Be the Translator: Rosh Hashanah 5786

What we are doing here today is biblical and it is brave. 

Living as we do, as Jews during one of the most unchurched periods of American history, bombarded daily by events that challenge our humanity and break our hearts— what, in God’s name, are we doing just sitting here?

And still- there is a time for everything and every purpose under heaven; a time for praying with our feet and a time for praying with our hearts. So here we sit, on this first day of 5786, choosing this time and this space—and I do not take this for granted. Yes, there are many reasons each of us is drawn here, many of which fall under the headline of “tradition”. But  for so many of us the real reason lies deeper than our nostalgia for the words and sounds of our past.

The reason we are here today is because we are desperate.

Desperate for meaning.

For hope.

For a glimmer of understanding about the world we inhabit.

And the best way I know how to respond to that tall order is by turning to Torah. My role as your rabbi, in its purest form, is a calling to interpret sacred texts in ways that speak to the needs of the day. The easier path might be to succumb to cynicism, despair, and distraction, but I want to offer a different invitation: open yourself up to Torah with me this morning. Let it penetrate your own despair, let it be a distraction for good.

Torah was never imagined to be only for the learned and the elite. It was a text designed to be for and of the people, so much so that even its public reading and teaching was never a one-person job. 

This day, ordained and imagined by the ancients as a celebration of a new year, offers us a deep well of Torah—but it never imagines that I (or any one rabbi) alone hold the key. Torah was always designed to be for and of the people, so much so that even its public reading and teaching was never a one-person job. And so I want to tell you about one of my favorite jobs in Jewish history—a role equal parts brilliant and quirky: the meturgaman.

Simply described, the meturgaman was the official translator and interpreter of Torah in the early rabbinic period.The word meturgaman (מְתוּרְגְּמָן) comes from the root תר״ג, meaning “to translate”—the meturgaman was the one who turned holy words into a language people could understand and feel. During public readings, the meturgaman listened carefully, line by line, then translated it into Aramaic—the spoken language of the people. Without them, the congregation might have been lost in translation—literally.

The meturgaman wasn’t just clever, he was creative and courageous. To stand up in front of the community, to put ancient words into everyday language, was risky business. What if you got it wrong? What if it wasn’t what God meant? What if people didn’t like what you said? But the meturgaman did it anyway—because he knew that Torah could not stay locked away, rather it needed to be brought to the people so they knew how to live by its teaching. So they knew how to be brave.

There are times when my role as your rabbi feels not unlike the meturgaman; to bring Torah into our shared midst, and without making assumptions about anyone’s facility with the text, to interpret and explain it in ways that land. To inspire you to see how its teaching should be a driving force for how we build a world for peace and treat each other with compassion, kindness, love, and respect.

As inheritors of the text and as people living in the world- we know that not all Torah is beautiful. It’s not all creation and blessing. The Hebrew bible— Torah, the prophets & writings, is rife with texts calling out to be interpreted. The role of the maturgaman is hinted at in one of the earliest descriptions of Torah reading, in the Book of Nehemiah, chapter 8, describing the public reading on the “first day of the seventh month”—aka Rosh Hashanah. 

Picture Jerusalem: a city mid-rebuild, walls patched, streets still scarred, people tired from years of exile. The community gathers in the square—elders, kids, newcomers, even those who barely remember life before.

At the center stands Ezra the Scribe, Torah scroll in hand. He reads:

וַיֹּ֡אמֶר קַח־נָ֠א אֶת־בִּנְךָ֨ אֶת־יְחִֽידְךָ֤ אֲשֶׁר־אָהַ֙בְתָּ֙ אֶת־יִצְחָ֔ק וְלֶ֨ךְ־לְךָ֔ אֶל־אֶ֖רֶץ הַמֹּרִיָּ֑ה וְהַעֲלֵ֤הוּ שָׁם֙ לְעֹלָ֔ה עַ֚ל אַחַ֣ד הֶֽהָרִ֔ים אֲשֶׁ֖ר אֹמַ֥ר אֵלֶֽיךָ׃

“Take your son, your favored one, Isaac, whom you love, and go to the land of Moriah, and offer him there as a burnt offering on one of the mountains that I will point out to you.”

The crowd freezes. Haven’t the Jewish people suffered enough? Years of exile—spiritual and physical—and this is the story you have for us on the first day of the year? A story of blind faith and child sacrifice?

The people were never meant to digest Torah on their own. Ezra is surrounded by others, including Levites whose job was to meforash—to translate and clarify; an early precursor to the role that would later be called the meturgaman.

I imagine Ezra reading aloud the story of Abraham and Isaac—the worst kind of test a human could face—and then the meturgaman stepping forward:

God calls to Abraham, and Abraham answers—stepping forward into a test unlike any other, a trial that strikes at the heart of what is most precious. He is asked to sacrifice his beloved son, Isaac, in an act of obedience that is terrifying, relentless, beyond understanding. Yet, in the moment of truth, God provides: Isaac is spared, and life is preserved.

Even when the world shakes, when we face fear and uncertainty, whether in our homes or far across the seas, this story offers a profound, enduring truth: life is sacred. Chayim, the gift of life, is cherished by God above all.

It is for this reason that Abraham names the place Adonai Yireh—"God will see"—a place where God’s vision is revealed. In sparing Isaac, Abraham glimpses a deeper understanding of God’s love: a love that protects life, nurtures compassion, and turns fear into care.

This is the true essence of God's vision for us: to preserve life, to honor compassion, and to transform even our darkest fears into acts of lovingkindness.

The crowd exhales. Some laugh nervously, some cry quietly.  Even after so many years of distance, both physical and spiritual from Torah, there is something here for them to hold on to; a story about ethics, community, and protecting one another. What those skilled interpreters have offered the people is a bridge; between ancient words and the world they live in. 

When I imagine this scene— understood to have taken place around the 5th century during the time of Ezra the Scribe, I see bravery. Bravery on the part of Ezra, on the part of the maturgaman, and on the part of the people: gathering like this after so much destruction and exile. Jerusalem is still in tatters. The walls aren’t finished. The city isn’t whole. But this—this shared insight, this reverence for life—is the real rebuilding. They eat together, laugh together, and the public square becomes sacred. Not just stones and scrolls, but a living Torah: a community remembering who they are and what they truly value. 

As Bishop Mariann Budde writes, bravery doesn’t come from one grand act, but from a lifetime of small decisions that set us on the path of courage. That was true for the meturgaman, and it needs to be true for us.  That’s bravery, too: to stand in front of your people when they are scared, traumatized, unsure—and to insist that life is sacred. To translate terror into hope.

Taking a pliable approach to Jewish time— imagine with me the public torah readings that come after that one described in Nehemiah. The year pushes on and Torah reading after Torah reading, the baal k’riah reads and the maturgaman interprets verse after verse: 

Winter comes along, and they read in Exodus: 

Lo Tirtzach. 

Exodus 20:13 – “You shall not murder.”

And then, in the lead up to Pesach, they read: 

וְגֵ֥ר לֹא־תוֹנֶ֖ה …

You shall not wrong or oppress a stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.

Finally, in the heat of summer, the book of Deuteronomy reminds them: 

U’vcharta ba’chayim. 

Choose life. 

The seasons change, the Jewish year pushes forward, and we hear over and over again- do not kill. Do not oppress the stranger. Choose life. 

The Torah is unequivocal, the work of the maturgaman is to make sure that the people hear and understand these crucial teachings.  And here we are, in the kaleidoscope of Jewish time, with all this Torah in front of us. And we,  the maturgamans, have a choice. Our tradition tells us to choose life. 

But to do so requires a scaffolding of concrete actions– all the rules meant to help us actively choose life, subvert oppression and avoid death: 

Gun control

Vaccines 

Abortion 

Gender affirming care 

Cancer research 

Childhood vaccines 

This is the spiritual challenge of Torah made real in our time: we are living in a moment in history when each day brings news of  this life-affirming scaffolding crumbling down.  

If this is our Torah for new beginnings, now that we have it, what will we do with it? 

One option: we sit here politely today (the really hardcore folks will come back for round 2 and sit here politely again tomorrow), and we say to ourselves- “boy. That was a nice story. Should we have leftovers or go out for lunch?”

Or, a second option: we hear this Torah. We really hear it. 

And then- in the spirit of the meturgaman of old- we go out into the world, and we repeat what we heard. Like a game of sacred telephone, I can’t imagine that each of our repetitions and interpretations will be the same. 

In this second option, as interpreters of this tradition, you might be called to advocate for gun control, for trans rights, for immigrants rights, saying, “My faith tells me that every human soul is created in the Divine Image, deserving dignity, autonomy, and justice.” You might step into leadership or activism that feels daunting, declaring, “My faith calls me to be brave, and to bring blessing into this broken world.”

For thousands of years, our people have centered our lives around this Torah— around a set of teachings that when reduced to it’s essence tells us: do not kill. Do not oppress. Choose life.  Like that famous old story about the soapmaker and the rabbi, Torah won’t solve everything– it’s only effective if we apply its words. Torah alone won’t bridge the deep ideological gaps of our time. Torah also reminds us, eilu v’eilu divrei Elohim chayim”--more than one thing can be true at the same time. No one person can lay claim to perfect Truth— each of us can only catch glimpses of pieces of truth, refracted through our experience of the world. But Torah reminds us of that  foundational capital T truths: human life has inherent value. 

Today, yom harat olam, the birthday of the world, we recall God speaking creation into being: with words, God creates an entire world, speaking each aspect into being: “Let there be light.” If only it were that simple. But the story of creation also reminds us of our role: created b’tzelem Elohim, in the Divine image—not just in form but in spirit, with the God-like power to speak, bless, heal, rejoice, and grieve.

We are never meant to go it alone. Remember, after creation comes the blessing of community.

The late biblical scholar Walter Brueggeman writes: 

The one who calls the world into being now makes a second call. The call is specific, addressed to aged Abraham and to barren Sarah. The purpose of the call is to fashion an alternative community in a world gone awry, to embody in human history the power of blessing. 

Created as partners for God, with divine capacity. 

Called into covenant; to fashion a community that embodies blessing. 

This is the call of this sacred day. 

Be courageous.  Find the courage to begin again. The courage to protect life when it feels precarious. The courage to speak up when silence would be safer. And the courage to believe that our voices—like the meturgaman’s—can make the ancient new, and the impossible imaginable. The courage to be a blessing. 

Remember Bishop Mariann Budde words, “bravery doesn’t come from one grand act, but from a lifetime of small decisions that set us on the path of courage.” That was true for the meturgaman, and it’s true for us. 

May the Torah of this season and the seasons to come be sweet upon our tongues, and may each of us have the bravery to translate, interpret, and use those words to speak a better world into being.