October 13, 2024|י"א תשרי ה' אלפים תשפ"ה Kol Nidrei: The "Ish Iti" and how each one of us can be a Baal Teshuva By Rabbi Jonathan Muskat

Yochai ban Avi is an Israeli musician. He was a soldier in the IDF and at some point, after his service, he spoke to a group of Bnei Akiva teenagers. In the context of their conversation, one teenager asked him about the meaning of teshuva in our lives and this inspired him to compose the following song which is on Youtube:

אני דתי מלידה. מה, זה רע? לא טעמתי חזיר, לא למדתי כפירה, מעולם לא כִּתַּתִּי רגלי בין כתות, מימי לא חיפשתי עצמי בין דתות. לא, לא התעוררתי אחרי הצבא, אין לי הילה של חוזר בתשובה, דתי מלידה, ואני מאושר! שמעוני אחי, הנה אני שר!

I was born religious. So what, is that bad? I’ve never tasted pork, never studied heresy, I’ve never wandered among sects, never searched for myself among religions. No, I didn’t have an awakening after the army, I don’t have the aura of a baal teshuva (a returnee to religious observance). I was born religious, and I’m happy! Listen, my brothers, here I sing!

מתפלל במניין באופן קבוע, מתחת בגדיי לא תמצא קעקוע, אין לי סיפור לספר לעולם, אני סתם איש פשוט, ממש כמו כולם. סוד קטן אגלה אם תסכימו לשמוע, גם דתי מלידה יודע לדמוע, גם הוא נופל וקשה לו לקום. גם בעיניו העולם לעיתים קצת עקום. לריבונו של עולם אני די מוכר, לעיתים מתבלבל, ומרגיש מנוכר, מתרחק מתקרב, הולך ובא, גם דתי מלידה… וגם בעל תשובה.

I pray with a minyan regularly, under my clothes you won’t find a tattoo, I don’t have a story to tell the world, I’m just an ordinary person, just like everyone else. I’ll share a little secret if you’re willing to hear: Even someone born religious knows how to shed tears. He falls too, and it’s hard for him to rise. Even in his eyes, the world sometimes seems a bit crooked. The Master of the Universe knows me well; at times, I get confused and feel distant, I move away, I come closer, I come and go. Even someone born religious... and also a baal teshuva.

This is our challenge tonight and tomorrow. Teshuva is not just for those who have returned after being distant from God; it is for each one of us, no matter our story. It’s about wanting to grow. It’s about recognizing that even without a dramatic or inspirational journey, we can still become baalei teshuva. Every one of us has the need to return, to elevate ourselves.

Many of us struggle with this. We are good Jews—we keep Shabbat, we keep kosher, we daven, we give our children a good Jewish education, we fulfill the basics. But are we truly inspired to become great Jews? In other areas of life, we strive for greatness. We aim to excel in our careers, in fitness, in our hobbies. I had a minor procedure on my eyelids this past week. I was given some anesthesia to numb the pain, but I was awake during part of the procedure when I was asked to open and close my eyes to help ensure that the surgeon cut out just the right amount of tissue. I remember being half asleep and at some point, after the surgeon did some cutting around my eyelid – whatever he was doing – I heard him say, “Yeah, that’s pretty good.” At which point I said to him while half asleep, “I hope that you’re not going to stop when it’s pretty good. I hope you will continue until it’s great!” In so many areas of our life, we want it to be great. But when it comes to our Judaism, how many of us settle for just being “good”? We lack the passion and yearning of the baal teshuva.

Our communities are wonderful. They support us, they nurture us. But there’s a danger in feeling too comfortable in our communities. We may become content with simply being good members of the community, instead of striving to stand out for our passion and commitment to greatness. This is where the lesson of Yom Kippur becomes essential.

At the climax of Yom Kippur, after the Kohen Gadol completes all the rituals, the atonement of the Jewish people depends on one seemingly anonymous individual—the ish iti, the man who leads the sa’ir la’azazel, the goat into the wilderness. Who is this ish iti? Rashi, citing the Torat Kohanim, explains that the phrase ish iti means a designated person, someone who was muchan l’kach miyom etmol, prepared from the day before Yom Kippur.

Why is this detail so important? It teaches us that greatness is available to any one of us, as long as we prepare. We often assume that leadership or greatness belongs only to certain people in the community. But the ish iti shows us that anyone can rise to do great things—like the person responsible for sending away the goat that symbolically carries all the sins of the Jewish people. It’s not about who you are—it’s about whether you are ready to prepare, whether you’re willing to commit yourself to the task. Every single one of us has the potential for greatness if we prepare for it.

There’s another crucial detail about the ish iti—the Mishna in Yoma tells us that as he journeyed from the Mikdash, the Temple, to the wilderness, the yakirei Yerushalayim, the honored people of Jerusalem escorted him, and booths were set up along the way with food and drink. But at the final leg of the journey, he went alone, traveling the last stretch to the wilderness by himself with the goat symbolically bearing the sins of the Jewish people. Although God said, “Lo tov heyot ha’adam l’vado” – it is not good for man to be alone – He created us alone, and our ancestors were often called upon to stand alone. Avraham stood alone in Eretz Canaan, Yaakov was alone at the River Yabok, and Moshe found himself alone in Midyan. Yom Kippur is the day where, just like the ish iti, each of us must stand alone before God and become a baal teshuva.

But this “aloneness” doesn’t mean isolation. As part of a community, we have the responsibility to support each other, just as the Jews escorted the ish iti on his mission. Yet we must also realize that each of us is that ish iti—we may feel like just another face in the crowd, but we have the potential to do something extraordinary. Each of us is muchan l’kach—prepared for greatness, prepared for teshuva.

The Chafetz Chayim told of the first time he saw a train. Who, he wondered, guides this train? Who drives it? At first, he saw very busy and official-looking people with big red caps carrying things to and from the baggage cars. Surely, he thought, these important people are the masters of the train. Then, when he discovered they were merely porters, he noticed a big, dignified looking gentleman in an impressive uniform collecting tickets from people. No doubt, he thought, this official owns the train – how important and solemn he appears. But when he learned he was only the ticket-collector, he turned to the man in a fancy uniform with a bushy mustache and booming voice who came pacing stridently through the cars blowing a whistle. Certainly, he guides the train. But no, he was merely the conductor. Perhaps, then, it is collectively owned and operated by all those aristocratic people in the parlor car who are so well-dressed and smoke expensive cigars. No, they are only passengers. Then he came to the front car, the engine room. There he saw a man in overalls, one who seemed unkempt, who needed a shave, who looked impoverished and insignificant, who appeared to be a manual laborer and shoved coal into the fire and pulled a few rusty switches… and he, this inconspicuous, anonymous, obscure fellow – he was the master of the train, upon him depended the safety of the whole train and all its passengers! This is the ish iti, and this can be each and every one of us.

Yom Kippur tells us very emphatically – each one of us can do great things in this world. At the end of the Yom Kippur Amidah, we say Elokai, ad shelo notzarti eini k’dai – Hashem, before I was created, I was not worthy. Rav Kook explains that when we say this line, we express the following:

 לפני שנוצרתי – כל אותו הזמן הבלתי מוגבל שמעולם עד שנוצרתי, ודאי לא היה דבר בעולם שהיה צריך לי… ולא היה בי צורך כי אם לעת כזאת שנבראתי, מפני שהגיעה השעה שאני צריך למלא איזה דבר להשלמת המציאות. 

Before I was created – throughout all that immeasurable time from eternity until I was created, there was certainly nothing in the world that needed me… And there was no need for me except at this time when I was brought into existence, for the time has come that I must fulfill some role for the completion of existence. 

Now is our time, the time for every single one of us in the room, now is our time for greatness.

Yochai’s song reminds us that every one of us, whatever our background, is a baal teshuva. We all have something to contribute. Yom Kippur is a time not only to reflect on our potential but also to think about how we can help those around us realize theirs. Over the next 25 hours, let’s ask ourselves: What will make me great this year? How can I contribute to making my community great? If we do this, then with God’s help, may our teshuva this year be nothing short of extraordinary.