Posted on September 14, 2026
If you had walked into the sanctuary of Congregation B’nai Jeshurun in New York City on the evening of Monday, September 17, 2001, you would have witnessed something unforgettable.
It was Erev Rosh Hashanah. The Torah covers gleamed in brilliant holiday white. The silver ornaments had been polished to a mirror shine. The sanctuary was ready to welcome the new year.
But the people were not.
Many were still carrying the dust and smoke of the week before. Just six days earlier, only a few miles away, the towers had fallen. Worshippers had walked through ash and debris to reach the synagogue. They sat in their holiday clothes, grieving for neighbors, friends, colleagues, and a world that had fractured in an instant.
If you had walked into the Touro Synagogue in Newport, Rhode Island on the evening of Rosh Hashanah, Friday, September 13, 1776, you would have seen an empty building.
The Jewish community of Newport had prepared to welcome the New Year in its recently dedicated synagogue. But as the Revolutionary War intensified and British occupation became imminent, the community fled. The Torah scrolls were sent to New York City for safekeeping and shortly thereafter, the synagogue was converted into a military hospital. The Jewish community returned to its sanctuary only after the War.[1]
The Jews of Newport in 1776 and New Yorkers in 2001 lived through very different moments of history, but they encountered the same question at the heart of Jewish life:
How do we welcome a season of joy while standing amid the ruins of heartbreak?
Tonight, as the sun slips below the horizon and the gates of a new year open, we stand in that same tension.
We think of the 56 signers of the Declaration of Independence, who, facing danger and uncertainty, put their names to a new vision of liberty. We mark 25 years since September 11, remembering the nearly 3,000 people whose names are recited each year at Ground Zero.
And tonight, between these two lists of names, we encounter Judaism’s oldest list of all: the Book of Life.
On the New Year, we gather hoping our own names will be written in the Book of Life—granted another year to live, love, repair, and add our chapter to the story still being written.
An inscription in the Book of Life does not promise a year without pain. Life and death coexist; grief and hope are intertwined.
The Hebrew word Yisrael—Israel, Jew—means “wrestling with God.” Built into our souls is the recognition that we struggle with complexity and contradiction.
That struggle is embodied in one of Judaism’s most powerful stories:
When Moses descended from Mount Sinai and found the Israelites worshipping the Golden Calf, he smashed the first tablets of the Ten Commandments. Yet Jewish tradition teaches that the broken pieces were not discarded. They were gathered and placed inside the Ark alongside the second, whole tablets.
Luchot v’shivrei luchot munachin b’aron: the whole tablets and the broken tablets rested together in the Ark. (The Talmud, Bava Batra 14b)
Judaism teaches that what is sacred, what is holy, can hold both our greatest accomplishments and our deepest wounds.
Twenty-five years after September 11, we continue to discover acts of goodness that emerged out of intense anguish.
Abraham Zelmanowitz, a 55-year-old Orthodox Jew, worked on the 27th floor of the North Tower. When the plane struck, Abraham had a clear path to the stairwell. He could have escaped. But his friend and colleague, Ed Beyea, could not make his way down the stairs. Ed relied on a wheelchair and was waiting for emergency assistance.
Abraham refused to leave him. He stayed with Ed, holding his hand and offering words of comfort until the building collapsed around them.[2]
In those final moments, Abraham and Ed remind us that living is sometimes more than surviving. Even when they could no longer change what was happening, they could choose how to meet it—with bravery, with commitment, and with one another.
And this is the deeper calling of the Book of Life. Rosh Hashanah reminds us that to live is not simply to survive, but to create meaning.
The Unetaneh Tokef gives us a path to meaning: u’teshuva, u’tefilla, u’tzedaka—repentance, prayer, and justice.
Teshuva asks us to look honestly at ourselves and change direction.
Tefilla asks us to recognize that we are part of something larger than ourselves.
Tzedaka asks us to turn our values into action and recognize our responsibility to others.
The practice of these values transforms a name written in the Book of Life into a life of meaning.
Contemporary writer Ryan Holiday, echoing the ancient Stoics, writes: “Think progress, not perfection…Within every obstacle is an opportunity to improve our condition.”[3]
We cannot always control what happens to us, but we can ask what we will do with what happens to us. Perhaps the deepest meaning of life is found in giving ourselves to something greater—something that will carry our love and our work beyond the limits of our own lives.
Twenty-five years ago, first responders and ordinary people faced that same uncertainty. They did not know what the next moment would bring, yet they moved toward danger, not away from it.
We do not get to choose when life will ask us to step up. But we can think about what kind of people we hope to be when that moment arrives.
The 56 signers of the Declaration of Independence attached their names to a new way of life. The nearly 3,000 people who died on September 11 had unique stories that continue to be told.
On September 17, 2001, David Letterman was the first to resume his Late-Night Show following 93 hours of continuous 9/11 news coverage. Instead of his usual comedic monologue, he spoke about the needs of that moment.
He said: “There’s only one requirement of any of us, and that is to be courageous.”[4]
What stories will be told about each of us? Someday, when our names are spoken, what will they call to mind?
We ask God for another year—and for the courage to make it matter.
But a life becomes fuller when it is lived in connection with others. We discover purpose in the people we love, the communities we build, and the generations we carry forward. God’s promise to Abraham and Sarah was not just a covenant with the two of them, but with an entire people—past, present, and future.
Our Book of Life is a collective story, each of our lives woven into a larger story that belongs to us all and depends on us all.
Haym Salomon lived this truth. He understood that our lives are bound together, and that sometimes we are called to give generously of ourselves for the sake of the community. A Polish-Jewish merchant who came to America in 1772, he put his resources and safety on the line for the Revolution and the community he envisioned. He accepted the risks of a struggle he would never see completed, believing that the cause was bigger than any one person—and that the community he helped build could outlive him.[5]
We do not know how many pages the Book of Life will give us. But we can choose what we write on them—and whose lives become part of our story. On Rosh Hashanah, we pray not only for our own physical and spiritual well-being, but for the well-being of our families, our community, our country, and our world.
On the High Holy Days, we aspire to achieve not merely a redeemed soul, but a redeemed world. This means the prayers we offer in this room must become deeds beyond these walls.
How will tonight’s blessings and songs inspire us to write the next pages of our Book of Life together?
America’s 250th birthday and the 25th anniversary of September 11 invite us to look back—to remember where we have been. But they also invite us to look ahead—to consider what we will write in the chapter that lies before us, together.
If you had walked into the sanctuary of Fairmount Temple in Cleveland, Ohio, on the evening of Monday, September 17, 2001 — passing through security, a newly adopted practice of synagogue life in America — you would have heard a sermon from a young rabbi giving voice to the fear, sorrow, and devastation brought by the events of the previous Tuesday.
I was that young rabbi.
And toward the close of the sermon, you would also have heard this story—which I share with you now.
While Anne Frank was hiding in Amsterdam, there was one thing she could see from the window of the Secret Annex: a chestnut tree.
She watched it change with the seasons. The tree reminded her that there was still a world beyond the walls—a world of nature, beauty, and life.
Years later, Anne’s life was taken, but the tree continued to grow. Eventually, the tree became diseased and had to be cut down. But people had preserved cuttings from it. New saplings were grown and planted around the world—in schools, museums, and memorials.
The original tree could not be saved. But what it represented could be carried forward.[6]
What I could not have known twenty-five years ago is that, occasionally, history gives us another image of that same hope.
Among the hundreds of trees on the memorial plaza at Ground Zero is one Callery pear tree. Known today as the Survivor Tree, it was the last living thing pulled from the rubble of the World Trade Center. The tree appeared to be dead. Its roots were snapped. Branches were broken. Bark was burned. But there were signs of life.
The New York City Parks and Recreation Department took the tree to a nursery and revived it. By the following spring, the tree had recovered and bloomed with life. Nine years later, in 2010, the tree was brought back to Ground Zero and replanted near the South Pool. Now more than 30 feet tall, its small white flowers are the first buds to bloom in the springtime.[7]
Anne Frank’s chestnut tree and the Callery pear tree offer us the same lesson: survival can become something that is carried forward and planted elsewhere.
We cannot save everything. We cannot undo tragedy.
But we can ask: What will we carry forward?
This is the challenge of being Americans in our 250th year. This is the spirit by which we mark 25 years since September 11.
On Rosh Hashanah, we ask God to write our names in the Book of Life.
Tonight, let us also ask ourselves:
What will we leave growing after us? What will we plant for our children and grandchildren to enjoy?
The past is the story we inherited. The future is the garden entrusted to our care.
May our names be inscribed in the Book of Life. And may our lives sow seeds of faith, hope, justice, and love that blossom for generations to come.
Shabbat Shalom. Shana Tova.
[1] Wizevich, E. (2024, December 2). The little-known story behind the oldest surviving synagogue in America. Smithsonian Magazine. https://www.smithsonianmag.com/smart-news/the-little-known-story-behind-the-oldest-surviving-synagogue-in-america-180985432/
[2] Feldstein, M. (2026, September 2). Abe Zelmanowitz (1945-2001). The Times of Israel. https://blogs.timesofisrael.com/abe-zelmanowitz-1945-2001/
[3] Holiday, R. (2014). The Obstacle Is the Way: The Timeless Art of Turning Trials into Triumph.
Portfolio Books, p. 7.
[4] CBC News. (2015, May 20). David Letterman: Top 10 memorable moments. https://www.cbc.ca/news/entertainment/david-letterman-top-10-memorable-moments-1.3043677
[5]One Jew’s financial support for the Revolutionary War. (N,D.). [Short article]. Armed Services – American Military, Colonial Jews. American Jewish Archives, Cincinnati, Ohio.
[6] The Anne Frank Center USA (2024, March 18). Anne Frank Center USA grows sapling project. https://annefrank.com/anne-frank-center-usa-grows-sapling-project/
[7] 9/11 Memorial & Museum: 25 Years Later. (N.D.). The survivor tree. https://911memorial.org/visit/memorial/survivor-tree
