Rabbi Yair Robinson

Kol Nidre 5786

“Help, Thanks, Wow, Sorry, Love”

Here we are, gathered on this holiest night of the year, to utter prayers our ancestors have recited for untold generations, prayers that area meant to crack open the heart, prayers that are meant to pour through the Gates of Repentance, prayers that are meant to inspire and provoke, to challenge and uplift.

But what is it that we are saying? Many of our prayers are recited in a Hebrew that challenges even the native speaker. Many of our prayers are derived from Scripture—psalms and the prophets and Torah, but are often out of context, so that the original meaning is obscure to us. And the prayer that we find most meaningful this evening, Kol Nidre, is hardly a prayer at all, but a legal formula meant to annul in advance any vows we may make over the coming year that are left unfulfilled. What indeed are we saying?

I could, I suppose, conduct a symposium on the nature of high holiday prayer, and some of us in the room would find it interesting.  Some. But that’s not the kind of knowing or understanding I’m referring to. I mean in the deepest way possible, down into our bones, our neshamot, our spirits, our very being: even if we know every syllable of Hebrew and Aramaic, the origin of every note of every melody, what are we truly saying as we pray?

It was the author Anne Lamot who argued that, really, there are three essential prayers: Help, Thanks, Wow. Perhaps, as Lyndsay Rush wrote, we have been, understandably, stuck on that first one for several years, stuck on Help. But each of those prayers appears throughout our liturgy in different guises, especially at our High Holy Days, and at some point or another, no matter what else we may be doing, each of us is uttering one of those prayers.

Help. Hashiveinu Adonai v’Nashuva: Save us, Oh God, and we shall be saved. Help us be better people: better family members, friends, lovers, members of our community. Help us endure the cruelties and hardships of life, be they general or specific. Help us understand and be kind, rather than judgmental and mean, and that the pain we often experience is mitigated by repentance, prayer and charity.

Thanks. Modeh Ani l’fanecha: I am grateful to you, O God. Thank you for the blessings in my life. Thank you for the opportunity to serve my community, my family—thank you for the opportunity to serve you. Thank you for the myriad gifts You have shared with me.  Thanks to my friends, and nature, and even the strangers who have shown me kindnesses large and small, kindnesses I may not feel I deserve.

Wow: Mi Chamocha Ba’elim Adonai? Who is like You in the world, who has created a universe that is beyond my comprehension? Who is like you, newborn child? Who is like you, person who has gone through the gauntlet of illness, injury, broken relationships and broken dreams, come through the valley of deepest darkness, to come through the other side? I stand amazed by the world and its miracles, including and especially by those around me, who, despite the same frailties and foibles all human beings have, over and again seek to be of service to those around them. Those who, despite their own pain, are first to help, to support, and to care for the Other. That inarticulable moment when everything, as Seamus Heaney wrote, does not in fact go from bad to worse, but quite the opposite. That quiet moment, that Still Small Voice that emerges to signal that this world is, in fact, beautiful.

There are many who would add a fourth prayer to this list: Sorry. Slach lanu, m’chal lanu, kaper lanu: Forgive us, pardon us, lead us to atonement. This is the prayer we shall probably utter the most these next twenty-four hours. Forgive me, God, for not living up to my potential, for not being my best self. Forgive me, friends and family and strangers, for all of the ways I have failed, large and small, all the ways I made excuses and justified behaviors petty and selfish and thoughtless. Forgive me, community, for my failures to act, to make a difference, to protect the vulnerable and care for those most in need. Forgive me, myself, for failing to do the work to heal my own wounds, failing to embrace every aspect of myself, failing to see myself through the eyes of those who love me, and loving myself in return.

Each of these prayers we will repeat in one form or another throughout our Yom Kippur observance: in hushed tones, though the voices of the cantor and choir, and our own, with strength collectively, perhaps with tears privately, in this sanctuary, and with our friends and family and even ourselves individually. But there is one more prayer, a fifth prayer that must be uttered as well: Love.

It’s funny, for all the times and all the ways we mention love in our tradition, we seem to avoid associating that word with Judaism. Because we say it all the time: Ahavah rabbah ahavtanu: You love us, O God, with a great love. V’ahavta et Adonai Elohecha: you shall love the Eternal God, with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your might. V’ahavta l’reicha c’mocha: Love your neighbor as yourself, or if you prefer my teacher Barry Kogan’s translation, love your neighbor for they are like you; You shall love the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt. And yet, as Shai Held teaches us, we duck that idea. Judaism is about justice, or morals, or redemption, or something else. That word love, “ahavah” has too many meanings to be straightforward as a prayer. And yet. All the other prayers: Help, Thanks, Wow, Sorry: are really expressions, on some level, of that fifth prayer, Love. They do not function without love. They are all acts of love. Love for the world, for each other, for ourselves, for God. Love even for the people we disagree with, the people who wrong us. Love, as my teacher Larry Kushner taught me, even when we can’t stand to look at one another.

So what is the nature of this fifth prayer, which is a part of all the other prayers, “Love”? When we say we love, it’s not the same thing as saying we like or agree with the person, or with the world, or with God. It doesn’t mean we don’t disagree, or protest, or rebuke—arguably the hardest act of love. Dr. Ken Ginsburg tells us love is seeing a person the way they deserve to be seen as they really are, not based on behavior they might be displaying, not based on a label they might have received, but seeing a person as they really, truly are.

To pray Love means to see each other clearly, to see the world clearly. And think of how much power there is in seeing and truly being seen? It means to stand in a posture of solidarity and support, without judgment or unkindness, without assumptions. It means choosing to believe in others as God believes in us. It means choosing to believe in ourselves, our real selves, not as an act of ego, but as an act of dignity.

Ginsburg writes about being a lighthouse parent: “a stable force on the shoreline”, providing freedom and structure. I would suggest that this prayer, Love, calls us to be a Lighthouse People: not trying to change others’ behaviors or selves, but shining a light in the darkness, providing support, stability, and care. When we pray Love, we are calling ourselves to action; to be fully present for those who are in need, who are vulnerable, who are lost in the darkness and the mist, without trying to make them something or someone we need them to be. As Rabbi Shai Held teaches, love is an existential posture. It’s a way of comporting ourselves, a way of orienting ourselves in the world. That’s really important because you cannot build a spiritual life on a feeling. Feelings come and go. I can be a compassionate person even if at this moment what I’m feeling is frustration.” Yes, it does mean kindness: Kol adam b’sever panim yafot as our tradition teaches, greet every person with a warm face. But if I may push the metaphor, combining Rabbi Held and Dr. Ginsburg’s teachings, when we pray Love, we place ourselves in a posture of curiosity and care, positioning ourselves to be of service.

Perhaps this prayer, Love, feels like the most challenging prayer to offer today. Because we are in pain, as a society. We perceive those we disagree with as our enemy, sometimes with a real concern of harm. We help those we perceive are in need and often demand gratitude in response. We assume the worst in others, often from a place of our own fragility and vulnerability. After the war in Gaza began, I tried speaking with people who saw things differently, tried to understand their side and speak with them from a place of gentleness. Too often I was met with anger and grief, or even silence, a cutting off of the relationship. And in speaking with members of our community, I know so many of you have had similar experiences, if not about Gaza, then about family disagreements, politics, gender and sexual identity, money, health and age. We fear abandonment, nurse old hurts, hold onto our grievances like teddy bears, doom scrolling on our phones to find others who will affirm that we are, in fact, in the right. In our own fear in this moment, our own vulnerability, we close ourselves off. We find the prayer, Love, getting caught in our throats.

My friends, now is not the time to withdraw from one another, or nurse old hurts, or hide our beautiful selves away when so many are retreating in pain, or demand black-and-white answers in a gray-scale world. We cannot look any longer for others to act, to stand up, to guide those lost safely to shore. We must stand as lighthouses, stand in a posture of lovingkindness, of grace for others, of seeing each other, ourselves, as God sees us. Only then can we offer the other prayers. Only then can we truly say Help, Thanks, Wow and Sorry.

The path through each prayer this Yom Kippur is through Love; and the path through our moment of darkness is through Love, through seeing clearly. As we pray, throughout this holiday: Help, Thanks, Wow, and Sorry—may we first pray Love, seeking to standing as the light upon the shore of this world. Only then can we fulfill the words of Isaiah:

וְהָלְכ֥וּ גוֹיִ֖ם לְאוֹרֵ֑ךְ וּמְלָכִ֖ים לְנֹ֥גַהּ זַרְחֵֽךְ׃

And nations shall walk by your light,
sovereigns, by your shining radiance.

Amen.