Rabbi's Blog

All of the sermons from Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur are now online here
The Yom Kippur talks:
Kol Nidre - Treasure under the Bridge
Yom Kippur day - The Diameter of the Bomb

For those interested, the texts of these sermons are pasted here below.

On Monday night we begin the festival of Sukkot and I hope many of you will get to be in the sublime shade of a Sukkah, open to the elements and reminding us of our fragility on the full moon. 
​​​​​​​We pray that this Sukkot beings peace and the release of the remaining 48 hostages.
chag sameach and shavua tov
Rabbi Marc 


Treasure under the Bridge - Kol Nidre 5786
There was once a very poor man, a simple and pious Jew, in a shtetl somewhere in Ukraine, or maybe it was Poland.  He could barely feed his family and all the doors in his house were broken.  One night he had a dream and in his dream he saw that if he set off on a long journey all the way to Vienna, there was the majestic palace of the emperor and in front of the palace was a bridge and under the bridge was buried a huge pot of treasure.  Unh, it’s just a dream he said to himself as he woke up.  The next night he had the same exact dream! Unh, just a dream.  On the third night, he had the same dream that if he set off on a long journey to Vienna, he would see the palace and in front of the palace was a bridge and under the bridge was a huge pot of treasure.  Maybe it's not just a dream?  He set off on the journey, day and night, night and day, through forests and across rivers, until, exhausted from his journey, he arrived at the palace in Vienna just as he had seen it in his dream!  What he had not seen, however, was that the bridge was guarded day and night by fierce looking officers. So, he just stood there not knowing what to do.  After many hours, one of the officers approached him and said, “hey you, Jew, what are you doing here?  I’ve been watching you just standing here.  He decided to come clean and tell him about his dream and his long journey.  The officer laughed and laughed!  “You stupid Jew following your dreams!  If I followed my dreams, where would I be, huh?  I had a dream last night that if I travelled to some Godforsaken little town somewhere in Ukraine, or maybe it was Poland, there was a house there on the outskirts of the town with broken doors and I went into that house in my dream and down in the basement, there was a huge pot of treasure! But, you think I am going to follow my dreams?”  The Jew, recognizing the description of his town and his house, thanked the officer and set back on his long journey and, sure enough, when he got home, he went straight to his cellar, his basement and found a huge pot of treasure!

It’s easy to read this story and conclude that the journey was pointless; everything you need is already right here, but Rebbe Nachman taught of this story that we all have the treasure, but sometimes we have to go on a long journey, away from home to find it, or we need help from others.  Versions of this story exist in many different cultures and traditions; some of you may have read The Alchemist by the Brazilian writer Paulo Coelho, which is essentially the same tale. So what is this treasure and how do we find it if it is not literally sitting there in our basements?  Rebbe Nachman of Bratslav, born at the end of the 18th century, was the great grandson of the Baal Shem Tov, founder of Hassidism, and I visited his burial place in Uman and other significant sites in Ukraine in 2012, the physical landscapes of the stories. I want to relate the story to the work of Yom Kippur and living a meaningful Jewish life, based on other spiritual teachings from Rebbe Nachman. 

Elohai neshama sh’natata bi t’hora hee (singing) - this is one of the first prayers we say in the morning after waking - My God, the neshama, the soul that you have planted in me is totally pure.  Over the course of a day, a week, a month, a year, it is so easy to lose sight of that essence as it gets tarnished, covered in shmutz.  The daily morning practice of chanting this prayer gently invites us, in our sometimes grumpy, dark morning mood, to acknowledge what is true at my core; that I have a soul that is totally pure. The holy work of preparing a body for burial by the hevre kadisha is called taharah, as that body is ritually washed and returned to its purest possible state, restored to the pure essence of the soul carried in that vessel.  

A man came to Rebbe Nachman, burdened with a deep sense of despair. "Rebbe," he cried, "I am a completely bad person. I have no merits to my name, no good deeds to speak of, and no mitzvot to defend me". He proceeded to list his failings at length, convinced that his life was full of darkness and that he was too far gone to ever be redeemed. After listening patiently to the man's long, desolate confession, Rebbe Nachman leaned forward and replied calmly, "Well, if you are truly and completely bad, then there is nothing I can do for you". 
The man, shocked by the Rebbe's response, suddenly sat up a little straighter. "What do you mean, Rebbe? I mean...I suppose... sometimes... I was kind to others," he stammered, scrambling to find some small shred of decency. Rebbe Nachman smiled. "That is the start," he said.

Many of us, myself included, have days where we despair and cannot find anything worthy or redeeming about our lives. Rebbe Nachman’s core teaching is about finding the nekudah tovah, literally a good point that he says is in each of us.  Our work is to look for this spark of absolute purity and goodness in all those around us and, ultimately, the hardest part often, in ourselves, and to let that tiny speck of goodness grow and expand, becoming the focus, starting with a few very small acts. Assur l’hitya’esh - it is forbidden to despair, chides Rebbe Nachman again and again, as a man who likely felt despair in his own life. Al tityaesh - do not despair!

This spiritual practice happens throughout the year; to find those little nekudot, spots of goodness in the people in our lives, especially the ones that appear to be wicked, or at least who are deeply annoying to us, and in ourselves.  This work becomes more intense at this time of year and then Yom Kippur is not about earning back a lost goodness, but clearing away the debris, the shmutz that obscures the purity, revealing the treasure that was there all along. The fasting, the prayers, the vidui, the confessions—these are the tools we use to scrub away the dirt, revealing the shining soul beneath.

The language of the al chets and the ashamnu are pretty heavy; long lists of all the terrible things that we have done individually and collectively, the chest beating as we punish ourselves for being so terrible, which for some of us, can just help us spiral into despair.  Of course it is essential to acknowledge our failings, the ways in which we have let down ourselves, others and God, but that is all part of the messiness of being human and it is not good for our mental health to stay in those dark places, but allow the ritual of confession to release us from them and move into the light.  There is a verse in psalms (Psalm 34), that says “sur me’rah, v’asseh tov, bakesh shalom v’rodfeyhu - turn away from evil and do good, seek peace and chase after it.” In the work of teshuvah, say some commentators, we often spend too much time focusing on the rah, the bad stuff we’ve done and get lost there.

Reb Yitzakh Meir of Alter taught, “it does not help to remain stuck in the quagmire of sur me’rah. You will end up asking yourself, “what’s the difference if I sift the mud this way or I sift the mud that way? It’s still mud!”  In the time wasted on this negative thinking, one could have been mining for diamonds and precious stones.  Don’t dwell on the sur me’rah, he says, instead move quickly to “aseh tov,” do good deeds to counteract the bad ones.”  In the same way, don’t focus on the negative traits of ourselves and others, but look for that nekudah, that spark of tov, goodness, the treasure.

These are strong teachings, looking for the sparks of goodness, the purity of soul inside ourselves and others, important practices for us all on Yom Kippur and every day, but also in a year that’s been so hard there’s something more that’s needed - and that’s about our relationship to community and the tradition. That is also a treasure that’s right here, possibly gathering dust in our basements. Sometimes we need to take a journey to find these connections, and this year I think we really need it. With so much antisemitism in the world, existential fear and angst in the daily news cycle, it is so important to live vibrant Jewish lives, to learn and embrace the rich treasures of Judaism’s wisdom, rituals and practices with curiosity, thirst and pride.

Sarah Hurwitz recently published a book called As a Jew - Reclaiming our Story from Those who Blame, Shame and Try to Erase us.  The book describes her long journey from being “a cultural/ethnic/social justice/good person/remember the Holocaust Jew” to a thoughtful, educated, practicing and continually studying Jew. 

She says:
“People who make false claims about Judaism and Israel are often very loud and very confident, even when they do not know what they do not know.  Back when I too was ignorant, they used to intimidate me. But once I knew my story, our story, I was no longer scared of such people.  And once I felt connected to Jewish communities and the Jewish people - in the city where I live, nationally and globally - I knew that I was not alone.  We are all part of this story.” (p.270)  Hurwitz honors the people, dead and alive, young and old, who inspire her “to live proudly, gratefully, and joyfully - as a Jew.”  This is also finding that treasure right in our own homes and an important antidote to antisemitism. We are all part of this story.

Like Sarah Hurwitz, who was a speech writer for the Obamas in The White House and a graduate of Harvard Law School, many of us have inherited a somewhat infantilized and superficial version of Judaism, and when we get such existential and moral angst about Israel and about the future of Judaism globally, it's very easy, in our despair, to dismiss or diminish the value of Judaism and its treasure; the great wisdom of our texts, our rituals and practices, our sacred calendar whose journey doesn't end with Yom Kippur, but goes into the sublimely beautiful and powerful practices of Sukkot, Shemini Atzeret and Simchat Torah; the whole arc of the year, including every Shabbat, that gives us depth and connection, Jewish pride that allows us to flourish as humans through the lens of our own tradition.

We're blessed here in Boulder still to have so much of the legacy of our teacher Reb Zalman Schechter-Shalomi who had such an influence on me personally and on many of us here in Boulder. Reb Zalman saw that there were many, many deeply spiritual Jewish people in the 60s and 70s who were finding their spirituality anywhere but Judaism, they were finding it in Buddhism and Taoism and Hinduism and native Americanism. He realized that post-war Judaism, through the trauma of the Holocaust, had become focused on large institutions more than the individual seeker.  Reb Zalman really helped people find that nekudah tovah, that point inside them, that helped them see their own spiritual depth in the practices and teachings of Judaism, and he helped all the denominations in the Jewish world, especially in America, refind the treasure, the hidden sparks of goodness that had been lost, and many people came back to living meaningful, spiritual Jewish lives. In this time where many of us are feeling so afraid of the future, it might be time once again, to find those buried sparks, to recognize the power and impact, like Sarah Horowitz, of being proud, knowledgeable, practicing Jews; by always looking for that nekudah tovah, the good point, in ourselves and all around us, by starting each morning saying elohai neshama sh’natata bi, t’horah, my God the soul you have given me is completely pure,  finding treasure that's been there all along. And Al titya’esh - do not despair!


The Diameter of the Bomb - Yom Kippur 5786

The Diameter of the Bomb, Yehuda Amichai
The diameter of the bomb was thirty centimeters
and the diameter of its effective range about seven meters,
with four dead and eleven wounded.
And around these, in a larger circle
of pain and time, two hospitals are scattered
and one graveyard. But the young woman
who was buried in the city she came from,
at a distance of more than a hundred kilometers,
enlarges the circle considerably,
and the solitary man mourning her death
at the distant shores of a country far across the sea
includes the entire world in the circle.
And I won't even mention the crying of orphans
that reaches up to the throne of God and
beyond, making a circle with no end and no God.

In the aftermath of the terrible attack here on June 1st, I and others were often asked to comment on its impact on the community, in the media and in several different public, communal spaces when I was in London in July.  I would often get very emotional as I told the story from my perspective and, through the tears,  found myself talking about the circles of trauma, and a few times I shared this powerful poem by Israeli poet Yehuda Amichai. We are all in one of those circles. The poem is clearly about the impact of trauma and the concentric circles of pain that ripple to infinity from one single act of violence. A thirty centimeter bomb that ultimately impacts the whole universe.  Throughout our history, there have been horrific events that impact us all in different ways with varying degrees of traumatic reactions.  We could talk about all the impacts of the floods, fires and shooting attacks in recent years in our community; we could talk about the horrific attack by Hamas on October 7th 2023, two years ago next week and, of course, now June 1st 2025 in downtown Boulder. The poem can also be read as how any harsh act or even word ripples through time and space impacting circles beyond those at the very center.

The act perpetrated here in Boulder on June 1st that has been designated by local and federal authorities as an antisemitic, hate crime, had enormous, devastating and heartbreaking impact and there are circles within circles of trauma impacting those who were there and those who were not; at the center is the tragic loss of Karen Diamond, the grief of her family, those who were badly injured, still healing from their physical and emotional wounds, those who were physically unharmed, but witnessed an atrocity that will stay with them forever; those, including me, who could so easily have been there that day on the peaceful Run for their Lives walk on Pearl Street raising awareness for the hostages in Gaza, but were not; the friends and extended families of the victims; the whole Jewish community in Boulder, in Colorado, throughout the United States and the the world.  הַמַּעְגָּל לְאֵין סוֹף -  an infinite circle. In Yizkor, we remember Karen Diamond and all who have died through the acts of violence and terror. 

So much of our Jewish ritual is about what we do in community, together, balanced with the profound moments of introspection.  Our silent, personal amidah prayer in each of the 5 services of Yom Kippur, is followed by a communal repetition, as if the deeply private prayers and confessions of the individual are brought together in a powerful chorus of connection.  The vidui, confessional liturgy is all recited in the plural, ashamnu, bagadnu, we have transgressed, we have betrayed; chatanu l’fanecha, we have sinned before You.  Collectively we have indeed created circles of trauma, circles of pain, circles of despair.  
In the poem, Yehuda Amichai meticulously measures the concentric circles of pain that ripple outward from a single act of violence. A 30-centimeter bomb with an effective range of seven meters expands its suffering far beyond its blast zone, encompassing two hospitals and a graveyard. The circle stretches across a hundred kilometers to reach the hometown of a young woman who was killed and even farther to the solitary man who mourns her. Ultimately, the pain reaches up to "the throne of God and beyond," creating a circle with "no end" and "no God.”  As well as thinking of the very real impact of violent attacks and trauma, on Yom Kippur, we focus on the circles of our own actions; how our personal transgressions have ripple effects that go way beyond the immediate hurt.
The initial blast is like our obvious and tangible offenses, the measurable destruction of our most direct and evident sins. The harsh words, the broken promises, the betrayal of trust, the violation of another’s privacy, the gossip and derision.  The first step of teshuvah (repentance) is to acknowledge the direct harm we have caused, the casualties impacted by our negative actions. The confession allows us to look right at the center of the blast and name its impact.
The circles in the poem expand to hospitals and graveyards, the young woman's faraway city, and the solitary mourner by a distant sea. This is the circle of pain that extends through time, reaching people we might not even consider when we act or when we speak. “Death and life are in the power of the tongue (Proverbs 18:21),” says the Book of Proverbs. Commenting on this verse, the Talmud (Arachin 15b) states, “actually, a person's tongue is more powerful than their sword. A sword can kill somebody who is nearby; a tongue can cause the death of someone who is faraway...Lashon hara (evil speech) kills three people: the speaker, the listener, and the subject.” Depending how you count them, 10 of the long list of al chets are related to speech. Like the bomb, the diameter ripples out over time and space. 

In the complicated work of anti racism, there is a principle of “impact over intention,” meaning  the consequences of an action, whether positive or negative, are more significant than the intent or motivation behind it. That is part of our focus on Yom Kippur as we think of those concentric circles of the impact we had, even if our intentions were always pure.  

In Jewish life, regardless of what we believe or don’t believe, we are always part of a larger circle of our community, the whole Jewish people and all of humanity. This is reflected in Amichai’s poem, which I think implies that the bomb could be an attack on us or an attack from us, and we take accountability as individuals and as the collective Jewish people. On Yom Kippur, we recognize that we are responsible for one another, kol Yisrael aravim zeh b’zeh, and each of us holds a piece of what needs to be done to heal and to repair. Our individual failings can impact the entire community. So too our goodness and triumphs can strengthen it. Our collective prayer, our fasting and confession are acts that strengthen the circle as a whole.

The heart wrenching climax of the poem is זַעֲקַת יְתוֹמִים
הַמַּגִּיעָה עַד לְכִסֵּא הָאֱלֹהִים “the orphans' cries reach up to the throne of God". The intensity of the pain and sorrow of the impact of loss can lead to a sense of a world (ayn sof v’ayn Elohim) with "no end" and "no God," a crisis of faith that emerges from human suffering. Just as we hold ourselves and each other accountable, there is a strong tradition of calling God to account on Yom Kippur too. Perhaps this is the poem’s meaning of ayn Elohim, not that there is no God, but that we challenge God; we mourn and cry out for all the suffering, violence and loss, and question why a world created by God can be filled with such injustice, demanding that it change, just as we pledge to change! We join Abraham, Moses and the Prophets of Israel in this challenge!  The deepest, most fervent Jewish spiritual teachings have often come from times of persecution and suffering - Kabbalah and Hassidut, great mystical teachings and practices, accompanied by yearning for Mashiach, Messianic hope, came out of terrible times in our history, when God’s face seems most hidden, hester panim. I will never forget our friend Irene Rosenschein, who survived the horrors of Auschwitz and had, like all survivors, so many stories and I remember attributing her survival to hope. A rumor spread around the camp, she would say, that Mashiach is coming next Tuesday. And they somehow kept going.  Omer Shem Tov, the 23-year-old Israeli who spent 505 days in captivity, including over a year in a Gaza tunnel has inspired audiences around the world, including here in Boulder a few weeks ago, with his stories of resilience. He survived, he said, by maintaining routines, staying mentally active, and praying. “I used to sit and talk to God: ‘Thank you for letting me breathe. Strengthen me. Keep my family safe.’” In that hell, he somehow kept himself alive.

Baruch shem cavod malchuto l’olam va’ed is said out loud when we say the shema on Yom Kippur, partly because we are all like the high priest in the temple service, but the midrash puts these words into the mouth of Jacob on his death bed in response to his sons reciting shema Yisrael. Jacob is connected to maariv, the prayer service of the night, darkness, and from that darkness emerges the affirmation that God’s sovereignty is eternal, ayn sof, without end, but not ayn Elohim, without God.  Our tradition invites us to find God in the midst of human suffering, not just beyond it and that we are partners in creation and repair.

What we do, what we say, how we act matters deeply, and our hope and prayer is not that the diameter of the bomb would be smaller, but that the diameter of our compassion, empathy, healing and forgiveness grow wider and wider; circles of light to push back the circles of darkness and suffering.  Just as our words and actions can create negative and destructive circles of impact, they can also create ever wider circles of healing and hope if we commit to repair, starting with our small and immediate circle and allowing our influence and generosity to expand, knowing that we can reach ad cisseh Elohim, to the throne of God, partnering in tikkun, repairing the broken world, one word, one act, one sincere apology at a time.