May He conceal us in the shelter of His hand, beneath the wings of the Divine Presence (Neilah Prayers)
One of the central features of Neilah is the repetition of Selichos. Thirteen times, we recite the Yud Gimmel Middos HaRachamim, the Thirteen Attributes of Divine Mercy. These Thirteen Attributes form the foundation of our relationship with G-d. And on Yom Kippur, during Neilah, we repeat them again and again.
There is a certain mystical significance to the number thirteen in Judaism. We find thirteen principles of Torah exegesis, and if you include Menashe and Ephraim as separate tribes while returning Levi to the count, you also arrive at thirteen tribes. In the secular world, contrastingly, thirteen is often viewed superstitiously, even negatively. But in Torah, it represents mercy and spiritual maturity.
Moreover, before each of the thirteen repetitions, we recite thirteen short introductory prayers. Some are borrowed from earlier Selichos, while others are unique to Neilah. Across the Jewish world—Sefardic, Yemenite, Ashkenazi—there are different customs regarding the exact texts of these prayers. Most were composed between the 6th and 16th centuries, during a millennium of exile, suffering, endurance, and Torah development.
Among the Ashkenazi customs, some of these piyutim (liturgical poems) are, in my opinion, among the most moving ever written. The title of my book on Neilah is drawn from one such piyut: In the Shadow of Thy Hand. Its imagery is powerful. It envisions G-d’s hand hovering over us, shielding us, hiding us in His shadow, protecting us on the Day of Judgment. Like a child hiding behind his mother, we instinctively seek shelter in times of fear. And so, too, we ask: “Hide us, G-d. Conceal us beneath the shadow of Your hand.”
That description always reminded me of a Jew I once knew in Miami Beach: Isidor Wolf. I met him when he was already 96 years old, though he lived to well over 100 and was a member of my shul.
He was a Lithuanian Jew, born in Kovno, who came to America alone at age fifteen without parents and without relatives and became a multimillionaire. He owned parking garages in New York, starting as far back as the 1910s and 1920s.
He was one of those old-school Litvaks—sharp, shrewd, wise—and I would visit him from time to time. One Purim, I brought him mishloach manos, and he said, “Sit down.” When a multimillionaire tells you to sit down, you sit.
“You want to know,” he said, “why I’ve lived so long?” “Mr. Wolf,” I replied, “may G-d bless you with many more years.” “I’m not asking for a blessing,” he said. “I’m telling you. You want to know why?”
He related that he lost both of his parents when he was just eleven, and he was left with no one. For a few months, he lived on the streets of Kovno. But in Kovno, there was a Mussar Kloiz, a small group of disciples of Rabbi Yisrael Salanter, headed by none other than Rav Yitzchok Blazer, known as Reb Itzele Peterburger. He later made aliyah to Jerusalem, where he is buried on Har HaZeitim, Mount Olives.
One day, one of the baalei mussar noticed the boy. He found out that Isidor had nowhere to go, and so they took him in. They made a bed for him on a bench in the women’s section of the beis medrash, fed him, taught him Torah, and even gave him violin lessons.
By age fifteen, realizing there was no future for him in Kovno, he scraped together enough money to buy a ticket to America. But on his last Yom Kippur in Kovno, he was with the baalei mussar. That’s where he belonged, as they had adopted him and they loved him.
When the fast ended, they didn’t rush home. Before Ma’ariv, they danced. Thirty men, weak from fasting though spiritually elevated, danced and sang for half an hour. They couldn’t let Yom Kippur go. What did they sing?
The piyut, “Yachb’ienu b’tzeil yadecha tachas kanfei haShechinah—Hide us, G-d, in the shadow of Your hand, beneath the wings of the Divine Presence.”
And then Mr. Wolf told me something I’ll never forget.
“I was standing next to Reb Itzele Peterburger. He held my hand in his right hand, and I was holding someone else’s in my left. I was just a kid, a teenager, and I danced wildly. And I still can’t believe it, but at one point, I accidentally kicked Reb Itzele!”
He paused and smiled. “Reb Itzele leaned down to me and whispered, in Yiddish, ‘Mein yingele, my beloved child, ‘Keep dancing. May you live a long life. Just... don’t kick anymore.’”
And then Mr. Wolf looked at me and said, “That’s it. He gave me a blessing. And Heaven had to listen.”
That story has stayed with me all my life.
Every Yom Kippur, I remember that moment and those reverberating words: “Yachb’ienu b’tzeil yadecha tachas kanfei haShechinah—Hide us beneath the shadow of Your hand.” Neilah is filled with that longing.
Such a prayer does not come in a vacuum. We likewise state in Neilah: “Atah hiv’dalta enosh mireishis—You, G-d, separated man from the beginning.” G-d has made us different from the rest of creation. We are not animals, and we were given a soul, a mission, a moral compass, dominion over the world. And yet, we look around and ask: have we done such a great job? Mah chayeinu? Mah chasdeinu? Mah tzidkaseinu? What is our life? What is our kindness? What is our righteousness? On our own, we are nothing.
And yet, we turn to Hashem and say, “You chose us and You elevated us. You gave us the Torah and the capacity for good. You gave us a vision that extends beyond the grave.” And so, before the gates close, we come to You—one more time.
And there, amidst the waning hours of dusk as we whisper our final prayers up to Heaven... we ask to be hidden, to be protected, to be remembered. To be with our Father, in long life, for many years to come.
