Bernard Axelrad Scholarship Fund

This has been a trying year for me on several counts, and I have a strong need to leave behind the secular and mundane while I seek spiritual communion and surcease from daily travail. As the New Year of 5750 approaches, I particularly look forward to the spiritual nourishment I get by attending High Holiday services.

At a time when greed, corruption and conspicuous consumption are the dogma of the day, when we are losing the battle against the scourge of drugs, when medicine is baffled by increasing AIDS and cancer fatalities, when crime and random drive-by shootings multiply despite all efforts at containment and whole sections of cities are unsafe to traverse either day or night, I find refuge and relief in the sanctuary.

In such a world it is imperative that one anesthetizes himself to withstand the daily barrage of such appalling news.

In the synagogue on the High Holidays I find no terrifying headlines to greet me. Wearing my tallith and kippah in a sea of other men similarly adorned and flanked by their wives and children, I lose myself in ethereal communion with a Higher Authority. The temporal concerns of my daily life are banished for the time being.

Since we mortals obviously do not have the answers, I choose - on this occasion at least - to seek them elsewhere.

Unlike the peoples who celebrate their New Year with boisterous and wild partying, we observe Rosh Hashanah in solemn prayer and penitence. It is said that our fate for the coming year is "written" on Rosh Hashanah and "sealed" ten days later on Tom Kippur - with the intervening Ten Days of Penitence providing us opportunity to change the initial judgment.

Services on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur deal primarily with prayers of repentance and pleas for forgiveness. How evocative are the words of the prayer which begins "On Rosh Hashanah our destiny is inscribed, and on Yom Kippur it is sealed; how many shall pass away and how many shall be brought into existence; who shall live and who shall die; who shall come to a timely end and who to an untimely end..."

With the random and inexplicable way death strikes among us, how can anyone question the possibility of our destiny being preordained? And, if so, why not on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur?

One of the foremost extra pleasures is that my family attends High Holiday services together. It gives me a warm feeling of the continuity of life to have several generations represented in the sanctuary.

For me, a most memorable prayer-poem takes place during the Musaf (afternoon) service. It begins with the Hebrew words, "Unsana Tokef" (let us tell how utterly holy and awe-inspiring is this day).

That prayer was inspired by the story of Rabbi Amnon, a highly regarded scholar of noble descent who, while being a favorite advisor of his monarch, was repeatedly and fruitlessly pressed by his sovereign to change his faith. Beset by such insistent solicitation, on one occasion he evasively asked for three days to consider the matter.

Upon reaching home he was heartbroken, and would neither eat nor drink out of remorse at having given the impression that he might even consider renouncing his belief in Judaism. When, at the end of the three days, he purposely failed to appear before his ruler, he was forcibly brought to the court.

While his infuriated erstwhile friend and sponsor sought to mete out a suitable punishment, Rabbi Amnon offered up his own judgment. He proposed that the tongue which said "let me think about it" be cut out, and the feet that walked out of the sovereign's presence without immediately disavowing any inclination to change his faith be cut off.

And it was so done.

On Rosh Hashanah, dying from his wounds, Rabbi Amnon asked to be brought to the synagogue, where he expired.

Since I first heard that story over 60 years ago I have been affected by its message — and my belief in my religion has never wavered.

As a youngster I cringed at the interminably lengthy Musaf amidah on Rosh Hashanah — by far the longest of all amidahs. As I get older, it seems to get shorter and I no longer approach it with trepidation.

The quite quaint ceremony of Tashlich (casting away) has left an unforgettable impression on me since childhood. After lunch on the first day of Rosh Hashanah, it is customary to go to a lake or river and, while reciting prayers, empty our pockets into the water.

Thus, we symbolically cast away our sins and start the New Year afresh.

Among the most sonorous of all prayers is the Kol Nidre, chanted at the onset of Yom Kippur eve services. The shul is usually packed, and the men in their tallithim lend a decorous note to this most impressive occasion. It is the only time that a tallith is worn at an evening service.

On the day preceding Yom Kippur it is traditional to seek forgiveness from people whom we have harmed or offended during the past year. The Talmud tells us that on Yom Kippur we can ask (and receive) forgiveness for the sins against God, but for sins against our fellow-man we must ask pardon from those we have wronged before the Lord can grant His absolution.

As a youngster and to this very day I have looked forward to hearing the blowing of the shofar. Its sharp, staccato, reverberating and rolling sound evokes memories of ancient Jews in the wilderness calling the assemblage to gather around. The inimitable blast of the ram's horn still grabs our attention, and heralds our future as well as providing a link with the past.

For many the most welcomed prayer is the concluding one of Neilah on Yom Kippur. It is the final chance to influence God's judgment before our fate is sealed.

After 24 hours of fasting and a full day at services, the most reverent among us begins to wear down. Even the soul has had its full of contrition and penance by then. Yet, as if to show that prayer makes us stronger, the more hardy remain standing throughout its approximately one-hour duration.

Perhaps our prayers during the High Holiday services will not end greed, corruption, drugs, pain or premature death, but they afford a special opportunity to make peace with our personal demons and renew our commitment to Judaism. In asking forgiveness of each other and of God, we can make a new beginning for ourselves and face the year to come with all its pains and pleasures with understanding, compassion and grace.

And when Neilah concludes and the final, single blast of the shofar has sounded, we can with sincerity and true good will wish each other, as I wish you now, L'shana Tovah.