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Drawing on her experience surviving October 7th and her ongoing journey of healing and advocacy, Millet explores what resilience truly means. Through personal stories and practical reflections, she shares how letting go of what we cannot control can help us rediscover our strength, accept support, and find meaning in community. The talk invites us to embrace vulnerability, adapt to uncertainty, and focus our energy where we can make a difference in our everyday lives. About Millet Ben Shabat Millet Ben Shabat, 30, is married to Yakir and a psychotherapist in training. On October 7th, she survived the Nova music festival massacre. Since then, she has been active in international advocacy, supported the efforts to bring the hostages home (BH all home now), combating antisemitism, and helping her community through its ongoing healing and recovery. Committed to share truth, light and love.

Every once in a while you read a story in the newspaper that feels like it should have been published in The Onion. The other night, I couldn't wait to read this story to Solomon. Apparently, Dartmouth is investigating its provost, Dr. Santiago Schnell, after a Semafor investigation, and subsequent investigation by the student newspaper, The Dartmouth, revealed that much of his academic writing and recent op-eds, including a recent Washington Post op-ed about the problem of AI cheating in a university setting, were written largely by AI.  Here is a direct quote from the article in The New York Times that made me laugh: "Dr. Schnell told The Dartmouth in a statement that he used A.I. 'for language refinement, copyediting, improving clarity and organization and making writing processes more efficient.' The newspaper then ran Dr. Schnell’s statement on his AI use through an AI detector, which flagged the statement itself as apparently written by AI Dr. Schnell did not respond to a request for comment." When I brought this story to Solomon, he did not laugh the way I had. Instead, he raised important questions. If all of the ideas in the article were Dr. Schnell's, and AI makes it easier for him to share those ideas with others, what's the problem with using AI? And even though this technology is purported to be completely accurate, are we sure that it can it effectively determine whether someone has used AI to write or whether they have only used AI to proofread?  Solomon's questions made me realize how quick I was to judge Dr. Schnell, and how willing I was to laugh at his expense without pausing to question the situation more fully. What does our tradition teach us about judging people when we don't have the full story?

Imagine you have a friend who cannot stop raving about a book. "I love this book. You have to read this book.” One day an Amazon package sits at your front door. Inside is the book, along with a note from your friend: "I hope you find this book as life-changing as I do." You cannot wait to begin. But the moment you open the book, you notice something strange. There is no beginning. No page 1. The book begins on page 2. There is only an ongoing story. That is true of Judaism's most foundational text. Open any one of the sixty-six tractates of the Talmud and you will notice that there is no page 1. The first page is always page 2. There is only an ongoing story. And it’s not just true of the 66 tractates of the Talmud. The same thing happens a 67th time in our Torah this morning. As generations of commentators have observed, when the Torah tells the creation story, it does not begin with the first letter of the Hebrew alphabet, alef. It begins with the second letter, beit. There is no page 1. There is only an ongoing story. What is true of our sacred texts is true of our lives. None of us is born on page 1. All of us are born on page 2. Each of us enters a story already in progress.

Cain. What comes up for you when you think about Cain? Most of us know the first half of the story. That Cain kills his brother Abel. That Cain is the first murderer. That Cain is the first to commit the ignominious act of fratricide—one brother killing another brother. Most of us know that God sentences Cain to wander aimlessly throughout the world as a punishment—na v’nad tiheyeh va’aretz. But there is a coda that most of us do not focus on. Namely, Cain does not wander aimlessly throughout the world. To the contrary: Cain “settled in the land of Nod.” Nod means wandering. Cain settled in the land of wandering. Not only settled: Cain is the first to build a city, he is the first city builder. Cain gets married, becomes a father, indeed becomes the patriarch of multiple generations. How do we understand this coda, that Cain defies/transcends/ignores God’s express punishment, “You shall become a ceaseless wanderer on earth”? The first murderer is also the first city builder, a husband and a patriarch. What are we to learn from the whole story, including its underappreciated and curious end?

October 3, 2026

Tomorrow is not only Shabbat, but also Shmini Atzeret, which means we recite Yizkor for our beloved departed. We are going to explore a question the Talmud raises at least three times: Do the dead know what is happening in our lives? When we are going through hard times, do they know? Are they rooting for us? Even interceding for us? When we are going through happy times, when we are celebrating a wedding of their grandchild or great grandchild, do they know? Are they celebrating in heaven? When we say that “they are shining down in heaven on us,” is that just poetry? Or is there any sense in which these gauzy words may be true?   Many of us see ourselves as rational: When you are dead, you are dead, you don’t know, you don’t care, you don’t exist, so how could you know or care? Many of us may believe that what Kohelet writes is true: ve’hameitim anam yodim meumah, the dead know nothing. 9:5.   And yet, I have been in the pews of funerals at a local Orthodox shul, where a local Orthodox rabbi who gives exquisite, moving, poignant eulogies, offers a trope that your beloved mother, your beloved father, your beloved grandparent, is in heaven, an advocate, a melitz yosher, arguing on your behalf before God, still knowing, still caring, still working to make possible your best life. I have been there, and heard those eulogies, and seen those tears, when dry-eyed rationalists who might believe in Kohelet weep away at the notion that their loved ones still know and care and work for our best lives.   What is that? What is the question behind the question? The Talmud’s stubborn refusal to accept the inexorable logic of Kohelet is not about ghosts or spirits. It is about loss and grief. It asks the question of Yizkor: when life ends, how do our relationships live on?

Why Are We Still Here? An exploration of the second day of Yuntif’s role in keeping the Jewish people alive.We already celebrate a lot of holidays during the month of Tishrei, and on the second day of Sukkot, our tradition asks to add more limitations than was originally expected. The reason? It’s an acknowledgement of a time gone by. Join Rabbi Ravid Tilles to explore how upholding of a second day of yuntif can teach us important lessons about how our thousands year old people has sustained ourselves. If you don’t think we need to be practicing a second day of Yuntif, then you are exactly the person who should come!About Rabbi Ravid TillesRabbi Ravid Tilles is the School Rabbi and Director of Jewish Life and Learning at Schechter Boston. He and his wife, Yaffa, and three sons are members of the Temple Emanuel family.

More than 2,000 years ago, Hiero II, the ruler ofSyracuse, Sicily, was feeling frustrated. He had given a local goldsmith a nice piece of gold and asked for him to create a beautiful crown. However, when the craftsman delivered the final project, Hiero had the strong suspicion that he had pocketed some of the gold and made the crown out of a mixture of gold andother, cheaper metals. He asked the goldsmith, who of course assured him that the crown was entirely gold. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had been cheated. So, he summoned Archimedes, a local physicist and brilliant scientist, and asked if he could figure out a way to test the composition of the crownwithout melting it down (which was the only way to ascertain composition at thetime). Archimedes spent weeks trying to devise a strategy. Every day, he would sit in his studyand ponder different scientific principles and approaches. And every day he returned home without answers. Finally, there was one day he was just exhausted. After hours of trying without luck, he decided to visit the bathhouse. It was there, as he sat down in the hot water, that he suddenly had an epiphany. Henoticed that his body entering the water displaced water corresponding to thevolume of his body. If that was true, he thought, then he could test the contents of the crown by placing the amount of gold Hiero had given for the project in water and then seeing if that gold displaced the same amount ofwater as the crown that had been fashioned. His mind was racing. I’ve got it! He jumped out of the bath, shrieking “Eureka, I’ve got it!” He was so excited, he couldn’t wait. He took off running naked through the streets of Syracuseshouting “Eureka! I’ve got it!” Archimedes was right on the money. He performed his experiment and proved that the crown had indeed been constructed of a blend of metals, and the goldsmith had indeedpocketed some of the gold intended for the crown. And he didn’t just solve the problem, he invented a principle which is still utilized today. Known as the Archimedes Principle, his discovery more than 2,000 years ago still helps us to design ships and submarines, to study fluid mechanics, and with important engineering and physics projects. Here’s what I find so amazing about Archimedes’ discovery. He went to the bathhouse not because he was intending to continue his research and when he sat down inthat water, it wasn’t that he was trying to evaluate how much fluid would be displaced. However, somehow it happened that when he changed his physical environment, that change affected his internal environment and allowed him to expand his thinking and to solve the problem. We’ve all lived this. We’ve been in that struggle—trying to write a paper or solve a puzzle or figure out a plan for dinner. We too have found ourselves spinning wheels until we make the choice to do something else or go somewhere else and suddenly a dazzling new idea comes to us.

Please read the short story Basket of Trips in Elizabeth Strout’s Pulitzer Prize-winning collection called Olive Kitteridge. In a deep sense this short story moves us from Yom Kippur energy to Sukkot energy. A few questions to guide your reading: What is the Basket of Trips literally? What does the Basket of Trips represent?What human problem does this story speak to? How does this problem show up in your life?What prevents Ed and Marlene Bonney from taking their trips? Why do they accumulate brochures about trips that they do not take?This short story is not driven by plot—not much happens. It is the first day of shiva after a funeral.  Rather, the story is driven by character development. Several minor characters show up at the shiva. What is their significance?What is the message of this story? How does it connect with Yom Kippur and Sukkot?If you were to internalize the message of this story (and of the High Holiday season), what would you do differently?

September 21, 2026

At first blush, Bruce Feiler might seem like a curious choice for the climactic close of Yom Kippur, the holiest day of our year. After all, Yom Kippur is Judaism’s most ritual-intensive day. We fast, pray, confess, reflect, seek forgiveness, and immerse ourselves in practices that have shaped Jewish life for centuries.Why, then, invite a speaker whose newest book, A Time to Gather: How Ritual Created the World—and How It Can Save Us, explores the creation of new rituals for life’s modern transitions?A bestselling author and one of America’s leading thinkers on family, faith, and meaning, Bruce Feiler began this project after he and his wife, Linda, dropped off their twin daughters at college on the very same day and suddenly found themselves empty nesters. Returning home, he found himself, as he puts it, “homesick in his own home.” What rituals, he wondered, help us navigate moments like these?In A Time to Gather, he explores both the weakening of many traditional rituals and the emergence of new ones: rituals surrounding fertility struggles, divorce, caregiving, LGBTQ+ weddings, empty nesting, and other major life transitions.His work raises a profound question, especially on Yom Kippur:What is the relationship between the rituals we inherit and the rituals we create?Can ancient rituals and new rituals strengthen one another? Do those who find meaning in the traditions of Yom Kippur also have room in their hearts for rituals crafted for modern experiences? And can newly created rituals deepen our appreciation for the wisdom embedded in inherited rituals?At Ne’ilah, our Rabbi Samuel Chiel Sanctuary is jam-packed with people standing for the last hour of Yom Kippur, approaching the open Ark, facing Torah scrolls, surrounded by love, pouring fourth their heart to their Creator. It is a space and time filled with feeling. Right before that moment, Bruce Feiler will invite us to consider not only the rituals that have formed us, but also the rituals we need for the chapters of our life that still lie ahead.What role does ritual play in your life? Which rituals have helped form you? And which rituals do you still need?

The story is told of a businessman whose company was failing. Creditors were calling. He was desperate for some move that would turn things around. He went to his lawyer. No help.He went to his accountant. No help. He hired a consultant. Nothing. Finally, in utter desperation, he went to the rabbi. "Rabbi," he said, "please give me one idea that could save my business." The rabbi thought for a long moment. Then he said, "All wisdom is in the Torah. Take a chumash and a folding chair to the beach on a windy day. Let the wind blow through the pages. When the wind stops, whatever page the Torah opens to contains the answer to your problem." Several months later, the rabbi sees the man walking down the street in a brand-new suit, smiling from ear to ear. "Rabbi," he says, "it worked!" The rabbi asks, "What page did the Torah open to?" The man smiles. "Chapter 11." I thought of that old joke this summer while reading Chapter 11 of a different book: Jim Collins's new book, What to Make of a Life. Chapter 11 contains two teachings that stopped me in my tracks. The moment I read them, I thought: I have to share these on Yom Kippur. The first teaching is what Collins calls the Mothershead Mantra. John Mothershead Jr. was a philosophy professor at Stanford. When Collins was an undergraduate, he invited Professor Mothershead, then in his late sixties, to dinner and asked him a question: "When you look back on your life, how do you sum up what you've learned from your long experience?" Professor Mothershead responded: "I reject your question." Then he explained:"There are two ways to go through life. The first is to ride through life sitting in the saddle looking backward. The second is to ride through life sitting in the saddle pointed forward. I'm the second. I have no interest in looking backward. I'm not done yet." There are two ways to sit in the saddle. Facing backward. Or facing forward.And on Yom Kippur, that raises a question for every one of us: How are you sitting in the saddle?

On the High Holidays, G-d judges and forgives us not only as individuals but as a community. Parker Palmer describes true community as “that place where the person you least want to live with always lives.” As we enter this new year, what does this mean for our relationships and for how we show up for one another?

One night, Shira and I were pondering one of life's great unanswered questions: Is there anything good to watch on Netflix? It’s a nightly conundrum. There are over 1,000 shows to watch, and we can almost never find one we both like. But that night Shira suggested a show starring Jon Hamm called Your Friends & Neighbors. What is the premise of this show, I asked? Shira answers: Jon Hamm’s character loses his job in financial services. For his next job, he becomes a burglar, robbing the homes of his friends and neighbors. I said, with my driest holy moly tone, Shira you watch it. Enjoy. It’s not for me. I’m going to read a book. To which Shira responded: what difference does it make? You’ll be asleep in five minutes anyway! So we started watching, and not only did I not fall asleep, I was mesmerized. This particular episode was not about the unsavory premise. Rather, in a deep way, it was itself a Rosh Hashanah sermon. The episode centered on the sudden death and funeral of Jon Hamm's character's father. As the coffin was lowered into the ground, Jon Hamm's character reflected on his father's life. He described a man who had worked hard, saved carefully, raised a family, postponed gratification, and kept telling himself that next yearwould be the year. Next year he'd enjoy life a little more. And then, on a day like any other day, he went to sleep and did not wake up. As Jon Hamm put it, his father's life "ends just like that, with no warning and no fanfare." This father had had an assumption that shaped his whole life: There would always be later. Later totravel. Later to slow down. Later to enjoy the rewards of all those sacrifices. Except for him later never came. And as I sat there watching, I realized: This is so us. So Newton. So Temple Emanuel. We are responsible. We work hard. We save. We prepare. We build careers, raise families, care for parents, support communities. So many of us live according to a quiet assumption: There will always be later. Later we’ll do. Later we’ll fix. Later we’ll live. Which is why it is so striking that the very last word of the Rosh Hashanah liturgy is Hayom. Today. Hayom tevarcheinu — bless us today. Because who knows about later? How do we blessourselves today?

Shira and I were in Israel this summer for two weeks. We had planned to spend our last evening having dinner with our dear friends Micah Goodman, who has been here so many times over the years, and his wife Zippy. For the last several years, we have had dinner with them at a restaurant in East Jerusalem, on Mt. Scopus. It sits high on a mountainside, with a gorgeous view of Jerusalem's city lights.The four of us sat down overlooking the city. We had so much to talk about. We had just begun our conversation when suddenly I did not feel right. Something felt off. I could not focus. I excused myself to go splash some cold water on my face and recenter. The next thing I knew, I was on the ground. I had fainted.Micah and Zippy, Shira, the restaurant owner and several waiters were standing over me. Someone had called an ambulance. I assured everyone that I was fine, no ambulance was necessary, and made my way back to the table.A few minutes later, while sitting at the table, I fainted again.When I woke up, Micah and Zippy, Shira, the owner and several waiters were gathered around me—this time with a Hatzalah crew. This time there was no debate. I was headed to Hadassah Hospital.The whole experience was embarrassing, to put it mildly. What was supposed to be a special farewell dinner with dear friends ended with me being loaded into an ambulance. It was a brush with mortality I had not seen coming. As they were putting me into the ambulance, Micah said: "Rabbi, it’s not so bad. It’s going to be okay. You're going to get a sermon out of this." And the sick thing is, I was thinking the exact same thing.Before getting to the sermon, let me just say: I am fine. The physicians at Hadassah did every test imaginable. Their diagnosis was simple: dehydration. Too much walking in the hot Jerusalem sun and not enough water. I was discharged that night and have had no issues since.But here is the sermon. As we approach the third anniversary of October 7, and think about all that has happened since, the Jewish people are living through an age of anxiety.Tal Becker, one of Hartman's great teachers, tells the story of walking through Paris with his family. One of his daughters, eleven years old, was wearing a Jewish star outside her shirt.Tal found himself caught in a dilemma. He did not feel entirely comfortable having his daughter identified publicly as Jewish. But neither did he want to teach her that being Jewish is something to hide. So he gave her a big hug. And while embracing her, he gently tucked the Jewish star beneath her shirt. Tal Becker—who has represented Israel before the International Court of Justice—found himself hiding his daughter's Jewish star in Paris. That is our age of anxiety.We worry about Israel.We worry about antisemitism.We worry about our own beloved country.We worry about our children and grandchildren.We worry about our health, our families, our future.And beneath all those worries lies a common question:What will be? Will everything be okay? What will be with Israel? What will be with the Jewish people? What will be with our beloved country? What will be with our own lives?