I don’t have many negative religious memories, but one incident does come to mind. I was about 12 years old, and I made the decision to attend Saturday night Selichot at my local shul. Being 12, I couldn’t stay up that late, so I went to sleep at a normal hour and woke up in time for Selichot. All I remember is being completely exhausted; in fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever been more tired in my life. I was so tired that I could barely stay awake, let alone concentrate on the words.
Since then, I have never been a fan of Saturday night Selichot. I always find myself tired not only the next day, but practically the entire following week. While I do respect those who make the effort to stay up late on Saturday night to say Selichot, I personally do not feel that destroying my sleep schedule is the best way for me to do teshuva.
About two years ago, I shared my grievances with my father, and he told me that he felt the same way. We decided to look for a minyan in Teaneck that had Selichot on Sunday morning, as opposed to Saturday night. Unfortunately, no such minyan existed, save one—the morning minyan at Shaarei Orah—the Sephardic Congregation of Teaneck.
My father and I had never been to a Sephardi Selichot before, but we thought we would give it a try. We woke up early on Sunday morning and headed to shul. The first thing we noticed was that everyone was sitting down for the duration of Selichot (except during the declaration of God’s 13 attributes, when everyone stood). This differed from the Ashkenazi practice to stand during Selichot. I noticed that this created a more relaxed atmosphere for prayer.
The second thing we noticed was that there was no Shliach Tzibbur. Instead, individual congregants took turns leading the congregation in Selichot, most of which were responsive. There was one Selicha when almost every member of the congregation got a turn to say one verse out loud, including my father. As an Ashkenazi, I was not used to saying so few of the words—practically half of the words were being read by someone else!
The difference that stood out the most, however, took us by complete surprise. During the recital of the 13 attributes of God, multiple congregants unexpectedly blew the shofar. After years of becoming used to the sound of the shofar, this was the first time in my life that the sound of a shofar actually woke me up.
This Elul, I began studying at the Yeshiva of Greater Washington. While I very much enjoy the yeshiva davening (as well as everything else about the yeshiva), I was disheartened, but not surprised, to see that the first Selichot of the season was scheduled to begin at 1:01 a.m. on Saturday night. As I began calculating how long of a Shabbos nap I would need to take beforehand to minimize the sleep deprivation, I wondered if there were any Sephardi minyanim in town. Sure enough, a quick search on Godaven.com informed me that there was a Sephardi minyan at Young Israel Shomrei Emunah of Greater Washington, the shul right down the block from my yeshiva, with Selichot beginning at 6:40 a.m. Not bad.
Once again, I woke up early on Sunday morning. I entered the building not quite sure where to go. I saw an older fellow in the hallway and asked him if he knew where the Sephardi minyan was. “Follow me!” he said. I followed him.
The man asked me if I was Sephardi. I replied that I was Ashkenazi. He asked me if I knew how to daven Sephardi Selichot. I said that I didn’t really know how. “You’ll learn,” he said reassuringly.
We entered a small beit midrash to find around 20 men of varying ages and dress fervently saying Selichot and, of course, sitting down. The fellow who showed me the way there handed me a Selichot book. I took my seat and followed along.
All the things that stood out to me the previous time stood out again. The interactivity, the sitting and the frequent shofar blasts. At one point the gentleman running the minyan motioned to me if I would recite one of the verses out loud for the congregation. (This was the same Selicha that my father previously participated in.) I couldn’t say no. However, I hesitated for a moment. Should I read the verse with my natural Ashkenazi accent, or should I try to fake a Sephardi one? I smiled and went for something in the middle. Nobody seemed to mind.
After Selichot and Shacharit, the Sephardi rabbi of the minyan gave a short shiur on the laws of blowing shofar from the Kitzur Shulchan Aruch of Rav Ovadia Yosef, zt”l. I listened carefully to see if I could notice any differences in halacha between Ashkenazim and Sephardim.
Afterwards, I thanked the rabbi and introduced myself. “Epstein is a Sephardi name?” he asked. No, I explained, I’m just an Ashkenazi that doesn’t like saying Selichot at midnight. He laughed.
As I left the shul and began heading toward yeshiva for morning seder, I began to think about the differences between Ashkenazi and Sephardi Selichot. I realized that I could learn a lot from the Sephardi customs that I had witnessed.
First, I noticed that the Sephardi practice to sit for the duration of Selichot (and practically all of Shacharis) creates an entirely different prayer environment. Ashkenazim, who alternate between standing and sitting, have a tendency to shuckle back and forth anxiously, sometimes with their faces screwed up really tight. A passerby of a typical Ashkenazi minyan might conclude that davening is a stressful activity.
While davening ought to be taken very seriously, it’s not supposed to be stressful. A Jew must be calm and at ease, even while standing, to use davening for its intended purpose—to converse with God.
Second, I noticed Sephardi Selichot do not prioritize saying all the words. Since most of the Selichot are responsive, one finds himself saying half the words at best. I noticed that over the years I developed a bad habit of trying to say as many words as I can without really caring about the meaning of what I was saying, a habit that is not only unproductive, but in direct opposition to the halacha (Shulchan Aruch O”C 1:4). Most minyanim recite Selichot somewhat fast, and it is often difficult to keep up. For me, this created a race against the congregation, turning Selichot into a task, instead of an opportunity.
Saying Sephardi Selichot, however, forced me to pay attention to the words being said, and this allowed me to experience a moment of connection. There was one particular Selicha when the congregation repeatedly responded to the leader with the phrase “Avinu”—“our father.” After a few times of repeating this phrase, I actually felt like I was calling out to my Father in Heaven. Saying fewer words allowed me to focus and connect.
Finally, the interactive and responsive elements of Sephardi Selichot made me more aware of the other people I was praying with. When davening, it can be easy to put your nose in your siddur and tune out all the other members of the congregation. While this is ideal during certain parts of davening (Shemoneh Esrei, for example), other sections of davening are designed to be a group activity. Selichot is certainly an example of the latter. Being aware that you are part of a group can turn prayer into a powerful experience.
I returned to yeshiva to find out that there was in fact a second Selichot that morning at 7:45 a.m. But that didn’t bother me. I genuinely enjoyed the Sephardi Selichot, and I think I’ll come back for more next year.
Ezra Epstein is a student at the Yeshiva of Greater Washington. He can be reached by email at [email protected]. For more of his articles, visit his blog, “Brick Wall,” at www.ezraepsteinbrickwall.blogspot.com
