The Language Crisis Nobody’s Talking About

“You said you would.”

It’s a phrase I’ve come back to more times than I’d like to count. It’s small—just four words—but it carries the full weight of disappointment, betrayal, and memory. It’s what you think when someone makes a promise and walks away. When someone offers you belonging, and then forgets you exist. When someone looks you in the eye and speaks of a future you’ll never live to see with them.

We don’t talk enough about the ache of promises unkept—not the dramatic betrayals, but the slow, corrosive kind: the canceled plans, the vague invitations, the texts never answered, the “sometime soon” that never arrives.

In today’s world, words are everywhere. Tweets. Texts. Statuses. DMs. We’re flooded by language, but starved for meaning. We’ve become fluent in saying things we don’t mean—and even more fluent in not meaning the things we say.

And yet Judaism never forgets: words create worlds.

In this week’s Parashat Emor, G-d instructs Moses, “Emor el haKohanim bnei Aharon”—“Speak to the priests, the sons of Aaron.” At first glance, it seems like just another command. But the Torah doesn’t waste words. Rashi notes the double language here: emor ve’amarta—“speak” and “say.” Why repeat? Because words don’t just instruct. They transmit legacy. They shape generations. They bind one soul to another. They leave an imprint that actions alone cannot always offer.

Our tradition understands the weight of the spoken word. But do we?

We like to say, “Talk is cheap,” but in Judaism, talk is never cheap. It’s binding. It’s holy. It’s dangerous. In Pirkei Avot, we’re warned: “Let your ‘yes’ be a ‘yes’ and your ‘no’ be a ‘no.’” The Talmud devotes pages upon pages to the ethics of vows—nedarim. Because to promise something with your mouth and not fulfill it is not just misleading. It’s a sin. A breach of covenant. A breaking of trust between human beings, and between human beings and G-d.

And yet in modern life, we’ve allowed our words to be nothing more than suggestions.

A friend swears they’ll be there. When the moment comes, they disappear. A professor assures they’ll write your recommendation. The deadline comes and goes. Your boss promises a raise is around the corner. Three quarters later, you’re still underpaid and overpromised. A partner paints a future in soft pastels—growing old together, building a life. But the next day, you pass each other on the street like strangers. 

We chalk it up to being “busy,” to “bad timing.” We tell ourselves “they meant well.” But intentions don’t build trust—actions that follow words do. And if there is no intention to follow through, the words should never have been said in the first place.

I still remember the sting of one of those moments. I was 17, clutching my acceptance letter to a prestigious fellowship program, and I ran to share the news with someone I deeply admired. He looked me up and down and said, “Don’t let it get to your head. You probably won’t last.” His words didn’t bruise me—they scarred. They lived in my head for years, shaping the way I saw myself every time I dared to dream bigger. That’s the thing about language—it doesn’t disappear. It lingers. Long after the speaker forgets, the listener remembers.

But words can also build.

I remember a different moment. I was 20, sitting backstage before my first national TV appearance, heart pounding so loudly I could barely hear the producers calling my name. The fear was paralyzing—what if I stumbled? What if my words didn’t matter? What if I sounded small in a room full of giants? In that moment, my friend Hannah squeezed my hand. She looked me in the eyes and said, as if she could read every doubt swirling in my head, “Your voice has a purpose. Use it well.” No fluff. No empty encouragement. Just a sharp, undeniable truth.

If words have the power to build or destroy, to inspire or wound, why do we so often forget that power? Why do we let empty words pile up, while their consequences settle deep inside us? 

We are a people of words. Our entire tradition is based not on monuments, but on language. On the spoken word at Sinai. On the whispered word at bedside. On the chanted word in the synagogue, the screamed word in protest, the quiet word between friends. Every Shabbat, we bless our children with words. We mourn the dead with words. We make a marriage with words.

Our words should not be placeholders. So why do we toss them around so carelessly?

Maybe because it’s easier. There’s no invoice for broken promises. No alarm bell when you let someone down quietly. You don’t see the look on someone’s face when you disappear after offering hope. It’s easier to “show up” with a post than to call your friend. It’s easier to say “We should catch up” than to make the time. It’s easier to say “I promise” than to risk saying “I can’t.”

But the cost is real. And it’s spiritual.

In Parashat Emor, the priests are told who they can mourn for, who they can touch, who they must protect. They are commanded to elevate the people with holiness—and words are part of that charge. The priest’s blessing—Yevarechecha Hashem—is spoken, not signed. Our tradition holds that speech itself can sanctify. Can we really claim to be building holy lives if our language is casual, cheap, and careless?

I want to be the kind of person who means what she says. If I tell you “I’m proud of you,” I want you to know I’ve thought about it. If I invite you to Shabbat, I want you to know I’ve made space for you at my table. If I say “I’ll be there,” I’ll show up. Because I know how it feels when people don’t.

And if that makes me intense, so be it. Intention is the antidote to a world drowning in empty words.

To those reading this who are uncomfortable: good. We need a wake-up call. We’ve let our language become lazy. And in doing so, we’ve hurt people—unintentionally, maybe—but deeply nonetheless. And for those of you who feel the sting of words left hanging in the air, or promises made and broken, know this: your pain is not petty. It is proof that words matter.

Because in our tradition, the world was not built with bricks or stone. It was built with breath. With voice. With speech.

“And G-d said, ‘Let there be light’—and there was light.”

If speech has the power to summon the cosmos into being, then it certainly has the power to build—or break—each other. So the next time you speak—before you promise, before you invite, before you flatter, before you vow—pause. Think. Ask yourself: do I mean this? Will I honor this? Will I follow through?

Because the world was created with words.

Let’s not destroy it with them.