September 18, 2026
Congregation B’nai Israel: Boca Raton

There is a Hassidic story about a Jew who kept a tavern in a small village had, over the years, quietly fallen away from Torah observance. Business was business, and the demands of running the tavern — open late, serving all kinds of customers — had worn down his practice bit by bit, until one day he realized decades had passed and he barely remembered how to pray.

One winter, the Baal Shem Tov came through the village and stopped at the tavern. The man recognized him and was overcome with shame. He fell before the rebbe, weeping, confessing everything — the missed prayers, the forgotten holidays, the mitzvot let go one by one. He begged for some path back, some enormous penance that could undo it all.

The Baal Shem Tov listened quietly, then asked him a simple question: “Tell me — all these years, did you ever once think to yourself, ‘Master of the Universe, look how far I’ve fallen, and yet You are still here, still waiting for me’?”

The man thought, and said yes — many times, in the middle of the night, alone, he’d had that exact thought.

“Then you were never as far away as you believed,” the Baal Shem Tov said. “A person who regrets from inside, his distance is already closer to God than one who never left but never truly arrived either. Your regret was not a symptom of your distance. It was the thread pulling you back the whole time.”

This last sentence took a little unpacking for me, and maybe for you, too. Here is what the Baal Shem Tov was getting at: 

When the tavern keeper said, I left, I fell, I’m now far away from God, and the distance is the problem, the Baal Shem Tov is challenging that premise. The physical distance, framed as not keeping the mitzvot, is not the same thing thing as spiritual distance. The man assumed his years of neglect meant he’d drifted out of relationship entirely. The Baal Shem Tov is saying: not so.

In fact, someone who is technically observant goes through the prayers and may never ask, “Where am I in relation to God?” Whereast the tavern keeper, after years of neglect feels something deeper when he tells himself, “look how far I’ve fallen, and You’re still there.”

And that is why the tavern keepers regret was the thread pulling him back. His self awareness was the living connective tissue, if you will, bridging the distance between himself and God. Regret tells us that something is still alive. Not that something is dead.

Tonight, on this Shabbat during these Days of Awe, we focus our minds and hearts not so much on our failings but rather on the regret that tells us that the connection between ourselves and God is still alive. 

This Shabbat takes its name from the haftarah we read, from the prophet Hosea, chapter 14: שׁ֚וּבָה יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל עַ֖ד יְהֹוָ֣ה אֱלֹהֶ֑יךָ “Shuvah Yisrael ad Adonai Elohecha” — “Return, O Israel, to the Lord your God.” Shuvah. Return.

Now, here’s what I want you to notice, because it’s easy to miss. Hosea does not say, “Perfect yourself, O Israel.” He does not say, “Get it right, O Israel, and then come find Me.” The word is shuvah — from the root shin-vet-vav, shuv, which simply means to turn, to turn back, to turn around.

That’s it. That’s the whole instruction. Turn around.

Compare that to the word shleimut — wholeness, completeness, perfection — from the root shalem, the same root as shalom. That is not what Hosea is asking for here. Hosea isn’t asking Israel to arrive whole. He’s asking Israel to turn — mid-mess, mid-mistake, mid-regret, mid-sentence even — and simply face back toward home.

Can you imagine if God’s whole ask of us was perfection? None of us would be sitting here. 

But that’s not the ask. The ask is: turn around. Ulai — maybe — you’re not ready. Ulai you’re still a mess. Ulai your regrets are eating you from the inside. But just knowing that means you are ready to return, not to be perfect but to be perfectly human in relation to God.

Here’s the thing about perfectionism – sheimut – that nobody tells you: it doesn’t feel like avoidance. It feels like diligence. It feels responsible. It feels like you’re doing the hard, careful work of getting it right. And that’s why waiting for the perfect moment almost always fails.

Think of the letter you’ve been drafting to friend for two years, rewriting the wording so it comes out exactly right, so it doesn’t sound too cold or too desperate — meanwhile, they’re waiting.

Or maybe it’s the apology you’ve rehearsed in the shower forty times, refining it, perfecting the tone — meanwhile the person you hurt just wants to hear “I’m sorry,” badly said, today, rather than beautifully said, someday. This exact thing happened to me as a childhood of mine friend lost nearly all his friends over the course of a couple of decades and, sadly, only reached out to express regret in the literal last days of his life. His regret told him to reach out. But he was waiting for the right moment that almost never came.

Our regret is telling us to reach out to each other and to God. Our pride and fear hold us back. That is why we need to heed Hosea. He isn’t asking for the perfect moment. He is asking for the turnaround.

Look at what happens in Hosea 14 after the turning. God says: “I will heal their affliction, I will love them freely… I will be to Israel like the dew; he shall blossom like the lily, he shall strike root like the forests of Lebanon.”

Blossom like the lily. Strike root like the cedar. These are not small images — a lily doesn’t force itself open through effort, and a cedar doesn’t achieve its roots through anxious calculation. Growth like this comes after the turning, as a consequence of it, never as a precondition for it.

Nobody plants a seed and demands it prove its worthiness before it’s allowed to grow. The seed doesn’t need to earn the sunlight. It just needs to be in the ground.

Turning first….growth later

So here we are, friends, on Shabbat Shuva, a week away from Yom Kippur, and I want to leave you with this: don’t wait for the perfect technique or the perfect words. Recognize that your regret is the signal you know that you still have a connection with another, with God, with yourself. Turn now. Say the imperfect apology. Send the clumsy letter. Come back to the seat that’s been empty. Plant now, play now, turn now — and trust that the growth is not your job. It’s God’s. But the return must come from you.

Because Hosea doesn’t end with Israel perfected. He ends with Israel blossoming like the lily, striking root like the cedars of Lebanon — a garden that grew not because the soil was ideal, but because someone, finally, turned back and let something beautiful grow.

On this Shabbat Shuva, I leave you with this prayer…May you hear the stirrings of your regrets and connect with what has been split apart. May you step into your return – your shuva – not waiting for the perfect time but with a sincere heart. Shuvah — return, and let this new year take root in you like the lily, like the cedar, unafraid to grow — before you feel ready.

Ken yehi ratzon — may this be God’s will. G’mar chatimah tovah — may you be sealed for good.

Shabbat shalom.