Gainesville, 2025
Even though I pretty in the dark about baseball, even I know the iconic picture of Babe Ruth from Game 3 of the 1932 World Series against the Chicago Cubs. In the fifth inning, Ruth stepped up to the plate, gestured toward the outfield, and hit the next pitch over the wall. This moment has become known as “The Called Shot.”
The jersey that he wore during that game had been photo-matched to images from that day and authenticated. Just over a year ago, that shirt sold at auction for $24 million. Those in the know have said that it was the most any piece of sports memorabilia sold for.
In July, the jersey was brought back to Wrigley Field, where fans and players had the chance to see it up close. The jersey still bears unique stitching and stains, which Ruth’s granddaughter, Linda Ruth Tosetti, believes might be from mustard — a favorite of her grandfather.
“I’m sure he had his hot dogs, and he needed to have them throughout the game,” said Tosetti.
What is it about that jersey that someone was willing to pay $24 million for and which fans lined up for hours to see? There are many reasons, I suppose: nostalgia, connecting to a part of who we are or who we wish we were, a glimpse of history. I guess everyone has their own reason. Maybe its the same reason some of us like to go back to the home we were born in or meander through the same school where some of our best childhood memories are.
Whatever the reason, there is a sense of belonging to those holy places and those holy place evoke memories of sacred moments. And in recalling those sacred moments, we create new sacred moments. And that is where we are this evening – at least for me and, with your indulgence, I want to share a little bit of what I feel.
For me, this is a different Rosh Hashanna. The ongoing discussion in my home with Stella is that I am either retired with a full-time job, or have a full-time job and am not close to retirement. Either way, 39 years after ordination, I am in an entirely new place physically, emotionally and, especially, spiritually. In a very real sense, I have returned to my old school and am wandering the halls a completely different person than who I was almost four decades ago and, just like looking at Babe Ruth’s famous – one might almost say – magical jersey, I wax a little nostalgic and, at the same time, tremendously hopeful.
Many of you know why. For those who don’t let me explain. When I got back from my first year in Israel in 1982, all the rabbinic students were assigned High Holiday pulpits if they wanted one. I was assigned to the University of Florida in Gainesville. I remember the services like they were this morning. I remember the prayerbook, the handwritten sermons, the lecture room that served as the sanctuary. But what I remember most, was my reaction when I was assigned Gainesville. ‘Gainesville? Where is Gainesville?’
And yet it was a defining moment in my rabbinic life. I always carried fond memories of my first pulpit and those memories took me back to a joyful time. And so, when I started looking for interim congregations, Gainesville wasn’t simply a name on a piece of paper – it was a flashing sign that told me that I had a chance to begin a new chapter in my rabbinic life in the same place that I began my rabbinic life, itself.
In a sense we are all in a new place and an old place. Rosh Hashanna is not a stranger to most of us. In fact, most of us have probably gone to as many Rosh Hashanna services as we have had birthdays! So being in the sanctuary is hardly new. But, still, there is a newness about it.
There is a Chassidic story about the student who goes to his Rabbi and tells him that he doesn’t need to pray the service for Rosh Hashanna or Yom Kippur this year because he has the whole machzor – the high holiday prayerbook – completely memorized and the words haven’t changed in 700 years. The Rabbi agreed with his student. ‘You’re right….the words haven’t changed…but you have.’
We are in the same place as a congregation. Yes, even though we have attended so many High Holiday services, there is something different about us as individuals and also as a congregation. We are not the same we were last year or in the years before that. We have grown, aged, questioned, celebrated, grieved. And here we are again — at the gates of a new year — and not just any year, but a year of transition, of potential, of new beginnings. This time next year, once again, we won’t be the same people or the same congregation. We will grow in ways that we barely have a glimpse of today.
This is a good thing. Rosh Hashanah is about creation — not just the creation of the world, but the possibility of re-creation. Today, we begin the process of re-creating ourselves and our beloved Shir Shalom.
According to Midrash Bereshit Rabbah, God created and destroyed many worlds before settling on this one. The midrash imagines God as an artist sketching, erasing, starting over — not out of failure, but out of vision.
That’s what these beginnings are: holy experiments. Today we immerse ourselves in a congregational holy experiment. Rabbi Joseph has left us an amazing foundation of love, commitment, dedication and vision. In the process of seeking out a new rabbi, every person at Shir Shalom will be an important part of the engine of re-creation.
And now, as a community, we are on the verge of a new beginning. We’re searching — but not just for a new rabbi. Shir Shalom is beginning to do what the machzor – the High Holiday prayer is doing. It is asking questions. And what are these questions at this moment of new beginning. They are the foundation questions of all re-creation: Who are you now? Who do you want to be? What kind of sacred community do you wish to become?
As your interim rabbi, I am here not just to hold space, but to help you make space — to reflect, to dream, to question, to dare. My task, along with the board and the rabbi search committee is to acknowledge and respect and honor the past – especially the past 20 years of a beloved rabbi – and, at the same time, give focus and hope to a promising future.
I had a chance encounter with a congregant on Yom Kippur morning when I was a rabbi in New Mexico. I walked out of my office which was right beside the door to the sanctuary and merged with the incoming people. One of the oldest members of the congregation was talking to her friend as they were walking in. She said something I will never forget: ‘I can’t believe this is my congregation. There are so many people I don’t know.’ Clearly she was reflecting a sense of loss and sorrow. I heard this and I said, ‘Bea, you and Howard built this congregation precisely to welcome all these new people into our community. These people you welcomed are your legacy. They are really kind of your children.’
Her reaction was priceless. It was an acknowledgment that, yes, she had lost something but also that she had gained something she never thought of: a legacy of a synagogue that she helped build.
And that is where Shir Shalom is at the beginning of a new year.
But beginnings are not always easy.
When God called to Abraham, commanding him to leave all that was familiar — “Lech lecha, go forth” — Abraham responded not with strategy or hesitation, but with one word: “Hineni.” Here I am.
“Here I am” — unguarded, unknowing, yet still available. That’s the posture of new beginnings.
At the beginning of this service we read, “Here I am, poor in deeds…overwhelmed and apprehensive…and although unworthy, I rise to …seek favor for Your people Israel for they have entrusted me with this task.” The beginning a new year is one of vulnerability. And yet, we step forward, we lead, we blow the shofar waking everyone up to a new re-creation.
How appropriate that the shofar, the oldest Jewish musical instrument, should be sounded at the moment of re-creation. It is, quite literally, the sound of beginning again.
The midrash teaches that the shofar has multiple cries: a wail, a sob, a sigh. It is the voice of our soul learning how to speak again after silence. It is the sound of birth. It is the sound of breaking. It is the sound of courage. It is the sound of moving forward into a future barely visible but beckoning us to create it.
Communities, like people, are reborn. The rabbi you will choose — and I believe you will choose well — is not just a new leader, but a mirror for your evolving self. The question isn’t just: Who do we want our next rabbi to be? The deeper question is: Who do we want to become in their presence?
This year, I call on you to be brave enough to ask hard questions and tender enough to hear each other’s answers. Come to the listening sessions. Speak from the heart in committee meetings. Show up for one another. Don’t wait for the “next rabbi” to create the community you want — begin building it now. This is Shir Shalom’s moment of re-creation. Be a hineni community. Show up. Be present. Be willing to begin again — even when it’s hard.
As the midrash teaches, God kept creating until the world was ready. And God hasn’t stopped. The world is being renewed each day. Hamechadesh b’tuvo b’chol yom tamid ma’aseh bereishit.
So too, our Shir Shalom community is not finished. We are always in the act of becoming. Only, this year, it is a bit more obvious as the changes we are about to make affect us, our children, and generations yet to be. Rosh Hashanah of tradition teaches us that the universe was created at this moment. Rosh Hashanna of today awakens us to reliving that creation in our re-creation as individuals and as a community.
Indeed, this year, listen to the shofar a bit differently. Let it be a moment of nostalgia but mix it with anticipation. Let it be a moment of sadness mixed with hopefulness. But especially, once that tekiah gedolah – that big long blast – sounds, let it be the beginning of our exaltation and re-creation of ourselves and, at the beginning of this decisive year, the beginning of a Shir Shalom rooted in the past but not anchored to it and anticipating the future without forgetting how we got here in the first place.
Shanah Tovah u’metukah. May this be a year of sweetness, of strength, and of sacred beginnings.
