The Imperative & Gift of Jewish Joy

For as long as I can remember, my Judaism has been something that I valued, something that I loved about myself, and something that brought me great joy. If you ask my parents, they will tell you that as a child, my exuberant love of Judaism often resulted in my telling other people- some that I knew and many that I did not – just how much I loved being Jewish.

One of the more memorable examples of my habit came when I was a first grader at St. Mary’s Episcopal School. One day, our teacher gave the class “journal time,” and I used every minute of that window to write the following masterpiece: 

“I am Jewish. I love being Jewish. I go to temple on Friday. I love going. I sing on Friday. I don’t bring my dog. My name is Rachel. The Rabbi reads the Torah on Friday. I go to Temple with my daddy. I know all the Rabbis. I go to Sunday school. Being Jewish is the best thing in the world. I have a Torah of my own. I love it.”

What is remarkable to me is that in spite of my apparently irrepressible commitment to publicizing my love of Judaism, I can say honestly that I cannot remember a single time when I felt uncomfortable mentioning that I was Jewish.

There were, of course, moments when my Judaism was not – or should have been – relevant, and there were even times when I had difficult conversations with classmates who had been taught at church that only Christians would be allowed into heaven.

But, even still, I can look back at my life from the time that I was an effusive 1st grade journaler all the way through my college graduation, and I can say honestly that I cannot remember a time in all of those years that I felt afraid to be proudly, loudly, and joyfully Jewish.

What breaks my heart is that I know that there are children and teens in our
congregation today who can not say the same thing because their childhoods include moments where they did not feel safe expressing the same kind of unencumbered Jewish joy that I so often and so freely advertised.

I don’t have to tell you that the world that we live in today is different in many, significant ways than the one that I experienced as a child. I know that in the last decade especially, many of us in the American Jewish community have found ourselves in spaces where we did not feel comfortable being publicly, joyfully Jewish.

And, of course, over the past year, as we reeled in shock after the October 7th attack and then grappled with the ongoing reality of Israel at war, Jews of all ages have felt increasing anxiety about broadcasting our Judaism and our love of being Jewish.

In today’s world, there are far too many voices from outside of the Jewish community who demand that our Judaism be as invisible as possible and who tell us that Jewish joy is something that should be kept within Jewish spaces.

And, there are also many voices from within our community who tell us that we’ll be safer if we are quieter, that we’re reckless when we show up as our authentic, nuanced, diverse, and joyful selves, that the only way to avoid provoking those outside of our community is by taking up as little as possible of the small, ungenerous space that our society at large has allocated to us and our joy.

All of these voices combine into a relentless push for Jewish people to feel less, to show up less, and to be less joyful.

But, here’s the thing, what all of those voices are missing is that Judaism is a gift and that by asking us to be less joyfully Jewish, they are asking us to reject parts of that gift.

It is miraculous that despite our history and our present being filled with such great tragedies, Judaism has always been and continues to be both focused on and a source of great joy. So, in spite of all of the voices telling us what to be, in spite of all of the tragedy and grief that we have experienced and are experiencing as a people, in spite of the understandable and real fears for our future, and in spite of all of the pressures from both within and without… I think that the Jewish people should welcome the year 5785, by rejecting all of those calls to be less.

I think that we should decide to welcome this new year by making a commitment to be MORE – more connected, more invested, more deeply, joyfully Jewish.

“But rabbi,” I can hear you saying, “There is so much tragedy and fear in the world right now (a sentence that is unfortunately more true today than it was even when I wrote it). This past year has brought previously unimaginable losses, heavy anxieties, and deep ethical dilemmas for the Jewish people. How can we be joyful when there is so much uncertainty, fear, and pain in our world?”

Once again, I bring us back to the gift of Judaism, because Judaism teaches us that joy is not the absence of fear and grief, but instead is the source of all of our resiliency.

This past spring, in preparation for the month of Adar, the month when we celebrate Purim and traditionally emphasize humor and silliness, the Institute for Jewish Spirituality put out an article called, “Cultivating Joy, Here and Now.” In this piece, Rabbi Sam Feinsmith wrote that “As we follow the news while the war [between Israel and Hamas] rages on, our joy may be eclipsed by deep-seeded patterns of self-protection, our nervous systems may be [on high alert], landing us in fight or flight mode as we brace ourselves, tense up, [or even] withdraw into ourselves and hide in fear.”

Rabbi Feinsmith goes on to ask plainly whether it is possible or even permissible to be joyful in the face of the ongoing war and the evolving and growing threat of antisemitism. He explores traditional Jewish teachings on the topics of joy and grief, and then he concludes that even more than just possible or permissible, “[It is actually] incumbent upon us [as Jewish people] to cultivate more joy so [that] we can meet the challenges ahead with a buoyant, hopeful, and resilient heart…”¹

So, how do we do it? How do we fill our spirits with Jewish joy?

I would like to propose a two step process.

Step 1: Seek out moments of personal Jewish joy.

Lia Avellino, a therapist in Brooklyn and an author, wrote that she often works with people as they navigate how to experience joy during periods of grief, and she says that she emphasizes for her clients why experiencing both emotions is possible and necessary. She writes that people tend to default to either ignoring grief while attempting to pursue happiness or to blocking themselves from joy because they worry they do not deserve to feel something positive while they are mourning.

Avellino teaches her clients to develop habits where they notice their feelings without judging them. And, she tells them that, “Just as it is essential to make space for pain, we have to remember that joy must be accessed with intention rather than passively experienced.”²

Here again, science and Judaism are in step because they both teach us that cultivating joy is not about waiting for joy to crash into us or about chasing one-off, breakthrough experiences that we think will make us transformatively happy. Instead, both sources of wisdom tell us that cultivating joy is about seeking it in moments of all sizes, noticing it when we find it, and then honoring it in whatever form it has appeared.

In a minor tractate of the Talmud, there is a commentary on Pirke Avot, which includes a passage³ that says there are ten different kinds of joy, all of which are of equal value even though they are not of equal size. There is simchah, all encompassing joy, and there is also gila, a strong but passing wave of happiness. There’s chedva, the delight that comes from being with others, and there is my current favorite, ditzah, the awe that we feel when we are dancing.

The list continues and with every new type of joy that is defined, the rabbis of the Talmud reinforce that experiencing joy means looking for it in every facet of our lives and honoring it whether it is the joy that comes from a once in a lifetime simchah or the small and quiet contentment that springs from being with loved ones. By spending time explaining joy, our rabbis show us that the work of seeking and cultivating joy is holy, beautiful, and important.

And, so we come back to Step 1: Seek out moments of personal Jewish joy.

Even as a precocious, journaling first grader, I could feel the connections between loving Judaism and having Jewish experiences like attending Shabbat services, being with my family, knowing the community leaders, and learning about Judaism. From all that I have experienced and learned since I was that first grader, I can say for certain that it is impossible to be joyfully Jewish or to seek out moments of personal, Jewish joy if we do not allow ourselves- and sometimes push ourselves- to have Jewish experiences.

The people who live Jewishly, who incorporate Jewish traditions that they find meaningful into their lives, who study and wrestle with our tradition’s texts, who throw themselves into Jewish creativity, those are the people whose spirits are full of Jewish joy because those are the people who give themselves the opportunities to encounter Jewish joy.

If we cannot remember the last time that we felt simchah, gilah, chedva, or even the dancing ditzah, I challenge us to reflect on when we last pushed ourselves to show up in a Jewish space that would allow us to encounter those feelings. Jewish joy is beautiful and powerful, and it is not something that we will experience if we approach Judaism passively. If experiencing the gift of Jewish joy is important to us, then we have to dedicate ourselves to its cultivation- and that means that we have to put in the effort of seeking Jewish joy even when it’s hard.

All of this leads us to step 2 in the process of filling our lives with Jewish joy.

Step 1 was to seek out moments of personal Jewish joy. Step 2 is to belong to a community of people who care about your success with Step 1.

Searching every nook and cranny of our tradition for the potential of Jewish joy can be overwhelming. Doing the work of feeling joy and grief and fear and everything else can be exhausting. But again, Judaism is a gift, and it teaches us that we are not meant to be doing this work alone.

Standing on this bimah is an honor for so many reasons. But, one of the most important reasons is that it allows the clergy to see the whole community every time we gather in this sanctuary.

Whether it is for Shabbat services, a B’ Mitzvah service or a wedding, a school assembly, a funeral, or an educational event, whoever has the honor of being on the bimah is given the opportunity to see all of the ways that our congregation’s members and guests support one another as we feel joy and grief and everything else.

When I stand on our bimah, I can see the way that everyone in the sanctuary finds joy in the sight of the little baby who came to Shabbat to receive their Hebrew name and to cause as much adorable disruption as possible.

I can see the friends who help one another balance all of the things that they are feeling as they hold hands and sway at the end of every service. I can see the way that classmates elbow one another to make sure their companion doesn’t miss whatever source of amusement the other one has noticed.

I can see the way that when someone passes away, the seats in this holy space fill with community members who are seeking company as they experience the joy and grief that their memories bring. From this bimah, I can see the way that we show up for one another and the way that being in community is its own source of Jewish joy.

Cultivating Jewish joy is personal, but being Jewish is communal. And, so step 2 of our process is to invest ourselves not just in our own Jewish joy but in the Jewish joy of all of our community members. Because Judaism is a gift, and being Jewish is about embracing that gift for ourselves and ensuring that others are able to do the same.

Friends, I have to admit to all of you that yesterday, when the news broke about missiles being sent into Israel, I sat at my desk and I thought, “Should I throw this sermon away? Who wants to talk about Jewish joy right now, when we are faced with yet another moment of existential fear on top of our ongoing grief?”

I thought about it for a while, but when I reread my sermon with these questions in mind, I realized that, as is sometimes the case, I hadn’t actually internalized the message I was trying to teach.

I reminded myself that:

• Jewish joy is not something that we only experience when we are not afraid or grieving.
• Jewish joy is what allows us to be strong enough to feel everything else.
• Jewish joy is a personal journey and communal necessity.
• Jewish joy is something that others will try to deny us but that no one can take from us.
• Jewish joy is what has preserved the gift of Judaism for thousands of years and is the reason that we work so hard to safeguard Judaism for future generations.

And so, in spite of everything that happened yesterday, I decided to take my own advice and to focus tonight on Jewish joy.

As we enter 5785, this is my prayer for our community:

May we put effort into building buoyant, resilient, and joyful Jewish spirits.
May we devote ourselves to finding, noticing, and honoring the many types of joy that we encounter in our lives.
May we stand shoulder to shoulder with our community members as we each experience joy, and grief, and fear, and everything else.
May we find ourselves and our communities overflowing with our love of Judaism.
May our Jewish joy sustain us.
Amen.