Deb Tantleff

Yom Kippur has an especially personal meaning for me. My great-great-great-grandfather was the Baal Shem Tov, Rabbi Israel ben Eliezer, the 18th-century founder of the Hasidic movement. One of the most beautiful Yom Kippur traditions associated with him tells of a simple shepherd boy who entered the synagogue but could not read the Machzor or properly recite the prayers. As Ne’ilah approached and the congregation prayed with increasing intensity, the boy desperately wanted to speak to God. In one version, he simply recited the Hebrew alphabet and pleaded: “Master of the Universe, these are the only letters I know. You know how to put them together. Please make them into the right prayer.” The worshippers around him were disturbed. But the Baal Shem Tov understood something they did not. According to the Hasidic tradition, he explained that the boy’s simple, completely sincere prayer had pierced the heavens and helped carry the prayers of the entire congregation with it. Other versions tell of the boy blowing a shepherd’s flute or crying out like he did while tending his animals. The details changed as the story was passed through generations, but the message remained the same. God does not measure prayer by eloquence. The most sophisticated words can be empty, while the simplest cry from a sincere heart can reach the highest places. More than 250 years after the Baal Shem Tov lived, I find that message as powerful as ever. On Yom Kippur, we don’t need to arrive perfect. We need to arrive sincere. G’mar Chatima Tova. ✡️