Sermon – Rosh Hashanah 5787
When we behold the night sky, we become captivated by the heavens. Awe mesmerizes our souls as we look at the blanket of stars sheltering us like a chuppah. We recall God’s promise that we will be as numerous as the stars in the sky and the sand on the seashore. By now, we have realized the promise is not about our numbers, but perhaps has Rabbi Chayim of Volozhin explains, it is about the largeness of our souls. The promise reflects our ability to behold wonder, reflect on our past, and our obligation to teach the next generation. Gazing towards the night sky, the mysterious power of the moon captivates us. As it cycles from darkness, to light, and back to darkness, controls the ebb and flow of the tides, the moon’s cycle invites us to reflect on our people’s complex existence throughout history. We have also experienced cycles of darkness and light, exclusion and acceptance, fear and hope, pain and comfort.
Looking back through the annals of history, we listen to stories distilled through memory. The Jewish experience in recent years counters the bucolic memories of the last half century painted on the canvas of our minds. For most of us, the latter part of the 20th century felt like a golden period for Jews in America. However, Pamela Nadell, professor of American Jewish history, writes that “Golden ages appear in retrospect when turmoil in the current moment propels longing for an imagined idyllic past.”[1]
In writing the story of this season in history, Nadell shares the abject challenges Jews faced. The history books remind us of synagogue bombings in the deep south and renowned historian, Deborah Lipstadt, defending the Jewish story against a Holocaust denier. The 20th century saw the Soviet campaign tainting world opinion against Jews and Israel by labeling Zionism as racism at the United Nations, an antisemitic claim which stained history. Nadell tells the story of a young woman who grew up in the early 1970s in a New Jersey suburb with a large Jewish population who came to Ohio State and moved into campus housing with fifteen women from rural Ohio. On her first night on campus, her roommates lined up to watch her undress; they were looking for her tail. Nadell tells us she laughed at their ignorance, but she was churning inside.[2] Such experiences were different than immigration and university quotas and the barring of Jews from certain professions in the early part of the 20th century.
Looking at our experiences in recent years, the violence and danger against us causes great concern. In the last year alone, we witnessed a massacre of Jews on Bondi Beach on the first night of Hanukkah, an arson attack on Beth Israel Congregation in Jackson, MS. That same synagogue was one of those southern synagogues bombed in the 60s. We were horrified when Temple Israel in West Bloomfield was attacked in March, nearly harming 140 preschoolers and their teachers. In New York City, over 57% of the hate crimes target Jews. When Shira went to Dollywood during intersession at camp, the girls she was with all discussed taking off their Jewish stars while they walked around the amusement park. Taking this precaution in the south might not surprise us, but the need to put a baseball cap over one’s kippah or hiding a Jewish star necklace in New York City in 2026 certainly does. In an era dominated by algorithms on social media shaping the viewpoints of those who encounter the lies of AI controlled bots, the spaces that were once safe and the people who were once allies are fading into a sea of hate.
The rest of us must navigate these uncharted waters, perhaps guided by the stars that tell the stories of those who came before us. Such stories appear on the pages of our history books, but when we draw them into our hearts, their lessons are the lights that can guide us. Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks, once wrote, “Judaism… it’s an identity. And you can’t sell an identity. But you can lose it. And many Jews are now losing theirs. Our ancestors have given us the gift of a past… [W]e should not relinquish it simply because we don’t know how valuable it is… If we truly wish to hand on our legacy to our children, we must teach them to love it… What we love, we inherit. What we fail to love, we lose.”[3] We are obligated to know our past because it is the essence of who we are. But perhaps even more than our identity, the lessons offered by the people who navigated their own challenges shine a light on our pathways forward. It is our very nature as Jews to look at our past for inspiration to help us navigate the present. As a people of the book, the stories shared by one generation inspire the next.
When we enter the synagogue on Rosh Hashanah, we read the story of Hannah and the birth of her son Samuel. The book of Samuel begins by telling us that a man named Elkanah had two wives, one named Hannah and the other Peninah. Hannah was childless, while Peninah had children. Peninah made Hannah miserable through repeated taunting because God had closed her womb causing Hannah to weep and not eat. With all her pain, Hannah turned to God and prayed, “Adonai Tzvaot, if you will look upon my suffering, remember me, and if you grant me a male child, I will dedicate him to the Eternal all the days of his life.” As Hannah prayed, Eli the priest was watching her. Hannah was praying with her heart full of devotion but only her lips were moving. Eli accused her of being drunk and making a spectacle of herself. In response, Hannah opened her soul and shared her brokenness with him, informing him of her heartfelt prayer. Struck by her candor, Eli responded to her, “L’chi l’shalom, go in peace, and may the God of Israel grant what you have requested.” Hannah became pregnant and when her son arrived, she named him Shmuel, Samuel, indicating that she asked God for a child and God heard her prayers.
As witnesses to Hannah’s story, we empathize with her pain, and anguish. Those who rise up to harm us, drive us deeper into the abyss of our own distress. Hannah offers us a powerful example of how we might respond when facing our own darkness. Nechama Aschkenasy, Professor Emerita of Comparative Literary and Cultural Studies at the University of Connecticut teaches us, “At the story’s heart lies Hannah’s iron-willed ambition to go beyond the temporal, to make an impact on history, for herself and for her son…Hannah is the sole architect of her own redemption.”[4] Jewish tradition understands redemption in the context of the Exodus as we went from slavery to being a free people. Hannah’s redemption comes when, after the birth of Samuel, she has broken free from the pain flooding her life.
Hannah had a choice; she could have given up, instead, she took matters into her own hands. Hannah was not one to let something go. Her choice to act guided by her faith, conviction to God, and her people was profound. Hannah’s actions inspire us to do the same when we are faced with despair, bitterness, and pain. The instinct to stay connected, rather than retreat, is especially critical in Jewish life today.
A recent study by the Jim Joseph Foundation showed that nearly 4 in 10 Jewish young adults say events affecting American Jews in recent years have led them to pull back from Jewish spaces or be more selective about where they participate. Though 75% of young people regularly do something Jewish, most find these connections outside of the synagogue and traditional Jewish institutions.[5] What happens when we turn away from Jewish spaces? Is that the equivalent of turning away from Jewish community or departure from Jewish life? Such an erosion of faith occurs for myriad reasons, but what if they acted like Hannah and brought their pain and distress into a Jewish space?
The Biblical Hannah is not our people’s only model for inspiration in response to challenges. Another Hannah, a 20th century Hannah, is a shining star guiding us in the darkness. We know Hannah Senesh when we sing, “Eli Eli, shelo yigameir l’olam, Oh God My God, I prayer that these things never end…” Her famous poem inspired by her walk along the shores of Caesarea keep her memory alive, but it is her story that should inspire us as well. Some of us might only be familiar with her song, others might know she was a paratrooper killed in Hungary in 1944 at the age of 23 after being captured during her mission. Douglas Century’s biography of Hannah Senesh entitled Crash of the Heavens and Matti Friedman’s Out of the Sky, an account of the experience of the Israeli paratroopers who enlisted in the British military during World War II, are two books published in the past year giving us insight into why Hannah Senesh became a hero to the Jewish people.
Born Anna Szenes in Budapest in 1921, her parents were Bela Szenes, the famous writer, and Katalina Szenes. They raised Anna in a middle class, assimilated, cultured Jewish family. Though her father died when she was six, Anna had a happy childhood and she documented it all in her diary, which she began at 13. She wrote about Hitler’s rise to power and expressed her anxiety as Nazi troops marched through Austria nearing the Hungarian border. Antisemitism was exploding in Europe and Anna only began to think of herself as Jewish when her brother Gyori could no longer pursue his plans to attend university in Vienna. Hitler’s rise to power gave this young teenager new perspective on her identity, faith, and place in the world. In 1937, Anna Szenes was elected to be an officer in her school’s Literary Society, but they called for new elections and two other girls who had not previously been candidates were nominated. Anna wrote, “This clearly indicated that they did not want a Jew to become an officer.” She was deeply hurt by what took place and ceased involvement in the society. Anna realized at the young age of 16 she would not be accepted as an officer or by Hungarian society. She decided that there was no future for her in Hungary and in September of 1939 she boarded a ship making Aliyah to Eretz Yisrael.
In October 1938 she wrote in her diary, “I don’t know whether I’ve already mentioned that I’ve become a Zionist. This word stands for a tremendous number of things. To me it means, in short, that I now consciously and strongly feel I am a Jew – and am proud of it. My primary aim is to go to Palestine, to work for it.”[6] Upon arriving in Israel, she began using her Hebrew name Hannah and Hebraicized her last name becoming Hannah Senesh. Her pride in Judaism was a deep connection to her people. Months before she departed for Eretz Yisrael she read aloud an essay she wrote entitled, “The Fundamentals of Zionism,” in which she wrote, “’What is the purpose of Zionism, its basic aim?’ If we had to define Zionism briefly, perhaps we could best do so in the words of Nahum Sokolow: “Zionism is the movement of the Jewish people for its revival!”[7]
Like her biblical namesake, Hannah Senesh was a person who dedicated herself to bringing about the world she wanted to create. She, too, brought redemption into her own hands. As Hungarian life darkened and war in Europe raged on, Hannah realized in 1943 she needed to return home, to organize the youth and get her mother out.[8] A young man showed up on Kibbutz Sdot Yam, where Hannah was living, and told her he was organizing a top-secret military mission to rescue the Jews of Hungary and Central Europe. Hannah Senesh was ready to become a soldier.
After parachuting into Europe in early summer of 1944, more than a year after she decided to pursue this journey, Hannah crossed the border into Hungary. Soon after, she was captured and imprisoned for months. She was eventually executed. Hannah refused to be blindfolded before the firing squad. After her death, the captain in the prison told her mother, “Mrs. Szenes, I must tell you, I was impressed by your daughter’s courage and strength of character. She showed great composure until the very last moment. Imagine! She was truly proud of being a Jew.” [9] Just before crossing the border, twenty-two-year-old Hannah found herself in the woods about to cross the border into Hungary. She extended her hand to her comrade with a small piece of paper. On that paper were the words:
Ashrei Hagfrur -Happy is the match that flared and lit the flames.
Happy is the flame that burned the secret in the deepest hearts.
Happy is the heart that knew when in honor to stop.
Happy is the match that flared and lit the flames.[10]
Matti Friedman explains that Hannah’s final message, Ashrei Hagfrur, is the essence of the mission. She was going to light a match that would ignite others but she herself would be consumed. The paratroopers’ mission was to write a Zionist story about the war – a story that would lead others to action, not despair. In this story, Jews will not be victims, but heroes. What took place wouldn’t change the war, but it would change how people remember the war and therefore change the future. When faced with tragedy, those who know the parachutists’ story won’t pull the covers over their heads, or bemoan the cruelty of fate, or wait for someone else to do something. They will look out into the night, and jump. Hannah knew the mission was not military, it was literary, it was about the story. And Hannah was the best writer.[11]
While we are not standing before a firing squad, sometimes it feels like every time we step out in public and share our Jewishness, there is a target on our back. When Beth Tikvah sets up a booth on Worthington Square for Pride Day or the Festival of Nations and people come up to us sharing their support, those are moments that remind us we can continue to show who we are publicly as Jews. The antisemitic violence might cause us to retreat in our shells but like the two Hannah’s we can be proud of who we are and bring about the redemption with our own hands and actions. When you’re young and trying to make it on a college campus do you engage in a deliberate act of closeting your Jewish identity? Do you share with your professor that your Jewish? Do you share with your peers the story about your Bat Mitzvah or trip to Israel? Or do you show up at Hillel with pride? Do you wear your Jewish star outwardly? Translate these questions for any demographic and they are asking the same thing: are we proud of who we are or would hiding be better in the long run? In a time when the legitimacy of the Jewish story is under attack, the two Hannah’s remind us that we are the authors of our Jewish story and architects of the Jewish future. Every Jewish home is a Mikdash M’at, a small Temple to nurture the Jewish future.
We have come too far and endured too much to run away from our Jewishness. The stories of the two Hannah’s are not only for the historical moments in which they lived. Their enduring lessons still guide us. When the moon in the sky is dark, the lights that peak out from behind the curtain shine through our pride, our commitment, and our dedication to the Jewish people and the Jewish journey. As Jews, we have agency to write our story and to live according to our purpose. It is a story that reminds us we are not victims, but heroes. We are not powerless; we have agency. We are not conformists, we are creators. We stand up to tyrants; we support the Jewish people across the globe. We bring our unique vision to a world that needs our light. As Jews we create worlds out of darkness. It would be easy to be consumed by the flame, but we are not, we light the flames that guide us into the future. May we have the wisdom to write our story and take action. May we have the faith to draw closer to our people; and may we have the power to be the architects of our own redemption.
L’shana Tova.
Rabbi Rick Kellner
[1] Antisemitism, An American Tradition, by Pamela Nadell, p. 179
[2] Nadell, p. 206
[3] Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks from In Judaism’s Life-Changing Ideas: A Weekly Reading of the Jewish Bible, as quoted by Rabbi Avit Perten in an article entitled “I’m not Jumping for Jewish Joy https://ejewishphilanthropy.com/im-not-jumping-for-jewish-joy-heres-why/
[4] Hannah: More than Just the Mother of Samuel by Prof. Nehama Aschkenasy https://www.thetorah.com/article/hannah-more-than-just-the-mother-of-samuel
[5] https://www.timesofisrael.com/some-young-us-jews-pulling-back-from-jewish-life-due-to-israel-discourse-study/
[6] Crash of the Heavens by Doug Century, p. 8
[7] Century, p. 9
[8] Century, p. 29
[9] Century p. 318
[10] Matti Friedman, Out of the Sky, p. 154-155
[11] Paraphrased and adapted from Friedman, p. 157