One of the most recognizable High Holy Day prayers is Avinu Malkeynu, “Our Father, our King.” Recognizable and remarkable. First, note the phrasing: Father and King are in a way polar opposites. “Father” is loving, familial and personal. “King” is regal, formal, and official. The juxtaposition of these two concepts verges on the oxymoronic (like “deafening silence”), but the rabbinic intention in this phrasing is very intentional. It is an expression of desperation.

The desperation reflects the origin of the prayer: it was a prayer for rain! And in the Middle East, a lack of rain is a virtual death sentence, both personal and national. The Talmud tells us that during a drought, Rabbi Akiba came before the Ark and said, “Our Father, our King, we have no king but You; our Father, our King, have mercy upon us for Your own sake!” And the rain began to fall (Taanit 25b).

Note the one/two punch. The first phrase is a testament to our loyalty—we have no king but you. In Jersey speak: You da guy. The second phrase is incredibly clever—don’t do it for us. Who are we, after all? You don’t owe us. We have no favors to call in. But do it for your own sake. Subtle message: we’re making you an offer you can’t refuse.

The rabbis were nothing if not clever.

Seeing how effective the prayer was on an ad hoc basis, the rabbis made it a fixture of the High Holy Days, including the days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur (“the ten days of penitence”) and on fast days as well (since fasting was routinely linked to prayers of repentance for the sake of rain).

The prayer as we have it does not begin the way Rabbi Akiva did: “Our Father, our King, we have no king but You.” That line comes second. The first line sets the stage: “Our Father, our King, we have sinned before you.” It is from that penitential posture that we begin our pleading.

In the middle of the prayer, repeated requests are made that G-d “inscribe us in the book…”. The idea that G-d has a book in which the destiny of human beings is inscribed is an idea that goes back to pagan, pre-biblical times. Here, the prayer suggests several different books reflecting our most basic human desires:

·        The book of a good life.

·        The book of redemption and salvation.

·        The book of income and sustenance.

·        The book of merit for good deeds.

·        And, finally, the book of forgiveness and reconciliation.

(It should be noted that on fast days during the rest of the year, the text of these verses is changed from “inscribe us” to ”remember us.”)

The last verse of the prayer has an exquisite melody and is often repeated because of its evocative power. “Our Father, our King, be gracious to us, and answer us, for we have no deeds of merit. Deal with us with righteousness and compassion, and save us.”

Let us unpack this, because there is a very specific dynamic in play.

First, we ask for grace—the equivalent of throwing ourselves on the mercy of the court.

Second, we ask for a divine response, an “answer,” because waiting for the divine judgment, whatever it may be, is unbearable. You might remember the reference in To Kill a Mockingbird, of Scout, waiting for the jury to return with their verdict, having a feeling like the one she had when a mad dog came down the street. Getting an answer is itself a gift of grace.

Third, the recognition that we are without merit evokes a posture of abject humility—a healthy sentiment with which most of us are not thoroughly familiar.

Fourth, we recognize that G-d, like any parent, is filled with ambivalence and contrasting emotions. Classic example: your kid runs across a busy street. You catch up with them on the other side. Do you hug them or spank them? And if both, in what order? By recognizing the difficulty of G-d’s deliberations, we create a bond of—hopefully—empathy.

And, finally, we ask G-d to save us. This is a healthy reminder of what is at stake here. True repentance is serious business. A matter of life and death.

Rabbi Robert L. Wolkoff