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Jamie Gottlieb
Oct 227 min read

Renovating our Hearts (Yom Kippur Morning 5785)

I'm originally from right outside of Philadelphia, and growing up, that meant two things: a deep appreciation for a good Wawa hoagie and frequent field trips to the Franklin Institute. 


For those of you unfamiliar, the Franklin Institute is a science museum in the center of Philadelphia, and one of its main attractions is a giant heart you can walk through. 


I love this heart; it's not that I go there so much anymore, but it's a symbol. It represents life, love, and connection. For over 50 years, more than 30 million visitors have explored this heart. These visitors are people from all over the world, each bringing with them their unique stories, hopes, dreams, and opinions. All of these people are so vastly different, yet inside this giant heart, there is room for all. 


Right now, the giant heart is undergoing renovations. It's been closed for five months, and it's set to reopen in November. As I think about this temporary closure, I can't help but see a parallel to us and our own hearts. 


Over these past months, many of us have found our hearts closing – and understandably so. We're exhausted and in mourning. We have experienced unimaginable pain, and the world is more divided than ever. 


It makes sense that we are hesitant to let other people in. It makes sense that we may resist listening to views that challenge our own. 


But I think we stand at a crucial point where we must decide. Are our hearts in permanent foreclosure? Or are we going to embark on the work of divine renovation that will open us back up? 


This morning's Torah portion speaks directly to this idea of opening our hearts. We read in Deuteronomy 30:6: וּמָ֨ל יְהֹוָ֧ה אֱלֹהֶ֛יךָ אֶת־לְבָבְךָ֖ וְאֶת־לְבַ֣ב זַרְעֶ֑ךָ — "God will open your heart and the hearts of your descendants."


But this divine opening isn't a passive miracle; it requires our active participation. In the verses leading up to this moment, we encounter many variations of the Hebrew root Shin-Vav-Bet, from which we get the word Teshuvah. Teshuvah is often translated simply as repentance, but its literal meaning—"return"—is more expansive. 


Return isn't necessarily about going backward. Teshuvah is not just a retreat to what was but a transformative journey towards what can be. It's a return to our best selves, yes, but it’s also a turn towards an even better version of who we hope to become. It can and should also be a process by which we return to each other - with deeper empathy and understanding. 


Teshuvah, this process of turning and returning is the process through which we will prepare our hearts to open anew this year. By doing the work of Teshuvah, we will undergo our divine heart renovation and expand our capacity to hold multiple perspectives, making room for others – even those we disagree with. We need this transformative Teshuvah to heal our fractured world and reconnect with each other in more meaningful ways. 


As we stand here today, contemplating the sacred task of renovating our hearts, we find ourselves amid a profound crisis of connection. The very fabric of our social bonds is fraying, and the need for Teshuvah – for return, for renovation, and for reconnection – has never been more necessary. According to a 2023 report from the U.S. Surgeon General, about 50 percent of adults in America report experiencing loneliness.


This epidemic of isolation stems from a concerning trend: the decline of what researchers call "core discussion networks." "core discussion networks" are circles of people who engage in conversations about difficult but important topics like politics, finances, world events, religion, and health. These networks are crucial; they're the spaces where we learn to understand different perspectives and develop political tolerance. But they're shrinking, becoming more uniform, and, in many cases, disappearing entirely.


I've experienced this in my own life. Perhaps out of exhaustion or a desire to protect myself from pain and disappointment, I've recently found myself doing some spiritual remodeling that wasn't exactly up to code. I've muted, unfollowed, and ignored friends simply because they posted things or expressed views that made me uncomfortable. Instead of creating space for dialogue, I thought, "I don't need this," and virtually removed them from my life. 


I ended up feeling very lonely. However, studies show that I'm not alone in this reaction. Almost 6 in 10 U.S. adults find it "stressful and frustrating" to talk about politics with those holding different views. Even more troubling, 64% of people believe we're incapable of having constructive and civil conversations about issues on which we disagree. 


The echo chambers we create on social media only amplify these divisions. As algorithms feed us more of what we already believe, we further calcify our perspectives and harden our hearts. 


But here's the thing about hearts—whether they're made of flesh, or steel and plastic like the one at the Franklin Institute—they're meant to be dynamic. They're designed to expand and contract, pump life-giving blood, and create connections. A closed heart cannot fulfill its purpose. Human beings are social creatures; we require community and connection. For us to truly live, our hearts need to be open to one another; we need to be able to talk to each other, even when we disagree.


Our pattern of avoidance is not sustainable. We cannot continue down this path of isolation and separation. To truly renovate our hearts and rebuild our connections, we must learn to lean into a little bit of productive discomfort. This doesn't mean putting ourselves in harm's way, but it does involve engaging with people who are different from us, seeking to understand where they are coming from, and listening, even when it feels challenging and uncomfortable.


On Yom Kippur, we are called to embrace this kind of productive discomfort. The Torah commands us "תְּעַנּ֣וּ אֶת־נַפְשֹֽׁתֵיכֶ֗ם" to afflict our souls. In other words, to do the hard work of Teshuvah, we need to feel a little bit afflicted and a little bit uncomfortable. 


In our quest for renovation and transformation, we must be willing to knock down some walls, clear out the debris of assumptions and prejudices that have built up over time, and make space for a new, stronger foundation.


As we say the viddui, our confessional prayer, we knock on our hearts. With each knock, we break ourselves open a little bit more. We admit: עַל  חֵטְא  שֶׁחָטָאנוּ  לְפָנֶיך  בְּאִמּוּץ  הַלֵּב — we have sinned by hardening our hearts. We have become closed off to others. We have created echo chambers for ourselves on everything from Israel to the election. We have unfollowed, unfriended, and uninvited those with different opinions from our lives.


With each communal admission, we become more vulnerable and more divinely open. But true teshuvah isn't just about naming these transgressions; it's about actively changing direction. Rabbi Rachel Adler teaches that, within the context of relationships, "teshuvah is turning again to face the Other." 


This principle serves as our blueprint for renovation—encouraging us to turn toward those we've distanced ourselves from and to learn how to engage those we disagree with. That blueprint guides us to build, through courageous conversations, an expanded heart—a heart with many rooms, a heart capable of holding diverse perspectives and complex truths. But as we know, building a heart of many rooms is no small task in our polarized world. 


Now, I am certainly not an expert in speaking across differences, but I recently learned some powerful tools from an organization called Resetting the Table. Founded in 2014, Resetting The Table aims to transform political disagreement into opportunities for strengthened relationships, collective insight, and creative problem-solving. 


Through their work, they've identified essential skills that can help us create genuine dialogue across differences. Two of the most powerful are what they call "Following Meaning" and "Demonstrating Understanding."


Following Meaning is about listening beyond just words to understand what truly matters to someone. When we practice following meaning we pay attention to their tone, emotional responses, and repeated themes that come up – these are what Resetting the table calls "signposts of meaning." 


Instead of preparing our counterarguments, we get curious. When someone uses a particular metaphor or returns to a specific theme, we might ask: “Can you tell me more about what that means to you?” or “What experiences shaped that belief?”


Demonstrating Understanding builds on this deep listening. It involves reflecting back what we've heard in a way that captures not just the facts, but the essence of what matters to the person we're speaking to. This might sound like: “So for you, this isn't just about politics – it's more about protecting the values your parents instilled in you. Is that right?” 


These reflections should invite correction and clarification – we're not aiming for perfect understanding on the first try, but rather we are trying to show that we genuinely want to understand.


As we stand here on Yom Kippur, we hold in our hands these tools for interpersonal Teshuvah: deep listening and genuine understanding. When we truly listen for meaning and demonstrate our understanding, we can see a visible shift in how people respond to us. When People feel heard and appreciated, they become more willing to engage across difference. When we have these courageous conversations, we don't necessarily leave the conversation in agreement because that is not the goal. We are not in pursuit of a feigned sense of unity. Rather, we must seek the trust and connection necessary to live authentically in community. 


Next month, the giant heart at the Franklin Institute will reopen its doors after six months of renovation. The exhibit will be expanded and updated to meet the needs of today's visitors, and the heart will be open and ready for future generations to explore its many rooms. These visitors will bring with them their unique stories, hopes, dreams, and opinions. All of these people will continue to be vastly different, yet this heart will be big enough and open enough to hold them all.  


Let this be our inspiration. As that heart welcomes visitors once again, let us also prepare to let others in. Let us lean into the productive discomfort of this day. Let us do the work of Teshuvah so that our hearts may be divinely opened. Let us strive to make for ourselves a heart of many rooms, a heart that is expanded, a heart that seeks to listen and understand, a heart that will be big enough to hold us all. 



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