2025 (5786) Rosh Hashanah Sermons
Ethical Pessimism—Sermon for the eve of Rosh Hashanah
First, a confession. As late as three weeks ago, I was absolutely convinced that I wouldn’t be able to write sermons for these High Holy Days. I was feeling the full weight of the world on my shoulders, and it was proving increasingly challenging to find any points of light that I could offer up to you. Very late in the game, I embarked on sermon writing as a spiritual practice. I carved out time each day to avoid the constant feed of bad news on the internet and focus instead on this season. I started meditating again. In short, I allowed myself at least an hour each day completely away from the darkness that seems to be consuming our world at this moment. I think I’m much better for it, and I’d encourage you to consider doing the same.
What I ultimately emerged with was a theme that I will launch in earnest tomorrow morning. It is based on the concept of tikkun olam, meaning “repair or healing of the world.” I’ve been struck over the years at just how many of those choosing to embrace a Jewish life have named tikkun olam as a motivating factor in their decision. For those of us who were born Jewish, I suspect the idea is equally compelling. It is empowering to think that a central component of living a Jewish life is to do what we can to make the world a better place. During these Yamim Nora’im, these Awesome Days, I’ll be delving into three levels of Tikkun Olam. Tomorrow morning, I will explore the topic of Tikkun HaKehilah—bringing repair to individual Jewish communities. At Kol Nidre, I will invite you to explore the concept of Tikkun Atzmi, the repair of the self, which is so central to the 24 hours of Yom Kippur. And on Yom Kippur morning, I will dive more deeply into the idea of bringing healing to this broken world.
But this evening, I’d like to offer you a framework for the whole conversation. In a time when all we seem to encounter is news that is at best bad and at worst disturbing, how do we hold on to hope? I was fortunate enough over the last few months to be exposed to two different but complementary approaches to this dilemma: the first was Associate Professor and Sinai Synagogue member Roy Scranton’s provocative lecture in May at the United Religious Communities’ prayer breakfast. He spoke on the topic “Ethical Pessimism: Doing good work in bad times.” The second was Rabbi Leon Morris’ inspirational teaching to members of the Central Conference of American Rabbis a few weeks ago on the topic “Cultivating Hope and Dispelling Despair.” Both presentations shook me in challenging but ultimately helpful ways. I’d like to share with you some of what I learned.
For decades, I have held on fiercely to the idea that in order to do the work I do, I must be an optimist. I must believe the best about human nature, look optimistically to a brighter future, and see the silver lining in every cloud. I was convinced that if I ever shifted away from this attitude, I would not only not be able to function as a rabbi, but I might not even be able to get out of bed in the morning. So, even when confronted with what felt like overwhelming evidence to the contrary in recent years, I have doggedly held on to my optimism with all my might.
What I learned from Professor Scranton is that optimism can have severe negative impacts for those of us trying to bring good to a troubled world. He shared research that shows that pessimists are able to see the world more realistically, because they are already assuming the worst. As many as 80% of the world’s population are optimists, and they are wired up to deny realities. As Professor Scranton said, “there even appears to be a neurological tendency specifically to ignore information that challenges positive assessments. These biases affect even those trained to reject them, like scientists and doctors.” In other words, optimists are so eager to find that silver lining that they are far more likely to deny actual facts in order to do so.
Professor Scranton spoke persuasively in favor of adopting an attitude of pessimism: “Letting go of unrealistic and self-destructive commitments and letting go of unrealistic optimism are part and parcel of a broader kind of reflection, a letting go of our ego, a practice of intellectual and spiritual humility that I call pessimism: recanting and relenting and recognizing that we are but dust and ashes. Pessimism is about understanding and accepting the persistence of human suffering, recognizing and taking account of human frailty and human fallibility, and rejecting the optimistic arrogance that we know how to make the world better or have the power to do so. A pessimist gives up on saving the world, because they recognize only God can do that. Instead, a pessimist works to compassionately alleviate suffering where they can.”
Although Professor Scranton’s lecture was back on May 1, it was already clear to me even then that his message could speak powerfully to that place where we find ourselves on this Rosh Hashanah eve. As Rabbi Alan Lew repeatedly emphasizes in his powerful book This is Real and You are Completely Unprepared, these High Holy Days are all about acknowledging just how little control we have over the things in our lives that really matter. So much of our lives are devoted to exercising as much control as we possibly can. And then something happens to remind us that we really have no control at all. On Rosh Hashanah it is written, and on Yom Kippur it is sealed: who shall enter this world and who shall leave it. We don’t get to make that choice; it happens, whether we are ready or not.
Rabbi Leon Morris’s presentation on cultivating hope introduced me to a new term: optimal hope. Optimal hope means holding on to hope even when we realistically expect that things may not get any better. He quoted Oded Leshem who spoke of a hope that is tied to one’s own aspirations, needs and wishes rather than to any expectation of attainment. It is far easier to hold on to hope when one is realistic about the chances for success. In the conversation, Rabbi Morris and others elevated hope above optimism: he explained that optimism is the belief that things will get better. Hope indicates a readiness to do the hard work to make things better.
Optimal hope has been part of the Jewish tradition for a very long time. Just read the pages of your prayerbook. We praise and thank God for our glorious world and for the many blessings we enjoy. But the world our ancestors lived in was rarely glorious and often decidedly hostile and threatening. These prayers speak of a vision that was far from the reality of everyday Jews. They lived with difficulties, but continued to hope and pray for better. At this time of the year, we hope that we ourselves can be better as well as the world.
Just as these Days of Awe force us to reflect on the limits of our powers, they also remind us how much control we can have. We appreciate that, at the end of the day, the only thing that we have power over is how we respond to what life hands us. But that is an immense gift. Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur issue an invitation to look honestly at our own lives as they are—not as we wish they were. What are those personality flaws that trip us up year after year after year? And what tools have we acquired in this last year that might enable us to make progress in becoming the people we wish we could be? The possibility that we might remake ourselves is a precious gift of hope. And hope itself is a powerful tool in the enormous work of repairing ourselves, our community, and our world. Let us get to work. L’shana tova tiketeivu va’techateimu—may we all be written and sealed for a year of sweetness and joy, good health and peace, and above all, of hope.
Tikkun HaK’hilah—a sermon for Rosh Hashanah morning
Last night, I introduced a theme for these High Holy Days: tikkun olam, repair of the world. I noted that I would be breaking this topic into three individual talks: on repairing ourselves, our communities, and our world. This morning, I’ll be speaking about tikkun hak’hilah—repairing our community.
A number of years ago, I attended the biennial conference of the Union for Progressive Judaism of Australia, New Zealand and Asia. This is a far smaller affair than the URJ biennial; on that particular day there were about 150 of us rabbis, synagogue board members, and others sitting in a Sydney hotel meeting room. The speaker was Ron Wolfson, who is well known throughout the Jewish world for his work on creating more community-minded synagogues. Perhaps his best-known book is Relational Judaism, in which he argues that people come to synagogues not seeking programs but meaningful connections.
Ron announced that he had the magical ability to guess the mission statement of each and every synagogue represented at the gathering. He proceeded to recite, “Our congregation is a warm and welcoming community.” The room exploded in laughter. He was right! That was exactly how each of our congregations had chosen to market ourselves. He noted astutely that no synagogue really wanted to advertise itself as a cold and grumpy community! He then assigned us to meet with the others from our own synagogues to come up with mission statements that were more individually tailored to our institutions.
If you ask synagogues these days what their number one priority is, nearly every one of them will say that it’s recruiting and retaining new members. Synagogue membership in the United States isn’t just declining—in many communities, it’s plummeting. There are a variety of factors responsible for this phenomenon, but the most important is that people under the age of 50 are just not joining. In fact, I’m betting that just about everyone in this room who is a parent of adult children has at least one who does not belong to a synagogue. And, of course, we’d like to figure out how to remedy the situation.
I don’t have any brilliant answers for you, but I can share a bit of deep learning that might be helpful in re-shaping how we have the conversation. In May, I attended the phenomenal songleaders’ workshop Hava Nashira at Camp Osrui. (I want to note that Leah Shoshanah attended too, but we didn’t know each other at the time!) I participated in a number of wonderful workshops, including one with the musician and activist Shira Kline. Some of you would have gotten to know Shira through the film Shabbat Queen that was part of the Michiana Jewish Film Festival. She is co-founder of the experimental Jewish community Lab Shul in New York City and featured prominently in the movie. I attended her workshop on building more inclusive communities, and I found her insights incredibly illuminating. What follows is her teaching, but in my words.
As a congregation, we regularly have the opportunity to welcome newcomers to Temple. In doing so, we see ourselves as performing a particular mitzvah or religious obligation known as hachnasat orchim, or welcoming guests. We seek to emulate the actions of Abraham, who was effusive in his welcome of three strangers to his tent, even though, according to rabbinic tradition, he was still recovering from his circumcision. Jews through the ages have looked to him as our inspiration for how to roll out the welcome mat for guests: He ran to welcome the strangers, to prepare food for them, to bring water to wash their feet, and so we run to receive guests to our tent and make sure they know that they are more than welcome at our table.
As Shira pointed out, many who tell newcomers that they are welcome at their table are blissfully unaware that they see it as their table. Yes, of course you can join us! But make sure you dress appropriately for the occasion. Keep your elbows off the table. Try not to inconvenience us with complicated requests for gluten free or vegan items. If you do ultimately volunteer to cook a dish for the table, please only use the recipes we’ve been serving for decades. If you follow all of these rules and more, then ultimately you’ll get to call it your table too and then you can make sure that future guests adhere to these rules.
Here’s the thing: this concept of welcoming the guests is actually deeply problematic, and so is the analogy to Abraham welcoming the strangers into his tent. Because while that tent clearly belongs to Abraham, this synagogue does not belong to its members. Temple members don’t own the synagogue; you are entrusted with its care. It is up to you to make sure that this congregation is looked after with love so that it is prepared to welcome the next generation of Jews who walk through its doors, and the generations that come after. And there is no way to know whether the table they set will look just like yours or completely different. But if the table is still there in some form or another, that will be worthy of celebrating.
So really, we are not looking to welcome guests to our tent, we are looking to welcome family to a place that is their home and ours. That term in Hebrew would be hachnasat mishpachah, which I’m going to suggest is a more appropriate term for the welcome we extend.
I appreciate that, to a certain extent, I’m preaching to the converted. I have already seen Temple members bend over backwards to make sure that all feel welcomed. It’s a very moving thing to witness, and I honor you for the work you do in that area. But I do wonder how valuable it might be to take some time, maybe every five years or so, to talk about the table, and whether it’s still configured in a way that serves everyone. Now seems like the perfect time, as we are preparing to relocate ourselves physically to a building that will be new for all of us. And so I invite you to ask: Does everyone feel a sense of ownership over this table? What barriers have been put in place inadvertently that block some from feeling comfortable? How does the language Temple members use in speaking to newcomers and in written materials invite in or push away?
In order to assess just how welcoming our table is, we would need to find ways to reach out to those who have stayed away from our table and listen with an open heart as to why they haven’t joined us. It is almost assured that these will be confronting and painful conversations, and we will probably learn hard truths about ourselves. If we are open to that learning, we will emerge a far stronger and welcoming community.
Another piece of learning from Shira Kline was about the term ivri, or Hebrew. In the Torah, the Jews refer to themselves as b’nei Yisrael—the Israelites. But when they speak about themselves to others, they call themselves ivrim. Shira and others have noted that the term may connect to the Hebrew root ayin-vet-resh, meaning “crossing over.” In that sense, we Jews can see ourselves as boundary crossers. We extend hands across and invite people in. We extend ourselves out of our comfort zone and expand our tent to make room for more. We engage in radical hospitality.
Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are days celebrated in community. Only a tiny handful of our prayers are voiced in the singular—we pray and sing together. And, of course, we eat together, as we will at the end of today’s service. On this day, we affirm that we are woven together as members of one great family. We don’t always get along, and we certainly don’t always agree. But hopefully, we are always there for each other, and we share a beautiful table.
