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In my sixth year of service as Oak Park Temple's associate rabbi, I announced that I had accepted the pulpit of KAM Isaiah Israel in Chicago's Hyde Park. This sermon addresses themes of renewal that intersect with changing congregations, the new year, and starting a new book of Torah. Making Meaning of Arbitrary Accident
I want to start with a question. Who here has made a New Year’s resolution that you’re willing to share? [Gather a few resolutions from the community.] OK now a follow-up question. To anyone who’s made a New Year’s resolution—this year or in years past—why did you do it? [Discussion.] I think we all know that from Nature’s point of view, the day we call January 1st isn’t that much different from the day we call December 31st. And yet, our society invests this date with special meaning. We know on one level that dates are arbitrary; yet on another—perhaps a deeper—level, we often find meaning in them. This dynamic can be traced all the way back to the beginning of the Torah, in the first parashah of the book of Genesis. On the fourth day of creation, “God said, ‘Let there be lights in the expanse of the sky to separate day from night. וְהָיוּ לְאֹתֹת וּלְמוֹעֲדִים, They shall serve as signs for the set times—the days and the years” (Gen. 1:14). These moadim, the “set times,” are what we refer to today as “holidays.” Later, in the book of Leviticus, Israel is instructed: מוֹעֲדֵי יְהֹוָה אֲשֶׁר־תִּקְרְאוּ אֹתָם מִקְרָאֵי קֹדֶשׁ The fixed times of the Eternal, Which you shall proclaim them, Are sacred occasions (Lev. 23:2). From this we learn, as Rabbi Akiva teaches in the Mishnah (Rosh Hashanah 2:9), that while the movement of the heavenly spheres is fixed in the heavens, the seasons and days that arise from them can be truly sacred occasions—if and only if we proclaim them to be. In other words, it’s not the case that Rosh Hashanah, for example, happens in the universe and we humans do our best to notice it; Rosh Hashanah only exists when human beings proclaim the new year. This approach to holidays is similar to the way we view coincidences or other curious occurrences. From an abstract or mathematical perspective, the fact that two people share a birthday, for instance, is meaningless – but if it’s your birthday, it might mean something to you. In fact, as Julie Beck reports in The Atlantic, / So, here’s a New Year’s coincidence: This first week of the year and the opening of a new book of the Torah both coincide with the announcement I made on Wednesday that I have accepted a new pulpit at KAM Isaiah Israel in Hyde Park. My family and I have been here for six years, and it’s going to be hard to say good-bye. We’re grateful not to be moving too far away from this community we’ve grown to love, and we know that Oak Park will always have a place in our lives. This next step in our professional and personal journeys is a big one, and I’m so grateful to have the support of so many loving and encouraging members of this community, including everyone here tonight. I’ve spent much of the past week reflecting on the changes that the next year will bring, on how the journey through the rest of the Torah will accompany me in my transition to a new community where, for the first time in six years, I will celebrate the High Holidays with a different congregation. I’m not one for New Year’s resolutions normally, but this year in particular, I feel like change is going to find me whether I’m resolved about it or not. But I also want to say that I haven’t left yet! There will be plenty of opportunities to say good-bye when the time comes, but I’m still a rabbi here through the end of June, and to that extent, this week is not so different from the week before or the week to come. So, let’s return to the opening of the book of Exodus and to some of that classic Rabbi Kirzane Torah. Have you ever wondered why the five books of the Torah are divided as they are? The text wasn’t originally composed to be five books, and it wasn’t until the content of the Torah was mostly complete and its constituent parts were compiled into a unified whole that the text needed to be divided into smaller sections. According to the biblical scholar Menahem Haran, Judeans began writing on animal skin parchment after the Babylonian exile, at which time our Torah could be transcribed into scrolls. But, each book is not exactly the same length. The decision to divide what we call Genesis from what we call Exodus could have been done differently. We could have started a new book with Jacob’s descent into Egypt or Moses’ encounter at the burning bush. According to Haran, “The tangible proportions of the five books themselves were determined not by a blind cutting up of the whole corpus into five, but by the intention to circumscribe special thematic cycles within this corpus as a whole.” Take Exodus, for example. This week’s parashah opens וְאֵלֶּה שְׁמוֹת בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל הַבָּאִים מִצְרָיְמָה, “These are the names of the Children of Israel who came to Egypt with Jacob, each one coming with their household” (Exodus 1:1). If that sounds familiar, it’s because you’ve memorized the opening of Genesis 46:8--וְאֵלֶּה שְׁמוֹת בְּנֵי־יִשְׂרָאֵל הַבָּאִים מִצְרַיְמָה, “These are the names of the Children of Israel who came to Egypt.” Clearly there are similar themes here; so why didn’t the ancient publishers of printed Torah scrolls include the beginning of Exodus with the end of Genesis? Rabbi David Kasher offers one interpretation: The beginning of Exodus is shot through with callbacks to Genesis to indicate that the formation of the people of Israel represents a new creation, an entirely new reality. But the stormy arc of Genesis also reminds us that for every creation there is the potential for destruction. Every new life is already haunted by the shadow of death. All of this is terribly fragile. We can rightly say that Exodus is a new book, just as we can rightly say that 2024 is a new year. But both are connected to what came before, understood in the light of what we’ve already experienced, and significant as turning points for the paths they open into the future. Though we say in our daily prayers m’chadesh b’chol yom tamid maaseh b’reishit, that God renews every day continually the work of creation, we also know that a new day, a new year, a new job, a new life are all meaningfully interwoven with others. These connections are not mere accidents; they are coincidences—inherently pregnant with meaning—and ripe for our interpretation so that we might make the most of each new encounter. This is going to be a big year. Admittedly, it’ll probably be bigger for some of us than for others. But as we stand on the border of change, looking back at what’s come before, we can face the challenges and opportunities that lie ahead with the dual promises that there is nothing new under the sun, yet every day is entirely unique. In the words of Leah Goldberg: Teach me, my God, to bless and to pray … lest my day be today like all the yesterdays.
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