The Yom Kippur I Should Have Experienced

I am surely not alone in feeling, amid the exultation of motzaei Yom Kippur, that I missed something. I may still be humming the melodies of the day, but beneath the elation is a measure of sadness: I realize that I should have asked for far more.

The intensity of Ne’ilah quickly gave way to an almost insatiable hunger, and the spiritual intensity of the day faded almost as quickly. Maariv was rushed, as it needed to be. I was famished, as was everyone around me, and there was little choice but to hurry. Yet that Maariv – and Shacharis the next morning – taught me something important. I should have asked for much more.

I like making lists. I entered Yom Kippur with a list of kabbalos I hoped to undertake, and as the day unfolded, I pared that list down to the few I could realistically maintain. I tried to use my time lifnei Hashem well, reviewing my failures from the past year and from years before. I believe I took the day seriously.

And yet, when I davened Shemoneh Esrei on motzaei Yom Kippur and read through its berachos, I realized how much I had overlooked. The beracha for refuah. The longing for Mashiach. The berachos concerning the malshinim and the tzadikim. These concerns had barely entered my mind throughout the day.

My Yom Kippur tefillos centered primarily on myself, my parents, and my children. I did give thought to broader concerns, Klal Yisrael, Eretz Yisrael, and Torah more generally, but these received far less of my attention, time and passion than my personal tefillos.

I do not regret what I davened for. Those tefillos articulated what I hold most dear. But the Shemoneh Esrei of motzaei Yom Kippur taught me a stark lesson: I should have asked for so much more. The larger concerns of Klal Yisrael should have occupied a more central place in my consciousness and in my tefillos.

Many ask why we say Selach lanu on motzaei Yom Kippur, after our sins have presumably been forgiven. Many answers have been offered. I would suggest another possibility. Perhaps we ask for selichah because only after Yom Kippur, when we hear the long blast of the shofar that represents all the unarticulated tefillos, do we begin to recognize all the tefillos we should have uttered but did not.

My requests, as important as they were, were somewhat trivial.

This realization became even sharper when I recited Shemoneh Esrei on motzaei Yom Kippur. Chazal, in establishing the nineteen daily berachos, were not merely giving us words to recite. They were teaching us what our prayers should prioritize. They were teaching us the great things for which we are meant to ask.

Of course, we are meant to add our own personal bakashos in Refaeinu and Shma Koleinu. But these personal requests are supposed to be additions to tefillah; they are not intended to be its core. The core itself, the 19 berachos of Shemoneh Esrei, teach us what truly matters.

After Yom Kippur, I am somewhat disappointed in myself. I am saddened by how quickly I returned to normal. Of course, life resumes. There are mitzvos to perform, responsibilities to fulfill, and, after all, we return to work and Sukkos is approaching. But I still feel that I should have changed more – and that I did not.

Yet even with that disappointment, even with the recognition of what should have been, I realize that it is not over.

Yom Kippur can, and should, continue.

One of the defining themes of Yom Kippur is that we are lifnei Hashem. Lifnei Hashem titharu. We are not like Yonah, who sought to flee milifnei Hashem. On Yom Kippur, we experience the intense intimacy of standing in Hashem’s presence.

The Rambam teaches that vidui, the confession that is central to Yom Kippur, must likewise be recited lifnei Hashem. But Yom Kippur and vidui are not the only times when we stand intimately in Hashem’s presence.

Every day, when we daven, we stand lifnei Hashem.

According to Rav Chaim, one who is oblivious to this reality has not fulfilled his obligation to daven at all. If so, perhaps the experience of Yom Kippur is not confined to one day a year. We can experience some measure of that same awareness multiple times each day.

We can pause before we daven and remember where we are. We can recognize that we are lifnei Hashem.

And then perhaps we will ask for what is truly important not only for ourselves and those closest to us, but for Klal Yisrael, for Torah, for Eretz Yisrael, and for the world Hashem has entrusted to us.

Yom Kippur may be over. But the opportunity to stand lifnei Hashem should be renewed every time we daven.