I keep seeing people on social media wish for this year to be over. One Jewish comedian, Eli Reiter tweeted yesterday: “I’m lucky to be Jewish because it means there are only three days left to this dumpster fire of a year, and there are 4 more months for the rest of you.”
Most of us want this year to end, but a new year, with the same world, the same challenges, that doesn’t solve for much on its own. A year ends, a year begins, but does the world change?
Many of us have been susceptible to an error in Jewish translation, myself included. There’s Rosh Hashanah liturgy that says hayom harat olam—most frequently translated as “today the world is born.” Sounds totally fresh and new, suggesting Rosh Hashanah is the world’s birthday…not quite.
A better translation of hayom harat olam would be today the world is conceived. Today is the gestation of the world. Today we are invited to conceive of what could be, not necessarily tomorrow, but perhaps at the end of these 10 days of repentance, or perhaps what will be 3 months from now, 6 months, 9 months. What the world could be after struggles and striving.
We are invited to see the world not as an “as is”—born, already in existence, an event.
But rather the world as “in becoming”—what could be, a process.
Quite obviously I don’t know the following firsthand, as I’m neither a parent today, nor a mother ever, but mothers have told me how much perspective changes at the moment of pregnancy—priorities, food choices, the body itself of course, the way you view the state and future of the world, etc.
This is what Rosh Hashanah asks of us: What needs to change for this new world to be born?
It always seems funny that Yom Kippur’s themes of judgment come after Rosh Hashanah. You might think, it should be opposite: get your moral/spiritual/relationship affairs in order before the new year. But in fact, we need the eye-widening affect of Rosh Hashanah, a new year, a world that is still just in conception. This eye-widening allows us to see the possibilities of the world unfolding, and that in this great universe and world—A world in which black holes collide, and potential signs of life show up in unexpected place—that we have a role to play. It’s a bit part, but we got cast. We can be a parent, friend, aunt, uncle, cousin of the world that will one day be born.
Noah Ben Shea wrote collections of Jacob the Baker stories. Any of you know of this wise baker? For those who are not familiar, Jacob the Baker was a baker in a small-town, whose great wisdom made him village famous—oh how I’d die to be village famous.
This is one of the stories about him that reflects on the wisdom of a full life lived. This year was so overwhelmingly filled, over-wrought and overrun, that the story seems fitting for just the course of this year. Jacob the Baker:
And so one day, like many other days, kids shuffled over to Jacob’s bakery after school, plopped themselves down on some sacks of flour—the very gluten-filled version of a beanbag—and finally a boy found some courage, and asked Jacob, “Why do you often say, “A child sees what I only understand?”
“A child sees what I only understand.”
Jacob paused, and then answered, his voice with a long-ago quality.
“Imagine a boy, sitting on a hill, looking out through his innocence on the expanse, mystery, and beauty of the world. Slowly the child begins to learn. He does this by collecting small stones of knowledge, placing one on top of the other. Over time, his learning becomes a wall, a wall he has built in front of himself.
Now, when he looks out, he can see his learning, but he has lost his view. And so he is now a man, no longer a boy. And this man is both proud and sad. The man looks at his predicament, this wall of learning, and decides to take down the wall. But to take down a wall takes time, and when he finally accomplishes the task, he has become an elder, an old man.
The old man rests on the hill and looks out through his experience on the beauty of the world. He understands what has happened to him. He understands what he sees. But he does not see the world the way he saw it as a child on that first clear morning.”
A young girl interjects, “but, but, certainly the old man can remember what he once saw!”
Jacob responds, “you are right, experience matures to memory. But memory is the gentlest of truths.”
“Are you afraid of growing old, Jacob?” asks a child, giggling.
“What grows never grows old”, said Jacob
This parable speaks to the full span of life. But I believe it has much wisdom, to speak to the span of a year, especially this past one. A year that began with our hopes and wishes for that coming year. With 10 days of teshuvah, repentance, tefilah, prayer, and tzedakah, charitable giving, we tried to get ourselves on a good track for the coming year. And then over the course of this year, challenges came upon us, one after another, stone upon stone, boulder upon boulder, until suddenly it was hard to look over that wall. It became hard to see anything besides the challenges of Covid, the challenges of America in distress, the challenges of keeping the public safe—the whole public, no individuals or groups excluded. Inevitably, these challenges blocked our sigh. Will we only be able to see after each is solved, one by one, like in the story?
Quite the opposite, in order to overcome these challenges we need to see, to imagine, to conceive. The offering of Rosh Hashanah is to see anew now. The year changes from 5780-5781. “Should we be afraid of the world growing older?,” the little boy might ask. “What grows never grows old”, said Jacob. And this world it keeps growing, it keeps changing. It invites us to join that process to see over the wall, see with wide fresh eyes. To see possibility in the world, to see possibility in our selves. Today the world is conceived, and we can see anew.
Rosh Hashanah is the reset moment on the shecehyanu prayer: shecheyanu, vikiymau, v’higiyanu lazman hazeh. From Rosh Hashanah on, we are asked to notice the first time we eat a fruit in this new year, acknowledge the coming of each holiday in this new year, bless the first time we’ve traveled to Israel this year, God-willing.
We thank the Source of Life for having given us life, for helping us to withstand whatever could’ve knocked us down, and for reaching this time, this precious moment.
Some of you may have eaten an apple earlier today. Tonight or tomorrow that apple is no different. So why shehechayanu? You are different. Your perspective is different.
And so as we will now transition from service to seder, a tradition I’ve ever experienced before, though it is an ancient tradition for some Mizrachi and Sephardi Jews. You’ll notice as we get rolling, that besides the typical blessings over challah, wine, and fruit of the tree, this is a ritual with no blessings. In general, a blessing recognizes something that already is.
This is a ritual of yehi ratzon’s—statements of “may it be God’s will,” statements of imagination and hope for the world that will be, a loosening of constraints. The world is conceived, we have our many hopes and wises for it. We get a chance to think them, pray them, say them out loud. Seed those ideas in our mind, and then work in these 10 days until Yom Kippur, and for the remainder of the year, to work to their fulfillment.
If you have any of the symbolic foods, creative substitutions for them, or just a snack or 1st course that you want to begin partaking in, you’re invited to do so as we begin the seder, with kiddush and shehecheyanu.
ונוהגין לאכול תפוח מתוק בדבש ואחר שיאכל יאמר זה: יְהִי רָצוֹן מִלְּפָנֶיךָ יְהֹוָה אֱלֹהֵינוּ וֵאלֹהֵי אֲבוֹתֵינוּ שֶׁתְּחַדֵּשׁ עָלֵינוּ שָׁנָה טוֹבָה וּמְתוּקָה:
נוהגין לאכול גם ראש איל או כבש זכר לאילו של יצחק או ראש של דג ויאמר זה: באכילת ראש כבש או דג אומר: יְהִי רָצוֹן מִלִּפְנֵי אָבִינוּ שֶׁבַּשָּׁמַיִם, שֶׁנִּהְיֶה לְרֹאשׁ וְלֹא לְזָנָב.
באכילת התמרים אומר: יְהִי רָצוֹן מִלִּפְנֵי אָבִינוּ שֶׁבַּשָּׁמַיִם שֶׁיִּתַּמּוּ שׂוֹנְאֵינוּ וְאוֹיְבֵינוּ.
באכילת הרימון אומר: יְהִי רָצוֹן מִלְּפָנֶיךָ יְהֹוָה אֱלֹהֵינוּ וֵאלֹהֵי אֲבוֹתֵינוּ, שֶׁתַּרְבֶּה זְכֻיּוֹתֵינוּ כְּרִמּוֹן:
It is customary to eat apples dipped in honey and to say afterwards:
May it be Your will, our God and God of our ancestors that we should have a good and sweet new year.
When eating the head of a sheep or fish say:
May it be Your will, our God and God of our ancestors that we should be as a head and not a tail.
When eating dates say:
May it be Your will, our God and God of our ancestors that our enemies be destroyed.
When eating a pomegranate say:
May it be Your will, our God and God of our ancestors that our merits increase, as the seeds of the pomegranate.