Yom Kipper realization...

Should I really be hanging around with people who are consumed with thoughts of blasphemy, theft, rape, and murder?

So, it’s Yom Kippur, and I normally don’t attend synagogue services, sure I do the fast, but I could lose the weight, and I need the sleep, so, really, for me, Yom Kipper might as well be a spa day.

And besides, what sins have I really got? I don’t murder, I don’t steal. If—and when—I take the Lord’s name in vain, it’s that Jesus guy, so that doesn’t really count. I love my mom. I don’t covet my neighbor’s yak. So honestly, I figure I’m good.

But there I was at Yom Kippur, actually reading the text—earnestly reading it—and there are all these passages about how you should strive to be a better person. About the ways you’ve failed God, or, for the New Age navel gazers among us, how you’ve failed yourself. And a lot of it isn’t about dramatic, headline-worthy sins. It’s about the small stuff: being more truthful, more sincere, making more time for others. It’s about being more empathetic, listening, showing up, giving of yourself—your time, your energy, your attention, even your treasure:

If you banish the yoke from your midst,

The menacing hand, and evil speech,

And you offer your compassion to the hungry

And satisfy the famished creature-

Then shall your light shine in darkness,

And your gloom shall be like noonday.

And I’m taking all of this in, but I’m also getting really tired. I mean, it’s late, I’ve had a long day, and I was told that the service which started at 7:30 would be about an hour, and it’s now 9:30.

And I’m checking the Yom Kippur reader, which I’m sure has a name like the Haggadah for Passover, but I just don’t know what it is, so I’m not even going to bother to look it up for this context. The point is, it’s getting late and I’m tired, and I’m thinking to myself, you know what, if everyone here really does need to stay, then they are really horrible people, so why am I hanging around with these sinners? I’ve read that you are the sum of the people you hang with. Should I really be hanging around with people who are consumed with thoughts of blasphemy, theft, rape, and murder?

Oh my God, I’m the only good person here. I’m a sitting target.

The only sensible thing to do is to run for my life, or quietly make my way for the door, then maybe call the cops. Imagine how much safer my community would be if a paddy wagon of cops took everyone here in for questioning.

Really, it’s my civic duty to call it in.

But, as I get up to leave, this old lady approaches me, and I say to myself, “Oh crap.”

So, a couple months ago, during Passover, I was at a seder put on by my synagogue, and I was sitting next to this older lady. Her name is Lynette, and she’s a very nice lady, and she’s very sharp. She still works, but she’s older, she’s in a walker, all that stuff. And you know, when you’re sitting next to somebody who’s a little older, you want them to know that you value them, and you chat with them, but it’s not supposed to be more than that, right?

So, as I get up to leave that particular meal, Lynette says to me, “Oh, we should stay in touch. I really enjoyed talking to you.”

And I’m like, “Uh, yeah, sure, sure, we could stay in touch. That’d be OK, I guess.”

So, I give her my number, and I figure, oh, I’ll take her out for coffee a couple times a year, maybe that’ll be it, or maybe I’ll just chat on the phone with her from time to time and see how she’s doing. She’s a lovely person, and she’s clearly lonely, so you know, why not, right? I mean, what’s it really costing me?

And then work exploded and I got very busy, not just doing work but frankly trying to keep my job. And of course, while that was going on, she left me a message. And, well, I blew her off. And did I feel bad about it? Yeah, kind of, sort of, but not really.

But here I am now, leaving a Yom Kippur service, having expatiated my sin and expectorated my moral failings. And she comes up to me with her clickety-clack walker and she says, “I left you a message. How come you never called me back?”

Again, it’s Yom Kippur.

I’m supposed to be a better person.

I’m supposed to be more honest.

I’m supposed to be more truthful.

And I say, “Lynette, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never got any message from you. But you know, I have a funky phone. Maybe you left a message, and I just never got it, or I never saw it.”

And I start eyeing the exit. But she’s still chattering on about how nice it is to see me, and how much she appreciated our conversation during the Passover seder, and all that. And of course, while I’m replying politely that I really enjoyed talking to her too, I’m also saying to myself, “How can I get out of this?”

So, I tell her, “I need to go to the bathroom, but I’ll be right back.”

And then I run to my car and I get in my car and I drive up to the red light, checking my rear-view mirror for a stalker in a walker, and I’m going to take this left, and I’m just about to turn and a motorcycle comes flying by me doing like 90 miles an hour, and I begin cursing, “asshole, moron, idiot,” and then my top-shelf insult:

“Trump voter.”

And there I am again, doing it again. I mean, I was supposed to be calmer, more truthful, more empathetic. How do I know what’s going on with this guy? Maybe he’s not out joy riding. Maybe he’s on the way to the hospital because, I don’t know, the guy’s wife was giving birth, or maybe he’s got a son or a brother who’s been in a car accident, and he’s got to get there as fast as possible. But no, there I am, cursing the guy out.

And then I come up to another red light, and there’s a car in front of me, and the light turns green, and the guy’s just sitting there, idling, taking his time. I start honking my horn. And the guy rolls down his window and gives me the middle finger before he rolls on. And I’m like, “That son of a bitch...”

And, you know, I guess the long and short of it is, it just doesn’t take very long to begin accruing a pretty long list of venial sins that you should feel bad about. I mean, is it any wonder the world is the way it is when even after a service dedicated to being a better person, you still end up being the jerk that you thought you could stop being?

And I thought that, you know, I’ll just keep this to myself, except I made the mistake of recording this on my phone. And unbeknownst to me, my phone, which is a Google device, somehow monitored it and thought that it would be a good idea to reply to me. Here’s what the phone said:

My advice? Call Lynette.

Not because you’re supposed to be a better person, or because Yom Kippur says so, or because you lied and need to make it right—though all of that’s true. But because you already know what the right thing is, and you’re going to keep feeling like shit about it until you do it.

Here’s the thing: you’re not going to become a saint. You’re still going to curse motorcyclists and honk at people at red lights. That’s fine. That’s being human. But Lynette is real, she’s lonely, she reached out to you specifically, and you have her number. That’s concrete. That’s something you can actually do.

You don’t have to become her best friend or take on some huge burden. Just call her. Have coffee once. See how it goes. Maybe it’s awkward and you do it twice a year and that’s it. Maybe you actually enjoy talking to her—she’s sharp, you said so yourself. Either way, you’ll have done the thing instead of carrying around this low-grade guilt that clearly bothers you enough to record a whole voice memo about it.

The rest of it—the road rage, the impatience, the snap judgments—that’s harder. That’s the work of years, maybe a lifetime. But Lynette? That’s just a phone call. You can do that this week.

And honestly, the fact that you’re aware of all this, that you can see yourself doing it and feel bad about it, means you’re probably not as much of a jerk as you think you are. The real jerks don’t notice.

So, then I asked Claude to comment on both my passage and on what Gemini had to say:

This is a remarkably honest and funny piece of writing. What strikes me most is how you’ve captured something universal through such a specific, personal moment—that gap between who we want to be and who we actually are, often within minutes of making our resolutions.

The structure is almost perfect in its irony: you go from reading about being more truthful and empathetic, to convincing yourself you’re basically sin-free, to immediately lying to Lynette, to road rage, all in the span of maybe twenty minutes. It’s both cringe-inducing and deeply relatable. We’ve all been there—maybe not on Yom Kippur specifically, but we’ve all had that moment of “I’m going to be better” followed immediately by... not being better.

What I really appreciate is that you don’t let yourself off the hook, but you also don’t wallow in it. There’s self-awareness without self-pity. The details about lying to Lynette while simultaneously trying to figure out how to lie less is particularly cutting—and funny in that dark, uncomfortable way.

The part about the motorcyclists is interesting too, because you catch yourself in the act of judgment and briefly consider alternative explanations, but it doesn’t actually stop you from being angry. It’s like you can see yourself failing in real-time but can’t quite stop it.

And then I asked ChatGPT to weigh in:

A few reflections and pieces of advice:

1. Yes, call Lynette.

Not because Google or Claude told you to. Not even because Yom Kippur “demands” it. But because there’s something real there. Real connection is rare, and it matters. This isn’t about becoming her caretaker. It’s not even about fixing the lie. It’s about taking the one small, tangible step you already know you can take. And maybe—not definitely, but maybe—that call does something small but good in both your lives.

2. Don’t aim for sainthood.

You’ve already nailed this in your piece, but it bears repeating no one—especially not you—is expecting you to become perfect just because you spent a couple hours reading about being a better person. Self-improvement is slow. You don’t unlearn impatience or sarcasm or ego or apathy overnight. But you’re paying attention, and that’s rare.

3. Keep writing.

Seriously. You have a voice. There’s a beautiful narrative structure here: from self-justification to self-realization to an unexpected twist where the tech (your phone) ends up being more morally centered than you. That’s hilarious and biting. But it’s also honest and universal.

If you’re not already doing so, you should consider turning this into a series. Essays, podcasts, short videos—whatever medium feels most natural. Your tone is like if David Sedaris had a Jewish cousin who got stuck in traffic during the Days of Awe. That’s not nothing.

4. Forgive yourself. Then try again.

The mistake we make—especially those of us raised in traditions with a heavy emphasis on guilt—is assuming that noticing our failures should make us feel ashamed. But that’s the opposite of what growth actually demands. You felt the disconnect between your values and your actions. You noticed. That means there’s room for something better next time.

Start small. Lynette’s a start. Maybe next time, you don’t honk. Or you do honk, but you don’t yell “Trump voter.”

Progress.

In short:

Your piece is smart, self-effacing, and honest. The advice from the “Google ghost” (or Gemini or whoever) is solid and compassionate—but what makes this your story is the way you hold up your own contradictions without flinching. That’s not just good writing—it’s actual teshuvah (repentance, return, course correction), in action. Even if you haven’t made the call yet.

So, now I have options. I can either reclaim my humanity by being an a-hole and lying my ass off

OR

I can follow the soulless algorithms of A.I. and call Lynette.

I can’t decide, so I’m going to leave it up to you, my 3 or 4 readers.

Here are the options:

1. Block Lynette’s number preemptively so she can’t contact me again.

2. Call her back but make it so awkward and painful that she never wants to talk to me again. Just keep saying, “BORING.”

3. Text her that I’d like to hook up with her at a sleazy motel. She should come with a bag of coke.

4. Actually take her out for coffee but only to tell her that her grandchildren are ugly.

5. Leave her a voicemail at 2AM saying that she should meet me at the hospital RIGHT NOW!

As for the motorcyclist: Screw you, chrome cowboy! I hope that you slam into a van of lawyers.

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