By all accounts, Neilah is the pinnacle of the Yamim Nora’im davening. A magnificent closing of the most awesome and meaningful day of Yom Kippur. I have found over the years that the outpouring of emotions during these very last moments on the holiest day of the year is unparalleled. For some, it’s difficult to assume the solemnity of the day and fully experience and appreciate the spirit of Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur. This is especially true for those who are somewhat less religious and don’t come to shul often. The concept of coming to shul and opening your heart in deep prayer can seem foreign and uncomfortable for less-observant Jews, but even for them, on Yom Kippur – and especially at Neilah – those feelings and inhibitions are able to evaporate, as the Jewish community the world over is transformed into a magical and glorious symphony, as everyone davens for all that ails them.
I’ve been privileged to serve as cantor at Park East Synagogue on Manhattan’s Upper East Side for well over a decade. Over that time, I have come across many wonderful and sincere Jews from across the spectrum of Jewish tradition – some of whom were not privileged to be raised in observant Orthodox homes and whose knowledge of tradition came handed down in small, fragile doses from grandparents and older relatives. I’ve always been struck by the level of sincerity these people show coming to shul and fasting through Yom Kippur, finding their own unique path toward connecting with Hashem.
Two years ago, as the world was beginning to emerge from Covid, I had an experience with one of these individuals that left a profound impression on me. As Neilah was beginning, I noticed a man who I had never seen before sitting in the front row of our shul, a space which is usually reserved for Israeli diplomats and senior leaders of the Jewish community. He came inside hurriedly, took a seat, and began to sob uncontrollably. A lot of people are moved to tears during Neilah, but something seemed markedly different here. His machzor remained closed, laying next to him on the pew throughout the davening, as he simply sat in his seat and cried silently.
He journeyed through davening this way for the next hour and a half, and was unable to compose himself. As soon as davening was over, and the many hundreds of people in shul hurried to the exits, I went over to shake this man’s hand; he could barely speak to me, and as I was shuffled along through the crowd towards the door something told me to wait back. Very soon, out of almost a thousand people, it was just the two of us remaining in the main shul.
I approached him again and said, “Forgive me for asking such a personal question, but I couldn’t help but notice how emotional you were. Is there something wrong? And is there anything I can do to help?” The man looked at me with a tear-stained face and began to cry again. He replied, “I appreciate so much that you came over to me. You see, I do not know how to pray, and my tears are all I have to offer as my expression of sincerity and emotion.” He then went on to share the following remarkable story:
The man’s name was Jack, and while living in Manhattan as a successful attorney he hadn’t stepped into a synagogue in close to 60 years, since he was a child. That very Yom Kippur morning, he went into his law firm, as if it were a regular day. At some point, his new assistant (who was not Jewish, but who was aware that he was) walked in and asked, “Are you not going to the synagogue? Today is a very special Jewish holiday.” “No, I’m not religious,” he responded, without much thought. But as she walked out of the office, her words hung in the air, and he thought: Maybe it’s time I go back to the synagogue.
Jack made his way from his office to the Upper East Side, and as he walked into the synagogue he recalled how, many years ago, his father had taken him as a young child to a synagogue in the Bronx where they were living. Jack’s father had insisted they sit in the front, to better see and hear the rabbi and cantor. So when Jack headed into Park East Synagogue that late afternoon, he did the same – not realizing the front row is reserved for VIPs.
When he sat down, he opened the machzor and realized that he could not read even one word of Hebrew. Feelings of overwhelming guilt took over Jack as he remembered how his father, a Holocaust survivor and one of the few surviving members of his family, had come to the U.S., scraping by financially, working as a shoemaker, and earning just enough money to be able to send Jack to Hebrew school.
Jack continued, “It was so important to my Dad that I remain Jewish and learn about our traditions. But what my father didn’t know was that every Sunday when I would get dropped off at the cheder I never actually went inside. Instead, I’d sit outside on the stoop with my friends and play games with them. I didn’t step into the cheder itself more than half a dozen times the entire time I was enrolled. My father could barely speak English, and so I was not concerned that he would check in with my teachers. And so went by three years of Hebrew school. And now I sit here, in this beautiful sanctuary, and I think to myself how sorry I am that I did not step into school and learn Hebrew, which was so sacred to my father. That is why I am crying.”
I was dumbfounded by the sincerity and raw emotion of what Jack had shared. His spirit, unblemished by the years of non-observance; Jack was crying out for a connection to Hashem. Even though he said he didn’t know how to pray, he knew how to call out to Him. I sat down next to Jack and opened the machzor, pointing to the line we had recited just a half hour prior: “ad yom moso.” We had just uttered these powerful words, I told him. These words read, “Until the very day of a man’s death,” Hashem awaits for one to return to him. “Hashem is waiting for you, Jack,” I told him. “And you have many years ahead of you. You are tied to the Jewish people in an unbreakable bond, as you are tied to your father and his legacy. The fact that you showed such sincerity highlights what a beautiful Jewish neshama you have. You may not have prayed with Hebrew words, but I’m certain your tears have reached the highest of heavens.”
I suggested we repeat the very final tefillah of that day together, and Jack agreed. We walked up to the bima, I opened the aron kodesh, and I repeated the Shema and the “Hashem Hu HaElokim,” seven times. I’ve never led davening for just one person, but I can tell you that I’ve never been more moved, either: a Jewish man, bereft of almost all Jewish traditions, with the most sincere heart, connecting to Hashem, his parents and grandparents, and all the holy people that came before him.
As Jack left the synagogue, we hugged, and I made him promise that we would stay in touch and begin a weekly study session. Two years have gone by, and we have mostly kept up our promise. Just last week, I received a beautiful note from Jack, informing me that he has made the decision to pull both his grandchildren out of an elite non-Jewish private school in Manhattan to sign them up in yeshiva day school.
Not every story has a happy ending, but I believe from the depths of my heart that Jack’s tears at Neilah stormed the heavens and caused this incredible change in his family that will, ultimately, lead his children and grandchildren back to the path of Yiddishkeit and observance.
