Wouldn't it make more sense to celebrate Torah with fervor on the holiday of Shavuot in the spring, when we received it, rather then on Simchat Torah, when we finish reading it? Don’t you thank someone who gives you a book, or another gift, for their generosity at the time of presentation, not after you finished using it (though your mother taught you to do that, too)?

Maybe one reason why Shavuot, the giving of the Torah at Mt. Sinai, is observed in a cerebral way — we stay up all night and study Torah — and why Simchat Torah is celebrated by great joy and dancing, is precisely because we most appreciate the Torah's value after we've had a chance to study it. As a sign of our thanks for this precious gift, the first thing we do after completing the annual Torah cycle is to start right in again from "the beginning," literally, with Genesis and the Creation, singing "Etz Chaim He" - Torah is "a tree of life" and "Ki Haym Chayenu" - Torah's words "are our life."

To me, the greatness of this observance is not only that this ancient text —core of our faith — is revered and found to contain endless lessons and interpretations, but that for all of our differences as Jews, we still read from the same page.

In synagogues throughout the world, each Torah is handwritten by scribes who painstakingly take ink and quill in hand, as prescribed, and copy each letter on parchment, with awe and attentiveness. If even one letter is in error, or too faded to read, the Torah must be repaired before it can be used by the congregation.

After centuries, we may disagree endlessly about the truest meaning of the text, but not about the words themselves.

Remarkable, no?

There’s something dizzyingly illogical about the portion read in the synagogue on Simchat Torah. We begin with Moses' final blessings, tribe by tribe, followed by his death on Mt. Nebo, after his one longing look into the land of Israel. And then we read of the world coming into being, from a formless void, to the culmination of the seventh day, the Sabbath.

Torah is a continuum of creation and completion, of death and of life, of human failure and divine perfection. The Sabbath is a taste of heaven. It is G-d's handiwork. We on earth, though — even our great leader Moses — never quite reach the Promised Land.

But we are comforted in knowing the cycle goes on. Offering Moses only a glimpse of Israel, G-d tells him consolingly, "I will give it to your offspring." Each of us is mortal but the chances for human renewal are eternal.

For me, the most moving synagogue ritual is the Simchat Torah "Kol Hanaarim" ceremony, when all children — from infants in their parents' arms to pre-bar mitzvah youth — rise to the Torah to recite the blessing together, chanting in one voice thanks for "the Torah of truth."

It is a great honor, sometimes bestowed and sometimes auctioned off, to be the adult reciting the blessing with the children. I can still see the smile on my late father-in-law's face when he was given that aliyah, shepherding his young grandchildren under his tallis.

In our shul, the sight of hundreds of children huddled under an enormous, handcrafted tallis canopy dedicated in memory of a beloved community nursery school teacher is a most poignant reminder of the continuity theme that drives our faith and our people.

Sometimes lost amidst the kiddie parades and Simchat Torah flag-waving and dancing is the realization that we have a most valuable gift that can and should change our lives. The Torah is sacred, and is treated, at least outwardly, with reverence. We stand in the synagogue when the ark is opened, and we kiss them when they pass by.

But the greatest honor we can give the Torah, on this holiday and throughout the year, is to take its words to heart, affirming our belief in its truths, and of each other.