"We sought healing, we sought mercy, we sought repentance, we demanded redemption—and there is none."
Reflections on an Israeli Yom Kippur unlike any other.
We were privileged to hear a heartbreaking, courageous and unforgettable “sermon” on the evening of Yom Kippur, in what would be called in the Diaspora a “progressive Orthodox” community. With the permission of the author, we share it in translation below.
Most of us have been around the sun a sufficient number of times that we know the etiquette for the majority of the moments we encounter. What do to. Where to stand. What to say. What not to say.
But in a period like the one we’re now living through, there are moments we’ve never experienced before, so that when they happen, it’s really not clear what you’re supposed to do.
Like when the person leading services suddenly stops. One minute they’re singing, and then next minute, nothing. Silence. You look up, and you can see that they’ve stopped because they’re weeping. Because they can’t sing. Or speak. Because they’re trying to regroup. And it’s going to take a minute, or a bit more.
The first time it happened, on Rosh Hashanah, I assumed that maybe someone would walk up to the person, perhaps stand next to them? Put an arm around them?
Nope. No one moved. Everything and everyone stayed completely silent, immobile. Except for those who also started to quietly cry. Just a heavy, heartbreaking silence.
Because there really are no words.
If it happened on Rosh Hashanah, it was bound to happen on Yom Kippur.
The traditional custom is not to recite the prayer known as Avinu Malkenu on Yom Kippur when it falls on Shabbat. This past Friday night, though, right after Kol Nidre and before the rest of the evening service, someone stood up to announce that the community’s leadership had decided (as did many other synagogues in Israel this year) that we would recite it.
No one needed an explanation, for everyone there knew what Avinu Malkenu says:
Our father, our King, nullify the plans of those who hate us. Our father, our King, thwart the counsel of our enemies .... Our father, our King, tear up the evil decree against us. ... Our father, Our King, be gracious to use and answer us ... and save us.
But the person announcing the change still felt an explanation was in order. She started to say something, stopped, and started to cry.
The explanation was dropped. What was there, really, to say, when nothing at all needed explaining?
The next day, when we got to U-netaneh Tokef (“Who shall live, who shall die …”) the person leading was singing, and people were singing along, when again, suddenly—silence. Nothing.
Again, just tears. No words, no melody. And then, finally, the words at which they’d stopped. “Who by sword …”
Indeed, who by sword? It was the question on everyone’s mind, looking back on a year that was unbearable, and a year just beginning that may well not be any better. You could see fathers hug their army- or reserve-age sons closer. You could see the dread on everyone’s face.
So no, nobody went up to stand next to them. No one put an arm around them. We just waited. Because it was in that utter, perfect silence that the real praying happened.
Everyone I’ve asked since Yom Kippur was over last night how the day was in their synagogue said exactly the same thing. “Beautiful. Heartbreaking. Lots of crying.”
People who don’t live here might be tempted to think that the crying is about the hostages. Or the fallen soldiers. Or those who will fall. And of course, it is. To a degree.
But it’s also not only, or even mostly, about the hostages. Or the soldiers.
It’s about this whole place we call home.
There was not a person, whether we were singing or silent, who was not wondering— “What is going to be here? What is going to happen to us?”
If you really understand what is happening here, how on earth would you not cry?
Noam Chorev, a hugely popular Israeli songwriter who’s written some of the most popular songs for Israel’s leading musicians, wrote a poem that was just posted on Facebook. He called it “A Year.”
A YEAR. I am not the same person. The sea is not the same sea. The ground is not the same ground. And the soul is for sure not the same soul. Something is broken. Something closed. The music in me is no longer the same — The rhythm is different And the sadness is different. I barely remember life as it was.
As compelling as that brief poem is, though, the best way to capture what happened throughout this country on Yom Kippur is to share the derashah (sermon, but not really) that was delivered in our community by Oshrat Shoham, by day a lawyer and Department Director at the Jerusalem District Attorney, in her communal life a co-founder of the Hakhel community (where this derashah was delivered) and at every moment, an extraordinary human being.
With her permission, we’ve translated her words, delivered on Friday night right after Kol Nidre, and have added some of the hyperlinks to texts she referenced—references that most people present certainly understood, but that might not be familiar to everyone reading this.
It’s simply not possible that anything like this was said outside of Israel on Yom Kippur. Because it’s different if it’s about home. It’s different when you breathe the air here.
Keep in mind, as you read this, that this was delivered in a traditional community. It’s a community of observant people, a genuine “faith community,” where this year the struggle for faith has been agonizing, ongoing and omnipresent.
For the window Oshrat offered us into Israel’s broken soul and heart, and for her permission to share her words with our readers, I’m very grateful.
“I hope that when they said ‘hiding of the face’ They meant you held your face and wept loudly While your children were running away While love and compassion also fled In an open field whistling with bullets That you couldn’t stop the tears. That you choked.” (Tehila Azoulay Shaul) Yom Kippur Eve 5785. And we feel the hiding of [God’s] face, distance and detachment. Who hasn’t found themselves crying out to the heavens this year Asking, angry, crying, pleading, praying Hurling at Him, “How much longer? Why?” Wondering “How?! How?!” “Do not hide Your face from me on the day of my distress.” How can we possibly pray on Yom Kippur this year? The thin thread connecting heaven and earth, the thread of prayer The anticipation of an encounter, the intimacy of Yom Kippur, the closeness Is frayed. Torn. Throughout the year we pulled on the threads of prayer here in our community We prayed. We took the Torah’s ark out to the city streets, time and time again We went out in the cold and heat, we cried out, “Answer us, Redeemer and Savior, answer us.” “He who answered Joseph in prison, may He answer us” We prayed at home, alone, in synagogue, in public, at night and during the day, with the children We sought healing, we sought mercy, we sought repentance, we demanded redemption And there is none. Hiding of [God’s] face In the Talmud, Tractate Ketubot 62b: It is related about Rav Reḥumi, who would commonly study before Rava in Meḥoza: He was accustomed to come back to his home every year on the eve of Yom Kippur. One day he was particularly engrossed in the halakha he was studying, and so he remained in the study hall and did not go home. His wife was expecting him that day and continually said to herself: Now he is coming, now he is coming. But in the end, he did not come. She was distressed by this and a tear fell from her eye. At that exact moment, Rav Reḥumi was sitting on the roof. The roof collapsed under him and he died. Same as every year, we anticipate meeting God on Yom Kippur Yearning and longing for intimate dialogue with God For pure and sincere prayer And this year, our spirits are low A tear falls, and another tear from our eyes. Now he’s coming, now he’s coming? But he didn’t come. Many, many will not come home anymore. Our beloved Hersh also did not return home. Our dead lie before us. Many graves were dug Orphans, widows, bereaved parents and siblings. Homes destroyed Many cannot return to their charred, bullet-ridden homes, and are evacuated far from their homes And our brothers and sisters are kidnapped and languishing in captivity We are waiting for them at home But there is no redemption and no freedom. “The voice of your brother's blood cries out to us from the ground” Guilt nests within us—did we do enough for them, for society, for our home? Our spirits are low and a tear falls from our eyes It seems the roof we sat on like Rav Rehumi has broken The secure reality we created has shattered. Our confidence in the obvious has collapsed. We are truly terrified about our home Darkness has fallen. Dark days At home. How do we pray on Yom Kippur 5785? How do we say “King who protects and saves” How do we ask “Accept our prayer with mercy and favor” How will we ask this year” “Our Father, our King, have mercy on us and on our infants and children Our Father, our King, act for the sake of those slain for Your holy name Our Father, our King, act for the sake of those slaughtered for Your oneness Our Father, our King, act for the sake of those who went through fire and water for the sanctification of Your name.” Within the hiding of [God’s] face. From within the darkness There are no words for the pain and distance. Only tears remain. Zelda wrote: Only a broken heart knows How to break through to You Through Millions of stars Only a broken heart Knows how to break through to You Through the jungle of fears Only a broken heart knows How to break through to You Through the glaciers of disbelief Only a heart that has nothing to lean on in the abyss Only a heart that has no one to lean on in the world Leans on Your light alone Only a broken heart will come to You Will journey and go We are broken-hearted. And perhaps this is the way to pray this year. To break through to You—through fears, through disappointment, through disbelief and even anger With a broken heart, like a broken vessel, From a state of helplessness on the edge of the abyss and as one who has no one to lean on in the world we will seek support, we will seek the crack of light, the compassion The movement towards You and from You “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted” From the “gates of tears” we will pour out our speech and also hurl accusations We will conduct an accounting of the soul and a piercing reckoning “Gracious.” “Merciful.” “Slow to anger. And abounding in kindness.” How? Where were You? When will You come and when will You reveal Yourself in Your kindness and mercy…? “Both the tablets of the Covenant and the broken tablets are placed in the Ark [of the Covenant in the Temple.]” (Talmud, Berachot 8b) In the Ark of the Covenant were placed the replacement tablets of the covenant,but with them also the broken tablets, the stone fragments of the first tablets There is room for brokenness, pain, sorrow, anger and also the possibility to start anew, from within the brokenness And this is the essence of repentance. The ability to start anew without erasing what was, the past with its fragments and broken pieces is present and drives renewal and restoration “Create in me a pure heart, O God, and renew a steadfast spirit within me” (Psalms 51:12). How heavy our hearts are with sorrow and worry this year, “a broken and contrite heart” How much we need strength and a new spirit these days. The renewal, the repentance—must be one that faces directly the broken past that demands restoration. We will never, ever be as we were before, and we cannot put the brokenness and disaster behind us. But it is our duty to find on this Yom Kippur—alongside the broken heart, a new spirit of restoration. This is our repentance From within the broken, painful reality We will place our broken tablets together with the new tablets we will create. And we will renew We will pray with a broken heart for restoration We will ask to reconnect the threads of prayer To build renewed trust in God We will pray that He reveal Himself to us in His mercy and not hide, that He not disappoint and not turn a blind eye We will ask [God] to forgive and to ask [us for] forgiveness We will ask for mercy and compassion We will pray that we can repair from within the great brokenness, that we can be repaired That we will be filled with new spirit and renewal and strength For doing and for building That we can repair our home with renewed strength. And we can. May we have the strength to do everything so that they return home quickly. רחמנא דעני לתבירי לב ענינא [Aramaic]: May the Merciful One who answers the broken-hearted, answer us.
In Israel, there’s a phrase much used this time of the year, אחרי החגים. Acharei Ha-Chagim. “After the holidays.” Nothing much happens here between now and the end of the holidays (Simchat Torah, its own unbearable anniversary), so as is true every year, we’ll be on a reduced posting schedule, too.
Later this week, before Sukkot, we will share two podcasts. One, with Revital Zacharie and Gary Wexler, is about a quiet revolution taking place in the world of learning Hebrew—for those who’re thinking of perhaps making that this year’s project. The second, in our series on people doing extraordinary things to transform Israeli society, is with Polly Bronstein, Founder and CEO of “The One Hundred Initiative,” designed to create a political center in Israel.
In coming weeks, we have, among others, podcasts coming with
RABBI YITZ GREENBERG, one of the most daring and insightful Orthodox rabbis and theologians of our era, who nows lives in Jerusalem and who will be sharing thoughts on his newly released book, The Triumph of Life: A Narrative Theology of Judaism.
LEE YARON, a reporter for Haaretz, speaks with us about her new book about the events of October 7, a book that’s different in approach from many of the others, 10/7: 100 Human Stories
DANI STEINER — Dani is a veteran Israeli educator who has also done extensive research on the very, very early Israeli “shelichim” (emissaries, like today’s Shin Shin’im) to the States. Turns out that Louis Brandeis’ Zionism, Ben-Gurion’s political acumen and much more emerged from this.
AVIVA KLOMPASS AND DYONNA GINSBURG— Many people have spoken about Israelis’ resilience during this war. What is its source. In her new book, Stand-Up Nation: Israeli Resilience in the Wake of Disaster, Aviva Klompass (and Dyonna Ginsburg (who has been on our podcast in the past), who the book’s forward) point a long-standing Israeli tradition of helping other countries that now came home to roost in the best possible way.
ARIEL LEVINSON—What in the world is a “secular yeshiva”? Ariel should know, since he founded one. He explains how, having grown up in the religious world, he came to create such a place of learning, and what he hopes it will do for Israeli society.
AVI DABUSH—There’s a secular yeshiva and a new rabbinic ordination program for “training a diverse group of visionary Israeli leaders to advance a vibrant, pluralistic, values-based Judaism.” We hear from Avi Dabush about the program, which he just completed.
And more …
Thanks for this. As always, grateful for the perspective. I continue to pray and offer my support for Israel and Israelis.
Brilliant,, Expressing so eloquently our collective pain, anguish and bewilderment!,,