On the first day of Rosh Hashanah, we read of a miracle long awaited: Sarah, in her old age, bears a son. Isaac's very name "he will laugh" captures the disbelieving joy of a promise finally kept. On the second day, that same joy is tested much to our discomfort, as Abraham binds Isaac upon the altar at Gd's command, raises the knife, and is stopped only at the last possible moment. Two days, two readings, and between them the entire arc of what it means to sacrifice: the giving of something precious, without knowing whether it will be given back.
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Twenty-five years ago today, on September 11, 2001, Daniel Lewin, a former Israeli special forces captain and the tech entrepreneur seated directly behind the lead hijacker on American Airlines Flight 11, rose from his seat to fight back against the terrorists commandeering his plane. He was killed in the attempt, the first person to die that fateful day. His story is worth knowing in full and can be read here: The incredible story and legacy of Daniel Lewin.
Danny died with 3.000 others that day. We did not. And yet none of us walked away from that day unchanged. We gave up some taken-for-granted freedoms, the most evident at airport security checkpoints that will never return. Every synagogue, JCC, and Jewish gathering space learned to live behind guards and cameras, a vigilance that has only deepened since 10-7. The world grew a little less trusting. That, too, is sacrifice; not one dramatic moment on an altar, but a slow, ongoing surrender of what once felt safe.
Every Israeli family personally knows this same sacrifice. A parent places a child on the metaphorical altar at eighteen, not knowing if, or who, will come home after their three years of service. And even when a soldier does return, Isaac never walked off that mountain the same young man who walked up it. Neither does any Israeli child who has served in a war against terror.
Yet our tradition refuses to let us stop there. Rosh Hashanah's haftorah portions (Hannah's prayer answered with a son, Rachel comforted with the promise that her children will return) never let grief have the last word. We are commanded to remember, not to remain.
Our own Jewish Federation stands at its own threshold this year, as our 2022–2027 strategic plan draws to a close. We might not have reached every aspiration our community imagined five years ago, but no plan ever fully does. Yet, look at what we built: the Nina Iser Jewish Cultural Center, envisioned and brought to life to meet a growing community's programmatic needs; a Jewish Community Relations Council established as our voice and our ears in the broader civic conversation; a far sturdier fiscal foundation than the one we inherited; and much, much more. These were not small accomplishments. Nevertheless, dwelling on the plan behind us, whether celebrating it or second-guessing it, will not carry us forward. That takes new goals, new aspirations, new challenges to confront, which is precisely the work being undertaken by our board.
So, this year: remember what was lost, what continues to be given up, and what has already been built. But our task is not to live in those reflections alone. Our duty is to hope for a better year, for Isaac, for Israel, for our own community, and then to do the work of building the shared future we seek. Because we are Stronger Together.
Shabbat Shalom and shanah tovah u’metukah.
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