Dear Friends,
Telling our story is a critical part of our lives.
It is valid for each one of us, for our people, for politicians running for office, and for second-graders beginning the school year.
When we recount our narratives, we reinforce what is vital in our self-identities, and we inform others of who we are and what one might expect of us.
Thus, it is not surprising to read in this week’s Torah portion that when the ancient Israelites brought their first fruits to the Temple as their gifts of gratitude (think fall harvest—apples, peppers, pears, and squash!), they would reiterate their ancestral narrative:
“My father was a wandering Aramean. He went down to Egypt with meager numbers and sojourned there, but there he became a great and very populous nation. The Egyptians dealt harshly with us and oppressed us; they imposed heavy labor upon us. We cried to the Eternal, the God of our ancestors... and the Eternal freed us by an outstretched arm and awesome power.” (Deuteronomy 26:5-8)
That text should sound familiar! It is found in the core story of the Passover Haggadah, when, again, we retell our story.
Yes, the retelling of our history is repetitive, but that is what makes it grand. It becomes both the foundation of our being and the rationale for our existence and our future.
Similarly, when we meet a new neighbor and we offer a bit of our story, or when candidates continually offer their background vignette in interviews or advertisements, or when the school teacher asks her new second graders to tell what they did last summer, the telling is vital. We craft our own canvas, select the key events, and control, somewhat, the perceptions and expectations of others.
Notice, too, how we opt to exclude that which we prefer to minimize and to highlight the elements that reinforce our strongest or most salient features. It is central to applying the paint to the canvas—shaping the foreground and letting other scenes retreat to the background.
This week, we are reminded in the days before Rosh Hashanah when the Book of Life is open that now is the time to review our achievements and our failures from the last year. What has added to our story? What did we do that hurt it? What should we change in our actions to comport with our personal picture?
Now is the time, again, to tell our story!
Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Douglas Kohn
Telling our story is a critical part of our lives.
It is valid for each one of us, for our people, for politicians running for office, and for second-graders beginning the school year.
When we recount our narratives, we reinforce what is vital in our self-identities, and we inform others of who we are and what one might expect of us.
Thus, it is not surprising to read in this week’s Torah portion that when the ancient Israelites brought their first fruits to the Temple as their gifts of gratitude (think fall harvest—apples, peppers, pears, and squash!), they would reiterate their ancestral narrative:
“My father was a wandering Aramean. He went down to Egypt with meager numbers and sojourned there, but there he became a great and very populous nation. The Egyptians dealt harshly with us and oppressed us; they imposed heavy labor upon us. We cried to the Eternal, the God of our ancestors... and the Eternal freed us by an outstretched arm and awesome power.” (Deuteronomy 26:5-8)
That text should sound familiar! It is found in the core story of the Passover Haggadah, when, again, we retell our story.
Yes, the retelling of our history is repetitive, but that is what makes it grand. It becomes both the foundation of our being and the rationale for our existence and our future.
Similarly, when we meet a new neighbor and we offer a bit of our story, or when candidates continually offer their background vignette in interviews or advertisements, or when the school teacher asks her new second graders to tell what they did last summer, the telling is vital. We craft our own canvas, select the key events, and control, somewhat, the perceptions and expectations of others.
Notice, too, how we opt to exclude that which we prefer to minimize and to highlight the elements that reinforce our strongest or most salient features. It is central to applying the paint to the canvas—shaping the foreground and letting other scenes retreat to the background.
This week, we are reminded in the days before Rosh Hashanah when the Book of Life is open that now is the time to review our achievements and our failures from the last year. What has added to our story? What did we do that hurt it? What should we change in our actions to comport with our personal picture?
Now is the time, again, to tell our story!
Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Douglas Kohn
