This piece is part of Exploring Judaism’s 5785 High Holiday Reader. Download the whole reader here.

On Shabbat morning, the day before my wedding, there was a mass shooting in a synagogue in my neighborhood, and eleven of my neighbors were murdered. I was serving as a rabbi in Squirrel Hill in Pittsburgh, and my soon-to-be wife and I were across the country preparing to go to synagogue. 

On the television in the lobby of my hotel, I watched neighbors, police, and the news anchors report on the attack on my home. I couldn’t have felt farther away in that moment from where my heart needed to be. I wanted so desperately to rush back to sit in shock and grief with my people. Instead, I was thousands of miles away. At the same time, one of the most joyous moments of my life was about to happen: I was going to get married the next day. How could I give that up? 

How can I feel joy when my people are in crisis? How can I enjoy my wedding when my heart feels so broken? 

This past year, particularly due to the War in Gaza, has brought many of these questions to the surface. On top of that, especially at this time of year when we are to celebrate the beginning of a “sweet” new year and a holiday, Sukkot, nicknamed z’man simchateinu, the time of our joy. 

Throughout the ages, the Jewish people have suffered, but we never lost our resolve. We never let our hearts harden but instead kept our hearts open to feel everything simultaneously. 

 The TalmudReferring to one of two collections, the Jerusalem and Babylonian Talmuds, edited in the 6th century, that contains hundreds of years of commentary, discussion, and exploration of the ideas in the Mishnah. One could describe it as Mishnah + Gemara = Talmud says, “Happiness has been turned into sorrow; joy and suffering have become joined together” (Moed Katan 25b). The Hebrew term used for “joined together” is נִדְבָּקוּ – nid’baku, from the root meaning to cleave, cling, and stick together. 

We use this word to discuss connecting with the Divine, devekut, cleaving to God. The TanakhAn acronym for the name of the Hebrew Bible: Torah, Neviim, and Ketuvim. uses this word to describe Ruth clinging, davkah, (she clung, f.past) to her mother-in-law, Naomi.

This invites us to recognize two important lessons: 

First, our overlapping feelings at this moment are bound together. In this time of war, we are feeling many things at the same time. It is not necessary to prevent ourselves from feeling all of what our hearts need. It is reasonable to feel joy in happy moments. It is appropriate to be comforted by friends and family. It is also fair to feel sorrow, to be heartbroken, and to feel lost. 

On that day in 2018, my wife and I chose to recognize that joy and sorrow live together. These two emotions are inseparable, all part of living as human beings. We chose to feel the light amidst the darkness. It did not stop us from feeling grief and sadness because there’s room in our hearts for all of it. We smash the glass at a wedding to remember the broken amidst the joy, so too, in these moments, we can remember the joy amidst the broken. 

In our High Holiday liturgy, God is the judge and the forgiver, the one who is happy at our success and angry at our failures. We pray for gratitude for what we have and ask for grace when we miss the mark. These framings remind us that most things in life are many things held as one. 

Second, we do not need to be alone. We are best served by binding ourselves to one another, in community, and in our shared humanity. We are encouraged to seek out those around us who understand, support, and can hold space for us. 

After we had returned home, and on that first Shabbat after the Shooting, our entire community in Pittsburgh gathered. Many of the synagogues in the neighborhood and those who would stand by us, including those immediately impacted, came together. A thousand of us stood in a room together, in solidarity, in grief, and in community. 

There is no better moment than right now to be together and the holidays invite us to do exactly that. As we enter Rosh Hashanah, we say, quoted from Isaiah, “Shalom, shalom to those who are far off, to those who are near.” 

Whether you are feeling close or far away this year, there is room for you at the table, in the room, and in the pew. Whatever you carry this year, there is space to hold it as we pray, eat, and observe the holidays together. Our hearts are big enough to hold all the emotions we feel.