The Side Door Is Always Open: A Powerful Yom Kippur Story of Teshuvah

The author Moshe Erlanger shares a moving story:

“A few years ago, I had to spend Yom Kippur in Frankfurt, Germany. I rented a room in a hotel near Frankfurt’s large synagogue, improvised a pre-fast meal, and headed to prayers with a feeling of disappointment and longing for Israel.

“When I arrived, I discovered a magnificent synagogue filled with some 2,000 worshippers, most of whom rarely came there during the rest of the year. The cantor began Kol Nidrei, and it was clear that he was overwhelmed with emotion. His voice caught in his throat, broke, rose, and fell. The entire congregation was swept up in his emotion.

“After the prayers, I approached him. ‘Nice to meet you. My name is Tzadok Greenwald,’ he said.

“I asked him why he had become so emotional during Kol Nidrei. He answered: “‘I have been the cantor here during the High Holidays for many years. As a descendant of Holocaust survivors, it is an enormous privilege for me to lead the prayers specifically here, on this soil.

“‘Several years ago, at the conclusion of Yom Kippur, I was preparing to leave the synagogue. The last worshippers had already gone home to break their fast. The synagogue attendant locked the main gate, and I left through a side door, hungry and exhausted.

“‘Near the main entrance, I noticed an elderly man wearing a white kippah fastened to his hair with a pin. He approached me anxiously.

“‘“Why are the synagogue gates locked? When is Kol Nidrei? Please tell me, why are the gates locked?”

“‘I was silent. My heart broke.

“‘“My dear fellow Jew,” I stammered, “Yom Kippur was yesterday. Everyone has already gone home. Kol Nidrei will be recited again next year.”

“‘The man grabbed my hand and began crying like a small child.

“‘“I have never missed Kol Nidrei,” he said. “I promised my father, of blessed memory, that every year I would go to a synagogue to hear Kol Nidrei. It is my only connection to my father. It is my only connection to my Judaism.”

“‘At that moment, I knew exactly what I had to do.

“‘“My dear Jew, you haven’t missed anything,” I told him. “I am the chief cantor of this synagogue. Come with me and hear Kol Nidrei.”

“‘I opened the side entrance, seated him on a chair, handed him a machzor, wrapped myself in my tallit, and began Kol Nidrei.

“‘It was the most powerful prayer of my life. Thousands of empty seats surrounded us, and there were only three of us there: the man, me, and the Holy One, blessed be He.

“‘I forgot about my hunger and exhaustion. All I could think about was the connection between this distant Jew and his father. And, in truth, his connection to my Father as well, to our Father in Heaven.

“‘I never saw that man again. But every time I recite Kol Nidrei, I think about him. I think about the millions of other Jews who may be in a similar place. And I think about that side door, the door through which, in the end, everyone can enter.’”

The Miracle of Beginning Again

Rabbi Yaakov Edelstein, of blessed memory, the rabbi of Ramat Hasharon, offered a profound insight into the meaning of Yom Kippur and teshuvah.

“How can things a person has done simply be erased?” he asked. “What does regret accomplish? Does regret make the transgression disappear? If someone ate something that caused severe stomach trouble and later regretted eating it, would that regret now heal his stomach?”

The answer is that teshuvah operates beyond the ordinary rules of nature and human logic. It is one of the wonders built into creation and one of the greatest gifts Hashem has given us: the possibility of beginning again.

There is a beautiful verse that reveals the secret: “Return, Israel, to Hashem your God.” The key word is “return.”

If teshuvah meant climbing toward an entirely new destination or transforming ourselves into someone fundamentally different, the Torah would not describe it as returning. To return means to come back to somewhere we have already been. It means coming home.

Teshuvah is not about becoming someone else. It is about returning to our truest selves, to the place where we really belong, and becoming the people we were meant to be.

Changing the World Begins With One Person

There is a well-known story about a man who, when he was young, decided that he wanted to change the entire world. Eventually, he realized that this was too difficult, so he decided to concentrate on changing the people in his country.

When that proved impossible, he narrowed his goal further. He would change the people in his city. When that failed as well, he decided that at least he could change the members of his own family.

Finally, he understood that he needed to begin by changing himself.

And then something unexpected happened. As he worked on improving himself, he discovered that he was influencing his family. His family influenced his city, his city influenced his country, and ultimately his efforts reached far beyond himself.

Changing the world begins with changing ourselves. Our aspirations can and should be broad. We should care about our families, our communities, the Jewish people, and the world around us. But the foundation of meaningful change is the personal growth of each individual.

The Day After Yom Kippur

Yom Kippur ends, the fast is over, and the prayers are finished. The question now becomes: What happens next?

Before Neilah at the KBH synagogue in New York, Rabbi Shmuel Witkin offered an important message about carrying the experience of the High Holidays into the year ahead.

The spiritual journey, he explained, lasts for 40 days. It begins with Rosh Chodesh Elul and continues through Selichot, Rosh Hashanah, the Ten Days of Repentance, Yom Kippur, and finally Neilah.

At some point during this journey, we may begin to wonder whether we are being completely sincere. We make promises, we plan to change, and we speak about becoming better people and beginning again. Yet we know that throughout much of the year, we do not necessarily look or behave like the people we become during these intense days.

So perhaps, we wonder, this is not really who we are.

Rabbi Witkin suggests precisely the opposite. These moments are not the disguise - the rest of the year is the disguise.

Throughout the year, we accumulate layers: images we try to maintain, distractions, confusion, habits, pressures, and countless other things that cause us to forget who we really are. During these precious moments of Elul and the High Holidays, those layers begin to fall away.

The person we encounter then is not an artificial version of ourselves. It is the person our soul genuinely wants us to become. We truly do want to be better, we truly do want to change, and we truly do want to live more honestly and meaningfully. In those moments, the soul becomes louder than the body.

Take Something With You

The challenge is to carry something from those extraordinary days into ordinary life.

Before the spiritual intensity begins to fade, each person can choose one small kabbalah, one practical commitment for the coming year. It does not need to be dramatic. In fact, something small, concrete, and sustainable may be far more powerful.

Choose one action that can accompany you into the long year ahead, even when the inspiration fades and everyday life once again becomes demanding and distracting.

Let it remind you of these moments, of who you really are, and that the soul can overcome the body.

Perhaps that is also the enduring message of the elderly man who arrived at the synagogue one day late. He thought the gates had closed and that he had missed his opportunity. But there was another entrance.

For a Jew who wants to return, there is always a side door.