A Lesson I Learned From My Son
Rabbi Meyer Laniado
While my wife was in labor, I prepared myself for a powerful and uplifting spiritual experience. I stood by her side with only the doctor and nurse in the softly lit room, and began reciting Tehillim. After a few short minutes, I noticed hospital staff entering the room very quickly: two, three, four, then what seemed like ten. Lights brighter, movements quicker, frenzy where just before was calm. Without knowing how I got there, I found myself backed into a corner of the room. My heart was racing, my stomach in knots, everything uncertain. I could no longer focus on Tehillim. I put my head against the wall and began to cry. I felt, as we recite in our mahzor, Pahad veEma: fear and trepidation. I felt helpless, a passive observer with no control of the situation.
As I prepared myself for the worst, I heard a small cry, looked up, and there he was. Overcome with relief, joy, and gratitude, I walked over to tell our son how much I loved him and I enthusiastically thanked G-d. As hard as I tried to express myself, I could not manage any more than sobs. Those eight minutes of uncertainty were terrifying — not the calm, uplifting moment of prayer I had imagined, but a plunge into feelings of fear, helplessness, and vulnerability.
We often expect spiritual highs to come when we experience awe, gratitude, or joy, such as when we behold a natural wonder or a momentous lifecycle event. Though, as we know, life does not solely consist of these grand moments. We often experience challenges and struggles, feeling low, fearful, and helpless. These moments of feeling helpless can also be a source of connection, inspiration, and spirituality. In these moments, when we acknowledge our vulnerability, we run, as Banim atem laDonai Eloheikhem (Debarim 14:1), as children into our Father’s embrace.
There are many biblical models of prayer in times of desperation and need. One of the most famous that serves as the model for our modern prayer is that of Hannah who, after so many years, remained childless. Yet, the shofar’s cry on Rosh Hashanah is modeled after an enemy of the Jewish people! (Tbavli Rosh Hashanah 33). The mother of the Canaanite general Sisera confidently waited by her window year after year, expecting her son to return victorious. When her son did not return, she cried out in desperation, recognizing her vulnerability (Shofetim 5:28-30). That is the cry of the shofar on Rosh Hashanah. While many of our Yamim Tobim and other holidays are about gratitude, our Yamim Noraim, Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, are about relying on G-d, and acknowledging that some elements of our lives are not in our control.
Note how we plead with G-d on Yom Kippur. We do not say “thank you for all you have given me,” but instead, we recite phrases like: anshei Emunah abadu, “those whom we used to rely on are gone” and tamahnu meraot, tashash kohenu missarot, “I plead with you G-d because I have found my troubles bewildering, and they have sapped my strength.”
Sephardic communities open the first night of Rosh Hashanah with the prayer Ahot Qetana, written by Abraham Hazan Girondi (13th Century, Spain). It features the refrain tikhle Shana veqileloteha, let this year and its troubles end. This phrase closes each paragraph which details our need for G-d’s help. The song concludes with leSur hohilu, look hopefully to the Rock [G-d] and tahel Shana uBirkhoteha, begin this year with its blessings. Ibn Ezra (12th Century, Spain), too, expresses this message of turning towards G-d in distress in his famous poem, Lekha Eli, You are My G-d, with which we open Yom Kippur in Sephardic synagogues. There, referring to G-d, he writes leKha Ezra beEt Sara, heye Ezri beSarati… You are a helper in times of trouble; please be my help in my distress. Turning towards God for His support is also portrayed in one of the key phrases frequently repeated on our Yamim Noraim, lifnei Adonai Titharu, before G-d, we will be purified. Emphasis is often on the word Titharu, our purification, but maybe it belongs on the phrase lifnei Adonai, before G-d. Only when we shift our focus and turn our hearts toward Him, lifnei Adonai, relying on Him for His support, can we become tahor.
Unfortunately, many view expressing vulnerability, and acknowledging that we indeed need help, as a show of weakness, so they try to save face by projecting that everything is under control. But the truth, as University of Houston professor Brene Brown suggests, is more likely that: “Vulnerability is the birthplace of love, belonging, joy, courage, empathy… If we want… deeper, meaningful spiritual lives, vulnerability is the path (Daring Greatly pg. 32).”
It is counterintuitive, but, in my view, she is right. When we are open and honest, we let other people in, connecting more meaningfully and creating a deeper relationship. This is true both in our relationships with other people as well as with G-d. Challenging times when we feel afraid, uncertain, or distraught are not the moments we would choose to experience, but they are inevitable parts of every single one of our lives. They can lead to more enriching relationships when we are open and honest with ourselves and others.
When I put my book of Tehillim down on the bedside table in my wife’s hospital room, unable to recite, overwhelmed with fear and uncertainty, I began to reach out to G-d and plead. That moment is certainly one I would have chosen to skip over, but it helped me understand how asking G-d for help can deepen my relationship with Him.
The prayers and Torah portions of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur acknowledge our vulnerability and need for help. We are asked to recognize that we are not in total control and to shift our paradigm from a world centered around the individual to one centered around G-d. As we chant the prayers and verbalize our transgressions in each other’s presence, we acknowledge our humanity, become aware of our individual and collective vulnerability, and unearth a unique opportunity to connect with our Creator and one another.
