Choosing Life Even as we Carry our Burdens

Atem nitzavim hayom kulchem lifnei Adonai Eloheichem - "You stand this day, all of you, before the Eternal your God."

Every year we gather here, as if we were at the foot of Sinai itself. Young and old, members and visitors, past and future generations - all of us together, bringing our hopes and our fears, our blessings and yes, our burdens.

But this year feels different. This year, I feel as though I am carrying stones. Heavy stones that I have been bearing for far too long. And I suspect I am not alone in this.

I am tired.

Tired of being sad.

Tired of being afraid.

Tired of feeling powerless for things beyond my control,

and tired of struggling to forgive the terrible things that are happening in our world.

Before my recent visit to Israel, I thought I understood what we were expected to feel - the weight of responsibility, the burden of memory. But there, I discovered something unexpected: the urgent, defiant ability to celebrate life itself.

I saw youngsters partying before Shabbat. I saw friends meeting in bomb shelters, finding ways to connect despite everything. And I thought of Noa Argamani - the former hostage who threw a party to celebrate her freedom, even whilst her partner remained captive in Gaza.

At her celebration, Noa spoke with her sharp survivor’s insight: "It's not ideal that we're having this party while there's still a war in the background, while our soldiers are on the battlefield, while there are still hostages in Gaza, including my partner, Avinatan Or, who we miss terribly. But at the same time, I'm happy to celebrate life itself. We have to value every day in this life. We have to celebrate every moment that we're here."

This brings us to tonight's central question: Can we forgive and be forgiven even as we struggle to live our lives today, especially when it feels like we are carrying stones too heavy to put down?

In Judaism, sin is not separation from God - it is missing the mark, a deviation from our path that we can correct. Our tradition speaks of three types of wrongdoing:

Chet - missing the mark, often unintentional;

Avon - character flaws we have developed over time; and

Pesha - deliberate rebellion against what we know is right.

But here is what is remarkable: even for the gravest sins, our tradition maintains that teshuvah - return - remains possible.

We pray it every year: "U'teshuvah, u'tefillah, u'tzedakah maavirin et roa hagezerah" - "Repentance, prayer, and righteous acts avert the harsh decree."

But these are not simple actions - they are processes.

Teshuvah is not just saying sorry. It means genuine remorse, stopping the harmful behaviour, confessing honestly, and committing never to repeat it. It is about returning to your best self.

Tefillah rebuilds our relationship with the Divine through honest conversation - sometimes difficult conversation that includes fasting, struggling, even arguing with God.

Tzedakah - not charity, but justice. Making amends, repairing what we have broken, working to heal our world.

Our tradition tells of Rabbi Elisha ben Abuya, called "Acher" - "the Other One" - who heard a heavenly voice declare: "Return, all you wayward children - except for Acher." Therefore, Acher is known as the one who was shut out forever from the possibility of teshuvah.

But the Zohar, the foundational text of Jewish mysticism, teaches something extraordinary: we are forbidden to accept such a commandment. Even when it seems God is saying "there is no return for you," we must keep knocking on heaven's doors.

Why? Because what that voice really meant was not that Acher was beyond hope, but that ordinary repentance would not suffice. He needed extraordinary teshuvah - a transcendent return that emerges precisely when we refuse to accept that redemption is impossible.

Acher's tragedy was not that he was irredeemable. It was that he believed he was, and therefore never tried.

Bacharta bachaim - "Choose life."

This biblical passage is not just about survival. Rabbi John Rayner taught that it calls us "to develop our spiritual powers, to conduct our relationships with one another, and to order society so that human life may realise its limitless potential for excellence - for goodness, truth and beauty."

Choosing life means celebrating it, even (or ESPECIALLY) in darkness. It means putting down the stones we have been carrying and refusing to pick up new ones thrown our way. It means understanding what Noa Argamani understood: that life itself is sacred, that joy is not betrayal, that hope is not naivety. It is a vital necessity of being alive.

Atem nitzavim - "You stand." Not "you will stand" or "you should stand" - you do stand. Right now. Together.

We stand bearing witness to each other's struggles and celebrating each other's survival. We stand ready to help carry each other's stones, and brave enough to put down our own.

We are commanded to choose life. Which sometimes includes accepting the burdens of our lives and the extraordinary challenges of today. But we are not commanded to bear ALL of the sadness, fear and anger, to carry ALL the stones - only what we can reasonably do when we choose life again.

This Yom Kippur, let us choose extraordinary teshuvah.

Let us choose to believe that no one - not even ourselves - is beyond redemption.

Let us choose to transform our stones into stepping stones.

As we enter this holy day together, may we find the courage to put down what we cannot carry alone. May we discover that the same hands that have held our burdens can also hold our blessings.

To forgive others where we can.

To forgive ourselves where we must.

To turn away from curses and hold fast to blessings.

To celebrate, even in the midst of pain.

May this Yom Kippur mark not just the end of one year, but the beginning of a year where we choose life - abundantly, joyfully, and together.

Gmar chatimah tovah - May we all be sealed in the Book of Life.