“Writing a Story” Yom Kippur 5786
It is happening more and more often. I meet someone, introduce myself: “Hi! My name is Ari Sacher!” and he responds, “Hi! My name is Blah!” And that’s it. Blah. That’s all I hear. That’s all I remember. The next time I see him, we go through the same ritual. “Hi! My name is Ari Sacher!” “Hi! My name is Blah!” And we are back where we started. It is not just the name I forget – it is the face, the context, the entire interaction. As if my brain has a revolving door for new acquaintances. I would love to chalk this up to age. Maybe it is just the natural erosion of memory that comes with the years. But the truth is, memory is a tricky thing for everyone, not just for those of us with a few more grey hairs. Even young people – sharp, alert, and ostensibly in their cognitive prime – fall prey to similar illusions.
Ask someone where they were on 9/11 and they will likely give you a vivid, detailed account: what they were wearing, what they were eating, and who they were with. These are what psychologists call “flashbulb memories”: vivid, emotionally charged recollections that feel seared into our minds. But here is the twist: many of these memories are wrong. In multiple studies, researchers interviewed thousands of people shortly after 9/11, asking them how they learned about the attacks and what they were doing at the time. A year later, they asked the same people the same questions. The results were startling: only about 63% of the participants’ answers matched what they had originally reported just days after the event. Yet, their confidence in the accuracy of their memories remained sky-high.
This is not just about forgetting. It is about inserting false details, details that feel just as real as the truth. One man remembered vividly that he learned about the attacks while watching TV. But in reality, he had first heard the news from a friend and only later saw the images on television. Another person remembered that his wife called him on his mobile phone after the second tower was hit. But at the time, neither of them even owned a mobile phone. Somewhere along the way, his brain rewrote the story. And once that new version took hold, it stuck. By the tenth anniversary of 9/11, most people in the study were still repeating the same inaccurate stories they had begun telling by the first anniversary.
These are not lies or fabrications. They are stories our brains create to make sense of a chaotic, emotional moment. And once those stories are told, especially if told repeatedly, they become the version we believe. This is why flashbulb memories are so deceptive. They feel more vivid, more detailed, more emotionally intense than ordinary memories and that vividness tricks us into thinking they must be accurate. But the truth is that vividness is not the same as accuracy. One can remember the colour of the sky, the sound of the sirens, the words someone said, and still be wrong about the sequence of events, or even the basic facts.
Daniel Kahneman, the Nobel Prize-winning psychologist/economist, explores this phenomenon in his groundbreaking book Thinking, Fast and Slow. He introduces a powerful distinction between two versions of ourselves: the “experiencing self” and the “remembering self.” The experiencing self lives in real time. It feels the joy of a child’s laughter, the sting of a harsh word, the boredom of a long meeting. It lives moment to moment, without judgment or narrative. The remembering self, on the other hand, is the storyteller. It decides what gets stored, what gets forgotten, and, most importantly, how it all gets interpreted. And here is the kicker: the remembering self does not care about the full experience. It does not tally every moment. It focuses on peaks and endings, the most intense parts and how the story concludes. That’s what sticks. That’s what shapes our identity. That’s what we carry forward.
Kahneman illustrates this with an example. Imagine a one-week holiday in Hawaii of perfect weather, delicious food, and sandy beaches, until the last day, when, waiting at the carousel, you find that your luggage has become irretrievably lost. Despite six days of bliss, your remembering self will label the entire trip a disaster. Why? Because of how it ended.
This idea can offer a new understanding of repentance (Teshuva). Teshuva is not just about regret. It is not just about saying “I’m sorry” or listing our sins like a grocery receipt. Teshuva is about rewriting the story. It is about recognizing that while we cannot change the past, we can change the way we understand it. We can change what it means. Kahneman’s insights align beautifully with the Torah’s understanding of Teshuva. The Torah does not ask us to relive every moment of our sin. It does not demand that we wallow in guilt. Instead, it invites us to focus on the ending. On the transformation. On the new story we are choosing to tell.
When we stand before G-d on Yom Kippur and say, “We have acted with guilt. We have betrayed. We have stolen,” we are not saying, “We are guilty. We are betrayers. We are thieves.” We are not defined by our worst moments. We are defined by what we do next. This is not a loophole or spiritual escapism. It is a profound truth about human nature. The Talmud in Tractate Yoma [86b] teaches that sincere Teshuva can transform sins into merits. because those sins became the catalyst for growth. For change. For a new story. A life of sin followed by sincere repentance is not a failure – it is a triumph. It is a story of redemption. And it is a story that only the remembering self can tell. The Divine gift of Teshuva allows us to say: “This is what happened. But this is not who I am.” It allows us to reclaim authorship over our lives. And this is where memory becomes sacred. Because memory is not just a cognitive function, it is a spiritual act. It is the bridge between who we were and who we are becoming. It is the tool that allows us to look back with honesty and forward with hope. Yom Kippur is not just a Day of Atonement. It is a day of storytelling. It is a day when we stand before G-d and say, “Let me tell You the story of my life. Let me tell You how I got here. Let me tell You how I fell and how I get back up.” And G-d listens. Not as a judge tallying infractions, but as a loving parent, eager to hear how the story ends.
This is why the liturgy of Yom Kippur is so powerful. It is not just a list of sins, it is a narrative arc. It begins with confession, moves through reflection, and ends with hope. It is a journey from brokenness to wholeness. From exile to return. And it is not just personal. It is communal. We say “We have sinned,” not “I have sinned.” Because we are all part of each other’s stories. We are all co-authors in the great narrative of the Jewish People. And on Yom Kippur, we write our stories together.
Teshuva is the sacred art of meaning-making. When we look back on our year, we need not remember every detail. We need not relive every mistake. We need to focus on the peaks and the endings. We need to ask: What did I learn? How did I grow? What story am I telling now? It means that when we confess, we do so not to shame ourselves, but to free ourselves. To say: “This is not the end of my story. This is the turning point.” It means that we approach Yom Kippur not with fear, but with courage. Not with despair, but with hope. Because while the past is not fixed, the story is still being written. And it means that we embrace the remembering self, not as a passive recorder, but as an active creator. We are not just the sum of our experiences. We are the meaning we make from them.
As we experience this Yom Kippur, let us remember: We stand here not merely to be judged. We stand here to be redeemed. We stand here to tell a new story. Because in the end, both psychology and Torah agree: We are the stories we tell ourselves. And with Teshuva – with memory – we can write a story worth remembering.
Ari Sacher, Moreshet, 5786
Please daven for a Refu’a Shelema for Iris bat Chana, Shlomo ben Esther, Sheindel Devora bat Rina, Esther Sharon bat Chana Raizel, Esther bat Hila, Meir ben Drora, and Hodayah Emunah bat Shoshana Rachel.
This essay is a summary of words I spoke at the Memorial Ceremony of Ori Moshe Borenstein, who fell while fighting in Gaza one year ago. May his memory be a blessing.
