Though we are nothing and You, God, are everything, we come before You with a broken heart, knowing that You are close to all who call on You in truth. We stand before You bereft of merits, yet knowing that You chose our ancestors and made an unbreakable covenant with them. In their merits if not in ours, please listen to our prayers.

We often rationalize and justify our failings. We say “We meant no harm. We were provoked. It wasn’t our fault. We couldn’t help it. Others were doing it also.” But though we may deceive others and at times even ourselves, we cannot deceive You who know us better than we know ourselves.

Aval, which normally means “but,” here means “truly,” and is the quintessential admission of guilt. This was the first word of the first recorded confession in the Torah (Gen. 42:21) when Joseph’s brothers admitted that they did wrong when they sold him as a slave. According to Mar Zutra (Yoma 87b), the phrase “Truly we have sinned” is the core of confession; all else is mere commentary. The words “our fathers” were added at a later stage, following the Talmudic interpretation of the phrase “visiting the sins of the parents on the children,” understanding it to mean only when children repeat the sins of the parents. Therefore we state explicitly that we do not condone the sins of earlier generations, nor do we seek to justify ourselves by saying that we are merely doing what our parents did.

This is the primary admission of guilt from which all else follows. The word derives from the root sh-m-m, “desolation,” what we create when we do wrong (Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch, Lev. 5:26).

We acted badly to a member of the family, or a friend, a colleague, a member of the group of which we are a part. Betrayal is often a form of disloyalty, and it undermines the trust on which any group depends. It is bad to wrong an enemy, worse to wrong one who had a right to consider us a friend.

Theft is done secretly, robbery openly. The robber is afraid of no one, neither of man nor of God. There are subtler forms of robbery, when we deprive others of the thanks or credit they deserve. We rob God when we fail to acknowledge His blessings in our lives.

We have spoken negatively, even slanderously, of others (Rashi to Psalm 50:20). According to Rabbi Joseph Kimchi (Spain, twelfth century) the word dofi comes from du-piyot, meaning “duplicity, two-facedness” – saying one thing and meaning another.

We have made crooked that which should have been straight. We used immoral means to achieve our end. We tried to be clever instead of being wise.

This may also mean (1) we caused others to act wickedly, or (2) we allowed wickedness to happen. We failed to maintain moral standards. We were a bad influence, or we failed to protest when we saw others doing wrong.

We did wrong knowing it to be wrong. We let the claims of conscience be overridden. We allowed ourselves to put personal advantage above the moral law, or the pursuit of desire above prohibition.

Physically or verbally. We abused others, failing to treat them with respect. Domestic violence is peculiarly cruel, for it desecrates a relationship that should have been marked by loving-kindness and is often practiced against those least able to defend themselves.

We said things we knew to be untrue. Or we accused someone of a wrong they did not commit. Lies are contagious, since one act of deceit brings others in its train. “Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive” (Sir Walter Scott).

We advised people to do things we knew were against their interest. We failed to disclose to them information they lacked but we had. We exploited their ignorance to advance our own interest, or we gave irresponsible advice because we were not taking the other person seriously enough.

We created a false impression by failing to disclose the full truth. Deceiving may also mean creating a false expectation by predicting an outcome you know is unlikely to happen.

We have mocked, scoffed, trivialized the serious. A mocker is a cynic whose low view of others pollutes the atmosphere around him, and whose negativity subverts other people’s altruism and ideals.

We deliberately flouted authority, divine or human. A rebel is one who knows that God exists, a moral law exists, and that a certain act is forbidden, yet still does it defiantly, showing that he refuses to acknowledge any authority other than himself.

We said or did things we knew would anger or hurt others. The Talmud applies this concept to one who steals food and then makes a blessing over it, as if to placate God at the very time one is contravening His will (Bava Kamma 94a).

The root s-r-r occurs in the Torah in the context of a “stubborn and rebellious son,” the delinquent who turns away from the right path and resists all attempts to reform his character. Stubbornness is the refusal to learn from your mistakes or heed the advice of those who seek your good. It is moral recidivism.

Avon is a sin committed knowingly and deliberately. It means “crooked” as opposed to “straightforward.” It includes the convoluted reasoning by which we persuade ourselves that transgressions are not that serious, or that we can commit crimes that will not be found out.

Pesha is sin as rebellion. We knew that something is forbidden yet we did it anyway, not out of weakness or temptation but deliberately, as a way of saying that we do not acknowledge the authority of the law and have no intention of abiding by it.

We have knowingly and deliberately caused harm to others, to our family or friends, colleagues or strangers. We have acted like an enemy to others.

We refused to see that the bad things that happened to us were the result of our own actions. We blamed others, failing to see that we are the architect of our own misfortunes. Neither heeding advice nor listening to critics, we continued in our dysfunctional behavior.

We have done things that were clearly and unequivocally wrong, and for which we offer no defense, merely apology.

We wasted our strengths in ways that were harmful or pointless. We gave way to our self-destructive instincts, failing to use our God-given willpower: “Sin is crouching at your door; it desires to have you, but you can dominate it” (Gen. 4:7). Each time we yield to temptation, our character loses some of its resilience and we become corrupted.

We have done things that the moral sense recoils from. A sense of disgust is to the soul what pain is to the body. It tells us that this is harmful, dangerous and to be avoided. Yet we overrode this sense and did what every decent instinct should have told us not to do.

We sought a short-cut to wealth or success or the satisfaction of desire, knowing that we were leaving the path of the good, the right, and the just. We lost our sense of direction, allowing ambition to lead us astray.

We have been a bad example, a poor role model. To sin is bad; to lead others to sin, worse. We ridiculed the law, or we said, “Others are doing it so it can’t be wrong,” or practiced some other form of subversion. Because good behavior involves self-restraint, it is easy to undermine. Therefore we must ask: do others become better in our company or worse?

We realize that acting wrongly is bad for us, for others, and for our relationship with You. Any short-term gain we may have achieved is more than outweighed by the price we have paid, whether in the loss of other people’s respect or the burden of a troubled conscience.

Because God knows us better than we know ourselves, we must be honest. Because God forgives, we can be honest. No pretence is necessary or possible. This is our defense against self-deception.

We have no defense. There were times when we were weak, careless, thoughtless, impulsive, impetuous, when we gave way to passion or desire, or lacked the energy or will to do what we knew we should, when we failed to honor our obligations to You and to others. Please, therefore, take the broken fragments of our life and help make them whole again.

Or “under duress and free will.” We did wrong, pretending we had no choice when in fact we did. We said, “I could not help myself,” but we could.

We were insensitive to others. Or, we committed a particular sin so many times we no longer had a bad conscience about doing so.

We did not have the knowledge we should have had. We did not know it was forbidden or illegal or unethical because we did not study, learn or inquire. Perhaps, deep down, we did not want to know.

We spoke insensitively or tactlessly or callously. We said things without thinking of the impact our words would have on others.

We engaged in forbidden sexual relations or the kind of intimacy that might lead to them. There is no inclination to sin stronger than the sexual drive. Did we keep far enough away from temptation?

An open sin shows the world that we do not care. A secret sin means that we care more about the opinions of human beings than that of God, to whom all things are revealed.

We were deceitful. Whether or not we told a lie, we deliberately created a misleading impression. We used cunning to mask our true intentions.

We insulted someone or criticized them openly or denigrated their work. We spoke harshly, using words as weapons. We spoke crudely, without civility, forgetting that Judaism’s “ways are ways of pleasantness and all its paths are peace” (Prov. 3:17).

We wronged someone either financially, by overcharging, or verbally by reminding them of an embarrassing past they have now moved beyond (“ona’at devarim,” see Bava Metzia 58b).

We contemplated doing something we knew to be wrong, and this led us into temptation, because thought lays the ground for deed. “The thought of sin is harder to cure than sin itself” (Yoma 29a).

We exposed ourselves to sexual temptation. We went to events or befriended people whose lack of modesty or fidelity was likely to have a bad influence on us.

We confessed without meaning it. We expressed regret but not remorse. We said what we had to say in order to keep our job, or defend our reputation, or defuse a tense situation, but we did not truly believe what we were saying or feel the guilt we should have felt.

We were rude or disrespectful or ungrateful to our parents or teachers. We did not thank them or honor them as much as we should. They did not deserve our callousness or indifference.

Whether we knew or did not know at the time that what we were doing was wrong, we now know, and realize we have to atone and make amends.

We used power against others, whether by physical intimidation, psychological pressure, emotional blackmail, or threat, in order to impose our will on them. We used our strength to coerce those weaker than us.

We acted in a way that brought discredit to our people and our faith. By acting badly we caused people to think negatively about Jews or Judaism and thus about God Himself.

We used crude, coarse, crass, indecent or offensive language. We spoke without delicacy or grace, as if words do not matter, but they do. Coarse language leads to coarse conduct, verbal violence to physical violence, and abusive speech to abusive behavior.

We said things we now regret saying. We spoke impulsively, unthinkingly, and, as we now see, tactlessly and without regard to the sensitivities of others.

We did not practice the self-control we should have done. We said to ourselves, “I could not help it,” whereas in fact, with discipline and self-restraint, we could have developed greater willpower. We allowed ourselves to fall into the trap of learned helplessness.

Wittingly and unwittingly at the same time. One part of us knew what we were doing was wrong but the other part said otherwise and we persuaded ourselves, against the better angels of our nature, that it was permissible.

At this point, we move from confession to prayer. Having declared our sins we ask God for forgiveness. To forgive means to heal a broken relationship. To pardon means to renounce the right to punish. To grant atonement means to efface all lingering traces of the sin.

In the face of accusation we denied or lied about what we did. We knew we did wrong but refused to admit it. Or we made promises we had no intention of keeping.

We persuaded, or tried to persuade, someone to rule in our favor or turn a blind eye to what we were doing, by offering money or some other inducement.

We acted or spoke disdainfully about genuine moral, ethical, or spiritual concerns. We made fun of people’s altruistic commitments.

We spoke negatively about people. The rabbis said that lashon hara, “evil speech,” is the worst of interpersonal sins, “as bad as murder, idolatry and incest combined.” It applies to remarks that are true but derogatory. If they are false, they come under the category of motzi shem ra, libel or slander. Lashon hara poisons human relationships.

We acted with less than total honesty in business. We did things we would not want others to know about. We did not honor our obligations to clients, employers, employees or colleagues. The Talmud says that in the world to come, the first question we will be asked is: “Did you act honestly in business?”

We ate and drank that which is forbidden in Jewish law. Or we ate and drank (or smoked) without due regard for our health.

We did not follow Jewish law in relation to the taking of interest, whether as lenders or borrowers. We took undue advantage of other people’s misfortunes.

We looked down on others. We failed to understand the difference between righteousness and self-righteousness: the righteous think well of others, the self-righteous think well of themselves.

We indulged in meaningless chatter, idle gossip and pointless speculation, even if we did not malign anyone. We wasted our, or other people’s, time.

We looked at things we should not have done. Led by our curiosity, we invaded other people’s privacy.

We acted as if we were disdainful of others, holding ourselves to be superior. There were times when we seemed self-important, haughty, supercilious, conceited, smug, ostentatious or vain.

We were shameless and brazen-faced as if no one and nothing mattered except us and our concerns. We dismissed all criticism as if we alone were the sole judge of our deeds and demeanor.

We acted without a sense of duty to our faith, our heritage, our people and the wider society among whom we live. We tried to live as “free riders,” seeking the benefits of community without making a contribution to it, pursuing our rights without honoring our responsibilities.

We were combative and confrontational instead of seeking a peaceful resolution, unwilling to hear other points of view and preferring victory to the collaborative pursuit of truth.

We schemed or acted subversively to cause harm to our neighbor, whether financially or by way of damaging their reputation, carefully concealing our role in the process.

We let someone else’s blessings spoil ours by desiring what they have. We resented someone else’s success or achievements, not wanting them to have what we do not.

We did not take serious things seriously, or respect principles or people worthy of respect. We mocked the earnest or ridiculed the altruistic, trying to reduce them to our level instead of letting them lift us to theirs.

We did not learn from failure. Losing a friend, a relationship, a job, a contest – we did not stop to ask what we were doing wrong. We assumed it was someone else’s fault, not ours.

We followed the crowd, allowing ourselves to be persuaded that if everyone else is doing it, it cannot be wrong. We did not stop, step back, and restrain ourselves (see Sanhedrin 102b).

We gossiped, in contravention of the Torah’s prohibition (Lev. 19:16). Though gossip often seems harmless it is usually ultimately derogatory; no one gossips about other people’s secret virtues.

We took vain or unnecessary oaths, affirming or denying the obvious, swearing to do the impossible or swearing to do something we are obligated to do anyway.

We allowed ourselves to dislike others for no objective reason, often unconsciously projecting onto them aspects of ourselves we do not like but are loath to admit. We made them scapegoats for our own shortcomings.

We made improper use of money or goods placed in our safekeeping, or in some other way dishonored the trust other people placed in us to safeguard their interests.

We acted in the heat of the moment, confused, disoriented or afraid, instead of taking the firm decision not to do the wrong thing. Others say it means that we allowed our faith to be shaken by skepticism or doubt (Iyun Tefilla).

The following lines are about penalties in ancient times. They are currently inapplicable, because we have no Temple and the death penalty has long been discontinued. Nonetheless, we mention them here because they remind us of the gravity of our offenses.

For wrong thoughts and for failure to fulfill a positive command, such as saying Kiddush on Shabbat or eating matza on Seder night.

For sins committed through ignorance or inadvertence that, had they been done knowingly and intentionally, would have led to our being “cut off.” These are generally serious sins such as breaking Shabbat or eating ḥametz on Pesaḥ.

Six sins, such as swearing falsely in court that one has no knowledge of a case in which one has been called as a witness, for which the penalty varied according to the wealth or poverty of the offender.

A guilt offering was incurred for five sins, including making personal use of property belonging to the Temple, and falsely denying under oath that you have someone else’s property in your possession. A guilt-offering for possible sin was brought when there was a reasonable probability, but no conclusive evidence, that we had performed an act that would have incurred a sin-offering.

A rabbinically imposed punishment for (1) failure to perform a positive biblical command, or (2) disobeying a rabbinic prohibition, or (3) as a measure to prevent widespread abuse of the law.

A biblical punishment for transgression of a negative command. There are 207 such offenses, as enumerated by Maimonides (Laws of the Sanhedrin, ch. 19). The sages restricted the punishment to thirty-nine lashes (Mishna, Makkot 22a).

This refers to serious sins deemed punishable by God (by premature death) rather than by a human court.

Graver sins, punishable by God, which if committed deliberately, may involve premature death or childlessness. If committed unwittingly, they incurred a sin-offering.

These are sins for which the Torah prescribes capital punishment.

There are 248 positive and 365 negative commandments. Some of these, if transgressed, can be remedied. For example, stolen property can be returned.

We have already confessed all the sins we know we have committed. There may be other transgressions of which we are unaware. We cannot confess them because we do not know what they are, but we ask You nonetheless to forgive us for these too. This ends the formal, public, collective confession. We should also articulate in our mind the specific sins we have committed. Confession is only part of the process of repentance, which also involves (1) a genuine feeling of remorse, (2) putting right, wherever we can, what we have done wrong, and making restitution wherever appropriate, (3) resolving not to commit the sin again, and (4) acting on that resolve (Maimonides, Laws of Repentance 2:1–3). In the case of a sin against another person we must also apologize to and seek forgiveness from that person. If the offended party refuses to forgive, we should ask three of their friends to intercede on our behalf, and we should do so three times if necessary. If the person we have offended is no longer alive, we should gather ten people at his graveside and confess the wrong we did him. If we owed him money we should pay this to his heirs. If he left no heirs, we should pay it to the Beit Din (ibid. 2:9–11). When someone who has wronged or offended us apologizes, we should accept the apology and forgive, for it is forbidden to harbor a grudge (Lev. 19:18) and wrong to be unforgiving (Laws of Repentance 2:10).