Sacred Stuff: Gratitude

Erev Rosh Hashanah 5786

There is an old story about a mother and son walking along the ocean when a huge wave crashes down upon them and takes the boy out to sea, nowhere to be seen. The mother prays, “Dear God, please return my boy!” Another huge wave crashes down upon her and, miracle of miracles, there he is! She looks at her son, looks at the ocean and says, “He had a cap.”

The story works because it exposes a very human truth: we are quick to notice what is missing and slow to acknowledge what we have received. The mother’s child — her whole world — has just been returned to her by a miracle, yet instead of falling to her knees in gratitude, her first instinct is to complain about the cap.

That punchline reflects a value that Jewish tradition takes seriously: cultivating gratitude. In Jewish tradition, when we speak of gratitude we use the term hakarat hatov — the recognition of the good. Our tradition understands that being grateful is not a passive quality that we either have or don’t, but an attribute to be developed, a muscle to be worked. And that workout starts the very first thing in the morning when we wake up.

Customarily, the first prayer we teach our children is the Shema, as that articulation of God’s oneness is considered the most fundamental of all religious beliefs. It is even the last word we are supposed to say when we die. However, the first word we are meant to say when we get up is Modeh — “Thanks.” Literally.

Upon waking, we are instructed to say the prayer Modeh Ani: מֹוֶדה ]מֹו ָדה[ ֲאנִי א [ נֲִיי נָ יֶָך ֶמל וְ חק יַם, יַק ָּ ,ם ֶש הֱׁחֶ בּי ָּ ִב ָמ ִנש בּ ֶח ְמ ְב,ּ ַרבּה ר ַָ,בּה ֶת Thankful am I before You, living and enduring Sovereign, for You have returned to me my soul in compassion; great is Your faithfulness.

And though it can be and often is translated as “I thank You,” the Hebrew syntax allows the verb to go first. We literally begin each day with the word Thanks. We are to begin each day understanding it not as a given but as a gift. Not something I’m entitled to, or have earned, or even deserve. My living and breathing is a gift and a blessing.

Modeh Ani — “Thankful am I” — for the simple gift of waking up, for breathing, for being. And this recitation continues throughout the day as we recite blessings not just over bread and wine like we do on Shabbat and holidays, but over the food we eat, seeing a rainbow, smelling spices, or encountering a wise teacher. The point is to train ourselves not to be like the mother in the story, blind to the miracle before her because of what isn’t before her…what she doesn’t have. In this way, Judaism embeds gratitude into daily life.

The modern Orthodox leader, Rabbi Avi Weiss recently wrote that the phrase Shanah Tovah doesn’t really mean “Have a happy new year,” but “Have a good new year.” Happiness and goodness are not the same. Something can feel happy but not be good; something can be profoundly good without feeling immediately happy. Rosh Hashanah wishes us not fleeting pleasure but a deeper sense of the good. And that good begins with gratitude, with hakarat hatov — noticing what is present, rather than what is absent.

The humor of the joke works as a mirror. We laugh at the mother because we recognize ourselves. How often do we overlook the miraculous — health, family, love, even life itself — while focusing on the one thing that didn’t go our way? The story teaches that gratitude is a discipline: to notice the gift before worrying about the cap.

The poet Andrea Gibson captures this in her work, Wellness:

In any given moment

On any given day

I can measure

My wellness

by this question:

Is my attention on loving

or is my attention on

on who isn’t loving me?

I would say the same is true for gratitude:

In any given moment

On any given day

I can measure

My contentment, my happiness

By asking this question:

Is my attention on gratitude

For what I have,

Or focused on what I don’t?

And here Rabbi Weiss adds another dimension: true gratitude requires humility. To say “thank you” is to admit we are not self-sufficient, that we are dependent on others’ kindness, on countless acts of love and service that sustain us. Gratitude is more than etiquette — it is an acknowledgment that I did not and cannot do it all on my own. That humility opens us to connection and to seeing the web of blessings around us.

Let’s just consider for a moment what had to happen for you to simply be sitting in this room right now:

● Of the billions of galaxies in the universe, we were born in one with the right chemistry and conditions for life.

● Of all the solar systems, we are in one where a planet orbits at just the right distance — not too hot, not too cold — for water to flow and life to grow.

● Of all the moments in time, you were born in an era where humans have language, music, memory, and medicine.

● Of the 8.7 million species on Earth, you were born a human being — with consciousness, creativity, and the capacity to love.

● Of the thousands of generations before you, each one had to survive war, famine, illness, and grief — for your lineage to reach you.

● Of the millions of genetic combinations possible from your parents alone, it all came together to make you. You are the one that happened.

● Improbable. Impossible. And yet, here you are.

And we get this, intellectually. We understand rationally that we have much for which we should be grateful. But we all suffer from what can be called GDD — Gratitude Deficiency Disorder. We know we should be thankful but we live in a world that fosters our desire for more by continually telling us that we need more in order to be happy. We also get used to the gifts we have and no longer pay attention to food on the plate, clothes on the back, and a roof overhead. We focus our attention on the difficulties and afflictions we suffer rather than the blessings we enjoy. And finally, we forget to be grateful because we think we are entitled to the wellbeing that surrounds us.

In the past decade, there have been numerous studies about gratitude and its effects. The potential health benefits can include lower blood pressure, improved immune function, more sleep, and a reduction in the lifetime risk for depression and anxiety. And this is nice.

But the spiritual benefits are even more notable. By working on our gratitude practice, we change how we look at the world. No longer is it a place filled with what we don’t have, no longer do we carry the hurt and feeling that somehow we are being deprived. As gratitude works its way into our souls, we come to appreciate what we have and the people we have in our lives, and we see the gifts they offer, not the ones that they don’t. Such an attitude grounds us in our world and opens us up to life and the world itself and all the wonder, beauty and awe it holds.

And this is why Rabbi David Wolpe once noted, “Gratitude is not only the greatest of virtues, but the parent of all the others.” Gratitude makes space for humility, for generosity, for wonder. And it is also why the rabbis of the Talmud teach that in the world to come all sacrifices will end and all prayers will cease — except for those of gratitude.

In Pirkei Avot (4:1), Ben Zoma asks, “Who is rich? The one who rejoices in their portion.” Gratitude is not about getting everything we want; it is about learning to see the blessing in what we already have.

We live in a tough world in tough times. Anxiety, anger, and distrust swirl all around us. Every day the headlines bring news that leaves us uneasy, concerned, even terrified about what may come. And yet, in the face of all this, Judaism offers us a practice — simple, but profoundly powerful: gratitude.

Gratitude doesn’t erase the fear or deny the brokenness. But it reminds us that alongside what is frightening, there is also blessing. That even in a world that feels unsteady, there are still moments of goodness worth noticing, still people worth cherishing, still gifts worth receiving with an open heart. As Weiss notes, gratitude can even bring inner calm in the hardest moments, when we allow ourselves to see what is still good.

And perhaps most importantly, gratitude builds resilience. It allows us to live in a difficult world without being consumed by its difficulty. It strengthens our capacity to meet tomorrow not with despair, but with hope.

Perhaps this is why we are called Jews in the first place. In Hebrew the word for Jew is Yehudi, and this word comes from the verb l’hodot — to give thanks. We literally call ourselves “Thankers.” And for our wellbeing and that of our world, we need to remember that, each and every morning.

Shanah tovah — may it truly be a good year for all.

Sacred Stuff: Death

Yom Kippur 5786

A story: A grieving mother, carrying her dead child, sought out the Buddha’s help to bring him back to life. The Buddha greeted her pain with kindness and compassion and instructed her to seek out a mustard seed from a household that had never known death. “And once you find that seed,” he said to her, “bring it back to me and I will bring your child back to life.”

And so she went from house to house, searching. With each door she knocked upon, she encountered a story of loss and pain. Every house had its story. Every story was different. But every house had at least one to tell.

Realizing she was not alone in her grief, she returned to the Buddha with no mustard seed in her hand but with a new awareness in her heart: that death is universal, and that impermanence is woven into the fabric of all life. And in that realization, she found the beginning of acceptance, and eventually, of peace.

That lesson — that death is not the exception but the rule — is as urgent for us today as it was for her. For if she discovered that every house bears the mark of loss, we too must reckon with what our own society often refuses to admit: that death waits at every door.

My friends, let me start by stating what I believe to be true: we Americans are terrified of death. Death, like birth, is the greatest of all mysteries. To frame it in terms of space, we simply do not know with certainty where we go when we die or what happens to us when we get there. As Simone de Beauvoir once said: “I am incapable of conceiving infinity, and yet I do not accept finity. I want this adventure that is the context of my life to go on without end.”

Now every generation has had to struggle with this unknown, but with our advanced medical skills, our unfamiliarity with the dying process, and a culture that sees only value in youth, we see death as a problem to be solved, as a challenge to be overcome not an inevitable part of life, or a reality from which we cannot escape.

It hasn’t always been this way. Once, not so long ago, dying in America was an event that unfolded within the fabric of everyday life. Most people died at home, surrounded by family, neighbors, and familiar rituals. Children saw grandparents decline. Communities prepared bodies, sat vigil, and accompanied the bereaved. Death was not hidden in institutions or mediated by professionals; it was a visible, expected part of the life cycle. Because of that, its signs and rhythms were widely understood, and there was less fear of its mystery. We did not need death professionals/doulas then, because families and communities themselves knew how to accompany the dying and one another through the final passage.

However, with the advent of modern medicine — which, let me be clear, has brought us tremendous blessings — the place of dying shifted. What was once a family and community experience moved into the realm of professionals. Dying was no longer something most people witnessed at home; instead, it happened in hospitals, often behind closed doors, managed by doctors and machines. Likewise, the care of the dead moved from the hands of loved ones into the hands of the funeral industry. We even started calling them “funeral homes” — a telling phrase, since it was precisely the home that had been taken out of the picture. In the process, death became more hidden, more distant, and, for many, far more unfamiliar and and ever more frightening than it already is.

Hiding death behind the hospital and mortuary walls shields us from our own mortality, from the mortality of those we love, and from the important decisions and conversation that we need to have that surround a person’s dying.

And so…we push off writing a will, avoid making medical directives, or we leave all our stuff for our children to take care of.

And so…we struggle to have honest conversations with an aging parent, or we opt treatment after treatment after treatment, or we insist that “everything will be fine,” or we avoid visiting someone who is dying because we don’t know what to say. Our fear of losing them makes us turn away instead of leaning in.

And so…death becomes the unspoken subject at the dinner table, when euphemisms (“passed away,” “no longer with us”) replace direct words, and when communities shy away from offering space for real conversations about dying, grief, and legacy.

I am reminded of a scene from the HBO series, The Pitt. A brother and sister are faced with their father’s impending death. And even in the face of explicit instructions from the father to not intubate, the daughter insists saying, “He would never give up on us.” In removing death from the rhythm of life, we have created “a grief-phobic and death denying culture…We need to be taught how to be with grief which means to witness it as we grow up. And for the most part we don’t see it. It’s cloistered, it’s segregated, it’s pushed to the side. So when it does show up, we don’t know how to meet it in any meaningful way. (Frances Weller - psychotherapist from Sarah Wildman NYTimes 11/25/24).

Stephen Jenkinson, is a renowned end of life teacher who has worked extensively with dying people and their families warns in his book Die Wise against the “death phobia” of our age, arguing that denying death robs us of the ability to live with honesty, depth, and courage.

Jewish tradition understands this. For our is not a tradition that denies death. On the contrary from the Bible on, Jewish tradition embraces death; its inevitability and its importance.

The Psalmist wrote: “Yeah, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me.” Not “if” I walk, but “though” I walk. Death is not a possibility. It is a certainty. We all walk through that valley each and every day. The question is not whether, but how.

And death is also a teacher, a catalyst. A rabbinic sage from 2,000 years ago, Rabbi Eliezer, once taught: “Repent one day before you die.” His students asked him, “But does a person know the day of their death?” He replied: “All the more so should one repent today, lest they die tomorrow.” The result is that all of life becomes a practice of return. (Shabbat 153a) Death is not only the end of life — it is the teacher that shapes life.

And beyond just being inevitable. Death in our tradition is viewed as a positive. In Genesis chapter 1 it teaches that when God completed all of creation and God looked and God said it was “tov me’od” — “very good”. Every day was good, what made this one very good? The 2nd century teacher Rabbi Meir wrote in his Torah scroll, “Do not read mo’ed/very, but as mot.death. Creation is good, he says, because it contains death. And why, my guess is that Rabbi Meir, who himself lost twin sons when they were young, understood that without death, life would be endless, shapeless, and dull. It is mortality that gives life urgency, meaning, and beauty.

We see this wisdom in contemporary Jewish thinkers as well. Abraham Joshua Heschel wrote: “Our existence is not only precarious, it is unknown. The problem of death is not how to escape, but how to relate to it. Awareness of death is the root of spiritual life.” (Man Is Not Alone). Rabbi Harold Kushner taught: “Death is not the enemy of life, but the price we pay for having lived. If we deny our mortality, we deny the very urgency that makes life precious.” (When All You’ve Ever Wanted Isn’t Enough) Or as my teacher at the Jewish Theological Seminar Rabbi Neil Gillman z”l says: “To face death honestly is to affirm life honestly. Denying death is a way of denying the covenantal truth that we are creatures — finite, dependent, and yet capable of holiness in our limited days.” (The Death of Death).

In fact almost every wisdom/religious tradition teaches the same thing:

We read in The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying: “Of all reflections on impermanence, the most important is to remember our own death. This awareness is the door to every other wisdom.”

In 1 Corinthians 15:31 Paul says: “I die daily.” for he believes that remembering death daily is a way of living truthfully and in faith.

Islam teaches “Remember often the destroyer of pleasures [death].” — Hadith, Sunan al-Tirmidhi 2307 (Denying death makes us cling to shallow pleasures rather than truth.)

I know Stoicism is very popular right now…at least with my book club…so here is Marcus Aurelius: “You could leave life right now. Let that determine what you do, say, and think.” Meditations 2.11 (The practice of memento mori is the antidote to denial.)

And if, like me, you like meditation, consider this Buddhist teaching: “Of all the footprints, that of the elephant is supreme. Of all meditations, that on death is supreme.” — Anguttara Nikaya 1.20 (Without contemplating death, one misses the deepest truths of living.)

Now I am, as some of you know, a bit of a death groupie. I teach about it, I’ve trained as a death doula, and I have very distinct ideas about burials…go green, and I helped co-found the Valley Chevra Kadisha. A chevra kadisha is a group of men and women who perform the chesed shel emet — the “truest kindness” — by preparing the body of the deceased for burial with dignity, modesty, and reverence by washing, ritually purifying, and dressing the body. Now I do this not because I am morbid, but because I believe — I know — that facing death squarely makes life more vibrant, more authentic, more sacred.

When we prepare for death, when we speak of it openly, when we imagine our last breath, we are not being morbid — we are being faithful. We are saying: life is too precious to be wasted. Relationships are too fragile to be neglected. Time is too short to be squandered on resentment.

Every Yom Kippur, we rehearse death. We wear white, like burial shrouds. We fast, denying ourselves life’s pleasures. We recite prayers about who will live and who will die. It is a yearly rehearsal for the truth we so often hide from: that our lives are finite, that we are dust, and that every day is a gift.

To live fully, we must walk with death as our companion. Not in fear, but in honesty. Not in despair, but in courage. As the voice that whispers: “Do not delay. Do not waste. Do not forget what matters most.”

On this holy day, may we find the strength to walk through the valley of the shadow of death with open eyes. May we live wisely, love deeply, and when our time comes, may we die with honesty, courage, and peace…just as we should live everyday leading up to our death.

G’mar Tov. May we all be sealed in the book of life.