We Aim, We Miss, We Live Honestly with Ourselves
The High Holidays always push me to search for stories—simple on the surface, yet carrying truths that run deep. This year, one has stayed with me.
It’s the tale of a royal archer—the greatest in the land. His aim was legendary. His precision admired by the king, his reputation unmatched. And yet, despite his mastery, he felt like a failure. Why? Because no matter how steady his hand, the wind had its say. His arrows would land just inches off the mark. To him, those inches felt like miles.
Now, isn’t that a feeling we can all relate to? On the outside, we might look polished—steady, confident, admired. But on the inside, so many of us hear the whisper: “You’re not hitting the target.” A conversation slips sideways. A relationship frays. A plan unravels. We do our part, and yet so much remains outside our control. The wind—the unpredictable stuff of life—interferes. And suddenly, we wonder whether all our striving counts for anything.
They say that if you want to get to Carnegie Hall, practice, practice, practice. And indeed, the world’s most accomplished musicians embody that lesson—devoting thousands of hours of their lives to their craft. But even with all that discipline, they discover, as the archer did, that the wind still has its say.
Take violinist Itzhak Perlman. Stricken with polio as a child, he walks slowly and deliberately to the stage, balancing on crutches before settling into his chair. Every performance is an act of preparation, determination, and discipline. And yet, one evening at Carnegie Hall, just moments after he began to play, a string on his violin snapped with a loud crack the whole audience could hear. In that instant, all his preparation could not change the fact: the wind had blown.
Most musicians would have stopped, left the stage, replaced the string, and started over. But Perlman did not. With three strings instead of four, he re-imagined the music—adapting fingerings, reshaping harmonies, creating something entirely new. When he finished, the hall erupted. And he bowed and said simply: “Sometimes it is the artist’s task to find out how much music you can still make with what you have left.”
That is the truth of the archer. We prepare. We strive. We do everything right. And still, the wind blows. Strings snap. Life veers off course. The lesson is not that we failed—but that beauty and meaning can still be made, even then.
Which is why it is so important, especially on Rosh Hashanah, to remember this: God, in creating the world, didn’t create perfection. The Torah says God looked at creation and called it tov m’od—“very good.” Not flawless. Not free of struggle. Simply very good—complete with beauty and imperfection.
In Hebrew, the word for sin is cheit. Unlike the English word “sin,” which often suggests wickedness or evil, cheit comes from the language of archery. It means “to miss the mark.” Imagine it: the bow is drawn, the aim is steady, the release is true—and still, the arrow lands just off-center. That is cheit. Not carelessness. Not malice. Simply the reality of being human: we try, we strive, and sometimes…we miss.
This was the archer’s mistake. He thought he was failing for lack of skill, when in truth, the wind blows, arrows stray, and sometimes, strings break.
So here we are, on Rosh Hashanah, metaphorically standing before God. We are called not to be perfect, but to be honest. To live truthfully with who we are.
And yet, we do not stand here only as individuals. Our prayers move back and forth between “I” and “we.” One person may stumble, but together we steady each other. Just as one violin cannot create a symphony, one voice alone cannot carry the song of this congregation. On these holy days, God asks us to bring both: the honesty of the “I” and the strength of the “we.”
We all know the archer’s voice inside us: “If I just worked harder…focused more…disciplined myself more…maybe then I’d be perfect.” But the royal archer missed the bullseye. Perlman lost a string. Even Moses—greatest of prophets—was told: “You will not enter the Promised Land.” None of us are perfect—and that, in fact, is the point.
According to midrash, when God created the angels, he made them perfect. They never miss, never stumble, never get it wrong. But God prefers humanity, and it is not in spite of our flaws, but because of them. Angels can sing the heavenly chorus without error. But only human beings can wrestle, falter, repent, and rise again. Only we can know what it means to aim, to miss, and still to try once more. That is the meaning of our name—Israel—the ones who struggle with God.
In the prayer Avinu Malkeinu—Our Father, Our King—we say “Father” first, because God is like a parent before being a ruler: knowing our flaws, loving us even when we miss the mark, seeing our efforts as much as our results. But we also say “King,” because God still calls us to responsibility. A king sets standards, holds us accountable, and reminds us that our choices matter. Avinu Malkeinu holds both truths together—compassion and accountability, love and law.
And that is also why we gather—here in this sanctuary, and on Zoom, across living rooms and kitchen tables. The High Holidays remind us that we are not meant to do this work alone. No one can bring the world—or even themselves—to perfection.
Community reminds us that when life’s winds throw us off course, we support one another. When we stumble, we lift each other up. Some steady the aim, some offer guidance and direction…and when we hit the bullseye, we rejoice together.
I think about moments in our community when, even though things didn’t go exactly as planned, what we did mattered. When someone was sick, we may not have done everything just right—but we showed up. We made meals, we called, and we offered support. Or when we collected toys for children at Joe DiMaggio Hospital—we didn’t solve the world’s problems, but we brought joy to a few children who needed it most. Even if we didn’t hit every target, our actions counted. They were enough. They mattered.
And now, we prepare for our Yom Kippur food drive. Each year, we bring bags of food for those who are hungry in our community. But this year, the need is greater than ever before. Shelves empty faster than they can be stocked. Families struggle to put meals on the table. The winds of hardship blow stronger than they have in many years. We may not solve every problem, but together we can steady our aim. We can place food in the hands of our neighbors and remind them they are not alone. Even if we cannot meet every need, what we bring still matters.
That is the call of Rosh Hashanah. Like the royal archer, we draw the bowstring of our own lives, aiming for what matters—work, relationships, health, connection, purpose. And yet, the wind of life is unpredictable. Plans veer. Arrows stray. Efforts don’t always land where we hoped.
Tonight, the archer has not yet found guidance, has not yet discovered how to celebrate the bullseyes, has not yet met the painter who will show him another way. But that is why this story will continue. Over these Days of Awe, in each of the four sermons we share, the archer’s journey will unfold—first, to remind us that meaning can be found even in the unexpected; then, to show us that wholeness requires both discipline and accident, both archer and painter; then, to celebrate that our differences are not flaws but the very fabric of community; and finally, to reveal that beneath all our diversity lies one shared soul, one great consciousness that binds us—and the universe—together.
And so tonight, we honor the archer’s first lesson. Not for his perfection, but for his striving. For his courage to lift the bow again, even against the wind, even when strings snap.
Which leads us to the words of our anthem. The archer reminds us that we cannot control everything, but we can control where we set our gaze. Shiviti Adonai l’negdi tamid—“I place God before me always.” We cannot command the wind, but we can steady our aim.
As we hear Shiviti sung by Erika Tepper, may its words become our response to the archer’s struggle: we practice, we strive, we miss, we try again—and all the while, we root ourselves in the One who steadies us.