WATCH: The magnificent Jewish way to unlock your potential

Ever feel like your mistakes are holding you back, like you’re not cut out to be someone who makes a difference? That your flaws or past slip-ups mean you’ll never measure up?

Yom Kippur, with its soul-deep prayers and haunting melodies, has a message that might just change how you see yourself. It’s not about dwelling on what you’ve done wrong; it’s about grieving the greatness you haven’t yet reached.

This week’s Torah portion, tied to the holiest day, shows us how mourning the loss of incredible people, like Nadav and Avihu, can spark a fire inside to become more. Here’s how their story, woven into Yom Kippur’s rituals, teaches us to embrace our imperfections and chase our highest selves.

When Aaron’s Sons Fell Short

Imagine Aharon, the High Priest, stepping up to the altar on Yom Kippur, ready to atone for the Jewish people’s sins. His sons, Nadav and Avihu, should’ve been there, spiritual powerhouses destined for big things. But they’re gone, struck down for offering “strange fire” in the Tabernacle, a bold move that went too far without a rabbi’s guidance.

Right before we dive into Yom Kippur’s rules in the Torah, we pause to sing a mournful song, the Zohar says, to make us cry for their loss. Why? Because those tears, the Talmud promises, let our prayers soar to heaven, wiping away our sins. It sounds crazy, crying for two guys who messed up somehow clears our slate. What’s going on?

It’s not just about sobbing. It’s about what those tears stir up. Nadav and Avihu weren’t perfect; they pushed too hard, too fast, and paid the price. But their potential was huge. Mourning them isn’t about their mistake; it’s about feeling the void they left, picturing what could’ve been if they’d lived. That grief wakes something in us, a drive to tap into our own greatness.

The Spark of Missing Greatness

Jewish tradition loves this idea: grieving great people lights a spark in you. Think of Rabbi Akiva’s 24,000 students, lost to a plague during the Omer period. Or Joshua, whose death the Israelites didn’t mourn enough, leading to trouble. Why does it matter so much? Because when you sit with the loss of someone extraordinary, it rewires your brain. Reading about Akiva’s wisdom or Joshua’s grit shifts what you think is normal. Their courage, their values, they rub off, whispering, “You’ve got more in you, too.”

On Yom Kippur, we don’t just confess our faults. We chant prayers like “El Malei Rachamim,” begging mercy for Nadav and Avihu’s loss. It’s not random.

Feeling their absence makes us wonder: what if we’d had leaders even greater than Moses and Aaron? What if Akiva’s thousands of students had lived to shape the Mishnah, the Zohar? We’re not just missing them; we’re aching for the bigger, bolder versions of ourselves we haven’t become. That ache is power.

Your Flaws Are Your Fuel

Here’s the real deal: greatness doesn’t need you to be spotless. Nadav and Avihu weren’t flawless; they were daring, and their misstep didn’t erase their worth. Jewish heroes, like King David, owned their failures, David admitted his wrongs, unlike Saul, and that’s why he was greater, says the Midrash. Judah, ancestor of David’s line, got props for saying, “I messed up.” Aaron carried the shame of the Golden Calf, yet he was picked to atone for it, not despite his past, but because of it.

Your stumbles, your doubts, they don’t disqualify you; they make you human. Maybe you’ve wrestled with procrastination, self-doubt, or something tougher, like addiction. Those aren’t stop signs. They’re part of your story, the raw stuff that makes you relatable. The Torah isn’t asking for perfection; it wants humility, the courage to face your past and keep pushing.

Grieve the Greatness You Haven’t Reached

Yom Kippur’s magic is this: don’t just regret your mistakes; mourn the person you could’ve been. Picture who you’d be if you chased your dreams, spoke your truth, led with guts. That’s what crying for Nadav and Avihu unlocks, a glimpse of your untapped potential. It’s not about guilt; it’s about ambition, the kind that says, “I’m not done.” Their loss shows us the world missed their brilliance, and we’re missing out if we don’t step up.

This isn’t preachy; it’s real. Feeling that pull for greatness gives you a target, a reason to move forward. It’s why we sing those tearful Yom Kippur songs, why we talk about great rabbis. They’re not here to drag us down; they’re here to lift us up, to make us hungry for who we can become.

Keep Chasing Your Fire

The Torah doesn’t want you perfect. It wants you honest, humble, real. That’s where strength starts. As Yom Kippur’s prayers ring out, let Nadav and Avihu’s loss push you. Be bold, be you, and let your greatness shine bright.