Why does God want our prayers?
We are fasting. We are tired. We are hungry and we are weak. But, despite our weariness, we come together in shul to pray for hour after hour. There is no other day in the year that is as filled with prayers as is Yom Kippur. What difference does it make to God?
Every other day of the year, this is an interesting question of religious philosophy. But today, because of the physical toll praying takes on us, this question has a lot more urgency.
Our prayers themselves ask, and answer, this question in two very similar piyutim, liturgical poems that we recite on Yom Kippur. These two piyutim are introductions, one at Shacharit and the other at Mussaf, to the Kedushah portion of the service. During the kedushah we call out “Kadosh Kadosh Kadosh” – “Holy Holy Holy” in imitation of the way the angel’s singing was described by Yehezkel – Ezekiel. We join the angels during kedushah and pray alongside them.
“Asher Ometz T’hilatecha” – we said at Shacharit – “Even though Your mighty praise is among the angels of heaven, the beings that flash divine light, the hosts on high, and the still small voice – “U-Kedushat’cha B’Fihem – Your sanctity – and the recitation of “kedushah” is in their mouths.
“Ve’Ratzitah Shevach” – Yet, you desire praise from mere mortals, with their numbered days…for this is Your glory – V’Hi Kevodecha”
Stanza after stanza of this piyut, expresses in glorious poetic language, the panoply of choruses praising God in heaven. And stanza after stanza of this piyut, expresses in poignantly poetic language, God’s preference for human prayer.
And then, in Mussaf, we will recite:
“Asher Eimatecha – even though Your dread is upon the faithful angels, the mighty heavenly hosts, created of ice mixed with fire…”
“Ve-Avita T’hilah” – Yet you desire praise from those formed from earth, denizens of the valleys below, whose actions are meager, and good deeds few in number
V’Hi T’hilatecha – and this is Your praise!”
Here too, stanza after stanza expresses the perfection that surrounds God in heaven. And stanza after stanza expresses God’s desire for praise from imperfect humans.
The placement of these piyutim, right before the kedushah, makes the audacious claim that our kedushah is better – is more favored by God – than the angelic kedushah it imitates. Why is that so? What can our feeble prayers contribute?
There is a double paradox at the very center of the prayer experience. God is perfect and lacks nothing. And yet God desires human prayers. At the same time, these piyutim assert that it is our very weakness and neediness, indeed our very mortality itself, that gives significance to our prayers.
We can see evidence of this at the very moment of revelation. According to the Talmud, there was objection in heaven to God’s decision to give the Torah to human beings. As the story is recorded, God turned to Moshe and asked him to justify the gift of Torah. Why do sinful and frail human beings deserve access to a Divine Torah? Moshe’s winning argument was to open the Torah itself and show for whom it is relevant:
“Look what the Torah says,” Moshe replied. “The Torah creates obligations that respond to human needs and that protect us in our fragility. The Torah prohibits things that human beings sometimes wish to do and the Torah guards us from our harmful drives.”
We are tempted by base urges, petty jealousies and resentments. We are tempted by the easy availability of living our lives without introspection, without moral scrutiny, and without responsibility for others. And it’s because of those temptations, that our dedication of a day for prayer and self-examination is meaningful. Sure we are tired and hungry. Not all of us can sing on key. But God treasures our striving to transcend our limitations by coming together in prayer today.
Our mortality is what gives us skin in the game. That’s why our lives and our choices are significant.
Unlike the angels mentioned in those piyutim, we won’t have an eternity to spend in the presence of God. We are here on this world for only a brief time and we make choices about how that limited time gets spent. Will we indulge our every whim and devote our lives to caprice, or will we seize the opportunities that we have to serve others, to refine our character, and stand in the presence of God?
Coming together in prayer, on a fast day when the lines between human and angel are blurry, when weakness of fasting and our shroud-like clothing reminds us of our mortality, is a sign to God – and a sign to ourselves – that we have chosen, at least for today, to allocate our time and efforts towards noble purposes.
This is reminiscent of the two goats that we read about this morning. Before Aaron, or any high-priest after him, could approach the Holy of Holies, the Kodesh HaKedoshim, on Yom Kippur, he would bring two young goats and a bull. The bull was quickly offered as a korban Hattat – a sin offering on behalf of the kohen and his own family. But the goats were treated differently:
“He shall take the two goats and stand them before the Lord at the opening of the Tent of Meeting. And for these two goats, Aaron shall draw lots. One lot for the Lord and one lot for Azazel.”
“And Aaron shall offer up the goat whose lot falls to the Lord, and make it a sin-offering. And the goat whose lot falls to Azazel shall be left to stand alive before the Lord, to be an atonement – to be sent away to Azazel, into the wastelands.”
As a child, it was obvious to me that the lucky goat is certainly not the goat that gets offered as a sin-offering, but the one that gets to live, and is taken to the wilderness. That innocence did not last long. The goat sent to Azazel, according to almost every traditional commentator, did not survive. Rashi, following the Talmud, explains that this goat was thrown to its death from the top of a rocky cliff far out in the wilderness. It seems that there is no happy ending for either goat.
Neither goat survives Yom Kippur. Both goats die – but only one of them has stood in the presence of God. The fate of each goat was chosen by a lottery. And we too will one day die – but unlike the goats – we can choose whether or not we will stand in the presence of God.
Once we understand that our mortality itself is what gives value to our prayers and gives significance to our choices, we can see why Yizkor is recited on Yom Kippur.
Among Ashkenazim, Yizkor is recited four times a year. Each time feels a bit different, depending on the holiday. On Yom Kippur yizkor, we are reminded of our mortality, and we draw inspiration from the choices made by those who are no longer alive. Our parents, grandparents, and other loved ones used their time on earth to build a life of meaning and values. Recalling their memory on this day inspires us to make that same choice.
But there is another element of Yizkor on Yom Kippur: “B’yom Tzom Kippur Ye’hatemun – on Yom Kippur our fates, our decrees, are sealed forever.” That’s not exactly true. Yizkor gives those who recite it the chance to shift the perspective by which the earlier generations are evaluated.
When we recite Yizkor, we make a pledge to tzedakah in the merit of someone no longer alive. By doing so, the life of someone who may have been dead for many years is understood in light of the tzedakah given in his or her merit. Indeed, all of our own individual merits, virtues, and achievements reflect back on those who shaped us and Yom Kippur, a day of reckoning, is a time when we can make decisions about ourselves that impact the enduring legacy of loved ones who are no longer alive.
For this reason, even though some with two living parents have the custom to leave the synagogue during yizkor, we will reconvene as a congregation at the end of yizkor and recite memorial prayers for those who died during the Holocaust, and for fallen American and Israeli soldiers. Their lives and death had significance, not only to their immediate family, but also to the entire Jewish people.
In addition, I will distribute copies of the biographies of soldiers who died in the 1948 War for Israeli Independence. Each one of these soldiers was a Holocaust survivor, and each was the sole surviving member of his family – the only one left to recite yizkor or kaddish for his or her entire family. All of these soldiers in turn died without leaving behind any family to say kadish or recite yizkor. A colleague translated four of these biographies into English from an Israeli government website. Anyone blessed with two living parents and who wishes to remain in shul for Yizkor, has the option of commemorating the lives of these fallen soldiers, and through them, honor the families that died with them. Of course those of us with relatives for whom we are saying yizkor, have the option as well to commemorate one of these families.
We’re hungry, we’re weak, we’ve been praying for hours. But when we pray despite our weakness and despite our hunger we connect to an inner strength that allows us to overcome our physical and spiritual limits to reach out to each other and to reach out to God.
Reciting yizkor is sad. And contemplating our own mortality is frightening. But when we pray, with awareness that our time on earth is limited, we can motivate ourselves to dedicate our limited time here to values and causes that are eternal.
This is the prayer that God wants. May all of our tefilot, join the tefilot of others, and may we receive a year of health, fulfillment and peace. G’mar Hatimah Tovah.
For biographical information about fallen Israeli soldiers, see here.
Rabbi David Wolkenfeld 