and prepared ‘other weapons’ in the case the Jews would retaliate knowing that G-d was on the Jewish side.

It is still left to be understood how it entered the minds of the Jews to oppose G-d’s decree? A few weeks ago, in the portion of Ki Tavo, we learned that when a Jew has a field blessed with fruits, he is obligated to express thanks to G-d by bringing the first fruits to the temple. Otherwise he would be considered ungrateful. The Jewish people felt the same obligation towards Moshe. That is why Rashi felt it important to list all the good things he did for them. The more favors they could list, the stronger their reason was for preventing Moshe from dying. When we take a close look at what was listed, we notice that they are all things that were affecting their lives on that day.

The Jewish people felt that their obligation to express thankfulness to Moshe was stronger than Moshe’s obligation to ascend the mountain. This also explains why in the case with Moshe, Rashi did not mention that G-d said "Let anyone who has power to prevent it, come and prevent it" as he did by the other two cases. The other two cases talk about people who were trying to oppose G-d’s will while our case discusses people who thought that they had an obligation (because of the gratitude/thanks they owed Moshe) to ‘oppose’ the divine decree.

May we soon merit the revelations of all the deep secrets of the Torah with the coming of Moshiach now!

The normative approach to Yom Kippur is that it is a day set aside when we as individuals and as part of the larger community ask for forgiveness. Hence the term Yom Kippur which means the Day of Atonement.

It’s not uncommon, however, for Yom Kippur to be referred to as Yom HaKippurim the Day of Atonements. Why in the plural? Why does the very term imply atonement beyond that of the individual human being?

Some suggest that it is in the plural because we seek atonement for ourselves as individuals and also for the community as a whole. Sometimes it is a person who goes astray, other times it is a group of individuals who feed upon each other and as a community makes terrible mistakes.

Others suggest that on the very day in which we focus upon our relationship with God, the plural of Yom HaKippurim reminds us of the importance of interpersonal relationship. The gateway to a godly life travels through the path of kindness and decency to our fellow person. Still others suggest that the term Kippurim denotes not only our atonement but also atonement for our beloved departed, those who have died. After all, the impact of one’s teaching continues on after death. From this perspective, one is also judged after dying.

A delightful tale offers another approach to the term Yom Hakippurim.

One Yom Kippur, a congregant entered into the synagogue, prayed for several moments and left. The rabbi was stunned. The congregant was well known in the community and had finished his prayers in such haste. "Why, the rabbi asked him, were you so quick?" "I’ll tell you", the man replied. "I felt that the prayer I offered connected to God. sensed deep inside that God had heard my requests." "What did you say," the rabbi asked, "What did you say that made you believe God listened?" "I admitted before the Holy One, blessed, be He, all my sins. I indicated that there were days that I missed prayer, and yes, as a butcher there were times I was not honest in weights. Looking up to the Ark I said to God, ‘I’ll make a deal with you. If you forgive me, I’ll forgive you for all the pain that too often suffuses the world’."

The rabbi looked at the man, embraced him and said, "Naarishe, kind-foolish child, you had God by the coat-tails. You could have asked him to forgive the entire Jewish people, indeed the entire world."

Thus, Yom Kippur is Yom HaKippurim in the plural. It is a day when we are in search of God, even as it is a day when God is in search of us. And it is a day when we seek forgiveness of God and God seeks forgiveness of us.