Earlier in our service we heard
the beautiful music of the Kol Nidre prayer. For centuries, this melody has
spoken deeply to our people, of the mood and message of Yom Kippur. The melody
is what has remained important to us, much more so than the words. Because if
you look at the words, you’ll see that this prayer is really only a dry legal
formula. We are declaring any vows that we make in the coming year to be null
and void, if we are unable to fulfill them.
These words may have been
meaningful in the time of the Inquisition, when Jews who forcibly took oaths of
conversion to Christianity could secretly say the formula in order to remain
true to their Jewish identity. Although the precise history of Kol Nidre is
still unknown, it may have originally been used to nullify vows that a person
made rashly or in jest. Once those empty vows were nullified, a person could then
enter Yom Kippur, able to focus on asking forgiveness for more important
transgressions.
But this year, the words of Kol
Nidre spoke to me in a new way. They spoke to me of compassion for the fact
that we humans live in a reality that is constantly changing, from moment to
moment. This formula acknowledges that we may make a vow at one moment, but
then the circumstances will change, and we need a mechanism of release.
These days, our vows are not
typically legal declarations made in public. But sometimes we vow to ourselves,
maybe in a moment when anger or some other potent feeling has a hold on us, to
never forgive someone for something they did or said; or to never speak to
someone again; or that a person will always be our enemy. The vows we
make are often silent, sometimes even wordless, sometimes unconscious – they
can happen in a moment, or over time. And then things change – we change – they
change – our lives change – and we need permission, or we need to be urged –to
release ourselves, to release others, to forgive, to let go of the vow.
Over the years, I have seen the
impact these kinds of vows –or grudges – can have on individuals and families.
I remember a young man whose parents divorced when he was in High School. The
young man was so committed to holding on to his anger at his father, that more
than 20 years later, he didn’t attend
his own father’s funeral.
I remember a wedding family in
which the groom’s mother was barely in his life, even as his extended family on
his mother’s side had always been present and supportive of him. But when the
groom’s mother decided she was not going to attend the wedding, her entire side
of the family decided they would not show up either.
Of course, there are
circumstances in which family members must put some distance between each other
in order to continue to live safe and healthy lives. Sometimes though, it is
rash anger or hot ego that leads to vows and grudges. And when we hold onto
these feelings, we not only cause suffering for those with whom we are angry,
but we also cause suffering for ourselves.
We don’t give ourselves the joy
of seeing our own grandchild get married, or to find the closure that a funeral,
even of a difficult person, can bring. We deprive ourselves of opportunities
for reconnection – and of the chance to see that people and relationships can
actually change.
The Kol Nidre prayer calls upon
us to ask ourselves what purpose our vows or grudges are serving. If they only
serve our own sense of self-righteousness while blocking the way towards meaningful
relationships, Kol Nidre allows us to release ourselves.
This prayer is just one example
of how Yom Kippur confronts us with the impermanence of all things, including our
feelings, and our very existence! Anger that we may feel very strongly in this
moment can release its grasp in the next moment, if only we allow it. We need
not cling to perceptions of reality, when that reality has changed. Forgiveness
is possible – it can free us from the past and help us live more fully in the
present.
The stark message of this day
is: “Life is short.”
We face this truth as we recite
that terrible litany of the Unetaneh Tokef prayer: “who shall live and who
shall die; who by hunger and who by thirst; who by sword and who by beast.” We
cannot control the fact that our lives are limited, and that death truly could
come at any moment. We are impermanent beings – “Our origin is dust, and dust
is our end. Like vessels of clay in the process of breaking, like withering
grass, like fading flowers, like passing shadows, like emptying clouds, like
blowing wind, like scattering dust, like a vanishing dream.”
And yet, the prayer tells us,
our destiny is not permanently etched in stone. The decree can be eased through
“teshuva,” repentance, through “tefillah,” prayer, and through “tzedakah,” acts
of justice. In fact, I think the prayer is saying, if we can embrace our
impermanence – if we can let go of our resistance to the fact that we will die.
If we can let go of our fear that this all is temporary, then we find that we
are free: to change, to forgive, to let go, to give – to live!
The Buddhist teacher Thich Nhat
Hanh teaches:
We may
be tempted to say that because things are impermanent, there is suffering. But
the Buddha encouraged us to look again. Without impermanence, life is not
possible. How can we transform our suffering if things are not impermanent? How
can our daughter grow up into a beautiful lady? How can the situation in
the world improve? We need impermanence for social justice and for hope.
If you
suffer, it is not because things are impermanent. It is because you believe
things are permanent. When a flower dies, you don’t suffer much, because you
understand that flowers are impermanent. But you cannot accept the impermanence
of your beloved one, and you suffer deeply when she passes away. If you look deeply into impermanence, you
will do your best to make her happy right now.
Thich Nhat Hanh teaches that
love, justice, change, hope, caring, joy, gratitude – all these good human
qualities are possible, because life is finite. And our Untaneh Tokef prayer
teaches that all of these things – love, justice, hope, forgiveness – also help
to temper “judgment’s severe decree.” These human qualities make this
impermanent life a life worth living, a life God would want us to live.
Impermanence is what gives us hope that the world can get better – it is what
gives us faith that suffering can be transformed.
The prophet Jonah, whose story
we read tomorrow afternoon, has a very hard time with this concept. The
Ninevites, a neighboring people to the Hebrews, and an enemy, have sinned
greatly. Their wickedness has become apparent to God, and God wants Jonah to go
to Nineveh to proclaim judgment upon them so that they might repent. Jonah resists
this calling and runs in the exact opposite direction, taking a boat to
Tarshish. As we know, God catches up with Jonah, sends a storm which forces the
sailors to throw him overboard, and then sends a big fish to swallow him and
spit him out back on land. Jonah finally heads to Nineveh, and proclaims that
Nineveh will be destroyed in 40 days. The people of Nineveh then put on
sackcloth, sit in ashes, fast, and repent. God sees how they have turned from
their evil ways, forgives them, and renounces the punishment.
This really, really bothers
Jonah.
“O Lord!” he prays,“Isn’t this
just what I said when I was still in my own country? That is why I fled
beforehand to Tarshish. For I know that You are a compassionate and gracious
God, slow to anger, abounding in kindness, renouncing punishment.”
“Please, Lord, take my life,
for I would rather die than live,” he begs.
While God is easily convinced
to renounce God’s anger, to withdraw the punishment, and to give the Ninevites
another chance, Jonah can’t stand it! He can’t stand that God is changing
course here, that God’s punishment isn’t etched in stone, that God’s anger
isn’t forever. God’s willingness to let go makes it very difficult for Jonah to
hold on to his perception of the Ninevites as a wicked people, deserving of
destruction. And so he would rather die than live to see this.
Then, Jonah leaves the city and
finds a place to camp out. God provides a gourd plant to grow up over Jonah to
give him shade. Jonah is very happy about the plant. But the next day God sends
a worm which attacks the plant so that it withers. It gets so hot that Jonah
begs for death yet again.
Whereas in the first instance,
with Nineveh, Jonah can’t stand the impermanence of God’s anger, here Jonah
can’t stand the impermanence of God’s comfort.
Boy, does Jonah suffer. And he
causes most of that suffering to himself. He is so self-righteous about the
Ninevites’ wickedness that his ego hurts when he witnesses God forgiving them.
He is so anxious about the death of the gourd plant that he would rather die
than find himself another source of shade.
God points out at the end that
Jonah cared about the gourd plant which appeared overnight and perished
overnight. So much the more so does God care about Nineveh, an entire city full
of mortal human beings.
If Jonah could only open his
heart to the reality of change and impermanence, perhaps he would not suffer so
deeply. Perhaps he could even access some gratitude for the possibility of
God’s forgiveness, and thankfulness for the life that he has in the moment.
Sometimes we resist change,
like Jonah. Other times, it seems that circumstances will never change. And when
change finally does come, if we can embrace it, it can feel like a miracle.
Until this summer, my
mother-in-law Jacquie had not spoken to her sister Pat (my husband’s aunt) for
the past 25 years. About forty years ago, Pat had married a man who was
emotionally abusive, and he was very effective at manipulating Pat and
isolating her from the rest of her family. The isolation was so complete that
Pat and Jacquie’s mother had left Pat out of her will, fearing that Pat’s husband
would take the money for himself. Pat was so angry that she did not attend her
mother’s funeral.
Just this summer, Pat began
taking steps to leave her marriage. Out of the blue, she contacted my
mother-in-law to ask for help. Jacquie could have decided to close her heart to
Pat. There was a lot of anger and hurt, and a lot of time and distance between
them. But all of these years, Jacquie had actually saved the portion of her
mother’s inheritance that rightfully belonged to Pat, in case there came a time
when it would be helpful to give it to her. And so, this summer, she gave Pat
that money so she could hire a lawyer, leave her husband and rent her own apartment.
Jacquie also networked with Jim and myself, and we networked with some friends,
to find Pat the best divorce lawyer she could.
On a recent trip to the West
coast, Pat and Jacquie actually got together in person for the first time in 25
years. When the sisters saw each other, they started from the present and moved
forward together anew, rather than dwelling on the past. Rabbi Alan Lew, a
brilliant teacher of Judaism and mindfulness, wrote, “Forgiveness is giving up
our hopes for a better past.”
We are each like a shattered
urn, grass that must wither, a flower that will fade. And this can lead us to great
sadness, great fear, and a deep desire to hold on. But Yom Kippur is here to
urge us to embrace that impermanence. To see it as a gift that can liberate us.
We have so little time – why spend it clinging to past hurts?
Another mindfulness teacher
Ajahn Chah once said, “If you let go a little, you’ll have a little peace. If
you let go a lot you’ll have a lot of peace. If you let go completely, you’ll
have complete peace.”
As the Kol Nidre instructs us,
when we release our clenched fists and examine the vows we are gripping, the
grudges we are holding, the anger or the fear we are clinging to, we will see that
truly, our hands are empty. So let go. And when you do, you’ll find that there
is so much more space, so much more openness, so much more peace.
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