During my childhood, my parents placed a high value on academic excellence and being God-fearing. They aspired for my siblings and me to be smart and to live a life rooted in faith. I vividly remember the day I felt I had reached the peak of my intellectual powers. Ironically, I was only 11 years old, and since then, my genius has seemed to follow a downward trajectory.
It was a blustery, ice-cold Saturday during Hanukkah, but despite the weather, I felt elated as I made my way to the weekly youth group at my synagogue, just a few blocks from home. As soon as I arrived, I noticed four brightly colored signs hanging from the rafters, each displaying one of the Hebrew letters from the dreidel: nun, gimel, hay, and shin. My friends and I were divided into four teams and instructed to stand beneath the sign of our assigned letter. I proudly walked over to nun, confident that my team would carry the day.
Our task was simple but challenging: find a song that prominently featured our letter. The team with the song that used their letter most frequently would win. My friends and I sat around the table, brainstorming, but no song seemed quite right. This was long before Nachman Meuman became popular, so that song wasn’t an option. Then, like a flash of lightning, it hit me—I shouted, “Ein Kelokeinu!”
The excitement surged around our table as my teammates realized the brilliance of my suggestion. We were a shoo-in for victory. Someone called me a genius, and I soaked up the praise. In that moment, I felt on top of the world, certain that I had reached the pinnacle of my abilities. We performed the song with extra emphasis on the stanza beginning with "Nodeh Lelokeinu, Nodeh Ladoneinu," and the triumph I felt was indescribable. It was my moment. Little did I know that this would be the peak of my achievements, never to be replicated in the same way again.
Fast forward to this past Saturday morning, decades later, and I found myself arriving late at the synagogue, struggling to catch up with the prayers. I made sure to respond with Amen during the Kaddish and was anticipating the upcoming kiddush when something in the cantor’s voice snapped me back to attention. His mellifluous baritone commanded focus, and the way he delivered Ein Kelokeinu in stentorian tones left no room for distraction. The familiar melody filled the room, but it was his powerful intonation that drew me in, making the words resonate more deeply than ever before.
As the words washed over me, I realized how differently I reflected on them now. Ein Kelokeinu—“There is none like our G-d.” Who is like our G-d? Who is like our Lord? Who is like our King? Who is like our Savior? We will give thanks unto our G-d. Shamefacedly, I understood that my focus on the prayer so many years ago should have been on the words themselves, rather than on how many times a nun appeared in the lyrics.
This realization hit me even harder in this sacred time, during the Ten Days of Repentance, just days away from Yom Kippur. As the Day of Atonement approaches, it’s a time of introspection and reflection, and I found myself thinking not of fleeting intellectual victories but of deeper, more meaningful success. G-d doesn’t request of me to be the smartest. He calls me to do justice, to love kindness, and to walk humbly with Him.
This understanding has given me a renewed sense of purpose as I approach Yom Kippur, with gratitude and humility guiding my spiritual journey. -
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