Where are you going my litle one..little one
Where are you going my baby ..my own
Turn around and you’re two
Turn around and you’re four
Turn around and you’re a young babe
Going out of the door.

source: https://www.lyricsondemand.com/miscellaneouslyrics/lullabylyrics/turnaroundlyrics.html

These were the words I heard in my head as I was walking the labyrinth as part of Rosh Hodesh Elul. This is the first question G-d asked Adam and Eve. Where are you? That’s the question we must each ask ourselves. Where are you? Where are you going? When you turn around, when you do teshuvah, turning, where will you be?

Last fall we had two members who told their stories, their journeys at Friday night services. Saul Mariasis and Dan Schlack. They were unique. Powerful. Important. Interesting. Saul was born in Argentina and has served in the Argentinian, Israeli, US militaries and the Norwegian merchant marine. He is my cherish bimah partner, week in and week out. Dan is married to the Rev. Karen Schlack, who helped him find his way back to Judaism. He is now a CKI board member and is the head greeter for our High Holidays this year.

Each of us at CKI has a unique and important story of how they came to CKI, for some how they came to or returned to Judaism. The story of your journey.

Storytelling is important. Powerful. It is what the Torah is about. A collection of sacred stories. A collection of stories of imperfect people on a sacred journey. A collection of stories of people yearning for a better life. Yearning to find G-d. And each one did it differently. It is the story of us.

People want to connect through storytelling, by sharing their personal journeys, by being heard, by listening to others. That’s what makes the Moth Radio Hour so successful

Storytelling is so important that a new church in Chicago which was recently featured on the Today Show is built around storytelling. Their vision: Tell true stories. Share good food. Worship beautifully.

Said their pastor Anderson, “It’s why we are doing this storytelling. A true first-person narrative, these shared stories, feels sacred in and of themselves. I think all of us …worry that young people aren’t in church. Do a better job! A story is more than just your story, it’s shared experiences and all of that.” http://www.ucc.org/news_chicago_new_church_start_attracts_national_attention_before_first_worship_service_04072017

These shared stories are told around a table. To accomplish that, they meet in a pub. They have already outgrown their space.

It is why our Kiddushes and Oneg Shabbats are so important. Why we are grateful for the Sisterhood and the Phelans for tonight’s Apples and Honey Fest. Telling our stories around a table builds community.

It is the reason for another new organization, One Table, founded by Aliza Kline, to bring young Jews together to experience the joy of Shabbat, gathered around the table with good food and lots of stories.

Of the Dinner Party, a new organization that brings people together, mostly 20s and 30 somethings who have experienced significant loss, in order to heal while they share stories of their journey around a table with more good food.

Religion is from the Latin, religio, to tie back up into. It is what people are searching for, something that makes them feel supported, cared for, loved. Something to replace what they missed when they left home—on a journey—not unlike Abraham and Sarah.

The last commandment in the Torah, in the parsha, portion we just read last weekend, tells us that each person should write his or her own Torah. “Therefore, write down this poem,” (Deut 31:19) As Rambam interpreted it write yourselves a copy of the Torah containing this poem. Even if you inherited a Torah scroll from your parents you should write one yourself. If you don’t know how to write you can commission one for you. This congregation is fortunate in that we have a Torah scroll commissioned by the great Jewish philanthropist Moses Montifiore that we will read from tomorrow.

While this commandment is about a physical Torah scroll, we also write the Torah of our lives. Every person’s life is a Torah, a sacred journey. Each of you has your own Torah to live and your own Torah to teach.

For the next 10 days, we will explore this central question. Where are you going?

Tonight I invite you to go on a journey. A journey of the soul.

Once when we were hiking in a provincial park in Canada on a stormy day, hikers coming down the mountain would nod and greet us with, Bonne Journee. At first I thought I hadn’t heard them correctly, that they were saying Bon Jour, good day. I started to think that a good day is a good journey.

That word journey is important. Rashi, the medieval Jewish French commentator was famous for explaining Biblical Hebrew by looking at the Old French. I will too.

Journey, comes from the French from the Latin is a day’s trip, however far you could get in a day. So in fact these words are very connected. Bon Jour. Bon Journee. A good day is a good journey.

http://www.etymonline.com/index.php?term=journey

There are lots of kinds of journeys. Physical, emotional, spiritual. There is the journey of the year and the journey of a lifetime.

A few years ago I stood here and talked about the book by Ron Wolfson, the Seven Questions You’re Asked in Heaven..

Five from the Talmud and two extra. A roadmap for our journey. These questions should not fill us with fear and trembling but help us to assess whether we are on the right path.

So here are the questions.

1. Did you deal honestly with people in your business practices? Not just about business practices. All dealings with people should be honest. We’ll explore this one on Kol Nidre.
2. Did you busy yourself with procreation?
   This one is not just about having children. What legacy are you leaving behind? What did you “give birth” to?
3. Did you set aside time for Torah? All learning really. Don’t say, “I’ll study when I have time.” You may never have time.
4. Did you hope for deliverance? This is really asking the question, are you an optimist or a pessimist? Do you see the glass half-full or half-empty? And how is our cup overflowing? Edmund Flegg said that one of the reasons he is a Jew because instead of despair the Jew hopes.
5. Did you seek wisdom – did you understand one thing from another? This is a hard one and takes some explaining. Did you learn from everything and then use that knowledge to set your priorities. It is about balance.
6. Did you see my Alps? Did you see all the beauty that G-d created? Did you enjoy all the earthly pleasures that were permitted to you? G-d wants us to enjoy life. To love life and all that it has to offer.
7. Were you the best you you could be? When Rabbi Zusia was on his deathbed, his students saw him crying. What’s the matter. He explained he was worried that G-d would ask not whether he was as good as Moses, but why he had not been as good as Zusia. God doesn’t expect us to be perfect. God doesn’t expect us to be another Moses or Einstein or Martin Luther King or Abraham Lincoln. God wants you to be the best you.

That is a good list of questions. A good roadmap for our journey.

Since last Rosh Hashanah when we were gathered together, much has changed and much has stayed the same. Some of it in ways we don’t even know and couldn’t even imagine.

Each year is a journey. Each of us is on a different journey, a different path. For some of us this has been a hard year. We need to acknowledge that. Some battled serious illness. Others lost loved ones or friends. Others changed jobs or moved or got divorced. We witnessed major storms and wildfires, earthquakes and seismic shifts. It may seem that life kept throwing us curve balls. Change is never easy. But it is part of the journey.

The Kleins were no different. When we restarted the caring committee thanks to Karen and Al Bender, I had no idea that we might be the ones in need of it. We are fortunate, while Simon is still healing, his prognosis is one of the best possible outcomes. Hearing the words, “He is cancer free” should seem like a chance to celebrate. Rabbi Harold Kushner’s book When Bad Things Happen to Good People grew out of his very personal sermon the Yom Kippur after his son died. He spoke poignantly about another book, Shel Silverstein’s The Missing Piece. For me, I am not quite yet to celebrate or to pontificate great theological truths. The events are too recent. Too raw. Sometimes I am just numb. Other times I am tired. And that’s my story. Simon has his own story—and he is much more private, much more thoughtful and meditative than I.

Nonetheless, I don’t believe that G-d caused Simon’s cancer any more than I believe that G-d caused Hurricane Harvey or Irma or Maria or the recent earthquakes in Mexico. After 911, at the memorial service for John Oganowski’s, the captain of Flight 11, Rev. Larry Zimmerman said that G-d wept. G-d cried with the people who suffered. G-d was with the people who rushed into the towers. G-d was with the people who stood on the streets of Manhattan handing out peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to first responders. That’s true for the hurricanes, for the earthquakes and for everyone who faces scary times. G-d is with the helpers.

I am ready to say thank you—for all the prayers, cards, offers of help and for the space to allow us to heal as a family.

I can say a year like this begins to change my priorities on the journey. I am learning to live every day to its fullest, something I have always tried to do. To live with gusto and enthusiasm. To cherish our friends and family. To make each day count. To strive for balance. Because life is short. It really, really is.

Today, I need to add a new question, a different question that was not in Ron Wolfson’s book.

Do you dance?

I didn’t learn this question from a rabbi. Or from a Jewish book. I learned this question this summer when a good friend came into Chicago on her way to Milwaukee, to dance at a family wedding.

This is Nori’s story. Nori’s journey.

Some of you have met Nori, and or you know her name because we mention her as part of our weekly misheberach prayer. She was diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer, the day the Cubs won the world series. Her prognosis is not like Simon’s.

She is a poet. A deep thinker. A caring, compassionate soul. A computer programmer. She worked with Simon at Wang. She worked on the 8^th floor. He worked on the 7^th. Rarely did people go from one floor to another. But together they were on a committee to improve corporate morale. They didn’t succeed in saving Wang. But they did spread joy and became fast friends. All of her friends become friends for life. She baked our wedding cake.

After Wang and Lotus and Progressive she became a professional baker. She has the best recipe for hamantaschen, sorry Nina, and it was published in Yankee Magazine. https://newengland.com/today/living/profiles/hamantaschen/

Nori is one of my rabbis, my teachers and she is not even Jewish. She teaches enthusiasm. Passion. Truth. Now she is teaching us about dancing.

And how to live with cancer. She had plans to go to this wedding in Milwaukee so she flew in and out of Chicago to make sure to see us. And she danced at that wedding. She almost didn’t come because there was some unexpected internal bleeding. But her aunt had wanted to see the Great Wall of China and went even when she was ill. So Nori came. Either we live or we die. Might as well live fully and completely.

She had plans to go see the totality of the eclipse with her husband, a geeky computer guy and an amateur astronomer with a backyard observatory to rival the Phelans, but was in the hospital getting a blood transfusion so she made her husband wheel her out and everyone in that small town hospital in New Hampshire got to experience something of the eclipse.

After her parents died she wrote a series of poems to help her cope with her grief. They were published this year. She sat in my living room and read this one aloud.

One of her poems is entitled:

Do you dance?

Do you dance?
Do you dance at night?
Do you dance at night in a darkened room?
With the lights turned off and the shades pulled high
When the orange moon’s glimmer peers inside
Do glide like a shadow in a twilight land?

Do you dance?

Do you dance?
Do you dance barefoot?
Do you dance barefoot on a bare wood floor?
in a thin white shift, with your hair flying free
As your body whirls with your arms stretched wide
Does the icy floor melt beneath your heat?

Do you dance?

Do you dance?
Do you dance your grief?
Do you dance your grief, do you dance your rage?
Do you dance your joy, do you dance your love?
Do you dance the flame of a fire contained?
When the tender night heals the glare of day?

Do you dance your life?

Do you dance?
Nori Odoi

This is how Nori approaches everything. Dancing is a metaphor. It speaks to the deep engagement of all the senses, grasping at all life has to offer, living life to its fullest even if through grief and pain, with incredible hope and optimism and joy. It is the embodiment of all of Ron Wolfson’s questions, even for those of us who really can’t dance.

And since I don’t dance much, I wrote a poem to answer her question—as a birthday gift to Nori. But it is more important that you answer her question for yourself. It is part of the journey, our journey.

These are the questions that Rosh Hashanah demands. Where are you? Where are you going? Were you honest? What legacy did you leave? Did you set aside time for study? Did you hope? Did you seek wisdom? Did you see the beauty in the world and enjoy all that life has to offer? Were you the best you that you can be? And our new one…Do you dance?

Come journey with me. Come dance with me. Shanah tovah!

Today’s Torah portion contains part of the Haggadah. My ancestors were wandering Arameans. And the Lord took us out of Egypt with a strong hand and an outstretched arm. Because we remember being strangers in the Land of Egypt, we are to take care of the widow, the orphan, the stranger. Because we stood at the shores of the sea and saw the power and might, we know the fear that water can bring.

Indulge me for a moment. Every year I play a game at our seder table. I often do it with the kids in Hebrew School too. I am going on a journey, I am leaving Egypt and I am bringing with me an apple, a banana, a canteen. Now seriously, like many of our ancestors, who didn’t have much time to pack, what would you take? While a game, it is all too serious this morning. Difficult as it might be, what would you take. For real. Food, water, medicine. Photos, computers, books. Children. Seniors. Pets. Important papers. Jewelry. Do you know where they are? Could you grab them quickly? That’s what the Israelites had to do. That’s what our ancestors had to do when they were fleeing pogroms, when they left Europe quickly. That’s what our friends and families are confronting this very morning as they are fleeing the approaching storm.

This morning’s portion is about restoration—about renewal—about entering the land—after Egypt or after the Exile. We are told that it is a good land, a land flowing with milk and honey. Eretz zavat chalav.

Our American ancestors thought this was a good land. A land flowing with milk and honey, with all sorts of natural resources. A good land. And beginning tomorrow night, or the night after that, the people of Florida—and Texas—and the Pacific Northwest will begin again. The process of rebuilding and restoration will begin.

Here, this morning, we are engaged in the exercise of prayer. Gates of Prayer has a quote that seems the most relevant.

Prayer invites the Eternal Presence to suffuse or spirits and let God’s will prevail in our lives. Prayer cannot bring water to parched fields, or mend a broken bridge, or rebuild a ruined city; but prayer can water an arid soul, mend a broken heart, and rebuild a weakened will.
Abraham Joshua Heschel in Gates of Prayer

So when my appeal goes out about donating money to help that rebuilding process, consider giving generously. That is how we will rebuild. Florida. Texas. The Western Wildfires. The Mexico Earthquake. The flooding in Bangladesh, India, Nepal.

In the next few days, weeks, you will read all sorts of what I consider bad theology. These events are not some kind of Divine punishment for sins we can only imagine.

Let me be clear. I don’t believe that G-d causes these events as some kind of Divine retribution or wrath. I don’t believe, as Kirk Cameron suggested on social media, that G-d brings us these things to teach us humility and repentance. Nor compassion. I

What then, is the role of prayer?

Was anybody beside me up the other night at exactly the right time to see a shooting star? It was about 1:30 AM and I was surprised. Usually we can predict them and we know about the meteor shower in August and then again in November. I love to watch them. Sitting out on my deck or lying on a beach in northern Michigan on the shores of the big lake. But this one caught me by surprised. Wow, I said, this is awesome.

Maybe that’s why there is a blessing for a shooting star—or a meteor—or a comet. But while I was still out walking I remembered that the blessing is the same for a hurricane. I hurried home to make sure my memory was correct.

A hurricane and a shooting star? One is beautiful. The other is, well quite, frankly, destructive. Why would you bless the same thing on a shooting star and a hurricane? They are both awesome. A display of G-d’s power and might, of natural beauty. Both engendered fear in the ancients. Is there any good in a hurricane? The only thing I could come up with is in how people come together in the wake of the hurricane.

About the same time, someone wondered what the difference is between cancer and a hurricane. This UCC pastor Budd Friend Jones who was in McHenry but recently moved with his wife to Florida, a deep thinker, sounded very Israeli in his conclusion. “Either we survive, or we don’t. We have good neighbors here. We hope to be good neighbors. We deeply appreciate knowing of your concern.”

I have been struggling with the idea that we are lucky because Simon is now deemed cancer free. How is that possible? Why do we deserve this luck when so many don’t? Partly because we made some smart choices and he had good medical care. As many of you know, I pray for skilled and compassionate care teams. Doctors, nurses, aides, physical therapists, respiratory therapists, residents, internists, food service people and even the ones that sweep the floors. You need all of them! But I don’t think G-d gave Simon cancer. I don’t believe that G-d never gives us any more than we can bear. I do think we are lucky, fortunate that it would appear he will have the best possible outcome.

It doesn’t feel like we should celebrate. How can we celebrate when so many are struggling? How can I rejoice when so many are facing this hurricane—and that whole host of other tragedies? Are we really blessed?

I can’t pray to heal Simon and while others will not be. There have been some jokes, at least I hope they are jokes, that Mar-a-lago should be hit, or Rush Limburgh’s property. I cannot do that. I cannot wish for some to be spared and others not.

Then I remembered that there is a section of the Talmud that tells us that if we hear a siren we cannot pray that it should not be our house. It is already someone’s house. Someone is about to go through a tragedy—a fire or a medical emergency. It is already happening. We can’t stop it now. It seems relevant.

But I was thinking, really—sirens? In the Talmud? How can I even construct a search to find this passage? With the help of my classmates, I found it. One even responded from Florida! And it turns out to be even more appropriate than I thought.

Mishnah Berachot 9 that talks about this. It describes a tefilat shav, a prayer that is in vain. The Talmud examples are “May it be Your will that my wife give birth to a boy.” Already determined. Or “If he was coming on the way and heard the sound of screaming in the city and he said, ‘May it be your will that these are not my children,’ this is a prayer in vain.”

https://www.sefaria.org/Mishnah_Berakhot.9.2?lang=bi&with=all&lang2=en

The end of the quote from Gates of Prayer is, “Those who rise from prayer better people, their prayers are answered.” May we rise as better people this morning.

Think none of this can happen here—that we are immune in Illinois? Perhaps to a direct hit of a hurricane. In 1920 there was a tornado that took out much of downtown Elgin, on a Sunday morning, Palm Sunday, just as people were leaving church. And it was only July when we had flooding, even in my neighborhood. At that point there was a lot of discussion about how we respond to natural disaster. It was really a continuation of a conversation that began even before Ferguson. My partner and friend across the street, Pastor Jeff Mikyska, has a foundation that distributes toys to children affected by these kinds of events. He attends every MARC meeting after a disaster where agencies help families begin to rebuild their lives. He cares passionately about these kinds of things and all the way back in January he went to his board and said that the synagogue might be at risk…and what were they going to do to protect us. There will be an exchange of keys and codes and our students—all of us, really, will be trained as part of tornado drills and fire drills to exit our building and go to theirs. I get teary eyed thinking about it. That’s loving your neighbor as yourself at the highest level. That’s what we exhibited when our president opened our building to the families next door when there was a fire.

I said at the beginning of this sermon, that this is a week of restoration. When this storm is over it will be time to rebuild and restore. This season is one of teshuvah, of repentance and return. Of reconciliation and restoration.

“Like water, teshuvah is both destructive and creative. It dissolves the person you were but simultaneously provides the moisture you need to grow anew. It erodes the hard edges of your willfulness but also refreshens your spirit. It can turn the tallest barriers of moral blindness into rubble while it also gently nourishes the hidden seeds of hope buried deep in your soul. Teshuvah, like water, has the power both to wash away past sin and to shower you with the blessing of a new future, if only you trust it and allow yourself to be carried along in its current.”

Louis Newman

We are seeing the destructive power of water. May we again see its beauty and creativity. May this storm provide opportunities for safety, for security, for loving our neighbors and the widows, the orphans, the strangers, the most marginalized among us with a sukkat shalom, a shelter of Your peace. May we find ways to help and to restore, to renew and revitalize.

Love G-d, with all your mind, with all your strength, with all your heart. Love your neighbor as yourself. Love the stranger, the widow, the orphan.

Three prayers for a hurricane:

From Rabbi Fred Guttman

Avinu Shebashamyim:

God of the heavens: nature and all that You have created are truly awesome. Often, we; take these wonders for granted. Teach us to cherish all of your gifts.

Try as we might, we know that we cannot control the oceans, the mountains, the weather. We also firmly believe that ever since the time of Noah, You do not send floods, make the earth shake, or dispatch weather formations, such as hurricanes, as warnings or punishments.

So we ask, as this hurricane approaches land and approaching our brothers and sisters, that You shelter all who will be in its path. Watch over everyone, their loved ones, friends, and fellow people, many of whom are preparing to evacuate. Guard them as they prepare, perhaps to leave their homes again. Give them strength, courage, and resolve to ride out this storm; answer their prayers and ours that they be blessed with goodness and be spared from harm.

Baruch ata Adonai, Elohanu Melech Haolam she kocho u-gevurato maleh olam.

Blessed are You, Source of Life and Nature, whose awesome power and strength fill our world and inspire us to be strong in the face of all of life’s difficulties.

From Rabbi Naomi Levy:

https://www.rabbinicalassembly.org/story/prayer-victims-hurricane

From Alden Solovny:

http://tobendlight.com/2012/10/safety-during-a-hurricane/