Rabbi Bridget Wynne
Erev Yom Kippur 2024 • 10 Tishrei, 5785
What a year it’s been. Harder for some than for others, yet I think each one of us has experienced pain and heartbreak, whether it’s personal, about the broader world, or both. No wonder it feels like I’ve had many similar conversations in different ways. People talk about the state of the world: “I’ve never seen our country so full of hatred and lies.” “I’m frightened and angry about what’s happening in the Middle East. And being a Jew makes it so hard.” I hear people struggling with their own lives, too. They say: “I can’t stand to see my child suffering this way.” Or, “My mom seemed so healthy, now she can barely get out of bed.”
Each conversation is unique, yet there is a thread that runs through them all. “There is too much pain. I try not to get overwhelmed by the brokenness and suffering, but it is still there. What do I do?”
Even those who come here this evening grateful for a year of fulfillment, a year of joy, enter Kol Nidre aware of our own fragility and failings, and of the fearful violence, and threats of violence, we hear about each day on the news.
“What do we do?” The pain, and the question, are part of being human, of caring about the world and those we love. They are also part of Yom Kippur. As poet Merle Feld writes, “On this day,” we stand “naked, without disguise, without embellishment“ (“Kol Nidre”). This day invites vulnerability, self-examination, and an opportunity to be honest about the hurt in our lives.
I’m going to pause here for a moment and invite you to think about what you are bringing with you tonight, what brokenness you are holding – something I mentioned or did not, something personal, political, or both.
We may not often experience the invitation to sit with the brokenness that Yom Kippur offers. Our American culture has limited space for this brokenness, whether it is grief we should move on from, imperfections we should try to hide, or suffering we might as well be hopeless or cynical about. Yet Jewish tradition accepts and even honors it all.
Rabbi Isaac Luria, who founded the Jewish mystical tradition known as kabbalah, taught that brokenness is built into creation. He wrote that God created the world and poured divine light into vessels to send out to fill the darkness with holiness. Yet these vessels could not contain the intensity of this primordial light, and they shattered, falling into pieces on the earth.
We cannot see the sparks that scattered when the vessels broke, but according to Luria, they are there. It is our task to find these bits of divine light, lift them up, and, in this way, help heal the world.
So brokenness, according to our tradition, is literally part of the fabric of life, woven into our human experience. I find this comforting. Though our culture holds out the possibility of perfection, that is not reality. Instead of feeling isolated or that we have failed, we can offer compassion to ourselves, to one another, and gather strength, knowing that we all experience fractures in our lives.
Our tradition goes a step further, teaching us that brokenness is not only a part of reality. It is something we can and should choose to carry with us. Think about the dramatic story of how, shortly after the Israelites were freed from slavery in Egypt, they camped in the desert around Mount Sinai. Their leader, Moses, went up the mountain to encounter the divine and received the tablets with the Ten Commandments engraved on them. As he came down, he saw the people dancing around the Golden Calf they had built, worshiping it as a way to comfort themselves while he was gone for so long.
Moses was enraged. He threw the tablets down, and they shattered into pieces. Eventually, Moses calmed down, went back up the mountain, and pleaded with God to give the people another chance. God was convinced, and Moses came down again with a new set of tablets. The people put them in the special Ark they built and carried it with them as they wandered for 40 years in the desert.
What happened to the broken pieces from the first set of tablets? Amazingly, they went into the Ark as well. Those shattered pieces must have been heavy. They must have reminded the Israelites of one of the worst moments in their lives and in our people’s history. Yet they were given the highest seat of honor.
How many times have each of us pretended that everything is OK when it is not? Through this story, our tradition teaches us you do not need to bury or throw away your broken pieces. They are part of you. Carry them with you, respect them, and perhaps even learn from them.
Let me be clear.
I am NOT saying that bad things happen for a reason, that they are here for us to learn from. I think this is a cruel teaching, and I try never to offer platitudes like that to people in pain.
Yet, given time, love, and compassion, we may be able to learn from our experiences of brokenness and even draw on them to bring blessings to ourselves and others.
Yom Kippur is not only a time to acknowledge fears, losses, and wrongdoings. It is also a time for growth and renewal.
To return to that question, “What do we do?” We can accept our tradition’s invitation not only to make room for brokenness but also to discover meaningful ways to respond.
First, being here with others, reflecting on our regrets, naming our wrongdoings aloud as we chant together, and making decisions about how to change can lessen our shame and bring us renewed energy. We can experience others’ compassion and encouragement and offer ours as well.
Second, when we accept brokenness as part of life rather than struggling against it, we may see new ways forward. With personal pain, this may mean changing our expectations and extending the timeline beyond what our culture expects. Struggling, mourning, and healing are often slower and more up and down than we are led to believe.
With the brokenness in the world, acceptance may mean knowing that there will always be a gap between what is and what should be. Though the gap causes pain, and we wish it were not there, we may also be grateful for our awareness of it. Rather than responding to that gap with feelings of defeat or cynicism, let us allow it to call us to act. For the future is not determined. It will result from the many moments, the many choices, the many actions that are yet to take place. When we step into the brokenness and act, communally and personally, many things do change for the better.
This evening, on Kol Nidre, we enter into the quiet. There is no blast of the shofar. There is time to allow ourselves to feel and honor whatever is in our hearts.
When we come to the blast of the shofar tomorrow evening, at the end of the holiday, let us hear it as a call to wholeness. I’ve been talking about brokenness, but I want to share with you now the beautiful words of Rabbi Menachem Mendel of Kotzk, an Eastern European Hasidic rabbi: “There is nothing more whole than a broken heart.”
Over this Yom Kippur and throughout our lives, may we accept and honor our broken places, gently putting them into our own ark. May we seek and find openings to new wisdom, greater patience, and more love for our brokenness and that of others. May we have the courage and faith to see the gap between what should be and what is and allow it to call us forward, one step at a time, as individuals and as a community.
For there is nothing more whole than a broken heart.
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