This was my Erev Rosh HaShanah Sermon for 5787/2026
This summer, I stumbled across a Taoist teaching. It said something like this:
“Problems themselves are inevitable and a natural part of life. Trust that you will overcome them, and you will gain power over your worries.”
I read it. And then I read it again. And I thought, “Well, that’s annoying.” Because I don’t want to become better at dealing with problems. I want there not to be problems. I want the people I love to be safe, happy, and healthy. I want the phone not to ring with bad news. I want to be okay. I want the thing I’m worrying about at three in the morning to resolve itself exactly the way I want it to.
It’s simple: I want certainty. I want control. And life keeps refusing to give either one to me.
I wish I could tell you that I’ve learned to live comfortably with uncertainty—especially after all these years of discovering how little of life is actually in my hands—and walking with others through that same discovery. But I still struggle with this.
I like plans. I like knowing what’s going to happen next. I like problems I can solve. Give me a problem and let me find a solution, and I’m good. It’s the problems I can’t solve that get me. The uncertainty. The waiting. The not knowing.
And when I read that Taoist teaching this summer, it made me uncomfortable because it asked me to consider something I don’t particularly want to consider: Maybe peace doesn’t come from finally getting life under control. Maybe peace comes from discovering that I don’t have to control it in order to live fully.
Think about learning to ride a bicycle. Someone was probably standing behind you, holding onto the seat. And you kept saying, “Don’t let go! Don’t let go! Don’t let go!” And they promised they wouldn’t. Until they did. And there you were, riding. Maybe for five seconds. Maybe ten. Maybe all the way down the block. Until you turned around and realized nobody was holding onto you anymore. And then, if you were anything like me, you fell.
But think about that. What actually changed when you turned around? Nothing. You were already riding the bicycle. You were balancing. You were pedaling. You were doing the very thing you were afraid you couldn’t do. The only thing that changed was that you discovered nobody was holding on. And suddenly fear convinced you that you couldn’t do something you were already doing. I wonder how much of our worrying is like that.
We keep asking life, “Don’t let go! Promise me my children will be okay. Promise me my parents will be okay. Promise me my marriage will be okay. Promise me my health will be okay. Promise me my finances will be okay. Promise me that this thing I’m afraid of isn’t going to happen. Promise me that this new Jewish year will be okay.”
But life makes no such promise. Neither does Judaism. That’s difficult for me to say. Because I want Judaism to make that promise. I want faith to mean that if I pray hard enough, live well enough, give enough, love enough, Gd will somehow guarantee that everything will turn out the way I want. But that isn’t Judaism. No religion can guarantee this. Because that’s not the way life works.
Rosh HaShanah does not promise us a year without problems. It doesn’t promise us a year without illness. Or loss. Or disappointment. Or uncertainty. Or fear. What it does offer us is something much more honest. It reminds us that we’ve ridden that bike by ourselves before. We’ve been frightened before. We’ve fallen before. We’ve faced things we were absolutely certain we could not face. We’ve had nights we thought would never end. We’ve received phone calls we never wanted to receive. We’ve said goodbye when we weren’t ready. We’ve watched plans fall apart. We’ve entered rooms having absolutely no idea what we were going to do next. And somehow, somehow, we’re here. Hineni. Here I am.
Hineni.
I’ve always loved that Hebrew word. But I think after all these years I’ve misunderstood it. Hineni doesn’t mean I’m ready. It doesn’t mean I’m not afraid. It doesn’t mean I’ve got this. And it certainly doesn’t mean I know what’s going to happen next.
As we will read about in the Torah over the next two days, Abraham says Hineni—here I am—without knowing what Gd will ask of him. Later on in the Torah, Moses answers Gd’s call to lead even though he resisted it—insisting again and again that he is not capable of doing what Gd is asking him to do. And that is precisely where the courage is.
Our tradition gives us people who step forward not because they possess certainty, not because they feel ready, but because, even with their fear and resistance, they find the courage to show up.
Hineni. Here I am. Afraid perhaps. Uncertain? Absolutely. But here.
That is what courage can look like. Courage isn’t believing nothing bad will happen. Courage is beginning to trust that if something does happen, I can meet it. Not necessarily by myself. That’s important. Because none of us rides entirely alone. Sometimes, we need someone to hold the bike steady for us until we can find our balance again.
How blessed we are to have people who love us, families we were born into, families we have created. We have friends. We have community. We have generations who came before us and faced uncertainties far greater than many of ours and still found reasons to build, to love, to laugh, to sing. And we have our tradition. And we have each other. And we have Gd. Not a Gd who guarantees that nothing will go wrong. I don’t believe in that Gd. But a Gd, and a sacred community, whose presence reminds us that when things do go wrong, we do not have to face them entirely alone.
Faith is not trusting that I will overcome everything. Faith is trusting that whatever comes, I can meet it—with Gd, with community, with the strength I already carry, and with the help of others when my own strength is not enough.
Tonight we stand at the threshold of another year. And, as always, we have no idea what waits on the other side. There will be wonderful things. Gd willing, there will be births. Weddings. Celebrations. New friendships. Unexpected opportunities. Laughter we cannot yet imagine. There will be moments when we look around and think, “How lucky am I to be alive?”
And there will be problems. Of course there will. Some small. Some big. Some we’ll solve. Some we’ll have to learn to live with. Some things we worry about tonight will never happen. And things we aren’t worried about at all probably will. That’s life.
So our task tonight is not to ask Gd for a year in which nothing goes wrong. It is to ask for the courage to live fully in a year we cannot control. To trust ourselves a little more. To trust one another a little more. To trust that when we fall, we’ve gotten up before, and we can get up again.
That Taoist teaching I read this summer told me:
“Problems themselves are inevitable and a natural part of life. Trust that you will overcome them, and you will gain power over your worries.”
But will I overcome everything? I don’t know. Life doesn’t always return to what it was before. Some experiences change us.
So my task is not to trust that I will overcome everything. My task is to trust that whatever comes, I can meet it. Not perfectly. Not without fear. But with the strength to take the next step.
I’m still working on letting go of the need to know that everything will be okay—and trusting instead that I can meet whatever comes. I suspect I always will be. But that’s okay too. Because tonight I don’t need to know what 5787 will bring. Neither do you. We simply need to stop asking life to promise, “Don’t let go of the bike. Don’t let anything happen. Don’t let anything change. Keep everything exactly where it is.”
Instead, we should enter this new year working hard to ask different questions.
Not: Will everything be okay? But: Whatever comes, can I find the courage to meet it?
Whatever comes, will I remember the strength I already carry?
Whatever comes, will I allow the people who love me to carry me when I cannot carry myself?
Whatever comes, will I remember that uncertainty is not the same thing as catastrophe?
Whatever comes, can I take a breath, put my feet on the pedals, find my balance, and keep riding?
I hope so. I pray so.
And when this new year calls, even if my voice trembles, even if I am uncertain, even if I am afraid, I hope I will find the courage to answer: Hineni—here I am.
Whatever comes, here I am.