"Do not cast us away in our old age (le'eit ziknah)..."

Guest Blogger:
Douglas Aronin, Esq.

"Do not cast us away in our old age (le'eit ziknah); when our strength is gone do not desert us."

This sentence is part of the familiar liturgical segment, usually referred to by its opening words as Shema koleinu ("listen to our voice"), which introduces the communal confession segment of each Yom Kippur service other than Ne'eila (the concluding service).   It is also recited at the selikhot services conducted on each weekday beginning at least four days before Rosh Hashana and continuing until Yom Kippur.   The sentence quoted above is taken verbatim from Psalms 71:9, except that the verse as it appears in the Psalm is phrased in the first person singular ("do not cast me away", etc.), while the liturgical passage derived from it, like most of the High Holy Day liturgy, is phrased in the first person plural.

One of my teachers during my college years had been among the founders of what was then called the chavurah movement, the Jewish version of the counterculture that had sprung up in the late 1960's.  (Its present ideological descendant, a pale reflection of the chavurah movement at its zenith, goes under the name Jewish Renewal.)  I recall my teacher commenting at one point that the early chavurah services for Yom Kippur had seemed to be missing something.

The problem, he explained, was that everyone participating in the service had been too young to experience the emotions that Yom Kippur is supposed to awaken..  He gave two examples of the defiencies resulting from so youthful a Yom Kippur congregation.  The first example was the recitation of the Shehecheiyanu blessing on Yom Kippur evening immediately after Kol Nidre and before beginning the ma'ariv (evening) service, and the second was the sentence,  quoted above, that is recited as part of Shema koleinu.  The Shehecheiyanu of Kol Nidre, he pointed out, differed from every other Shehecheiyanu blessing of the year in that it did not arise from anything concrete -- not from a cup of wine, nor the flame of a candle nor the taste of a first fruit -- but simply as a joyous acknowledgment of our gratitude for having made it, more or less safely, through yet another year.  As to the adaptation of the verse from Psalm 71, he commented that the verse needed to be led by someone for whom eit ziknah (time of old age) did not seem so distant as to be an abstraction.

I have to admit that I didn't fully understand his point at the time.  I recognized that those of more advanced years might envision the onset of old age as a somewhat less remote prospect than did I or my contemporaries, but I assumed the difference to be a purely quantitative one.  I couldn't comprehend the existential fear which can accompany the increasingly insistent intimations of mortality that the passing years may bring-- which, I now realize, was precisely my teacher's point.

Of course, chronological age is but one factor in the way we relate to our mortality and, consequently, to Yom Kippur. Individual experiences obviously play a role, as does the emotional state of the larger society. Who among us did not feel a twinge of extra kavanah (devotion) on saying the Shehechyanu of Kol Nidre for Yom Kippur of 2001?  It is difficult to imagine any events that could remind us more effectively of the seeming randomness of human mortality than the events of September 11th.

But setting aside such extraordinary events, what is it that we are requesting when we accord to this adapted verse so prominent a role in our Yom Kippur prayers?  Human mortality is an  unavoidable component of our as yet unredeemed  world.  We cannot seek  to overcome or reverse the process of aging, nor does the language of the verse attempt to do so.  So what is the eit ziknah, and what are we asking God to do about it?

The first step toward a fuller understanding of this verse, is to look at it in the context of Psalm 71 as a whole. The rest of the psalm, as far as I know, has no liturgical function, so we rarely pay much attention to it.  At first glance, this verse, in the context of the Psalm, seems straightforward.  Throughout his life, the Psalmist has depended on God's help and deliverance, and he prays that God will continue to protect him as his advancing years take their toll on his physical strength.

The Psalmist then goes on to describe the danger he faces: "For my foes speak of me, and, and those who watch for my life consult together, saying 'God has forsaken him, pursue and catch him, for there is no rescuer.'" (Psalms 71:10-11)  His enemies apparently believe that God will abandon him as age weakens him physically, but he rejects that assumption: "O God You have taught me from my youth, and until this moment I declare Your wonders."(v.17) He pleads for God's help and promises gratitude: "I shall also thank You on the stringed instrument for Your faithfulness, my God; I shall sing to You on the harp, O Holy One of Israel.  My lips shall rejoice when I sing to you, as well as my soul that You have redeemed." (vv.22-23)

On further reflection, though, there seems to be something a little off about this Psalm.  We can assume that the Psalmist's enemies reflect a pagan conception of God.  To them, it would be understandable for God to abandon the Psalmist as his physical strength ebbs --  either because protecting him despite his reduced strength would strain the limits of the deity's powers, or else because his weakness would leave him without enough to offer to make his continued protection worth the effort.  Neither of these possibilites, of course, is consistent with the Torah's outlook.

The problem is that, considering the language he uses, the Psalmist appears to share the mindset of his enemies, at least to some extent.  His eloquent pleas bespeak a real fear that his enemies could be right -- that his physical weakness will make him, in God's view, no longer worth the trouble of protecting.  But if the Psalmist really shares that quasi-pagan view of God, then what made him worthy of protecting in the first place? And, even more important, if the Psalmist's expectations of God are inconsistent with the outlook of Torah, then why should we adapt a key verse from this Psalm for so central a part of the Yom Kippur liturgy?

One approach to answering these questions requires a careful look at the wording of the verse.  The phrase eit zikna  (literally, time of old age) appears, besides this verse in Psalm 71, in only two other places in all of Tanakh.  The first, relating to King Solomon, is found in 1 Kings 11:4: "So it was that when Solomon grew old [le'eit ziknat Shlomo] his wives swayed his heart after the gods of others, and his heart was not as complete with the Lord, his God."  The second involves Asa, Solomon's great grandson and the third king of Judah after the kingdoms split, of whom it is said in 1 Kings 15:23: "All the rest of the deeds of Asa and all his heroic acts and all that he did and the cities that he built -- behold they are recorded in the Book of the Chronicles of the Kings of Judah.  Only in his old age [le'eit ziknato] his legs ailed."

The context of the phrase eit zikna with respect to King Solomon helps clarify the phrase's meaning in the verse in Psalm 71 as  well.  Clearly, the affliction that affected King Solomon near the end of his life was not purely a physical one.  Rather, it affected the king's mind and spirit and thus facilitated the attempts by some of his wives to turn him away from God.

The verse quoted above regarding King Asa is not much help by itself, but fortunately it points to another source to aid us in interpreting it.  A slightly different version of the story of King Asa appears in the Book of Chronicles, and although that version, unlike the version in the Book of Kings, does not use the phrase eit zikna, what it tells us about the illness in Asa's legs helps to clarify the version in the Book of Kings, where that phrase is used.

Thus, in 2 Chronicles 16:12, we read: "Asa became ill in his legs in the thirty-ninth year of his reign, until his illness spread upwards. Also in his illness he did not seek out the Lord but only doctors."  The implication of this verse, clearly, is that the illness of Asa's old age was partly mental and spiritual.  That implication is reinforced by some of the language two verses earlier.  After he imprisoned a seer who brought him a divine message he didn't like, the Book of Chronicles tells us, "Asa began to opress some of the people at that time." (16:10)

With our understanding of eit zikna thus enhanced, it becomes easier to comprehend the underlying message of Psalm 71.  Whatever his enemies may have thought, the Psalmist knew that God would not abandon him because of the physical infirmities that sometimes accompany old age.  What concerned him was the possibility that the individual will that had kept him faithful to God through all the hardships of life (which he specifically refers to in verse 20)  would weaken, whether spontaneously (as appears to have happened with King Asa), or under the influence of others, as happened with King Solomon.  If that happened, then the Psalmist would no longer be worthy of God's protection and would be forced to confront his enemies without Divine help. It is against that fear that he pleads for God's continued protection.

This understanding of the phrase eit zikna also helps us to explain our use of this verse in the liturgy  of Yom Kippur.  All of us, after all, are potentially susceptible to the same process that worries the Psalmist.  As we grow older, regardless of the state of our physical health, we may become increasingly set in our ways, unable or unwilling to undertake the difficult work of teshuva.  As we age, moreover, we increasingly fear loneliness, and thus may be increasingly unwilling to resist the temptation to follow the crowd. Younger people face these same obstacles to teshuva, but they may find it at least nominally harder to rationalize their complacency.  They are less likely to invoke the adage "you can't teach an old dog new tricks," or some variant on that theme.

Through the words of the Psalmist, we too plead for God's mercy.  Don't give up on us, we cry, even if we show signs of succumbing to the temptations to which eit zikna has made us increasingly vulnerable.  Even if our physical strength is gone, we can still summon our moral strength.  But if our moral strength is also being sapped, then please, God, have mercy on us.

May our prayers this Yom Kippur inspire us to true teshuva, and may all of us, our families and the entire people of Israel be sealed for a year of life, good health, prosperity and -- most of all -- of peace.

Gemar chatimah tovah

Douglas Aronin

P.S. [From D.A]
Jewish tradition has always emphasized the power of words. With words God created the world, and with words He revealed His will to us on Mount Sinai. The study of His words is the central imperative of Jewish life.  Modern technology has further enhanced the power of words. Through the miracles of technology, we can transmit more words to more people at greater speed than ever before. The exponential increase in the reach of our words brings with it the increased responsibility to use them with care.

As Yom Kippur approaches, we are enjoined to seek forgiveness from all whom we have hurt. If any of my words -- whether on- or off-list -- have caused hurt to any of you, that was not my intention. Please forgive me.

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Ditto from all of us at Nishma.
Gmar Tov,
Best Wishes for 5773!