Christopher Hitchens' lessons on writing a derashah

[Not sure how I feel about this: Bringing the Kotel to You at Life in Israel]

I saw the following in Christopher Hitchens' 2004 bashing of Michael Moore on Slate. It's an attack on Moore's style of documentary, but it's also a very good point regarding the way a rabbi sermonizes:

I know, thanks, before you tell me, that a documentary must have a "POV" or point of view and that it must also impose a narrative line. But if you leave out absolutely everything that might give your "narrative" a problem and throw in any old rubbish that might support it, and you don't even care that one bit of that rubbish flatly contradicts the next bit, and you give no chance to those who might differ, then you have betrayed your craft. If you flatter and fawn upon your potential audience, I might add, you are patronizing them and insulting them. By the same token, if I write an article and I quote somebody and for space reasons put in an ellipsis like this (…), I swear on my children that I am not leaving out anything that, if quoted in full, would alter the original meaning or its significance. Those who violate this pact with readers or viewers are to be despised.

Two points here:
1. Certainly, a derashah must have a point of view. However, a derashah which only presents that view and fails to point out and address opposition is simplistic and dishonest.

2. Sources must be cited honestly. Quoting half of a midrash or a commentary because that supports your contention, but omitting the rest without so much as pointing out the problem, is, indeed, dishonest.

A good derashah, in my point of view, acknowledges complexity and addresses it with nuance, and uses sources without abusing them. Writing a good derashah is hard work. No wonder my Thursdays were such nightmares when I was in the rabbinate...

Review the Rabbi's Speech

First: I request forgiveness from anyone I have hurt this year. More, please let me know (privately, thanks) if I did anything hurtful; I'd like to learn.

Here’s a Rosh HaShanah request: After Rosh haShanah and Shabbos, please post here your review of your rabbi’s derashot – Rosh haShanah and/or Shabbos Shuvah.

Many rabbis (although clearly not the ones who come to my blog via searches for "Rosh Hashanah sermon") put an inordinate amount of work into crafting these messages. This is their chance to reach people who are otherwise absent from shul, and draw them in. This is their chance to inspire people to daven the most serious tefillos of the year. This is their chance to chart a visionary path for the shul for the year ahead, and beyond. So rabbis often come across ideas as early as Kislev or Shevat and write them down, saving them for just this occasion. This is Prime Time.

I would love to hear reviews from as many people as possible – not just for the vicarious pleasure of hearing rabbis reviewed, but also so that my rabbinic readership (including the "Rosh Hashanah sermon" Googlers) can steal their material for next year.

Among the areas in which reviews would be welcome:
Theme – What was the topic of the speech? Was it a dvar torah about the Torah reading or Shofar? Did they include the Palestinians and the UN? The economy? The NBA strike?

Message – What was the chief message? Was it a call for personal growth, for community activism, for unity, for learning Torah and davening? Did it happen to also appear in the YU Rosh haShanah To Go?

Target audience - Was the target audience the year-round crowd, or the once-a-year attendees, or a blend? If it was a blend, how did he manage the trick of speaking to both?

Rants – How much mussar made it into the Shabbos Shuvah derashah? And about what?

Midrash pliah - Did the rabbi cite any midrashim that were just bizarre? You know what I mean - the ones we use to wake you up and get your attention, and that we say we will explain but that really defy our forced explanations?

Jokes – Did the rabbi dare to start a Rosh haShanah or Shabbos Shuvah derashah with a joke? If it was good, feel free to repeat it here.

Stories – I love it when rabbis tell good stories, particularly original stories; these can be a great way to get a point across. Were there any particularly memorable ones?

Endings – Did the rabbi end speeches with “and so we will merit a kesivah vachasimah tovah / to be inscribed and sealed for a good year,” or “mashiach tzidkeinu amen?” Or did he just finish his topic and sit down? Or did he have a great big bang of an ending?

There is only one rule for this survey: Please respect your rabbi’s anonymity. I will have to delete any comment that gives away a rabbi’s identity. Thank you.

May all of us be blessed with a happy and healthy new year, a year of blessing, a year of peace, a year in which HaShem will grant us the fulfillment of all of our wishes, for the best.

A Rabbi's first speech?

What should go into a rabbi's opening derashah, his first speech to his new shul?

I had cause to think about this twice recently – first when a new Rabbi began his service at the shul where I daven, and then again when we hit Parshas Shoftim this past Shabbos and I remembered that Shoftim was my first Shabbos as rabbi of Young Israel of Pawtucket, Rhode Island, back in 1997.

My opening derashah in Rhode Island was a basic dvar torah, as though this week was no different from the one before. I began with appreciation for the community, of course, but moved rapidly into a dvar torah analysis of tzedek, and the difference between indifferent justice and a righteousness which understands the complexity of situations and moderates itself according to the needs of the moment. [Not a bad theme, but for a while in there I veered into comments about talking in shul, conversing with a spouse over the mechitzah, and missing minyan during the week. It wasn't a rant by any means, or even rebuke, but I wonder about the thought behind that choice of direction, especially as I had lived in the community for all of 6 days. I look at the text now with no small amount of amusement. The me of 1997 would be duly insulted.]

Fast-forward to Behaaloscha in 2001, my first Shabbos in Allentown. I began with profuse gratitude, appropriate to the warmth of the welcome we received in the community. Then I went into a discussion of the Menorah's branches and division which leads to destruction vs. division which leads to growth. It was a tone-setting derashah, an attempt to outline, through a dvar torah, an embrace of certain ideals, but still a derashah and not explicit about expressing a larger vision. I think I was afraid of coming off as self-indulgent.

Fast-forward to a few weeks ago, and the new Rabbi of my shul in Toronto opened with gratitude, followed by what could be considered a State of the Union address, a peroration on the challenges and opportunities facing the Jewish community of our day. There was a good blend of humor and stories and prescription and vision, certainly, and it went over very well… and, as the Rabbi noted, it wasn't really a derashah at all. It was what many people wanted - a chance to celebrate a new beginning.

What's best? The dvar torah (with or without mussar)? The tone-setting derashah that is too self-conscious to lay out a platform? The State of the Union address?

צריך עיון.

Rabbi and Toastmaster

It’s often said (and I’ve heard this in the name of no less formidable a speaker than the Rav, Rav Yosef Dov Soloveichik) that the worst time to speak is Kol Nidrei, when people are stressed and worried about the Yom Kippur fast as well as their davening, bloated from their pre-fast meal, and tired from the day’s labors.

Over the years I’ve spoken in a broad range of settings, synagogues and chapels, my own pulpits and those of others, at breakfasts and kiddushes and bar mitzvahs and weddings, bris and shalom zachar and funeral and funeral and hakamat matzeivah (unveiling) and funeral, Shabbos and weekdays and after minyan and Yamim Noraim, etc, and I’d agree that Kol Nidrei is tough.

Nonetheless, I find the toughest speaking slot to be a communal Shabbos lunch.

* Food in front of people, passed around tables, possibly distributed by wait staff or, at any rate, lounging enticingly on a buffet.

* Kids freed from davening and youth groups and let loose to roam or munch or play.

* Social conversation around the table rudely interrupted for the words of a speaker – that would be moi – who may be heard any other time, in any other venue.

What can you say at such a moment, that will be more interesting to people than their food and their friends? How can you even get their attention?

I know the formula, of course:
* A joke or an amusing story
* A leading question
* A light lesson
* A closing zinger.

Simple, to the point. You’re not there to lecture, and it’s not the forum for a deep concept. In that setting, most people are looking for food, not food for thought.

But although I know the protocol, I find this to be my most challenging pulpit. I’m just not as smooth at the light presentation, and particularly in front of crowds I don’t know well.

I had a chance to do it at Shabbos lunch at one shul a couple of weeks ago, and wasn’t able to pull it off; I came away quite unsatisfied. I have another such engagement this coming Shabbos, at a different shul, and there I am supposed to speak with real depth on a serious topic. It’s going to be a challenge.

In one sense, I’m glad there is an opportunity to grow, something I don’t do as well as I could/should, a speaking skill I need to develop. But it’s nerve-wracking, nonetheless.

And I need to find a good lead-in joke for a serious class on the Halachah and Ethics of Prisoner Exchanges…

Surprise! I really do miss the derashah

[This week’s Haveil Havalim is here!]

[First: Let the record show that Allentown, PA had snow before we did in Toronto. Granted, it’s been below 0 (Celsius) off and on for a few weeks already, and granted we’re expecting snow any day, but to all of my former lantzmen who have made snow jokes for the past several months, I say thee Thbbth.]

Way back when, I wrote about what I would, and would not, miss about the shul rabbinate. Some nine months later, and some four months removed from the rabbinate, I’m surprised by how much of that post was accurate.

In particular, I am surprised to realize how much I miss the weekly derashah.

True, I always said I would miss it, but I never really believed that. I thought that
-the tension of so many weeks of straining for a coherent idea at deadline,
-the sweat of re-editing to convey ideas clearly and compellingly,
-the nervousness of getting up to speak,
-the downer of the weeks when there was no substantive feedback,
-as well as my overall sense that the derashah’s role is way overblown,
would make me altogether glad that I was no longer delivering those weekly messages.

But it’s not so; I do miss developing a (hopefully) deep thought, checking it for flaws, crafting it into a talk that will hit on all cylinders from beginning to end. I miss standing up there and sharing a thought I believe is substantive and meaningful and relevant for our lives, our relationships with HaShem and with each other. And I miss the discussions afterward. The craftsmanship part is still tough, and I do remember the weeks when I thought I had said something thought-provoking but drew no response. Nonetheless, I still miss it.

The derashah really is unlike any other opportunity. Writing a thought in our weekly Toronto Torah doesn’t replace the feeling of sharing it with people live. Delivering parshah classes doesn’t do it, either. The derashah truly is unique.

Why do I write this now? Because next week we are having a Shabbaton at Shaarei Shomayim, and I will be delivering the derashah, and I actually find myself excited at the opportunity. That feeling may change if I’m not ready by Thursday night, of course… but until then, I’m going to have a fun week of anticipation.

What should be on the Rabbi's agenda?

[This is a quasi-rant. I apologize in advance. For other material, see this week's Toronto Torah.]

Ever since my first rabbinic interview, people have wanted to know my agenda.

On proba visits, I was asked a range of interview questions on this topic, including:
• Will you speak about Current Events?
• Will you promote Aliyah?
• What do you see as the major challenges facing Modern Orthodoxy today?
• What do you see as the major challenges facing the Jewish community today?
And so on…

These are significant items, but I believe – and I believed this when I was a shul rabbi as well – that none of these items belong near the top of a rabbi’s agenda. Rather, the rabbi's agenda should be about helping us become better Jews, better people, on a day-to-day basis.

This includes speaking out regularly about:
• Our awareness of Gd;
• Our sensitivity to each other’s needs;
• Our sincerity;
• The depth of our thoughts and our lives.

I want a shul rabbi to speak regularly about emotions, and less-regularly about elections.
I want a shul rabbi to teach more classes about davening and about honesty, and fewer classes about the ethical issues in separating Siamese Twins.
I want a shul rabbi to spend more time on his shul’s youth, and less time on newspaper columns.

I wouldn’t claim that I was perfect in any of these areas in my rabbinic years.

Further, I know that we also need the speeches about the elections, the classes on conjoined twins and the public stands on issues of the day. But these areas are, in many ways, low-hanging fruit bringing easy if superficial returns. If this is the rabbi’s agenda, he may well be popular as a public figure, but I believe he will have failed as a spiritual leader.

And I would add one more note: I believe that the same should be the agenda for all of us “private citizen” Jews.

Banging on the shtender

One of the best classes I ever took, in any field, was Homiletics, with Rabbi Haskel Lookstein.

Rabbi Lookstein taught this course on Fridays at YU, for members of the semichah program. I can’t imagine that the rabbi of Kehillath Jeshurun and principal of Ramaz had nothing else to do on a Friday morning, but every week he was there, helping us understand how to convey the Torah we had learned to various types of audiences.

I know I am not the only one who is greatly in his debt for this service; I'm still not a great orator, but I learned quite a bit in those sessions.

One of my favorite observations from Rabbi Lookstein’s class was this: You can only bang on the shtender [lectern] once. That’s it; you can come close, stop your hand just short, but once you actually hit it, you can never do it again.

As I understood his point, hitting a shtender while presenting a derashah is a demonstration of both passion and certitude, and to do it repeatedly, especially on diverse topics, demonstrates either a surfeit of passion or a surfeit of certitude, neither of which wins over an audience.

I am someone of passion, but I am rarely someone of certitude, so ironclad confident in my judgment that I will demand everyone agree with me. So I am not generally tempted to bang the shtender.

I did it once, for a Shabbos Shuvah derashah four years ago, when I was speaking about lashon hara tearing down community institutions. It was a particularly fraught time in our community, and I was right, I think; that wasn’t a squandering of the pulpit-thumping privilege.

But I wonder whether there have not been other times I could have, should have, given that resounding bang, whether there were not other causes I should have championed with the fever of the committed and the fervor of the certain:

Shabbos observance.
Mikvah observance.
Domestic abuse.
Parents and children.
Racism.
Israel.

I’ve spoken about all of these, of course. All of them, in different ways, carry great weight for Jews as individuals, for Jewish families, for the Jewish nation and for the world. Any of them could have been a topic warranting the Big Bang.

But, in the final analysis, the speaker is compelled to choose his opportunity, and so I did.

What about your rabbi? What makes him bang the shtender? Nothing? Everything? Or certain topics?

The Last Derashah

[Haveil Havalim is here!]

I don’t know whether I’ve been in denial, or just too busy to think about it, but it finally hit me, just this Shabbos, that I have six weeks remaining in the pulpit rabbinate (at least, for now). That’s six more derashos (sermons, speeches, talks, whatever).

When you know you have only six more opportunities to address a mass audience, what topics do you choose? And in particular, what do you say for the last speech of all?

I’ve had times, during my dozen rabbinic years, when I’ve mentally drafted a parting speech. Those tended not to be the best of moments, though… so I’m starting from scratch here.

I’ve thought about not delivering a derashah that Shabbos. I’ve never done that, never taken a Shabbos ‘off’ like that, so why not take advantage and do it now? Fire me, pal.

I’ve thought about using it for mussar, to speak about things I believe should change within the community, but I can’t think of too many things I’ve omitted over the years, that I would want to include on that last day.

I could make it a personal talk about my own feelings, but, frankly, I do that a lot already.

I could give general life-advice, lessons I’ve learned, but that’s the sort of thing that could come off as rather pompous. Randy Pausch could do it because he was speaking about facing death, and it’s a topic on which he had a personal expertise. It doesn’t work as well for a retiring rabbi speaking about life.

My current inclination is to speak about my regrets – things I didn’t do within the shul/community, that I wish I had done (and maybe someone will do in the future...). Gd knows there’s plenty of material in that topic; I could probably give the next six about that topic, alone.

But what would you do?

Community Rabbi, reporting from Gaza

[Haveil Havalim is here.]
[Jack's roundup of Gaza-related posts is here.]

In my pre-adolescent years, my outlook on Rabbis-and-Current-Events was shaped by my father’s dislike for speeches that spent more time on the New York Times than on the parshah.

For a long time I actually assumed that this was a broadly held view; after all, why would anyone expect a rabbi to have special insight into the Falklands War, Afghanistan, the Iran Hostage Crisis or any of the other events that shaped my 70s and 80s upbringing? So much so that when I did my very first interview for a rabbinic position - a synagogue in Worcester, Massachusetts - and someone asked how often I would speak about current events, I said I would do it maybe once a month, if that much.

This was not the answer my questioner was seeking; he, and others present, felt that in order for Torah to be relevant to their daily lives, the rabbi would have to speak about Yitzhak Rabin more often than he would speak about Rabbi Shlomo Yitzhaki, about modern Israel more than historical Eretz Yisrael.

Relevance! That was actually a key moment for me, as I was taught what "relevance" means to so many Jews. Upon reflection, I grasped what he was saying (although I didn’t grasp the job…). It made sense; even if I wasn’t a brilliant economist or an expert on the Far East, my connecting Torah to the comments of those economists and experts would make shul, Torah, Judaism as a whole, more reachable for many people.

In the years since that watershed evening, I have spent a great deal of time reading about topics of popular interest, from the European stock market to Central American history to the history of medical understanding of the circulatory system to quantum theory and Hadley cells and meteorology. Much of that has become useful in classes or newspaper columns or in direct conversation; some of it has simply made me a broader person.

And yet, and yet - I have never quite shaken the feeling that rabbis are overstepping when they comment, whether in shul or in published articles or in interviews, on the events of the day. Lead tehillim, promote activism, but don't interpret the news. My father’s skepticism remains with me.

And so last night, when Shabbos ended and I picked up a phone message from 69 News asking for me to do an interview on Gaza, I was reluctant to reply. Really - what am I going to say, that the viewer doesn’t already know? The analogy of Hamas rocket attacks on Israeli cities to rocket attacks on LA or Detroit has been cited everywhere. The viewers who don’t care to remember Disengagement aren’t going to remember it because I mention it. I feel foolish even blogging about it; go check out Jameel, his on-the-scene comments have much more relevance than mine.

But, remembering that night in Worcester, I called the reporter back. As it turned out, though, I was too late; in the intervening hours since their Shabbos afternoon call, they had found another candidate.

I expect I will draft an Op-Ed for the local paper, though. As Shemuel said to Shaul, "הלא אם קטן אתה בעיניך ראש שבטי ישראל אתה - Even if you are small in your own eyes, you are yet the head of the tribes of Israel." I am, to some people, a commnunity representative. So if someone out there takes my view seriously, then I am responsible to make it heard.

The Nervous Rabbi (a.k.a. “I hate public speaking”)

I’ve been speaking publicly for twenty years or more.

I started with divrei torah at my shul’s auxiliary minyan and shiurim when the shul of my childhood was without a rabbi. Since then I’ve been an NCSY advisor, a baal keriah/teacher in a Shabbos shul, a rabbinic intern who was given plenty of chances to speak, and, of course, a pulpit rabbi now in his twelfth year. I teach four to seven formal public classes per week, in addition to Daf Yomi, to groups of all kinds. I should be pretty comfortable with this speaking thing by now.

And yet, I get nervous before I speak. I think there are three reasons, all of which are resolvable:

1) A lot has to do with familiarity of setting. Example: I am, unfortunately, pretty comfortable with funerals, thanks to my familiarity with them.

2) Some of it has to do with confidence in what I have to say; if I feel good about what I’ve prepared for a Shabbos morning speech, I tend to be less nervous.

But then there are occasions when familiarity and confidence in my material are irrelevant. Divrei torah, committee reports, awards and installations… I officiated at a wedding yesterday and found myself incredibly nervous, even though I was among wonderful friends and ecstatic about having the chance to be mesader kiddushin. So why was I nervous?

3) I think I get nervous when I’m distracted, when I’m not focussing on what I am saying, when I’m not absorbed in the thought.

On any given Shabbos morning, there are many subplots afoot in shul – visiting guests and relatives, political issues, taking care of my kids as they daven, people going through life changes – and those subplots tend to percolate in my mind as I am getting up to speak.

The same is true on any occasion, from the simple to the sublime. At a meeting I might also be thinking about a class I’m developing; at a bar mitzvah, a thought about something that happened at minyan that morning might intrude into my mind. I just have a lot of thoughts vying for attention.

It’s like living in shmoneh esreih, all the time.

Many people are like this, I think, and particularly those who have grown up multi-tasking every moment of their lives.

The result is that I am less “in the moment,” less focussed, less able to make an absorbing connection with my material. That may also be why I don’t get nervous when teaching a class – because I tend to prepare material that requires real thought, and I am forced to think carefully in order to explain it to the group.

The upshot: I can solve my nervousness, if this is really the issue:
1) If it’s unfamiliarity – Review what needs to be done, mentally, until I am comfortable;
2) If it’s lack of confidence in my material – Work on it until it’s good;
3) And if it’s distraction – Take a minute to clear everything from my mind, before speaking.

Simple, but it sounds like a plan.

The week before Rosh HaShanah is a trouble magnet

I don't know how the universe knows. It was a leap year this year, and that should have fooled the universe, but nope, the universe knows.

It always knows that Rosh HaShanah is coming, and it holds the disasters for that week.

I, like a fool, write my Rosh HaShanah derashot three weeks in advance, to clear the table for work on Shabbat Shuvah, Yom Kippur and Succot. Then, right before Rosh HaShanah, the world turns upside down and I need to change my topic.

In 2001 it was the September 11th attack on the World Trade Center.
In 2002, if I remember correctly, the market tanked that week.
In 2005, a very close friend and key person in our community was killed in a car accident.
Other things in other years, I forget the specifics at the moment.
And this year, the banks collapse and the President gets on the television to let anyone who isn't already panicking know that it's now time to panic.

I don't mean to whine about speechwriting while the world burns, really. I'm certainly not trivializing the disasters I just mentioned.

I'm just feeling sorry for myself as I sit here on Thursday afternoon and try to write a derashah for Shabbos and another one for Rosh HaShanah, trying to say something new and meaningful to people who are scared that their retirement savings may disappear, that their investments for their children's college education are turning into so much toilet paper, that their jobs may be downsized or outsourced as companies are stressed beyond their limits.

What can you say that isn't:
infantile (market, shmarket, let's worry about teshuvah);
irrelevant (righteous people trust in HaShem);
meaningless (Shabbos 151b says poverty is cyclical);
or just plain silly (this is a punishment for that sin)?

Always, always, the week before Rosh HaShanah.

I know some don't like this phrase, but it's a gemara (Megilah 31b) so I'm justified: תכלה שנה וקללותיה, May the year and its curses come to an end.

תחל שנה וברכותיה, may the new year and its blessings begin.

I hate the rabbi's speech

The new Carnival of Self-Mastery is out here.

[Side note: Speech = sermon = message = talk = derashah. Put whatever name on it you like.]

I always find it funny when people assume that rabbis enjoy giving speeches, that we want to bore you for as long as possible with our observations on Torah, life, the universe and everything.

As a rabbi with a dozen years of regular speechifying behind me, and having discussed this off and on with quite a few other rabbis, I can tell you that one of the most welcome changes in American synagogues, from the rabbinic perspective, would be the elimination of the rabbi’s speech.

Why do I hate the speech?
*First, I spend entirely too much time in writing these speeches, out of proportion with the time I spend on other pursuits.
*Second, I don’t enjoy public speaking, and so the whole endeavor adds greatly to my stress load.
*Third, I hate listening to speeches, so I feel odd putting other people through the experience of listening to my own.

But, even though one guy (yes, you, Jon,) likes to start the first few bars of “Ein KEilokeinu” when I get up to speak, the truth is that I have been told by numerous people that the speech cannot be eliminated; the rabbi's speech is, for some reason or another, a meaningful part of shul for them.

Yes, even though Lion of Zion insists that I shouldn’t speak every day of Yom Tov, I have people who come to shul just because of whatever it is they draw from the speeches, and so all the rest will have to suffer along with me.

Several years ago I floated the idea of printing out the speech and putting it in the lobby for people to take and read, rather than impose it on the shul from the bimah, but even that was rejected. I do realize that words are often more effective when spoken than when written, so I understand it, but I really would have preferred the written form.

So here I am on Wednesday, contemplating a speech for Parshat Shoftim while ideas float through my head for Rosh HaShanah.

I am actually at the anniversary of my first speech as full shul rabbi (previously I had been a rabbinic intern, a wholly other experience worth discussing some time). That first speech was in Congregation Ohawe Sholam, Young Israel of Pawtucket, Rhode Island, Parshat Shoftim 5757/1997. I had married the sainted Rebbetzin two weeks earlier, we had moved in on the previous Sunday, and for my first Shabbos I wrote a speech demanding that more people come to weekday minyan.

It was a harangue, basically, because we had faced real difficulty getting a minyan at shacharis that week. Being a kid, I figured that the speech would be a good time to address the problem; when else do you have everyone there in the room for a good moral and practical lesson about communal Judaism?

That taught me my first on-the-job lesson about speeches: When your only tool is a hammer, every problem looks like a nail. I thought my speech was the way to reach people about anything and everything, so, of course, I should use it to bring about change.

In truth, the rabbi’s speech is a horrible tool for instigating change:
*It is aimed at a captive audience, many of whom are contemplating kiddush, lunchtime company, a shabbos afternoon nap, their personal problems, etc.
*It is directed at a large crowd of wildly different personalities, so that it cannot be tailored for everyone – and those for whom it is not customized may well dislike, and even resent, the message.
*It is part of a weekly (or, in Tishrei, almost daily) barrage of messages, which can overburden the audience.
*It doesn’t allow for real discussion and feedback.
*It comes with all of the baggage that the listeners have from past speeches, and even past rabbis.

Far better to speak to every person in shul directly, one by one, than to attempt to reach them with a speech.

Nonetheless, there are things a rabbi can do to give his speech a better chance of success. Here are some things I’ve picked up over the years:

1) Know that the speech is not about you, Rabbi, and your issues; it’s about the people who are sitting in shul, and what interests and motivates them.

2) Recognize that rabbis don’t change people, people change themselves. If anything, the speech is about helping people to decide to change themselves. Present a case, but don’t expect anything grand to happen; that’s an inappropriate expectation.

3) Realize that you, Rabbi, may have been thinking about a certain topic or issue for a long time, but your thoughts need to be properly unpacked and presented for the listeners.

4) Please, Rabbi, please only speak about topics you know about and understand.

5) Classes are Talmud Torah; speeches generally are not Talmud Torah. The venue is wrong, the lecture format doesn’t work well. Reaching HaShem and meeting HaShem’s expectations is (hopefully) the goal of rabbinic leadership, and Torah is your medium, your way of conveying a message, your way of inviting people to aim for achieving that in the future.

6) And above all, Rabbi: If your message isn’t inspiring to you, don’t bother delivering it. Tell people you have a cold this week, or make up some other excuse, but giving a dead speech will not only waste everyone’s time this week, it will also burn your capital for the future.

And on that happy note, I’m off to write my speech for Shoftim…wish me luck.