It feels like the worst new year ever.

Delivered at Temple Shalom of Newton, Rosh Hashanah 5785

When Sarah opened her email, she saw the invitation. 
“You are cordially invited to celebrate the Jewish Near Year.” 
Let us know if you can make it.
Sarah sighed the sigh of all sighs. 
“I just can’t this year,” she said aloud.
 “I mean, a part of me wants to, but not this year. 
I just don’t feel like celebrating.”

Sarah’s father had died a few months prior. 
Even though he had been sick for years 
and had decided on his own to stop treatment, 
there was no way to prepare  for his absence in her life.
She couldn’t imagine enjoying honeycake 
or sitting in services without the warmth of his presence. 
The grief and darkness was too much to bear, especially in person.
What if she burst out crying?

So she responded with a short message to the sender: 
Just not sure I can make it this year. 
Feels like the worst new year ever. 
I can’t be the only one who feels like this, right? 
But instead of clicking ‘Yes’ or ‘No’, she selected ‘maybe’.

**
When Matt opened his email, he saw that same invitation. 
Matt sighed the sigh of all sighs. 
“I just can’t this year,” he said aloud. 
“I mean, a part of me wants to, but not this year. 
I’m just too nervous. 
It feels harder than ever to be Jewish this year. 
Am I safe? Are we safe?”
Like many people, every day since October 7th, 2023, 
Matt had increased anxiety about being Jewish in America. 
His whole life he loved Rosh Hashanah:
the music, the food, the family, the sermons, and the liturgy. 
But there was no amount of deep breathing or calming music - 
or medicine even -
that could make him feel comfortable going to the temple. 
His fear and his worries overcame him.

So he responded with a short message to the sender: 
Just not sure I can make it this year. 
Feels like the worst new year ever. 
I can’t be the only one who feels like this, right? 
But instead of clicking ‘Yes’ or ‘No’, he selected ‘maybe’.

**
When Julie opened her email, she saw the same invitation. 
“Cordially invited? I bet.” Julie huffed the huff of all huffs. 
“Celebrate a Jewish New Year? Yeah right. 
They don’t actually want me to come. 
Besides, I’m so embarrassed to be Jewish right now,” she thought to herself.”
How can I celebrate when there are innocent children dying in Gaza?
Julie had been on the front lines of protesting Israel on her college campus. 
She wasn’t talking to her parents or her best friends from camp anymore. 
They had all tried to convince her to change her views 
which resulted in a yelling match. 
She had never missed a Rosh Hashanah before - 
but how could she celebrate a sweet new year
and hold fast to her convictions? 
But how could she not go?

Not sure I can make it this year. 
Feels like the worst new year ever. 
I can’t be the only one who feels like this, right? 
But instead of clicking ‘Yes’ or ‘No’, she selected ‘maybe’.

**
Hannah opened her email and shrugged. 
She and her wife had been trying to have a baby for years. 
She couldn’t stand to hear about birth and renewal 
or the prophetic story of the ancient Hannah crying out for a child.
Besides, the world was on fire. 
Worst New Year Ever! 
But she felt guilty RSVPing no. 
Maybe, she clicked.

**
Steve wasn’t Jewish, but he wasn’t any other religion either. 
They celebrated Christmas and he drove the kids to Hebrew school each week. 
He played on the temple softball team, and was doing everything he could 
to fix the ridiculous sound system in the sanctuary. 
But he wasn’t sure what he believed about God. 
And everytime he thought he’d learned the High Holy Day melodies, 
the music changed. 
It was just too much change. 
The organ reminded him of his childhood church, 
but the temple stopped using it years ago. 
He knew his family would go - 
but this year - he wasn’t so sure he wanted to. 
Maybe, he responded. 

**
Ruthie and Michael had no interest, with the election coming up, 
in hearing sermons that felt political.
They identified as conservative voters 
and were tired of hearing about justice. 
Wasn’t Judaism supposed to be about values, not the ballot? 
Maybe we’ll go, maybe not.

**
Ruby and Brett had no interest in hearing sermons that were apolitical.
They identified as progressive voters and were tired of hearing sermons
that never pushed congregants far enough.
Maybe, they responded.
Maybe we’ll go. 
Maybe we’ll just livestream that fancy temple in NYC.

**
Adi was a maybe, too.
He served in the Yom Kippur war.
How, he wondered, how can I sit in services next to anyone
Who doesn’t unequivocally support Israel?
Rachel was a maybe, too.
How, she wondered, how can I sit in services next to anyone
Who doesn’t question the character of the state of Israel and its leadership.

**
Even a local rabbi who had recently become a new mom,
And returned to work only a few months earlier
Who loved her professional calling and congregational life
could feel the pull of pajamas and snuggling on the couch with her baby. 
Why serve everyone else’s families 
when she could spend more time with hers?
She didn’t even respond to the email at all - 
(What rabbi has time for email this time of year - 
If I owe you one, thanks for your patience).
She did show up  - but she got how they felt.

As each person responded, they wondered to themselves:
I can’t be the only one who feels this way, 
believes this way, 
thinks this way,
right?

***
So first, I want to say that I am so glad that you’re all here. That even if you thought about responding maybe (which is often a soft no), I am so glad that you responded Yes.

If you are joining us virtually, I am so glad you are here, too. And I’m also so glad to be here. And I do not begrudge those who, for whatever reason, are not present today. 

Because I suspect that for many of us - myself included - that even though our bodies are physically present here in the sanctuary or online this year, 
our hearts and minds are in that state
Of MAYBE
Of ambivalence
Of anxiety
Of anger
Of some apathy
Of fear
Of existentialism
Of grief
Or sorrow,
Or darkness
Interlaced
maybe,
with glimmers of sweetness and joy.

I feel it all very deeply.

If you have asked yourself this past year if you are the only one who feels or thinks or believes a certain way, the answer, I suspect, is a resounding 
No.
You are not alone.
You are not the only person here
Going through a hard time.
You are not the only person here
Who has lost their job, 
Who has lost their spouse, 
Who is trying to support aging parents, 
Who is parenting a child moving through difficulty,
Who is unsure if you can continue to afford your mortgage
Who is unsure what you will do if your landlord sells your apartment, 
Who is unsure why you have to go suffer through middle school,
Who is unsure if you really want to do one more treatment, 
Who is unsure if you can bear to read another news headline
about the world
about Israel
about anti semitism
about Ukraine or Sudan, 
about corruption
about the election… 

You are not the only one who feels like our world is on fire.
What a joyful vibe to celebrate the new year, right? 

But seriously-  how are we supposed to celebrate a new year and RSVP enthusiastically to this global birthday party? And what do we do when, Rabbi Eugene Borowitz states, “we simply cannot get our feelings to perform on schedule?” What do we do when things feel out of control, like there is no one in charge? Who can help us?

A story in the Talmud asks a similar question: 

There once was a man on a journey who came across a bira doleket.  Bira - a palace - Doleket - that was either aglow or perhaps on fire. The ancient rabbis were asking the same question we are: What do you do when the world feels like a dumpster fire?

Upon seeing the palace ablaze, the man in the story -the rabbis say it’s Abraham - eloquently asks, “Surely, there must be someone who owns this palace, someone who cares for it"

The man calls out again: “Is there anyone here? Is anyone responsible for this palace?” Is it possible that this palace has no caretaker?!” 

Who’s in charge here?!”

**
In a more familiar story: It was Adam and Eve’s first day outside of the Garden of Eden. The sun began to set for their very first time and darkness arrived. Worry set in and they began to cry. Where had the sun gone?  Would it ever return? Is our future only one of darkness?

** 
I’ll tell you what happens in each story in a moment…
But first here’s my secret answer to the universe,  
To all the grief,
To all the ambivalence. 
To the darkness -  
to the Source of all the maybes - 
because that’s what you expect from clergy, right, especially on the High Holy Days?
Well, this Mommy does not have all the answers! 
No rabbi does and do not believe them if they say they do.
Because I think it's hard to see the light right now, too.
I’m not always sure who is in charge either. 
I literally wrote some of this paragraph while missiles were ablaze over Israel…

**
So what do we do?  What do we do when things feel so dark, and so indeterminate - and so out of control that it's hard to put on our party kippahs  to welcome the New Year?

For the palace aflame - the bira doleket - consider the Hebrew word doleket. It shares the same root as l’hadlik - as in l’hadlik ner shel yom tov/shabbat/chanukah- the word we use when lighting candles. Abraham Joshua Heschel suggests instead of reading that the palace is on fire, we should see it as illuminated. Illuminated like the burning bush - not burnt to a crisp - but as a lighthouse causing us to pause and pay attention.

So, who’s in charge?
Look around you.
You are. 
WE ARE:
We are in charge of how we shift our perspective
and how we make meaning amid difficult times.
The world may be a dumpster fire, 
But it is also full of so much light.

What does it illuminate for you?
What is reflected back for you in its glow?

The ancient rabbis wondered:
What will bring Adam and Eve comfort?  I relate to those rabbis serving their people in difficult times. They spent all day long reading, discussing, debating - basically binge watching Torah stories - trying to understand life’s biggest questions.

What the rabbis do is compelling:

To get him through the dark night, they place a flame in Adam’s hands. This is the ritual of Havdalah, the blessing of transition and separation, we sing at the end of Shabbat that casts light on the future week’s unknowns. 

Adam is terrified.
Who is in charge of Adam getting through the darkness?
One rabbinic answer will always be - God. 
But I think the Rabbis are whispering in his ear:
“It’s you, Adam, It’s you.”
You can create light when it's dark.
We can create light when it's dark. 

So maybe - merely showing up to Rosh Hashanah, dipping apples in honey, and hearing the shofar is similar.  Once you show up to do the thing - the ritual, the observance, the gathering, the mental shift - then maybe you start to feel ready.

After all, 
you can’t avoid growing older by skipping your birthday;
You can’t avoid loss by never loving, 
You can’t avoid the realities of our world by disconnecting from the news, 
You can't avoid making mistakes by never trying new things, 
If you’re a maybe, which is usually a polite no, 
If you’re just not feeling it, you have to fake it until you make it! 
You have to do the thing first to try to feel it.

Because all the things - the rules, the traditions, Rabbi Borowitz teaches, “... give us periodic reminders of what we ought to be doing… [and] once there, we have often discovered that, despite our discomfort, we are very glad we went. [and maybe, just maybe] we may [even] find ourselves deeply moved…

The High Holy Days - on their own - will not fix it all;  and we cannot - on our own - douse the dumpster fire. But we can try - each of us - to clean up and repair our little corner of it. The HHD liturgy says prayer, repentance and charity will lead us to that repair.
Maybe. (Probably.)
But I think it's about showing up, 
And how you show up -  
To do the thing - 
It's about looking at all your people, 
Face to face.
From the one who votes differently than you 
to the one who you just don’t like that much; 
From the one you’ve known for years, 
to the one you’ve never met who seems lonely or sad.
A minyan - a prayer quorum - needs 10 people;
even 10 ambivalent people will do.
And maybe you will even find yourself deeply moved.

These days, maybe usually means probably not, but its linguistic origins implied something different. It was a word that implied possibility. 
So illuminate your maybe. 
Illuminate your maybe.
And as the Sephardic custom invites, let this year end with its curses. 
And may this coming year, with its blessings, begin.
Perhaps the Counting Crows were right:
Maybe this year will be better than the last.

Shana Tovah!

Sources:
Rabbi Eugene Borowitz, Jewish Liberal Values, Feeling Versus Rule: The Case of Prayer, p. 427
Bereshit Rabbah 39:1-2 
Pirkei de Rebbe Eliezer 20:4
God in Search of Man