On Yom Kippur morning, we reflected on responding to tragedy through silence, the second of three rungs of responding to tradegy according to the Kotzker Rebbe.
Listen to the audio recording here: https://recorder.google.com/4a63fa4e-0438-463f-b140…
Timothy Wilson, a social psychologist at the University of Virginia in Charlottesville, and his colleagues in 2014 recruited hundreds of undergraduate students to take part in what they called a “thinking period.” This was an experiment to test how people manage in silence.
In some of the initial experiments, participants were told: You’re going to sit for five or six minutes in silence. In others: An interviewer will come in shortly. Just wait patiently. In every case, the researchers took away phones, pens, papers—literally everything—so the participants had nothing to distract them. The goal was to see what they would do when left alone in silence.
At one point, the researchers decided to push the experiment further. They left participants alone in a lab room for 15 minutes, in which they had access to a button that, if pressed, would deliver an electric shock. The idea was to test whether people, unable to tolerate silence, would rather shock themselves than simply sit quietly.
Beforehand, in intake surveys, all the participants had said they would pay money to avoid being shocked with electricity. Yet more than 50% of them pressed the button at some point—choosing pain over silence, rather than just sitting quietly, thinking, or meditating.
Last night, I introduced a teaching from the Kotzker Rebbe in response to tragedy and trauma: a ladder with three rungs, representing three responses to suffering.
The first rung is crying out. We explored that last night.
The second rung is silence, which we’ll explore this morning.
The third rung is laughter, which we’ll talk about this evening.
For those who weren’t able to attend each session, I should have them recorded and can share them if you’re interested.
Today, though, our focus is on silence.
We often think of silence as something negative. The Torah says: Lo ta’amod al dam re’echa—“Do not stand idly by while your neighbor’s blood is being shed.” And in our society, especially in this city, we see signs everywhere: If you see something, say something.
Silence, we are taught, is complicity. If we’re silent, it’s as if we ourselves are committing the wrong. Silence, we learn, is bad.
And certainly in this world—even more so in Manhattan—there is almost no such thing as silence. I remember when I first moved here. In my bedroom, the steam pipe went clang clang clang, trucks rumbled down Broadway, sirens wailed. I grew up in Milwaukee, and it took me two months before I could sleep through a night. Eventually I learned how to, but at first, I couldn’t handle it. Silence felt impossible.
And even when we do experience silence, it often makes us uncomfortable. If we’re silent too long, rather than holding eye contact, someone feels compelled to say or do something.
But silence can also be experienced without needing to explain, to fix, or to fill the space.
Sometimes tragedy or trauma brings silence. Sometimes injustice does too. Imagine I say something that feels terribly unjust. Not only do I say it, but to your shock, everyone around you applauds. Your silence in that moment may be a form of protest. A refusal to join in. Silence itself can be rebellion.
Or maybe silence arises from shock. Rather than crying out, your grief or disbelief manifests in quiet.
This is the second rung of the ladder.
And here I think back to Aaron, the high priest in the Torah, who exemplified the power of silence. Aaron, as high priest, could enter the most sacred parts of the Tabernacle. His four sons also served as priests. But two of them—Nadav and Avihu—brought an esh zarah, a “foreign flame,” an unauthorized offering.
The rabbis debate: Were they heretical? Rebellious? Experimenting? Trying to do something good? Simply mistaken? Seeking to usurp Aaron’s power? We don’t know. But whatever the reason, the consequence was death. Nadav and Avihu died in service to God.
You could imagine Aaron crying out in anger, demanding answers. His brother Moses—humble, yes, but also hot-headed—might have done so. You could easily imagine Aaron shouting: God, how could you? These are my sons! They were serving you. Even if they made a mistake, they did not deserve to die.
But the Torah records his response in just two words: Vayidom Aharon—“And Aaron was silent.”
We humans love to make presumptions. We see or hear something, and we jump to conclusions. If someone is silent, we interpret: What’s wrong with him? Does he not love his sons? Does he have superhuman discipline? Did he prepare himself for this possibility?
But silence doesn’t always mean what we think. Silence can be sacred.
It’s not always acceptance of the future. Sometimes it’s simply acceptance of the moment as it is.
Think of a time when you shared something deeply personal, or someone shared with you. And after, there were no words—just silence. Sometimes we babble because we feel obligated to say something, and our words come out clumsy. Sometimes silence is better.
And sometimes the silence of the listener—holding space, nodding, offering presence—becomes the most affirming and loving response of all.
When I think of silence as a response, I remember the first time I was in Israel during Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Memorial Day. And later, on Yom HaZikaron, Memorial Day for fallen soldiers. Both days are marked by a siren.
I remember once driving on the highway with my cousin as the siren began. Everyone stopped. The radio played the siren for one full minute. Complete silence—except for that wailing sound. And when it ended, everyone got back in their cars, jostling for lanes, rushing ahead as always. But for that one minute, there was silence. A collective silence that carried power.
I share all this not to suggest that silence is always the right response. There are times when silence is complicity. There are times when silence is wrong.
But there are also times when silence is sacred, powerful, and appropriate.
And so I invite you, as we prepare to recite the Amidah, to consider what role silence might play for you.
It’s a little ironic, because during the “silent Amidah,” there’s often a murmur as people pray. Silence doesn’t have to mean absolute sensory deprivation. It can mean simply holding space—for prayer, for presence, for the heart.
So as we rise for the Amidah, found on page 596, I invite you to explore silence: Not as absence. Not as complicity. But as a sacred space for your prayer and your heart.
