Rabbi ari lev: The Forest of Words: Meditations on the Machzor
Yom Kippur 5780
October 10, 2019
A story is told of Reb Ya'akov Yitzhak HaLevi of Lublin, known as the Seer of Lublin for his visionary ideas.[1] When he was a young boy, the Seer of Lublin lived near a forest. Every afternoon the Seer would go off into the forest for hours. His adventures were a mystery to his parents. And while they wanted to encourage his independence, they also worried. Would he return? Was he safe? Who or what lived in that forest? It seems reasonable to be concerned, even for the most relaxed of parents. It was a forest, after all.
One day his parents asked him, "We notice that every day you go off into the woods. We love this about you. We don't want to scare you, but we are a bit concerned for your safety. Why is it that you go there, what is it that you do?"
With utter clarity, and not an ounce of defensiveness, the little boy responded, "I go into the forest to find God."
His parents took a deep breath, so moved by their sons words. "That's beautiful. We are so pleased you are doing that. But you know, son, that you don't have to go to the forest to find God. God is the same everywhere."
"God is," the boy answered, "but I'm not."
"God is, but I'm not."[2]
---
At different points in my life I have spent long stretches of time in the woods leading wilderness trips for teens, living in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina, or backpacking in the Canadian Rockies. It all started when I was 16 and decided to spend a month in Denali National Park in Alaska. We slept in the soft tundra and waded across glacial rivers. We got lost and ran out of food and failed at fly fishing. It rained for 29 of the 30 days. Every inch of me was cold and wet. The sun never set. Two days before it was to end, on my 17th birthday, I awoke in the middle of the night and gazed out of my tent awestruck by the sight of the aurora borealis, fluorescent lights swirling in the half-lit sky. Years later I looked back in my journal from that trip. The last page said, "I think I saw God last night. I feel free. I can't believe how vast this world is. Don't ever tell anyone this was fun." Twenty years later, the memory of that trip is still so vivid for me. I have found it possible to let go and be remade in the woods like nowhere else. The trees are so old, so rooted, yet so flexible. Their persistent, slow growth slows me down and I can keep pace with my breath and my body. My breath deepens in their presence.
Today we find ourselves here, amidst a forest of words, ancient and our own. Words that are vast, rooted, and flexible. Words that point us over and over again toward the Divine.
Adonai, Adonai, El Ruchum v'Hanun - Holy One, source of compassion and mercy.
Erech apayim, rav hesed v'emet - slow to anger, full of kindness and truth.
These words have been on loop in my heart since Selichot. Because much like the boy in the forest, our efforts to seek out God reveal to us a more true version of ourselves.
I am by nature impatient, quick to anger, and slow to forgive. I can be overly harsh and speak in exaggerations.
But I have been hugging this ancient tree for nearly three weeks, and I have noticed that in moments when my frustrations rise, when I am waiting in line at the credit union or one of my children refuses to go upstairs for bedtime, I feel myself growing impatient, longing to hold a grudge, wanting to tell a story about my day that stretches the truth to justify my being home later than I would have liked. And then these words paint right over my heart, erech apayim, rav hesed v'emet. Slow to anger, full of kindness and truth.
It is my own sense that these 800+ pages of prayers composed over centuries, translated, transliterated, and interpreted over millennia, are the old oak trees of our tradition. We are meant to wander among them, nestle ourselves into a cozy nook amidst their roots, to lean back and let the trunks hold us up, as we journey inward. They are the redwood forests, majestic and ancient, and we are meant to spend these days lost in them, looking for God, so that we can see ourselves anew.
I want to invite you this year to see every glorious attribute we confer on the Holy One as an aspiration for your own soul.
In a few minutes we will rise for the Unetane Tokef, declaring:
A great shofar is sounded, and a still, small voice will be heard.
The cacophony of words on Yom Kippur are the great shofar of this day, and they are meant to guide us inward so that we can hear our still, small voice, worthy of care and love, full of insight and wisdom about our own transformation.
אֱמֶת כִּי אַתָּה הוּא דַּיָּן וּמוֹכִיחַ וְיוֹדֵעַ וָעֵד
In truth, You, Holy One, are the judge and the rebuker, the One who knows everything.
But in truth, in my own experience, we are each our own greatest judge and rebuker. We know ourselves best, and Yom Kippur invites us to take off the masks and strip away the stories we tell ourselves. Through a seemingly endless waterfall of words, we are asked to see ourselves first more clearly, and then, and only then, to see ourselves in a new way. To create space for change.
But where does this spaciousness come from?
It comes from within you and from within the insights of our own tradition.
In the world of Jewish mysticism, the sphere of Hesed is associated with spaciousness. It is the flow of water. It is kindness and hospitality, compassion and mercy. We learn in the Talmud that the Torah begins with an act of chesed and ends with an act of chesed. It begins with an act of chesed when God clothes the first human beings in the Garden of Eden, and it ends with an act of chesed when God buries Moses after he dies. But this teaching that the Torah begins and ends with acts of chesed makes clear that Torah, from beginning to end, is really about chesed. And to embody Torah is to make our beginning and our end acts of chesed.
אָדָם יְסוֹדוֹ מֵעָפָר וְסוֹפוֹ לֶעָפָר.
We come from dust, and return to dust. We labor by our lives for bread, we are like broken shards, like dry grass, and like a withered flower; like a passing shadow and a vanishing cloud, like a breeze that passes, like dust that scatters, like a fleeting dream.
How will we embody this ephemeral existence?
Can we make more space within us for kindness and compassion?
When we come to the end of the Unetaneh Tokef we will declare,
וּתְשׁוּבָה וּתְפִלָּה וּצְדָקָה
Turning inward and making amends,
Prayer and being generous
מַעֲבִירִין אֶת רֹעַ הַגְּזֵרָה.
Transform the harshness of the decree.
For the past month I have been wondering, why these three things? What do they have in common? I have tried to pay attention in my own practice, in what ways do I feel transformed by my own experiences of making teshuvah, of personal and communal tefillah, and of giving tzedakah?
Teshuvah - I have made an effort to write letters or make phone calls to all the people in my life with whom I feel I have unresolved tension or distance, or whom I feel I have hurt this year.
Tefillah - I have made an effort to pray or meditate every day beginning with Rosh Hodesh Elul to prepare for these Days of Awe.
Tzedakah - I have made a point of giving money to everyone who asks me. On the street, at fundraisers for some amazing city council candidates, on social media, even mailings. Poteach et yadecha u'masbia l'khol chai ratzon - to open up my hand and give freely.
And what I have noticed is that each of these practices has softened me, has opened my heart, has made me feel a greater sense of abundance, has made me feel more emotionally available, made me slower to anger and quicker to forgive.
It is like I took the Unetane Tokef as a prescription for the month of Elul rather than a true and terrifying description of human existence. And what it led me to understand most deeply is that I do not know if any of my deeds have had an effect on the One on High. In the words of Avinu Malkeinu - ain banu ma'asim.
But I do know that they have had an effect on me. They have softened my own jagged edges, my own harsh judgements and decrees.
מַעֲבִירִין אֶת רֹעַ הַגְּזֵרָה.
These words, like so many of the Unetane Tokef, are most often considered to be referring to the Divine decree. Once again, I want to invite you to see every glorious attribute we confer on the Holy One as an opportunity and aspiration for your own soul.
Toward the end of the book of Deuteronomy, in Parashat Nitzavim, which we read just before Rosh Hashanah, we are given a little bit of reassurance that the task we've been given is not beyond our reach. Deuteronomy 30:12 reads:
For this commandment which I command you this day, it is not too hard for you, neither is it far off.
While I've always assumed that this verse is referring to the mitzvot in a general way, the commentators opted for a closer read. They recognized that hamitzvah hazot must be in reference to a single mitzvah. For a group of the Medievals, Ramban amongst them, there is an assertion that the one commandment being referred to in this verse is...(wait for it)...teshuvah. And, best of all, it's within our grasp! Lo b'shamayim hi - it's not in the heavens, or beyond the sea; no, the Torah continues, [teshuvah] is in our mouths and in our hearts.
Maimonides teaches that one of the ways we can do teshuvah is to shinui makom - a change of scenery if you will, to make a shift, to follow the inspiration of the young boy of Lublin, to get lost in the forest. Our machzor invites us to get lost in this forest of words. So that we can see ourselves anew, so that we can be softened, so that we can be transformed.
As we prepare for this next Amidah, I invite you as you are able, to consider moving to somewhere new in the room, to change your orientation, make a shinui makom. Or perhaps if these words are our forest, to discover a new prayer or place in the machzor to rest your attention.
Ribono Shel Olam, Master of all the worlds, it is not on account of our own righteousness that we offer supplications before you, but rather, on account of your great compassion. Meh hayyenu? Mah hasdenu? What are we? What is our life? What is our goodness? Where shall we find you? Where shall we find ourselves in this year to come?
Grant us the presence of mind in this coming year to make time for the forest.
May the merits of our practice soften our hearts that we may transform our own harsh decrees from judgement to compassion.
[1] Yaakov Yitzchak HaLevi Horowitz, known as "the Seer of Lublin", ha-Chozeh MiLublin; c. 1745 - August 15, 1815 was a Hasidic rebbe from Poland. A leading figure in the early Hasidic movement, he became known as the "seer" or "visionary" due to his purported ability to gaze across great distances by supernatural means.
[2] "The Seer of Lublin," told by Rabbi David Wolpe. Three Times Chai, edited by Laney Katz Becker, p. 61.
October 10, 2019
A story is told of Reb Ya'akov Yitzhak HaLevi of Lublin, known as the Seer of Lublin for his visionary ideas.[1] When he was a young boy, the Seer of Lublin lived near a forest. Every afternoon the Seer would go off into the forest for hours. His adventures were a mystery to his parents. And while they wanted to encourage his independence, they also worried. Would he return? Was he safe? Who or what lived in that forest? It seems reasonable to be concerned, even for the most relaxed of parents. It was a forest, after all.
One day his parents asked him, "We notice that every day you go off into the woods. We love this about you. We don't want to scare you, but we are a bit concerned for your safety. Why is it that you go there, what is it that you do?"
With utter clarity, and not an ounce of defensiveness, the little boy responded, "I go into the forest to find God."
His parents took a deep breath, so moved by their sons words. "That's beautiful. We are so pleased you are doing that. But you know, son, that you don't have to go to the forest to find God. God is the same everywhere."
"God is," the boy answered, "but I'm not."
"God is, but I'm not."[2]
---
At different points in my life I have spent long stretches of time in the woods leading wilderness trips for teens, living in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina, or backpacking in the Canadian Rockies. It all started when I was 16 and decided to spend a month in Denali National Park in Alaska. We slept in the soft tundra and waded across glacial rivers. We got lost and ran out of food and failed at fly fishing. It rained for 29 of the 30 days. Every inch of me was cold and wet. The sun never set. Two days before it was to end, on my 17th birthday, I awoke in the middle of the night and gazed out of my tent awestruck by the sight of the aurora borealis, fluorescent lights swirling in the half-lit sky. Years later I looked back in my journal from that trip. The last page said, "I think I saw God last night. I feel free. I can't believe how vast this world is. Don't ever tell anyone this was fun." Twenty years later, the memory of that trip is still so vivid for me. I have found it possible to let go and be remade in the woods like nowhere else. The trees are so old, so rooted, yet so flexible. Their persistent, slow growth slows me down and I can keep pace with my breath and my body. My breath deepens in their presence.
Today we find ourselves here, amidst a forest of words, ancient and our own. Words that are vast, rooted, and flexible. Words that point us over and over again toward the Divine.
Adonai, Adonai, El Ruchum v'Hanun - Holy One, source of compassion and mercy.
Erech apayim, rav hesed v'emet - slow to anger, full of kindness and truth.
These words have been on loop in my heart since Selichot. Because much like the boy in the forest, our efforts to seek out God reveal to us a more true version of ourselves.
I am by nature impatient, quick to anger, and slow to forgive. I can be overly harsh and speak in exaggerations.
But I have been hugging this ancient tree for nearly three weeks, and I have noticed that in moments when my frustrations rise, when I am waiting in line at the credit union or one of my children refuses to go upstairs for bedtime, I feel myself growing impatient, longing to hold a grudge, wanting to tell a story about my day that stretches the truth to justify my being home later than I would have liked. And then these words paint right over my heart, erech apayim, rav hesed v'emet. Slow to anger, full of kindness and truth.
It is my own sense that these 800+ pages of prayers composed over centuries, translated, transliterated, and interpreted over millennia, are the old oak trees of our tradition. We are meant to wander among them, nestle ourselves into a cozy nook amidst their roots, to lean back and let the trunks hold us up, as we journey inward. They are the redwood forests, majestic and ancient, and we are meant to spend these days lost in them, looking for God, so that we can see ourselves anew.
I want to invite you this year to see every glorious attribute we confer on the Holy One as an aspiration for your own soul.
In a few minutes we will rise for the Unetane Tokef, declaring:
A great shofar is sounded, and a still, small voice will be heard.
The cacophony of words on Yom Kippur are the great shofar of this day, and they are meant to guide us inward so that we can hear our still, small voice, worthy of care and love, full of insight and wisdom about our own transformation.
אֱמֶת כִּי אַתָּה הוּא דַּיָּן וּמוֹכִיחַ וְיוֹדֵעַ וָעֵד
In truth, You, Holy One, are the judge and the rebuker, the One who knows everything.
But in truth, in my own experience, we are each our own greatest judge and rebuker. We know ourselves best, and Yom Kippur invites us to take off the masks and strip away the stories we tell ourselves. Through a seemingly endless waterfall of words, we are asked to see ourselves first more clearly, and then, and only then, to see ourselves in a new way. To create space for change.
But where does this spaciousness come from?
It comes from within you and from within the insights of our own tradition.
In the world of Jewish mysticism, the sphere of Hesed is associated with spaciousness. It is the flow of water. It is kindness and hospitality, compassion and mercy. We learn in the Talmud that the Torah begins with an act of chesed and ends with an act of chesed. It begins with an act of chesed when God clothes the first human beings in the Garden of Eden, and it ends with an act of chesed when God buries Moses after he dies. But this teaching that the Torah begins and ends with acts of chesed makes clear that Torah, from beginning to end, is really about chesed. And to embody Torah is to make our beginning and our end acts of chesed.
אָדָם יְסוֹדוֹ מֵעָפָר וְסוֹפוֹ לֶעָפָר.
We come from dust, and return to dust. We labor by our lives for bread, we are like broken shards, like dry grass, and like a withered flower; like a passing shadow and a vanishing cloud, like a breeze that passes, like dust that scatters, like a fleeting dream.
How will we embody this ephemeral existence?
Can we make more space within us for kindness and compassion?
When we come to the end of the Unetaneh Tokef we will declare,
וּתְשׁוּבָה וּתְפִלָּה וּצְדָקָה
Turning inward and making amends,
Prayer and being generous
מַעֲבִירִין אֶת רֹעַ הַגְּזֵרָה.
Transform the harshness of the decree.
For the past month I have been wondering, why these three things? What do they have in common? I have tried to pay attention in my own practice, in what ways do I feel transformed by my own experiences of making teshuvah, of personal and communal tefillah, and of giving tzedakah?
Teshuvah - I have made an effort to write letters or make phone calls to all the people in my life with whom I feel I have unresolved tension or distance, or whom I feel I have hurt this year.
Tefillah - I have made an effort to pray or meditate every day beginning with Rosh Hodesh Elul to prepare for these Days of Awe.
Tzedakah - I have made a point of giving money to everyone who asks me. On the street, at fundraisers for some amazing city council candidates, on social media, even mailings. Poteach et yadecha u'masbia l'khol chai ratzon - to open up my hand and give freely.
And what I have noticed is that each of these practices has softened me, has opened my heart, has made me feel a greater sense of abundance, has made me feel more emotionally available, made me slower to anger and quicker to forgive.
It is like I took the Unetane Tokef as a prescription for the month of Elul rather than a true and terrifying description of human existence. And what it led me to understand most deeply is that I do not know if any of my deeds have had an effect on the One on High. In the words of Avinu Malkeinu - ain banu ma'asim.
But I do know that they have had an effect on me. They have softened my own jagged edges, my own harsh judgements and decrees.
מַעֲבִירִין אֶת רֹעַ הַגְּזֵרָה.
These words, like so many of the Unetane Tokef, are most often considered to be referring to the Divine decree. Once again, I want to invite you to see every glorious attribute we confer on the Holy One as an opportunity and aspiration for your own soul.
Toward the end of the book of Deuteronomy, in Parashat Nitzavim, which we read just before Rosh Hashanah, we are given a little bit of reassurance that the task we've been given is not beyond our reach. Deuteronomy 30:12 reads:
For this commandment which I command you this day, it is not too hard for you, neither is it far off.
While I've always assumed that this verse is referring to the mitzvot in a general way, the commentators opted for a closer read. They recognized that hamitzvah hazot must be in reference to a single mitzvah. For a group of the Medievals, Ramban amongst them, there is an assertion that the one commandment being referred to in this verse is...(wait for it)...teshuvah. And, best of all, it's within our grasp! Lo b'shamayim hi - it's not in the heavens, or beyond the sea; no, the Torah continues, [teshuvah] is in our mouths and in our hearts.
Maimonides teaches that one of the ways we can do teshuvah is to shinui makom - a change of scenery if you will, to make a shift, to follow the inspiration of the young boy of Lublin, to get lost in the forest. Our machzor invites us to get lost in this forest of words. So that we can see ourselves anew, so that we can be softened, so that we can be transformed.
As we prepare for this next Amidah, I invite you as you are able, to consider moving to somewhere new in the room, to change your orientation, make a shinui makom. Or perhaps if these words are our forest, to discover a new prayer or place in the machzor to rest your attention.
Ribono Shel Olam, Master of all the worlds, it is not on account of our own righteousness that we offer supplications before you, but rather, on account of your great compassion. Meh hayyenu? Mah hasdenu? What are we? What is our life? What is our goodness? Where shall we find you? Where shall we find ourselves in this year to come?
Grant us the presence of mind in this coming year to make time for the forest.
May the merits of our practice soften our hearts that we may transform our own harsh decrees from judgement to compassion.
[1] Yaakov Yitzchak HaLevi Horowitz, known as "the Seer of Lublin", ha-Chozeh MiLublin; c. 1745 - August 15, 1815 was a Hasidic rebbe from Poland. A leading figure in the early Hasidic movement, he became known as the "seer" or "visionary" due to his purported ability to gaze across great distances by supernatural means.
[2] "The Seer of Lublin," told by Rabbi David Wolpe. Three Times Chai, edited by Laney Katz Becker, p. 61.