It seems pretty inane, but we all seem to go through the very same performance annually: "It's Rosh Hashanah already! Where has this year gone?" You'd think that by now we'd have gotten accustomed to the arrival of the holiday.

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But why does the realization that the holiday is arriving send us into a tailspin, inspiring a buzz of frenetic activity? Why is there such stress and pressure in our minds and hearts? Is it just the homemakers anticipating their big dinners, lunches and the rush for new recipes? Is it the selection process for the best seats at our preferred shul? Or is it, perhaps, the knowledge that some very earnest, solemn, holy days are almost upon us?

For rabbis, this is certainly the high-pressure season of the year. Some of my colleagues even call it the "silly season." But it's not just the demand to produce outstanding "keynote address" sermons. There is an intense awareness that Judgment Day is coming.

From the beginning of Elul, the month of preparation for Rosh Hashanah, an anxious strain builds up in the back of our minds. With each passing day, we become more aware that, in just a short while, the heavenly court will be scrutinizing our past performance, not only professional but personal and spiritual. The trick, of course, is to get this to the front of our minds and actually do something about it.

I believe that the deeper reason behind the frenetic rush of adrenaline in the Jewish bloodstream at this time of year has more to do with trying to work out who we are and where we are in life than what we are serving for dinner or what our seat number is in shul. For some, it is a very conscious awareness; for others, it may be subconscious; but I believe it's there.

So where can we find ourselves? How many young people have gone off to uncharted frontiers to find themselves? They may search all over the world, but at the end of the day, we are not to be found in the mountains of Tibet or the ashrams of India. And we certainly won't find ourselves by escaping to Las Vegas or Cyprus.

In the Torah reading shortly before Rosh Hashanah (Deuteronomy 22), we read about the mitzvah of hashovas aveidah – returning lost articles to their rightful owner. You may not have known this, but "finders keepers" is not exactly a Jewish idea. These laws are outlined in detail in the Talmud (Bava Metziya, Chapter 2). While there are occasions when we may indeed keep what we find in the public domain, generally we are taught to make every effort to find the rightful owner and return the lost articles to them.

Historically, the biggest Lost & Found Department in the world was located in the Holy Temple in Jerusalem. During the three pilgrimage festivals – Passover, Shavuot and Sukkot – people who had found things would assemble at a special demarcated point to announce what they had found. Those who were looking for their lost valuables would have an opportunity to reclaim them provided they could identify them as theirs by sharing some of the unique characteristics of the objects in question.

It makes perfect sense that where Jews congregated in their masses was the ideal place for this mitzvah to be observed.

Today, the synagogue has taken the place of the Temple in Jerusalem, albeit to a much lesser degree. Clearly, we long for Moshiach and the beit hamikdash, but the synagogue is an obvious place for a Jew to go to find people who may have seen his or her lost article.

A story is told of the Kotzker Rebbe that a visiting Jew came to his shul. The rabbi welcomed him.

"Sholom Aleichem. How can we help you?"

"I came to find God."

"God? God is all over! You can find Him in your own house, too!"

"So why then did I come here, rabbi?"

"I'll tell you why you came: You came to find yourself!"

I believe that the genius of Judaism in identifying the synagogue as the "congregation" and the place to find each other goes far beyond finding a lost talis, umbrella, watch or wallet. It is in shul that we find God and where we can also rediscover our faith, our people and our community. But perhaps most important of all, we can find ourselves. It is not only material things we find there. We find spirituality: Our true, inner self, our soul. The real me, the real you, the real Jew comes out in shul.

So, you don't really need an airline ticket to the Far East. All you need is to come to shul. But it does require some quality time in God's house. Don't just chat with the neighbor you haven't seen since last Yom Kippur or check out the talent across the aisles. Open a book, whisper a prayer and listen to an inspiring word. Close your eyes and reflect on life and its meaning while the (hopefully) beautiful music provides some spiritual "surround sound."

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I want to suggest that we should all keep on the "lost and found" trail – for ourselves and for each other. Find some missing Jews. Find a Jew who may be lost spiritually, or simply does not have a shul to call home and bring them home. Bring them to shul. There are so many people out there who would love to come but may just need someone to invite them, welcome them and acclimatize them until they feel comfortable. Sit next to them in the synagogue and help them feel at home. It can be life-changing.

Please God, over this Yom Tov season, we will take the time to find ourselves and to reach out to others who would love to join us on the journey.

I wish you all Shanah Tovah – a blessed and meaningful New Year.

Reprinted with permission from JNS.org.

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Fifty-six years ago tomorrow, during the Six-Day War, Israel reclaimed the Old City of Jerusalem after fierce fighting against the Jordanian army. Israel appealed to Jordan to stay out of the war, but God had other plans. Who can forget the stirring words of commander Motta Gur, "Har Habayit b'yadeinu"–"The Temple Mount is in our hands." Why a victorious army would then willingly give the Temple Mount away to the Muslim Waqf is beyond me, but that's for another discussion.

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Who can forget the emotional reaction of every Jew, religious or secular, to that stunning news? Battle-hardened, anti-religious kibbutzniks cried at the Kotel even if they didn't quite understand the significance of the Western Wall or even the Holy Temple itself. In their heart, in their "kishkes", they felt something historic had happened, something life-changing for our people. And they wept.

Jerusalem has that effect on us, doesn't it? We just returned from a shul tour in Israel and to be honest, as wonderfully impressive as all the tours and museums around the country are, for my wife and I, just walking the streets of Jerusalem was the best part of our trip.

We can argue about everything. And we do. Hopefully, we all agree that Jerusalem is not negotiable and an undivided Jerusalem will be Israel's capital forever.

But did you know that there is another Jerusalem too? The Psalmist writes about a "city united together" and the mystics say there is a "Jerusalem below and a Jerusalem above." Jerusalem is mentioned many hundreds of times in our Bible. It was our national center and spiritual core a thousand years before Christianity and 2,500 years before Islam. We mention Jerusalem at every wedding and every funeral. It is embedded in us like no other place.

Yes, there is a spiritual Jerusalem. Though the Babylonians and later the Romans destroyed our Temples, they could never destroy the sanctity of Jerusalem. They could not drive God out of His capital city. And His holy presence is still felt there. When we were at the Kotel, we saw visitors from virtually every country in the world. They too appeared visibly moved that they were in a holy place.

As with Jerusalem the city, so is there a little spark of Jerusalem inside each of us. The outer walls of our holy city may have been demolished, but the spirituality cannot be extinguished. Rocks, stones, wood, and mortar can be destroyed, but the essence of Jerusalem is eternal and impregnable.

So too, there is a place inside each of us that remains sacred, inviolate, and pure. The essence of our "neshama", our soul, is like a little Jerusalem inside us. That spark of holiness can never be extinguished. The pilot light of spirituality continues to burn inside every Jew, whether we see it or not. Our outer structures may be weak, but our inner sanctum remains untainted. We may be lacking in this observance that, our building blocks may be sparse, but the inner flame still burns.

No enemy could drive God out of Jerusalem and no ignorance or indifference can break down our inner Jerusalem either. Just as Jerusalem is politically non-negotiable, there is a bottom line for every Jew beyond which he or she will not cross. What it is will differ for each of us, but that it is there is undeniable.

I find it fascinating how Jews who, by their admission, observe few if any of our Jewish traditions, will suddenly rise up with righteous indignation about a tradition that is important to them. That one tradition is a bottom line and they will fight for it with courage and conviction. I don't consider this hypocritical. To them, it is real and authentic. It is holy and non-negotiable.

The martyrs of Jewish history, those who gave their lives for their faith, for their people, and our homeland, were not all rabbis or devoutly religious types. Ordinary Jews do extraordinary things all the time. That's who we are.

Despite our differences, we all believe in Jerusalem and the Jewish future. May we take that inner faith and build on it. May Jerusalem soon be rebuilt, inside and out.

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Reprinted with permission from JNS.org.

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My wife and I left South Africa for a trip to Israel on Tuesday. As we were going through the security checks at the El Al departure area, we suddenly heard the soft hum of a siren. There and then, in the middle of the busy Johannesburg International Airport, a moment of silence was observed for Yom HaShoah by Jewish staff and travelers alike. Heads were bowed in reverence and memory before we got back to the business at hand. I found it a particularly moving moment.

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We Jews are somewhat obsessed with remembering. Memories are profoundly important to us. But there are many who challenge this Jewish preoccupation with memory. They accuse us of being obsessed with the Holocaust: "What about all the other people who have suffered? Why is the Holocaust being singled out?" Many people, including South Africans – who are victims of the terrible and painful apartheid past – ask ma nishtana halayla hazeh mikol haleilot? Why is the long, dark night of the Holocaust different from other long, dark nights in history? Why is this suffering different from all other sufferings?
People challenge us, saying, "Why are the Jews always winging and whining?" I myself was once confronted by a well-known public figure on South African national television, who said, "Why do you Jews think you have a monopoly on suffering? Do you think you have the copyright on pain?"

Well, let it be clearly stated that Auschwitz was different. As much as the Jewish people relate to the sufferings of others, and contribute to relief and charity for all peoples of the world, Auschwitz was different. The word "Holocaust" should not be used flippantly. And if the world won't trust a rabbi, then listen to the words of the late Secretary General of the United Nations, Kofi Annan, who at the commemoration of the 60th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz said to the U.N. General Assembly, "The tragedy of the Jewish people was unique. The camps were not mere concentration camps. Let us not use the 'euphemism' of those who built them. Their purpose was not to concentrate a group in one particular place so as to keep an eye on them. It was to exterminate an entire people."

Auschwitz was not a concentration camp or a work camp, it was a death camp with gas chambers to kill the victims and crematoria to burn their dead bodies. The Holocaust was not only an act of genocide. It was a network of genocide factories, designed to bring to fruition the evil designs of Hitler and his henchmen. This plan had a name: The Final Solution. It was to be the final solution to the "Jewish question," to the nuisance and irritant known as the Jews. It sought to get rid of the Jews once and for all, and this time to do it properly. There was to be not one single Jewish human being left on the face of the earth. The Jews were to have gone up in smoke without a trace. Well, there was to be a small trace. Hitler had planned to build a Museum of the Extinct Jewish Race in Prague. It would contain artifacts of our faith: Torahs, mezuzahs, kiddush cups, and seder plates. That was the plan: to create an "extinct Jewish race."

Yes, it is a cruel world. Many peoples and nations have suffered untold misery – South Africa, Cambodia, Bosnia, Rwanda, Darfur, and now Ukraine. Jewish hearts suffer with them and feel their pain. Jews are always involved in trying to help the unfortunates of this world. But even those who have suffered mass murder and genocide have not been singled out for total annihilation. No other people in history has ever been earmarked for complete and utter destruction. Yom HaShoah recalls the heroes of the Warsaw Ghetto uprising. Believe it or not, there, too, Jews managed to hold a Passover seder. Did they have matzah? I don't know. Wine? I doubt it. Meat and matzah balls? Definitely not. But the Haggadah was recited. One son, after he asked his father the traditional Four Questions, carried on and said, "Father I have another question. Will you be alive next Pesach to listen to my questions? Will I be alive next year to ask these questions? Will there be a single Jew alive next year when Pesach comes?"

In a choking voice, his father replied, "Will I be alive my son? I honestly don't know. And as much as it breaks my heart to say this: Even you my child, I don't know if you will be alive. But one thing I do know: The Jewish people will be alive. And somewhere, somehow, Jews will always ask these questions at their seder tables. We may die, but our people will live forever!" I am the son of a survivor. My father, Shimon Goldman, was born in Shedlitz, Poland in 1925. As a teenager, he fled through Vilna, Moscow, Vladivostok, and Kobe, Japan. Eventually, he spent most of the war in Shanghai. He managed to escape Europe courtesy of the legendary Japanese diplomat Chiune Sugihara's transit visas. Finally, he made it to New York as the one and only surviving member of his family.

My father observed one day of the year, the 12th of Elul, as a yahrzeit for his entire family. He would light one single candle for his father, mother, brothers, and sisters. A large family was remembered on one day, with one candle. He hardly ever spoke about these things over the years we were growing up. Thank God, he eventually opened up and we were able to help him publish his life story in a book called From Shedlitz to Safety. Now his grandchildren and great-grandchildren know his story.

Hitler's plan for the Final Solution failed, which means all of us are actually survivors. It is our job and sacred duty not only to remember but also to rebuild. Ultimately, the only way to negate the Nazi plan is to raise Jewish families, teach Jewish children and guarantee that our sons and daughters, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren will continue to ask Jewish questions.
Only when we do that, when we respond correctly to the spiritual challenge of our generation in Israel and the Diaspora, will we live on as a people, forever?

Reprinted with permission from JNS.org.

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