The Heart Shaped Tin
Kol Nidre 5787
September 20, 2026
Rabbi Alan Cook
Sinai Temple, Champaign, Illinois
When I was younger, my siblings and I would cajole my mother into promising us things: certain toys we had our eyes on, desired foods that weren’t likely to make it onto the regular grocery lists, or trips to favorite fun tourist destinations (there were plenty of those in South Florida during our childhood). Our memories were ferocious; if she didn’t deliver on a particular item, we would be sure to remind her rather mercilessly.
One year, she came up with an ingenious solution to curtail our incessant nagging about a store we wanted to go to. She said, “I know I promised, and I’ll do my best. But Yom Kippur is approaching. If we haven’t made it by then, Kol Nidre erases my pledge.”
Now, in hindsight, I can say pretty confidently that she expressed this lovingly and with tongue firmly planted in cheek. As she knew, Kol Nidre isn’t intended to absolve us of those day-to-day insubstantial guarantees we make to family members, co-worker, or peers; but rather it is designed to address the more consequential vows we might undertake that we might find ourselves unable to fulfill. In the medieval period, when Kol Nidre is believed to have originated, the Jewish community was often compelled under great duress to make promises that they could not in good conscience fulfill—at least not while remaining true to their faith. It is only more recently, in the last century or two, that people have applied it to other sorts of agreements.
But there is one promise that Kol Nidre does not dissolve. Nor do I believe we would want it to. That is the promise of love and memory that we accept when we enter into relationship with a friend or family member. When we say to someone for whom we care deeply, “I will never forget you,” how do we work to fulfill such a promise?
In my twenty-three years in the rabbinate, thirteen of which I’ve been blessed to share with you, I’ve been responsible for making such promises to many—on my own behalf, and on behalf of our community. They were mothers and fathers; they were sons and daughters; they were loving spouses; they were treasured friends; they enriched this community through their music, through their teaching, through their volunteer participation, through their service to this congregation, through their involvement with the university, through their civic engagement. Their memories and legacies are indelibly inscribed upon our hearts and minds; their presence is deeply felt each time we gather in this sacred space. If we pause to listen, I am certain we will hear their voices.
In September of 2011, author Maurice Sendak had one of his final recorded interviews with NPR’s Terry Gross. He spoke of his pain at having outlived so many of the people who had been so important to him, particularly his longtime partner, psychiatrist and writer Eugene Glynn, who had died four years prior. Sendak told Gross, "I’m not unhappy about becoming old. I’m not unhappy about what must be. I cry a lot because I miss people. They die and I can’t stop them. They leave me and I love them more."[1]
As Sendak recognized, we are who we are because of the complex webs of relationships that we forge with others. They guide and shape us—some in monumental fashion, some in ways that are less perceptible. We honor the vows we have made—overtly or implicitly—to sustain their memory and their legacy.
Sendak closed the conversation with three pieces of advice to Gross: “Live your life. Live your life. Live your life.”[2] This, perhaps, is a key teaching of this holy moment of Yom Kippur, yet one that we often overlook. We are taught that on this day, we are to “afflict our souls,”[3] a mitzvah that many choose to fulfill through fasting. Yet Judaism does not ask us to adopt a fully ascetic lifestyle. Though we are asked to engage in introspection and atonement, two tasks we should each take seriously, we are not expected to engage in self-flagellation throughout the year, to continually dwell on our foibles and missteps that result from our innate human frailties. Rather, we are taught to use Yom Kippur as a day to reflect—and where necessary, to reset—but to then spend the remainder of the year living life to its fullest, making good use of the gifts and opportunities with which we have been blessed.
To be clear: Yom Kippur is NOT a “get out of jail free” card. Our tradition is clear that the one who says to themselves, “I will sin and then repent, and then sin again”[4] is not absolved by Yom Kippur. My point is that Judaism wants us to enjoy and appreciate all that life has to offer (within reason and moderation, of course), and we do best homage to those who have come before us when we do indeed celebrate life to its fullest.
Our friend and teacher Ray Spooner kept a blog chronicling his battle with ALS. In his final post, which he arranged to have published on the morning of his death, he offered words of advice which echo Maurice Sendak’s exhortation. Ray wrote, “It may sound simplistic but it can change your life if you live by it. And that is if there is something that is important to you to do or say, do it. Do it now.”[5] Many of you will recall that Ray created a colorfully-titled list—the name rhymed with “bucket” enumerating the things he hoped to accomplish before his illness robbed him of the ability to do so. We would each do well to create similar lists, in an effort not to allow that which is important to us to go unsaid or undone.
Author Bee Wilson has written a beautiful book of interconnected essays called The Heart Shaped Tin, about how we ascribe meaning to objects. She focuses particularly on kitchen objects, with the title of the book being inspired by a cake pan she cannot bring herself to dispose of, even though it is indelibly linked in her mind to her unfaithful ex-husband. She notes, “The things we surround ourselves with at home are a way to curate the past into a version of it that we can bear.”[6] She cites the Soviet psychologist Lev Vygotsky, who wrote, “the very essence of civilization consists of purposively building monuments so as not to forget.”[7]
Wilson devotes a chapter to the story of a friend who had a treasured set of delicate China dishes that had been passed down in her family for a generation or two. They were kept carefully wrapped in storage boxes in her attic, being saved to be brought out on special occasions. You can probably guess the punchline: no occasion was every deemed “special” enough, and the dishes continued to languish in storage. Then, the husband of the owner of the dishes received a devastating medical diagnosis indicating that he had a terminal illness. That became the wakeup call they needed to pull the dishes out of storage and start using them as their everyday place settings.[8]
Maurice Sendak, Ray Spooner, and Bee Wilson each in their own way remind us of the importance of making the most of a moment when it is available to us. It is unlikely that we would ever lament having spent “too much” time with those whom we love, yet the converse is often painful as we lament that we did not get one more opportunity to share precious time with one another. Yom Kippur can remind us to be present, to live each day to its fullest, to treasure every memory and every object. I believe this is actually a key principle of the festival: to continue to refine the acts of teshuvah and self-improvement in such a way that when our actual day of judgment arrives, we can enter into that moment without regrets.
As many of you know, my mother died in November of 2024. My father spent the past few months relocating, and so he has downsized considerably. He offered many items to me and my siblings, including artwork, Judaica, and family memorabilia. While some in my household gravitated towards items that would be of practical use in our home, that was a secondary concern for me. I selected items that had sentimental value; seeing or holding them stirs a dormant memory or releases a flood of endorphins as I consider each object. The knowledge that someone whom I love cared enough to collect, curate, and preserve these items imbues them with special meaning that far exceeds their original purpose. As Wilson writes, “This is the power of objects; they keep those we miss in the room with us.”[9] Wilson goes on to say, “it is possible to hanker deeply after something which is neither pretty nor useful, just because of the person who once used it. The fact that no one needs it anymore is exactly what makes the wanting so fierce, because it reminds you of a time when you were needed too.”[10] I may have no practical use for the years of Hebrew Bazooka comics my mother collected. Yet knowing that they held some significance for her is enough to make me preserve them.
Wilson asserts that “one of the differences between an object and a human being is that the object never changes.”[11] She adds, “The magic of things is that they can live more than once, passing faithfully through many pairs of hands, gaining different meanings each time. …the meaning of objects is never fixed; it can change in a heartbeat.”[12]
Thus, when our loved ones are gone, we can cling to the objects we associate with them. For a brief moment of memory while we contemplate these objects, we can pause time’s steady march and perhaps imagine that the person themselves—and not merely the memento associated with them—is present with us.
This is why we collect the things that were precious to those whom we love. This is why we heed the advice of those such as Maurice Sendak and Ray Spooner, reminding us to live our lives fully in the company of those whom we cherish. This is why we continue telling stories, in dedication to the vows we have made to preserve a web of relationship that death cannot sever.
A story is told of the Ba’al Shem Tov, the founder of Chasidic Judaism. Many of you have likely heard it in some form:
When the great Rabbi Israel Baal Shem-Tov saw misfortune threatening the Jews it was his custom to go into a certain part of the forest to meditate. There he would light a fire, say a special prayer, and the miracle would be accomplished and misfortune averted.
Later, when his disciple, the celebrated Magid of Mezritch, had occasion, for the same reason, to intercede with heaven, he would go to the same place in the forest and say: “Master of the Universe, listen! I do not know how to light the fire, but I am still able to say the prayers.” And again the miracle would be accomplished.
Still later, Rabbi Moshe-Leib of Sasov, in order to save his people once more, would go into the forest and say: “I do not know how to light the fire, I do not know the prayer, but I know the place and this must be sufficient.” It was sufficient, and the miracle was accomplished.
Then it fell to Rabbi Israel of Rizhyn to overcome misfortune. Sitting in his armchair, his head in his hands, he spoke to God: “I am unable to light the fire and I do not know the prayer; I cannot even find the place in the forest. All I can do is to tell the story, and that must be sufficient.” And it was sufficient.[13]
There will come a time when those whom we care about will exist only in our stories. It is therefore incumbent upon us, like Rabbi Israel of Rizhyn, to continue telling these stories, to keep their names and deeds upon our lips, in service to the vow of memory we have been entrusted to uphold.
For all of the vows we have made in the past year unthinkingly or under duress, all of the oaths we have unintentionally sworn, may the evening of Kol Nidre absolve us. But the pledges we have made in love, consciously or unconsciously, and the promises we have sworn to create indelible memories and preserve them until our own final days, may these endure as a lasting legacy.
[1] “Maurice Sendak: On Life, Death, and Children’s Lit,” Fresh Air. Originally aired on December 29, 2011 (but was recorded in September). Transcript retrieved from https://www.npr.org/transcripts/144077273 August 27, 2026
[2] Ibid
[3] Leviticus 23:7, in the instructions for Yom Kippur
[4] See Mishnah Yoma 8:9
[5] “Obit (An Acceptable Word in Words With Friends)” on www.rayslittleride.com . Retrieved August 31, 2026.
[6] Wilson, Bee. The Heart-Shaped Tin. (New York, W.W. Norton & Co., 2025) p. 47
[7] Ibid
[8] Wilson, p. 9-15
[9] Ibid
[10] Ibid, p. 251
[11] Ibid, p. 69
[12] Ibid, p. 286
[13] Wiesel, Elie. The Gates of the Forest. Translated by Frances Frenaye. (New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1966)
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