Sermon given October 24, 2026

In the 1970s, author Michael Pirsig famously published a memoir about an epic cross-country motorcycle trip, combining accounts of his lengthy travels with introspection and reflection on what gives life meaning. He titled his work “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.”

I share this with you because the working title for this sermon, in my brain, was “Zen and the Art of Moose Seeking.”

That’s right, folks: it is now time for my annual moose-themed sermon.

I spent the entire High holiday season looking forward to last week, to my yearly moose-seeking expedition to Greenville and Kokadjo in the North Woods. 

If you spoke to me before I left for my trip, you may remember not only my excitement, but also my stories from previous visits north to look for the majestic, massive, magnificent, incredibly awkward and weird-looking creatures who quite literally have been wandering through my dreams since this trip. You might remember me talking about how spiritual an experience it is for me to come face-to-face with a moose, and how humbling.

Being a caring and connected human being in today’s world can sometimes feel painful and overwhelming-- and for me, going out and searching for moose is one of the only things that really allows my brain and heart to take a break, and a rest, and to get away from the existential crises facing our world. It feels like my own personal week-long Shabbat. 

And the good news is: the search worked. I saw at least 12 moose, this time around.

But I actually started writing this sermon, in my head, before I saw any of those 12 moose. 

That’s because it took two full days of driving back and forth for me to see the first of those 12 moose; two full days of searching for hours and waiting and hoping; two full days of not knowing if I would lay eyes on any of these magnificent beasts. I drove down paved roads and gravel roads and dirt roads for hours on end, wearing bright orange (it’s hunting season), without a sign of my quarry. And that gave me a lot of time to think, and to examine how I felt about the search itself, even in the absence of my favorite megafauna.

It struck me, sometime into day 2 of my search, that the core spiritual experience I was craving and looking for had a lot less to do with the brief moments where I actually laid eyes on a moose, and a lot more to do with the process of looking for them, and with how that process itself is healing for me.

I realized that when I go to look for moose, alone in the woods for days on end, I let myself temporarily shift my priorities. And instead of prioritizing the daily grind, I get to prioritize possibility and hope. 

When I look for moose, I put up with hunger and thirst and exhaustion; I live off of mainly granola bars and iced tea; I spend hours out of range of reception and unable to access the rest of the world; I wake before dawn each day without an alarm-- all because I am so, so excited about the possibility that at any moment, a moose might appear in my peripheral vision or step out of the woods in front of the car.

And when that happens-- when I finally see them-- my heart jumps into my throat. Everything else stops and seems to fall away. I feel wonder, and I feel fear. In other words--

For me, looking for moose is actually just a fancy way of saying “looking for awe”.

And what I was surprised to realize this year, in the two full days before I actually saw any moose, was that even if I didn’t see a single animal, the process itself was already sacred, and already nourishing to my soul, and already completely worth it.

In fact, the sermon I started writing was about how it would feel to NOT see any moose at all on a trip like this. I examined how I felt each day when I awoke in the cold and the dark and piled back into my car, and observed that even on the days I did not see a moose, I still returned to my air BNB rejuvenated and happy-- just from the search.

In other words, I realized this trip that the process of seeking awe-- and seeking moose-- is in and of itself its own reward.

Because in order to go forth and actively seek awe, we first have to believe that it is possible to find that awe.

I’ll say that again: before we can go and seek awe, we have to believe that there is a possibility that we will find it.

The same is true of many things-- of wonder-- of- love-- and of faith. If we aren’t open to experiencing them, if we don’t believe that their existence in our lives is a real possibility, then how are we ever supposed to know that they are real?

We see a great example of this in the torah portion we just read. This week’s Torah portion is Lech Lecha, where God famously tells our ancestor Avram-- soon to be Avraham-- to go forth, saying

לֶךְ־לְךָ֛ מֵאַרְצְךָ֥ וּמִמּֽוֹלַדְתְּךָ֖ וּמִבֵּ֣ית אָבִ֑יךָ אֶל־הָאָ֖רֶץ אֲשֶׁ֥ר אַרְאֶֽךָּ׃

Go forth from your land, from where you were born, from the house of your father, and go to the Land I, God, will show you.

And we know what happens: Avram goes where God commands, and becomes Father Abraham, our people’s patriarch. And it’s not easy-- there’s drama. There’s challenge. And there’s also a beautiful quote in the part of this portion we just read, where it says

V’he’eman b’Adonai-- that Avram had FAITH in God. Avram didn’t have evidence yet, but he believed that the future God described was possible.

The Midrash in Bereshit Rabbah claims that the entire episode actually had more to do with Avraham’s personal spiritual openness, and less with God’s call-- imagining that God’s call was a more universal phenomenon, that it was transmitting on all frequencies, but that it was waiting for someone like Avraham to be ready to hear it and experience it. The Midrash uses the following parable to describe this, saying:

“This is analogous to a person who was passing from place to place, and saw a palace burning . The person said: ‘Is it possible that this building has no one in charge of it? [Where is the owner?]’ [When he asked this,] the owner of the building looked out at him and said: ‘I am the owner of the building.’ So too, [in our Scripture of Lech Lecha] Abraham our patriarch was [looking at the world and] saying: ‘Is it possible that this world is without someone in charge?’ [And because he asked this,] The Holy One blessed be He looked at him and said to him: ‘I am the owner of the world.’

In other words, according to the Midrash, Avraham’s deep spiritual relationship with God was ultimately possible not because God called Avraham, but rather because Avraham was open to hearing the call. He was open to faith, and that allowed him to find it. 

Avraham looked at the world and believed that it had to have an owner, believed that there had to be a greater power-- and because of that belief and that openness to God’s existence, he heard God’s call. 

Avraham was open to faith, and open to awe, and he found them.

Now. As far as I know, Avraham never saw a moose. This may or may not be the first time in the history of the world that a sermon has been given comparing Avraham’s relationship with God to someone looking for giant, bumbling deer on logging roads in the North Woods.

But ultimately, Avraham’s experience in this week’s Torah portion rang true for me this year in a personal and powerful way. Avram was ready for wonder before he knew God. He was ready for awe. He was ready for deeper connection.

And at least on my trip, so was I. And that experience was so, so healing.

The challenge, of course, is what comes next--

The challenge is--

How do we bring that awe, and that readiness for awe, into our day to day lives? How do we live in the world we do, with the responsibilities we have, with the concern we carry and the everyday obligations that come with life, let alone everything that’s happening on the news…. How can we hold all of those things, and still make sure we are listening and watching for wonder-- to make sure we still believe that we, like Avraham in Lech Lecha, can connect to something real and powerful and sacred?

As I returned to life here in Portland a week or so ago, that shift away from awe-seeking (and moose-seeking) back to day-to-day life made this question very real to me. It’s also rather jarring to return from such an intense and spiritual retreat to the daily grind. 

Because if I am being honest, I don’t feel that level of awe most days.

I find delight and beauty and connection in daily life, of course. I find joy in relationships, in our tradition, in talking to every dog I pass, in celebrating the beauty of fall. But awe? True awe-- that unique mixture of wonder and fear and understanding of my own limits--the kind that reminds me of my place in the universe-- that is something out of the ordinary, for me. 

I’m speaking in the first person here, because I don’t want to presume about the experiences of all of you. But I would be willing to bet that I’m not alone in this assertion-- that true awe, for many of us, punctuates our lives instead of permeating the everyday. 

It may simply feel downright overwhelming to even think about awe, in a world where we have so many worries, and so much stress, on a day to day basis.

But again, remember the Midrash. The Midrash imagines a house that is burning up in fire, and Avram finding comfort in knowing there is something greater, something that is in charge, despite that conflagration, despite that destruction.

Maybe our world sometimes feels like it’s on fire, too. 

I think I have more days where I feel like the world is on fire, than days where it is easy to feel awe. 

Maybe it feels like the house we and our ancestors have built-- the house of Judaism, the house of this country-- is in danger of being devoured and destroyed by forces beyond us.

But perhaps it is specifically in these moments, these difficult moments, that our tradition challenges us to be open to awe-- not as a substitute for the pain and challenges, but as a reassurance that we are part of something larger and more glorious than any messes we humans can come up with. 

Perhaps our tradition is challenging us to be open to finding comfort in the belief that at the end of the day, something bigger and more powerful is in charge of our metaphorical house, and that something is pretty awe-some. 

Avram felt that possibility, and he allowed that possibility for awe to guide him.

And by letting awe guide him, he found a life of deep meaning, deep connection, and deep challenges, yes--- but also deep faith, and deep love. 

And that awe is still there, in our world, today.  It is here for us to find, for all of us, not just in the ancient stories in our scrolls, and not just in the roads north of Greenville.

I can’t promise you if and when you’ll feel it. 

But I can promise you that you’re a whole lot more likely to feel it if, like Avraham, you believe it’s possible in the first place. 

Shabbat shalom.