There is a kind of seriousness we sometimes mistake for holiness. We approach our religious lives, especially as the High Holy Days draw near, with a sense of profound obligation, of weighty duty. There is a time for solemnity, of course. Yet, our tradition is wary of a service that becomes so heavy it crushes the spirit it is meant to lift.
Tucked away in the long, difficult litany of curses in our portion, Ki Tavo, is one of the most surprising rebukes in the entire Torah. The consequence for failing to uphold the covenant is severe, but the reason given is startling. It is not for a failure of action, but a failure of affect. “Because you did not serve the Eternal your God with joy and gladness of heart,” the text warns. The absence of joy is, itself, a spiritual failing.
This is a radical idea. It suggests that our tradition is concerned not only with what we do, but with the orientation of our hearts as we do it. It reframes service, avodah, not as a burden to be endured, but as a path to be walked with a glad spirit. This is the very essence of Psalm 100, which we know so well: Ivdu et Adonai b’simchah, “Serve the Eternal with gladness” is even written above our Torah ark. It is not a suggestion, but an instruction.
The joy our tradition speaks of, simchah shel mitzvah, is not a superficial happiness or a denial of life’s difficulties. It is the deep sense of rightness that comes from living a life of purpose. It is the quiet delight found in a shared Shabbat meal, the warmth that comes from giving tzedakah without expectation of thanks, the profound connection felt when we stand together in prayer. This joy is not an escape from the world; it is the energy that fuels our work within it. Service without joy becomes brittle and can easily break. Service with joy is resilient, sustainable, and life-giving.
Tonight, as Shabbat ends, we will gather for our Selichot service, the formal beginning of our period of High Holy Day reflection. How can this call to joy possibly square with the solemn mood of repentance? It seems a contradiction. But perhaps it is not a contradiction, but a prerequisite. The Chasidic masters taught that sadness closes the gates of heaven, while joy opens them. We cannot begin the honest work of teshuvah, of return, from a place of despair. We need the light and warmth of Shabbat’s joy to give us the courage to face our own shadows.
May this Shabbat fill us not with a fleeting happiness, but with a deep and resilient joy, a gladness of heart that we can carry with us into the sacred work of the days to come.
Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Adrian
