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September 26, 2023

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Is Failure the Greatest Teacher? – Yom Kippur 5784

“The greatest teacher, failure is,” we learn from the great Rabbi… Yoda.

Popular wisdom would seem to affirm this.

In its early years, Facebook was famous for the motto “move fast and break things.”

The bestselling book, Grit, by Angela Duckworth, showed how the most successful people embody qualities of passion and perseverence that enable them to stay focused on their goals and overcome the obstacles that rise in their path.

In the realm of parenting, The Blessings of a Skinned Knee, followed up by The Blessings of a B Minus, by Wendy Mogel, turned to Jewish teachings and psychology to emphasize how letting our children make mistakes and figure out how to deal with the repercussions leads to them becoming resilient and confident adults.

And of course, we must not forget Thomas Edison, who famously said “I have not failed 10,000 times—I’ve successfully found 10,000 ways that will not work.” That’s lovely. Inspiring. The problem is, most of us are not Thomas Edison.

We do not particularly like to fail. In fact, despite it’s inevitability, we try to avoid it at all possible costs. Failure is unpleasant. As much as we might like to think that failure is the best teacher, the truth is quite different.

Professors Lauren Eskreis-Winkler and Ayelet Fishbach conducted a study[1] in which they gave participants a series of ten questions. The questions were multiple choice, and had only two possible answers. 

Subjects were instructed to learn as much as possible from the results of the tests. With only two possible choices, they learned the true answer, whether or not they got the question right.

And the questions were impossible to know ahead of time, having to do with obscure data about customer service call center statistics. For example: “How much money, anually, do US companies lose due to poor customer service?” Is it A. over $90 billion, or B. over $60 billion?

After completing the test, the subjects were given the results with instructions to learn the answers so that they could do better when they took the test a second time.

Half of the group were told which questions they had gotten correct. The other half were told which questions they had gotten incorrect. Because there were only two possible answers, both groups now had all the information they needed to learn the material.

Then they took the test a second time.

The participants who had been told which answers they got correct, the “success feedback” group, did better the second time. In other words, they learned from their “success.”

The “failure feedback” group, which had been told which questions they answered incorrectly, did not do as well, many recording no improvement and not even remembering the answers they got correct the first time. In other words, “failure” was not an effective teacher. Interestingly, when a third party observed the “failure feedback” group, they were able to learn the material just as effectively as those who observed the “success feedback” group.

Failure prompts us to shut down. When I get something wrong, I internalize that there is something wrong with me. It is much harder to learn and grow when I feel this way about myself.

If failure is our greatest teacher, it seems that we may be sleeping through class.

Don’t worry, we are not the only ones.

The Israelites had completed the construction of the Mishkan, the Tabernacle that they would carry with them through the wilderness. Moses is set to turn over control to the priests, under the leadership of his brother, Aaron. He instructs him

Come forward to the altar and sacrifice your sin offering and your burnt offering, making atonement for yourself and for the people; and sacrifice the people’s offering and make atonement for them, as the LORD has commanded.

Leviticus 9:7

This is to be Aaron’s first formal act of worship. The problem is, Aaron already knows that he is supposed to come forward to offer his sacrifice. Why does Moses need to tell him a second time?

According to a midrash, (Sifra, Tzav, Mechilta d’Miluim 1:1; Sifra, Shemini, Mechilta d’Miluim 2:8; Rashi on Leviticus 9:7, Ramban on Leviticus 9:7) it is because Aaron panics. He suddenly thinks about the sin he had committed with the Golden Calf. If you recall, not knowing what had happened to Moses after he went up to Mt. Sinai, the Israelites ask Aaron to make an image of God to lead them through the wilderness. Aaron collects their gold and forms the Golden Calf.

This is one of the most disastrous episodes in the Israelites’ forty years of wandering in the wilderness.

Now poised to become High Priest, Aaron, overcome with shame and embarrasment, freezes.

Understanding what is going through his brother’s mind, Moses turns to Aaron and exclaims, “Why are you ashamed? You have been chosen for this very purpopse.”

The function of the Mishkan is to enable the Israelites to seek atonement. Sin is going to happen. Impurity will interfere with the relationship between God and the Israelites. Aaron, the High Priest, plays the central role in mending that relationship.

As an outside observer, Moses sees what his brother cannot: that Aaron’s failure with the Golden Calf makes him perfectly suited for the job. In the ritual of Yom Kippur, the High Priest must first bring an offering of atonement for himself and his household, before he can facilitate the people’s atonement. The High Priest was never expected to be perfect.

One version of the midrash adds a twist by suggesting that it is Satan who shows Aaron the pointed horns of the altar. This sends Aaron’s mind straight to the horns on the Golden Calf, provoking his moment of shame.

Our tradition identifies the Satan, the Adversary, with the Yetzer Hara, literally the “evil inclination.” A more modern understanding of Yetzer hara is the ego.

The ego, the Yetzer Hara, is our sense of self, the part of us that seeks to expand in the world. It is the source of desire and self interest, and drives our instinct for self preservation. Our Yetzer Hara compels us to go on the defensive whenever we perceive a threat, real or imagined. Without the yetzer hara, we would not survive.

Viewing the midrash through this lens, it is Aaron’s ego that causes him to freeze.

Ashamed by the greatest mistake of his life, he is unable to learn. Instead, it immobilizes him. The prospect of having to go out in front of the people threatens him with reliving his failure again and again.

This is similar to what the researchers who developed the Facing Failure Game found. Our egos are implicated by our successes and failures. It is not that I made a mistake: I am a mistake.

So we avoid situations which remind us of our past errors, which is what Aaron tries to do. Alternatively, we pretend the failure did not happen. Consider the Sour Grapes Effect and the Ostrich Effect.

First, the Sour Grapes effect.

Remember the story of the fox from Aesop’s Fables.

One day, Fox is walking along and spies a beautiful bunch of ripe grapes hanging from a vine that has wound itself up a tree branch. The grapes are bursting with juice, and the fox is so thirsty. Fox jumps grab the grapes, but misses by a mile. Stepping back a few paces, Fox takes a running leap, but still misses. Over and over again, Fox tries to get the grapes, but falls short every time. Finally, Fox sits down, frowning. “What a fool I am. Here I have been wearing myself out, when these are nothing but sour grapes.” With that, Fox stands up and walks away scornfully… and thirsty.

The Sour Grapes effect is our tendency, when we fail, to change our beliefs about what we wanted in the first place. 

After altering the story, Fox no longer failed to get the grapes. Fox decided that they were not worth it. “I didn’t fail, I just decided to stop trying.” The ego is safe.

The Ostrich Effect refers to our tendency to avoid evidence of our past mistakes. We bury our heads in the sand. As an example, investors whose stocks are doing well tend to check their portfolios more often than investors whose stocks are doing poorly.

If I do not have to look at the evidence of my mistakes, maybe they will go away. Perhaps they do not even exist. 

Fox could have potentially learned a lesson about how to reach something that is out of reach if they had been willing to take a good look at what went wrong. I might learn to be a better investor if I paid more attention to my losing stock picks. 

In both cases, my self-defense instincts kicked in to make me feel better in the short run, but actually made me worse off in the long run. I failed to learn from the greatest teacher: failure.

We would be so much better off if we could train ourselves to separate our actions from our egos. The Book of Proverbs teaches: 

Seven times the tzadik (righteous person) falls and gets up, while the wicked are tripped by one misfortune.

Proverbs 24:7

One Rabbi, responding to an inquiry from a student, explains that

Foolish people think that this [verse] means, “Even though a righteous person falls seven times, he will rise.” The wise know well that the meaning is: “Because a tzaddik falls seven times, he will rise.”

Rabbi Yitzchak Hutner, Pachad Yitzchak: Igrot U’ketavim No. 128

In other words, a person only becomes a tzadik, develops qualities of righteousness, if they continually pick themselves back up after they fall. In other words, if they make a habit of learning from their failures. This is something that any of us can achieve, but most of us do not. 

Why seven times? Seven are the days of week. Falling down is a daily occurrence.  

A story is told in the Talmud (Gittin 43a) about Rabba bar Rav Huna. He issues a halakhic ruling, but another Rabbi comes up to him with an objection. It turns out, Rabba bar Rav Huna is wrong.

So now he has to deal with his error. First, he appoints a spokesperson to help him get the word out. Then he offers a short drash. Quoting Isaiah, “And let this stumbling-block be under your hand,” Rabba bar Rav Huna explains that a person cannot understand matters of Torah unless he stumbles in them. Then he issues a public retraction of his earlier ruling, setting himself up as the case in point. 

The Talmud records this entire incident, including the details of Rabba bar Rav Huna’s mistake. This humble man does not conflate his error with his ego.

He is not afraid of publicly owning his failure and taking responsibility. The result is that he comes across as someone of great character and wisdom. 

It can be so empowering to admit our failures, but this is often difficult for us. 

Maimoinides, the twelfth century Rabbi, physician, philosopher, and community leader, provides great insight into the human condition in his discussion of the laws of teshuvah, repentance. 

He teaches that the first step is the vidui – the confession. We cannot begin to repent without first acknowledging that we have made a mistake, that we have failed in some way. 

We ritualize this in our liturgy, with our alphabetical Ashamnu and Al Chet. We recite long lists of sins that we — first person, plural — have all committed, striking our chests as we proceed from alef through tav.

But let’s be real. These are not actual confessions. They are just examples. For a confession to count, it must be personal — first person singular. 

Maimonides emphasizes that our confession must be public, in front of other people. He acknowledges that pride often prevents a person from confessing their sins, but reminds us that full teshuvah cannot happen while a person keeps their sins to themself.

This makes sense. If I am still holding on to my shame, how can I learn, grow, and move on?

What are we to do? How can we begin to separate our actions from our ego?

The truth is, it is much easier to talk about our successes. It feels so much better to feed our egos with all the things that make us great. Consider the “About Me” section of a blog or web page.

What is listed? Typically, the degrees that a person has earned, the boards they serve on, the awards and certifications they have received. Maybe it lists their hobbies and interests.

The “About Me” page rarely lists a person’s failures. And yet, to truly get a full picture of a human being, we should know something about what did not go according to plan. After all, if this person is truly great, “righteous” to use the language of Proverbs, they must have fallen and gotten up again on a regular basis.

A recent trend in some academic and business circles has been to compose a “Failure Resume.”

It is the opposite of a typical resume, where a person lists all of their professional accomplishments.

A Failure Resume lists the schools to which a person applied and did not get in, the numerous journals that rejected papers, the classes failed, tests and essays bombed, jobs fired from, and so on. If we are honest, it should be a long list.

Such a resume could really help us learn from the failures which we tend to repress.

What would my Rabbinic Failure Resume look like? People often ask me how things are going at Sinai. I tend to mention the successes.

What do I not mention? The sermons that fell flat. I do not talk about the former congregants who left the synagogue because of something that I did, or failed to do. I leave out the sick and suffering people whom I did not call when they needed to hear from me. 

In the context of Yom Kippur, I suggest that we include some additional categories in our Failure Resumes:

We all have relationship failures, including marriages, children and parents. Friends we let down.

Obligations to community, the tzedakah I did not give. The people who needed support whom I did not assist.

Failures to God: mitzvot I did not fulfill that I could have, opportunities to study Torah that I did not embrace. 

When I have assembled my Failure Resume, what next?

First of all, it would be a great exercise to share it with someone I trust. And what an honor it would be for the recipient of such sharing.

Second, beating ourselves up over our failures is not very productive. It may even be harmful. I suggest a different approach. Pick something on the resume.  What advice would I offer to someone who is struggling with the same failure?

A person who has been trying to quit smoking for twenty years does not need to be reminded how unhealthy cigarettes are. They know. What they could be really good at, however, is coming up with advice for someone else who is trying to quite smoking.

In one study, middle school students were asked to offer suggestions for an incoming student about how to overcome a lack of academic motivation. The other group of students was given written advice from the teacher to do a better job completing their assignments. Over the next four weeks, the students who came up with the recommendations procrastinated less and completed more of their own homework assignments than the group who were told to do better by a teacher.

If we allow ourselves to really reflect on our mistakes, we can often figure out the solutions on our own.

One final point. We tend to be really bad about receiving criticism. Negative feedback is perceived as a direct assault on the ego which drives us straight into self defense mode.

As my late father-in-law, Gary, zikhro livracha, used to say, “unsolicited advice is never appreciated.”

Here is my unsolicited advice: refrain, as often as possible, from offering advice unless it is asked for.

Nevertheless, all of us are frequent recipients of criticism, most of it probably unsolicited. Might I suggest we adopt a model from synagogue. During the Torah reading, there are two gabbaim up here on the bimah, positioned on either side of the reading table. Their job is to supervise the Torah reading, offering corrections and cues whenever the Torah reader makes a mistake or gets stuck.

Sometimes, Torah readers get flustered by the gabbaim. They can be intimidated by the prospect that the gabbaim will be standing next to them, checking their work, so to speak, and pointing out all of their failings.

But the role of the gabbai is not to spring an embarrassing, public “gotcha” on the poor Torah reader. They should properly be seen as partners. We are all part of a team whose goal is to give honor to God and the Torah through a ritualized study of sacred text. The gabbaim are there to help the reader do their best possible work.

What if we treated every interaction like this – particularly the difficult ones? This person before me, full of complaints and criticism, is actually my gabbai, here to support me and make me better. My job is to figure out what it is that they are here to teach me.

This Yom Kippur, as we reflect on the year that is past and prepare ourselves for the year ahead, help us truly understand that our failures do not define us.

Instead of burying them in shame, grant us the courage to acknowledge our mistakes to ourselves, and share them with trusted companions. When we fall, may we rise despite the certainty that we will fall again, confident that this is the only path towards righteousness. May we recognize those who point out our mistakes as our gabbaim, our partners who are there to help us learn and be better. May we embody the teaching that the only way to understand Torah is to stumble through it. 

May the year ahead be filled with constructive failure, learning, and growth.

G’mar Chatimah Tovah.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Lauren Eskreis-Winkler and Ayelet Fishbach – Not Learning From Failure—the Greatest Failure of All

Tim Herrera – How Early-Career Setbacks Can Set You Up for Success

Hidden Brain Podcast – Learning From Your Mistakes

Jeremy Adam Smith – How to Learn from your Failures

 

[1] https://journals.sagepub.com/doi/10.1177/0956797619881133

[2] Sifra, Tzav, Mechilta d’Miluim 1:1; Sifra, Shemini, Mechilta d’Miluim 2:8; Rashi on Leviticus 9:7, Ramban on Leviticus 9:7

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May 4, 2019

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Acharei Mot 5779 – Dispel the Darkness

This morning’s Torah portion has kind of a dark title.  Acharei Mot means “after the death.”

“The Lord spoke to Moses after the death of the two sons of Aaron who died when they drew too close to the presence of the Lord.”

Following are detailed instructions of the ritual of atonement that Aaron and future High Priests are to perform on Yom Kippur.  The purpose of these rituals is to purify the Tabernacle, and later the Sanctuary, which becomes stained with ritual pollution during the preceding year.  

As the nexus between heaven and earth, the place where the Shechinah, God’s Presence, comes to dwell amidst the people, this is especially important.  The Shechinah is not able to remain in a polluted shrine.  The rituals we read about this morning serve to cleanse it of its impurities.

Why do these instructions that Aaron receives need to be preceded by a reference to the deaths of his sons, Nadav and Avihu?

Perhaps it is meant as a warning.  Entering the Holy of Holies, the most sacred precinct, is a potentially dangerous endeavor.  Only the High Priest is permitted to do it.  And he has to be extremely careful.  One mistake can result in death.

The mention of Nadav and Avihu is meant to serve as a warning that the risk is real.  The task of the High Priest is so great, that he needed to approach it with the utmost respect and care.

But that was then.  We take this warning figuratively today.  When we enter the synagogue, we bring our whole selves.  We come with respect and care, just like the High Priest.  Prayer in synagogue is a confrontation with our own mortality – symbolically, not literally.

A synagogue, just like a Church, a Mosque, or a Temple, is supposed to be a place of peace.  A place that is open to all, where worshippers are safe to enter.  Because it is only when we feel a sense of safety and security that we can really allow ourselves to be vulnerable.  To pour out our gratitude, our fears, our happiness, and our sadness before our Creator.

Last week, during Shabbat services, right before the Yizkor memorial service on the eighth day of Passover, the prayers of our brothers and sisters at the Chabad of Poway were interrupted with bullets.  

We mourn the death of Lori Gilbert-Kaye, may her memory be a blessing.  She was murdered as she used her body as a shield to protect Rabbi Yisroel Goldstein, enabling him to evacuate children to safety.  Rabbi Goldstein was shot in the hand, losing a finger.  Almog Peretz was shot in the leg.  Noya Dahan, an eight year old girl, was injured by shrapnel.

This attack occurred six months to the day after thirteen worshippers were murdered at the Tree of Life Synagogue in Pittsburgh.

It is sickening.  As Jews, an attack in a synagogue hits especially close to home, making us feel unsafe in our own house of worship.  But it is just as sickening as the murder of Muslim worshippers at a mosque in Christchurch and Christian worshippers at churches in Sri Lanka.

I resist the temptation to say “Where were you God?”  The evidence would suggest that it is not in God’s nature to prevent such things.  This hatred and violence is a human disease.

We observed Yom HaShoah this week, Holocaust Remembrance Day.  We know all too well about the evils humans are capable of.  Sadly, there have been other times in our history when our houses of worship were not places of refuge.

The part that is so frustrating is that the vast, vast majority of people are kind, generous, and compassionate (or at the very least: nonviolent).  We were all greeted this morning by friends from our interfaith community who came to express their love and support for us.  How moving it was to be reassured that, although we may have different rituals, we share the same values of peace and freedom.

It is such an exceedingly small number who are prepared to act out their hatred.  The nature of terror is that it seeks to create irrational fear that is disproportionate to the threat.

What do we do now?  Do we allow a few extremists paralyze us, to prevent us from living?  We cannot.

Rebbe Nachman of Breslov, who lived in far more precarious times, famously said: Kol ha’olam kulo gesher tzar me’od.  V’ha’ikar lo lefached k’lal.  The whole world is a very narrow bridge.  And the main principle is not be afraid at all.

Here at Sinai, we take safety seriously.  We have taken many concrete actions over the years, and continue to do more, to make sure that this will continue to be a house of peace.  A place where we can be vulnerable spiritually and emotionally… not physically.

Our response must be to continue to live, to sing and dance, to be together.  We must not be afraid at all.  That is the true act of faith.

Minutes after being shot, Rabbi Goldstein stood up on a chair and addressed his congregation.  “Am Yisrael Chai!” he declared.  “The people of Israel live!”  He continued, “We are going to stand tall, we are going to stand proud of our heritage.  If a little light can dispel a lot of darkness, than many lights can truly illuminate the whole world.”

We have to be those lights, for each other, and for the world.  I am so proud of all of us who are here, overcoming fear, to dispel the darkness.

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October 1, 2017

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Cultivating the Ability to Say “I Love You” – Yom Kippur 5778

The Baal Shem Tov, the founder of Hasidism, once said:

I came into the world to show another way, to cultivate love of God, of Israel, and of the Torah, and there is no need for fasting and mortification.”

Now don’t get too excited.  I do not think he was saying we should not fast on Yom Kippur.  But he is suggesting that the cultivation of our ability to love is the most important thing we can do.  How do we cultivate love?

Today’s Torah reading does not offer much guidance.  It describes the ritual that Aaron, the High Priest, performed on behalf of the Israelites on Yom Kippur.  It goes into all of the technical details of washing, dressing, offering sacrifices, and even sending a goat off into the wilderness.  All of this so that the Tabernacle could be purified of the sins that had accumulated over the course of the year.

The High Priest had a crucial role to play, and only he could play it.  In describing the ritual, the Torah speaks matter-of-factly.  We gain no insight into the internal emotional state of the High Priest as he performs the rituals.  But it must have been a terrifying and exhilarating experience.  I imagine that many High Priests might have been motivated by their love for the Jewish people.

The single hint of what Aaron could have been feeling appears in the opening words of the reading.  “The Lord spoke to Moses after the death of the two sons of Aaron who died when they drew too close to the presence of Adonai.”  (Lev. 16:1)  The language is cold and factual, but it draws our memories back to the tragic deaths of Nadav and Avihu, six chapters earlier.

Is this a detail that we need?  After all, it does not add anything to the procedures.  Perhaps, as our Mahzor suggests, it is a warning to remind the High Priest of what is at stake if he is not careful to perform the ritual exactly as prescribed.

Or maybe the Torah is trying to remind us that the individual who performs this ritual on our behalf bears his own burdens and struggles.  “After the death of the two sons of Aaron” brings us back in time to the moment and its aftermath when Nadav and Avihu were inexplicably struck down.

Moses steps forward to take charge.  Explaining the tragedy, he comes off as something of a “know it all.”  His grieving brother’s response?  Vayidom Aharon.  “Aaron was silent.”

Moses instructs a couple of cousins to remove the bodies.  He tells Aaron and his sons that, due to their position, they are not permitted to engage in public mourning.  He instructs them to continue the sacred offerings, as if nothing has happened, reviewing in detail all of the procedures.  Then, when Moses sees Eleazar and Itamar, Aaron’s remaining sons, doing something which he thinks is improper, he scolds them.  That is a step too far.  Aaron ends his silence, pushing back against his brother’s cold, by-the-book attitude.

Moses relents.

Aaron needs something from his brother in that moment, and he does not get it.  Moses shows no compassion, no acknowledgement that Aaron has just experienced the worst loss a parent can suffer.  Surely Moses loves his brother, but he fails to look beyond the garments of the High Priest to the suffering person underneath.  What would have comforted Aaron?  What would have reassured him that his brother, his family, and indeed the Israelite nation, loved him?

We do not know.  The Torah is silent.

As human beings, we are social creatures.  Included in our basic core requirements, in addition to food, clothing, and water, is our need to be loved.  And not only romantic love, but the love between parents and children, siblings, other relatives, friends, and even God.

When a person knows that he or she is loved and accepted unconditionally, that person is better able to return love, feels more settled, and is more willing to take risks with the knowledge that love is not on the line.  And when that person suffers a loss, as Aaron did, he is able to move through the stages of grieving with more resilience.

One of the unconscious mistakes that most of us make is assuming that we know what other people need from us.  “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you” is not necessarily the best advice, as each of us wants different things.

Centuries after Aaron performed the ritual in the Tabernacle, the High Priest would conduct a similarly intricate series of rituals in the Temple in Jerusalem.  As in earlier times, the purpose was to bring about atonement on behalf of the Jewish people.  Over the course of the year, the people’s sins accumulated, polluting the sanctuary.  God’s Presence could no longer remain in a polluted sanctuary.  The atonement rituals served as a spiritual cleansing, enabling God’s Presence to return.

The Talmudic Tractate, Yoma, goes into great detail about the rituals of Yom Kippur.  In the fifth chapter, it describes the incense offering.  (Yoma 5:1)  The High Priest places the specially formulated incense on hot coals in a metal pan so that the entire chamber of the Holy of Holies fills with smoke.  He then exits the Holy of Holies, walking backwards.  When he reaches the outer chamber, the High Priest pauses to recite a short prayer.  The Mishnah emphasizes that the High Priest would not pray for too long, so as not to alarm the people who are waiting for him outside.

It is known that a priest who alters the recipe for the incense, or who is not himself fit, can be struck dead on the spot while in the Holy of Holies.  If such were to occur, the regular priests waiting outside would have a problem, as none of them are permitted to enter the sacred precincts while the High Priest is in the Holy of Holies.  Maimonides reports that many Second Temple priests perished while conducting the Yom Kippur ritual .

After completing his duties and emerging safely from the Holy of Holies, the High Priest throws a big feast for his loved ones to express his gratitude that no tragedy has befallen him.  (Yoma 7:4)

The Talmud (Yoma 53b) relates a particular incident that occurs one year.  A certain High Priest is inside the Holy of Holies, reciting his prayer after the incense offering, but he is not coming out.  His fellow priests are worried.  Maybe he needs help?  Maybe he fainted?  Maybe he has been struck dead by a bolt of lightning!?

After speculating on the increasingly gruesome possibilities, they finally agree to enter.

Just at that moment, the High Priest emerges, triumphant.

“Why did you take so long to pray?” they ask him.

“What are you so worried about?” he responds.  “After all, I was praying for you and for the Temple to not be destroyed!”

Angry, they respond, “Well, don’t make a habit out if it.  You know what the law says; ‘He would not extend his prayer, so as not to alarm the Jewish people.'”

Clearly, there is a failure of communication.  The High Priest is convinced that he is doing the right thing for the people.  He loves them.  He is praying for their survival, and for the survival of the Holy Temple.  “Everything I did, I did for you,” he seems to be saying.  What could be wrong with that?

He has miscalculated.  In fact, his prayer is somewhat self-serving.  He prays for the people, and for the temple to not be destroyed.  He, of course, has a personal interest in the continued functioning of the Temple.  He assumes that everyone else wants the same.

It turns out, the people want something different.  “But what you did for us is not what we wanted you to do for us.”

What do they want?  He is their beloved High Priest, their religious leader.  They are worried about him.  They want his presence, not his prayers.  They are looking for a more intimate relationship than what he has offered them.  He does not seem to understand their needs – much as Moses fails to understand Aaron’s needs in his moment of loss.

This is one of the major stumbling blocks in relationships.  We do not pay the right kind of attention to what the people we love need.  Different people need to be loved in different ways.

Let’s each think for a moment about someone who loves us, either now or in the past.  It could be or have been a partner, a parent or child, a relative, or a friend.  Let’s ask, “How do I know that this person loves or loved me?”

The marriage and family counselor Gary Chapman wrote a well-known book called The 5 Love Languages which he has subsequently expanded into a small empire.  (I am indebted to Rabbi Laurie Matzkin for making this connection.)  His basic premise is that there are five essential ways of communicating love of all kinds.  Every person has a primary emotional language that determines how they best receive love.

Chapman argues that by knowing which is our own primary love language, and which is the primary love language of our partner, child, parent, or friend, we will be able to both give and receive love in a fuller way, and will have deeper, more fulfilling and compatible relationships.

If we are having difficulties in a relationship, it may very well be the case that the two individuals are not speaking one another’s love language.

The five love languages are, in no particular order:  “Words of Affirmation,” “Quality Time,” “Receiving Gifts,” Acts of Service,” and “Physical Touch.”  I will briefly summarize each of them.

Someone who responds best to “Words of Affirmation” likes to receive unsolicited compliments and kind words.  Saying “I love you,” sincerely of course, leave this person feeling great.  Conversely, this person takes insults very hard.

A person whose primary language is “Quality Time” appreciates nothing more than full, undivided attention.  Put the cell phone on mute, turn off the TV and be present with this person for focused conversations or shared activities.

Some people blossom by “Receiving Gifts” that reflect care and thoughtfulness.  Don’t mistake this for greed.  A meaningful gift could be a flower plucked from the garden.  Marking birthdays and anniversaries with a gift are important for those who speak this language.

Those whose primary love language is “Acts of Service” appreciates it most when things are done for them.  Washing the dishes, performing other household chores, or relieving a burden are received as expressions of love.  On the other hand, laziness and not following through communicate to this person that he or she does not matter.

Finally, some people communicate love through “Physical Touch.”  Hugs, a pat on the back, holding hands, or simply sitting close to another person are received as acts of love.  When a child who is feeling bad comes over to sit in a parent’s lap and nuzzles their neck, it is probably a good indication that “Physical Touch” is that child’s primary love language.  When a person who speaks this language does not experience physical contact, it can be lonely and insecure.

We all speak each of these languages, but for most of us, there is one that is dominant.

So… which do you think is your primary love language?  Think back to how you answered the question about how you knew you were loved.  “Words of Affirmation,” “Quality Time,” “Receiving Gifts,” Acts of Service,” or “Physical Touch.”

Chapman identifies three questions to help us figure it out.

1.  How do I typically express my affection for other people?  Our natural inclination is to express love in the way that we hope to receive it.  That is why the High Priest expresses his love for Israel by praying that they and the Temple will not be destroyed.  In Chapman’s language, we might say that the High Priest’s language is “Acts of Service.”

2.  What do I most complain about to my loved ones?  This could indicate that I am feeling abused in my primary love language.  The people complain to the High Priest that he was not there with them.  Their primary love language is “Quality Time.”

3.  What am I most likely to ask for from my loved ones?  The thing that we most often request from our friend, partner, or family member is likely connected to the thing that would most likely make us feel loved.  A spouse who insists that her partner mark her birthday with some sort of present or special activity speaks the language of “Giving Gifts.”

Knowing this about ourselves, and about each other, can make a tremendous difference in our relationships.  I may hate to do the dishes… with a passion.  But if I know that my spouse’s love language is “Acts of Service,” then by doing the dishes, I am actually saying “I love you” to her.  It even makes me feel differently about doing the dishes.  And my partner feels loved.

When we love another person, we want to make that person happy.  We want that person to feel secure, and to know that our love for them is unconditional.  Knowing which language to speak is key.

Can we apply this paradigm to God?  What is God’s primary love language?

Ahavah, the Hebrew word for love, means something different in the Torah than the word love means to us today.  The concept of ahavah is wrapped up in covenant.  In the Shema, we recite V’ahavta et Adonai Elohekha b’khol levavekha uv’khol nafshekha uv’khol me’odekha.  “You shall love the Lord your God with all of your heart, with all of your soul, and with all of your might.”

The Torah is not talking about an emotional feeling.  It is talking about actions.  How do we express our love for God?  Through actions.  By teaching our children, reciting words of Torah at home and on the road, at night and by day.  By putting up mezuzot on our doorposts and wrapping tefillin on our arms and our heads.  These are concrete deeds which express our relationship as individuals and as a people to God.

So we might say that God speaks the language of “Acts of Service.”  Through our actions, through performance of mitzvot, we express our love for God.

God has a different way of expressing love for us.  The language is all over our prayers.  How do we know that God loves us?  “Gift Giving.”  In the morning service, we recite Ahavah rabah ahavtanu.  “You loved us with a tremendous love.”  How?  Through the gift of Torah.

In the Torah’s covenantal language, God gives us the Promised Land, along with peace, security, and prosperity.  But is this all we want?  After all, the rabbis insist that we should strive to serve God not for a reward, but for God’s own sake.

In a more spiritual sense, what we long for is “Quality Time.”  In today’s Amidah, we say vatiten lanu Adonai Eloheinu b’ahavah… “You have given us in love, Adonai our God, this Shabbat day for holiness and rest, and this Yom Kippur for pardon, forgiveness and atonement…”  The ability to experience a sense of holiness in time comes through the weekly gift of Shabbat, as well as the annual cycle of holidays, each of which offers a unique opportunity to relate to God.

In Biblical and Temple times, the Yom Kippur ritual is what enabled God’s Presence to remain or return into the people’s midst.  With the knowledge that God was with them, the nation felt safe and protected.

The rituals of the Temple have been replaced by synagogue worship and personal teshuvah.  It is now we, individually, who long to feel the Presence of God in our lives.

As the 20th century theologian Martin Buber describes using the language of I-Thou, it is when we can fully encounter another person with our entire being that we experience God.  I would suggest that this can only happen when we are feeling loved, and are able to express love to someone else in the language that they understand.

In this new year, to experience God more fully, let’s strive to experience each other more fully.

Let’s figure out our own love language.  And them, let’s pay attention to our partners, parents, children, and friends to learn how to better express our feelings to them in the language that they will understand.

May we be sealed in the book of life for a year filled with the cultivation of love, both expressed and received, for God, for Torah, and for each other.

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October 5, 2014

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Finding the Factory Reset Button – Yom Kippur 5775

Yom Kippur, as the Torah describes it, is a “restore device to original factory settings” button.  It reformats the relationship between God and Israel, wipes our souls clean, and enables us to begin the new year bug free.

Unfortunately for us, the factory reset button is really hard to find, and requires a special kind of tool to reach.

It must be nice to live with the certainty of knowing exactly where we stand with our Creator, to know that, once a year, all of the bugs in the system are eliminated.

Our reality is of a world in which God is hidden.  In our day, we live with tremendous uncertainty.  It seems like we never know where we stand.

The Bible begins with God actively involved in history.  In the beginning, we find God creating the universe, walking about in the Garden of Eden, speaking to Patriarchs and Matriarchs, defeating Pharaoh and leading the Israelites into freedom.  Then God gradually steps back.  By the time we reach the Book of Esther, God is not even mentioned, and the fate of the Jewish people lies entirely in the hands of human heroes, villains, and fools.  Sound familiar?

Towards the end of the biblical era, and certainly into the Rabbinic period, our ancestors’ experience of God becomes much like our own in the present.  We, and they, pray to a God whose Presence is hidden in our world.  We follow a covenant that establishes our relationship with a God who never communicates directly with us.  We never receive clear affirmation that we are doing the right thing.  Our relationship with the Divine is intangible.

In contrast, the biblical narrative that serves as the basis for Yom Kippur presents a relationship to God that is extremely tangible.  The Torah portion we read on Yom Kippur describes it in great detail how the High Priest’s ritual maintains a healthy relationship between the Jewish people and God.

Over the course of the year, the sanctuary becomes polluted through sin, preventing God’s Presence from dwelling among the nation.  Only the High Priest has the ability to clear the sanctuary of its spiritual contamination.  The ritual involves: sacrificing goats, bulls, and incense; making formal confessions; wearing special clothes; sending a goat off into the wilderness; and entering the Holy of Holies.  When the High Priest does everything correctly, God washes the stain of impurity away from the sanctuary.  The Israelites are now pure before Adonai, so God’s Presence can return into their midst.  The relationship returns to its perfect state as if nothing has happened.  Factory reset.

From the Torah’s perspective, this is no metaphor.  It is real.  The stain of sin is tangible.  The ritual literally scrubs it away.  It really works.

How comforting it must have been to know where one stands in the universe, to know with certainty that we have done everything that God expects of us!

Yom Kippur is the one day of the year on which I feel reasonably confident that I have done everything I am supposed to do.  Pray – check.  No food – check.  No drink – check.  There is nothing in either my or God’s to-do list that I have forgotten.

Every other day of the year, I truly do not know where I stand.  It always feels as if there is so much more to do.  It seems like nothing is certain and there are no definitive answers to the questions that really matter.

Have I taken the right path?  Did I marry the right person or choose the right career?  Have I paid enough attention to the people I love?  Have I given my children enough to succeed in life?  Have I donated enough to tzedakah?  Have I worked hard enough to improve the character flaws that I see in myself?  Have I been kind enough to other people?

Have I done what God expects of me?  Has my teshuvah been accepted?  Has God forgiven me?  For that matter, does God exist, and if so, does God even care?

Today, we have no ritual to reset everything.  The “restore system to original factory settings” button is hidden where we cannot find it.  We are never fully certain about where we stand.

This creates tremendous spiritual and moral anxiety – and there are psychological implications to this.  We feel that we have never done enough.  We beat ourselves up over our flaws.  We are tormented with guilt.  And no matter how hard we try, we can never truly know if we have fixed things.

The idea of atonement, the wiping clean of our souls, allows us to move on.  But if the question of God’s forgiveness is always a mystery, how can we ever move on?

This is not a new dilemma.  It became an issue already during the time of the Second Temple.  In the Yom Kippur ritual, the High Priest would draw lots to determine the fates of two male goats that were brought before him.  One was selected to be sent off into the wilderness as the scapegoat, to carry away the sins of the people.  He would tie a red string to the horns of the fated animal.

The Talmud (BT Yoma 67a) explains that there was a matching red string that was tied to the entrance of the sanctuary.  There was a kind of wireless signal between the two strings.  If the sins of the people were forgiven by God, both strings would turn white, and everyone would rejoice.  If the strings remained red, the people would be sad and ashamed, because they knew that God had not forgiven them.

Some time later, the Talmud reports, the string was transferred to the inner part of the sanctuary, where the public could not see it.  Nevertheless, people continued to peep through.

To solve that problem, they sent the second red string out with the attendant who led the goat out into the wilderness.  There, with nobody around to watch, he would tie it to a rock before hurling the goat off a cliff.  He was the only one who knew what happened to the string.

Why did the location of the second string have to change?  People really wanted to know what happened to the string.  They wanted to know if the ritual worked.  Red or white?

But did the strings really change color?  It seems that those in charge, and we do not know who it was, wanted to protect the people from the knowledge that there were, in fact, no physical signs that atonement had taken place.  The burden then shifts to the scapegoat attendant to report on the fate of the string.  We can only imagine the pressure he must have been under to come back with a white report.

This was a paternalistic approach to the problem.  We do not know who was making the decisions to move the red string, but it seems that “they”  felt that the people needed to be protected from the despair of not knowing where they stood with God.  “Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain,” the wizard shouts desperately to Dorothy and her companions.

At some point, however, the curtain falls and we all must deal with the uncertainty of our existence.

So does that mean that we ignore what the Torah says about Yom Kippur?  Of course not.  We do with it what we have done so well with all of our holidays.  We transform it.  It is the Don Draper strategy: “If you don’t like what’s being said, change the conversation.”

A story is told of a High Priest, a direct descendant of Aaron, who came out of the Temple one year to throngs of excited people surrounding him.  But then the proto-Rabbis Shemaya and Avtalion appear, the two greatest scholars of the generation, who are said to be the descendants of pagans.  When the people see them, they abandon the High Priest to follow the Sages.  Shemaya and Avtalion eventually pay their respects, and the High Priest blesses them:  “May these descendants of heathens, who do the work of Aaron, arrive in peace, but the descendant of Aaron who does not do the work of Aaron (i.e. the priest himself), he shall not come in peace!”

It is a nice story if you are a Rabbi, to have a High Priest acknowledge that it is the study of Torah which best transmits the legacy of Aaron, the original High Priest.  More so even than the Temple ritual itself!  (BT Yoma 71b)  It establishes the primacy of Rabbinic Judaism over Temple Judaism.

Our own Yom Kippur services take the ancient ritual and reinterpret it.  During the Avodah service, which occurs during musaf [in a little while], we reenact, in moving poetry, the Temple service, with the Cantor playing the role of High Priest.  Every detail is captured.  The most uplifting part comes at the end, in a song called Mar’eh HaKohen, the Appearance of the Priest.  It describes how ecstatic, exalted, even glowing, was the High Priest when he emerged from the Holy of Holies.  He is so overjoyed and relieved to have successfully performed all of the rituals and restored the relationship between God and the Jewish people that he throws a big party for his family, friends, and everyone he knows.  It is simply glorious.

Another poem immediately follows: Ashrei Ayin – “Happy is the eye that saw all these,” it begins by listing the marvelous experience of witnessing Yom Kippur in the Temple.  But then it sounds an ominous note: “For the ear to hear of it distresses our soul.”  While it may have been incredible to have been part of the ancient drama, those days are over.  The memory of that loss brings only anguish to our souls.  Instead of partying with the High Priest, we have six more hours of fasting.

Then we turn to Eylah Ezkerah, the martyrology.  We recall ancestors who were murdered for their faith, pious individuals who died for God and Judaism.  It is almost an “in your face, God” kind of moment.  “Where were You, when those who loved You were being slaughtered?”  It starkly raises the uncertainty and injustice of our broken world.

Leviticus is now seen as a metaphor.  Maimonides, in the 12th century, goes so far as to say that God does not even want animal sacrifice.  The Torah merely grants it as a concession to human beings in the ancient world who did not know any other way.

In a world without a Temple, we have other ways to accomplish the same tasks.  Our texts credit prayer, acts of lovingkindness, tzedakah, and teshuvah as equal, if not better, than animal sacrifices.  It turns out, we have not lost our ability to restore our relationship with God after all.  In fact, our relationship with God may be even stronger.

This is what we call, “putting the nail in the coffin.”  When we start to memorialize the good old days, it means they are over and we are ready to move on.  While the rabbis speak wistfully and longingly of the days of the Temple, they much prefer their model of Torah study and a portable, community-focused Judaism that can be practiced anywhere that Jews gather together.

So how do we accomplish today what the High Priest once accomplished in the Holy of Holies?  We need a faith that enables us to live with certainty in an uncertain world.  We need to find a way to perform, if not a full factory restore, then at least a “soft reset.”

Our Jewish tradition has been struggling to find a middle path between despair and extremism for more than two thousand years.  Not surprisingly, several approaches.

Yeridat Hadorot means “the decline of the generations.”  It is the idea that the further in time we get from the revelation at Mt. Sinai, the more we decline spiritually and in our proximity to God.  The destruction of the Temple and the negation of the Temple Ritual nearly two thousand years ago, therefore, signify the growing chasm between us and God.

A Mishnah (Sotah 9:16) describes the deterioration of Judaism as various second century Sages pass from the world:

When R. Meir died, the composers of fables ceased.  When Ben Azzai died, the assiduous students [of Torah] ceased…  When Rabbi Akiva died, the glory of the Torah ceased…  When Rabbi Ishmael ben Fabi died, the luster of the priesthood ceased.  When Rabbi [Yehuda the Prince] died, humility and fear of sin ceased.

It goes on to describe how the situation falls apart after the Temple is destroyed in 70 CE.

From the day the Temple was destroyed, the Sages began to be like school teachers, school teachers like synagogue attendants, synagogue attendants like common people, and the common people became more and more debased; and there was none to ask, none to inquire.

“So upon whom is it for us to rely?” the Mishnah concludes, “Upon our Father who is in Heaven.”

The good old days are over, and our task is to maintain faith while things continue to deteriorate.  Eventually, when things cannot get any worse, the Messiah will come to redeem the world, restore everything to its proper place, and bring certainty back into our relationship with God – the ultimate factory reset, and upgrade.

It is not a particularly happy message.  Far more appealing is the narrative of “we stand on the shoulders of giants.”  Our knowledge is constantly increasing.  Our understanding of Torah continues to expand.  We are always building on the successes of our predecessors and striving for more.

Although the process had already begun, the destruction of the Second Temple forced the Rabbis to deal with the reality of a hidden God.  For Judaism to survive in a post Temple world, the conversation had to be changed.

The old narrative that relied upon the ritual of the High Priest was gone, and something new would have to replace it.  We needed a way to wipe the slate clean and start over with the certainty that we had been forgiven.  So if there is no longer a red string to turn white, no goat to throw off a cliff, and no High Priest to sacrifice a bull, who will take over the ritual?

Answer: we will.

This is what the Rabbis do.  They add the element of personal teshuvah to Yom Kippur.  Instead of relying upon a High Priest to perform the ritual for us, the burden falls to individual humans.  The Mishnah teaches the following:

If one says: I shall sin and repent, sin and repent, no opportunity will be given to that person to repent. [If one says]: I shall sin and Yom Kippur will procure atonement for me, Yom Kippur procures for him no atonement.

It may seem obvious to us that we need to be sincere about repentance, but nowhere in the Torah’s description about the Temple rite does it say anything about hypocrisy.  According to a plain reading of the Torah, atonement is automatic as long as the High Priest does his job correctly.  The Rabbis, in changing the conversation, made this part up.

They continue their reinterpretation by taking away God’s ability to forgive fully half of our sins:

For transgressions between a person and the Almighty, Yom Kippur procures atonement, but for transgressions between one person and another, Yom Kippur does not procure any atonement until one has appeased one’s friend.  (Yoma 8:9)

The Talmud expands on this idea, explaining that if one person angers another, it is not necessarily the case that he will be forgiven.  I depend upon the person I have wronged for forgiveness.  I am at her mercy.  But with God, it is another story.

… with the Holy One, if a person commits a sin in secret, God is pacified by mere words… And not only that but God even accounts it to that person as a good deed… And not only that but Scripture considers it as if that person had sacrificed a bull.  (BT Yoma 86b)

In other words, God is a sure thing.  All we have to do is ask – with sincerity of course.

When we do manage to appease one another, then God steps in to finish the process by wiping our souls clean.  That part is also automatic.  The uncertain part is each other.

Notice that the ability to grant atonement has effectively been taken away from God and granted to human beings.  It depends on us working with one another to repair our relationships.  It depends on us asking each other for forgiveness, and forgiving when we are asked.  God’s role is to affirm what we are able to accomplish with one another.  The hard work of Yom Kippur is in our interpersonal relationships.  The factory reset button is relocated into our own hearts.

So instead of trying to sneak a peak while an austere man robed in white performs the rituals, we all come together as a community of High Priests.  Success depends on whether we manage to repair our relationships with each other.

At the end of the day, during the final service of Neilah, the atmosphere in the synagogue changes.  Everything feels lighter.  An aura of glorious radiance fills the room.  Despite the chaos out there, we stand together in here, certain in this moment.

We have created that moment by coming together, and God responds by wiping our souls clean, affirming the hard work we have done.  Factory reset accomplished.

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September 14, 2013

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The Charged Emptiness of Our Souls – Yom Kippur 5774

Everything in the universe that matters most is invisible to us, except for matter.*1*

Take matter itself. If we look into the most powerful microscope and magnify down to the subatomic level, the electrons disappear, and become simply energy. They are impossible to see.

We cannot see electricity.

We cannot see gravity.

We cannot see light. We can only see what light hits.

We cannot see time.

The forces that bind our universe together, and that make life possible, are all completely invisible.

When it comes to people, we can look at another person, but we cannot see past that person’s skin. We cannot see another person’s consciousness or thoughts.

Every time I leave on a road trip with my family, I experience a powerful feeling. The car is loaded up with the clothing and supplies we will need for the next few days. We lock up the house, and set out on the road. This feeling usually comes over me shortly after we get on the highway. I realize that the things that matter most to me in life are all right here in this car. If, while I am gone, my house burns down with everything in it, it would be ok. None of that stuff really matters. But what I care about more than myself are the people in the car with me. I realize that what matters most is love, courage, pride in my children’s growth, the memory of our history together, our hope for the future. It’s the relationships that matter, and you can’t see a relationship.

The things that matter most in life are invisible.  But because they are invisible, they are easy to neglect.

Yom Kippur is a day that uniquely orients us to the invisible. If we are focused, it provides us an opportunity to realign our priorities to that which truly matters.

Maimonides opens his philosophical magnum opus, The Guide for the Perplexed, with a discussion on language. Whenever the Torah uses words that imply that God has a physical form, he says, it’s a metaphor. For example: God was walking about one day in the Garden of Eden. God took Israel out of Egypt with an outstretched arm. God saw. God spoke. God smelled. One might conclude, based on this language, that God has legs, arms, eyes, a mouth, and a nose.

Not so, says Maimonides. “The Torah speaks in human language,” quotes the Talmud. In our descriptions of the Divine, we fashion God in our own image.

And when it comes to worshiping God, we employ rituals that are based on those human images.

Ritual is a scaffolding that is built up around all of our God metaphors that allows us to come into contact with that which, in its essence, is completely beyond us.

During the High Holidays, our God metaphors are especially rich. Avinu Malkeinu. God is our father and our king, our judge and our shepherd. Each of us are placed on trial. Our deeds are read from a book. Our merits are weighed against our faults, and the Supreme Judge passes sentence on us for the year ahead.

All of this language is symbolic metaphor. To take the metaphor literally borders on idolatry.

But if we seek to relate to the hidden force that binds all creation together, we need the metaphor, and we need the ritual.

What is the purpose of ritual? The late Rabbi Alan Lew writes, “it is to render the invisible visible.”*2* What is invisible that must be made visible? Our sense of awe and wonder. Our fear. Our hopes. Our dreams. Our ability to have a relationship with God. Ritual enables us to express these invisible, intangible things.

In contemporary society, moderate religion is on the decline, while both fundamentalism and secularism are on the rise. Ironically, the person who embraces fundamentalism and the person who rejects religion altogether make the same mistake. They both take the metaphors literally. The former embraces them, and the latter rejects them.

What do we believe? Over the past week, has God been actually reading out of a book, judging us, and writing down our sentence for the coming year?

To have a mature faith in the post-modern world requires us to dive into the rituals knowing that they are metaphors, knowing that our finite selves are limited in our ability to connect with the infinite, and that it is only through ritual that our invisible spiritual longings become visible.

In ancient times, the central observance of Yom Kippur took place in the Holy Temple. The High Priest, supported by other priests and Levites, performed an elaborate series of rituals in which he made confession and sought forgiveness on behalf of himself, his family, his fellow priests, and the entire Jewish people. If he succeeded, he purified the Temple and enabled God’s Presence to remain amongst the people. It was a yearly restoration and reaffirmation of the relationship between God and Israel.

The ceremonies were quite elaborate. He stayed up all night. He washed himself and changed his clothes many times. He sacrificed animals. He transferred the sins of the nation on to a goat, which was then banished into the wilderness.

The High Priest also pronounced God’s proper name, in the hearing of all the people assembled on the Temple grounds. It was the only day of the year holy enough, and he was the only one pure enough.

The climax of these rites occurred when the High Priest went into the Holy of Holies. This was the only day when he was permitted to enter. The moment was so fraught that he would wear a rope around his waist so that, if he died, his body could be dragged out without anyone having to risk their lives by following him inside.

So what was inside the Holy of Holies?

One might think there would be an altar, maybe a menorah. Perhaps a table on which to place sacred objects. In fact, the room was completely empty. The only interruption in the rectangularity of the space was on the floor, where a rock protruded to a height of three fingers. This rock is the even sh’tiyah, The Foundation Stone – the point at which creation began, and the nexus between God’s realm and our own. This is where heaven and earth come together.

But in the room itself – nothingness.

Rabbi Lew calls it a “charged emptiness.”*3*

When the Temple stood, the High Priest served as our proxy. With the destruction of the Temple, the metaphors have shifted. Now, we have to do it all ourselves. Each of us becomes a High Priest. The elaborate service of the Temple is replaced by an equally elaborate set of expectations. We are asked to do a lot – to engage in cheshbon hanefesh, deep self reflection with brutal honesty, to repent for our sins, to apologize to those we have wronged, to perform additional acts of tzedakah and kindness, to pray, to fast.

If we perform all of the rituals correctly, we reach a point at which we are able to enter the Holy of Holies, a place where all of the metaphors fall away. We come face to face with ourselves, face to face with God – not that God has a face. There is no longer a Father and a King, A Judge and a Shepherd. There is only a charged emptiness that is at once all around us and within us.

This ecstatic moment of infinite connection with nothingness is the moment of revelation. This is what I long to experience each year. I wonder if you have ever caught a glimpse of this charged emptiness.

For me, Yom Kippur reaches its peak during Neilah, the final service that comes at the very end of the day. When we are lightheaded from fasting, but have gone beyond hunger and beyond thirst. When we have been inspired by the people around us who are taking those last moments to heart. Praying with a special fervor, the entire room is vibrating with individuals yearning to be heard. Individuals who are relying on one another to be elevated, to help each other connect with our shared essence. And then – ecstatic joy.

We emerge from that moment with a clean slate, transformed…

…bringing us to the next step. Now what? Is the moment over? We’ve entered the Holy of Holies and faced the charged emptiness of our souls, so now it’s time to eat lox and bagels and drink apple juice? Do we just resume our everyday lives and forget about those invisible moments we just experienced?

There are two Hebrew terms for us to consider, ikar and tafel.

Ikar means essential, or primary.

Tafel means extraneous, or secondary.

The Talmud warns: shelo y’hei tafel chamor m’ikar.*4* “Do not allow that which is extraneous – tafel – to become more important than that which is essential – ikar.”

What is ikar and what is tafel in our lives? Let’s play a little game. I call it: Tafel or Ikar: You Make the Call!

Your daughter or granddaughter joyfully asks you to push her on the swing. Just then, you feel your phone buzz in your pocket with a text message. You think it might be your boss.

You could check the text, or you could play with this bright eyed, eager child. Which is tafel, which is ikar?

You receive an email from the synagogue announcing a shiva minyan for someone who has just lost his mother. You know this person, but not that well. The season opener for Breaking Bad is on tonight. You’ve been anticipating it all summer long.

You could go to the shiva minyan, or you could watch TV. Which is tafel, which is ikar?

Your work group has a big product launch coming up. Your supervisor has informed you that for the next month, you should plan on being at work until late into the evening, and coming in on weekends. You and your partner have been going through a rough spot, and have recently decided to schedule regular times to work on communication. The crunch time at work overlaps with the time you have set to be with your partner. Which is tafel, which is ikar?

The things that are ikar, most essential, tend to be invisible. Spending uninterrupted time with a child, supporting a member of the community, being there for a partner. These are precisely the things that are easiest for us to neglect because we devote most of our attention to the visible world. There are so many tafel things calling out to us, distracting us from what really matters.

All of the rituals of the High Priest prepared him to encounter God’s ikar – to encounter God at a level beyond metaphor. Our High Holidays give us that opportunity as well – Yom Kippur especially. On this day, when we deny our physical existence by fasting, and when we do everything we can to embrace the invisible, we have a rare opportunity to refocus our lives on what truly matters.

In a few minutes, we will turn to the Yizkor service. This is another special time when our consciousness shifts exclusively to the invisible. We remember friends and relatives who are no longer with us. With their passing they are no longer tangible, yet that which matters most remains, invisibly, in our memories. What do we remember? What is the ikar of who they were to us?

I hope we don’t just remember the stuff they had, or the things they left us. We honor their memory when we remember the time spent with a sibling, the ideals that inspired a parent, the feelings we had when we were with our spouse. All invisible. But all ikar. That is what matters

This Yom Kippur, as we engage in deep soul searching, fasting, and prayer, may we be blessed to enter the Holy of Holies. In stripping away all that is extraneous in our lives, may we gain an awareness of standing in the Presence of God, in the charged emptiness around and inside us. May we emerge from Yom Kippur with a renewed focus on the ikar, those invisible things in our lives that matter most.

G’mar Chatimah Tovah. May we all be sealed for a year of blessing.

*1*I got some ideas for this opening from a Ted talk by John Lloyd at http://www.ted.com/talks/john_lloyd_inventories_the_invisible.html

*2*”Celebrating and Revealing the Invisible,” by Rabbi Mark Greenspan, in Yom Kippur Readings, ed. by Rabbi Dov Peretz Elkins, p. 131.

*3*Rabbi Alan Lew, This is Real and Your Are Completely Unprepared, p. 221.

*4*BT Menachot 8a