Public Atonement This Yom Kippur

There is comfort in hiding — pulling a blanket over our heads and pretending to be invisible. We hide our mistakes and our flaws, and we may even mask the shame we hold because of them.

Then comes Yom Kippur, and we confess it all in public, likely while sitting next to the very people most directly affected by what we do that embarrasses us. We join these people to sing together the litany of our transgressions. And we don't stop there — we confess to a list of transgressions that is likely worse than what we have actually committed. This is the kind of situation most people prefer to avoid, or at least do in a more private setting. Not us. We do it every year, communally, on the very day when the most people attend services.

I suspect many of you can relate when I share that the Vidduy prayer has been a painful ritual for me over the years. I am acutely aware of my flaws. I sometimes wonder whether the shame I carry for hurting others is more toxic than the hurt I caused. At the same time, I am sure that people are carrying around hurt on my account that I am not even sensitive enough to recognize. A few years ago, I had to reframe Vidduy — and Yom Kippur writ large — to stop it from triggering unproductive self-disappointment and shame. This ritual's public and collective nature began to represent the reality that we have all done wrong, protecting me against the lonely embarrassment that can make a person want to hide. I have even come to experience a kind of collective forgiveness in apologizing together in this communal, public Vidduy. There is a deep wisdom in our tradition that compels us to be open about our flaws, rather than hiding them and the shame they bring.

I often think about figurative hiding: when and why we choose to hide, the immediate comfort it provides, and the long-term pain it can cause. I think about it every day when I welcome our kids to school. I wonder what they are carrying that is invisible to those around them, and what they are intentionally trying to conceal. Who doesn't remember the desire to become invisible at some point — if not every day — of their elementary and middle school years? I remember it all too well, and it is part of why I love and believe in small schools.

When we are doing our job well as educators, there is nowhere to hide at Beit Rabban, neither physically nor emotionally. When we know each child well enough that multiple adults notice positive or concerning changes in a student, we can ensure that neither their talents nor their pain goes unseen. Children — and adults — have social issues that can be ignored or addressed. A holistic Jewish education means learning to navigate these challenges: naming your feelings, understanding those of others, disagreeing respectfully, expressing anger, articulating your reasons, exploring solutions, apologizing when necessary, and forgiving when appropriate.

This ritual of public apology for a litany of specific transgressions — many of which involve the very people we are praying with — has other healthy, pro-social effects. It normalizes conflict and human fallibility. It even normalizes the reality of repeat offenses. We list these transgressions — all the things we have done to others, to ourselves, to our Covenant. Everyone in the room lists the same things. We list the same things year after year. Even as we confess and wholeheartedly apologize, we expect to be in the exact same place — literally and figuratively — next Yom Kippur. You could call this the definition of insanity: doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different outcome. Or you could call it comforting — one step forward, two steps back, always with the chance of forgiveness that makes trying again possible.

I have a ritual I practice every year between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur: I visit each class and ask the students for mechila, forgiveness. This is possible because our school is intimate enough that I have time in every classroom. I can do this with integrity because I know every student, can say each of their names, and can look at each one with a sincere desire for forgiveness. In each class, I tell the students that I know I have hurt some of their feelings this year, through both intentional and unintentional actions.

I visit each class to ask forgiveness for two reasons: first, the obvious one — I want to be forgiven. Second, I want to model this behavior for our students. I'm not trying to model the precise mechanics of how to apologize; we teach whole lessons on that as part of our social-emotional curriculum. Rather, I'm trying to model what it looks like to choose not to hide — to join in a communal Vidduy and experience both the vulnerability and the relief that comes with it. And for students who have been at Beit Rabban for a few years, I'm also modeling the importance of this annual ritual: not letting the shame of repeat offenses keep us from moving forward.

I never intend to hurt them, but I sometimes make decisions that have that effect. I ask them to pause and consider whether this happened in the past year and, if so, to forgive me silently, in their own thoughts and hearts, rather than out loud. Finally, I tell them I sincerely appreciate it when someone asks me for an apology, because I know it means we can repair our relationship and move forward.

Sometimes students take me up on that invitation. A couple of years ago a courageous and insightful middle school student pulled me aside during class to tell me she felt I was presenting as irritated with her, and that it was hurting her feelings. She was right — I was irritated — but I hadn't articulated that irritation to myself, let alone realized I was acting differently toward her. She gave me the great gift of an opportunity to apologize, which became the beginning of a stronger relationship between us. This year, a younger student raised his hand to share an example of something I did that didn't sit well with him. He asked why we had changed Friday dismissal so parents could no longer "scoop their kids up from the gym after Shabbat B'Yachad." He wasn't joking — I think he genuinely felt sad that his mom, who came to the assembly every week, could no longer "scoop him up." Before I could apologize for how the decision affected him, his classmates began offering their own explanations: maybe it's hard for kids whose parents aren't there, maybe it helps with noise that's difficult for some people to handle. After that thoughtful exchange, I apologized for how the decision made him feel. I explained that I still believe it's the right decision, but that I'm sorry it affects him this way. I was so glad he spoke up — it opened the door to a meaningful lesson on the difference between intent and impact, and gave me the chance to offer a sincere apology.

And now I ask you for mechila — forgiveness — both personally and on behalf of our institution. Please forgive Beit Rabban and me for any harm we may have caused you, whether intentional or unintentional, this year or in years past. A community like ours, with our children at its center, is inherently complicated and emotional. We inevitably and regularly make mistakes, some more consequential than others, affecting the people most precious to us. And we experience conflict precisely because we are in relationship with one another.

It is only the third week of the school year, and I already know that decisions made by our leadership have caused pain or hurt for specific parents. We will apologize to them directly. I imagine there are more of you we don't even know about.

Please know that we love your children and are deeply grateful to be part of their lives, supporting their ongoing growth and development. I hope you will accept my apology today — and in the future — as we continue this powerful partnership of raising great children.

Wishing everyone a restful and rejuvenating Shabbat and a meaningful Yom Kippur.