Letting Go – Kol Nidrei 2022

by Ner Tamid | Oct 1, 2025 | Sermons

A rabbi and his disciple were once walking together deep in discussion. They arrived at the bank of a river and saw a young woman in tears. “Why are you crying?” asked the rabbi. She told him that she was deathly afraid of water, but she really needed to get to the other side of the river. “No problem,” said the rabbi. He suggested that she climb on his back, which she did. And he carried her across the river.

The student followed behind, the entire time, shaking his head. The woman thanked the rabbi profusely, went on her way, and the rabbi and his student continued walking. The student kept shaking his head and muttering under his breath.

After about two miles, the rabbi turned to his student and said, “What’s bothering you?”

Incredulous, the student responded: “Rabbi, we’re not allowed to touch a woman other than our wife! You let this woman on your back. You held onto her!”

“Yes,” said the rabbi. “I did.”

“But I let go of her two miles ago at the crossing. Why are you still carrying her?”

We’re starting the holiest day of the year. Many of us are dressed in white, as we emulate the angels and attempt to fly to the heights of spirituality. But our wings are just not strong enough to bear all that we carry. All of us here have memories, all of us here have strong emotions that we can’t seem to shake. And now, at this sacred moment, it would be a good idea to think about what we are carrying and what’s holding us down.

I’d venture to say that we are weighed down with pain from family. We are so often hurt by those closest to us, the people we’ve depended on, the people who know our most shameful vulnerabilities. We carry the burden of that pain.

I’d venture to say that we are weighed down with indignity. We feel ignored by our spouse, we feel like our opinion does not matter in our own home, we feel, in the place and with the person who is supposed to make us feel most important, we feel most small. We carry the burden of indignity.

We are weighed down by feelings of being ignored. We went through a hard time, and our friends were nowhere to be seen. We called them and texted and emailed, but they never responded. We carry the burden of being invisible.

We are weighed down by ingratitude. We worked tirelessly to support our co-workers, or our bosses and they walk away with all the praise, they get the raises and attention, and they don’t even bother to say thanks. There are children who owe us gratitude; they just take and take and take. They don’t realize how hard we work, what we’ve sacrificed. We love them but it hurts. We carry the burden of being taken for granted.  

We are weighed down by a longing for love. All the bids for attention from our parents that went ignored. All the times we were hoping they’d swoop in with a hug or a kiss or a kind word, and instead they left us cold. We carry the burden of feeling unloved.

I used to think that our shoulders sag as we get older because of a loss of muscle. But I don’t believe that anymore. It’s all the pain we’re trying to carry. Each year, each decade, it grows. It’s a lot to carry.

Sometimes, someone comes by and apologizes from the bottom of their heart. They express remorse over what they’ve done, the pain they caused, and they remove some of the burden. But too often we’re left carrying a terribly heavy load.

It’s not only the elderly that are weighed down. Allow me to share with you a story of a young couple who were debilitated by the pain caused by a stranger:

Dovid and Tamar Sheinberg are two Israelis in their lower 20’s. They got engaged in early 2020 and were planning on getting married in the spring. However, at the end of February 2020, the Israeli government started making plans for a lockdown and Dovid and Tamar were concerned that they would not be able to get married. No problem. They were resourceful. They decided to make a wedding in March. The government had already instituted limits on crowd sizes. Dovid and Tamar were very conscientious to do everything legally. They invited their immediate family and their rabbi, rented a small hall, and had a wedding.

Despite the small crowd, despite not having their friends and cousins at their wedding, they went all out. They made sure that the wedding was picture perfect. After all, this was not of their dreams. The servings were elegant, the décor was beautiful, the music was stirring. Everything was going as planned, the young couple were on top of the moon – until the police barged in.

The police were quickly followed by soldiers who started barking orders. “Disperse! Everyone must leave immediately!”

Dovid ran over to the mefaked, the captain, and explained, “Officer, everything is being done legally. We have the right amount of people here. Please! This is our wedding!!”

Not only was he ignored, they started writing tickets to the guests, who all immediately ran off.

And so there they were, Dovid and Tamar and their parents getting fined 5000 shekels each for being in violation of a crime they did not commit, surrounded not by friends, not even by family, but by soldiers with guns, on their wedding night.

When the police left, Dovid, a popular young man, stood outside, pleading with strangers to please join him for five minutes so they could say Sheva Berachos with a minyan.

The couple was crushed. The night of their dreams, which they had planned so meticulously, turned into a nightmare. When the pictures arrived from the photographer, they threw them into a drawer, they were too traumatized to relive that night of horror. They made sure to never drive past their wedding hall. They never spoke of their wedding. It was just too painful. This young couple, who had such beautiful dreams of wonderful marriage kick-started with a magnificent wedding, was now living under a cloud. Weighed down by hurt. Trudging along with pain.

Seven months later, on a Friday afternoon, right before Shabbos, Dovid received a call from his father. His father had a received a message from a young man he did not know. The young man admitted to being the one who called the police. He wanted to speak to Dovid and Tamar. He wanted to apologize. Would Dovid and Tamar take a call from this young man?

It was Friday, a few minutes before Shabbos, Dovid told his father that he and Tamar would discuss it. And they did. It was the worst Shabbos of their life. They relived every moment of that horrible nightmare. They went back and forth. Jewish Law does not demand that we forgive. We are not obligated to forgive if we cannot. The pain, the hurt, the impact was undoable. They considered saying no. But towards the end of Shabbos as they sang the Zemiros of Shalosh Seudos, “Yedid Nefesh Av Harachaman, The soul’s beloved – G-d – the compassionate Father,” they resolved they would indeed speak to this man.

Right after Shabbos, they let their father know and a few minutes later the man called. He couldn’t speak. He choked on his tears, but eventually he got out an apology. He explained to them that on the night of the wedding, he heard music, he realized there was a wedding taking place, he assumed these people were breaking the law and was petrified of Covid, so he called the police. He realized now that he made a terrible terrible mistake. He realized how much pain he had caused them. He begged them to forgive him.

By the time he was done, they were all crying. Dovid and Tamar looked at each other, shook their heads and told him: “We were hurt, we are still hurt, but we realize you made a mistake, and we forgive you. With a complete heart, we forgive you.”

The next day was Yom Kippur. Dovid and Tamar went into the holy day feeling lighter than they’d ever felt before. If they can find it in their hearts to forgive, then maybe just maybe G-d can forgive them for all the mistakes they have made in their lives. The burden they were carrying for all those months was no longer. Yes, their wedding was ruined. Yes, the first months of their marriage was shrouded in darkness. But they forgave. They removed the burden of pain from their backs, and they felt it.

Two days later, Dovid received a frantic call from his sister-in-law. Tamar, his wife, was in a terrible accident. She had been the front car in a four car pile-up and was rushed to the hospital. Dovid immediately made his way to the hospital, to his wife’s room, burst in, only to see his wife sitting up in the hospital bed. She was fine. Shaken but okay.

The doctor walked into the room and said, “You must have angels looking out for you. Based on the impact from the other cars, your airbag should have been deployed, but for some unknown reason it malfunctioned. Had it deployed, the baby in your stomach” – Tamar was six months pregnant – “the baby in your stomach would not have made it.” (as told to Yoel Gold)

Now I don’t like miracle stories; do good and good will happen to you. It’s not how we believe the world works. So, I cannot guarantee that if you forgive someone then angels will protect you. What I can guarantee is that if you forgive someone, if you truly remove the pain that you’ve been carrying, you will feel more like an angel. You will feel as light and as free as a malach.

It would be nice if all those who pained us, if all those who burdened us, if all those who weighed us down, would call us, begging us to forgive. But we do not only forgive for others; we also forgive for ourselves.

Or sages teach us that if we want G-d to forgive us, then we should forgive others. How does that work? Is it magic? We’re nice so G-d is nice to us? It sounds juvenile.

But it’s not. When we forgive someone else, we are not only absolving them of their guilt, of their crime. We are also lightening the burden on our back. We are also allowing our shoulders to straighten. We are also enabling our wings to fly.

We just said Kol Nidrei. We released all the vows that we made over the course of the year. Did you make any vows this year? I didn’t make any vows this year. I am not holding to any vows that I needed to absolve. I don’t think any of us are. But are you holding on to shame?

Are you holding on to indignity?

Are you feeling burdened by being ignored? By not being thanked? By not being loved? By being hurt?

Let me introduce you to a different prayer that many people say as Yom Kippur begins. It’s called Tefilas Zakah. In this prayer, there is one paragraph in which we forgive all those who wronged us. This is a prayer that is relevant to us all.

I invite you to join me in saying this passage together. You are not obligated to forgive. But if you can, if you are able, forgiving, even though we have not been asked to forgive will help us let go, will help relieve the burden on our backs, and the weight on our wings.

Please open your machzor to page 41 and recite the paragraph along with me:

But since I know that there is hardly a righteous person in the world who never sins between man and his neighbor, either monetarily or physically, in deed or in speech, therefore my heart aches within me, because for a sin between man and his neighbor, Yom Kippur does not atone util one appeases his neighbor. For this I am inwardly broken and my bones shudder, because even the day of death does not atone. Therefore, I cast my supplication before You that You have mercy on me and allow me to find favor, kindness, and mercy in Your eyes and in the eyes of all people. Behold! I extend complete forgiveness to everyone who has sinned against me, whether physically or monetarily, or who has gossiped about me or even slandered me. So, too, to anyone who has injured me, whether physically or financially, and for any human sins between man and his neighbor – except for money that I wish to claim and that I can recover by law, and except for someone who sins against me and says, ‘I will sin against him and he will forgive me’ – except for these I grant complete forgiveness; and may no person be punished on my account. And just as I forgive everyone, so may You grant me favor in every person’s eyes, so that he or she will grant me complete forgiveness.