On Humility

Yom Kippur Sermon, Saturday, October 12, 2024
By Rabbi Mark Glickman

I have news for you – news that some of you may receive with sadness, and others with great glee: This is the final major sermon I will deliver during this year’s Days of Awe. So far, I have encouraged you to let yourself weep this year, because there’s so much for us to cry about together and as individuals. I’ve called upon you to understand and remain engaged with people who disagree with you about Israel and the current wars it’s fighting with its neighbours. And I’ve called upon you to be curious always because curiosity is so very important.

As a congregation, you have sat through approximately 8,000 words of Glickman sermons during these Days of Awe, and I congratulate you for your stamina.

And I’ll confess, as I prepared to speak this morning, I faced a question that many of my colleagues and I face as we prepare for Yom Kippur morning: What’s left to say? I feel so talked out – so emptied out on this fast day. Is it possible that I’ve just run out of words?

I sat before the computer as I asked those questions during recent days, and the cursor on the blank page in front of me blinked and blinked and blinked, as if to say, Glickman, you’re done, you’ve already said it all, just give it up and let them get to that closing song a little earlier. (Spoiler alert: That’s not gonna happen.)

Of course, mine haven’t been the only words you’ve heard during these Awesome Days. You’ve also heard countless words from other congregants and from the treasure of our Yom Kippur liturgy. We’ve prayed for forgiveness. We’ve faced up to our shortcomings. We’ve acknowledged how limited our power really is in the presence of an awesome God.

And this year, we’ve reflected on these themes amidst the din of a world exploding. There is horrible, violent international conflict raging; there is growing hate here in Calgary and throughout the west; there has been controversy – bitter controversy – here in our own synagogue. There are tensions and struggles in our own families and with some of our closest friends. This has been a loud year – a year of bombs, screaming, and cacophonous discord that makes it difficult to hear anything good.

Weeping, speaking and listening, curiosity, our own imperfections, atonement, the limitations of our power over much of anything. We’ve looked at it all. What more is there to say?

I’ve spent hours thinking about that lately, and eventually, I came to a conclusion: I think I have said what I’ve wanted to say this year. But as I sit with you amid the dizzying vortex of all these lessons and realities, I find that all these themes seem to be swirling around one central idea – a value that comes out of so much of what we have been thinking about these days. The theme is one that our liturgy has mentioned in passing, but it’s so present in so much of what we’ve been focusing on this year, that I’d like to lift it up and highlight it now in this final Days of Awe sermon for this year. The theme all comes down to one word: humility.

The world, our people, our families, and our lives, would all be better if we could all learn to show a little more humility.

I think that’s what I’ve been trying to say during all of these sermons throughout these Days of Awe. And, more important, I think that’s what our liturgy is trying to tell us, and what our Torah is trying to tell us, and, while it may not be very humble for me to say this, I’ll suggest that this might even be what God is trying to tell us at this time, too. We need to be humble.

Especially at times such as these, humility doesn’t tend to come very easily to us. When we feel attacked, we want to show strength. When we see something wrong taking place, we want to fight against the injustice. When we’re angry, we want to lash out. All of these responses are natural and very human responses, and indeed they are important. There are indeed bad things happening in the world, and as a people committed to justice, we need to speak out – loudly sometimes – and fight for what we know is right.

But the problem is that speaking out and fighting can often lead to conceit. Speaking out and fighting, you see, is something you do when you know you’re right and the other guy is wrong. But there are moments – you’ve had them, and I’ve had them too – when we’ve gotten into some sort of argument or discussion sure that we are in the right, only to later realize that we weren’t. Think about your political views now compared to what they were during previous stages in your life. My guess is that you’ve changed, that you’ve grown, that the certainties of years past have given way to other ideas as you’ve matured.

I’ve felt that happen even over the course of the past year. Right after the October 7 attacks, I, like many of us, screamed out at the brutality of what had just happened. And I was right to do so. I knew that Israel would have to fight back against Hamas, and I wasn’t really in the mood to engage in discussions that would call any of my certainties into question.

But then the war started. And then it dragged on. And then the bodies of hostages started turning up. And Palestinian civilians were killed. And Israeli soldiers were killed. And I saw Israel, a country I love, terrorized by the continued attacks. And whereas right after October 7 I wanted to scream, I increasingly found myself wanting to cry. And I found myself wanting to think. And I found myself needing wisdom and comfort. Our community hosted speakers, and some just kept on screaming. And Israel’s enemies here in Calgary keep screaming at us. And as the din grows louder, I find myself wanting to say, ” Everyone, please quiet down. Let’s talk. Let’s listen. Let’s learn from each other, and let’s cry together.”

Weeping, curiosity, atonement. Is it not the case that humility is where these three values and others meet?

Judaism has long called upon us to be humble in all that we do. We see it in today’s Torah portion. It’s set at Mount Sinai, and the Torah could have said, ” You are standing today before Adonai your God.” But it didn’t say that. Instead, it says, “You are standing today, all of you, before Adonai your God – your tribal heads, elders, men, women, and children, water drawers and woodchoppers.” Judaism – pursuing our destiny and making the world right – isn’t just about you. It’s partly about you, of course, but the Jewish experience is something that we share. Rich and poor, powerful and meek, clever and simple, old and young, we all stood before God at Sinai. It is an experience that wouldn’t have been possible without all of us there.

It’s not just about you. It’s about us all. It’s about all of us, and we need to make room for other people, other views, other perspectives. The rabbis say that humility is one of the primary ways that we can achieve the truth of the Torah. We are commanded not only to pray but to pray with koved rosh, heaviness of head. Don’t go into your encounters with the Divine so proud and strong, be humble, and then your prayers will be answered. Jacob and Esau, the rabbis teach, were only able to reunite and mend their broken relationship because of Jacob’s humility. Later, in the Talmud, the rabbis teach that, as a rule, when Hillel and his rival Shammai argue, Hillel’s view is the one that holds. Why? Because Hillel was the humbler of the two sages. And the sages went on to say that it was this very humility – the humility of Hillel – that brought our entire people under the wings of God’s presence.

Even God is humble, our tradition teaches. Before God created the world, Rabbi Isaac Luria taught, that God’s presence filled everything – everything that existed was God. As a result, to create the world, God had to contract. God became smaller so that the rest of us and the rest of the world could come into existence.

I’ll say that again: God became smaller so that the rest of us and the rest of the world could come into existence.

Later, when God created humanity, the Torah has God saying “Let us make man in our image.” Our sages wondered who God was speaking to, and one answer they suggested was that God was consulting with the angels. Even God, as great as God is, took the time to consult with others before taking the big step of creating our world.

And on Pesach, Passover, what are we supposed to avoid? Chametz – leavened stuff. We avoid it, of course, because our ancestors didn’t have time to let their bread rise when they left Egypt, but we also avoid it, the rabbis teach, because leavened stuff represents sin. After all, most of our misdeeds, they teach, happen when we, like bread, get puffed up – too big for ourselves and too big for the good of the world.

I could cite many more texts, but you get the point. The welfare of the world depends on our ability to keep ourselves in check. We must be humble.

Please, I beg you, keep this in mind in the year ahead. Show as much humility as you can. Remember that everyone and everything has something to offer, and something to teach. So, when you argue, argue not to win, but to learn. Listen before talking. Ask lots of questions. Find the truth that your interlocutors can teach you. Give them the benefit of the doubt. And when they make you angry, don’t get angry at them, get curious, instead.

Please, in the year ahead, show as much humility as you can. Like God, step back and withdraw sometimes rather than always making yourself big. For the greatest people are those who leave room for others, rather than pushing them out of the way.

Please, in the year ahead, show as much humility as you can. Don’t always ask what’s best for you as an individual. Ask instead how you can contribute to the greater good. We need you to do that.

Please, in the year ahead, show as much humility as you can. Remember that even when you’re great, you’re also imperfect. That’s why we’re here today – to acknowledge and atone for those areas in which we’ve fallen short. Al cheit shechatanu l’fanecha ...for the sins we have committed before you. You might be good, but you can always be better.

Please, in the year ahead, show as much humility as you can. Try not to yell so much, for there is already too much yelling in the world, and when you yell, you just make yourself hoarse, and the rest of us are deaf, and then we can’t communicate at all. Sometimes, it’s the quietly spoken word that comes across best. Sometimes a whisper can drown out a scream. And sometimes, listening can be even more powerful than that.

I’m not suggesting, of course, that you become a doormat. No, instead, my suggestion is just the opposite. Find the true power of transformation in the art of shrinking. Sometimes when you shrink, you help other people grow, and their growth in the end helps you grow, too.

And please don’t respond by saying what I often hear people say after some of my sermons, ‘”Yes, Rabbi, that’s telling them.” I am speaking to them, of course, but I’m also speaking to you. And, of course, as in all my sermons, I’m also speaking to myself.

I dream of a world with more humility – of a world where we can work together for the shared good rather than only for ourselves; of a world where we listen before we attack; of a world where we try to find the good in others, even and especially the people who make us angry; of a world where each of us honours everyone else by acknowledging that their truths, their stories, and their experiences matter just as much if not more than our own.

Imagining that world helps me breathe easier. A world like this can come to be. Our humility will make it a more peaceful world. Quieter. Calmer. More respectful.

Tears, atonement, listening, curiosity. Al chet shechatanu l’fanecha. O God, we are not perfect. We have sinned. We have grown too large. Let us step down a bit, contract a bit, listen a bit more and be a little bit more kind. For it is in the sacred act of humility that true salvation can be found.

Shanah Tovah.