ode to (summer) joy

A Sermon for the End of Summer

What a full and heady time of year. It’s Elul. School is back in session. It’s Labor Day weekend. And a week from tonight, we’ll gather here in this sanctuary to welcome the new year, 5787. There are so many voices speaking to us right now.

The voice of Jewish tradition, reminding us that Elul is a time for introspection and return.

The voice of the calendar, reminding us that it is time to transition: from pool days to raking leaves, from long summer evenings to school-night bedtimes.

And, of course, the voice of Torah, reaching out to us across thousands of years with its ancient wisdom.

But I want to begin somewhere slightly unexpected: with pleasure.

Anne Lamott writes about an African Christian catechism that explains creation this way: God created human beings because God thought we would like it.

I love this idea.

God created the world—and then, somehow, thought: You might enjoy this.

The trees. The water. The sun. The ridiculousness of tomatoes in August. Music. Friendship. Ice cream after dinner. A book you don’t have to read for work. The feeling of being exactly where you are supposed to be.

Lamott’s larger point is that pleasure isn't a distraction from spiritual life, but that actually may be part of the design. That feels like a particularly powerful thing to remember at this moment in the Jewish year, during a season when we are encouraged to take stock of ourselves. To examine our choices. To think about where we have fallen short, what needs repairing, what needs changing, what kind of person we want to be in the year ahead.

All of that matters.

But there is another kind of spiritual work, too.

The work of remembering that we are alive.

Our Torah portion this week, Parashat Nitzavim, gives us a remarkable formulation.

Moses says:

רְאֵה נָתַתִּי לְפָנֶיךָ הַיּוֹם אֶת־הַחַיִּים וְאֶת־הַטּוֹב

“See! I have set before you this day life and goodness.”

Life and goodness.

Chayyim v’tov.

Not simply life; but life and goodness.

And then Moses says:

וּבָחַרְתָּ בַּחַיִּים

“Choose life.”

We usually hear those words as a call to moral responsibility. Choose life rather than death. Choose the path that sustains rather than destroys. 

And yes. Absolutely.

But I want to linger for a moment over those two words: chayyim v’tov.

Life and goodness.

Maybe choose life can also mean: choose to notice life.

Choose to inhabit it.

Choose to recognize the goodness that is already here.

Because a life is about more than what we accomplish or endure.

There is also tov—the goodness that comes simply from being alive.

And summer is very good at reminding us of this.

Slower mornings, longer evenings, sleeping with the windows open.

Dusky nights on the lawn at Tanglewood.

Slipping into sandals and literally hopping into the car after dinner to meet a friend for ice cream on a July night.

Pool days. Lake days. Beach days.

Rainy nights on the porch with friends and food.

Pink skies.

Shabbat at camp, or on the lake, or at Tanglewood.

Reading books for fun. 

Lazily completing a puzzle with your grandkids over the course of a weekend. Or, the particular pleasure of returning a grandchild to their parents and going home to a quiet house.

A song that takes you back fifty years. 

Looking at the stars from a hammock.

Sitting on the porch while the light changes. Finding an old photograph and remembering.

Tomatoes.

So many tomatoes.

When we ask the question—what makes a life? What makes for a good life?

These simple joys might not be obvious answers.

They don't advance a career or improve a résumé. They don't necessarily make us better people.

And yet—

They are life. They are goodness..

And yet, the tug of September and of this change of seasons is real; so how do we put it all together? What do we do with fleeting joys?

There is a book of the Bible that I think we sometimes misunderstand because of its reputation.

On Sukkot, we’ll look at Kohelet—the book we know as Ecclesiastes, which is traditionally attributed to King Solomon. Kohelet is considered “wisdom literature” because it presents us with the voice of someone looking back over a life of experience and trying to figure out what, if anything, makes a life worthwhile.

And Kohelet is not exactly cheerful. He spends much of the book asking what we actually get from all the things we spend our lives pursuing. Wisdom. Work. Pleasure. Wealth. He looks at how hard we labor, and how little control we ultimately have over what becomes of the things we build.

And, of course, he looks at death.

The famous opening of the book is havel havalim, hakol havel—“vanity of vanities, all is vanity.” Everything is fleeting. Everything slips through our hands.

And yet, every so often, Kohelet arrives at a surprisingly simple conclusion.

Maybe we are not meant to solve life once and for all. Maybe part of the gift of being alive is simply being able to enjoy it.

In the third chapter, Kohelet says:

“I have concluded that the only worthwhile thing for them is to enjoy themselves and do what is good in their lifetime; also, that whenever anyone does eat and drink and gets enjoyment out of all their wealth, it is a gift of God.”

I love that this comes from Kohelet.

Because he isn't saying this from a place of naïveté; he's not someone who hasn't noticed how complicated life is. He has looked straight at mortality and disappointment and the limits of what we can control.

And still:

Eat.

Drink.

Do good.

Enjoy your life.

This, too, is a gift from God.

There is something almost subversive about that. We are very good at believing that the important things in life are the things that can be measured.And Kohelet comes along and says: yes, perhaps. But don't miss this.

Receive the pleasure that comes your way. It is not a failure to enjoy your life; it is part of the gift.

And maybe this is why the end of summer can feel so poignant.

Because summer gives us an unusual amount of practice at this. In summer time, it’s all in such stark relief, and we notice:

We notice the temperature of the evening and the way the light hits the trees in the yard during golden hour.

We notice that dinner usually tastes better outside.

We notice the particular sweetness of a peach because we know it won't be this good forever.

We notice the people we are with.

And then September comes, and the pace picks up again.

There are places to be, people to care for, emails to answer, appointments to make, and things to accomplish. It is very easy to stop noticing.

But the answer (as much as it pains me to admit), isn't to hold on to summer. It's to carry some of what summer taught us into the rest of the year. To remember that our lives are not only the things we are working toward.

There are moments when nothing needs to be accomplished. Nothing needs to be optimized.

A meal.

A song.

A walk.

A friend.

A Friday night.

And for a moment, we are simply here.

That, too, is a Jewish way of understanding time. Because Judaism is remarkably insistent that we mark time not only by what we produce, but by what we receive. Shabbat arrives every seven days. We light candles. We eat something delicious. We pour a glass of wine. We sing. We sit around a table. And for a little while, we put down the work of becoming and instead, practice being.

Shabbat says: You do not have to earn your right to enjoy being alive.

You don't have to wait until you have finished everything or accomplish enough to justify pleasure.

You can stop.You can receive. You can notice.

You can say a blessing over what is already here.

And perhaps that is part of what Shabbat is asking us to remember as summer ends.

Not that summer was perfect or that we can somehow hold on to it.

Just that we were there. We were alive. We experienced beauty. We ate good food.

We listened to music. We sat with people we love. We looked up.

We laughed. We rested.

And maybe we can do some of that again.

Not because September is secretly July. It isn't.

Because this day has its own goodness.

This season has its own gifts.

This life- the one we are actually living, rather than the one we imagine we should be living, has goodness in it.

Kohelet knows that life is finite. That is part of why his words matter. He doesn't tell us to enjoy life because nothing bad will happen. He tells us to enjoy it knowing that life is short and that we cannot control everything. He writes knowing that some things will be lost.

And still, there is goodness. Still, there is pleasure. Still, there is something to receive.

And perhaps that is one of the great invitations of Elul: not only to ask what needs to change.

But to notice what is already good.

To enter 5787 not only ready to repair what needs repairing, but ready to receive what is beautiful. To remember that choosing life does not only mean choosing the right path.

It can also mean choosing to be present for the life that is already happening.

The meal in front of us. The person sitting beside us—or the person whose voice we hear on the phone. The music in the room. The photograph in our hands. The grandchild asleep in our arms. The friend we've known for decades. The coolness of the evening. The sweetness of the fruit.

The fact that we are here.

Moses says:

רְאֵה נָתַתִּי לְפָנֶיךָ הַיּוֹם אֶת־הַחַיִּים וְאֶת־הַטּוֹב

“See! I have set before you this day life and goodness.”

This day—not someday. Not when everything is figured out. Not when the work is finished.

This day.

And then:

וּבָחַרְתָּ בַּחַיִּים

Choose life.

Maybe sometimes choosing life means choosing to look up.

Choosing to linger.

Choosing to taste what you're eating.

Choosing to notice the person across the table.

Choosing to let yourself enjoy something without needing it to accomplish anything.

Choosing, for a moment, to stop trying to get somewhere.

And actually arrive.

Shabbat Shalom.