Text of Rabbi Noahs Rosh Hashanah sermon 2024

A Future-Oriented People: Of Grasshoppers and Seeds
Rosh Hashanah 5785 Rabbi Noah Chertkoff

It was a day just like this one, roughly 5785 years ago according to legend, when Adam and Eve experienced their first day in this world. As the sun dipped beyond the treetops for the very first time, they marveled at the brilliant hues of orange spreading across the sky. But soon, the sky turned dark, so dark that they couldn’t see their hands in front of their faces. Fear filled their hearts. They had no frame of reference, no understanding of the natural cycles of the world. They believed that the world had ended, that the darkness would be eternal. And so, Adam and Eve wept through the night.
I never thought I’d know what that feeling was like—feeling the darkness creep in and not knowing if the light would return—until this year. There were several moments. Many that we have shared along the path of 5784. But I want to share with you a personal one.
I overheard a conversation in my car, just last week. It was a simple moment that struck me deeply. I was driving my kids to school, as we do every day, with my mom on the phone. The kids were chatting away, and I’ll admit, I sometimes tune out during these conversations. But this time, I overheard my 12-
year-old daughter share a nightmare she had the night before. She was running in her dream, and that’s
what caught my attention—she was running from a gunman.
Hearing this broke my heart. As I listened, I couldn’t help but think about the world my daughter is growing up in, a world that feels increasingly uncertain and dark. What struck me even more was my mom’s response—a deep fear for the future of our children. And that, too, broke my heart. This is a sentiment I hear from so many of you, from parents, from grandparents, from every corner of our community.
When I look at my children, I see the future. And when I hear what haunts them in the night, I can’t help
but realize that their concerns match my own. I think they match yours too.
And it’s not hard to see why. The events of this past year, especially October 7th, have shaken us to our core. That day will forever be remembered as one of the darkest in Jewish history. But what has been equally shocking—and painful—has been the reaction from so many in the world afterward. Scholar Yehuda Kurtzer described the aftermath as a "flash of light in a dark night," a brief moment when everything was illuminated. We saw where people stood, who our allies truly were—and, disturbingly, who were not.
For many of us, it felt like an existential turning point. The global reactions—both the silence and the hostility—cut deeply. People and groups we thought would stand with us were suddenly distant or, worse, openly hostile. Kurtzer’s “flash of light” left us reevaluating our relationships, our support systems, and our place in the world.
I have been deeply affected by the fate of the hostages, I have also been deeply affected by the suffering and death of innocent civilians on all sides of this conflict. And even as recently as two days ago I watched the news in horror as missiles rained down on Israel from Iran.
5784 felt like a dark night as the light dipped below our view. Buried somewhere beneath the surface of the earth.
 
This sense of fear and pessimism, however, didn’t begin with October 7th. We’ve been feeling it for some time, and it’s reflected in our culture: in movies, in books, in how we talk about the future. We see a world of apocalyptic themes and dystopian visions. And it worries me because I fear it is taking root not just in our imaginations, but in our hearts.
First, I want to acknowledge that this fear is real. Our feelings are valid—they are a guide to the world we live in. But I also want to talk about the danger of letting that fear define us, because it can have profound impacts on our future.
My daughter’s nightmares, my mother’s fears, and all of our concerns about the world have me asking the question: What must we believe when the sun has set? How do we move from fear and uncertainty about the future to hope and trust in the potential that lies ahead, both for ourselves and for the generations to come?
There’s a moment in our history that serves as a powerful cautionary tale. After leaving Egypt, the Israelites stood on the verge of entering the Promised Land. They had journeyed so far, and everything they had hoped for lay just beyond the border. Before entering, Moses sent twelve spies to scout the land and assess the challenges ahead.
After 40 days, the spies returned with beautiful fruit, showcasing the abundance of the land. Yet, ten of them focused on the difficulties, the giants they saw, and the fortified cities that seemed impossible to overcome. In their fear, they said:
ַּֽהם ְּבֵעיֵני ָהִִ֖יינו ְּוֵֵ֥כן ַַּֽכֲחָגִִ֔בים ְּבֵעיֵֵ֙נינֵ֙ו ַוְּנִהי "We were like grasshoppers in our own eyes, and we looked the same to them."
Their fear and pessimism spread rapidly throughout the Israelite camp, causing panic and despair.
The rabbis of old, sensitive readers of the text, noticed the way the spies phrased their fears. They said they felt like grasshoppers in their own eyes ְּבֵעיֵֵ֙נינֵ֙ו , but also assumed they appeared the same way to the Canaanites ַּֽהם ְּבֵעיֵני. And so, the rabbis asked the important question: How did the Israelites know what they looked like in the eyes of the Canaanites?
In Midrash (Tanchuma Shelach 6), the rabbis suggested that their fear and self-doubt distorted their
perception of reality. They didn’t know how others saw them, but because they saw themselves as small and insignificant, they projected that image onto their enemies. Their sense of powerlessness shaped their entire view of the situation.
This is what fear does—like the sun dipping below the treetops, it obscures our sense of what’s possible. Instead of seeing opportunities, the Israelites saw only insurmountable obstacles. Fear caused them to lose faith—not only in God but in themselves. This misplaced perception of reality led to their fear and, ultimately, they were condemned to wander in the wilderness for forty years.
Today, on Rosh Hashanah, like the spies of old, we stand on the border of a new year, we are like spies, peering into the land of our future. Peering into 5785 and the year to come. How many of us feel like grasshoppers, diminished by our challenges, believing that we are too small to meet them? How many of us believe in our hearts that the sun will rise again?
Roughly 5785 years ago the sun rose in the eyes of humanity for the first time. And Adam and Eve
realized that this might be the sun’s regular pattern.
 
So the following night, as the sun set, they did not fear. They each had hope in their hearts that the sun would rise again.
Fear can rob us of the truth, tricking us into believing that the sun won’t rise. But it will. But it’s not enough for us to sit and weep as we wait for its return, for we are a people of action, an Atid people—a future-oriented people. For fear can be paralyzing or it can be galvanizing. Hope is choosing the latter.
Let me give you an example from our tradition—one that looks to our past for inspiration but points to the future. It’s a well-known story about Choni ha-Ma'agel—Choni the circle maker. Many of you may know it. It’s considered one of Judaism’s greatest hits!
One day, Choni saw a man planting a carob tree. Curious, Choni asked the man, "How long will it take for this tree to bear fruit?" The man replied, "Seventy years." Surprised, and clearly without any tact, Choni asked, "Do you expect to live long enough to eat from its fruit?" The man, patient with Choni’s question, answered, "Just as my ancestors planted for me, I plant for my children."
After this conversation, Choni fell asleep near the tree and didn’t wake up for 70 years. When he awoke, the world had changed, and the carob tree had grown tall and strong. He saw people harvesting the fruit and realized that the man’s descendants were now benefiting from the tree their grandfather had planted.
This story was written during a time of great uncertainty for our people—Roman rule, the destruction of the Temple, and exile. And yet, our ancestors chose to tell a story about planting for the future. This story is a letter to future generations, reminding us that even in times of despair, we plant seeds for those who will come after us.
This strikes me as profoundly meaningful today. Like those rabbis of old, our own moments of greatest uncertainty are when we most need to plant for the future. We must not wait for a more stable or hopeful time to plant; we plant in the here and now, trusting that future generations will one day benefit from our actions.
Let me share another example. When I think of the 1950s, in post-war America, though it was difficult for many, there was a prevailing optimism. People believed that the future held endless possibilities.
One of my favorite symbols of this optimism was Disney’s "Carousel of Progress", a World’s Fair exhibit that showcased how technology would revolutionize daily life. It reflected a belief that progress was inevitable, and that each step forward would bring greater comfort and opportunity.
In the 1950s, the notion of building something for the future wasn’t weighed down by despair; it was fueled by faith in humanity’s capacity to innovate, overcome challenges, and shape a better world for the next generation.
Think for a moment of Congregation Shalom’s founding in 1951. I want to show you one of the shovels that was used to break ground. [Show the shovel] Many of you have them in your homes. I wonder what the founders of this wonderful institution had in their hearts when they drove these shovels into the earth. With every thrust of the shovel, they were not just digging into the ground; they were planting
the seeds for something much bigger. They couldn’t have known exactly what would grow from their efforts, but they believed deeply in the possibilities. They trusted that by taking action in that time, a time that was filled with hope yet still in the shadow of the holocaust and the precarious position of the
 
fledgling state of Israel, they were building something meaningful, not just for themselves, but for generations to come.
Now, we stand at a similar moment on this Rosh Hashanah. We face challenges and uncertainties, but we also stand on the edge of something new. While the world may feel fraught with despair, we cannot let that despair take root in us. Instead, we must carry forward the legacy of hope and building, even when the ground beneath us feels broken.
This is what it means to be an Atid people—a future-oriented people. We plant seeds today, knowing
that even if we don’t see the fruit ourselves, our children and grandchildren will.
So, let me ask you this: In what ways will you nurture the seeds of tomorrow? In what ways will you plant for the generations to come? How will each of us be an Atid person, with hearts directed toward the sunrise?
The story of Adam and Eve doesn’t end with the sunrise. A week after their creation, Adam and Eve
noticed the moon’s light steadily fading until one night, the moon did not appear at all. Adam, overcome with fear, believed that the world would cease to exist. But Eve, remembering the lesson of the sunrise, held hope in her heart. She comforted Adam, trusting that the Creator would want them to live on and fulfill their purpose. The next evening, they saw the moon re-emerge, one sliver at a time.
This is the journey from darkness to light, from fear to hope. It mirrors the message of Psalm 27, a psalm we read during the month of Elul, leading to Rosh Hashanah. It opens with:
אְּפָחד ִמִמי ָמעֹוז־ַחַיי יי ִאיָרא ִמִמי ְּוִיְּשִעי אֹוִרי יי"The Eternal is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Eternal is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?" (Psalm 27:1)
The psalm reminds us, like Eve’s wisdom, that even when the world feels dark and uncertain, there is a guiding light—a reassurance that the light will return. But it’s not enough to wait for the light. We must act. We must plant. We must be active participants in bringing light into the world.
Let me ask you one final question. If you, like Choni, were to fall asleep for seventy years (preferably not during this sermon) and awaken in this community, what do you believe in your heart you would see?
Will the future be the fulfillment of our nightmares, like my daughter’s or my mother’s? Or will it be defined by the seeds of hope we plant today? The seeds we plant will determine what kind of world we wake up to tomorrow.
What seeds might you plant this year. What ways can you build a future that represents your greatest aspirations and not your worst fears? Our actions needn’t be grandiose. They can be simple acts that show that we can make change in small yet important ways.
Will you engage with your local community, joining hands with others to build a more compassionate, resilient future?
Will you stand up for justice, fight for the rights of the marginalized, and work to make our world a more equitable place?
Will you commit acts of kindness, ensuring that those around you feel seen, supported, and loved?
Will you take steps toward deepening your faith, exploring your spirituality, and creating a meaningful connection with God?
 
Will you plant seeds—both literal and metaphorical—for future generations, nurturing the world around you for those who come after?
That is the Jewish way. As RabbI Jonathan Sacks of blessed memory has said:
“It is no small thing to be a Jew. Each of us carries with us the hopes of a hundred generations of our ancestors and the destiny of generations not yet born. We are responsible to the Jewish past for the Jewish future, and much depends on how we carry that responsibility.”
When I look into my daughter Hannah’s face I see my Atid, I see my future, I see it in the faces of Judah and Josie and I see it the faces of your children too. all of our children. We want to sooth their fears and tell them that there won’t be any darkness in the world that they will one day inherit. but that wouldn’t be the truth. They will face their own sunsets. But I am not raising my children to be grasshoppers and neither should you. We must raise children that can look towards the sunrise and the promise in the land of their tomorrows and they must learn that by our example. Just as our parents planted before us so to must we plant.
Rosh Hashanah is the beginning of the new moon. At this moment, when the night sky is at its darkest, at the turning of the year, each of us is a spy looking beyond the borders; each of us is a person planting seeds with a shovel in our hands. Do we have hope in our hearts that the light will re-emerge? Do we recognize that each night, a sliver of light brings a brighter and more brilliant sky?
The year 5784 has come to an end. There was bitterness and there was sweetness. There was shadow and there was light. Sadness and joy. And I fear that the challenges born of that year will continue into this one. There will be light, and there will be darkness.
But we are not grasshoppers. We are the descendants of those who have faced great trials and still found the courage to plant for a future they might never see. We are planters like the man in Choni’s story, builders like our founders, and dreamers of a better tomorrow.
As the song we are about to hear reminds us, "There can be miracles when you believe." But belief alone is just the beginning. It must be accompanied by action—by hope, by trust, and by the courage to plant for tomorrow.
May this Rosh Hashanah inspire us not only to believe in miracles but to plant the seeds that make them grow—one step, one seed, one act of faith at a time.
Shanah Tovah.