Rabbi Daniel H. Liben
Yom Kippur 5763

On August 7, 2001, Zohar Shurgi was driving on the Hotzei Shomron Road, on his way from Tel Aviv to Moshav Yafit. Six bullets were fired at him. One hit him in the heart and he was killed immediately. Zohar was 39 years old, and left behind a wife, Nava, and three children. Two months ago, Temple Israel adopted the Shurgi family through a project of the Israel Emergency Solidarity Fund.

Dear Nava,

I am the Rabbi of Temple Israel of Natick, Massachusetts. You met our Hazzan, Bob Scherr and his wife Susie in July, right after Sharon Evans, of Project Adopt-A-Family, matched your family with our synagogue. The Scherrs brought back lovely pictures of you and your beautiful children. Itamar is the same age as my son Jonah, and Daniella is just a year older than my youngest, Sara Miriam. I have a feeling that they would get along great with each other. Omer looks just charming. I wish I still had a little one like that around the house. My older three are all in college now, and though they are only a few hours away, I miss having them home.

You probably have received a lot of Shannah Tova cards from people in my community by now. It is our way of beginning to introduce ourselves to you. We are a synagogue of almost 500 families. That sounds like a lot of people, but I hope that over time, you will get to know some of us, and think of us as friends, or as extended family.

Believe me when I tell you that we are all heartsick over your loss. I know that last month was Zohar's first Yartzeit; its been a year since his tragic death. As parents, Fran and I just can't imagine how you and the children have gotten through. The loss of their father is something that the kids must feel every single day, each in his own way. You all must have a lot of courage and strength.

Leaving the ranch where you and Zohar raised the kids, and moving back to an apartment in Ashdod must have been very hard. But children are resilient, aren't they, and it must be a great help to you to be near your parents. The support of close family and friends can be real blessing.

Americans are observing the Yarzeit of September 11 this week. The loss that we feel as Americans, the stolen lives and devastated families that will never be made whole, help Americans to understand in some way the toll that terrorism has taken in Israel over the last two years. But we Jews do not need any help in relating to Israel's pain. It is our pain as well.

Perhaps you are asking yourself, Nava, why should that be so? Why should a synagogue in America, six thousand miles away, care at all about my family, and the tragedy that we have suffered?

Well, I can answer that question in different ways. First, and most simply, because we too have husbands and wives and children, and so we know in our hearts the fear of losing any one of them. And so our hearts go out to you.

Many of us also have relatives who live in Israel, and that makes your situation all the more real to us. My siblings and my parents made Aliyah years ago, because living in Israel and being a part of the country's future gives great meaning to their lives. They live in and around Jerusalem.

Thank God they are all alright, but there have been a few close calls. My folks and my sister Shirah were having lunch at a cafe in my parents' neighborhood one day when a suicide bomber entered the cafe right across the street. He was spotted and tackled to the ground by an astute waiter. The police evacuated the street and told everybody to run. I don't think my parents have run like that in years.

Shirah and the people in her office have had to change the location of their lunch meetings several times, because of bombings near their office.

Once, I think it was after that poor mother and her children were murdered by terrorists in Itamar, Shirah felt that she had to have a serious conversation with her youngest son, Ofer, who is 16. "If a terrorist entered our Moshav" (they live in Kfar Ruth, right next to Modiin), "where would be the safest place to hide?" Sadly, and to Shirah's surprise, Ofer had already considered the question on his own. He said to his mother,"well, I think the attic is best, but if I did not have enough time, I think I am thin enough to hide behind the staircase."

I cry when I think of how the kids in particular have been affected by the violence this year. A college girl I know who was in Israel this summer said that she spent an evening sitting around with Israelis her age. Do you know what they were discussing? They were discussing their own funerals, down to the last detail! And then they went on to plan a birthday party. Kids should not have to juggle life and death like that. But of the 613 Israelis who have been murdered since 2000, so many victims were young, targeted in discotheques, restaurants and cafes, places where young people hang out.

But I digress. Nava, the fact that many of us have our own friends and relatives living in Israel only partly answers the question, why we care about the Shurgi Family. Since I am a Rabbi, let me offer you an answer from our tradition. The Midrash teaches: "You (the Jewish people) are called "Adam," and the other people in the world are not called "Adam:" The Midrash explains: the Jewish people the world over are like Adam: one person, a single organic being, whereas other nations are not. Just as if a person hurts in any part of his body, his whole body is affected, so if any Jew, anywhere in the world, is in pain, the pain is felt by Jews everywhere, even thousands of miles away. No other people that is scattered throughout the world has this sense of belonging and of sensitivity to one anther, because we are bound together in a covenant of common destiny as well as a covenant of faith. I really believe this to be true.

Nava, were you and Zohar both born in Israel? What part of the world do your families originally come from? My own family in Israel is like a mini United Nations- a true Kibbutz Galuyot, an ingathering of the exiles. Shirah is married to Menachem, who arrived from Yemen on Operation Magic Carpet in 1949. He was a baby in his mother's arms when their entire village was airlifted to Israel, and resettled in its entirety as a village in the Jerusalem hills.

Alisa, my second sister, is married to Zev. His parents were Polish Holocaust survivors who arrived in Israel a few years after the end of the war. Then there is my brother Mike, whose wife Leora is also from a Yemenite family. They all came to Israel for different reasons. Some of them are secular and some consider themselves to be religious. But they are all family.

And family has to care about family, in good times as well as tough times. For years, American Jews have drawn pride and vitality not just from Israel's successes and triumphs, but from the very fact of Israel's existence. Every Shabbat in our synagogue, we say a prayer for the State of Israel, in which we call Israel 'Reshit Smichat Geulateinu: the beginning of the dawn of our redemption." Yes, our redemption. I can't even imagine what the world was like for Jews before the State was created in 1948. And I thank God for the privilege of having been born in this generation.

In the spirit of Yom Kippur, however, I have a confession to make. I fear that, like so many others, I had begun to take Israel for granted. This January, I went back to Israel for a short trip, my first visit in six years. Arriving In Israel, I once again had the sense of having come home, as if the country, I know' this sounds silly, were waiting just for me. It's hard to explain, but I feel as if I operate on a higher energy level when I am there. Its as if everything, the paving stones, the Hebrekippuw language spoken in the stores, the way Shabbat descends and holds quiet court in Jerusalem's neighborhoods; the shared destiny you feel with strangers in the street, is invested with a greater intensity of meaning. Coming back to Jerusalem, I felt that I had reconnected with a vital piece of myself that had lain dormant too long.

And suddenly, I felt a terrible wave of sadness and regret. How could I have let so much time, six years, go by since my last visit? Long ago, an ancestor of ours wrote in exile, "Im Eshkachech Yerushalayim tishkach Yemini." If I forget thee, O' Jerusalem, let my right hand lose its cunning." And I had almost forgotten the joy, the awe, and the intensity of her presence.

What is it I tell brides and grooms when they break a glass under the huppah? I say that we do so to keep faith with Jerusalem and with the entire Jewish people, in good times as well as in bad, for each of us is responsible for one another. Each time I leave Israel, I leave a piece of myself behind, like a shard of that broken glass. And each time I return, I find another piece.

Yom Kippur is a time for recovering the precious soul-pieces that we may have put aside for a while. For Teshuvah and Kappara, repentance and atonement, are not just about hanging your head in shame and begging forgiveness. Teshuvah is about returning to the values that should mean the most to you; its a joyous process of' regaining wholeness and integrity. For me this year, that process is drawing me towards Israel, to recommitting myself to the centrality of the land of Israel in my life, and to closing the gap that time and distance has placed between us.

Let me share a story with you. I know a woman who lost her husband. Many people comforted her at the shiva, but conspicuous in her absence was a particular friend. The friend may have had her reasons- she was busy with her own family issues, things came up- but the bottom line was that things just weren't the same between them after that. There was awkwardness. The friend tried to find the right words afterwards, but as time went on, it became more and more embarrassing to say anything at all. So they didn't. When their paths occasionally crossed, there was a forced cordiality between them, where once there had been real friendship, and great affection.

One woman felt hurt, a hurt that would not go away even as the years passed. The other felt embarrassment and shame. Both felt a sadness over what had been lost. And neither one knew what to do about it. It was five years before the friend found the courage to approach her and say, "I know I wasn't there for you when you needed me. I still feel terrible, after five years. Can you forgive me?" "It is true," the woman answered, "I was very hurt. And I didn't understand what had happened between us. I was so angry for a long time. But I would rather have you back again as a friend then carry around that anger any longer." The two women cried together for along time. That kind of thing happens a lot at this time of year. It's the purpose of this whole season of teshuva, heshbon hanefesh, and mechila, of repentance, soul searching, and forgiveness. And ultimately, Nava, it answers to the question, why we care about the Shurgi family. We care because you need our support, and we care because our own souls depend on it. For if we sit on the sidelines and do nothing for Israel during these terribly trying times, then our inaction will sit like an unspoken, corrosive block between us, just like the friend who never made the shiva call. We will grow awkwardly distant, and we cannot let that happen.

Nava, how can I describe to you the spark that Israel lights in the souls of Jews from around the world? An American student at Hebrew University, Marla Bennet, puts it this way:

"As I look ahead to the next year and a half that I will spend in Israel, I feel excited, worried, but more than anything else, lucky. I am excited that I can spend another year and a half in a place that truly feels like home, a home in which I am surrounded by an amazing community of bright and interesting friends who constantly help me to question and define myself. I am worried for Israel- a historic moment this is, but also difficult and unpredictable. I feel lucky because the excitement always wins over the worry. The exhilaration of Torah and Talmud study, close friendships and a lively community far outweigh my fears. Stimulation abounds in Jerusalem- and I need only go to the supermarket to be struck once again by how lucky I am to live here. There is no other place in the world that I would rather be right."

Two months after she wrote these words, Marla Bennet died in a terrorist bombing at the cafeteria at the Hebrew University, along with six other students. Oh, Nava, we truly are a nation like "Adam, " like a single, organic human being. When one part of us suffers, it is felt deeply, painfully, through the entire body, thousands of miles away.

There is a poem by Natan Alterman that you are probably familiar with in the original Hebrew. I only know it in is English translation. It goes:

Then Satan said: How can I subdue him?
For he has the courage and the ability,
The weapons, the resourcefulness and the wisdom.
And he said: I will not weaken him,
Nor curb nor bridle him,
Nor inspire fear in him,
Nor soften him as in days gone by.
I will only do this: I will dull his mind,
And he will forget that his is the just cause.

But we will not forget that ours is the just cause. For a while, some of us were misled. For a short while, discouraged by the failure of the peace process that began with Oslo, and unwilling to accept that the Palestinian leaders could really choose violence over compromise, some of us may have been misled: by a press that manipulates media images and subtly distorts the truth; by the political left that establishes a moral equivalency between terrorist and victim; by a world that masqueraded its rank anti-semitism as something more civil and evenhanded.

But no more. Because, throughout this terrible, awful year, anti-Zionism has been exposed again and again for what it truly is: old fashioned, ugly anti-semitism. And we will never again forget that we have the just cause.

Nava, during our Yizkor prayers this Yom Kippur, along with our own departed, we will remember your husband Zohar, and Marla Bennet, and the 611 other Israeli victims of terror, and we will resolve to wrest from their deaths the meaning for which they stood in life.

And during the course of the rest of the day, we will take a moment to remember the 4,479 individuals who have been seriously injured in terrorist attacks, and we will resolve to stand by them and their families too, in the days to come.

And, as Yom Kippur comes to a close, as the congregation unites in attention to the sound of the Tekia Gedolah, do you recall with which final words the Machzor bids us to end this awesome day of repentance and atonement? "L'Shannah Haba'ah B'yerushalayim. Next Year in Jerusalem."

Nava, may the coming year bring comfort to you and your loved ones, and may we be privileged to meet in the coming months on the streets of Jerusalem. Wishing you blessings of Shalom from Natick Massachusetts, Daniel Liben

Friends, sitting here in the relative comforts of home, there are things that we can do to bring comfort to our brothers and sisters in Israel. Little things, that when added up, can give real hizuk, strength and encouragement, to the Jewish people. Send a card to Nava Shurgi and her children, if you have not already done so. The card and address was included in a packet that our Adopt-A-Family Committee sent to every Temple family. Stand in solidarity with the Shurgis, and with all Israeli victims of terror, at our community Walk-A-Thon on October 13. Every time you walk into the supermarket, remember not to leave until you buy at least one product from Israel. Shop Israeli on line. This year, join Jews across America in making the third night of Chanukah Israeli gift night. Visit Israel, as Cantor Scherr, and I, and many others in our congregation have this year. Consider joining CJP's Solidarity Mission, leaving November 10.

And give money. Give this year till it hurts. Give to our Adopt-A-Family campaign because through it we can rehabilitate the lives of one individual family. Give to the CJP Israel Emergency Fund, because through that, we can be part of a larger effort that will help many more.

Give to the Masorti Foundation, because our Masorti- Conservative Movement there, in the midst of the current crisis, continues to build a vibrant spiritual infrastructure in Israel. Its teachers, its institutions, its synagogues, are transforming Israel, and they need our help.

And renew our traditional commitment to upbuilding and maintaining the physical infrastructure of Israel through the purchase of Israel Bonds. In any denomination. My colleague Jack Riemer is encouraging his congregants, those who can afford to do so, to buy $25,000 bonds this year. Do you know why? Because that's how much money Sadaam Husein gives to the families of Homicide bombers.

We, who put ultimate value on a single human life, are confronting an enemy that celebrates death. And we know that ours is the just cause.

LSHANNAH TOVAH TIKATEIVU V'TECHATEIMU

Death Can Teach Us About Life

Rabbi Daniel H. Liben
Yom Kippur 5764

Yom Kippur and Baseball, comments my colleague, Rabbi Alan Lew, are like competing religions. When Kol Nidre coincides with a crucial Playoff, or World Series game, as it often does, you can see the drop off in shul attendance, even on the holiest night of the year. And what else would you expect? Baseball is a religion of winning. You rally around your team, and when they do well, you get to bask in its glory. Yom Kippur, on the other hand, is about losing.

Barely a week ago, on Rosh Hashnnah, we rejoiced, " Hayom Harat Olam: Today the World is Born." Life seemed rich with new possibilities. But today, we confront our limitations: our false steps, our fears, and our failures of nerve, our missed opportunities, disappointments, and yes, even the specter of our own deaths. As Kurt Vonnegut wryly puts it, "Maturity is a disappointment from which no remedy exists."

And so, for one day, we confront the abyss. We starve our bodies. We recite Yizkor for our departed, the Eileh Ezkerah in memory of our martyrs, and the Vidui, the confession of sins, just as we are commanded to do when we prepare to die.

It is traditional to wear a white kittel today, to remind us of the shroud in which we will be buried. The morning Torah reading begins with the death of Aaron's sons. And near the beginning of the Musaph Amidah, we recite once again the words of the Unetaneh Tokef prayer, as we did on Rosh Hashannah: Who shall live, and who shall die. But today, the words seem even more frightening then they did last week, because today is Yom Kippur. Who wouldn't rather watch baseball?

And yet, here we are. We choose to be here because we believe that Yom Kippur, this rehearsal of death, atones; that it actually prepares us to live better, more thoughtful lives. We perceive that there are things we need to learn about ourselves, and that death itself is our teacher. Today, we seek wisdom, the one attribute we possess that increases, rather than diminishes, with our years.

A friend of mine passed away recently, and I want to share with you this Yom Kippur the wisdom that I learned from her. I am telling you her story, with her family's blessing, not only because it is about courage and honesty in the face of death, but also because it is also about teshuva and forgiveness, and the kind of wisdom towards which facing our death can lead us.

I met Temma just over a year ago, although she had been living with cancer for a long time. She knew it would take her life, and that no therapy could prolong it by more than a few painful months. So Temma chose instead to forgo any further treatment, and to take control of her death.

She had a husband who loved her deeply, and a wonderful daughter in her twenties. Temma discussed everything with them. No subject was taboo. Taking control was her weapon against despair. Intimate relationship issues, the kind of subjects that often get buried and pushed aside until its too late, were attended to. Temma planned her end as much as possible. Which funeral director, which plot, even which burly cousins should be responsible for covering her grave with earth. It would be a simple graveside funeral; she did not want a procession of speakers. As for shiva, well, she would leave that to her family to decide, for she would already be gone.

There was nothing left to do but wait. She wanted to enjoy the relatively pain-free time she had left with her family and then, when the end neared, she would check into the hospital, where her pain could be liberally controlled with medication during her final days. It was a plan. A sad plan, but a clear, well thought out, and a courageous one, none the less. But you know what they say about the best-laid plans…

Shortly before Passover, the doctors told Temma and her family that the cancer was spreading fast now. This was the end game: she could expect to live six more weeks. The words had the finality of a death sentence and as prepared as Temma and her husband had been for nearly two years, they struck them like a thunderbolt.

I sat with them in the hospital a couple of days later. "Rabbi," she said to me, sitting up and feeling pretty good, "We've done our work. But what I need you for is the spiritual piece of it. Tell me, what do you think happens to me after I die?"

Not even Rabbis have stock answers to questions of belief. For me, the answers are never static; they are always shifting. So I told her only of what I was certain at that moment: that I believed that the soul returns to God from whence it came. I wasn't sure if the soul retained the unique consciousness that makes us you or me, but certainly, I affirmed, something of us survived. She was skeptical even of this rather tepid assertion of eternity. "I'm too concrete a thinker for that," she said. "When you're dead, you're dead." In days to come, we would speak of this again. Temma would ask me more difficult to answer questions, such as, "What should I be thinking about now?" Or, "should I be afraid?" She was searingly honest, analytical and brave. I'm sure I learned as much from her questions as she learned from my answers.

After a couple of very painful days at home, she checked herself into the hospital to die, according to the plan. But she didn't die. Such was the hide and seek nature of her cancer that Temma sat in her hospital room looking great, and once again feeling pretty normal. "I can't decide," she said, "whether to hook myself up to an intravenous drip, and pass quietly, or go out for a nice dinner."

So Temma checked out of the hospital and went home again. Passover led to Shavuot. Shavuot led into early summer. The six weeks predicted by her doctors had long passed. Temma received visitors while reclining in a comfortable chair, casually dressed, and impeccably coiffed and manicured, as her pain continued to worsen, waiting to die.

She had her good days and her bad days. Often she was bored, bitter about still being alive. "Why am I still here?" she would ask. "I am in constant pain. I am ready to go. I should be dead. Why is this dragging on this way?' Her family's grief was compounded by her unwillingness to take hold of the preciousness of the days that were still hers. But lingering had not been in Temma's plan.

I urged Temma to consider what she still might accomplish with her time, about the preciousness of even a single day. But she insisted that she had said all of her good-byes to the important people in her life; that there was nothing left to do. And yet, I felt, there must be more: some insight, some tikkun- some repair, that was still within her reach.

One day, Temma smiled at me and said, "I think this weekend I might have come to that insight you keep thinking I'm supposed to have. Maybe this is what I've been waiting for to let go. What do you think?" Her parents had come from out of state to visit her. It was the first time they had seen her in a very long time, because Tina had felt estranged from them since she was young. "And Rabbi," she said, "they were so wrapped up in their own needs. Everyone in the house knew that I am dying except them. Then it hit me like a flash. I was right year ago when I cut them out emotionally, when I decided that I could not expect to receive the love from them that I needed. Their trip confirmed it for me. I have no need for regret- I had made the right decision. Do you think that's it Rabbi? Do you think that's the insight I was waiting for?"

"Perhaps," I said, as I smiled back to her. But in my heart, I knew that wasn't it at all. I suspected she got the subject right, but hadn't gotten to the right conclusion.

June turned to July, and I was working for the month at Camp Ramah. Each week, I came back home to visit with Temma and her family. She could no longer eat. Week after week, her strong heart amazingly, inexplicably, continued to beat, although by now she was surviving on nothing more than ice chips. Yet her mind remained sharp and clear. And gradually, as her body wasted away, so did her bitterness at still being in this world, replaced by an awe of the mystery that still held her to it. And we continued to ponder, for what purpose?

One day at camp, I checked my cell phone only to hear a distressing phone message from Temma's husband. "Please come," he said. "Temma may only have only a couple of days of consciousness left, and she wanted to see you." I dropped everything, and got in my car. Driving quickly, I prayed that she would still be conscious, because I urgently needed to talk to my friend before the end. Fortunately, it was a false alarm, and Temma was tired, but awake when I arrived. "Temma, I prayed the whole ride home that you would still be here," I said, "because I had to tell you once more that this journey of yours does means something, and that it doesn't end with death, and that there is something waiting for you on the other side." I had become convinced of that over the months, and I had to share it with my friend Temma. "You really think so," she smiled weekly. " You drove all this way to tell me that? Wow."

Sometimes, when I visited, I would read psalms to her. Near the end, I began to sing. "Esa Eynai el Heharim. I look up to the mountains. From whence comes my help? My help comes from the Lord, creator of heaven and earth." Sometimes, we would just sit. She could sense my slow, measured, meditative breathing. "Oh Rabbi, " she would say, " I don't know what you're doing but it feels so peaceful…like its coming from another place."

Camp came and went. It was August now. I kept bringing up the subject of Temma's parents, suggesting that there was still unfinished business there. Was this the missing piece, the thing yet undone, that was keeping Temma tied to this life?

She was too weak to get out of bed now. It was clear, after these many weeks and months that the end was near. At Temma's request, her parents were coming back, and arriving the next day. "Maybe its time to stop being angry about who they are not, and just accept whatever love they have to offer you."

"Perhaps, Rabbi. I'm not angry anymore. Things are what they are...We'll see what happens when they get here."

I thought of the woman who was ready to die five months before. "Isn't it amazing," I continued gently, "that even at this late date, even now, you can still have a day with an important agenda ahead of you?"

I was leaving town again, for a weeklong conference. "Would it be selfish of me to pray that you will still be here when I get back," I asked, as I held her hand. "I'm afraid it would," she answered, and we both new that this was the last time that she and I would speak. "Thank you," she said, "for helping me to make this a spiritual journey. Neither of us expected that to happen, but it did." She smiled weakly. And then she said, "this story… it's a good one. You're going to tell this one someday, I know."

Two nights later, Temma suffered a stroke. Her father held her hand and brushed her brow through the night, singing to Temma the songs that he had sung to her as a child. Unable to speak, she weakly gestured for him to continue. The next afternoon, Temma finally let go. She died just as she had planned, in her own bed, surrounded by her family. But how could she have known at the beginning of this journey that at its end, she would lay cradled in her mother's arms?

She died on Tisha b'Av, a day of mourning and fasting seven weeks before Rosh Hashanah. The ninth of Av, our only full fast day besides Yom Kippur, a day that commemorates the tragedies that have befallen the Jewish people through our long history. In the morning of Tisha B'Av, so overwhelmed are we by a sense of estrangement from God, that we pray without tallis and tefillin, bereft of the signs that normally assure us of Divine covenant and connection. We sit on low benches, or on the floor, as if sitting shiva for the destroyed Temple, mourning the loss of God's presence.

But by the Mincha service in the early afternoon, the Torah texts we read speak of reconciliation, and of God's abiding love, and we pick of our tallesim and tefillin once more. That was when Temma passed to the next world. I believe, at that moment, that she felt her parents' love, and God's love, too.

At her funeral, butterflies hovered above her grave. Her daughter asked me if I thought it was a sign from Temma that everything was O.K. Perhaps; I can't really know. But I would like to think so. Like the two deer on the front lawn of a home I visited last month. A young husband and father had died there the day before. And as I walked slowly up the driveway, I saw the bereaved family standing in hushed silence, completely still. Two deer had approached them, almost close enough to touch. The moment lasted, we looking at the deer, they staring back at us, a moment as if plucked from eternity. Later, the family swore that in thirty years, deer had never before been seen on the property. And now this. "It was Dad," smiled the daughter. " He was telling us that he's alright, and that he's found a friend." Perhaps these things mean nothing. Or perhaps they are meant to let us know that the deeds we do in life not only help to perfect this world, but they also perfect us, prepare us, for what is to come.

And so I learned from my friend Temma that it is possible to face even the specter of death with honesty and courage. I learned from her that it is possible, even in the final weeks of life, to forge a bond of friendship that will last a lifetime. I learned that every hour that God gives us is a gift. And I learned that God waits for our forgiveness, even until our final hour.

Rabbi Eliezer, one of the great sages of antiquity, taught his disciples, "Turn one day prior to your death." And his students said to him, "Master, how can anyone know what day is one day prior to their own death? And his response to them was, "Therefore, repent today, because tomorrow you may die (Shabbat 153a)." My friends, we usually think of Teshuva, repentance, as what other people need to do before we can forgive them. But there is a kind of teshuva, a kind of wonderful returning to our best selves, which, ironically, is our own inner work that enables us to forgive. Facing our mortality allows this perspective, because forgiveness is not about the future. Forgiveness, in a lovely turn of phrase, "is giving up the hope of a better past."

When the Biblical Patriarch Abraham dies, at the age of one hundred and seventy five years, the Torah tells us: "And Abraham breathed his last, dying at a good ripe age, old and contented; and he was gathered to his kin." And then we hear something really quite amazing. The Torah says, "His sons, Isaac and Ishmael buried him in the cave of Machpelah." When had Ishmael shown up? This was the rejected son, who was banished years before. The text dropped any mention of him several chapters earlier. And now, here the two brothers are, together. Think of it. Here is Ishmael, at the cave of Machpelah, burying his father next to Sarah, the same Sarah who had treated him so cruelly, ordering him from their home years before. Such is the power of death to allow us to let go of even the deepest wounds, and to forgive. And, although the text does not tell us this explicitly, I would like to imagine that Ishmael returned at his father's tent while Abraham was still alive. I would like to believe that it was Ishmael's presence, and their reconciliation, that allowed the old man to finally leave this world, contented, as the Torah describes.

My friends, some of us will die, like Abraham, at a ripe old age. Some of us will undoubtedly suffer the pains of illness, while others will go peacefully in their sleep, yet, without the opportunity to make amends. As Rabbi Eliezer reminds us, we do not choose the hour of our death. And yet, we do not have to wait for it in order to learn its wisdom. Yom Kippur gives us that opportunity now, today, to look inside our souls and to do the work that needs to be done. Forgive now. As long as there is breath still in you, it is not too late.

L'Shanah Tova Tikateivu v'Techateimu: May we be inscribed and sealed for life in the coming year, and may our days be filled with meaning and with love.