Whispering the Unspeakable: Personal Truths on Yom Kippur
On Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the year, there is a moment in our liturgy that holds a weight unlike any other. It’s the Avodah, the ancient Temple service, the spiritual climax of the day. In this service, the holiest person — the Kohen Gadol, the High Priest — would enter the holiest place, the Kodesh HaKodashim, the Holy of Holies, on the holiest day of the year.
What happened there? What did the Kohen Gadol say when he stood in that sacred space? There’s a mystery here. Tradition tells us that the High Priest uttered the ineffable name of God — a name so sacred, so powerful, that we only dare to imagine its sound. The Talmud records debates about this very moment, for even ancient sages were uncertain about what exactly transpired.
And yet, in this very mystery, we find profound meaning. The High Priest, standing alone in the most vulnerable of places, carried the weight of the entire community on his shoulders. If he didn’t perform the rituals correctly, tradition says, his life was at risk. So great was the moment’s danger that a crimson thread was tied around his waist, just in case he needed to be pulled out of the Holy of Holies.
On Yom Kippur, we, too, find ourselves in vulnerable places — physically, emotionally, spiritually. As part of the Great Aleinu, we bow to the ground, a rare and powerful act in Jewish prayer, acknowledging that we are but mortal, that the world can be overwhelming. But in that humility, we also find strength. We come together as a community, sharing the weight of our vulnerabilities, and saying to God, “Hineni — Here I am.”
There is a powerful teaching in the Talmud about prayers offered with eyes open to the world as it is. Moses, Jeremiah, and Daniel, three great prophets, spoke about God in different ways based on their experiences. Where Moses called God “great, mighty, and awesome,” Jeremiah and Daniel, witnessing the destruction of the Temple and the exile of the Jewish people, couldn’t bring themselves to use those same words. They saw the suffering of their people and asked, “Where is God’s might? Where is God’s greatness?” They didn’t change the words out of rebellion, but out of honesty — because, as the Talmud teaches, they could not lie to God. (Yoma 59b)
On Yom Kippur, we are invited to speak our truth. Sometimes, that truth is filled with awe and gratitude. Other times, it is filled with pain and doubt. Both are sacred. Our tradition gives us the space to wrestle with God, to speak our heart’s deepest longings and anger, and to know that, like those ancient prophets, our hearts’ truths matter.
So, as we approach this Yom Kippur, I invite us all to consider: Where are we right now? What truth do we need to speak in our prayers? This is not just an intellectual exercise, but a spiritual practice. We are called to bring our whole selves into this moment — not just the parts that feel polished or perfect, but the parts that are broken and yearning, too.
In these tumultuous times, when the world feels so fragile, let us remember that our prayers are not only for ourselves. They are for the world, for each other, and for the healing we so desperately need. Just as the High Priest carried the weight of the people with him into the Holy of Holies, we, too, are responsible for one another. And perhaps, through our prayers, we can remind God to remember us, to hear our cries, and to act with the same qualities that we, too, strive to embody.
May our prayers this Yom Kippur reach the heavens, and may we be sealed in the Book of Life, ready to rebuild this world from a place of love, together.