Rabbi Paskind’s Kol Nidre Sermon
Kol Nidre 5785: Circling Left Together
Rabbi Ita Paskind
Congregation Beth El, Norwalk
It’s Passover. Or Shavuot. Or Sukkot. And we’re in ancient Israel. These holidays were occasions for the entire Jewish people to congregate in Jerusalem–that’s why they’re called the 3 Pilgrimage Festivals. Imagine the hundreds of thousands of Jews streaming from all directions.
Now, our ancestors had specific things they had to do in Jerusalem on each of these festivals, but I’m going to share just 1 specific element to the Pilgrimage that is so deeply meaningful, even on–especially on–Yom Kippur. Whenever the Jewish people convened in Jerusalem, they had the immense privilege of ascending to the holy Temple. They would ascend the oversized steps on the southern side of the Temple Mount, which led to humongous arched doorways, the Huldah Gates. If you’ve been to the Davidson Center archaeological excavations, you can picture this. It’s simply majestic. As the Jewish people ascended the steps, most of them followed the crowd–entering the left archway onto the Temple Mount, circling through the courtyard to the right, and exiting through the right archway. .
Most of the people followed this clockwise route, but not all. The Mishnah in Tractate Middot notes that the brokenhearted, the mourners, would make this same ritual walk, but they would enter through the right archway and circle in the opposite direction: every step against the current.
Rabbi Sharon Brous, Rabbi of the IKAR Jewish community in Los Angeles and author of the book The Amen Effect, imagines the conversations that would have taken place:
Each person who encountered someone in pain would look into that person’s eyes and inquire: “What happened to you? Why does your heart ache?”
“My father died,” a person might say. “There are so many things I never got to say to him.” Or perhaps: “My partner left. I was completely blindsided.” Or: “My child is sick. We’re awaiting the test results.”
Those who walked from the right would offer a blessing: “May the Holy One comfort you,” they would say. “You are not alone.” And then they would continue to walk until the next person approached.
This ritualized Pilgrimage experience is profound for all parties. Those who circle to the left–the bereaved, the ill, the worried, the suffering–are invited to share their pain with their community and not just blend in. They may not say that they’re doing fine–clearly they’re not. They may not walk to the right, and they may not stay home. Even on these happiest occasions, the Pilgrimage festivals, the Jewish people must acknowledge and support them for what they’re going through. They are seen.
And those who circle to the right–the majority of the Jewish throng–they must look their fellow Jews in the eye and be sympathetic to their challenges. They may not look away or avoid the interaction by chatting and gossiping with a fellow traveler. They must be open to an awful reality, painful though it is, and ready to offer their own compassion and support. They must be present.
Now, if this were any other year–a regular year–it would be easier to preach tonight about our need to show up for others. And, that message still applies.
But this year is not any other year. This year, we are, all of us, in mourning and rife with worry, anxiety, and fear. This year, most, if not all of us would find ourselves ascending the steps of the Temple Mount, approaching the Hulda Gates, and entering through the right archway. We would all circle to the left. And that begs the question: If the entire Jewish people–all of us–are the mourners, who will bear witness to our sadness, to our pain? Who will bless us with a wish for Divine comfort? Who will look into our eyes and be present with us as we’re suffering?
As we enter these most sacred 25 hours of our year, this question weighs heavily on our community, and more broadly on the Jewish people. Yom Kippur asks of us–requires of us–the ability to engage in cheshbon hanefesh, introspection with an eye toward teshuvah, repentance. It provides us with multiple opportunities to recite the vidui, the confessional prayer enumerating our collective misdeeds and taking responsibility for the actions of the entire Jewish people. This day promises that if we do the inner work, then our sins will be wiped away and we will be free to experience this new year. It’s nice to know there’s a formula we are meant to follow. But how can we find the strength or energy to engage in cheshbon hanefesh when we’re spending all of our energy on surviving?! How can we meet the demands of this sacred day when we just feel… broken?
Everywhere we turn this year, we experience suffering. How can anyone be present with us through all of that?
We just commemorated the first yahrzeit of October 7 and Israel continues to be attacked. Sheloshim, the 30-day mourning period, just ended for the 6 hostages murdered in early September, including Hersh Goldberg-Polin, of blessed memory. And 101 hostages remain in captivity in Gaza–what are we to do with that?! We worry for people we love, for the country we love. We worry for its very survival, and for what that worry means for our identity as modern Jews. That’s a lot of anxiety that each of us carries around on a daily basis.
Add to that the precipitous rise in antisemitism throughout our country and around the world, an issue I know is crucially important and frightening to each of us. Several in our own community have had Israeli flag signs torn down from their yards, some on multiple occasions. And some of our young people have experienced or witnessed antisemitic actions firsthand, such as discovering a swastika drawn on a curb at school or feeling unwelcome in college clubs because of a proud connection to Israel. We are living in a time when some of our elected leaders and some of those who are running for all levels of office feel comfortable and empowered to spew antisemitic stereotypes and rhetoric–probably because they believe it. That’s scary and angering, and we must call it out when we see it. Seeing it regularly sadly raises our baseline anxiety significantly.
On top of these worries and the anticipatory anxiety about our impending election here in the States, I know that many of us are suffering in much more personal ways. In our Beth El family alone, we have experienced many deaths of our members and our members’ relatives just in the year since we gathered last. And many of us have lost friends, both within our Beth El and in other parts of our lives. Tomorrow we will remember them all during our Yizkor prayers and pray that their memories be a blessing. And throughout our community, people we love are dealing with a variety of illnesses, both physical and mental. So many struggle just to get through the day. And on top of all of this heaviness, we live the most isolated lives of any generation in human history, and that truly takes a toll on our mental health and even on our physical health.
We are carrying a lot. Each of us carries around some or all of these burdens, and others I haven’t identified as well. It’s no wonder that many of us are sad, depressed, and worried about the future. As we all trudge along, circling to the left, we may feel the words of the book of Lamentations, Eicha: ein menachem, there is no one to comfort us.
Let’s acknowledge that heaviness. I feel it, too. Some days, it’s paralyzing.
In actuality, it’s our very presence that’s the key to moving forward, both through this sacred day and more broadly in our lives. We know it from the comfort we derive from living in Jewish community.
In The Amen Effect, Rabbi Brous describes the power of showing up, no matter how broken we feel. She writes:
Do not take your broken heart and go home. Don’t isolate. Step toward those whom you know will hold you tenderly. And on your good days — the days when you can breathe — show up then, too. Because the very fact of seeing those who are walking against the current, people who can barely hold on, and asking, with an open heart, “Tell me about your sorrow,” may be the deepest affirmation of our humanity, even in terribly inhumane times.
She’s right. Being in the presence of other caring human beings is the best thing we can do when we are hurting–even when we are all hurting. The Sages had some good insight here when they suggested that one who visits the sick, or pays a shiva call, or lends a listening ear to someone’s worries–relieves 1/60 of their burden. And on the flip side, says Rabbi Brous, “When we affirm another’s humanity, we reinvigorate our own.” It feels good to be together, to validate each other’s feelings and experiences, and to have someone respond to us with a nod, an “mmhm”, and perhaps even a hug.
A wonderful example of connected community in our own synagogue, ironically, doesn’t involve leaving home. It is our daily minyan–shout out to daily minyan participants! Almost all of our minyan started coming after the death of a loved one. Some of our minyan-goers have been participating for decades and can regale anyone with stories of the good old days when we davened in the chapel and made and enjoyed breakfast together . Others of our minyan attendees have never been in our chapel, and participate only on Zoom. In each instance, the person showed up at a deeply vulnerable and sad time in their life, and was received with compassion and care. They were welcomed with open arms, invited to take a reading here, a prayer there, and asked to share about the person who died. They were offered words of comfort and support, and were folded into the group so they feel like they’ve found a second family. Minyan attendees have all circled to the left, and that enables them to embrace a new mourner and ask, “What is your sorrow?”
Minyan is a beautiful microcosm of Jewish community, but it’s certainly not the only way to show up. Prayer services are one way into Jewish life; there are many others. And what’s so special about all of them is that participants–we, all of us–are prepared to greet one another with care and tenderness. I’m talking about a group of women gathering for a Beth Elles dinner out, or a group participating in a Social Action initiative, or our religious school parents hanging out after drop off on Sunday mornings, or our Monday mah jongg players, or our Tuesday afternoon text study group, or our Friday night service attendees, or our Shabbat morning community. We all know that coming to Congregation Beth El, or doing something with our synagogue community, means more than just socializing. These are the people we have committed to living alongside. These are the people we trust, who innately get us. We commit to celebrating each others’ smachot and to supporting each other at times of illness and loss. When we show up, even when–especially when–we are hurting, we come to be seen, to be asked “What is your sorrow?”, to be graced with presence and blessed with an ounce of strength.
In the book, Rabbi Brous reimagines the Mourner’s Kaddish as a conversation between the bereaved and the community.
Yitgadal v’yitkadash–I’m standing to remember my loved one who died last week.
Sh’meh rabbah–I don’t know how to keep living without them.
B’alma di-v’ra chir’uteh–I’m so desperate for my friends, my community to hold me up, but I’m terrified to ask.
And the community responds:
Amen–We see you, we hear your words, we’ve got you and we’re not going to let you fall. We will be there throughout the shiva, and afterwards we will call you and take you out for lunch and invite you for Shabbat and holiday meals, and you will not be alone.
It’s true right now, too. All of us are standing together, part of this conversation, reminding every other person praying together today that we see them, we hear them and we have them.
Friends, this is hard. Life is hard right now. And this day of Yom Kippur is upon us. We may all be circling to the left this Kol Nidre night. Even if nobody is coming toward us, we have the ability to turn to the left and to the right, to grab one another’s hands, and to take the next step together.
