He Prayed Perfectly—And Missed Everything

This morning, on Shabbat Shuvah—the Shabbat of Return—our rabbi gave a beautiful sermon about teshuvah. He spoke about repentance not as punishment, but as coming home: the open door that stands before each of us in the days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.

He also reiterated a central message of Yom Kippur—one that stayed with me: when we hurt another person, we cannot simply turn to G-d and assume the matter is settled. We have to try to make it right with the person we have hurt.

People nodded. I did, too.

Then, only minutes later, something happened that I have not been able to get out of my mind.

During the Amidah, a man rose from his seat and began praying in the main aisle near the synagogue entrance. He was swaying, eyes closed, fully immersed in the words before him. But he was standing in the narrow passage through which people entered and left.

A woman using a walker came toward the entrance and could not get past him. She paused because there was not enough room to pass. After a brief moment, she turned her walker around and left.

I keep thinking about her. I do not know her name. I do not know whether she found another entrance, whether she returned later that morning, or whether anyone spoke with her afterward. I only know that she came to pray on Shabbat Shuvah and, for that moment, could not get through the door. Instead, what met her was the wall of a man’s back.

There was a painful irony in the scene. A man was absorbed in prayer while a woman who had come to pray could not pass through the entrance. Because he was in the middle of the Amidah, many of us may have hesitated to act quickly. We were reluctant to interrupt someone at prayer, even as a woman using a walker was unable to enter.

When We Do Not Act

I wish I could say that I immediately stood up and helped her. I did not. I froze.

Everything happened quickly. One moment she was there; the next, she had turned around and was gone. I remained in my seat, shocked, my mind arriving too late. I have replayed that moment in my mind. I tell myself that I would have gotten up, helped her find another way in, or spoken to someone afterward. Maybe I would have. But the truth is that I did not respond quickly enough.

I do not know what was in the man’s mind or heart. He may not have realized she was there. He may simply have been absorbed in prayer. I cannot judge his intentions, and I will not pretend to. But I can describe what the aisle looked like, and what it cost: a woman using a walker came to synagogue to pray and had to turn away before I, or anyone nearby, came to her aid.

This is not a story about one bad person and everyone else as innocent bystanders. It is about how easily any of us can see a problem, assume someone else will respond, and do nothing. It is about how quickly we can become deaf, blind, and unaware of the person who needs us right in front of us.

Ha’azinu means listen

This week’s Torah portion is Ha’azinu, Moses’ farewell song. It begins: “Give ear, O heavens, and I will speak; let the earth hear the words of my mouth” (Deuteronomy 32:1).

The word Ha’azinu means “listen.” It is a simple instruction, but not always a simple practice. Listening means paying attention not only to the words in our siddur, but also to the people around us. It means hearing the footsteps of someone struggling to walk, the wheels of a walker, or the silence when someone gives up and turns away.

On Shabbat Shuvah, we are asked to return—to G-d, to our better selves, and to one another. Teshuvah cannot mean only saying the right words. It must also mean waking up to the people around us, looking beyond ourselves, and seeing who may need our help. On a day devoted to return, listening may be the beginning of returning.

Moses also says: “The Rock, His work is perfect, for all His ways are justice” (Deuteronomy 32:4). That verse has stayed with me. God’s perfection is described not as posture or ritual, but as justice. We can pray beautifully and still miss what matters if we fail to notice when another person needs help.

What Yom Kippur asks

Tomorrow night, Yom Kippur begins. We will recite the Vidui, beat our chests, and ask G-d to forgive us. We can pray to G-d for forgiveness, but neither prayer nor a rabbi’s reassurance can substitute for seeking forgiveness from the person we have harmed.

The Mishnah teaches that Yom Kippur atones for sins between a person and G-d. But for sins between one person and another, Yom Kippur does not atone until the injured person has been appeased.

If we have harmed another person, teshuvah requires more than regret; it requires responsibility and repair. And when we have witnessed another person’s need and failed to respond, as I did that morning, the lesson should humble us and change how we act next time.

Our sages taught, derekh eretz kadma laTorah: basic human decency comes before Torah. Hillel said it even more simply: “What is hateful to you, do not do to your fellow. This is the whole Torah; the rest is commentary. Go and learn it.”

The prophet Micah gives us the standard: “to do justice, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your G-d.” That is what it means to make room for another person—not only physically, but morally and spiritually.

The lesson of the aisle

At a time when Jewish communities face so much pressure from outside, we must be especially careful with one another inside. Unity is not a slogan. Ahavat Yisrael—love for our fellow Jews—is proven in the small moments when someone needs help entering a synagogue, finding a chair, navigating an aisle, or simply being seen.

What good is a perfect Amidah if we do not see the person who cannot get past us? What good is fasting if our eyes remain closed?

Teshuvah is not a performance. It is the hard work of asking not only, “Am I doing this right?” but also, “Am I doing good?” It asks us to open our eyes before it asks us to beat our chests.

The woman with the walker is still out there. The door of teshuvah is still open. May we walk through it—and then hold it open for someone else.