Rabbi Sherman - Honorable Mensch-ion

For the last seven days, we have sat in our sukkot: big and small, tall and short. Our sukkot are filled with friends and family celebrating zman sinchateinu, our holy day of joy. Yes, we go outside in a fragile structure, but we are still protected by walls and a roof representing ananei kavod, God’s clouds of glory.

Sukkot is confusing. Why are we sitting in huts commemorating the Exodus when we know this miracle happened in the spring?

The Talmud debates who is greater: the tzaddik gammur, the fully righteous person, or the ba’al teshuva, the master of return.

Most children look forward to Chanukah and Passover, holy days with tangible rituals.

I entered the world of middle school parenthood this week. Back to school night overwhelmed us as teacher after teacher presented the expectations of how the year will proceed. Our children have grown up here in these hallways at Sinai Temple, yet it felt like I was in an entirely different place. I can imagine the Israelites in the desert as Moses retells the story of the people. At last, they arrive to the point where Moses presents them with the Torah, their covenant with one God. Moses explains that when they get to a certain point, they will write kol divrei hatorah hazot, the entire Torah on stones that they shall set up.

While it is rare to see a donkey walking down the street in Los Angeles, in the world of the Torah, we learn that you must not ignore a donkey without an owner. In fact, you must stop and tend to it together.

This morning, the shofar sounded for the first time announcing the month of Elul, one month from the new year of Rosh Hashana. As much as the shofar is associated with awakening us in the month leading up to the High Holy Days, the Torah first mentions the shofar in Exodus 19 at the point of revelation at Mount Sinai. There was a dense cloud upon the mountain and a loud blast.

Last week, I wrote to you overlooking Jerusalem’s Old City walls. This week, I write to you staring out into the Mediterranean Sea to my right and peering out to a view of Old Jaffa to my left.

Our hotel room overlooks the old city walls of Jerusalem, a view that never gets old. Last night, we planned for an early bedtime for our kids as we prepare for a sunrise trip to Masada and a float in the Dead Sea before Shabbat. As the kids recited the nighttime Shema, I looked outside and saw a bride and groom standing under a chupah as the band sang Im eshkachech yerushalayim, if I forget thee O Jerusalem.

We present ourselves uniquely dependent upon the circumstance we find ourselves. To many, I am a Rabbi. In my home, I am a husband and father. When visiting my parents and siblings, I am a son and a brother. And yet, no matter where I go, I am still myself.