Andy Warhol said: “In the future, everyone will be world-famous for 15 minutes.” I had my fifteen minutes of fame this summer. I conducted a wedding in the hours before Hurricane Irene hit New York City. Saturday night, August 27^th, was to be the New York City wedding of Jessica Ketten, daughter of our congregation’s president, Judi, and her husband, Michael, to a terrific young man, David Levi.  As the weekend grew close, Hurricane Irene appeared on the guest list. In a flash of ingenuity, the wedding was rescheduled to take place before the rehearsal dinner on Friday. As I pulled up to the restaurant, sixty guests in black tie milled about on the sidewalk.  Within seconds, a huppah went up and, just like that, we were having a wedding, al fresco, on the streets of New York. Pakistani cab drivers rolled down their windows to shout “Mazal Tov!”; condensation from fourth floor air conditioners dripped onto the Huppah. Rings were exchanged. A glass was broken. Sighs of relief were heaved. It was one for the record books.

Not wanting to get stuck for days in New York as the airlines untangled the mess of ten thousand canceled flights, I rented a car the next morning and drove home. Feeling guilty for having left the entire wedding party in the city to endure the wrath of Hurricane Irene, not to mention abandoning my mother and step father on the upper east side, I did my penance by listening to the weather channel station on satellite radio, all fourteen hours of the drive. During which, I was reminded of just what a year it has been for disaster reporting:  brushfires, in the west, earthquakes and tsunamis in Japan, tornadoes in Joplin, Missouri and elsewhere, and a few hurricanes. Somewhere around western Pennsylvania, I began to think about what a tough year this has been. We’ve had many deaths in the congregation: young and old, mothers, fathers, spouses, children, friends; killed in accidents, taken by disease, some suffering terribly, others gone in the blink of an eye.

If you were lucky enough to not be touched personally by loss this year, you couldn’t avoid being affected by events here at home and around the world. A still ailing economy and the proverbial other shoe we’ve been waiting to drop – sounds like it might be on its way.  In Europe, some nations are at the brink of insolvency. Here at home, government gridlock is the rule.  What we had called a recession is now referred to as the great recession… and I haven’t even touched upon the Middle East, a situation so complex and fast changing, I won’t even attempt to address it before Yom Kippur.

The general tenor these days recalls the question: Do you know the difference between a Jewish Optimist and a Jewish Pessimist? A Jewish Pessimist says, “Things can’t possibly get any worse.” And a Jewish Optimist says: “sure they can!”

At the center of our service tomorrow morning is a prayer that captures the season’s existential unease. It’s called the Unetaneh Tokef. Written in the 11^th century, during the persecutions of the crusades, it describes God poring over the books of life and death, determining our fates for the coming year. Who shall live and who shall die; who by fire and who by water. The litany of causes of death is disturbing. It’s theologically troubling because it portrays God as a puppet master, actively determining our fate, negating any notion of our having free will. Beyond theology, the words drive home a terrible reality: in this coming year, some of us will live and some of us shall die. Like the movies that show the pilot training course, in which the instructor tells the cadets, “look to your left and look to your right; by the end of six weeks, one of you isn’t going to be here.” Standing here and looking in your direction, I am acutely aware of those who were here just last year, and are no more. And with sober certainty, I know not all of us will be here next year.

While the imagery of the Unetaneh Tokef is unsettling, the words leave open the possibility our fates are not yet sealed. They say – uvteshuvah, uv’tefilah, uvtzedakah, ma’avirin et roah Hagezera. Even as God pores over the books of life and death, repentance, prayer, and charity, avert the evil decree. Originally, the prayer read differently. It said repentance, prayer, and charity uproot the evil decree. But the rabbis of old weren’t sure if there really was any appellate process, through which God might be moved to change a decree. They rewrote the prayer to say repentance, prayer, and charity lessen the bitterness of the decree. We can’t avert natural disasters. What we can do, they suggest, is control how we respond to those challenges. We can’t change the decree, but, through the way we respond, we can mitigate its bitterness.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, the former chief Rabbi of the United Kingdom, suggests that the Unetaneh Tokef presents several problems of translation, and that the words we translate as repentance, prayer, and charity mean something else entirely.

For starters, the word in Hebrew for Repentance isn’t actually teshuvah. It is Harata, which means to have remorse over what one has done in the past and a sincere intention to do better in the future; in effect, to turn over a new leaf. While Harata is an essential part of these High Holy Days, Teshuvah, means something different: to return to our original nature, to rediscover and embody, the essential goodness that characterizes our souls.  The 18^th century Sefat Emet put it this way:

There is a point of holiness within each person's heart…  But over the course of each year, as we pass through life we are invariably coarsened and sullied by our errors and misjudgments, or simply by the travails of physical life. But our innermost self, the "veritable part of G‑d" that is the essence of our soul -- remains untouched. Teshuvah is the G‑d-given ability to access and reconnect to that untouched self, reestablish our lives upon its foundation, to return to that basic goodness, to be the people we know we have the capacity to be.

Teshuvah is important even for those who have never sinned. Schneur Zalman of Liadii taught “The world thinks that teshuvah is for sinners. But in truth, even the perfectly righteous person must do teshuvah -- that is, return to the root-source of his soul....

The 18^th century Rabbi Nachman of Breslov explained why even those without sin do teshuvah. He wrote: “Every person has precious words that no one else can say. Each of us has a point of holiness, a helpful word that no one else can say that can bring light into the lives of those around us and stir up their hearts. Though Teshuvah, we trace our way back to our essential nature and goodness, and this, in turn, brings blessing to everyone we meet.”  Such is the nature of Teshuvah; we return to our soul’s essence, so that we might realize all the good we have to bring into the world.

            Just as Teshuvah means more than just repentance, Tefillah, doesn’t mean strictly mean prayer. Bakasha is the more accurate Hebrew word for a prayer that makes a request. Tefillah means, to connect with the utmost. Tefillah is an expression of our souls’ longing for God. Even someone who has everything she needs, who doesn’t have a bakasha or request from God, still wants to be close to God.

In contrast with Eastern religions, which teach their practitioners that to get close to God, they must to separate themselves from society and live an ascetic life of solitude. Judaism suggests the opposite. If we want to get close to God, we have to get closer to people around us.

This teaching comes straight from the Torah. Stop and think for a moment about whom the Torah tells you to love: “You shall love your Eternal God, with all your heart, with all your soul and with all your might!” And, “You shall love your neighbor as yourself!” Combine those with “God created the Human Being in the image of God.” And what do you get? You get this: to love God, draw close to God, you must learn to love those made in God's image - the people who surround us. To put this another way, whoever or whatever God may be, the most immediate manifestation of God's reality in day-to-day life is to be found in our awareness of the potential for deep connection with the human beings that surround us.

The rabbis called this dibbuk haverim - the spirituality of friendship. One teacher described such a spiritual friendship, in this way: “It is a wondrous blessing to be known by God, standing before God, because your fellows are connected to God [and you to your fellows]… thus, if it ever occurs to you to separate from your fellows - out of fear or jealousy, even if only the slightest bit - turn and run quickly to join those friends who truly attend to God's voice to say: 'My brothers, my sisters, my very soul: save me! Let me hear some word of God; heal my broken heart!' Make it a practice to bring the love of your friends into your heart until you can't take in anymore. Do this over and over until your soul is attached to your friends, and one cleaves to the other. And when in the end you sense your souls have touched, then the One God will dwell in you, and you will be infused by God with all salvation and consolation. You will be raised up in body and soul, and blessing will delight you.”

Dibbuk Haverim – this spirituality of friendship, is a call for community, and something we should aspire to attain here at Sinai. What might it look like in practical terms? Imagine a synagogue community where every person feels accepted, valued, respected, and loved, where the individual soul is elevated and honored, but also where a community of souls reinforce and replenish one another. That’s a community I would want to be a part of. But it takes a commitment of heart and soul to make it real.

One way we can support one another, a seeming paradox, is to reach out beyond the community through acts of Tzedakah. Tzedakah is translated as charity, but the word for charity is Hesed. Hesed occurs the recipient is not entitled to the gift and that the donor is under no obligation to give it. Instead, the donor gives gratuitously, from the goodness of his heart. It is an act of virtue rather than a duty.

Tzedakah, in contrast, means righteousness or justice. The implication is that the donor gives because it is his duty. When we see another person in need, we are obligated to act, irrespective of whether we know the person, or like the person, or even question the person’s complicity in his own problems. Justice – tzedek- demands we act.

The true goal of tzedakah is underscored in Hugh Nissenson’s book of short stories entitled, “The Elephant and My Jewish Problem.” One story takes its title from a phrase from the Bible’s Book of Proverbs: tzedakah tatzil mimavet. -  tzedakah saves from death. The narrator describes 12-year-old Jacob's home: "We always had a guest on Friday nights, someone poorer than we, who had no place to celebrate the Sabbath. It was a religious obligation. On Friday afternoons, my father took an hour off from work to wander the streets of the neighborhood, looking for a Jewish beggar or a starving Hebrew scholar who slept on the benches of some shul... "Very often on a particularly cold night, my father invited them to remain with us. They slept on the floor, covered by a woolen blanket.  "'Papa,' I'd complain. "'Shhh!' he'd tell me. 'Remember. "Tzedakah tahtzeel memavet." Charity saves from death.' "He quoted the proverb (10:2) from the Bible in Hebrew, and I shut up." Even on a Sabbath when Jacob's dying mother was hospitalized, an indigent houseguest was present at the Sabbath table. Later, Jacob couldn't sleep because of the beggar's snoring. His father called to him:

"'What's the matter?'

"'I can't sleep.'

"'Neither could I.'

"'But I feel much better now.'

"'Do you? Why?'

"'Because Mama will get well.'

"'How can you be so sure?' "

'You said so yourself.'

"'Did I? When?' "

'You said that charity saves from death.'

"'What's that got to do with Mama?'

"'Everything.'

"He suddenly raised his voice. 'Is that what you think a mitzvah is? A Bribe offered the Almighty?' "

'But you said so. You said that charity saves from death.'

"With that the beggar groaned in his sleep.

"'No, not Mama,' (my father said in a hoarse voice). He pointed to the Beggar. 'Him'.”

Tzedakah tahtzeel memavet – tzedakah is the mechanism that literally enables us to save lives. And a community that engages in tzedakah can’t help but be strengthened and enriched.

Here in Milwaukee, the need for tezdakah is greater than ever. In order to meet the emergent needs of the Jewish community, the Milwaukee Jewish Federation established an emergency fund called J-Help. Members of our congregation, who never imagined they would experience financial hardship, are finding it impossible to make ends meet. The J-Help Fund is available through Jewish Family Services. 100 percent of the money donated to the fund is going directly to people to help pay for life essentials, utilities, food, medical services, and miscellaneous living expenses.  Before services we set out brochures on your seats that explain more about the J-Help program. Please take a look at them and help out.  If you feel that you’d be more comfortable donating to a charity that isn’t exclusively focused on the Jewish community, I understand. But take this into account: Charities like the United Way or Second Harvest, now known as Feeding America, have all of Milwaukee, over a million and a half people, as potential donors. Jewish charities are limited by the size of the Milwaukee Jewish community, around twenty thousand.  Yes, tzedakah is about helping everyone, but we have a preeminent responsibility to take care of each other.

Teshuvah, Tefillah and Tzedakah. Why are there ten days of repentance between Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur? So that sHafter this year of hardship and challenge, we’ll have the time to address the triple tasks of Teshuvah, Tefila, and Tzedakah.

• Through Teshuvah, May we realign our relationships with each other, and return to the root source of our soul; in so doing, may we strengthen our commitment to be the people we know we should and can be;

• Through Tefila, may we experience dibbuk haverim, the spirituality of friendship, and be lifted up in body and soul as we reconnect with God.

• And through Tzedakah, may we do our part here on earth to lift up those around us who need our help.

With honest effort, Teshuvah, tefilah and tzedakah will help us turn the promise of Rosh Hashanah into the fulfillment of Yom Kippur, that we might attain and sustain lives filled with a sense of meaning and a sense of purpose.

Ken yehi Ratzon – may it be God’s will

Ken Yehi r’tzoneinu – May it also be our will.