Rabbi Stephanie Kennedy
Erev Rosh Hashanah 2024 • 1 Tishrei, 5785
Dedicated to the memory of Leila Abrahams z”l, may her memory be a blessing
My grandmother lived a remarkable 100 years, and when she passed away alone in London during the height of COVID, it left a profound absence in our lives. She had a large extended family who would have surrounded her at the end of her life. But COVID interrupted our lives; we couldn’t be there by her side or come together to bury her.
In her later years, she wrote a memoir called “Why Is My Glass Always Half Empty?”—a title that was both humorous and revealing. My grandmother was a realist, deeply aware of life’s pain and struggle, and her words often reflected a certain pessimism. And here today, in the middle of our Rosh Hashanah service—with prayers filled with vulnerability and loss—I understand, perhaps more than ever, how easy it is to see the world through that same lens—a glass that feels more half-empty than half full.
However, as I reflect on my grandmother’s life and our tradition, I’ve come to see her perspective differently. Perhaps her glass-half-empty view was not about pessimism or despair; it was a desperate desire for fullness and wholeness—a longing for hope in a world that often feels too hard, too broken, and too painful. Sometimes, what sounds like pessimism is the cry of a heart longing for healing, a recognition that things are not as they should be—a yearning for something better.
As we each stand at the gates, preparing to enter the year 5785, many of us find ourselves experiencing that same feeling. Being Jewish at this moment carries a heaviness: the heartbreak and horror of October 7th, fear, grief, and anger over the spreading war in Gaza and beyond, the anguish over the hostages still being held, the rise in antisemitism, and the deepening divisions within our own Jewish community. These challenges bring new fears about expressing our Jewish identity and deepen the pain we carry. We’re living in a time when the glass feels undeniably half empty and the future uncertain.
And yet, here is the paradox: the very act of acknowledging that the glass is half empty is a yearning for it to be filled. It is a call to resist despair and a refusal to be defined by brokenness.
I know many of us are feeling a sense of disorientation, isolation, and heartbreak. It is important to name these feelings and to allow them space—to let them breathe.
Our tradition teaches us how to navigate loss and grief through shiva, the seven-day mourning period that creates space for both pain and communal support. For my grandmother, shiva was on Zoom—a far cry from the touch, presence, and closeness of traditional mourning rituals. It wasn’t how we imagined saying goodbye, but it was how we found each other, holding onto connection across screens and time zones.
There is something deeply profound to me about this—that even when the traditional ways of coming together are shattered, we still find a way. We find a way to bind ourselves to one another, to share our brokenness, and to make space for each other’s pain.
The Talmud describes how, upon arriving at the Temple Mount in Jerusalem, visitors would enter on the right and exit on the left. But there was a separate gate for mourners who would walk in the opposite direction—entering on the left and walking to the right, and when you passed someone walking the mourner’s path, you had to greet them and offer them words of comfort (Mishnah Middot 2:2). Our tradition built into the very structure of our buildings, a reminder not to turn away from other’s pain. The ancient rabbis reminded us to see it, name it, and offer comfort. (Mishnah Middot 2:2)
This idea—Kol Yisrael arevim zeh ba’zeh—“All of us are responsible for one another”—is the heart of our tradition (B. Talmud, Shevu’ot 39a). But the word arevim means more than responsible—it implies being intertwined, mixed together. We are entangled in each other’s lives and stories; we come together and dwell in the same buildings through both joy and pain. In a world that often feels like it’s unraveling, our task is to remember that each of our lives is deeply bound to one another.
Our lives are intertwined. Just as we are responsible for one another, so too are we responsible for finding ways to renew ourselves and our communities. On Rosh Hashanah, we reflect on themes of teshuvah, renewal, and the call to repair what feels broken. Rosh Hashanah reminds us of the possibility for change and growth.
Perhaps this is our work this year - possibility, the commitment to hope. Courageous hope that embraces the unknown with the belief that we can bring our world closer to wholeness.
But let’s be honest: hope is hard. It’s not easy to maintain hope when the world feels impossibly broken. It’s not easy to hope when our hearts are heavy, our spirits worn, and our faith feels fragile. But hope is not the same as optimism. Optimism is a feeling; hope is a verb. It is something we do, day after day, even when the glass feels empty, and the path forward is unclear. Writer Rebecca Solnit reminds us, “Hope locates itself in the premises that we don’t know what will happen, and that in the spaciousness of uncertainty, there is room to act.” “When you recognize uncertainty,” she writes, “you recognize that you may be able to influence the outcomes.” (Solnit, Hope in the Dark). That’s where our strength lies—in the unknown, in the possibility, and in the belief that the world can change—and that we play a role in that change.
Hope takes spiritual courage: to act, to transform. It’s about seeing the glass as half empty and choosing to start filling it up. Hope is an active process. In Hebrew, hope is tikvah. It comes from a root that means to gather, to bind—like a thread woven into a fabric. Hope is the act that ties us together, weaving our lives into a shared tapestry. It is not a solo endeavor; it is communal.
When I think of my grandmother and how our family found new ways to grieve and connect, I see that even when the world feels shattered, we can still find one another. Hope is not about waiting for the glass to fill itself; it’s about choosing to pour into it again and again.
After a year marked by profound loss, grief, fear, and uncertainty, hope has become my antidote.
Because hope is the first action we must take before anything else can be achieved. In the face of grief and fear, resisting despair is the first thing we can do and sometimes the only thing we can do. Hope is the commitment to possibility. It is what allows us to imagine something new and different in the future. And hope, tikvah, this small gathered thread, sometimes thin and tenuous, is what keeps us holding on and what keeps us bound together.
This year, may we not only feel but live the deep roots of hope within our tradition—roots that, even when the future is scary or uncertain, grow ever stronger and find new sources of life and nourishment. Let our prayers flow like water, nurturing new possibilities. As intertwined roots—arevim—bound together in care and responsibility.
May we be bold in our hope, relentless in our compassion, and unwavering in our commitment to one another.
Shana Tova—a sweet and hopeful new year to all.
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