This is the time of year that I write sermons for the High Holidays. My summer ritual. And suddenly, it isn’t. I mean, it should be, but it’s not happening. Yet. Nothing is what it once was. Of course. Pandemics change everything. And now my writing practice is different, and the sermons are not happening. Yet. And our services will be on Zoom, which changes everything. The thought of sharing a carefully prepared sermon on Zoom is... unmotivating. To say the least. I feel like saying the least. I feel like not saying anything. But the Rabbi gives sermons on the High Holidays. Of course. It’s a ritual. But nothing is what it once was. And what could I possibly say in the face of all that has been happening? That Black lives matter? Of course. That love is all we have, really? Of course. Even if I have said these things before? Of course. Do not imagine that anyone remembers. Do not imagine that it sinks in. And imagine that every word sinks in, that this ritual has meaning and power. Imagine that someone is listening.