Clergy Reflections on Selichot: A First Step Into the Days of Awe

Clergy Reflections on Selichot: A First Step Into the Days of Awe
Cantorial Soloist Dr. Joel Stein, 2025

I never experienced S’lichot growing up. I knew Rosh HaShanah, I knew Yom Kippur, but S’lichot was not a custom my family practiced or participated in. My first true encounter with S’lichot was here, at Kol Tikvah, only three years ago, when, as Music Director, I first conducted the High Holy Days choir. It felt less like discovering a holiday and more like stumbling upon a hidden chamber in a house I thought I already knew.

What struck me first was the room itself. The sanctuary was not its usual self—bright, bustling, full of motion—but dark, hushed, stripped down to shadow and candlelight. Dozens of tea lights scattered around the space flickered against the walls, making the room tremble slightly, as if it too were breathing with us. It felt ceremonial. Ritualistic. Like a séance.

And it was late! Certainly later than any temple service I had ever attended. In most traditional synagogues, S’lichot begins at midnight. At Kol Tikvah, we come earlier, at nine o’clock—a concession to our modern rhythms—but still late enough to make a difference. As Jews, we are used to praying at night; every Shabbat and every festival begins after sundown. But praying this late pushes us past the comfortable boundary of habit. It asks us to stay awake, to lean into an hour that is not practical but sacred. The lateness interrupts the ordinary order of things and insists that we stop. Notice. Reflect.

For me, S’lichot is the first step into the intensity of the High Holy Days. It’s a step out of the frantic rush of my daily life, and a deceleration toward its opposite: a slowing into focused seriousness. The liturgy that will soon surround us on Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur emerges here like an overture. The familiar melodies are less about performance than preparation—practice-runs at honesty, at courage, at forgiveness. Each phrase asks: are you ready to do the real work?

And this readiness is not solitary. I may walk into the sanctuary with my own doubts and regrets, but I walk out carrying the sound of a congregation breathing, singing, reflecting together. We do not prepare for the Days of Awe as isolated selves. We prepare as a people, each voice its own strand, braided into a common effort. There is power in that chorus.

The need for S’lichot feels especially urgent now. These are trying times for Jews across the world. We face hostility, misunderstanding, violence, and grief. It would be easy to armor ourselves, to shut down, to carry the weight in silence. But S’lichot calls us to something different. It does not erase the troubles of the world, but it places them in context: that the Jewish way, in every generation, is to stop, to look inward, to seek renewal, and then to walk forward – together – strengthened by community and tradition.

This year, as we gather in our darkened sanctuary, I hope you’ll let the strangeness of the hour and the flicker of the candles dislodge you from routine. Pay attention to the way the room itself feels changed. Let the music work on you. And, in the hush that follows, step into the Days of Awe — with all their weight, their beauty, their demand.