This is the sermon I gave on the night of Rosh Hashanah at Temple Sinai in Cranston, Rhode Island.
Sixteen years ago, my wife, Jonquil, and I made a terrible, irreversible mistake. We had a baby in the month of September. Don’t get me wrong. We love Talia with all of our hearts. She is a fantastic daughter, but her birthday on September 12 is a bit problematic for a congregational rabbi. For the last sixteen years, I have had to take time during my busiest, craziest month of the year and spend it celebrating my older daughter’s birthday. It is her greatest flaw.
As if that was not enough, we went and made the exact same mistake again six years later. Eliana is an amazing child and we love and cherish her, but September 3 is just a very inconvenient time for a rabbi to be planning a child’s birthday party, shopping for cakes, and buying birthday presents. Talia and Eliana, we love you both, but why did you have to be born at a time when Abba should be writing sermons?
But, seriously, now.
Isn’t this the way that life always works? The big events in our lives seem to come before we really feel ready. When counseling a couple before their wedding, I sometimes hear the young couple talk about postponing starting a family because they want to make sure that they don’t have their first child until they are ready. Like almost all experienced parents, I hear those words and chuckle. We know that nobody is ever “ready” to have a child. There is no such thing as a “good time” for the incredible disruption that is caused by the awesome responsibility of bringing a child into the world.
Children, we know, do many things for their parents. They transform their lives. Amid all of the diaper changes and feedings, along with the sleepless nights and the terrifying fear of, God forbid, something going wrong, parents discover in their children a little piece of the Ultimate. We peer into the eyes of our children and we see ourselves and our partners at different times in our own lives. We recognize, looking at our children, that there really are miracles in this world, and that we have an important role in making miracles. As much as parents shape their children, children shape their parents. They transform us in the way they force us to see ourselves as part of something beautiful and powerful that is much larger than ourselves. We believe that we shower our children with gifts – a home, a family, food to nourish them and love to sustain them – yet we see how we as parents are the real recipients of a great gift.
Sometime, it might be a good idea for us to thank our children for the incredible gift they have given us by allowing us to see ourselves. They have given us the gift of opening our hearts to Eternity. On Rosh Hashanah, we are particularly aware of the gifts that surround us that we usually take for granted.
I remember the day I became a father. Talia was born well after her due date, which had us filled with anxiety and worry. After Jonquil went into labor, the birth did not go as we had planned (surprise!), and we were mentally, emotionally and physically exhausted by the experience. (Of course, Jonquil, did the hard part. She was far more exhausted than I).
But when I held that child in my arms for the first time, I remember how it felt like the entire universe had changed. Some great, hidden cosmic switch was flipped when I felt that surprisingly small and helpless creature against my body, when I looked for the first time into her little eyes. I saw a face with many of my features and my wife’s features. She was so much like us, and so different, too. Wonder of wonders. And, when Eliana was born, it happened again. My universe doubled.
Like most parents, I have found that it is hard to maintain that feeling of the miraculous in my everyday interactions with my children. It’s not so easy to feel touched by the Infinite when you’re cleaning up a diaper blowout, chasing a runaway toddler, dealing with a temper tantrum, asking a child to set the table for the fifth time in fifteen minutes, picking up last week’s laundry off the floor, or getting the child to turn off the computer games and get the homework done. Parenthood has plenty of frustrations, but it also has moments of transcendence. Those moments helping my child fall asleep after a hard day still remind me how lucky I am. I stroke her hair and quietly sing to her a Hebrew lullaby:
נומי נומי ילדתי, נומי נומי נים
נומי נומי חמדתי, נומי נומי נים
אבא הלך לעבודה, הלך הלך אבא
ישוב עם צאת הלבנה, יביא לך מתנה
נומי נומי ילדתי, נומי נומי נים
נומי נומי חמדתי, נומי נומי נים
[Sleep, sleep, my little girl, sleep, sleep
Sleep, sleep, my dear one, sleep, sleep
Daddy is going to work, to work he is going
He will return with the rising of the moon and bring you a gift
Sleep, sleep, my little girl, sleep, sleep
Sleep, sleep, my dear one, sleep, sleep]
As I watch her slowly drifting off to sleep, I see my past, present and future all rolled up into one. The child she is … once was me. The comfort I offer her, she will one day offer to her child. And one day, she may comfort me as I lay falling to my final sleep. We are all part of forever. We are all forever being birthed. Happy birthday, my dears, and thank you for this birthday gift you have given me.
Tomorrow afternoon, after each blowing of the shofar, we will pray and the choir will sing these words, “Hayom harat olam,” “This is the birthday of the world.” Rosh Hashanah is, by Jewish tradition, the anniversary of the creation of the world. It is the day that God gave birth to the world with the word, “יהי…,” “Let there be…”
On this night, I think of God as that first-time expecting parent, wondering when might be a good time to bring reality into being, only to find out that there is never a good time. I think of God worrying and fretting over the newborn world. I imagine God looking at the world and marveling at the idea that something beside God exists. Perhaps that is why God created the universe, to keep away the loneliness of being all that there is.
There is good reason why the Torah says that we are created us in God’s image. We are so much like the inquisitive, creative and lonely God who created us. Yet, we are also so different from God. To God, I imagine, we are a miracle – that anything so small, fragile, imperfect and temporary can also be capable of beauty, love, dignity and determination. God looks at us and is amazed. Look at how marvelous life is! The beautiful world that God has given us as a gift – so full of sky and ocean, trees and mountains – has returned the gift to God a thousand-fold! Wonder of wonders!
As much as God shaped the world into being, I imagine that we have shaped God. God cries over our suffering, is angered by our acts of hatred and violence. God is moved by the way we freely care for each other and have compassion for one another. The God who once wanted to drown human evil with Noah’s Flood has learned from us. It was humanity who taught God that if the only response to wrongdoing is punishment, then the world will not survive. We taught God that, sometimes, a good parent has to be ready to quietly accept the faults and limitations of the child. A good parent must be able, sometimes, to forgive a child more than the child deserves. We taught God – who only knew perfection before we were born – how to live lovingly with imperfection.
Still, it is not easy for a transcendent God to love a world that is filled with things that are so crassly flawed. It is hard for God when we destroy the natural world with our waste and poison, when we run away from our responsibilities, when we get angry enough or senseless enough to kill each other, when we keep making choices that are hurtful to ourselves and others, or when we just plain will not listen to the wisdom we have received.
For God, too, parenthood has frustrations, but it also has moments of transcendence. I imagine God, after all of the many millennia of the world’s imperfection, still gazing upon us in our sleep, and thinking of how good it is that we are part of this universe. Especially today, on the birthday of the world, God strokes our head to wipe away our pain and sings a quiet lullaby, remembering us as a newborn:
נומי נומי ילדתי, נומי נומי נים
נומי נומי חמדתי, נומי נומי נים
אבא הלך לעבודה, הלך הלך אבא
ישוב עם צאת הלבנה, יביא לך מתנה
נומי נומי ילדתי, נומי נומי נים
נומי נומי חמדתי, נומי נומי נים
I imagine that there must be times when God wonders why we were born, and at such an inconvenient time, too. But, on this day, on our birthday, God remembers that our imperfections and faults are part of what make us beautiful and filled with mystery. The God who is not capable of anything but perfection looks at us, and marvels at a creation that is so much like God, and yet completely different from God. Like any good parent, God sees in us a reminder of eternity.
On Rosh Hashanah, we can pretend to be able to see ourselves as God might see us. On this day that begins the Ten Days of Repentance, we strive to see ourselves as the frail and temporary creatures that we truly are. On this day, we learn new compassion for ourselves. We see ourselves as flawed, but still beautiful. We recognize that for us, it never seems like a good time to be born, or to be reborn. Yet, we must know that it is always the right time to do so. We remember that our sins and shortcomings are part of what makes us human. The punishment we suffer for them is often nothing more than the natural consequences of our own foolishness. We grieve for our mistakes, but we also forgive ourselves – and we accept God’s forgiveness – because we understand that imperfection is our natural state. It is the way that God has made us, and it is the way that God still is making us.
Tonight, we see ourselves as newborns on the birthday of the world.
We are given a birthday gift during these Days of Repentance, a chance to remake ourselves anew with the wisdom we have learned. We remember that, to God, we are the gift. We sing to ourselves a lullaby and hear God’s voice echoing the sound in our ears. נומי. Sleep. Sleep my little girl, my dear one. Your Father, your Mother loves you and accepts you. You are dear to Me. I bring you a gift. Be at peace.
L’shanah tovah tikateivu.
May you be inscribed for a good year.
Sixteen years ago, my wife, Jonquil, and I made a terrible, irreversible mistake. We had a baby in the month of September. Don’t get me wrong. We love Talia with all of our hearts. She is a fantastic daughter, but her birthday on September 12 is a bit problematic for a congregational rabbi. For the last sixteen years, I have had to take time during my busiest, craziest month of the year and spend it celebrating my older daughter’s birthday. It is her greatest flaw.
As if that was not enough, we went and made the exact same mistake again six years later. Eliana is an amazing child and we love and cherish her, but September 3 is just a very inconvenient time for a rabbi to be planning a child’s birthday party, shopping for cakes, and buying birthday presents. Talia and Eliana, we love you both, but why did you have to be born at a time when Abba should be writing sermons?
But, seriously, now.
Isn’t this the way that life always works? The big events in our lives seem to come before we really feel ready. When counseling a couple before their wedding, I sometimes hear the young couple talk about postponing starting a family because they want to make sure that they don’t have their first child until they are ready. Like almost all experienced parents, I hear those words and chuckle. We know that nobody is ever “ready” to have a child. There is no such thing as a “good time” for the incredible disruption that is caused by the awesome responsibility of bringing a child into the world.
Children, we know, do many things for their parents. They transform their lives. Amid all of the diaper changes and feedings, along with the sleepless nights and the terrifying fear of, God forbid, something going wrong, parents discover in their children a little piece of the Ultimate. We peer into the eyes of our children and we see ourselves and our partners at different times in our own lives. We recognize, looking at our children, that there really are miracles in this world, and that we have an important role in making miracles. As much as parents shape their children, children shape their parents. They transform us in the way they force us to see ourselves as part of something beautiful and powerful that is much larger than ourselves. We believe that we shower our children with gifts – a home, a family, food to nourish them and love to sustain them – yet we see how we as parents are the real recipients of a great gift.
Sometime, it might be a good idea for us to thank our children for the incredible gift they have given us by allowing us to see ourselves. They have given us the gift of opening our hearts to Eternity. On Rosh Hashanah, we are particularly aware of the gifts that surround us that we usually take for granted.
I remember the day I became a father. Talia was born well after her due date, which had us filled with anxiety and worry. After Jonquil went into labor, the birth did not go as we had planned (surprise!), and we were mentally, emotionally and physically exhausted by the experience. (Of course, Jonquil, did the hard part. She was far more exhausted than I).
But when I held that child in my arms for the first time, I remember how it felt like the entire universe had changed. Some great, hidden cosmic switch was flipped when I felt that surprisingly small and helpless creature against my body, when I looked for the first time into her little eyes. I saw a face with many of my features and my wife’s features. She was so much like us, and so different, too. Wonder of wonders. And, when Eliana was born, it happened again. My universe doubled.
Like most parents, I have found that it is hard to maintain that feeling of the miraculous in my everyday interactions with my children. It’s not so easy to feel touched by the Infinite when you’re cleaning up a diaper blowout, chasing a runaway toddler, dealing with a temper tantrum, asking a child to set the table for the fifth time in fifteen minutes, picking up last week’s laundry off the floor, or getting the child to turn off the computer games and get the homework done. Parenthood has plenty of frustrations, but it also has moments of transcendence. Those moments helping my child fall asleep after a hard day still remind me how lucky I am. I stroke her hair and quietly sing to her a Hebrew lullaby:
נומי נומי ילדתי, נומי נומי נים
נומי נומי חמדתי, נומי נומי נים
אבא הלך לעבודה, הלך הלך אבא
ישוב עם צאת הלבנה, יביא לך מתנה
נומי נומי ילדתי, נומי נומי נים
נומי נומי חמדתי, נומי נומי נים
[Sleep, sleep, my little girl, sleep, sleep
Sleep, sleep, my dear one, sleep, sleep
Daddy is going to work, to work he is going
He will return with the rising of the moon and bring you a gift
Sleep, sleep, my little girl, sleep, sleep
Sleep, sleep, my dear one, sleep, sleep]
As I watch her slowly drifting off to sleep, I see my past, present and future all rolled up into one. The child she is … once was me. The comfort I offer her, she will one day offer to her child. And one day, she may comfort me as I lay falling to my final sleep. We are all part of forever. We are all forever being birthed. Happy birthday, my dears, and thank you for this birthday gift you have given me.
Tomorrow afternoon, after each blowing of the shofar, we will pray and the choir will sing these words, “Hayom harat olam,” “This is the birthday of the world.” Rosh Hashanah is, by Jewish tradition, the anniversary of the creation of the world. It is the day that God gave birth to the world with the word, “יהי…,” “Let there be…”
On this night, I think of God as that first-time expecting parent, wondering when might be a good time to bring reality into being, only to find out that there is never a good time. I think of God worrying and fretting over the newborn world. I imagine God looking at the world and marveling at the idea that something beside God exists. Perhaps that is why God created the universe, to keep away the loneliness of being all that there is.
There is good reason why the Torah says that we are created us in God’s image. We are so much like the inquisitive, creative and lonely God who created us. Yet, we are also so different from God. To God, I imagine, we are a miracle – that anything so small, fragile, imperfect and temporary can also be capable of beauty, love, dignity and determination. God looks at us and is amazed. Look at how marvelous life is! The beautiful world that God has given us as a gift – so full of sky and ocean, trees and mountains – has returned the gift to God a thousand-fold! Wonder of wonders!
As much as God shaped the world into being, I imagine that we have shaped God. God cries over our suffering, is angered by our acts of hatred and violence. God is moved by the way we freely care for each other and have compassion for one another. The God who once wanted to drown human evil with Noah’s Flood has learned from us. It was humanity who taught God that if the only response to wrongdoing is punishment, then the world will not survive. We taught God that, sometimes, a good parent has to be ready to quietly accept the faults and limitations of the child. A good parent must be able, sometimes, to forgive a child more than the child deserves. We taught God – who only knew perfection before we were born – how to live lovingly with imperfection.
Still, it is not easy for a transcendent God to love a world that is filled with things that are so crassly flawed. It is hard for God when we destroy the natural world with our waste and poison, when we run away from our responsibilities, when we get angry enough or senseless enough to kill each other, when we keep making choices that are hurtful to ourselves and others, or when we just plain will not listen to the wisdom we have received.
For God, too, parenthood has frustrations, but it also has moments of transcendence. I imagine God, after all of the many millennia of the world’s imperfection, still gazing upon us in our sleep, and thinking of how good it is that we are part of this universe. Especially today, on the birthday of the world, God strokes our head to wipe away our pain and sings a quiet lullaby, remembering us as a newborn:
נומי נומי ילדתי, נומי נומי נים
נומי נומי חמדתי, נומי נומי נים
אבא הלך לעבודה, הלך הלך אבא
ישוב עם צאת הלבנה, יביא לך מתנה
נומי נומי ילדתי, נומי נומי נים
נומי נומי חמדתי, נומי נומי נים
I imagine that there must be times when God wonders why we were born, and at such an inconvenient time, too. But, on this day, on our birthday, God remembers that our imperfections and faults are part of what make us beautiful and filled with mystery. The God who is not capable of anything but perfection looks at us, and marvels at a creation that is so much like God, and yet completely different from God. Like any good parent, God sees in us a reminder of eternity.
On Rosh Hashanah, we can pretend to be able to see ourselves as God might see us. On this day that begins the Ten Days of Repentance, we strive to see ourselves as the frail and temporary creatures that we truly are. On this day, we learn new compassion for ourselves. We see ourselves as flawed, but still beautiful. We recognize that for us, it never seems like a good time to be born, or to be reborn. Yet, we must know that it is always the right time to do so. We remember that our sins and shortcomings are part of what makes us human. The punishment we suffer for them is often nothing more than the natural consequences of our own foolishness. We grieve for our mistakes, but we also forgive ourselves – and we accept God’s forgiveness – because we understand that imperfection is our natural state. It is the way that God has made us, and it is the way that God still is making us.
Tonight, we see ourselves as newborns on the birthday of the world.
We are given a birthday gift during these Days of Repentance, a chance to remake ourselves anew with the wisdom we have learned. We remember that, to God, we are the gift. We sing to ourselves a lullaby and hear God’s voice echoing the sound in our ears. נומי. Sleep. Sleep my little girl, my dear one. Your Father, your Mother loves you and accepts you. You are dear to Me. I bring you a gift. Be at peace.
L’shanah tovah tikateivu.
May you be inscribed for a good year.
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