Kol Nidrei is the evening service that precedes Yom Kippur, the holiest day in the Jewish calendar. It’s a day of solemn reflection and introspection, and includes a full 24-hour fast.
I was asked to offer some thoughts on the theme of solace. This is what I shared with our community.
Some people find solace in reading. Some find it in meditation.
I find solace in music. While many different kinds of music move me, there’s a special place in my heart and my brain for giant stadium anthems and brassy New Orleans jazz.
Music is a big part of my life. I inherited my love of music from both sides of my family. I listen to music when I’m happy, when I’m sad, when I’m bored, and when I’m working or studying.
What’s fascinating to me is that while music is about solace for me, it’s also about community. Music is one of the forces that keep me connected to the DJC.
That, and the fact that I’m married to the executive director.
I often find myself, for example, rolling around in my mind some of the beautiful melodies where the sanctuary fills with a blend of our voices.
Longfellow wrote that music is the universal language of mankind. It can unite us in ways that almost nothing else on earth can.
If you’ve ever been to a concert and shared the experience of live music with a dozen or a hundred or a thousand people, you understand what I mean. In those moments, when the band strikes a chord that resonates with the whole crowd, you’ve become part of something larger than yourself.
Even while you’re experiencing such a deeply personal moment, you’re also sharing it with others.
I’d like to share with you a line from a friend's message that really touched me this week.
This friend – someone with whom I share a deep love of music, by the way – sent me a Shana Tova greeting that read, in part:
“I'm here for you. I will never forget last year when you wrote, ‘Check in with your Jewish friends, they are not ok.’ I will never, ever forget that. I reproached myself for not being proactive in my care. You're important to me!”
It’s not an exaggeration to say that this has been a year of deep crisis and reflection for many, if not most, of us.
And I almost hesitate to note that our latest existential crisis started at a music festival – a place where people gathered to experience their own love of music and the desire to share that love with others who felt likewise.
It is said that sound is among the most potent memory triggers that humans possess.
After the Danforth shooting just down the street from here in 2018, my daughter Shayna and I attended the vigil to commemorate her friend Reese Fallon and the other victims.
At one point, the crowd that had gathered joined in singing Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah. I still can’t hear that song without tearing up.
When I teach my students about writing their reflections, I encourage them to imagine seeing themselves in a mirror.
From there, it’s a short jump to the four questions that Chief Murray Sinclair has famously posed:
Where do I come from?
Where am I going?
Why am I here?
Who am I?
The answers to these questions require reflection. Reflection, in turn, requires introspection.
And introspection requires solace. We must allow ourselves the space to ponder the comfortable and the uncomfortable questions.
My default musical choice, much of the time, is Miles Davis. He doesn’t just play music; he creates soundscapes that alter rhythm and space.
And it is in those liminal spaces where I find my solace – the solace I need to figure out who I am.
One part of who I am is someone who believes that prayer, like music, is as much about the spaces we leave as the spaces that we fill.
G’mar chatima tova (may you be inscribed in the book of life.)
You are the kindest and the best of men, Larry Till. Adding Miles Davis to my playlist in your honour!