Hundreds of years ago in the country of Siam, a group of monks lived in peace, and in their temple stood a large golden statue. One day, they heard that the Burmese army was about to invade. Realizing that their city would soon be attacked, they covered their precious golden statue with an outer covering of clay, figuring that when the army came through and saw a clay statue, they would think it had no value and pass by without looting the temple.
The army invaded in the 1760s, and the monks were killed or displaced. And with them went the secret of the statue. Years passed. Ten, twenty, one hundred, two hundred years. Until 1954.
At that time a new building was built to house the statue, and workers brought in a crane to move it to the new location. But when the crane began to lift it, the rope snapped, and the statue crashed to the ground! Work stopped immediately, and the workers gathered around the statue to check it for damage. And as they peered into the crack that had developed in the clay, they noticed a glint of gold. As they begin picking away at the statue, they realized that under a solid casing of clay that had lasted for hundreds of years was 2.5 tons of gold, a golden statue worth nearly 200 million dollars.
This story is a parable for all of us. We are like the clay statue, covered with a shell that we’ve developed, and yet underneath is our true selves—our essence. And every once in a while, something comes along that knocks off a piece of the clay. It could be a major transition or a setback, and in that moment, we see a glimpse of gold. We see what’s truly there when we are forced to look within, past who we think we are—or who we may seem to be right now—and see who we really are and who we can be.
As Jews, we have many tremendous blessings. But I’d like to suggest that one of them is the yamim noraim, a time when we’re forced to step off the treadmill of our daily lives, to stop and reflect, and to commit to chipping away some of the clay to let our true nature shine through.
Rav Soloveitchik zt”l explained that the shofar on Rosh HaShanah is meant to inspire in us “hirhurei teshuva.” These feelings, these stirrings, are not in themselves the complete teshuva process. Rather, the sounds of the shofar are intended to “wake us up”; in the words of the Rambam, “עוּרוּ יְשֵׁנִים מִשְּׁנַתְכֶם,” “Wake up sleepy ones from your slumber.” We experience the uncomfortable feeling of recognizing the clay casing we’ve built around us. Simultaneously, though, we realize that there is gold underneath the clay.
As I walk the halls and visit classrooms at Maimonides, I am gratified to see caring faculty members who are committed to helping students see their gold and let it shine. I am honored to be part of a school in which each and every student is valued, and where we see students not only as they are but also as they truly can be. And we, too, are called upon to do this work for ourselves.
On Yom Kippur, we include in our liturgy the prayer of Rava found in Berachot 17a: “אֱלֹקַי, עַד שֶׁלֹּא נוֹצַרְתִּי אֵינִי כְּדַאי,” most often translated as "My G-d, before I was created, I was unworthy." Rav Kook, however, looks deeper and understands this to mean, “Until now, I was not created because it was not yet appropriate; it was not yet the right time for me to be created. If I had been created at a different time, a different generation, I would not be able to fulfill the special role that is uniquely mine in this world.” But the prayer continues, “וְעַכְשָׁיו שֶׁנּוֹצַרְתִּי כְּאִלּוּ לֹא נוֹצַרְתִּי,” “now that I've been created, it's as if I haven't been.”
With the Aseret Yemei Teshuva ahead of us, Rosh HaShanah reminds us that we can, and must, strive to grow and improve. We don’t need to wait for a life-altering event to start peeling away the clay. We can utilize the call of the shofar to inspire us to return to Hashem and to our better selves. | 
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