We walked out of the sanctuary of Temple Israel Sunday night after the first Yom Kippur service. I was still humming the melodies as we stepped into the crowded parking lot to look for our car, the cool darkness lit by hundreds of headlights. And in that indistinguishable sea of lights, I found myself thinking about how much finding our way has to do with not always being completely sure where we are headed.
I noticed what was happening around me. As cars slowly moved toward the exits, some would stop and let another driver go ahead. Others would wait, searching for people walking nearby. There was no honking. Drivers were taking their time, politely taking turns, making space, paying attention to one another.
It struck me as such a small thing, but also such a big thing… There we were, quietly making room for one another.
We eventually found our car, and as we climbed in, I realized that I didn’t mind that it had taken us a little while. I thought about the people in my life, and I knew I would remember this simple lesson:
Pay attention. Make Room. Let them pass.
This, too, is part of what Yom Kippur asks of us. Not only to think about how we have treated others, but about how we are living with one another.
How do we treat strangers? How do we respond to someone who disagrees with us? How quickly do we judge? How willing are we to listen? How much space and time do we make for another person’s story?
We all know there is so much noise, anger, and fear in the world. Antisemitism rages around us. People can become convinced that their way is the only way.
But Yom Kippur calls for something different. It asks us to pause. To look inward. To acknowledge that none of us gets everything right. To ask forgiveness, to offer forgiveness, and, when we fail, to begin again.
That idea of beginning again feels hopeful to me…. Maybe that’s why the parking lot has stayed with me.
All those people were trying to find their way home. I was grateful for the help of the yellow-vested attendants who directed everyone as we navigated through the darkness. There was something comforting about knowing that someone was paying attention while we were trying to find our way.
And I thought about all the people who have helped me find my way in the world: my rabbis, teachers, family, friends, my adorable husband, and all the people I have loved and who have loved me. The people who remind me that whatever else is happening in the world, love is still here.
And then there are the melodies that bypass the mind and go straight to the heart. I listened, remembered, and carried them with me. I was grateful to have been at Temple.
The sanctuary and the parking lot. Both mattered.
Yom Kippur isn’t meant to remain inside the walls of the synagogue. The real test comes afterward, when we leave the sanctuary and try to live our lives. How do we deal with the darkness? We can remember what we just promised ourselves in the service.
We can slow down and make room. We can listen. We can take a stand when we need to, and we can also choose patience. We can let others proceed. We can pay attention to the people around us. We can remember that we are not making our way through this world alone.
The feeling of relief when we finally made it through the crowded parking lot and onto the main road reminded me how vulnerable we all are, and how dependent we are on the attention and kindness of others.
I drove home with hope. Hope that people can change. Hope that we can forgive and be forgiven. Hope that we can learn from one another and choose kindness, even when it isn’t easy. Hope that we can still make room for each other and the strangers on our way.
This simple image of strangers in a dark parking lot, patiently making room for one another and taking turns, has stayed with me. That, too, is where holiness lives.
As I celebrated Yom Kippur 5787, I have hope in my heart for our future.
May we find the strength and patience to pay attention, to make room and to listen, and to help each other find our way peacefully home.
SHABBAT SHALOM
CHAG SUKKOT SAMEACH
