Kol Nidre: Do I Really Sound Like That?
(Delivered by Student Rabbi Maayan Lev on Tuesday, October 4, 2022)
On the first day of Rosh HaShanah I spoke about the importance of listening to other people’s voices, and other people’s needs. It was a nod to Sh’ma Koleinu, which most congregations recite on Yom Kippur. Since tonight actually is Yom Kippur, and we’re going to be hearing that prayer, I’m going to extend that conversation about listening to people’s voices. But I’m going to take it in a slightly different direction this time, with the help of one of our most famous Sages, Rabbi Eliezer ben Hyrcanos, who lived in ancient Israel during the first and second centuries C.E.
The Talmud tells of the time there was a famine in the land. So, Rabbi Eliezer declared a cycle of fasts for the congregation, hoping that by fasting, G!d would bring rain. But after the fasting was over, the rain had still not come. It appeared that Rabbi Eliezer’s plan to induce rain had failed, and the congregants made for the exits. At this moment, Rabbi Eliezer asked them, “Have you prepared graves for yourselves?”[1] Essentially, he was saying, “If the rain doesn’t come, we’re all going to die.”
When the congregants heard Rabbi Eliezer’s words, they started to cry. And it was at that moment, when they were all crying, that the rain finally started to fall.
Rabbi Eliezer had achieved his goal of inducing rain. But I don’t think he actually intended to do it by making people cry. He intended to do it through fasting. If indeed, it was apparent that they were going to die if rain didn’t come, then he wasn’t really telling them anything they didn’t already know. So why, then, did his words have such a strong effect on them? Oftentimes, with Rabbi Eliezer, it’s not just what he says, but how he says it.
Rabbi Eliezer was actually involved in another incident, quite similar to the first.[2] One day, Rabbi Eliezer went up to the ark and recited 24 blessings, in the hope that rain would fall. But it didn’t. Then Rabbi Akiva, his junior, and former student, approached the ark and said: “Avinu Malkeinu, (our Parent, our Sovereign), we have no other Sovereign but You. For Your sake, have mercy on us.” And with those words, rain began to fall. The Sages whispered to each other, wondering why Rabbi Eliezer, the more senior rabbi, failed in his prayer for rain, while Rabbi Akiva had attracted HaShem’s sympathy and response. Then a Bat Kol, a Divine Voice, emerged to explain. It said, “לֹא מִפְּנֵי שֶׁזֶּה גָּדוֹל מִזֶּה, It is not because Rabbi Akiva is of greater stature than Rabbi Eliezer; ,,אֶלָּא, שֶׁזֶּה מַעֲבִיר עַל מִידּוֹתָיו, וְזֶה אֵינוֹ מַעֲבִיר עַל מִדּוֹתָיו rather, it is because Rabbi Akiva was forbearing, and Rabbi Eliezer was not.” That is to say, unlike Rabbi Akiva, Rabbi Eliezer did not act with patience or restraint.
How we sound, matters. As beautiful as Rabbi Akiva’s words were, there may have been nothing wrong with the word choice of Rabbi Eliezer. It just… didn’t sound genuine.
But what about our own voices? What about our tone? What about our speaking tempo? What about our vocal inflection?
For better or for worse, we don’t always sound the way we mean to sound. Very few people love the sound of their own voice. Have you ever heard your own voice played back to you? It’s not always so pleasant. I recently came across a recording of myself speaking, and thought to myself: “Do I really sound like that? Gee, I hope my intent was clear, because my delivery sure didn’t come out how I wanted it to.”
Sometimes I sound a bit off because I’m nervous. When what we say doesn’t come out right, it is often because our emotions are betraying us.
That is why the Sh’losh-esrei Middot, the Thirteen Attributes of G!d, are so incredible. Moses understood this. At Mt. Sinai, he called HaShem, “.אֵל רַחוּם וְחַנּוּן אֶרֶךְ אַפַּיִם וְרַב־חֶסֶד וֶאֱמֶת” “A God compassionate and gracious, who is slow to anger, and full of kindness and faithfulness.”[3]
These Middot aren’t just what we love about G!d. They’re what we aim to emulate as human beings. And very often, we beat ourselves, quite literally on Yom Kippur, for being human and not living up to these godly Middot. Being compassionate, gracious, slow to anger, and full of kindness, means we are in complete control of our speech!
Frankly, that kind of constant vigilance and self-control isn’t natural! It’s not a standard that we always meet, but it’s a standard that we can achieve at times. And we hope to achieve it more often.
According to Sefer HaMiddot “when a person is gracious and generous with someone who has wronged them, and renounces their claim against them, such a person’s prayer will surely be heard.”[4] In a nutshell, we should always try to be a class act.
Leviticus 19:18 urges, “לֹא־תִקֹּם וְלֹא־תִטֹּר, You shall not take vengeance, nor hold a grudge.” Yoma, the Talmudic tractate dedicated to Yom Kippur, actually takes the time to illustrate the distinction between taking vengeance and holding a grudge.[5]
To what does it liken vengeance? It is like when you ask someone to lend you something, and they say no. And then one day when they ask you to lend them something, you also say no, just to spite them. According to Yoma, that is an act of vengeance.
And what qualifies as a grudge? The distinction between vengeance and a grudge is small but significant. A grudge is when you say to that person, “Sure, I’ll lend this object to you because “אֵינִי כְּמוֹתְךָ, because I am not like you.” I’m actually willing to lend something to my neighbor, because I’m the bigger person.
This is an incredible definition for holding a grudge. According to this passage, a grudge becomes a grudge not when you harbor ill will towards someone, but when your words and actions begin to reflect your feelings.
That verse that asserted we should not take vengeance or bear a grudge? Leviticus 19:18? I only read the first part of it. The more famous part of the verse comes a few words later. Though it is not always retained in its original Hebrew, it is one of the most well-known sayings on the planet: “וְאָהַבְתָּ לְרֵעֲךָ כָּמוֹךָ; you shall love your fellow as yourself.”
It’s very curious. Together, the verse exhorts, “You shall not take vengeance or hold a grudge against members of your people. Love your fellow as yourself.” It seems that the first half is meant to be balanced against the second half. It is almost like taking vengeance and holding a grudge against people is the opposite of loving them.
Suddenly, the mitzvah to love your neighbor as yourself just got easier to fulfill!
We’re only human. No matter if it’s our fault, or theirs, almost all of us have at least one person in our lives that we dislike. If that counts as not loving them, then the mitzvah of loving our neighbors as ourselves can be impossible.
But if loving them just means that we shouldn’t hold a grudge against them, and we use the aforementioned Talmudic definition for a grudge, it actually means, we’re allowed to dislike people. Certainly, if we hold a grudge, we should try to let go of it for our own mental and spiritual health. Holding a grudge is not a victimless thought, but if we can control our actions, our words, and our tone towards that person, then the harm is contained to just one person: ourselves.
Using this logic, we have a new biblical definition of what it means to love someone. It means that our actions and words towards them should reflect the Sh’losh-esrei Middot, The Thirteen Attributes. Be kind, be patient, and forgive. It is easy to see now, how the phrase “Love your neighbor as yourself,” is often quoted as “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”
When people make New Year’s resolutions, either Jewishly or otherwise, they often give themselves a task that is simply unachievable. If we say to ourselves, “This year, I’m not going to get mad as often,” that’s an admirable goal. But sometimes we have a right to be mad. And when we need to be mad, but don’t allow ourselves to be mad, that is called repression. We don’t want to be repressed. A better goal would be not to deny these feelings, but, instead, figure out a way to defuse them, either through a kind but honest conversation with people, or through a relief outlet of some sort, so the way you feel doesn’t carry over and begin to affect the other parts of your life.
How often have we been rude to someone, maybe even unintentionally, because we couldn’t self-regulate? Oftentimes, it has nothing to do with them! Sometimes we are rude because we have a stressful but unrelated situation weighing on our minds from earlier. Maybe we snap at them because we’re tired from work, or haven’t been sleeping enough, or are rightfully feeling drained or depressed because we are truly ill. These are all understandable reasons to have difficulty getting along with people in the moment.
In a way, this is one of the challenges of Yom Kippur. Many of us spend all day at shul, not eating or drinking. Fasting makes us cranky! It’s a test! Can we emulate the Middot while our stomachs scream at us in protest? It’s a test that, apparently, Rabbi Eliezer, was unable to pass.
This year, let’s not just listen to the voices of others, but listen to our own voice. Before we open our mouths, let’s ask ourselves: what will we sound like? When we use words that we regret, or a tone that we regret, we often apologize and say, “I just wasn’t thinking.” It’s true. We weren’t thinking! This year, let’s use that excuse less! This year, let’s think more!
If we can be aware of it before it comes out of our mouths, then we don’t have to say it.
We might not always be able to regulate our feelings, but if we can regulate our mouths, the world will be a much kinder place.
May we all be inscribed and sealed for a year of goodness.
G’mar tov!
[1] BT, Ta’anit 25b.
[2] ibid.
[3] Exodus 34:6.
[4] Orchot Tzaddikim 13.
[5] BT, Yoma 23a.