Sermons

Julia and I love to escape to a little cabin in Northern California. My great, great grandfather built it in 1901. A place surrounded by redwoods, not far from the crashing ocean. A place that feels timeless. This past July, we went there for a few days. We hiked beneath trees older than America. We breathed in the salt air. We let the noise of Los Angeles fall away. And then, it was Friday. Shabbat was coming. 

That morning, we drove into Healdsburg to one of the best bakeries in the country to buy a challah. We stopped at one of our favorite wineries for a bottle of local wine. And that evening, I cooked a meal - BBQ chicken, farmstand vegetables, fresh greens. The table was set. The wine poured. The challah covered. Everything was ready. Until I looked around and realized…we had no candles. 

I could have sworn I’d seen some, but they were nowhere. The table was filled with food. The cabin was full of silence. And it seemed we were about to welcome Shabbat in total darkness.

We’re entering into these High Holidays with that same sense of darkness.  Every day seems to bring another reminder of our vulnerability; of our worst fears slowly blooming before our very eyes; a deeper and deeper sense of isolation. And that’s just from being a citizen of the world.  As Jews, add a few more layers of pain, confusion, and fear, and that adequately describes it.