Letting Ourselves Fall Into Sadness to Find an Opening to Joy Rosh Hashanah 5785

Shanah Tovah. May 5785 be a good year. 

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Thinking back over the last year – 5784 – it’s hard to say that it would belong in the “good year” column.

Wishing ourselves and others a “shanah yoteir tovah,” a better year, for the coming year is really not asking for much—it’s a low bar to have a better year than the one that just closed.

5784 was pretty much a disaster.

And to think we were all so excited for it. 

I certainly was.

Finally, we were shaking off the COVID blues and coming back together.

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We had plans for large events that would bring joy to the entire community. The holidays were on the weekends—the best timing for people who work or go to school.

Or for rabbis – fewer sermons to write! (It’s a bit less exciting for Jewish day school teachers.)

We had also planned a fantastic Simhat Torah party for the evening of October 7th, with a band and everything, but of course, that didn’t happen. 

Hopefully, this year.

The tragedy of October 7th and its horrific aftershocks in so many directions have overwhelmed this year. The terrible murders, rapes, burnings, taking of hostages, war, the suffering of innocents on all sides, the attacks on Israel from multiple places, and the rise in antisemitism.

Photo credit: Rabbi David Lerner

It’s a lot.

* * *

What can we say in the face of a year like the last one?

I want to be honest. 

I have been trying to find my voice for this moment. 

What can I say to myself?

What can I say to you? 

I have been struggling, struggling with feelings, struggling with my beliefs, struggling to find any optimism, struggling to find hope.

I have felt unmoored and unsettled. 

It was a year like no other I can remember, and it came after we had been coping with the worldwide trauma of Covid.

I found myself sleeping less, meditating less, praying less, reading less, stretching less, and exercising less, but I was much more stressed and I ate more, much more.

I spent lots more time on the computer reading updates and watching the horrific videos over and over. 

I got sucked into a vortex of despair.

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Instead of going to bed, I was on the phone, searching for—I don’t even know what—perhaps some small piece of positive news. 

And even when something good happened, it was short-lived or came with unintended consequences.

It was a year of anxiety and fear.

Riffing off the title of Judith Viorst’s children’s book, “It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad year.”

Photo credit: Wikipedia

* * * * *

Of course, we are not the first generation of Jews to experience a year like this or even similar decades. 

Over the centuries and millennia, we have experienced great tragedies and loss. 

How did our ancestors cope?

* * * * *

I am drawn to the Tahanun prayers, which are recited only on weekday mornings and some afternoons. 

To me, they have a deep connection to this moment.

Tahanun is a little-known ritual, also known as nefillat apayim, literally “falling on one’s face.” It has evolved to include the recitation of several biblical and medieval texts. It most likely originated in the century after the destruction of the Second Temple in 70 CE, a time of terrible upheaval.

Judah the Prince is one of the great rabbis who helped strengthen and transform the tradition and codified the Mishnah, our central legal text. 

Writing in Israel around the year 220, Rabbi Yehudah HaNasi, as he is known in Hebrew, gathers rabbinic writings from the previous two centuries, including many teachings about practices from the Holy Temple in Jerusalem that could no longer take place.  

One teaching explains that after the Kohein Gadol, the High Priest, offered a sacrifice, cymbals were struck, and the Levi’im, the Levites, would sing the psalm of the day of the week; a practice that persists to this day – minus the cymbals.

The Mishnah explains: “Whenever the Levites reached the end of one section of the psalm, the priests sounded a teki’ah, (one shofar blast), and the people in the courtyard prostrated themselves. At the end of each section, there was a teki’ah, and for every teki’ah there was a prostration.”

This Mishnah concludes: “That is the procedure for the sacrifice of the daily offering in the service of the House of our God; may it be [God’s] (His) will that it will be speedily rebuilt in our day, amen.” (Mishnah Tamid 7:3)

In this text, one can hear the yearning for the lost Temple, for Jerusalem—the yearning for a better time.

And we are given rituals: reciting a psalm, sounding the shofar, and prostration. 

This ritual was described in an earlier work that did not make the cut to be in the Tanakh, in the Hebrew Bible. 

The book is The Wisdom of Ben Sira written in the early part of the 2nd century before the Common Era by a Jewish scribe from Jerusalem named Joshua ben Sira. He describes all this more colorfully:

“Then the sons of Aaron would sound a blast, the priests, on their trumpets of beaten metal; a blast to resound mightily as a reminder before the Most High. 

“All the people, with one accord, would fall with their faces to the ground in adoration before the Most High, before the Holy One of Israel. 

“Then hymns would re-echo, and over the throng, sweet strains of praise would resound. 

“All the people of the land would shout for joy, praying to the Merciful One, as the High Priest completed the service at the altar by presenting to God the appropriate sacrifice. 

“Then, coming down from the altar, he would raise his hands over all the congregation of Israel. The blessing of Adonai would be upon his lips; the name of Adonai would be his glory. 

“The people would again fall down to receive the blessing of the Most High.” (Ben Sira 50:16-21)

* * *

These rituals remain a big part of the High Holy Days as we prostrate ourselves to the ground. We will do it shortly during the Musaf service. 

In fact, next week on Yom Kippur, we will reenact the Kohein Gadol’s service on that most intense day by repeatedly falling to the ground.

Ismar Elbogen, in his magnum opus, Jewish Liturgy, explains that the rabbis did not want to lose this ritual or its power.

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He writes: “This custom was transferred from the Temple to the synagogue so that the individual’s prayer was not annexed to the public sacrifices [anymore] but to the public prayer. 

He continues: “At the end of the ‘Amida [our central, standing prayer], the opportunity was given to every individual to pour out his heart and to conduct a dialogue with his Creator without any external pressure.” (Elbogen, p.66)

So, while there were no longer any sacrifices, participants were still given the chance to descend into a deeply emotional place.

As Elbogen states: “This was the moment when the people worshipped in the full sense of the word, when each individual expressed in his private prayer, the desires that at that moment moved his own heart.”

* * *

The word tahanun means to beg for mercy. It is related to the word tehinah—not the food but the more creative, personal prayers. Thines were prayers that originated in Eastern Europe in the 16th century, many of them reflecting the desires and hopes of Jewish women.

These were personal, intense supplications. Supplication comes from the Latin verb supplicare, which means “to plead humbly.” 

While a supplication is often considered a religious prayer, it is used 60 times in the Tanakh, the Hebrew Bible, and can be applied to any situation in which we must entreat someone in power for help or a favor.

But it’s not merely the pleading; it’s the feeling of being so weak, begging. To prostrate oneself to supplicate oneself is to feel something so deeply, so earnestly, so humbly. 

We fall to our knees in supplication. 

There is a deep humility.

There is deep emotion.

* * *

But it’s not easy to do this. 

Most of us, or I will speak for myself, cannot often access this intensity of spiritual emotion.

So how do you get there? 

How can we become vulnerable enough to experience this feeling?

First, the Siddur offers words to recite because we often cannot simply drop into that emotional state. 

The opening text, the suggested words to recite, comes from the book of Second Samuel, where King David is offered three bad choices as a punishment for his misdeeds: a seven-year famine, running from his adversaries for three months while they pursue him, or three days of pestilence in the land.

וַיֹּ֧אמֶר דָּוִ֛ד אֶל־גָּ֖ד צַר־לִ֣י מְאֹ֑ד נִפְּלָה־נָּ֤א בְיַד־יְהֹוָה֙ כִּֽי־רַבִּ֣ים רַחֲמָ֔ו וּבְיַד־אָדָ֖ם אַל־אֶפֹּֽלָה׃ 

“David said to Gad, ‘I am in great distress. Let us fall into the hands of GOD, whose compassion is great; and let me not fall into human hands.’” (2 Sam.22:14)

But the text may not be enough. We have to feel it in our bodies. So, as King David says – let us fall. 

And then, in Tahanun, we fall. 

We prostrate ourselves. 

While the rabbis did this on the ground, during the year, we fall on our seats, placing our arms on the chair next to us and letting our heads drop onto our arms with our tallit draped over us.

Photo credit: Temple Emunah

It is a position of vulnerability. 

It is a position of humility. 

It is a position of letting go. 

It is a position of sadness.

The Siddur offers us Psalm 6 as the next option of what to say if spontaneous words don’t come. This religious poem’s author describes his bones shaking in terror – ki nivhalu atzamai. (Psalms 6:3)

“וְ֭נַפְשִׁי נִבְהֲלָ֣ה מְאֹ֑ד (ואת) [וְאַתָּ֥ה] יְ֝הֹ-וָ֗ה עַד־מָתָֽי׃

My whole being is stricken with terror, while You, ETERNAL One—O, how long!

יָגַ֤עְתִּי ׀ בְּֽאַנְחָתִ֗י אַשְׂחֶ֣ה בְכׇל־לַ֭יְלָה מִטָּתִ֑י בְּ֝דִמְעָתִ֗י עַרְשִׂ֥י אַמְסֶֽה׃ 

I am weary with groaning; every night I drench my bed with tears, I melt my couch in tears.” (Psalms 6:4,7)

This is the raw intensity of feeling. 

The psalmist is scared and crying, allowing himself to really feel it.

And then it happens: the gates of tears open, the flood of emotions washes over me, and I can feel it.

As the Talmud teaches, since the destruction of the Temple, “the gates of prayer have been locked, but the gates of tears are never locked.” (Brakhot 32b)

The gates of tears are never locked.

While tahanun is recited publicly in a minyan, I am burrowed under my tallit, where I can let the pain and tears flow privately.

* * * * *

Over the last year, I found that I cried less than I would have anticipated. 

It was not as if I didn’t have opportunities to go there. It’s not to say I haven’t cried. Meeting with the hostage families, listening to their pain, the pain of those who lost loved ones, who lost their sons fighting in Gaza. There have been tears, but for me, they have been harder to come by than I would have imagined.

* * *

But this day, this day of Rosh Hashanah, I’m letting them flow.

Let’s allow ourselves to sit in the experience. 

Let us try to let the words wash over us during Musaf, and then as we hear the shofar blasts. 

Let us close our eyes and know there is sadness, and that’s OK.

We usually think of Rosh Hashanah as a happy day. But at its core, it is not the happy-go-lucky, apples in honey, round raisin hallah, tzimmes, brisket, and vegan… brisket; it is Yom Hadin, the Day of Judgement. 

The rabbis say this is the day the world was created, but it is not a New Year’s party. 

In our tradition, we use the new months and New Year’s days to look inside, introspect, and feel something profound—something we do not feel every day.

Today, we stand before our Creator as supplicants, becoming aware of our faults. 

We are scared.

And the tradition says, “That’s the truth.” 

This year, we are experiencing more than we have in the last 50 years. Not since the Yom Kippur war, not since the Six-Day War, not since the Shoah have we experienced this pain, this loss, this fear.

And today, we are invited into that space.

* * *

That emotion is reflected in our haftarah today—Hannah is crying for a child—she is desperate. She cannot even utter her prayer, her words, aloud. Her supplication is mouthed but not spoken. She is in pain, and she goes into that pain.

The text states it powerfully:

וְהִ֖יא מָ֣רַת נָ֑פֶשׁ וַתִּתְפַּלֵּ֥ל עַל־יְהֹוָ֖ה וּבָכֹ֥ה תִבְכֶּֽה

“Her self, her body, was in pain as she prayed to Eternal; she wept and wept.”  

There is something so raw about her sadness; it encompasses her physical body.

Modern psychology teaches us that trauma is not merely held in our thoughts, feelings, and memories but in our bodies. 

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As psychiatrist Bessel van der Kolk explained in his book The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma, we are impacted not merely in our minds but also in our bodies.

Hannah’s sadness is all-encompassing.

And so it has been for many of us.

* * * * * * *

But the tradition cannot leave us there. 

It’s too much.

Eli, the priest who sees Hannah crying, tells her that things will be OK and that God will grant her the child she yearns for.

He uses the phrase: L’khi L’shalom – go in peace. There is peace somewhere, and he invites her to walk towards it—however far it may be.

These are words for us as well—trying to put ourselves in a state of some peace. 

While we can feel sadness, the tradition offers us a way forward on a spiritual level.

We cannot stay in that place forever. 

This afternoon, we will go home for lunch, eat, laugh, and share. We will head to Potter Pond for the connecting and fun ritual of tashlikh.

The biggest clue about the road ahead is embedded in the biblical name for this festival. 

I had never noticed it before I was working on this sermon.

What is the biblical name for Rosh Hashanah? 

It’s not the day of judgment or the day of creation in the Torah.

The Torah describes it as the first day of the seventh month (don’t forget that they counted the months from springtime in the Torah). It’s a Rosh Hodesh, a new moon when the moon cannot be seen, but unlike the beginning of the other 11 months, the Torah adds that this Rosh Hodesh is also Yom Zikhron Tru’ah – a day of remembrance of loud blasts. 

That’s where we learn that we should blow the shofar today and that it is a Yom Hazikaron, a day of remembrance, a day of looking back.

But zikaron can also mean a reminder. This day can be a reminder with the shofar. 

It’s like a Google Calendar notification with a loud alarm.

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So, now the question becomes, what is today reminding us of?

For that, we can sing the common Rosh Hashanah refrain from Psalm 81:

תִּקְע֣וּ בַחֹ֣דֶשׁ שׁוֹפָ֑ר בַּ֝כֵּ֗סֶה לְי֣וֹם חַגֵּֽנוּ׃

“Blow the horn on the new moon, on the keseh for our feast day.”

The rabbis read the word “keseh” as covering. 

Thus, it would mean that today, we sound the shofar when the moon is covered for our feast day. Thus, today, Rosh Hashanah is a day of celebrating, of feasting.

But biblical scholars, like Baruch Levine, point out that keseh actually means the full moon, not a covering of the moon. And that totally changes the verse, which then actually means—sound the shofar today on Rosh Hodesh, on the new moon, for the full moon feast day. 

So, what is the feast day on the full moon of this coming month?

It’s Sukkot—the Torah calls it HeHag—THE holiday par excellence when we are supposed to be filled with happiness. 

Photo credit: Rabbi David Lerner

Today was a reminder for our ancestors that they needed to get going on their pilgrimage to Jerusalem for Sukkot, the holiday, the harvest festival.

So today, Rosh Hashanah, points forward to a time of joy. Ro contains the opening to a time of happiness.

* * *

So let’s combine the rabbinic and biblical understandings—today is a day of judgment, a serious day of introspection, of deep feeling, but it also contains the kernel, the seed that looks forward to a different time, a time when sadness is overturned.

Even on a day of judgment, on Rosh Hashanah, we have the opening toward joy.

As Rav Nahman of Bratslav, a 19th-century mystic, taught, “Asur l’hit’ya’eish – It is forbidden to despair.” He believed that despair can paralyze hope and imprison the soul. 

He also said, “Friends, do not despair, [even when] (for) a difficult time has come upon us, joy must still fill the air.”

* * *

I want to go back to the Tahanun.

Tahanun does not end with prostration. Toward the end of this ritual, we stand up, and as we stand, we recite: “Va’anahnu lo neida’ mah na’aseh – we don’t know what to do.”

It’s exactly like this moment. We are not sure what to do, but we will go through these postures as best as we can: prostration—feeling the sadness, falling into it. 

And then today, we will hear the shofar as we stand, its powerful blasts pointing us to the future – taking us from despair to hope. 

Even as we are still trying to figure out what to do.

* * *

So today, we come together as a community to feel the sadness of 5784, and it is deep; we try not to despair. We know that today is pointing us to a different tomorrow. 

We look forward to the possibility of a different path forward.

In the words of the prophet, Eli, who says to Hannah – lekhi l’shalom – let us go forward in peace and let us all say: Amen.