As the High Holidays approach, many of us are quietly navigating a swirl of decisions — where we will be, what we will wear, how we will feel. We plan, we worry, we wonder if our community, or our rabbi, will hold up a mirror to our struggles and help us find some elusive peace.
I am lucky to coach and teach rabbis of all denominations and I can tell you that many of them are also full of wonder and worry. They are working hard to find meaning in a year that has wrung us out. They ask, “How can I offer hope when I’m still searching for it myself?”
Perhaps this year it is not about offering perfect answers or polished sermons, but about being present — raw, vulnerable, real — when the ground feels unsteady beneath us. Perhaps it’s about letting people know they are seen and held even in the messiness, even when we don’t have answers.
That is the essence of Psalm 27, which is traditionally recited daily in the month leading up to Rosh Hashanah. In it the psalmist declares: “God is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?” It is a cry of both courage and vulnerability, a recognition that even in our darkest moments, we are not abandoned.
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At the heart of the psalm is a verse that many of us sing with emotion: “One thing I ask of You, I earnestly pray for: to dwell in Your house all the days of my life, knowing the beauty of You and dwelling in Your holy place.” More than a plea for safety or certainty, it is a cry to dwell in God’s presence and be close to Divine beauty and compassion. Why would the psalmist, and we in our repetition, ask for such proximity?
God’s name is mentioned 13 times in Psalm 27. This is not just poetic repetition; it mirrors the 13 Attributes of Mercy we invoke during Selichot, the prayers for repentance many Jews will begin reciting this Saturday evening. The Torah sometimes gives us an image of an angry, jealous God, but in loudly affirming these attributes we are invoking God’s best qualities and urging God to shower that compassion upon us.
Rabbi Moses Cordovero, in his 16th-century work Tomer Devorah, explains that the 13 Attributes are not only divine characteristics but also a blueprint for how we should live: “Just as God is called ‘merciful,’ so too must you be merciful. Just as God is called ‘gracious,’ so too must you be gracious.” In this way, reciting the 13 Attributes is not just about invoking God’s mercy, but about holding ourselves accountable to those same standards. When we proclaim that we want to “dwell in God’s house,” we are reminding ourselves to mirror that compassion and goodness in our own lives.
I once had a colleague who told me that before she would storm in and lay down the law with her teenager, she would pause and recite the 13 Attributes of Mercy. “It helps me remember,” she said, “that I, too, can be patient and offer grace.”
Martin Seligman, the founder of positive psychology, emphasizes in his book Flourish that focusing on strengths — rather than just fixing weaknesses — leads to greater overall well-being and success. His work encourages shifting the focus from “what’s wrong” to “what’s strong” in both individuals and communities.
This year, the season in which we seek forgiveness and learn from our mistakes comes at a time when the world seems so weighed down by human error that it can feel unbearable. What if alongside naming our shortcomings we also took the time to recognize our strengths and those of others? Naming the kindness, patience and generosity we have shown — those very attributes of God we recite in prayer — is an act of hope.
I often remind the rabbis I work with that perhaps the most powerful sermon is not one focused on shortcomings and faults, but one that honors the strength it took to get through this year: the small victories we celebrated, the quiet acts of compassion we offered, the acts of resilience and courage we displayed. When we point out these qualities and say them aloud, something shifts. We affirm their presence and amplify their impact, reminding us that we can still bring goodness into the world, and that maybe tomorrow will be just a little bit better.
So as you consider your place for these High Holidays, whether in the pews or in the quiet of your heart, take some time to see the light still flickering in yourself and in others. Nurture it, amplify it. Perhaps the greatest peace in this High Holiday season will not come from perfect answers, but from naming, honoring and leaning into the strengths that have carried us and our communities through this difficult year.
This article initially appeared in My Jewish Learning’s Shabbat newsletter Recharge on September 28, 2024. To sign up to receive Recharge each week in your inbox, click here.
