Give Me Your Hand: Interdependence and the Courage to Reach Out

Rabbi Bridget Wynne

Erev Yom Kippur 2026 • 9 Tishrei 5787

Rabbi Yohanan lived about 1,800 years ago in Palestine, which was then ruled by the Romans. He suffered a great deal in his life: his father died before he was born, his mother died in childbirth, and he lost 10 beloved sons.

One day he was caring for his friend and student, Rabbi Hiya bar Abba, who was seriously ill. Yohanan asked Hiya, "Are your sufferings dear to you?" Hiya replied, "Neither they nor their reward."

"Are your sufferings dear to you?" What a strange and offensive question! Yohanan is drawing on a Jewish theology that tries to answer the difficult question, "Why do good people suffer?" It assumes an all-powerful God who sends good people "sufferings of love." Hiya quickly rejects that idea.

Yohanan respects his answer. Instead of debating theology, he reaches out, saying, "Give me your hand." Somehow, his touch lifts Hiya from his bed. Maybe this was a miracle. Maybe it was a metaphor–perhaps his compassionate presence comforted Hiya, and he felt spiritually lifted.

Later, it was Yohanan who fell ill, and another friend, Rabbi Chanina, came to see him. He asked the same question, and Yohanan gave the same answer: "My sufferings are not dear to me, neither they nor their reward." Chanina asked for his hand, lifted him up, and revived him. Here the story brings up something  more: “Why did Rabbi Yohanan need help, since he was able to revive Hiya by himself?” the text asks. The answer: "A captive cannot release themselves from their own prison." In other words: even someone who can help others heal may not be able to heal themselves–they, too, need someone else's acts of care. (Paraphrased from Brachot 5b)

Though we may wish with all our heart that it were not so, our world is full of suffering. When we are in pain, it may be tempting to search for how we are being punished by God or the world. If it is punishment, we might gain a sense of control: "I promise I'll be a better person if you take away this pain." When it’s someone we love who’s suffering, that same longing can show up differently: “If they would just try this treatment, or acknowledge how they've brought this on themselves, they'd recover.”

Both Hiya and Yohanan reject the idea that their suffering is something to be valued or rewarded. They name their pain honestly, instead of pretending it's a gift. Rather than the rabbinic debate we might expect, their friends listen and offer comfort.

Pain like Hiya’s and Yohanan’s can lead to depression and withdrawal, or to chronic anger directed at others. But they and their friends make choices that help lead in other directions. They let others see their hurt and reach out to them, and their friends respond with empathy, showing us how to offer help and how to accept it honestly, without shame. Rather than anger, Yohanan turns his losses into empathy, offering real comfort to someone else who is suffering. And Chanina doesn't assume that Yohanan, a healer himself, can simply manage alone. Chanina offers his caring attention, knowing that at this moment his friend cannot free himself from his own prison. 

The wisdom of these stories speaks to what it might mean to be human in a world with too much pain. Can we find the courage to sit with and listen to those who are suffering? Can we take the risk of reaching out when we are in pain, inviting others to offer their care? 

We are all interdependent–sometimes able to free ourselves, but often not. Our increasingly individualistic society teaches us the opposite. If we are in pain–physically, emotionally, spiritually–social media is full of solutions. Try these miraculous supplements, find a combination of apps that will bring you everything you need so you don't have to leave your house… More than ever, we are surrounded by messages that it's each person for themselves, that the way to be safe is to take care of ourselves without depending on others, to protect ourselves from the pain we see. Underneath it all is this message: you should be able to go it alone.

Our tradition says something different, countercultural: sometimes self-care just isn’t enough, no matter what you buy, no matter how disciplined or enlightened you become. Sometimes we need the touch of someone else's hand.

Rabbi Shai Held writes about how frightening it can be to go against this norm. When we consider taking care of others and acknowledging we need their care, he says, "[A]ll of us... are frightened... Judaism comes along and says... if you want to be an heir of the Jewish tradition, learn to run towards the very places that you are tempted to run away from. [This f]ear is very hard, we have to push ourselves and be kind to ourselves at the very same time. … Being present with people in times of pain is…[sacred]. To take Judaism seriously is to grow in compassion.” (“Compassion and the Heart of Jewish Spirituality,” YouTube, March 3, 2015)

It is an expression of courage and love to walk against the current, to turn to another person in their moment of anguish and say: “I know I cannot fix your suffering. Your sorrow may scare me, it may unsettle me. But I will not abandon you. I will meet your grief with love.”

Showing up for one another doesn’t require heroic gestures. It means training ourselves to approach, even when our instinct tells us to withdraw. It means picking up the phone and calling our friend or colleague who is suffering. It means going to the funeral, to the wedding, to the birthday dinner. It means taking the risk to err on the side of presence.

Our culture tells us, in more ways each day: buy your way to fixing yourself, set your boundaries, protect your peace, don't depend on anyone. Our tradition says: interdependence isn't an embarrassment or a weakness to overcome. It's how we human beings are meant to live.

This is the same idea three rabbis lived out, eighteen hundred years ago, on two separate sickbeds. Hiya couldn't lift himself up. Yohanan gave him his hand. Later, Yohanan couldn't lift himself up either—even though he'd just done exactly that for someone else. Chanina offered his hand in turn.

This is not easy. Opening yourself to someone else's pain risks unsettling you. Admitting you can't carry your own pain by yourself risks feeling exposed, or reaching out and not being met in the way you wish for.

I invite you, this year, when the culture tells you to go it alone, to find the courage to do the hard thing instead: be present, listen, reach out your hand. You can't take the pain away. But you can make sure the person you reach out to doesn't carry it all by themselves. Risking this can help build relationships, build community. And it means that when you're the one in need, you can turn to another with less fear, because you've already done your part in creating the interdependence we all need. It will not always be what you might wish for. But it is how turning to one another becomes possible.

In this new year, may you be blessed with the courage to listen, to reach out, to lift others up. May you also be blessed with those who are ready to listen to you and lift you up as well.