Divrei Torah/Torah Talks

One of the central images of the High Holydays is that of a cosmic book, a kind of ledger, in which we are "written" and "sealed" for the new year – we asked to be "written" for a good year at Rosh Hashanah – saying to one another, "l'shanah tovah tikkateivu" – and then, in the days leading up to Yom Kippur, we wish one another g'mar chatima tovah – that we be "sealed" for good.

The meaning of this book metaphor is not entirely clear. In one rabbinic midrash, God is described as having three books – one in which the totally good are inscribed, one in which the entirely wicked are inscribed, and one for the rest of us, in the middle. But in the Unetaneh Tokef prayer we have the description of God as a judge who "knows and witnesses, writes and seals, reckons and enumerates," and who opens up something called sefer hazichronot, the "book of remembrances," or maybe "book of records," which is then read, and which we sign. This might be a book that we write, as it were, with our actions. So, is there one book, are there three, and how do they relate to us?

I read a delightful and intriguing take on this cosmic "book" metaphor recently that I want to share with you, before we head into our first Yom Kippur silent Amidah, our first opportunity for personal reflection. This is from a d'var Torah by Rabbi Zohar Atkins. He begins by quoting another part of the Unetaneh Tokef prayer, which says: And the great shofar will be sounded and a still, thin voice will be heard. Angels will be frenzied, a trembling and terror will seize them — and they will say, "'Behold, it is the Day of Judgment, to muster the heavenly host for judgment!' — for even they are not guiltless in Your eyes in judgment."

Rabbi Atkins writes:

"Every Rosh Hashana, we imagine that God opens up God's ledger, and writes down and revises our good deeds and misdeeds, taking note of our spiritual assets and liabilities, as it were. We further imagine that by the end of Yom Kippur God closes the book and seals us in — at this point the ledger can't be changed. I’d like to offer a new interpretation of this imagery. What is this book of life, after all?"

Atkins goes on:

"Imagine God is a bookie and the angels [are] sports betters. Every year the angels congregate in heaven to place their bets. Will Zohar have a good year this year? Will his character improve? Will he be a net giver to society? How much value will he generate for others? Will he succeed in realizing his purpose? Some angels take the thesis for, others against. There's a spread between those angels long Zohar and those angels short Zohar. A price equilibrium is reached and God records the bets. Then by Yom Kippur the book value of Zohar is sealed. In a year, the angels will check their portfolios and decide if it was a good year. Some angels think my odds of success are a coin flip, others more like three heads in a row. Some think I'm a slam dunk. This is all based on track record and historical performance, plus general trend analysis — how is humanity as a whole doing this year? Are they a good asset to hold? The book of life marks a record not of our deeds, but of our projected value based upon metrics like top-line and bottom-line growth, margins, defensibility, etc."

I love this! The book of life is not a recording of our fate, but of the angels' bets for and against us, recorded by God, the Ultimate Bookie of the Universe! Atkins continues:

"What do the angels miss in their fundamental analysis? In a word, optionality. They operate on the assumption that past performance indicates future performance, but fail to appreciate…the idea that in a given moment a person can become an outlier. They don't see outliers, they only see the average. Angels see probabilities within an average distribution, but their minds can't grasp tail events—neither tail risk nor tail opportunity. 

"The human word that captures what the angels miss is Teshuva. We know that the main thing that distinguishes [humanity] from angels is free will, agency. This is the principle of life. We can't dismiss a human life, even one that is down and out, because there is always the principle of hope—unappreciated by the angels—of a radical turn. Life itself is optionality. Life itself, with the capacity for teshuva, holds out the possibility of an outlier, an outlier act of heroism or courage, an outlier epiphany or breakthrough, an outlier act of creativity or reproduction."

Atkins continues with a reflection on a line that we recite during the High Holydays in the Amidah, zochreinu l'chayim, "Remember us for life" – he says:

"To be remembered for life means that we remember the principle of life in ourselves and others—that we hold open the deep hope that life itself is an incredible call option, that free will exists, if only as a possibility. Sure, most of the time we are predictable. Most of the time we are average. Most of the time, the algorithm knows what we'll buy. But such analysis is shallow. For you only need to be right every so often to win big, and that is the difference between the judgment of God and the judgment of angels.

"Judgment is scary for the angels, but not for God. The angels tremble at God's judgment, but God's judgment is sweet, for it is mixed with the mercy that knows that as long as we live we have an uncapped upside."

I really love Atkin's take, this notion that, unlike the metaphor of a cosmic book that makes us feel helpless, like things are being written for us that we have no control over, that instead we have ongoing, unending capacity for change, even in the face of our very human predictability. 

I had a little reminder of this predictability problem just a few weeks ago, involving the shelves in my kitchen. For a long time I didn't drink coffee, but I kept it in the house for guests who might want some. Because I was a tea drinker, I kept my tea on the lower shelves in my cabinet, and the coffee up on the top shelf, which I can barely reach without a stool.

About two years or so ago, I began drinking coffee again. And so, on the days I drank coffee – which to be honest is most days – I'd either reach up on my tippy toes or haul the stool over to get it down.

Over Rosh Hashana, when my family was in town, my sister-in-law Elena asked me why I keep the coffee up out of reach; why I didn't just move it down to a lower shelf? This was a very good question. I thought about it, and then had to admit that until that moment I hadn't even considered the possibility. The coffee just lived on the top shelf. As soon as she pointed it out, I realized that I could in fact move it down, and I did. 

As Zohar Atkins notes, we humans are pretty predictable, and some of those angels make a lot of money betting against us. But change is always possible – especially if someone points out to us the rather obvious need for a change.

Atkins ends his piece with this:

"The real question is not what does God write in the book, but what will we do to prove the angels' bets wrong? What will we do to ensure that when God opens up the book of life next Rosh Hashana, the angels must acknowledge that their models failed to integrate our hidden potential? The purpose of the book of life is to give us a chance to bet on ourselves, to take the other side of the trade against our naysayers, and to make use of our information asymmetry: our own freedom."

So, as we begin this 24-hour journey, and as we move into this new year, I hope we can all take this chance to "bet on ourselves," to make wise choices as we navigate all that will be thrown at us. We have an opportunity to reflect on all the ways that we are predictable, and think about which things in our life make sense where they are, and where we might want to rearrange the shelves a little bit.  

Kol Nidre 5784
Rabbi Toba Spitzer