Issue 76: Declarations of Vulnerability
You Are Not the Same As You Were A Year Ago
Just before the start of the musaf service in Ashkenazi synagogues on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, the hazan (cantor) chants a personal request beseeching God to be merciful to His people, who have gathered at this time to repent for their sins. The prayer begins as follows, “Here am I, poor in good deeds, trembling in fear in front of the Holy One of Israel. I came here before You to plead on behalf of Your people, who sent me, although I am hardly worthy of the task.” It is a declaration of vulnerability before the Creator.
When I was first asked to perform the role of hazan some years ago, a friend recommended reading a short essay by Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, one of the most important rabbinic and philosophical figures in the 20th century, entitled The Vocation of the Cantor. In the essay, Heschel discusses how the hazan is tasked with taking the words found in the Yom Kippur liturgy and “bringing them to life” in order to inspire others into active repentance. Rather than focusing on particular training methods or melodies, Heschel emphasizes transparency:
There is a story about a Hasidic rabbi in Galicia, among whose adherents were many hazanim (many prayer leaders). Their custom was to gather at the rabbi’s court for the Sabbath which precedes Rosh Hashanah. At the end of their stay they would enter the rabbi’s chamber and ask him for his blessing that their prayers on Rosh Hashanah be accepted into heaven. Once, the story goes, one of the hazanim entered the rabbi’s chamber immediately after the Sabbath to take leave of the rabbi. When the rabbi asked him, why he was in such a hurry to leave, the hazan replied, “I must return home in order to go through the Mahzor (The liturgy for the Days of Awe) and to take a look at the notes.” Thereupon the rabbi replied, “Why should you go through the notes of the Mahzor; they are the same as last year. It is more important to go through your own life, and take a look at your own deeds. For you are not the same as you were a year ago.” The hazan was no longer in a hurry to leave.
I’ve given this passage a lot of thought in recent weeks, as we approached the start of a new year as well as the commemoration of October 7th. When you’ve seen human life so callously snuffed out - as so many of us have over the past year - one cannot help but wonder (usually in the dark of night) whether there is a purpose to our existence or whether we are just blindly grasping for answers. Whether the same God who permits the greatest of human tragedies is committed to judging the deeds of humankind (and forgiving our misdeeds). And whether - despite these unknowns - there is still merit in the process of self-reflection and penitence. For no one in this land is the same as they were a year ago.
I could describe the litany of my errors over the past year, the number of individuals I’ve harmed, the endless wrestling over my decisions.
But there is one that stands out greater than all of the others.
I knew it when I first received the call from my reserve unit on October 7th. I was going to leave my family. For an unknown period of time. And my absence - as part of a collective effort to enhance national security - would potentially put my family in harm’s way. It would place an enormous burden upon them with unpredictable consequences on our bonds with one another. This wasn’t just a choice I was making, it was a choice hundreds of thousands of individuals were making, all hoping they were simultaneously doing the right thing and that everything would turn out alright.
Which is why I am grateful that I will have the opportunity to once again bear my soul before God, together with my family. Many left home and did not return. Others returned but their home was no longer as it was before. And some are once again on the front lines, called away again from their loved ones. Broken though we are, we still have the opportunity to create meaning in our lives and in the lives of others. As Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik, another of the rabbinic giants of the 20th century, wrote in Out of the Whirlwind: Essays on Mourning, Suffering and the Human Condition:
When we experience the swing back from an illusory eternity to a temporal reality, a new category is discovered, namely that of service…Our existence is not just a coincidence, a mechanical fact, a meaningless caprice on the part of nature or providence, but a meaningful assignment which abounds in responsibility and commitment.
That responsibility has added gravity following a year marred by pain and death. Where doubt and distrust reinserted themselves as influential forces in our lives. Can I forgive myself for unintended consequences of my decisions? Can I accept that my life has meaning? How should my experiences over the past year inform my moral compass, my conscience? And how should that guide my commitment to my family, my community, and to the other?
I don’t have the answers. I only know what journey I’ve been on, the decisions that I made that I regret, the questions I have, and the steps I intend to take in order to identify the responsibilities and commitments that I hope will define the coming year. On this Yom Kippur I will be praying that the millions of people living in this land choose to do the same. That we all find comfort through the process of reflection. I also hope we arrive at some shared conclusions. That all human beings were created in God’s image, that we have all made terrible errors and too much blood has been shed, and that treating one another as equals starts with humility, mutual respect, and dialogue.
A few days ago I texted with Jon Polin, Hersh Goldberg-Polin’s father. I knew I wasn’t going to wish him a “good year” or a “sweet year”. Instead I wished him a year of peace and hope for a better tomorrow. What else can you wish someone who just lost their child? Jon replied what I think he has been saying to so many people at this time, “may it be a year of nechama - of comfort, solace”. So I too wish a year of comfort for humankind. May we channel that comfort into service towards a better tomorrow.
Thank you.