Elul 5786: Towards a New Chapter

We are entering the month of Elul. The long, difficult arc from Tisha B’Av toward the High Holy Days has begun to turn. The Seven Shabbatot of Consolation are carrying us through these weeks, offering words of comfort one Shabbat at a time. Now the calendar asks something different of us.

Elul is the month of turning inward. A time to take stock, to notice where we have been, where we are going, and what might need to change before we enter the Yamim Noraim, the Days of Awe.

I find myself arriving at Elul thinking about endings, and how often we are wrong about them. Jewish memory teaches us to be humble about endings. Our tradition is filled with stories that turn at the very last minute. Abraham climbs Mount Moriah believing he knows how the story will end. Then everything changes. The Israelites stand trapped between Pharaoh’s army and the Sea of Reeds. Behind them is Egypt. Before them is an uncrossable sea. Then everything changes. The Book of Esther may be the quintessential “last-minute” story in all of Jewish literature. Haman’s decree has already been issued. The king has already sealed it. The Jews are preparing for destruction. Then comes an unexpected banquet, a sleepless night, a forgotten act of kindness remembered at precisely the right moment, and history takes a breathtaking turn.

Sometimes those turning points are miracles. Sometimes they are acts of extraordinary human courage. Often they are both.

Yet the story that has occupied my thoughts most this summer is not one of rescue, but of loss. When the Second Temple fell, it would have been reasonable to conclude that Judaism itself had reached its end. The Temple was where sacrifices were offered. It was where pilgrims gathered. It was where heaven and earth were thought to meet. If there was no Temple, what would become of Judaism? The answer, of course, was something no one could have imagined.

The rabbis transformed a religion centered on one sacred place into one that could be carried wherever Jews found themselves. Prayer became the offering of the heart. The dining room table became an altar. Torah study became an act of worship. Every Jewish home held the possibility of becoming a sacred space.

Holiness, they discovered, was never confined to a single place. It could be encountered wherever Jews gathered to pray, to learn, to care for one another, and to sanctify ordinary life. The destruction of the Temple was not redeemed. It remained a tragedy. But it was not the end of the Jewish story.

Perhaps that is why the Jewish calendar gives us seven Shabbatot of consolation between Tisha B’Av and Rosh HaShanah. We don’t move directly from destruction to repentance. We are given time. Week after week, Isaiah’s words accompany us: Nachamu, nachamu ami—“Comfort, comfort My people.” Consolation unfolds gradually. Hope, too, takes time. Through those seven weeks, we begin to turn toward a new chapter. 

As I enter Elul this year, I find myself wondering how often I mistake disappointment for conclusion. How often do I assume that a closed door is the end of the story rather than the beginning of another chapter? I’ve been asking myself those questions a great deal lately.

For me, they came into focus on a beautiful Oregon summer morning. I had gone for a long walk, wandering farther than I intended. Somewhere along the way, my phone battery died. I didn’t think much of it. Hours later, I returned home, plugged my phone in to charge, and went about the rest of my day.

When I finally checked it that afternoon, there was a voicemail. I listened to it, then listened to it again. I couldn’t quite believe what I was hearing. After weeks of assuming I hadn’t been selected for a chaplain residency, I had quietly begun making peace with a different future. I called back, still expecting that somehow I had misunderstood.

I hadn’t. They were offering me the residency after all. Looking back, I smile at the irony. While I was simply walking beneath the summer sky, the next chapter of my life had already begun. 

Years ago, if you had asked me what kind of rabbi I hoped to become, I probably would have described leading prayer, teaching Torah, celebrating weddings, accompanying families through loss, and building community. I still do. What I didn’t anticipate was discovering how deeply those same rabbinic gifts could be lived out in hospital rooms.

I have come to see that chaplaincy is not a departure from my rabbinate. It is an expression of it. Just as the rabbis discovered that holiness was not confined to the Temple, I have begun to discover that the work of the rabbinate is not confined to a single setting.

Whether I am standing at the bimah or sitting quietly at a patient’s bedside, I am doing the same sacred work: listening for God’s presence, helping people find meaning in moments of uncertainty, and reminding them that they do not walk alone.

I didn’t see that coming, and perhaps that’s the point. Sometimes we spend years trying to imagine the life God is calling us to live, only to discover that the calling becomes clearer—and richer—one unexpected step at a time.

That doesn’t mean every story turns out the way we hope. Our tradition is far too honest for that. There are prayers that remain unanswered. There are losses that cannot be undone. There are tragedies that never receive a satisfying explanation. But our tradition asks us to resist one temptation above all others: the temptation to believe that we already know the final chapter.

The month of Elul asks us to examine our lives honestly. To acknowledge where we have fallen short, to seek forgiveness, and to return. But perhaps Elul asks something else of us as well: To leave room for surprise. To remember that the God who accompanied Abraham up Mount Moriah, who turned Esther’s banquet into deliverance, and who sustained the Jewish people after the destruction of the Temple, still invites us to live with hope.