Kol Nidre 5775/2014 Embracing Impermanence

Earlier in our service we heard the beautiful music of the Kol Nidre prayer. For centuries, this melody has spoken deeply to our people, of the mood and message of Yom Kippur. The melody is what has remained important to us, much more so than the words. Because if you look at the words, you’ll see that this prayer is really only a dry legal formula. We are declaring any vows that we make in the coming year to be null and void, if we are unable to fulfill them.

These words may have been meaningful in the time of the Inquisition, when Jews who forcibly took oaths of conversion to Christianity could secretly say the formula in order to remain true to their Jewish identity. Although the precise history of Kol Nidre is still unknown, it may have originally been used to nullify vows that a person made rashly or in jest. Once those empty vows were nullified, a person could then enter Yom Kippur, able to focus on asking forgiveness for more important transgressions.

But this year, the words of Kol Nidre spoke to me in a new way. They spoke to me of compassion for the fact that we humans live in a reality that is constantly changing, from moment to moment. This formula acknowledges that we may make a vow at one moment, but then the circumstances will change, and we need a mechanism of release.

These days, our vows are not typically legal declarations made in public. But sometimes we vow to ourselves, maybe in a moment when anger or some other potent feeling has a hold on us, to never forgive someone for something they did or said; or to never speak to someone again; or that a person will always be our enemy. The vows we make are often silent, sometimes even wordless, sometimes unconscious – they can happen in a moment, or over time. And then things change – we change – they change – our lives change – and we need permission, or we need to be urged –to release ourselves, to release others, to forgive, to let go of the vow.

Over the years, I have seen the impact these kinds of vows –or grudges – can have on individuals and families. I remember a young man whose parents divorced when he was in High School. The young man was so committed to holding on to his anger at his father, that more than 20 years later, he didn’t attend his own father’s funeral.

I remember a wedding family in which the groom’s mother was barely in his life, even as his extended family on his mother’s side had always been present and supportive of him. But when the groom’s mother decided she was not going to attend the wedding, her entire side of the family decided they would not show up either.

Of course, there are circumstances in which family members must put some distance between each other in order to continue to live safe and healthy lives. Sometimes though, it is rash anger or hot ego that leads to vows and grudges. And when we hold onto these feelings, we not only cause suffering for those with whom we are angry, but we also cause suffering for ourselves.

We don’t give ourselves the joy of seeing our own grandchild get married, or to find the closure that a funeral, even of a difficult person, can bring. We deprive ourselves of opportunities for reconnection – and of the chance to see that people and relationships can actually change.

The Kol Nidre prayer calls upon us to ask ourselves what purpose our vows or grudges are serving. If they only serve our own sense of self-righteousness while blocking the way towards meaningful relationships, Kol Nidre allows us to release ourselves.

This prayer is just one example of how Yom Kippur confronts us with the impermanence of all things, including our feelings, and our very existence! Anger that we may feel very strongly in this moment can release its grasp in the next moment, if only we allow it. We need not cling to perceptions of reality, when that reality has changed. Forgiveness is possible – it can free us from the past and help us live more fully in the present.

The stark message of this day is: “Life is short.”

We face this truth as we recite that terrible litany of the Unetaneh Tokef prayer: “who shall live and who shall die; who by hunger and who by thirst; who by sword and who by beast.” We cannot control the fact that our lives are limited, and that death truly could come at any moment. We are impermanent beings – “Our origin is dust, and dust is our end. Like vessels of clay in the process of breaking, like withering grass, like fading flowers, like passing shadows, like emptying clouds, like blowing wind, like scattering dust, like a vanishing dream.”

And yet, the prayer tells us, our destiny is not permanently etched in stone. The decree can be eased through “teshuva,” repentance, through “tefillah,” prayer, and through “tzedakah,” acts of justice. In fact, I think the prayer is saying, if we can embrace our impermanence – if we can let go of our resistance to the fact that we will die. If we can let go of our fear that this all is temporary, then we find that we are free: to change, to forgive, to let go, to give – to live!

The Buddhist teacher Thich Nhat Hanh teaches:

We may be tempted to say that because things are impermanent, there is suffering. But the Buddha encouraged us to look again. Without impermanence, life is not possible. How can we transform our suffering if things are not impermanent? How can our daughter grow up into a beautiful lady? How can the situation in the world improve? We need impermanence for social justice and for hope.

If you suffer, it is not because things are impermanent. It is because you believe things are permanent. When a flower dies, you don’t suffer much, because you understand that flowers are impermanent. But you cannot accept the impermanence of your beloved one, and you suffer deeply when she passes away. If you look deeply into impermanence, you will do your best to make her happy right now.

Thich Nhat Hanh teaches that love, justice, change, hope, caring, joy, gratitude – all these good human qualities are possible, because life is finite. And our Untaneh Tokef prayer teaches that all of these things – love, justice, hope, forgiveness – also help to temper “judgment’s severe decree.” These human qualities make this impermanent life a life worth living, a life God would want us to live. Impermanence is what gives us hope that the world can get better – it is what gives us faith that suffering can be transformed.

The prophet Jonah, whose story we read tomorrow afternoon, has a very hard time with this concept. The Ninevites, a neighboring people to the Hebrews, and an enemy, have sinned greatly. Their wickedness has become apparent to God, and God wants Jonah to go to Nineveh to proclaim judgment upon them so that they might repent. Jonah resists this calling and runs in the exact opposite direction, taking a boat to Tarshish. As we know, God catches up with Jonah, sends a storm which forces the sailors to throw him overboard, and then sends a big fish to swallow him and spit him out back on land. Jonah finally heads to Nineveh, and proclaims that Nineveh will be destroyed in 40 days. The people of Nineveh then put on sackcloth, sit in ashes, fast, and repent. God sees how they have turned from their evil ways, forgives them, and renounces the punishment.

This really, really bothers Jonah.

“O Lord!” he prays,“Isn’t this just what I said when I was still in my own country? That is why I fled beforehand to Tarshish. For I know that You are a compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger, abounding in kindness, renouncing punishment.”

“Please, Lord, take my life, for I would rather die than live,” he begs.

While God is easily convinced to renounce God’s anger, to withdraw the punishment, and to give the Ninevites another chance, Jonah can’t stand it! He can’t stand that God is changing course here, that God’s punishment isn’t etched in stone, that God’s anger isn’t forever. God’s willingness to let go makes it very difficult for Jonah to hold on to his perception of the Ninevites as a wicked people, deserving of destruction. And so he would rather die than live to see this.

Then, Jonah leaves the city and finds a place to camp out. God provides a gourd plant to grow up over Jonah to give him shade. Jonah is very happy about the plant. But the next day God sends a worm which attacks the plant so that it withers. It gets so hot that Jonah begs for death yet again.

Whereas in the first instance, with Nineveh, Jonah can’t stand the impermanence of God’s anger, here Jonah can’t stand the impermanence of God’s comfort.

Boy, does Jonah suffer. And he causes most of that suffering to himself. He is so self-righteous about the Ninevites’ wickedness that his ego hurts when he witnesses God forgiving them. He is so anxious about the death of the gourd plant that he would rather die than find himself another source of shade.

God points out at the end that Jonah cared about the gourd plant which appeared overnight and perished overnight. So much the more so does God care about Nineveh, an entire city full of mortal human beings.

If Jonah could only open his heart to the reality of change and impermanence, perhaps he would not suffer so deeply. Perhaps he could even access some gratitude for the possibility of God’s forgiveness, and thankfulness for the life that he has in the moment.

Sometimes we resist change, like Jonah. Other times, it seems that circumstances will never change. And when change finally does come, if we can embrace it, it can feel like a miracle.

Until this summer, my mother-in-law Jacquie had not spoken to her sister Pat (my husband’s aunt) for the past 25 years. About forty years ago, Pat had married a man who was emotionally abusive, and he was very effective at manipulating Pat and isolating her from the rest of her family. The isolation was so complete that Pat and Jacquie’s mother had left Pat out of her will, fearing that Pat’s husband would take the money for himself. Pat was so angry that she did not attend her mother’s funeral.
Just this summer, Pat began taking steps to leave her marriage. Out of the blue, she contacted my mother-in-law to ask for help. Jacquie could have decided to close her heart to Pat. There was a lot of anger and hurt, and a lot of time and distance between them. But all of these years, Jacquie had actually saved the portion of her mother’s inheritance that rightfully belonged to Pat, in case there came a time when it would be helpful to give it to her. And so, this summer, she gave Pat that money so she could hire a lawyer, leave her husband and rent her own apartment. Jacquie also networked with Jim and myself, and we networked with some friends, to find Pat the best divorce lawyer she could.

On a recent trip to the West coast, Pat and Jacquie actually got together in person for the first time in 25 years. When the sisters saw each other, they started from the present and moved forward together anew, rather than dwelling on the past. Rabbi Alan Lew, a brilliant teacher of Judaism and mindfulness, wrote, “Forgiveness is giving up our hopes for a better past.”

We are each like a shattered urn, grass that must wither, a flower that will fade. And this can lead us to great sadness, great fear, and a deep desire to hold on. But Yom Kippur is here to urge us to embrace that impermanence. To see it as a gift that can liberate us. We have so little time – why spend it clinging to past hurts?

Another mindfulness teacher Ajahn Chah once said, “If you let go a little, you’ll have a little peace. If you let go a lot you’ll have a lot of peace. If you let go completely, you’ll have complete peace.”

As the Kol Nidre instructs us, when we release our clenched fists and examine the vows we are gripping, the grudges we are holding, the anger or the fear we are clinging to, we will see that truly, our hands are empty. So let go. And when you do, you’ll find that there is so much more space, so much more openness, so much more peace.