Yom Kippur 5774

Rabbi YY Jacobson

• August 28, 2013
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• 22 Elul 5773
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  Forgiving Others, G-d, and Ourselves

  Why We Say Three Times Kol Nidrei

  Rabbi YY Jacobson

  • August 28, 2013

  Podium Points:

  ·        Why do we recite Kol Nidrei three times? Because forgiveness and “letting go” from old resentments consists of three parts: Forgiving others, forgiving G-d and forgiving yourself.

  ·        The tragic and awe inspiring story of Nachman Shtitzer, Chayim Boymel and Yisroel Lichter on the power of forgiveness even in the face of such tragedy and natural animosity.

  ·        The lesson to us: Can’t we forgive people who hurt us?

  ·        The story of the kidney match

  ·        Two exceptions to forgiveness

  ·        Developing the courage to ask and offer forgiveness—represented by the first Kol Nidrei.

  ·        Eli Wiesel’s pre RH article in the NY Times, making peace with G-d.

  ·        We each have our complaints to the Creator. But tonight we may let go and realize that He too asks forgiveness; He is not detached and He too feels our pain.

  ·        The story of the sun and the moon: Hashem asking for forgiveness for diminishing so many in our world.

  ·        The story of the dying father reunited, in his imagination, with his son serving in Iraq.

  ·        What the doctor told an ill child, Bryan: “I will hold your hand.” It’s what G-d tells each of us.

  ·        The story of Kaparos

  ·        Allow yourself to hug G-d and let go of anger—that is the second Kol Nidrei.

  ·        Forgive yourself. Let go of the urge to call yourself a failure and feel guilty that you are not a good Jew—that is the third Kol Nidrei.

  ·        The boy who studied Judo and the lesson to us: It is what you’re missing that allows you to make your “move” in this world.

  ·        The end of the story of Nachman Shtitzer.

  ·        A call for us to define ourselves not as “bad Jews” but as “growing Jews.”

   

  Three People Came To Heaven

  The Pope, Billy Graham, and Oral Roberts were in a three-way plane crash over the Pacific Ocean. They all died and went to heaven together.

  “Oh, this is terrible,” exclaims St. Peter, “I know you guys think we summoned you here, but this is just one of those coincidences that happen. Since we weren’t expecting you, your quarters just aren’t ready… We can’t take you in and we can’t send you back….” Then he got an idea. He picked up the phone, “Lucifer, this is Pete. Hey, I got these three guys up here. They’re ours, but we weren’t expecting them, and we gotta fix the place up for ‘em. I was hoping you could put them up for a while. It’ll only be a couple of days. What d’ya say?”

  Reluctantly, the Devil agreed. However, two days later, St. Peter got a call. “Pete, Lu. Hey, you gotta come get these three clowns. This Pope fellow is forgiving everybody, the Graham guy is saving everybody, and that Oral Roberts has raised enough money to buy air conditioning.”

  A Day of Forgiveness

  Tonight, Yom Kippur, we recite the Kol Nidrei three times. Why three times?

  The theme of Yom Kippur is forgiveness and reconciliation. Throughout all the prayers, this motto resurfaces: The power to mend broken relationships. There are three parts to forgiveness—each one represented by one Kol Nidrei. So today let us find the strength, courage and serenity to forgive. 1) To forgive others, 2) to forgive G-d and last but not least to 3) forgive ourselves.

  She Outlived Them All

  Once, on Yom Kippur, a Rabbi spoke about forgiveness.

  After the sermon, he asked how many were willing to forgive their enemies.

  About half held up their hands.

  Not satisfied, he lectured the congregation for another twenty minutes and repeated his question. This received a response of eighty percent.

  Still unsatisfied, he lectured for fifteen more minutes and repeated his question.

  All responded except one elderly lady in the rear.

  "Mrs. Goldstein, are you not willing to forgive your enemies?"

  "I don't have any."

  "That is very unusual. How old are you?"

  "106."

  "Mrs. Goldstein, please come down in front and tell the congregation how a lady can live to be 106 and not have an enemy in the world."

  The old lady teetered down the aisle, slowly turned to face the congregation, and blurted out, "I outlived them all!"

  An Awful Tragedy

  [Note: Try to watch the following video. It will change the way you deliver the story: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZDfJpJqp1Es]

  Summer can be a magnificent time, and especially in the holy land of Israel, but all too often it is marred by the tragic stories we hear make it through the news.

  Over the past four years, the Israeli Ambulance service reported over 170 cases of children being left unattended in cars for too long, by negligence or accident. Eight of these resulted in death (rachmona litzlan, may G-d spare us such pain.)

  I do not need to speak of the unspeakable; of this horrific tragedy, and of the immense suffering it has caused mothers and fathers over the country, and other countries as well. Imagine the guilt a father feels when he forgot his son seat belted in the car to die in the scorching heat? And how is his wife able to forgive him? The pain is too immense to verbalize.

  In the town of Modi’in Illit, in Central Israel, a 4-year old boy from a religious-Chassidic Boimel family, by the name of Chaim, went to a local pre-school not too far from his home. On occasion, he would catch a ride with some of the other boys on the way to school. Nachman Shtitzer was a young teacher at the same school. He is fair-haired, tall, handsome, slim, with long blonde peyos, or side-curls, softly-spoken, and newly-wed. He had a car, a sedan with the back windows draped by curtains to protect the children he would bring to and from school from the sun.

  One hot summer day in Israel, Nachman had taken Chaim and some of the other boys to the school. Pulling up to the school, the boys got out of the car, and Nachman walked into the building, locking the car behind him. The car was not empty. Chaim had fallen asleep.

  After finishing up his classes, he walked back to the car with a colleague he was giving a ride to on the way home.

  His friend noticed something on the back seat. “What’s that?” he asked Nachman.

  “What do you mean, ‘what’s that’?” he says back.

  Nachman froze.

  With his basic knowledge of first-aid, Nachman realized there was nothing he could do. In a state of severe shock, he and his friend began to scream, to yell for someone to call an ambulance. But it was too late. A poor four year old boy died in the scorching heat.

  From that moment Nachman’s world fell apart. He, a young married man, a father of a few little children, was responsible for the loss of a pure, innocent life. Negligence is a crime, and he was soon arrested and charged, facing a sentence of 3 years in prison. He pleaded guilty immediately. I saw video footage of him handcuffed, his shoulders slumped, and his head down, being led by police,  but barely managing to place one foot in front of the other. He was crushed beyond words.

  The funeral of Chaim Baimel was, you can imagine, heart-wrenching. The parents were beside themselves with grief, but the boy’s father summoned the strength to speak, and he addressed G-d: “G-d, you slapped me in the face. Maybe I deserved it, but my wife? She is righteous woman; why have you hurt her so much?” The boy’s mother was strong on the outside, but those closest to her knew that she would soak her pillow with tears, every night.

  The Awe-Inspiring Sequence

  How to respond to this tragedy, and how to react to the person who caused it? These questions can overwhelm, and reel the senses. But it was at that point, that Chaim’s family, led by his grandfather, decided to take an extraordinary step.

  The grandfather of the child is a man by the name of Yisrael Lichter. On the instructions of his Rabbi, the Lelover Rebbe, he had been running a local soup kitchen for the past 30 years, catering to 1,200 souls on a daily basis. Lichter has a playful, rambunctious personality, and a certain gruffness, but he also has an enormous heart, and is a man of tremendous faith. He’s quick to share a piece of advice, or a joke, or to scoop you up in a bear hug, and is deeply loved by the people who frequent the soup kitchen.

  Mr. Lichter, the father of Chaim’s mother, was hit hard too. As he shared with Israeli Television, his little grandson was the joy of his life. He was devastated for himself and even more so for his daughter who lost her boy. But when he saw Nachman Shtitzer, the man who was responsible for this terrible story, he did not see the face of a criminal, evil man deserving of punishment, but one crushed with grief, and guilt, and with profound contrition.  He saw a young man, with a wife and children, and a life to be forever burdened by the staggering weight of his terrible act of negligence. Instead of shunning, or pursuing him, he decided to do something that it is still hard for me to believe.

  He, together with the parents of the child, sent a message to Nachman that they want him to come pay a visit for the Shivah call. Nachman naturally pleaded not to go. How would he face the mother, father, grandparents of Chaim? What would he tell them? Would he be able to look them in the eyes? He had wished that he died instead of the boy.

  But the family of the dead boy did not let go. They wanted the man at Shivah. Nachman knew he had to come; he had no choice. He had to face the family of the child whose death he caused. He was under house arrest, and still in a dazed shock, but he showed up at the home.

  When he entered the Shivah home, Chaim’s grandfather, instead of looking the other way, got up, and embraced him…

  No one could believe their eyes. Nachman himself thought this was abnormal. What happened was that the grandfather saw the unintended perpetrator as an equal victim in the sadness of life. Was Nachman himself not half-dead emotionally? And he chose to embrace him.

  The grandfather of Chaim met with the defense attorney assigned to the case, and offered to testify in favor of Nachman, to attenuate, or avert a prison sentence. “Nachman has a wife and little children. Should they now lose their father for three years in prison? Who will gain from this?” In a 20 year career, the lawyer stated, this was the first time he had seen anything like it.

  The Israeli TV heard of the story. They interviewed the grandfather, Yisroel. He shared with them how his grandson was the shining light of his life. In honor of Chanukah, little mischievous Chaim covered all of the walls of the home with oil to celebrate the miracle of lights. Chaim, he said, was his love and passion. They then asked him if that was the case, why did he embrace Nachman and offered to testify on his behalf?

  The grandfather, Yisroel, opened up the Jerusalem Talmud, written 1800 years ago. There the Talmud states something which if we can internalize is truly revolutionary:[1]

  היך עבידא הוה מקטע קופד, ומחת סכינא לידוי, תחזור ותמחי לידיה? ואהבת לרעך כמוך (ויקרא יט).

  The grandfather translated to the TV the Talmudic words:

  If I was cutting meat with my right hand—Yisrael Lichter explained—and I slipped, accidently cutting my left hand with the knife; what am I to do? How should I respond to my right hand, and amend the pain that it has caused? Should I now go and take the knife with my injured left, and cut the right hand back? To take revenge?

  “When [Chaim] would come into a room, he would fill it with light,” the grandfather said, his voice breaking. But whom should I punish? The other hand, that did it to me?”

  Did he want to kill this child? Is he not so deeply wounded for life? Does he not think about it and regret his actions every moment of the day? We are all like one body. One part of my body harmed me. I’m I really punishing him? I’m I not punishing myself? Will I cut off my right hand to take revenge for my left hand?

  Yisrael Lichter, the grandfather, began meeting with Nachman regularly in the months following the tragedy. He gave him support, and strength, and encouraged him to continue with his own life. The boy’s parents too have encouraged him to move on.

  Over the next few months, Lichter and Shtitzer began working on a safety campaign with the aim of promoting awareness of the dangers in leaving children unattended in cars. Their hope is to prevent such tragedy from striking another family.

  This tragedy occurred last summer. Just a few weeks ago, something happened and it has not left a dry eye in Israel. I will share this with you a bit later in the sermon. [Note: You can include it now, but it may be more powerful if you leave the end of the story for the end of the sermon.]

  Can’t We Forgive?

  I thought to myself: If Yisroel Lichter, Chaim’s grandfather, could forgive and embrace under such circumstances, can’t I?

  No, forgiveness does not erase a past, delete a memory or eliminate agony. But it is one of the noblest achievements of the human soul. When someone is remorseful, when someone wants to begin a new chapter in the relationship, when someone is hurt by their mistake, try to forgive them.

  Capital Punishment

  Mrs. Spiegel was called to serve for jury duty, but asked to be excused because she didn't believe in capital punishment and didn't want her personal thoughts to prevent the trial from running its proper course. But the public defender liked her thoughtfulness, and tried to convince her that she was appropriate to serve on the jury.

  "Madam," he explained, "This is not a murder trial! It's a simple civil lawsuit. A wife is bringing this case against her husband because he gambled away the $12,000 he had promised to use to remodel the kitchen for her birthday."

  "Well, okay," agreed Mrs. Spiegel, "I'll serve. I guess I could be wrong about capital punishment.”

  To hold a grudge forever, may be natural and human. To forgive is to rise above our nature and become Divine. It is to recognize three things: 1: that we are all effected by the sadness of life; that we are all weak and often make bad mistakes; that we are all scared in some deep place in our hearts; we all tremble when we hear the loud thunder and we all falter when our body falls ill. 2: Forgiveness comes from me recognizing my inner unshakable confidence and strength as G-d’s child. Nobody can destroy that inner “I,” which is a creation of G-d. And that innate “I” is not a victim and has the strength to forgive. 3: Finally, forgiveness comes from you and me realizing our inherent oneness, so that when I withhold forgiveness from you, I am also punishing myself.

  And that is, indeed, the meaning of the biblical words: “Love your fellow like yourself,” because from a deeper perspective, you and I are part of a larger self; we are like limbs of one body.

  Optional Story:

  The Kidney Matcher[2]

  In the late 1960’s in New York there lived a holocaust survivor who had an only son. His son had an illness dealing with his kidneys and it was getting progressively worse. The doctors ultimately told him that he must find a match from someone who is ready to donate a kidney.

  For most of the year they could not find a match and finally to this man’s unbelievable relief a donor in Toronto had an exact match. The transfer of the kidney was scheduled a few weeks later. The man came to Toronto with his son to take some final tests and to prepare for the surgery. To his shock and dismay the day before the surgery was to take place the nurse notified him that the donor backed down. The man was devastated. He tried to get the telephone number of the donor, to speak to him, but of course due to confidentiality they would not give it to him. He somehow managed to secure the number from the case file. He called the donor and the donor said, “Listen I was ready to give my kidney, I was ready to go through with the procedure, but my father suddenly refuses to give me permission and his blessings. In fact he forbade me to go through with this.”

  When the man started pleading for the life of his son the donor said, “I am so sorry  I cannot go against my beloved father’s wishes, speak to him yourself.”

  The man got the father’s telephone number and called him and the father of the kidney donor hung up on him. He called him again and he was hung up a second time. Finally the man went to the fathers home and when the man tried to close the door on him he pushed himself in and he said “I am a holocaust survivor; this is my only child. Please let the procedure go through.”

  The father of the donor asked the man, “Don’t you recognize me?” and he said no I don’t. The donor’s father, in rage and anger, said, “I was in the concentration camp and toward the end of the war, YOU were a Kapo, working with the Germans. One day we stole some bread and performed some other minor ‘illegal’ activities and you came in to punish us with the German soldiers. As per instructions of the SS, you took away my son that I had at my side, whom I never saw again. The moment I found out that my son was going to donate a kidney to save the life of YOUR son I said no way. There is so much irony here, the same fate that I suffered you will now suffer; your son is going to die!”

  The man from NY, the father of the patient who needed a kidney, started crying and said: “So now let me tell you the end of the story. I worked for the Germans not by choice, otherwise I would have been killed, but no prisoner who could have survived, child or otherwise died because of me. Your son whom I was forced to take from you—I did not have the heart to send him to the gas chambers. Rather, I hid him in our attic; I fed him and took care of him, at great risk, for a few months until the end of the war.  After the war knowing you had been deported to the camp, I searched for you and could not find you and assumed that you were killed with the millions of others.

  “I therefore took this boy and raised him as my own son.” With his eyes flowing with tears he concluded, “You see your son would be giving a kidney not to my son, but he, in fact, would be saving the life of his own brother;  my son is your long lost son! Now I understand why when we could not find a match anywhere else their kidneys matched, it is because they are brothers.”

  (Pause:) This story contains a powerful lesson for us: Yom Kippur asks of us to forgive others who might have pained us. Why should I forgive this stranger—or brother? He may feel bad but he did it, let him eat the stew he created! But the truth is that just as in the kidney story it is the other way around. We are one. When I continue to harbor hate and anger toward you, I am loathing a part of me. I may be cutting off my right arm to take revenge for my left. When I forgive you, I allow myself to be cleansed in the process.

  Optional Section:

  Two Exceptions

  There are two exceptions:

  1: If someone is hurting another person, and does not ask forgiveness nor express remorse, but rather continues to harm him or her, if by forgiving we are enabling and encouraging the perpetrator to continue, we are morally forbidden to forgive this person. By forgiving him, we embolden him and encourage him to continue his negative behavior, and thus become passive accomplices of the crimes. To forgive in such an instance, is assisting the perpetrator rather than confronting him.

  During the first Gulf War in 1991 a reporter asked General Schwarzkopf, who commanded the US troops in that war, what was his opinion about forgiving terrorists who are trying to blow up children. Was it our prerogative to forgive terrorists?

  His answer was: It’s G-d job to forgive terrorists, not ours. Our job is to arrange the meeting!

  2: I cannot forgive you for the harm or agony you caused to someone else. I can forgive you for the hurt you caused me (if you ask me for forgiveness. And I may choose to forgive even if you do not ask me,[3] as long as by forgiving you I am not causing you to do more harm to others). But I can’t forgive for someone else.

  The Mishnah states[4]: “For sins against G-d, the Day of Atonement (Yom Kippur) brings forgiveness. For sins against one's neighbor, the Day of Atonement brings no forgiveness until one has become reconciled with one's neighbor.”

  Isn't that ironic? This awesome Day of Pardon holds the power to absolve one of all of one's sins towards G-d, but proves utterly useless in the face of crimes committed against one's fellow! If we were measuring the harshness of sin, wouldn't the opposite be true? Wouldn't the offense against lowly man, a mere creation and subject of G-d, rank lower than the affront to G-d, his creator and master?

  But the point here is simple. On this unique day of clemency, in a show of unrestrained compassion, G-d forgives any sin He can, but He does not forgive those he "cannot." How can G-d forgive a sin which I have committed against Mr. Goldberg? G-d is not Goldberg; for a sin I committed against G-d, G-d can forgive me. For a sin I commit against Goldberg—GOLDBERG has to forgive me!

  If you steal a million dollars from someone else, can I forgive you? Who gives me this right? If I seize this right, I too I’m a thief, infringing on the boundaries and dignity of the victim, stealing the rights he or she exclusively owns to forgive their aggressor.  

  How do I have the audacity to forgive Nazis, or terrorists, for the harm they did to OTHERS? I can’t.

  Challenge Yourself

  This is the first Kol Nidrei—in which we let go of all the oaths, promises, and vows never to forgive, to harbor resentment and maintain grudges. If we want to be able to face G-d on Yom Kippur, and face our own soul on the holiest day of the year, we must have the courage to phone or meet those individuals we have hurt, willingly or even mistakenly, and express remorse. We ought to tell them a genuine “I’m sorry” and ask and offer forgiveness.

  I want to challenge myself and each of you to do something which may require courage. As Yom Kippur ends, over the next few days, put in a call to that one individual you have not been on speaking terms with for a while. I know it is awkward, and besides, you may feel that you were in the right and heshe was in the wrong. Granted. Do it anyway. We can never be whole inside when we are in a fight with a family member, a former friend, a colleague, employee, partner, or an acquaintance, or any other Jew. Challenge yourself. Transcend the fear or the stubbornness. Make that call. Reach out. It is the right thing to do, and you will know it right after you do it.

  Call your mother. Call your dad. Yes, you have your resentments, right or wrong. But does it make sense to be estranged for years to come?

  No, do not send a “text message.” That is cowardly. No, face book, and no twittering. Pick up that phone and speak to the person. Better yet, if you can, meet him or her face to face and make mends. Be a man. You will not melt. You will become stronger.

  And find the strength and courage to forgive others. Yes, you can hold grudges for months, or years, or as good Jews—for decades. But in refusing to forgive, you are hurting your own right arm. And always remember the words of the Talmud:[5]

  כל המעביר על מדותיו מעבירין לו על כל פשעיו.

  One who overcomes his natural inclination to hold on to a grudge and instead forgives, all of his or her sins are forgiven”.

  Making Peace with G-d

  There is someone else we ought to forgive tonight—represented by the second Kol Nidrei.

  G-d.

  Elie Wiesel was 14 years old when he was taken, along with his mother, his father and his sister, to Auschwitz in 1944. After the war and liberation he was the only member of his family to leave Auschwitz alive. He wrote an account called “Night.” In that book, he described watching a little boy hung by the SS on the gallows. Due to his light weight, it took much time till the boy died. At that moment, Wiesel wrote, he saw someone else on the gallows, also seemingly without life: it was his G-d.

  Fifty years passed. In 1997, before Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, Elie Wiesel penned a piece for the New York Times (October 2, 1997). In it, he wrote something incredible.

  “Master of the Universe, let us make up. It is time. How long can we go on being angry?

  “More than 50 years have passed since the nightmare was lifted. Many things, good and less good, have since happened to those who survived it. They learned to build on ruins. Family life was re-created. Children were born, friendships struck. They learned to have faith in their surroundings, even in their fellow men and women. Gratitude has replaced bitterness in their hearts…

  “Oh, they do not forgive the killers and their accomplices, nor should they. Nor should you, Master of the Universe. But they no longer look at every passer-by with suspicion. Nor do they see a dagger in every hand…

  “What about my faith in you, Master of the Universe?

  “I now realize I never lost it, not even over there, during the darkest hours of my life. I don't know why I kept on whispering my daily prayers, and those one reserves for the Sabbath, and for the holidays, but I did recite them, often with my father and, on Rosh ha-Shanah eve, with hundreds of inmates at Auschwitz…

  “In my testimony I have written harsh words, burning words about your role in our tragedy. I would not repeat them today. But I felt them then. I felt them in every cell of my being. Why did you allow if not enable the killer day after day, night after night to torment, kill and annihilate tens of thousands of Jewish children?...

  At one point, I began wondering whether I was not unfair with you. After all, Auschwitz was not something that came down ready-made from heaven. It was conceived by men, implemented by men, staffed by men. And their aim was to destroy not only us but you as well. Ought we not to think of your pain, too? Watching your children suffer at the hands of your other children, haven't you also suffered?

  “As we Jews now enter the High Holidays again, preparing ourselves to pray for a year of peace and happiness for our people and all people, let us make up, Master of the Universe. In spite of everything that happened? Yes, in spite. Let us make up: for the child in me, it is unbearable to be divorced from you so long.”

  Our Own Issues with G-d

  Most of us sitting here today have not endured what Eli Wiesel and an entire generation of survivors endured. But in our own way, we each have our disappointments with our Divine Creator. Why was this loved one taken away from me? Why is he/she suffering so much? Why all of the diseases, illnesses and disabilities? Why do I have to shlep my kids to the therapists constantly? Why do I have to deal with this chemical imbalance? Why was my childhood so lonely? Why do I need to endure all the addictions? Why must I struggle to make ends meet? Why can’t I find a decent comfortable house? I’ve been waiting so long to get married, why have you not helped me? And the list goes on.

  There was an elderly woman in her 90’s who died. She had never been married and she left instructions in her will regarding her funeral service insisting that there be no male pallbearers.  A notation in her own hand said, “They wouldn’t take me out when I was alive and I don’t want them to take me out when I’m dead.”

  Each of us has our grievances in life.

  Optional Section:

  The Sun and the Moon

  I want to share with you a remarkable lesson from the Talmud.[6]

  The Torah states that on each month, on Rosh Chodesh, the first day of the new month when the moon reappears again after “hiding,” a special offering was brought in the Holy Temple. It is the only offering that the Hebrew Bible says was offered “for G-d.” It was an atonement for G-d. But what does this mean? Why would G-d need atonement? Does G-d “sin”? The definition of sin, it seems, is disobeying G-d. So how can G-d sin?

  So the Talmud shares the following story. When the sun and moon were created, they were equal in greatness and luminance. But then something happened: The moon said to G-d: “Master of the Universe! Can two kings wear the same crown?” Said G-d to her, “Go diminish yourself.” And that is when the moon became a smaller body, dependent on the sun for its luminescence. The moon began to cry, “Why do I have to diminish myself?” So G-d said: “Offer an atonement for My sake, for having diminished the moon.” That is why the he-goat offering on the first of the month differs from the others in that it is specified ‘for G-d’? G-d is saying: “This he-goat shall atone for My diminishing of the moon.”

  What are we to make of this baffling account? The metaphor is profound: The sun and the moon represent two dimensions in our world: the sun represents the times we are stable, powerful, potent, bright and influential. The moon represents our feeble moments, when we wax and wane; like the moon, we become smaller and smaller, and may disappear completely. It symbolizes our “lunar” moments when we think we are becoming “lunatic” (from the word “lunar”) and meshuga. We feel anxious, down, depressed, and so dependent on the light of the sun—on others to help us.

  From G-d’s perspective, the sun and the moon are equal. Both of them play an equal role in the drama of creation and the human search to align spirit with matter, heaven with earth. But from our view, there is a dramatic difference. The sun feels on top of the world; the moon feels an eternal void. And we cry out: “Why.” And G-d says: I am responsible. Atone for my “sin.” I am the one responsible for creating the entire system of our universe—where people often feel so helpless, so alone, so wanting and so vulnerable. I know that from my perspective, they are none of this, they are merely fulfilling their purpose; but from their vantage point, it is so painful. And I am at fault.[7]

  So on the first day of every month, G-d asked His people to offer an atonement for Him.

  Let’s Make Peace

  I want you to give your G-d a hug tonight. On Yom Kippur, G-d asks you to atone Him for the entire drama called “life,” so blessed, yet so mysterious; so interesting, yet often so painful; so gratifying and yet so confusing. Speak to your G-d. Share with Him what is on your heart. Try to rebuild your relationship. Forgive Him. For He is crying right here with you.

  In fact, through all the confessions on Yom Kippur we say: “Chatanu”… “We have sinned.” But confession should be personal, not public. Why don’t we ever say, “I have sinned?” Said Rabbi Pinchas of Koritz: “We” refers to me and G-d. I have sinned, but G-d—in His own way—has “sinned” too. It was He who ultimately caused this entire possibility of human failure.

  Why did the moon have to be diminished? Why are so many lives diminished in so many ways? Why is tension the birth of creativity? Why is pain the harbinger for growth? I do not know. I really don’t. I stand here tonight as clueless as anyone else, probably more clueless. What I do know is that we need G-d in our lives. As Eli Wiesel says: “Let us make peace.”

  Undivided Attention

  A wealthy, successful businessman needed a large sum of money—millions of dollars—for his latest venture. When the money was not forthcoming from the usual sources, when the banks and financial institutions refused to help, and the deadline for the deal was rapidly approaching, he decided to turn to the "lender of last resort," to G-d. He entered the synagogue, stood in front of the Holy Ark, and poured out his heart and request to the Almighty. "I need so many million dollars in a hurry," he pleaded. He suddenly became aware that next to him stood another Jew, a poor man asking Hashem for a few dollars to put bread on the table for his large and growing family.

  The wealthy businessman took his wallet out of his pocket, extracted a 100-dollar note and handed it to the poor man who, overjoyed at his good fortune, left the shul.

  The wealthy businessman then resumed his position and addressed G-d with: "May I now please have Your undivided attention."

  Tonight, you have G-d’s undivided attention.

  Optional Story:

  A Father and a Son Reunite[8]

  A nurse took the tired, anxious serviceman to the bedside. "Your son is here," she said to the old man lying in bed. She had to repeat the words several times before the patient's eyes opened.

  Heavily sedated because of the pain of his heart attack, he dimly saw the young uniformed Marine standing outside the oxygen tent. He reached out his hand. The Marine wrapped his toughened fingers around the old man's limp ones, squeezing a message of love and encouragement.

  The nurse brought a chair so that the Marine could sit beside the bed. All through the night the young Marine sat there in the poorly lighted ward, holding the old man's hand and offering him words of love and strength. Occasionally, the nurse suggested that the Marine move away and rest awhile. He refused.

  Whenever the nurse came into the ward, the Marine was oblivious of her and of the night noises of the hospital—the clanking of the oxygen tank, the laughter of the night staff members exchanging greetings, the cries and moans of the other patients. Now and then she heard him say a few gentle words. The dying man said nothing, only held tightly to his son all through the night.

  Along towards dawn, the old man died. The Marine released the now lifeless hand he had been holding and went to tell the nurse. While she did what she had to do, he waited.

  Finally, she returned. She started to offer words of sympathy, but the Marine interrupted her, "Who was that man?" he asked.

  The nurse was startled, "He was your father," she answered.

  "No, he wasn't," the Marine replied. "I never saw him before in my life."

  "Then why didn't you say something when I took you to him?"

  "I knew right away there had been a mistake, but I also knew he needed his son, and his son just wasn't here. When I realized that he was too sick to tell whether or not I was his son, knowing how much he needed me, I stayed.

  The Marine continued: “I actually came here tonight to the hospital find a Mr. William Grey. His Son was killed in Iraq today, and I was sent to inform him. What was this Gentleman's Name? "

  The nurse with tears in her eyes answered, "Mr. William Grey..."

  My friends, that father needed his son on his last night. Tonight, on Yom Kippur, our Father in Heaven needs and awaits each of his children to embrace Him. But in this case, G-d is searching for His real children, not any replacement. So come hold on to G-d’s hand tightly and tell Him that you love Him, and allow yourself to forgive Him.

  Hold My Hand

  I read a story about an 11-year-old-boy, Brian, who had cancer. The treatments were very painful, but his doctor was able to mitigate the pain with various anesthetics.

  One day, Brian caught a cold. He still had to have his cancer treatment, but the doctor wouldn’t be able to give him the anesthetics because, with a cold, it could be extremely dangerous.

  So with his heart breaking, the Doctor said: “Brian, I love you very much, and I have to give you this treatment; but I can’t give you the anesthetic this time. I cannot take away the pain. But every time I apply the treatment, I’m going to hold your hand. And each time the pain comes, I’m going to hold you tighter and tighter, and you will feel better, okay?”

  It worked for Brian. And it can work for us. Life has its share of pains, but if you can hold on to someone’s hand, it makes it far more meaningful and deep.

  This is the second Kol Nidrei—letting go of our vows and chains that do not allow us to experience intimacy with our Father and Mother in heaven, with our source of life, with our soul of souls, our Divine creator and lover.

  Optional Story:

  Kaparot

  Once, on the evening before Yom Kippur, one of the chassidim of Rabbi Elimelech of Lishensk asked his Rebbe to allow him to see how he, Rabbi Elimelech, observes the custom of kaparot.[9]

  “How I do kaparot?” repeated Rabbi Elimelech. “How do you do kaparot?”

  “I am an ordinary Jew—I do what everyone else does. I hold the rooster in one hand, the prayerbook in the other, and recite the text, ‘This is my exchange, this is in my stead, this is my kaparah...’”

  “That’s exactly what I do,” said Rabbi Elimelech. “I take the rooster in one hand, the prayerbook in the other, and recite the text. Actually, there might be a certain difference between your kaparot and mine: you probably make sure to use a white rooster, while to me it makes no difference: white, black, brown—a rooster’s a rooster...”

  But the chassid persisted that his Rebbe’s kaparot was certainly no ordinary event. He had been coming to Lishensk to pray with the Rebbe every Yom Kippur for more than twenty years now, and had always wanted to observe his Rebbe at this most solemn moment.

  “You want to see an extraordinary kaparot?” said Rabbi Elimelech. “Go observe how Moshe the tavernkeeper does kaparot. Now, there you’ll see something far more inspiring than my own, ordinary kaparot.”

  The chassid located Moshe’s tavern at a crossroads several miles outside of Lishensk and asked to stay the night. “I’m sorry,” said the tavernkeeper. “As you see, this is a small establishment, and we don’t have any rooms to let. There’s an inn a small distance further down the road.”

  “Please,” begged the chassid, “I’ve been traveling all day, and I want to rest awhile. I don’t need a room—I’ll just curl up in a corner for a few hours and be on my way.”

  “O.K.,” said Moshe. “We’ll be closing up shortly, and then you can get some sleep.”

  After much shouting, cajoling and threatening, Moshe succeeded in herding his clientele of drunken peasants out the door. The chairs and tables were stacked in a corner, and the room, which also served as the tavernkeeper’s living quarters, readied for the night. Midnight had long passed, and the hour of kaparot was approaching. The chassid, wrapped in his blanket under a table, feigned sleep, but kept watch in the darkened room, determined not to miss anything.

  Before dawn, Moshe rose from his bed, washed his hands and recited the morning blessings. “Time for kaparot!” he called quietly to his wife, taking care not to wake his guest. “Yentel, please bring me the notebook—it’s on the shelf above the cupboard.”

  Moshe sat himself on a small stool, lit a candle, and began reading from the notebook, unaware that his “sleeping” guest was wide awake and straining to hear every word. The notebook was a diary of all the misdeeds and transgressions the tavernkeeper had committed in the course of the year—the date, time and circumstance of each scrupulously noted. His “sins” were quite benign—a word of gossip one day, oversleeping the time for prayer on another, neglecting to give his daily coin to charity on a third—but by the time Moshe had read through the first few pages, his face was bathed in tears. For more than an hour Moshe read and wept, until the last page had been turned.

  “Yentel,” he now called to his wife, “bring me the second notebook.”

  This, too, was a diary—of all the troubles and misfortunes that had befallen him in the course of the year. On this day Moshe was beaten by a gang of peasants, on that day his child fell ill; once, in the dead of winter, the family had frozen for several nights for lack of firewood; another time their cow had died, and there was no milk until enough pennies had been saved to buy another.

  When he had finished reading the second notebook, the tavernkeeper lifted his eyes heavenward and said: “So you see, dear Father in Heaven, I have sinned against You. Last year I repented and promised to fulfill Your commandments, but I repeatedly succumbed to my evil inclination. But last year I also prayed and begged You for a year of health and prosperity, and I trusted in You that it would indeed be this way.

  “Dear Father, today is the eve of Yom Kippur, when everyone forgives and is forgiven. Let us put the past behind us. I’ll accept my troubles as atonement for my sins, and You, in Your great mercy, shall do the same.”

  Moshe took the two notebooks in his hands, raised them aloft, circled them three times above his head, and said: “This is my exchange, this is in my stead, this is my kaparah.” He then threw them into the fireplace, where the smoldering coals soon turned the tear-stained pages to ashes.

  Cherish Yourself

  There is one more person I want you to forgive tonight. This person may be the hardest one to forgive.

  Yourself.

  Many of us walk around we are never good enough; we are failures. We have not achieved what we needed to achieve. We have made so many mistakes. We have done such stupid things in our lives. Or as someone shared with me: “Rabbi, I am not a good Jew. I attend synagogue only on Yom Kippur.” “I do not send my kids even to a Jewish school.” “My home is not kosher.” “I never even had a proper bar mitzvah.” “I never said kaddish for my father.”

  So I want to share with you a story. It’s the story of a 12-year-old boy who decided to study Judo despite the fact that he had lost his left arm in a devastating car accident.

  The boy began lessons with an old Japanese Judo master. The boy was doing well, so he couldn't understand why, after three months of intense training, the master had taught him only one move.

  "Sensei," the boy finally said, "Shouldn't I be learning more moves?"

  "This is the only move you know, but this is the only move you'll ever need to know," the Sensei replied.

  Not quite understanding, but believing in his teacher, the boy kept training.

  The boy was motivated. Despite lacking a left arm he displayed tremendous motivation and skill. But still the master has been teaching him only one move.

  Several months later, the sensei took the boy to his first tournament. Surprising himself, the boy easily won his first two matches.

  Amazed by his success, the boy was now in the finals.

  This time, his opponent was bigger, stronger, and more experienced. For a while, the boy appeared to be overmatched.

  Concerned that the boy might even get hurt, the referee called a time-out. He was about to stop the match when the Sensei intervened.

  "No," the Sensei insisted, "Let him continue."

  Soon after the match resumed, his opponent made a critical mistake: He dropped his guard. Instantly, the boy used his one move—the only move he mastered—to pin him to the floor. The boy had won the match and the tournament. He was the champion.

  On the way home, the boy asked his Sensai. "How could I win with only one move?”

  "The Sensai replied, "You have mastered one of the most difficult moves in all of judo. And, the only defense against that move, is for your opponent to grab your left arm.”

  Your Life’s Move

  For me, this story captures a major lesson in life. We are all missing something. Some people are tragically missing a left arm or another ability in their body. But all of us are missing something, physically, psychologically, emotionally, spiritually. We can walk around thinking, “Oy I am a failure,” “I am missing this and that, “I have made terrible mistakes;” “I am a bad Jew.” The truth is the converse: As with that child training for Judo, it is the very void in my life that allows me to create a “move” in my life that is unique and special to my mission in this world.

  Human failure is so predictable, G-d has placed on the calendar an annual day of forgiveness. Yom Kippur teaches us that we were never meant to be perfect. G-d already had perfection before He created us. Failing at our mission is itself a part of the mission. Yom Kippur is the day we remember that the purpose of life was not to be perfect, but rather to grow from our imperfections, and to bring light into darkness.

  So wherever you are in life, I say to you tonight: Forgive yourself for being less than perfect, and realize that this very imperfection is your deepest weapon: For it is only because of your weaknesses and imperfections that you have the ability to grow, to improve, to climb the latter of Judaism, higher, and higher, and higher.

  This is the third Kol Nidrei—letting go of the internal promises you make to yourself that you cannot grow in a real way because of previous shortcomings.

  The End of the Story

  Tonight, on the holiest night of the year, I glean strength from Yisroel Lichter—the grandfather of Chaim Boymel, the boy left in the car—to see what I am capable of as a human being and as a Jew.

  And it is here I want to share with you the end of the story:

  Just a few weeks ago, Nachman Shtitzer—the teacher who drove the car and forgot the child inside—and his wife had a baby boy. At the bris, the ceremony where we name the baby, they gave their baby a name. What was the name?

  Chaim…

  They named their boy after 4-year-old Chaim Boymel who died one year ago.

  And who was the sandek, the godfather, holding the baby at the bris? Chaim Boymel’s grandfather, the man who in a very real way, had given this new baby—and his parents and siblings—a shot at a second life.

  A Second Shot

  So tonight, give yourself a shot at a renewed and invigorated life. Ask others for forgiveness for what you might have done; forgive others for what they might have done. Try to forgive and make peace with G-d. And finally, forgive yourself for being imperfect, weak and scared. Now, forge ahead and make that “move” that will propel your life forward.

  Do not tell me, “I am a bad Jew.” You are not a bad Jew. You are a growing Jew. I pray to G-d that I, your Rabbi, also remains a growing Jew… Life is never about good or bad. It is about: “Are you growing from your mistakes or are you being paralyzed by your errors?” Instead of telling me or yourself that “you are not a good Jew” because of XYZ, ask yourself tonight: What will you do to grow your Jewishness?

  So this Yom Kippur consider making not a Japanese “Judo” move, but a “Jewish” move. A move that will bring a new energy and light into your life. For example, take upon yourself a resolution tonight to begin lighting Shabbat candles, to wrap Tefilin, to bring the purity of kosher into your kitchen, to put a mezuzah on your doors, to increase in charity, to grow in the mitzvah of loving and helping others, to study Torah each say or each week, to give your children a more meaningful  Jewish education, to use the spiritually transformative mikvah, to bring in Torah and Jewish books into your home for you and your loved ones to read and explore.

  And then—as we can engage in the genuine process of forgiveness—we will all be able to declare this Yom Kippur, like never before—as we will in just a few moments (as we have recited just a few moments ago):

  ברוך אתה ה' אלקינו מלך העולם שהחיינו וקיימנו והגיענו לזמן הזה.

  For a new, fresh, beginning has at last arrived.

  
  (My deep gratitude to the following Rabbis for their assistance with the RH and YK sermons of 5774: Rabbis Zalman Bluming, Mendel Huminer, Levi Jacobson, Sholom Moshe Paltiel, Issar David and Eprhaim Silverman, Dov Drizin, Benny Rappaport, and Boaz Werdiger).

   

  ---

  [1] Yerushalmi Nedarim.

  [2] Someone sent me this story by email. I do not know the source for it.

  [3] As in the Rebono Shel Olam which the Alter Rebbe inserted into the siddur before Krias Shema Sheal Hamitah, where we choose to forgive all those who may have hurt us. This is not obligatory behavior, since the person may have not requested forgiveness, rather it is “beyond the letter of the law.”

  [4] Yuma end of chapter 8

  [5] Rosh Hashanah 17a

  [6] Chulin 60b

  [7] See Likkutei Sichos vol. 30 Bereishis. Sichas Purim 5731. Maamar Rosh Hashanah 5726.

  [8] Note: Someone sent me a link to a report noting that this story is fictional.

  [9] Kaparot is one of the most solemn observances of the Days of Awe. In the early morning hours of the day before Yom Kippur, we take a rooster (for a man) or a hen (for a woman) and, circling it above our heads, say three times: “This is my exchange, this is in my stead, this is my kaparah (atonement); this rooster shall go to its death, and I shall go on to good, long life and peace.” The bird is then slaughtered and its meat (or its value) given to the poor. As the chicken is being slaughtered, we meditate on the thought that it is we who, in truth, are deserving of such a fate because of our sins, and that it is only because G-d, in His great kindness, accepts this “exchange” that we are granted a year of life and peace. 

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