One of the amazing blessings of doing this podcast has been the messages I receive from listeners. People from all over the world write in to share how the teachings and practices we explore on this show have been helpful to them. And it’s so gratifying to hear that.
One thing that surprises me is that a lot of people tell me they like my voice. They say they find it gentle and soothing. I’m surprised by that because, well, it’s always hard to hear our own voices. I don’t know about you, but I’m always a little startled to hear a recording of myself. I guess I didn’t think of my voice as particularly gentle and soothing before. So it’s nice to hear that from you all!
As I reflect on it, maybe one of the reasons I didn’t think of my voice that way is that, despite appearances, I’ve been known in my life to occasionally have a strong judgmental streak. If you’ve listened to episodes from our first two of seasons of the podcast, you’ve heard me share stories of when that judgmental flare burst out—maybe most memorably in my story about shouting out “No!” at the top of my lungs at an orchestra concert in Jerusalem (Season 2, episode 20, in case you want to listen).
And when I think back on my life at the moments I most regret, that I’ve either had to repent for or wish I had done differently, at root I almost always find that judgmental streak and my own inability to control it. I wish I had been softer, kinder, more understanding, and definitely not self-righteous.
There’s a story in the Talmud about a rabbi, Shimon bar Yochai, and his son, Yehudah. They both have a strong judgmental streak, and eventually it lands them in trouble with the Roman government. They’re forced to hide, and they wind up spending twelve years in a cave. The Talmud describes the scene: There’s a miracle. A carob-tree sprouts up to feed them, and a well appears so they can drink. They would take off their clothes and sit up to their necks in sand. The whole day they studied; when it was time for prayers they dressed. They’d take off their clothes again, to keep them from wearing out.
Eventually Elijah comes and tells them the emperor is dead, they can leave the cave. They come out into the world, but it turns out that all that time inside their echo chamber has only made things worse. They were even more judgmental than before. They see people going to work and doing the regular things of life, and they say to themselves, “Why aren’t they studying? Why aren’t they praying? They’re awful.” The Talmud actually says that everything they looked at burned up—like Superman with uncontrollable heat vision.
So God says, “My dudes—did I send you into a cave for twelve years only to have you come out and destroy my world? Twelve more months back inside the cave!” When they come out this time, they seem to have learned their lesson. Instead of seeing what’s wrong with people, they start to see what’s right with them. The heat vision is turned into kindness vision. And Rabbi Shimon comes to be known as one of the major figures of Jewish mysticism.
One of the early Hasidic masters, Rabbi Yaakov Yosef of Polnoye, writes about this story, and I love what he says. He says that what Rabbi Shimon and his son ultimately learned in the cave was a better way of being the world, a way of compassion, derekh harachamim in Hebrew. The way of compassion, says Yaakov Yosef, is to deeply internalize that God is in everyone and everything. That means that if you see something that would make you feel a strong sensation of judgmentalism or righteous anger, you should pause. Consider the possibility that there’s divinity, godliness, something here that is also within you. Consider that whatever you’re seeing and sensing is so wrong in someone else is actually here to teach you something about yourself. When you do that, Reb Yaakov Yosef suggests, your eyes will soften. Your heart will soften. The judgmentalism will be replaced, or at least tempered, by compassion.
To me, this is kind of the essence of Yom Kippur. It’s what it’s all about. Our lives, our world, our politics, and of course our social media universe, is so full of judgmentalism. Literally: “hot takes.” So much knee-jerk, triggered judgment, with no pauses to consider what’s going on. There’s so much anger, so much righteous indignation, so much seeing what’s wrong with other people instead of looking for what’s right in them.
Yom Kippur comes along and asks us, even demands of us, to pause, to stop—to experience the ultimate Shabbat—and set aside all of those hard, angry, loud, short-of-breath sensations. Yom Kippur comes along and invites us, even demands of us, to cultivate the seeds of compassion within us. As one of my favorite prayers from the prayerbook puts it, it’s a day of love and companionship, a day when we set aside rivalry and jealousy. It’s a day for re-grounding in Hesed and Emet: the truth that compassion is what it’s ultimately all about.
To help do that, here’s the simplest of breathing practices.
Just slow down.
Pause.
Stop.
Whatever you’re doing–if you can do it safely–just try to stop, gently.
If you can, close your eyes.
Take a deep breath.
Relax your shoulders.
Relax your jaw.
Relax your eyes.
Let the hardness go.
Soften.
Be with that for a little bit.
Keep softening up, little by little.
Feel your face, your body, your heart slowing down, becoming softer.
Not weak, not limp.
Strong, supple, flexible—like a graceful dancer or an acrobatic athlete.
And perhaps, as you exhale, just say, Hesed–loving connection. Hesed.
And then, Rachamim–compassion.
And then, Emet–truth.
Hesed.
Rachamim.
Emet.
Hesed.
Rachamim.
Emet.
Keep doing that for as long as you like. You can do it quietly at services if you go. You can do it during the day of Yom Kippur. You can share the practice with friends. And you can let me know how it goes.
We all know we need more compassion. We need more love. We need more grace and connection. Our lives depend on it. All of us need, and on a deep level want, to look on the world with a softer gaze. Let’s take the opportunity of Yom Kippur to practice it—and bring a little more love into our world.
Blessings for the journey. Know that I’m on it with you.