- Clergy
- Shabbat
We recently celebrated my daughter Ella’s 18th birthday. We were sitting around the table with family, each of us sharing something we love about her — this young woman who just voted in her first election and is officially beyond my screen-time-monitoring jurisdiction. As I listened to the people who love her most talk about her kindness, humor, growth, and spirit, I felt tears begin to pool in the corners of my eyes. And just as quickly, I did what I’ve learned to do over the years: I swallowed them back. The moment passed, and so did the tears.
Later that night, it hit me. I’ve been using that strategy for a long time, longer than I’d like to admit. Despite the profound joy and deep sadness I encounter in my life and in my rabbinate, I can count on one hand the moments in my adult life when I’ve actually let myself fully cry. Most of the time, I shut it down. I choke it back. I keep moving.
And I’m starting to understand that it’s not good. It’s not healthy. It’s not honest. And it’s not who I want to be anymore. Which is why this week’s Torah portion, Chayei Sarah, landed differently.
Early in the portion we read: “Abraham came to mourn for Sarah and to weep for her.” (Gen. 23:2) Yes - Abraham cried. The same Abraham who left everything familiar behind, who faced trials and moments of enormous courage - that Abraham stopped and wept.
And later we read that Isaac, too, “found comfort after the death of his mother.” (Gen. 24:67) Two patriarchs. Two men. Two moments of emotional truth. Strength and tenderness not as opposites, but as partners.
Our sages taught that our eyes are “the windows of the soul.” Tears, they said, come from the deepest places inside us - love, grief, hope, connection, longing. They aren’t signs of weakness; they’re signs that something true is speaking from deep within us.
I thought about this at a funeral I officiated earlier this year. Someone had died far too young, and person after person stood to speak. Voices cracking. Tears falling. The grief was so real I felt it in my bones. I wanted to cry with them because their sadness was my sadness. But I didn’t. I held it together. I told myself it was the right call — I’m officiating, I need to be steady.
And maybe that was true. But so was the fact that I left the funeral carrying every ounce of that grief inside me. I promised myself I’d release it later, but I didn’t. The tears didn’t dissolve, they calcified. They got stuck.
What I didn't realize was that by holding back those tears, I wasn't just protecting myself, I was actually cutting myself off from the moment. Part of me was managing my face, controlling my breath, holding everything in check. I thought I was being strong, but what I was actually being was absent.
So why do I do this? If I’m being honest, I worry about what people will think if they see me cry. That I’m not cut out for this work. That I can’t handle it. That I’ll make people uncomfortable.
But the real cost isn’t hypothetical judgment. The real cost is presence. When I hold myself back, I’m not fully there - not at the funeral, not with my friend, not even at my daughter’s birthday table.
I saw this differently at a b’nei mitzvah a few months ago. A dad stood up to bless his child. A tall guy, normally pretty stoic. He made it a few lines in, and then everything changed. His breath caught. His voice tightened. He said his child’s name and had to stop. He cleared his throat. Apologized. Tried again. And then the tears came. This time, he didn’t fight them, he just let them be.
And suddenly it wasn’t a performance anymore, it was love in its purest form. You could feel the room shift. People leaned in, not out of pity but out of respect. His tears didn’t diminish the moment, they deepened it.
So yes, I’m working on this. I don’t want to miss important moments by being half-present. I want to be the kind of rabbi, and the kind of person, who doesn’t confuse stoicism with strength.
And if Abraham can weep for Sarah…maybe I can too.
Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Joel Nickerson