Rabbi Gabriel Botnick explains his intentions for a vital part of the High Holyday services

Many of us carry a certain expectation when we come to synagogue on Rosh Hashanah or Yom Kippur. We arrive with all sorts of concerns weighing heavily upon us: events happening around the world, worries facing the Jewish community, and developments within our own lives. Quite understandably, we hope that the rabbi’s sermon will speak directly to the one particular thing that matters most to us. And sometimes it will. At other times, however, we may wind up leaving services a bit disappointed. We may wonder how the rabbi could have failed to address an issue that seems so urgent, so obvious, or so entral to the moment. Perhaps we even conclude that, because it was not mentioned, it cannot matter very much to him.

This is particularly likely to happen when we are what some people call ‘two-days-a-year Jews’. As much as I dislike the term, I don’t pass any judgment on those to whom it would apply. For some people, Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are the principal occasions on which they attend a synagogue, and I am always grateful that they have chosen to spend those days with us. But the expression can obscure something important: the High Holydays are not really two days at all.

Between the beginning of Rosh Hashanah and the conclusion of Yom Kippur, I will deliver seven different sermons at seven distinct services. There are the two evenings and two mornings of Rosh Hashanah. Then there is Kol Nidrei, followed by Yom Kippur morning and then the concluding Neilah service. Each gathering has its own character. Each brings together a somewhat different mix of people. And each sermon I present offers an opportunity to explore something that cannot be contained within the others.

These sermons are not intended to be one cohesive series, in which one must have heard the previous instalment in order to understand the next. Nor will they necessarily be in conversation with one another. Each sermon will stand on its own. One may look inward, towards the moral and spiritual work of the individual. Another may turn outward, towards our responsibilities as a Jewish community or towards the conditions of the world around us. One may be rooted closely in the liturgy of that particular service, while another may begin with an issue that has occupied our thoughts throughout the year.

What they share is not a single argument, but a single limitation: no sermon can say everything. Indeed, a sermon that tried to address every urgent concern would probably fail to address any of them properly. It would feel more like a checklist than a thoughtful exploration: a succession of important subjects, each acknowledged briefly and then abandoned before we had the opportunity to think seriously about it. Sometimes respecting the importance of an issue means giving it the time and attention it deserves. And that inevitably means leaving other important subjects for another occasion.

Over the course of the High Holydays, I expect to speak about some of the pressures facing us as Jews and as human beings: the judgements we make of others and the possibility that people can change; the challenge of remaining true to ourselves when others would prefer us to be rather less distinct; the responsibilities we carry towards one another and towards the world in which we live; and the things we cling to, even when the time may have come to loosen our grip. These are broad areas of interest rather than promises of particular sermons. As I write this, my thinking is still developing, and I hope it will continue to develop until the moment I stand before you in the new year.

If I do not address the subject most important to you at the service – or services – you attend, please do not assume that I have overlooked it – or that I consider it unimportant. I may have spoken about it recently or at the previous service. Or I may be planning to speak about it several days later. Or I may have concluded that another subject would be more appropriate for that particular gathering.

In other words, we should resist treating silence in one moment as indifference.

This is not only because there are seven sermons. It is also because sermons remain provisional for far longer than you might imagine. I can have an idea of what I’d like to speak about months in advance, but the world does not always respect publication deadlines. Something may happen in the days before Rosh
Hashanah or Yom Kippur that changes what seems possible, necessary, or honest to say. A sermon written
for one world may no longer belong in the world in which we actually gather.

And sometimes the change comes not from the world outside, but from the sermon itself. More than once, I have written an entire address only to discover, while revising and rehearsing it, that it was not saying what I truly wanted to say. The ideas may have seemed compelling on the page, only to sound hollow when spoken aloud. On such occasions, I have made the difficult choice to set aside that sermon and begin anew with something entirely different – even just a day or two before the holiday.

The fact is, the vast majority of our community will not hear all seven of my sermons. But that gives us an opportunity to engage further with one another. You should feel comfortable turning to someone else and asking, ‘I couldn’t make it last night – what did the rabbi speak about?’ Different people will hear different sermons and take away different ideas. By talking about them, we each gain access to parts of the holiday season that we did not witness or experience ourselves.

After the High Holydays are over, I will try to make my sermons available in print, on video, or as audio
downloads – and as usual, all services and sermons will be available on Belsize Live. I hope this will allow
you and others to encounter anything you might have missed, revisit something you heard, or see how one sermon sat alongside the other six.

Of course, I hope that each person who comes through our doors will hear something that speaks to them. But no single sermon can be expected to speak to everything that matters, or to everyone, in precisely the same way. The High Holydays offer us more than one service, more than one mood, and more than one opportunity to listen. If I happen to address what you wanted – terrific! But if it goes unmentioned, try to remain open to the possibility that it has not been forgotten. It may have been spoken about when you were not in the room. It may still be waiting for its moment. And sometimes what is left unsaid at one service is not the absence of concern, but the space that allows something else to be heard.

Shanah Tovah uMetukah,
Rabbi Gabriel Botnick