Sermon given on Yom Kippur, September 21, 2026.

On Erev Rosh Hashanah this year, we marked the 25th anniversary of the September 11th attacks, and honored the memories of those whose lives were lost on that fateful day.

I know that this particular anniversary has brought back personal memories for many of us. I will briefly share that on September 11, 2001, I was a week and a half shy of 14 years old, in English class in the library of my high school. As did many of us, I watched the entire attack play out live on the television. I remember my teacher saying “it’s Bin Laden”, and having no idea who she was talking about. None of us knew when that day began that we would remember it forever— but here it is, two and a half decades later, seared in our minds. We now divide our memories into “before” and “after” that fateful day, and we understand, in retrospect, that a season of change was upon us, as a country and as a world. 

I also remember where I was when I found out about October 7th. I remember exactly where I was standing in the sanctuary at Har Shalom, the synagogue in Maryland where I served before coming to Temple Beth El. It was the middle of services. I remember which congregant came up to me and whispered the news to me, and I remember the shock, disbelief, and tears that rippled through the room. That day, too, is seared in all of our minds, and many of us also think of our Jewish experiences as being “before” and “after” that date. Those attacks, like Sept. 11, also ushered in a season of change– and it is one we are still in the throes of, as a community and a world.   

There are other moments that I know are carried in the memories of various people in this room and online– the day the Challenger exploded– the day JFK was murdered– the day the Berlin Wall fell– and more.

And beyond the major news events, there are also the personal moments that stay with us forever, and that brought in personal seasons of change; like the day we met our spouse. The day our children came into our lives. The day we got our first cell phone, our first computer, our first car, our first house. Our first Covid vaccine. The day we lost a loved one. The day we received a diagnosis that changed us profoundly. 

And frequently, these defining moments-- often ushering in the most beautiful or the most painful transitions of our lives-- come unannounced and unexpected. We may not even realize that we have entered a season of change until it is well underway.

In such situations, we don’t get to decide exactly how the transition happens. All we get to decide is which values are going to guide us as we rise to meet it.

An example of such a life-changing, world-altering moment, and the values with which one of our ancestors rose to meet that moment, sets the stage for the Torah portion we read every Yom Kippur. The story we just read begins in the immediate aftermath of the death of Aaron’s eldest sons and Moses’ nephews, Nadav and Avihu. These two made a fatal choice: to approach God in a strange way, in defiance of the rules and regulations set forth by Moses. And in response to their choice, they are killed on the spot. We did not read about their deaths today, on Yom Kippur– we only read about what happens “acharei mot”, in the immediate aftermath of the tragedy. 

That means that with the very first words of our Yom Kippur Torah reading-

וַיְדַבֵּ֤ר יְהֹוָה֙ אֶל־מֹשֶׁ֔ה אַחֲרֵ֣י מ֔וֹת שְׁנֵ֖י בְּנֵ֣י אַהֲרֹ֑ן

And God spoke to Moses after the death of two of Aaron’s sons

– we are thrown into the thick of that defining, anguished moment. 

It’s a dramatic way to start a Torah reading. As fellow humans, we can imagine how this horrific loss would have impacted Aaron, whose sons were abruptly taken from him. No matter whether the sons acted with good or ill intent, no matter if God had decreed their deaths or not, our hearts ache for Aaron as a father. I am certain that for the rest of his life, Aaron remembered the moment he learned that his sons were gone. For him, that would have been the kind of moment that was seared into his memory, like the moments we discussed at the beginning of this sermon. His grief must have been beyond words– which may be why the Torah reports that following his sons’ deaths, וַיִּדֹּ֖ם אַהֲרֹֽן Aaron was silent.

Thousands of years later, we as his descendants don’t get to know what was going through his head. We don’t get to know what was going on in his heart.

But what we DO get to witness is Aaron’s actions immediately following his sons’ deaths– and those actions teach us a lot about Aaron’s own deepest values, and how those values did not abandon him in his life’s most painful chapter.

Because although he is experiencing grief and shock and confusion, his actions are still the actions of a person who draws great meaning from being a priest and a public leader, of a person who draws strength from being steeped in ritual, and from being responsible for others. Even when the emotional rug was pulled out from under him with his son’s deaths, several important things stayed the same for Aaron: he still had his responsibilities; he still had his faith; and he still had his community. 

And so, as we read today, Aaron cleansed and dressed himself. Then, he carefully selected and offered a bull as a sacrifice to atone for the sins of his family; and finally, he performed the intense, intimate scapegoat ritual on behalf of his family and the entire camp.

We can imagine Aaron putting his hands on the head of the condemned goat, feeling its heartbeat, its pulse, and being keenly aware that it would soon join his sons in death, as he confesses aloud his sins and the sins of his sons and the sins of the camp.     

Because according to our Torah, that’s precisely what he did. Aaron found refuge and relief in our tradition and rituals, and that helped him get through what was probably the most painful and challenging season of change in his life.

Aaron is our teacher, today. He is our teacher, not because of his piety or observance level, but because he knew who he was, deep down. He knew what were the core parts of his identity, and he turned to them to help him get through a significant transition. He doubled down on the core essence of who he was– a man of God, a man of ritual, and a man of the people.  Knowing who he was, deep down, is what saw him through into the new chapter.       

As humans, our brains have a remarkable way of learning to cope with change, and of rolling with the punches that life throws us. We integrate new information into our personal narrative on a never-ending basis, modifying and augmenting our concept of “normal” so that we can not only survive, but adapt to new circumstances and fold them into our identities. This cognitive process is called “Assimilation”. Balancing necessary assimilation with staying true to our core values, as Aaron did following the deaths of his sons, is a tricky but necessary balancing act in a world that often throws us curveballs.

And as Jews, this is a balancing act that our people has honed into a real talent over the millennia. Throughout the thousands of years of complicated history, we have experienced many significant changes that required both assimilation of new circumstances AND a reaffirmation of our core identities. 

We had to assimilate major changes, like the exodus from Egypt,

the construction– and then the destruction– of the Temples,

the Exile from Eretz Yisrael,

The Crusades and the Inquisition,

the Holocaust,

the establishment of the modern State of Israel,

October 7th-- just to name a few--

And just like Aaron after his son’s deaths, what has sustained us through all of it is a commitment to our core values and to who we really are– a people at once ancient and brand-new; a people that sanctifies time and space, wherever we go; and a people who know that we are stronger, together.   

In order to successfully assimilate these dramatic changes into our people’s narrative, we Jews have integrated them into our ritual observances over the generations. Holidays like Hanukkah, Tisha B’av, and Yom HaAtzmaut joined biblical chaggim like Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur on the calendar. Inclusive rituals such as bat and brit mitzvahs and weddings for all genders folded smoothly into our practices alongside earlier, less inclusive rituals. The ever-evolving seder plate now has space for oranges and tomatoes next to the matzoh. 

In other words, we knew who we were. We adapted– AND, we also stayed true to our core sense of self. Because we are Jews! And because that is what Jews do, and what Jews have always done, as far back as Aaron and right up until today, right here at TBE.

Because here at TBE, we have also had to assimilate lots of changes over the course of the last 79 years. 

When this synagogue was founded in the late 1940s, a group of Jewish families from Portland came together to create a non-Orthodox community that would support Jews living in a new, post- Holocaust reality. This group made decisions democratically, taking votes on all kinds of things, from the synagogue’s name to our formal denomination identity. TBE’s first spiritual leader, Rabbi Ephraim Bennett, wrote at TBE’s dedication that “we dedicate not only our Temple but ourselves… our Temple is but the means to enable us to express more clearly our finest aspirations [and] our noblest thoughts.” This lofty moral ambition, combined with the strong sense of egalitarianism, communal responsibility and collective decisions making, planted the seeds for the strong TBE identity that remains the center of who we are today. The founders also clearly named in the very first documents of this synagogue that establishing a religious school and providing for the future of Portland Jews had to be a key and guiding principle of TBE. 

And since its founding 8 decades ago, TBE has experienced many dramatic moments, and assimilated them into our story: like the Civil Rights Movement; the ordination of women and later non-binary folks as rabbis; communal crises including September 11th and October 7th; the arrival or departure of rabbis and cantors; and significant changes to the building, the grounds, and our various policies. 

There are people here, in this room today, who clearly remember some of those times of transition for this synagogue, and your continued dedication to the community through it all speaks volumes. TBE will always be grateful to you.   

We will be grateful to you, because no matter what happened, TBE– the people who are TBE– successfully responded to dramatic change much like our ancestor Aaron did: by doubling down on the core essence of our central values, and who we are– a true community, stronger together than we ever can be separately, committed to helping one another, and committed to stewardship of this Temple for future generations.  

This core essence of our identity– and this dedication to serving the future of TBE– continue to guide us as we have faced a new season of ongoing change over the past several years. 

In the past two to three years, the staff and lay leadership of this synagogue has undergone significant shifts, although none as dramatic as Aaron’s loss. But like his loss, these changes have sometimes been sudden, and they have deeply impacted the operations and governance for Temple Beth El.

The transitions have been numerous: the exit of a longtime, beloved rabbi; the lengthy processes of finding an interim rabbi and then a new rabbi and then a new executive director; sudden health challenges for team members; and more. All of this has happened, of course, while the world outside of TBE was also experiencing immense upheaval.   

None of these changes were as traumatic as the ones we named at the start of this sermon. But they were significant, and they upended the status quo. Some of these changes were significant enough that they could have been very damaging to a community that did not know and trust itself.   

But that’s not what happened. Because we at TBE had a choice of how to respond to these sudden and significant changes, just like Aaron did; and the choice we made, in response to these changes, showed us something truly beautiful about the TBE community. It showed us that, like Aaron, we know who we really are. We showed each other that we WILL step up when it’s important. We WILL we have each others’ backs, including when we disagree. And we WILL act in a way that shows we understand that it’s up to us, at the end of the day, to nurture and bring into being the community we want to see, for ourselves and for our children and for our children’s children. 

Just as there was no single person who brought TBE into being, 79 years ago, so too there was no single person who decided how TBE would make it through these last few years– in true TBE fashion, it was always a communal effort. Board members showed up for extra meetings and late-night conversations; staff took on extra duties to ensure the office ran as smoothly as possible; so many of you volunteered, showed up, stayed patient, gave feedback, and continued to be generous with your resources, ideas, love, and presence. Everyone stepped up. 

And because of those communal efforts, now, on the other side of two or three challenging transitional years, as the dust begins to settle, we can all share in feelings of pride for how well this community is doing today. 

On Erev Rosh Hashanah, I invited us all to look around at each other, and I’d like to invite you to do the same thing right now. Look in front of you, behind you, to your left and right. We are all on the same team, and that team is doing well. TBE is thriving, as it moves into its next chapter, and we all get to be a part of that.

TBE is thriving– But don’t take my word for it. Just come to one of our monthly family Shabbats this year, and see for yourself.

Come hear the laughter of the kiddos. Come and be SO PROUD of them helping lead services. Come and watch friends old and new kibbitz and sway to the music. Come and make a minyan for your neighbor to say Kaddish. Come and get a hug, or a smile, or just some of Sadie’s famous Mac and Cheese. Come and be in community. Come and meet your family.

I know that there are all kinds of studies out there about how interest in organized religion is down in America; about how Jews in particular are affiliating less and less; about how disillusioned many of us feel, and about how despair is settling in where faith and connection used to live.

I know that it can feel like hope is hard to come by, nowadays. 

But when I look out at all of you today, that’s not the story I see, not here at TBE. 

When I look at all of you, I see a room full of stories, woven into one bigger narrative. I see hundreds of people who are connected by the same ancient, ever-renewing tapestry. I see people whose ancestors came from all over the globe, with nothing but love and hope for us, their descendants. I see a congregation that draws hope and strength from knowing that those who went before us lived through tough times, together, and that we can, too.     

I see us knowing who we are– a place of audacious welcome and robust diversity of belief– a place where, as we discussed on Rosh Hashanah, we will not hide from difficult conversations. A place where we will be brave, and not cast each other out. A place where we can do teshuvah, and forgive each other, and learn. A place we can be safe. A place we can be home.   

And, every day, I see us dedicating ourselves, again and again, to the mission of this sacred space, just like Rabbi Bennett called on us to do all of those years ago.

In the Torah, we don’t get to know what Aaron was thinking or feeling as he faced one of the most difficult transitions of his life. All we get to know is how he acted, how he channeled his energy, and the legacy he built during a season of immense change.

Similarly, our descendants won’t get to know every thought that is going through our brains (though, with Insta and Tik Tok, they’ll know more than perhaps they want to.) 

But they will get to inherit the communities and institutions we build. They’ll reap the rewards of relationship, and the conflicts, and the strength, and the values and programs that we choose to pour our energy into. And so, we owe it to them, and to ourselves, to be intentional, this year, about who we want to be, together. 

This Yom Kippur, we can’t promise each other that we will have a good year. We can’t promise each other that we will have an easy year. We don’t know what’s going to happen in the world around us, and we don’t know what sudden changes may happen, that we may have to rise to meet.

But what we CAN promise each other is that we will rise and meet whatever this year brings together. We can promise each other that we will rise and meet whatever the coming year brings, anchored by the same values that have been core to TBE from the beginning.

Many of you are wearing white today— and several of you have asked me why. In Judaism, white is a color that reminds us of our mortality. On the one hand, white is the color of a burial shroud, the final garment of a Jew, lovingly placed with care onto each of us by a Chevra kadisha. Wearing it reminds us that our time to do good in this world is limited, and that we don’t know how much of it we have. It reminds us of how precious it is to have another chance, another clean slate, if you will, to try, for another year, for another month, for another day, for another hour— to heal any pain we have caused to one another, and to help each other in any way we can. 

But another reason for us all to wear white on Yom Kippur is because of its beautiful, unifying effect.  When we look around us and see our neighbors similarly wrapped in the same color, it reminds us of the gifts and needs and inheritance we have in common, including, specifically, the gift of our community. 

Mishnah Taanit describes Yom Kippur as a day of repentance and mortality, yes, but also a day of great joy, where unmarried maidens of Jerusalem would wear borrowed white frocks— key word here being borrowed— so that nobody could tell who was richer or poorer or fancier or plainer. That sea of white can be a reminder that, at the end of the day, we are truly in this together, and that when we learn to work through the times when we don’t see eye to eye, we can create and sustain something beyond ourselves,

something beautiful,

something holy. 

That is surely what has happened here at TBE.

As I considered how I wanted to end this sermon, I read through the book of TBE dedications from 1950, which quoted Rabbi Bennett’s charge to the congregation at the synagogue’s founding.

He concluded with the following statement, which I also leave us with today, 79 years later:

“I pray that we be granted the strength to fulfill the promise of this hour. May our Temple never fail us; may we never fail it.” 

Almost eighty years later, Rabbi Bennett, I think we are doing you proud. 

G’mar Chatima Tova, TBE.