Of Angels And Humans: Our Dueling Personas on the Day of Atonement

On Yom Kippur we are on our best behavior, like angels. In fact, our resemblance to angels is one of the methods utilized on our behalf to beseech Hashem to forgive the Jewish people. It is recorded in Pirkei D’Rebbe Eliezer that the angel Samael approaches Hashem on Yom Kippur and proclaims:

Master of the World! You have one nation on earth that is comparable to the ministering angels in Heaven. Just as the angels are barefoot, so too do the Jewish People go without leather shoes on Yom Kippur. Just as the angels do not eat or drink, so too there is no eating or drinking among Israel on the Day of Atonement. Just as the angels have no joints in their feet and therefore are always standing, so too do the Jewish people stand (in judgment) on Yom Kippur. Just as there is peace in the midst of the angels, so too do B’nai Yisrael make peace with each other in preparation for Yom Kippur.

There are other ways in which we resemble angels today. Many people have the custom of wearing white on Yom Kippur. One reason suggested for wearing white is to resemble the angels who are described as being clothed in white. Today we also emulate the angels by reciting out loud “Baruch Shem kevod malchuto l’olam va’ed,” the line we recite after Shema. The Tur explains that the practice is to recite this line quietly during the rest of the year, based on the Midrash that Moshe heard this phrase from the angels when he ascended to heaven to receive the Torah. Moshe “stole” this line and brought it down for us to use. On Yom Kippur, when we resemble the angels, we recite Baruch Shem out loud.

And yet, as much as we resemble angels, our approach to Hashem for forgiveness on Yom Kippur is heavily based on our humanity. We appeal for mercy on the grounds that we are frail, both physically and spiritually. Over and over again, we will confess our sins, accompanied by the defense, either explicitly or implicitly, that we have erred due to our humanity.

This tension in our Yom Kippur personas between human and angel is portrayed by our Rabbis as a tension between angels and humans existing throughout the year and throughout the history of the world.

This angel/human rivalry began at the very creation of the world. At that time, the angels argued with Hashem that man should not be created, as he will be sinful. Later on, during the Exodus from Egypt, the angels tried to convince Hashem to not redeem the Jewish people. They argued that B’nai Yisrael were no different than the Egyptians, i.e., idolaters who neither believed in one G-d nor were interested in establishing a relationship with the G-d of their forefathers. And at Mount Sinai, the angels tried to convince Hashem not to give the Torah to a nation of mere mortals. The argument was that humans could not appreciate the Torah the way angels could, nor would the Jewish people always live up to its ideals. There are scholars who enumerate 74 instances of rivalry or tension between angels and humans, usually precipitated by the angels.

On Yom Kippur this tension is exacerbated by the fact that we are asked to assume the personas of both angels and humans, in different ways and in different contexts. So what does Hashem want us to be today: angels or humans? How should we view ourselves today? Which of the two personas more fully defines the theme and goal of Yom Kippur?

The answer can be found in one of the piyutim of the Yom Kippur Mussaf:

Though your dread is upon the faithful angels who are mightily powerful (who are intermingled with ice, who are unique in their fieriness – and Your awe is upon them)…Yet You desire praise from clods of earth who dwell in a valley whose accomplishment is meager, whose works are poor – and this is Your praise.

Hashem prefers the imperfect prayer of imperfect humans over the celestial perfection of angels. As we begin to explore the differences between angels and humans, the reason will become clear.

First, angels have no free will. Angels are malachim, messengers – nothing more than a manifestation of an expressed will of G-d. There is no possibility for angels to do anything other than serve Hashem. We humans, on the other hand, have bechira chofshit, free will. It is this free will that allows us to choose to defy G-d, to sin and to make mistakes. But it is also this free will that imbues with meaning every positive action that we accomplish and every mistake that we fix. It is the ability to choose otherwise that makes our actions significant and dear to Hashem. G-d’s greatest joy comes not only from our heartfelt prayers, but from the appreciation that we could just as easily be talking instead of davening. That’s why our efforts are cherished by Hashem as the ultimate praise. And that’s why our efforts should never be underestimated.

In his memoirs, Elie Wiesel tells the story of a Talmud teacher who befriended the young Elie in Auschwitz, took him to his barracks, and told him that he would witness one of the greatest trials in all of world history: The Trial of G-d. (This story was later adapted by Wiesel into a play by the same name, set in the middle of the 17th century.) Three rabbis, all prisoners in Auschwitz and witnesses to the daily atrocities of the Nazis, decided that it was time to place G-d on trial.

They formed a beit din and conducted the trial completely in accordance with halacha. They gathered evidence against G-d, building a strong case. The trial lasted several days, with the judges giving all those who wished a chance to speak their minds. Witnesses were heard, painful personal testimonies were given, and in the end, young Elie remarked in amazement how none of the witnesses even remotely defended G-d.

It was time to issue a ruling, and the rabbinic court pronounced a unanimous verdict: “The Lord G-d Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth, is guilty of crimes against creation, against humanity, and against His own Chosen People of Israel.” Wiesel describes the reaction to the verdict as an “infinity of silence.” Soon after this painful judgment was pronounced, the rabbi presiding over the rabbinic court looked up to the sky and saw that the sun had set. This rabbi, who had just indicted G-d and pronounced Him guilty of crimes, looked towards the silenced crowd and said “Come, my friends, we have a minyan – it is time to daven Maariv.” The other members of the rabbinic court, together with the witnesses and the onlookers, all gathered around the rabbi to join in the minyan. The fifteen-year-old Wiesel watched this perplexing scene with utter amazement. That human Maariv was cherished by Hashem and preferred over the angels’ effortless praise because it was offered in the context of the struggle and questions that humans have in their relationship with Hashem.

The second reason why our prayers are preferred to that of the angels is that while angels stand in place, we humans are always on the move. In Sefer Zecharya (the haftarah for Shabbat Chanukah) we read of the prophecy that Yehoshua the Kohen Gadol received: “Thus said Hashem: ‘If you go in my ways and if you will safeguard my watch…then I will grant you strides among these angels who stand still.’”

Angels are called Omdim, those who stand because they are stagnant. They can experience neither upward nor downward movement. They always maintain a status quo and do not experience the spiritual see-saw of life. That is why angels are said to have one leg, as the verse in Yechezkel relates: “Veraglayhem regel yishara,” They have but one straight leg.

We humans, on the other hand, are supposed to be Holchim; we are always on the move. The fact that there are strides and setbacks in our spiritual lives makes our tefilot more meaningful than those of the angels.

Lastly, angels are different than humans in that angels do not have to contend with the repercussions of their actions. We learn this from Parshat Vayera, where three angels come to visit Avraham. The next time we hear about these angels, the Torah tells us that only two malachim went to the city of Sedom. The Midrash explains that one angel was sent to destroy Sedom, and one angel’s task was to save Lot. The third angel’s task was to inform Sarah of her pregnancy. Once the angel fulfilled the task, it departed. Angels do not wait around to see the effects of their actions. Nor do they remain available to fix any unforeseen ramifications or complications.

We humans, on the other hand, must take responsibility not only for our actions but for the impact of those actions. Our actions can have repercussions that span the globe and transcend time. In the physical realm, this idea was postulated by Edward Lorenze, an MIT scientist, in his theory that is popularly referred to as the Butterfly Effect.

The butterfly effect describes how small variations in the initial condition of a system may produce large variations in the long-term behavior of that system. The name stems from Lorenz’s suggestion that a massive storm might have its roots in the faraway flapping of a tiny butterfly’s wings.

Unlike angels, human actions and interactions can have a butterfly effect of their own. How many seemingly slight or negligible offenses snowball into completely ruined relationships? How many people have stopped talking for years due to something as trivial as an offhand comment or being seated at the wrong table at a simcha?

The positive effects of our actions can also have a butterfly effect. One good deed, one seemingly minor act of compassion, a kind word, even a smile, can have long-term effects drastically greater than their immediate effort. Just as we are liable for the negative effects of our actions, we are credited for the positive effects, even when totally unintended.

On Yom Kippur, we act outwardly like angels because they have a lot to teach us in terms of consistency, devotion, and loyalty to Hashem. Yet even on Yom Kippur we must never forget our humanity. We celebrate our free will, our need to constantly be on the move, and the responsibility that we have for our actions and their consequences.

As we act like angels while proudly declaring and embracing our humanity, may Hashem be proud of our efforts today and seal us in a book reserved for humans only: the Sefer Hachayim, the Book of Life.

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