Simply put, the High Holy Days are a time to take stock of ourselves, our families, our communities, our people, our world. Rosh Hashanah opens the door to a great process. We gather for worship, unusually long periods of prayer and contemplation when we read poetry, listen to music, ponder in silence, consider ancient words, all to encourage us to delve deeply into our souls and honestly confront who we are and what our lives are about. We are asked to try to gain just a little more insight and understanding.

This year, we are at a crossroads.

Will the historic Israeli withdrawal from Gaza and four communities on the West Bank bring Israel closer to peace?

Will the situation in Iraq move toward resolution? Will American families continue to live with the apprehension that comes when loved ones are serving overseas in harm's way?

What of the crisis in Darfur? Is there anything that we as concerned citizens can do?

Will terrorism continue to spread fear and death across the globe?

How can we understand such natural disasters as the Asian tsunami and Hurricane Katrina?

Will the world continue to feel like a very dangerous place?

Our ancestors certainly knew fear and desperation and hardship. They, too, viewed the High Holy Days as a way to consider their lives and fears and hopes. The poetry of the holy day prayers reflects their anxieties, still present today: "who shall live, who shall die, who by fire, who by water...." They knew at least as well as we do that, as Rabbi Nachman of Bratslav said, "the entire world is a very narrow bridge...."

More than anything else however, our ancestors were great dreamers who looked to the future. They faced each year with the blast of the shofar, with cries of tikkun (repair), teshuvah (change) and tikvah (hope). We are the heirs, the beneficiaries, of their aspirations and ideals -- that, more than anything else, is the legacy we must pass on to our children and the world.

We know hope. We have known the darkest places of human history and we as a people have triumphed.

I recently received an e-mail that lamented the condition of the world. The writer expressed profound disappointment with the political process, religious leaders, her fellow citizens, almost everything. I responded by commiserating with her deeply felt anguish and concern. But then I shared with her the legend about the sign above the old Bratslaver Shul: "Jews Don't Despair." That is who we are. We are baalei tikvah, b'nai baalei tikvah -- masters of hope, and the children of masters of hope. The shofar is the call of hope.

As we enter 5766, we need only remember who we are, whence we came and our mission while we are here. May the new year bring God's blessing of health and joy to each of you in a world that knows peace.