- 5786/2025
- Rabbi Eshel
Yom Kippur 5786/2025
Rabbi David Eshel
Resnick Family Campus
Wilshire Boulevard Temple, Los Angeles
The Courage to Try Again
It was Asher’s third summer at camp. All year, he had been talking about the surfing elective. He dreamed about it. Talked about the board he’d get to use. He even brought a wetsuit from home. But there was a test. A swim test. A tougher one from the norm… and one he had already failed. Twice.
That first morning before breakfast as I was walking to the dining hall, I gave him a “what’s up Asher”...but he just kept looking down, and said.. “Oh hey”.. avoiding eye contact, Dude you ok.."I don’t think I can do it. I want to. I really do!... “what are you talking about?”...Rabbi…the swim test! what if I fail again?" And then he said it…not out loud, but in that quiet way kids say something true without saying it:..I don’t want to be the kid who tried and failed again. Not the kid who couldn’t do it. Not the one who got his hopes up only to be embarrassed. Again.
He was talking about surfing. But not really. He was talking about how we carry our failures. About how shame builds up in layers. About how, at some point, it feels safer to stop hoping. And I told him, "Yeah. You might fail. But maybe not. And even if you do, that doesn’t mean you stop being someone who tries. It means you care enough to keep going." And I watched him. Shoulders tight. Breath shallow. And then I watched him take a step forward.
That step. That moment. That risk to try again even when the fracture still stings…that is the heart of Yom Kippur.
In a Tel Aviv lab, a researcher mixed peptide powder into water. It wasn’t a big moment. No sparks flew. No glassblowing oven roared. Just a curious hand and a little bit of powder. The next morning, after the water had evaporated, something was left behind. Glass. Actual glass. But not the kind made by heat and flame. This glass formed gently. And then…they discovered something else.
It healed itself. If it cracked and you added water, the crack would begin to close. Quietly. Slowly. But fully. That shouldn’t be possible. But it is.
And maybe that’s why it matters. Because healing that comes from within? That’s the kind we’re praying for today.
The mystics teach that at the beginning of creation, vessels were formed to contain divine light. But they shattered, unable to hold the intensity. Those broken shards, they say, scattered across the universe. And embedded in each shard is a spark of holiness, waiting to be lifted up and made whole again. We call this sacred act tikkun, repair.
Each act of kindness, each moment of truth, each small return, is a gathering of broken pieces. A healing of what has been shattered. We are not just glass that heals. We are the healers of glass…the ones who pick up the pieces, who hold the glue of commitment, the tears of compassion, and the prayers of hope.
We walk into this sanctuary every year carrying fractures. Some are hairline strains in the heart. Some are deep ruptures we don’t speak of. Some are the result of splintered trust. Some are the scars of a fractured family. Some we caused. Some we hide. Some we’ve tried to heal before and failed. We say, This again? I’ve done this already. I said sorry. I tried. And it didn’t work. We walk in and think maybe this year we should stop trying. Maybe broken is just how things stay.
But here’s what Yom Kippur whispers: Try again. Not because it will be easy. Not because this time will be perfect. But because the act of showing up matters. The act of reaching toward repair…with our hearts, our words, our tears… it changes us.
This day is not just about forgiveness. It’s about courage. In the liturgy, we say: Hashiveinu Adonai eilecha v'nashuvah — Return us to You, and we shall return. But what if the first return is not to God... but to ourselves? To the parts of us we’ve avoided. To the conversations we’ve delayed. To the healing we’ve feared. Yom Kippur is a return to the work of being whole.
That peptide glass? It doesn’t look like much. But it’s stronger than it seems. It just needs the right conditions to heal. So do we.
And healing doesn’t just happen inside of us. It happens between us. One conversation. One text. One vulnerable step at a time. Write the email. Make the call. Say the words: "I'm sorry." "I miss you." "I want to try again." Ask someone you love, "What do you need from me this year?" And really listen. Not to fix. But to hear.
Let someone love you through the places you still haven’t figured out. Let yourself love someone who hasn’t gotten it right yet. This is what we do here. We try again. We try together. And if there are relationships that cannot be healed this year, we honor that too. We place boundaries not as punishment, but as clarity. Even that is a form of healing.
But the fractures don’t end with us. Our people are hurting. Israel is hurting.
Since October 7, the heartbreak has deepened. The fractures are visible…in politics, in grief, in fear, and in the way we speak to and about one another. We scroll and we cry. We rage and we retreat. Some of us feel confused. Some feel betrayed. Some just feel numb. It’s easy to feel like maybe we should give up. Give up on peace. Give up on each other. Give up on hope.
But we can’t. Because we are bound to Israel. And Israel is bound to us. Not just by history or blood or politics…but by hope. We don’t give up on Israel. Not because she is perfect. But because she is ours. Because we love her enough to demand better, to believe deeper, to hope harder.
When we refuse to give up on Israel, we help her not give up on herself. When we keep showing up, something new may yet emerge. Something stronger. Something clearer. A new path forward. A reimagined hope. We are part of that possibility. Not just as supporters, but as builders of the dream.
Even in heartbreak. Even in pain. Especially then. We add our drop of water to the fracture. And we begin again.
The peptide glass…discovered by accident…reminds us of the hidden potential in what seems fragile. It's not made the old way. It doesn’t require intense fire or pressure. Just water. Just presence. And when cracked, it doesn’t shatter…it begins to knit itself back together.
We are watching the region try something new. We are seeing plans and proposals emerge…tentative, imperfect, no guarantees… yes… But they are different. There is support from some serious Arab states. There is support from Israelis on the left and the right who are finding common ground. These are not yet solutions. But they are openings.
Perhaps the most radical act right now is to not shut down to these possibilities. To keep our hearts open enough to imagine that something new can form…just as that glass did. Not easily. Not overnight. But with each new step, each sincere effort, each drop of hope, a future that once felt impossible might begin to take shape.
We believe in Israel. Not blindly. Not without heartbreak. But with clarity and commitment. We believe Israel is worth our prayers and our protest. Our donations and our discourse. Our partnership and our persistence. Because if we give up on Israel, we make it easier for Israel to give up on herself. And she can’t afford that. We can’t afford that.
Israel is not just a place. It’s a promise. A promise of refuge. A promise of rebirth. A promise that the Jewish people do not live only in memory but in movement—forward. We believe that the people of Israel deserve to live in peace and dignity. That believing in this sacred hope does not weaken our Zionism. It strengthens our humanity.
So for ourselves as individuals, our families, our community, our nation, our people, our world…We are the healers of glass…the ones who pick up the pieces, who hold the glue of commitment, the tears of compassion, and the prayers of hope.
Here is what that courage looks like: We show up. We name what’s broken. We add the water…the prayer, the tears, the apology, the softness, the strength. We hold each other accountable. We hold each other up. We trust that something new might form. Maybe not what we had before. But something clearer. Something more honest. Something holy.
This is what we mean when we say teshuvah. Return. Not just to God. But to ourselves. To each other. To the work. This is why we fast. This is why we pray. This is why we beat our chests and say, over and over and over and over, Ashamnu, bagadnu, gazalnu — For the sin we committed by being careless with our words. For the sin of hardening our hearts. For the sin of giving up too soon. We chant the list knowing we are not guilty of every wrong. But we also know we are not innocent of them all. This is communal accountability. Not shame. Not blame. But a collective stepping forward. A willingness to name what is broken…together.
That boy at camp? He took the test. He didn’t look confident. But he showed up. He jumped in. And this time? He still didn’t pass.
But he was close. So much closer than ever before. He swam farther than he ever had. He treaded water longer. And when he got out of the pool, he wasn’t discouraged. He actually was energized. We sat on the edge of the pool, his legs dangling in the water, and he looked at me and said, "Rabbi, I almost did it. I think I can get it next time."
And I believe he will. Because he’s no longer afraid of trying. He left with more confidence, more strength, more courage. And most of all, with hope. He’s learning the most important thing: not to give up. And that’s where the healing really begins. And so are we.
So may this be the year we show up fractured and brave. The year we step forward. The year we make room for healing. May this be the year we don’t give up. May this be the year we return. May this be the year we become the glass that heals.
G'mar chatimah tovah.