A Hineni from a Fractured Heart

Hineni

Harold Nathan Aaronson, Rabbinical School 2029

Hineni begins the Musaf service of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, and describes the seemingly impossible task of the shaliah tzibbur: to stand before God as a messenger for the prayers of the community. In Israel as part of his rabbinical studies at JTS, Harold Aaronson reflects on how the themes of Hineni reflect the tensions facing the Jewish people today. 

הִנְנִי Here I am. Behind me: thousands of stickers plaster a concrete wall, covered with eyes—eyes of those gone forever and those still waiting to return. In front of me: ruins. Mounds of concrete, heaps of rubble—the only evidence that Beit Hanoun once stood in Gaza. 

Hineni reminds us that to come before God with these desperate pleas is a daunting task, one that requires us to scrutinize our feelings, our actions, and our words, and to elevate the best within ourselves—even when it feels impossible.

הֶעָנִי מִמַּעַשׂ, נִרְעַשׁ וְנִפְחַד מִפַּחַד יוֹשֵׁב תְּהִלּוֹת יִשְׂרָאֵל I, poor in deeds, tremble and quake from fear of the One who is enthroned upon the praises of Israel. I walk through the remnants of Nir Oz. Bullet holes, shattered windows, burned homes. Flags fly quietly in front of each house, marking the fate of those who once lived there: alive or dead, captive or free. בָּאתִי לַעֲמֹד וּלְהִתְחַנֵּן לְפָנֶיךָ עַל עַמְּךָ יִשְׂרָאֵל (I have come to stand and plead before You, On behalf of Your people Israel). I look at the father rooted in the ashes of his living room telling his story. We stare upon the wreckage of his neighbor’s house, scattered toys in the yard. On the afternoon of October 7, when finally freed from their safe room, his son went to play with those toys and wait for his friend to emerge and join him. Like any other afternoon. But his friend Ariel would never come.

And as the father speaks, the ground shakes with the constant thrum of shells landing in Gaza. 

הֱיֵה נָא מַצְלִיחַ דַּרְכִּי אֲשֶׁר אֲנִי הוֹלֵךְ לַעֲמֹד וּלְבַקֵּשׁ רַחֲמִים עָלַי וְעַל שׁוֹלְחָי Please, let my path that I am walking—to stand and request mercy for myself and for those who sent me—be successful. The sun beats down as I look upon the faces on the signs surrounding me. Young couples, building new families, creating new worlds—futures gone in an instant, a graveyard erected where they danced. In the distance, I watch as new soldiers rise in formation with our national song of hope dancing on their lips:עוֹד לֹא אָבְדָה תִקְוָתֵנוּ (Our hope is not yet lost).

Fewer than 10 miles away, an 18-year-old trudges through this same heat, wearing 50 pounds of combat gear and making split-second life-and-death decisions. We keep asking the impossible of him; perhaps we feel compelled to do so because it seems the impossible has been asked of us. But the reality remains. He returns to Gaza again.נָא אַל תַּפְשִׁיעֵם בְּחַטֹּאתַי וְאַל תְּחַיְּבֵם בַּעֲו‍ֹנוֹתַי Please do not punish them for my sins, nor make them liable for my transgressions.

“My heart is cold,” he tells us, as he assesses the situation with broken eyes. And I understand him. Hamas commits wanton violence against civilians by design, starving our hostages with intent. Their hate is so consuming that they prefer a world without us to a world of freedom for themselves—even at the expense of their people. The world watches in self-righteous judgement as if it were simple. The walls that isolate us grow.

Yet doubts also gnaw at me. Some realities are too simple to ignore, hunger among them. Each day I see children starving, houses destroyed, families broken. וְאַל יִכָּלְמוּ בִּפְשָׁעַי וְאַל יֵבֹשׁוּ הֵם בִּי וְאַל אֵבוֹשׁ אֲנִי בָּהֶם (Let them not be disgraced because of my offenses, nor be ashamed through me, and let me not be ashamed through them).Is our compassion yet another casualty of the war?  

We have erred. We have transgressed. There is nuance; there is context. But in endless complexity we neglect the obvious: rationalizations do not feed a family. No matter the double standards or culpability of others, Hineni is about our actions, our thoughts—not theirs. Must we not demand more from ourselves than this?

וְכָל צָרוֹת וְרָעוֹת הֲפָךְ נָא לָנוּ וּלְכָל יִשְׂרָאֵל לְשָׂשׂוֹן וּלְשִׂמְחָה לְחַיִּים וּלְשָׁלוֹם Transform all troubles and hardships for us and for all Israel into joy and happiness, into life and peace. To bare your soul before God on our holiest day—the vulnerability, humbleness, and courage required to reflect honestly and openly in judgement—is a demanding request. But it is a necessary one if we are to ask to transform our troubles and hardships into joy and happiness. This moment requires that resolve from us all: To openly and honestly assess ourselves and our actions. To do what’s right—for our own sake as well as for others. 

כִּי אַתָּה שׁוֹמֵעַ תְּפִלַּת עַמְּךָ יִשְׂרָאֵל בְּרַחֲמִים. בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה שׁוֹמֵעַ תְּפִלָּה For You hear the prayer of Your people Israel with compassion. Blessed are You, who hears prayer. We appear before You with prayers that have held our hearts captive for nearly two years, prayers that are new reflections of ones that have bound us for millennia. Grant us the wisdom to judge justly, the power to do what is necessary, and the strength to refrain from cruelty. Do not harden our hearts. Grant us the will to protect our people in body and in spirit.

We may not know how—but we know we must. הִנְנִי So here I am.