this is an excerpt from a d'var torah (sermon) i gave on yom kippur (which is today) senior year in college. for months after i gave it, people asked me for the text. until today, no one has ever seen it. it's long; but it's a goodie. and i'm too hungry to write anything else.


Martha Beck tells the following story:

"One day, when Adam was 5, I took all three of my children out to pick up a few household items. We were at someplace like KMart where they sell gardening goods. Flowers and shrubs were lined up on benches and tables just outside the door.

"The display drew Adam like a moth to a flame. His eyes got round and he began to coo. By the time I had lifted Lizzie into the shopping cart, Adam had disappeared. 'Adam' I hollered 'Get back here!' He looked up and blinked. 'Come on!' Adam shrugged and, with a lingering look at the gardening display, trudged over to my grocery cart.

"Just then I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned. A very tall, very craggy, very elderly man was standing behind me. He had the huge, rough hands of a lifelong farmer. '"Excuse me, ma'am,' He said. 'I was wondering if you noticed what your boy was doing just now.' I felt a surge of apprehension. Adam had done some profoundly embarrassing things in his short lifetime... The old man leaned 'Your boy,' he said, 'Stopped to smell every single pant in the display outside. He didn't just smell the flowers, he smelled the shrubs, too. He smelled every bush they have out there. I think he even smelled the dirt.'

"I blinked at him, not altogether sure I was getting the point. The farmer turned and gestured. We went outside to the gardening display, the old man leading. He was leaning over, his eyes closed, inhaling deeply through his nose. 'Smell this,' he said, pointing to the juniper. Katie and Adam had already begun sniffing. I put my face close to the shrub and smelled it. It had a tangy, sharp scent, somewhere between citrus rind and sagebrush. The smell brought back a sudden flurry of memories from my childhood. 'It's something, isn't it? Now try this one.'

"We went on smelling bushes for 5 or 10 minutes, until we'd sniffed our way through the whole display. Adam and the girls through it was wonderful; they snuffled through the rows of plants like happy truffle hogs. When we were finished, the old man straightened up to his full height and tipped his hat. 'Things aren’t always what they seem, are they?' he said."


It seems to me that, today, on Yom Kippur, things are certainly not what they seem.

I wanted to use this opportunity to talk about Jewish identity in college and what it means to be a Jewish student of the 21st century. Those are subjects in which I'm well versed and knowledgeable enough to impart some wisdom. But when I sat down to write, those insights fell short of what I wanted to say.

Desperate for some inspiration, perhaps the result of the undeniable quarter-life crisis fated for senior year, a very good friend of mine told me to read, Expecting Adam by Martha Beck. It is the story of two driven Harvard academics who find out in mid-pregnancy that their unborn son will be retarded. The couple ignores the abundant means, motive, and opportunity to obtain an abortion. They decide to allow their baby to be born. What they did not realize is that they themselves were the ones to be born, infants in a new world where magic is common-place, Harvard professors are the slow learners, and the retarded babies are the master teachers.

The Talmud calls Yom Kippur simply "the day." It is a day spent in fasting and prayer, introspection and penance, but at the same time counted among the joyous festivals of the year. Yom Kippur, as is often pointed out, does not come to mark any national, historical or cosmological event, as do most of the other Jewish holidays. It concentrates on the individual in the solitude of sin and confession. Yet, its significance is perhaps no less communal than personal, no less national than religious.

While sin and atonement are solitary affairs, Judaism teaches us that they also possess very weighty communal aspects. As individuals, we confront sin and repentance every day of the year; on Yom Kippur, however, we bring our "personal baggage" to the synagogue to be submerged within it.

We think about our sin of failing to care for those in need. Of failing to educate and inspire. Of failing to be an inclusive individual and community. Of failing to celebrate our personal heroes, our muses, our parents and our friends. Of failing to be humble and gracious.

However, I would also like to propose that maybe the day of Yom Kippur allows us to step out of the realm of our fast paced, hectic lives. Yom Kippur is an opportunity for us to get away from our routine lives and, for just a day, consider the world around us.

If we think about it, we are so caught up in our needs and wants, the demands of our classes and meetings, the preoccupations with our friends and with our adversaries, that we do not have time to enjoy the everyday magic and miracles in the world around us, the world that must hold the answers to choosing life and personal growth. And the kind of magic I'm talking about isn't the tornados or the parting of the red sea kind of magic.

I'm talking about the smell of roses, the miracle of sunsets, the taste of chocolate, the intimacy we find in other people, the feeling of being in love.

Maybe as Beck suggest "...real magic doesn't come from achieving the perfect appearance, from being Cinderella at the ball with both glass slippers and a killer hairstyle. Maybe the real magic is in the pumpkin, in the mice, in the moonlight; not beyond ordinary life, but within it."

Maybe, coincidences are G-d's way of remaining anonymous.

It seems to me that, today, on Yom Kippur, things are certainly not what they seem. It's that eerie feeling you get when you feel like your life is under control -- just not your control. But it's holding on, because somehow, you know that life has a way of working itself out.

But today, and in this new year, I challenge you to notice the beauty and magic you encounter in your everyday life. The way your mom calls when you pick up the phone to dial home. How the sky clears up after a bad test. The cab driver who greets you with "Shalom!" The clouds that look remarkably like cotton balls or the picture-perfect sunrise over the ocean on New Years morning. Watching fireworks over the Lincoln memorial. The smell of camp. The taste of warm homemade chocolate chip cookies or yellow cake. The touch of someone you love. The feeling of completeness when you are with your best friends. Seeing people as they really are without accepting the value that our often senseless world assigns them.

The ability to reach through our own isolation and find strength, comfort, and warmth for an in each other.

Interactions with people we love might be the most holy experience of our lives. Maybe "the meaning of life isn’t what happens to people. Maybe the meaning of life is what happens between people."

We spend too much time trashing our treasures and treasuring our trash. We bustle around trying to create the impression that we are cool, invulnerable and in perfect control, when in fact we are awkward, scared and overwhelmed. As you struggle to drown out the grumble of your stomach, I encourage you to notice the magic in the world around you. Inhale the autumn air. Find beauty in the smell of clean sheets. Look for rainbows -- not only in the sky but in sprinklers and the dish-soap bubbles and patches of oil in the parking lot.

Most importantly, today and in the coming year, I hope that you find time to stop and smell the flowers ... and the bushes and shrubs too.

And may today be an easy fast filled with wonder, self-reflection, and above all ... magic.