Sermon for Rosh Hashanah Evening, 1 Tishrei 5777

A couple of years ago, I made the mistake of speaking off the cuff to the folks who attend this service. I noted that many of you who are here at this most lightly attended evening are also the one’s present ten days from now at ne’ilah, the conclusion of Yom Kippur. So I referred to you - lovingly, I should say - as the Dead-Enders. Even though the appellation was meant to be kindly, a number of you found it insulting and I felt chastened by the experience.

Not chastened enough, I’m afraid. When Rosh Hashanah rolled around again last year, I once more spoke off-the-cuff and once more evoked the Dead End moniker. The reaction was no happier the second time around.

So this year, my opening remarks are prepared. But by what name do I refer to you - my dear friends who will be with me on every step of this journey from here to the break fast? The rabbi’s loyal minions, perhaps? The gluttons for punishment? Then I remembered a passage of Talmud I studied once. It deals with the mitzvah of lighting the candles of Hanukkah. Now I know most of you have been doing this forever, but you might never-the-less be surprised by what the law on this really says.

According to the Talmud, a man fulfills his obligation to light lights on Hanukkah - and remember, lighting lights on Hanukkah is a time-bound positive commandment so only men are obliged to perform it - by lighting a single candle. But then the Talmud goes on to say that the מהדרין - that is to say, the zealous ones - light a candle for each member of their household. But then Talmud goes farther, for there are those who are even more pious in their observance. These the Talmud calls the מהדרין מן המהדרין - the zealots among the zealous. And these folks who follow the ruling of בית הלל light one candle on the first night, two on the second, three on the third and so on and so on and so on. And that my friends is all of you. No longer will you be Dead Enders to me. Rather, you are the מהדרין מן המהדרין - the zealots among the zealous. The very picture of piety.

Because you are my מהדרין מן המהדרין, I feel an urge to speak more intimately this evening then I do tomorrow morning or really at any other time outside the concluding services on Yom Kippur. So indulge me, if you will, if I share with you a small but personal observation.

The words “Love ya’” are two of the easiest words to say.

The words, “I love you” are three of the hardest.

I made this observation recently as I pondered how I was going to close an email. I don’t remember the subject of the email and I don’t remember to whom I sent it. It was probably to one of my daughters, but it might well have been to a niece or nephew. What I remember was closing the message with either “love,” or “love ya,” and knowing that was wrong. It was a throw-away line; one that implied a serious connection but did so in an unserious way. What I really meant to say was “I love you.” But at the same time, I was afraid to do so. One might be able to say “I love you” in an off-handed way, but you can’t write it that way. When you write the words “I love you,” you are saying something very serious indeed. How often do we, in our relationships with others, rise to the seriousness of what we feel? How often do we let those emotions go unexpressed, trusting that their object really knows how we feel without our saying it.

At the end of Shakespeare’s tragedy King Lear, Edgar, who is perhaps the story’s greatest hero, says the following as he stands over all the corpses that have collected around him. He says “The weight of these sad times we must obey. Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say.” I think that is good advice for the time we are in right now. The high holidays need not be a particularly sad time. But they are weighty times. The weight comes from the notion that our lives are worthy of examination and critical judgement. Speaking what we feel can be a great impetus to such examination.

Let me be clear. When I say that we should “speak what we feel,” I am talking exclusively about the good stuff; the feelings that we have that are affirming and positive. The lesson that we should confront people when they slight or injure us is one that I feel is too often given and too readily heeded. In the course of a relationship - the give and take of life - we are often apt to choose the wrong word or be oblivious to the hurt look, or just careless or ignorant of our own doings. I don’t want to suggest that these are acceptable things or that we shouldn’t try to improve our dealings with others. But I don’t think we can or should live our lives so involved in our own sensitivities or conscious of those of others that we lose our spontaneity or subvert our genuine personalities. So as to speaking what we feel when we are hurt, my advice is, confront when you must, but suck it up when you can.

But when what we feel is something affirmative, then I believe we have an obligation to speak it. These weighty times call on each of us to take a חשבון הנפש, and accounting of our souls. Too often such an accounting focuses on the failures we have amassed or the debts we have incurred. But a true accounting requires that we inventory the good as well as the bad. And I believe it is the appreciation of the good that is within us that provides the impetus to make ourselves all the better.