Kol Nidre - Fri Oct 11, 2024 (Tishrei 9, 5785)
This day— this long day punctuated by sleep but not by food, bathing or comfort— this holiest day of our year— this strangely joyful day— is about complete honesty even when it is incredibly uncomfortable.
On Rosh Hashanah it is written and on Yom Kippur it is sealed. The book of life folds into its next chapter, its next compilation of hope and fear and joy and misery and all of the in-between.
How could we have known last Kol Nidre that we were weeks away from the worst day to befall the Jewish people since the Holocaust? How could we have predicted that 5784 would push the Jewish community and our wholly, holy congregation into its greatest year of challenge?
We Jews are a people marked by trauma. For those with Jewish heritage the trauma is in our genes— epigenetic vestiges of horrors that befell our ancestors. For all of us— those born into Judaism, those who chose it, and those who aren’t Jews but are part of Jewish families— we feel the weight from ancient tragedies mythic as they are historic, to the loss of identity through the Inquisition, to the impossible toll of the Shoah, to those expelled from nations around the globe, to the still unfolding aftermath of October 7th. Antisemitism exists as a cyclical force, sometimes scarcely visible and at other times a massive and deadly presence, and as a result we are a people with too much experience with too much pain.
After October 7th, it felt like Jews barely had a moment to encounter the unfolding trauma before blowback began. Hamas terrorists called “freedom fighters.” The heinous murders of Israeli children, elders and non-combatants of all ages deemed “resistance.” The tearing down of hostage posters because they were really just “propaganda.” The picketing of synagogues and other Jewish organizations.
A few days after October 7th, hundreds of us gathered at Anshe Chesed1 to mourn and pray for safety. That night, I felt gutted about the attacks. And I felt afraid— afraid of what would happen next, afraid of how antisemitism would spike, afraid of the toll Gaza would pay, afraid of the fissures I could already see forming in the Jewish community and between the Jewish community and many of its progressive partners.
I wish my fears had been unfounded.
Since October 7th, the Jewish community has split. Some Jews have stepped away from activism because they haven’t felt supported by those they thought of as allies. Others have stepped away from Jewish communities because they’ve been upset by an often singular focus on Israeli suffering and survival.
Since October 7th, my goal for our congregation has been to bring us together in grief and collective care. As I witnessed the Jewish community erupt in anger and feelings of betrayal across the political spectrum, I prioritized increasing empathy— for Israelis, for Palestinians, for one another. I wanted— and still want— us to be able to engage with love, not in the competition Bill Snyder so powerfully articulated on the second day of Rosh Hashanah of “whose pain is worse?”2 I’ve encouraged you to share your views on Israel and on Palestine while largely keeping my own to myself, because as your rabbi I want to hold space for a range of perspectives.
But tonight is Kol Nidre, the start of Yom Kippur, and so tonight I must speak more plainly, because to engage in our Vidui— our collective confessional— without confessing the sins of which today’s Jews are guilty would be to abdicate my moral responsibility as a rabbi and specifically as the spiritual leader of this Reconstructionist congregation. Today I must take us beyond the natural places where our empathy and grief are activated, and I must encourage us not only to engage in dialogue, but to understand more fully the ways in which our views can limit us and harm others.
I begin with my own confession:
For the wrong that I have done by not talking about Israel enough for everyone to hear it. And for the wrong that I have done by not talking about Gaza enough for everyone to absorb it.
For the wrong that I have done by pushing when you wanted to be held. And for the wrong that I have done by holding you when you needed to be pushed.
For the wrong that I have done by speaking about antisemitism but not always in ways you could connect with. And for the wrong that I have done by evading questions when I worried my answers would upset you.
For the wrong that I have done by letting my fear limit me. And for the wrong that I have done by not being the rabbi all of you wanted all of the time.
For all these things, forgive me, pardon me, grant me atonement.3
As your rabbi, I am invested in helping you to crack your hearts more open even as that heartbreak is agonizing, and I am invested in holding you with love and care through it. I am not invested in whether you identify as a Zionist, a non-Zionist, an anti-Zionist or aren’t sure, but I am deeply invested in helping you to care about the preservation of life. And, as a Reconstructionist, I am invested in the evolution of Judaism over generations, in looking at what it means to be Jewish now, to look at the Jewish state not just as its pre-actualized ideal or in its infancy but today.
To do that requires acknowledging the diverse vantage points within our community, as reflected by our generational starting points. Many people do not conform to their generation’s most prevalent views, but there are clear trends.
Some people at this service today are older than the state of Israel, or grew up alongside it. For many of this generation, in the shadow of the Shoah, Israel’s birth was an awe-inspiring end of a nearly 2000 year exile, a possibility of peace and safe haven following unspeakable tragedy. In contrast, the youngest adult Jews have only witnessed a rightwing Israel in which advocating for peace and coexistence is scoffed at, an Israel that to many looks more like an occupying people than a safe haven for an oppressed one.
In his book The Necessity of Exile, Rabbi Shaul Magid writes about this dynamic: “Many younger Jews— often progressive in politics and questing after their own Jewish spiritual identity— find that a presumption of reflexive support for Israel as an occupying power insults their conscience and their intelligence. Urging someone committed to liberal or progressive politics to support an illiberal state, just because it happens to be Israel (an argument that gestures toward a kind of Jewish exceptionalism) will not bear much fruit….” Rather, Magid says, “If there is a case to be made for Zionism…it’s by having an honest conversation about its history and applications, including its many failures, moral and otherwise.”
But these conversations rarely happen, so it’s not unusual for Jews who love Israel to feel a sense of betrayal at other Jews’ indifference or even animosity toward it, and it’s not unusual for Jews who are deeply critical of Israel to feel a sense of betrayal at other Jews’ unwavering support. This betrayal has brought out terrible ugliness in the American Jewish community— litmus tests that seek to categorize Jews as “a good Jew” or “a bad Jew.” This hurts all of us.
If we are so offended by Jews who don’t stand with Israel that we claim they cannot exist within “real” Jewish circles, who are we helping? Certainly not the Jews who have carefully considered their politics and come to thoughtful, often painful conclusions that set them apart from many other Jews. And, I would argue, not those who love Israel either.
If we are so affronted by those who support Israel that we declare every Zionist a racist settler, who are we helping? Certainly not the Jews who love Israel deeply and want to see it be its best self. And, I would argue, not those who question Israel’s right to exist in its current form either.
We Jews are a tribe. We know this from Torah, from history, from the ways in which tribalism is forced upon us. Yes, here we are— we 2% of Americans, .2% of the world. Here we are— alive and thriving despite all odds. As a Reconstructionist I do not believe that the Jewish people is chosen, but I do believe that being part of our people is a gift— a gift that I am grateful to recommit to every day. And? Our tribalism is perhaps our greatest liability.
I don’t typically bring in the same voices for multiple High Holy Day sermons4 , but I hope you’ll indulge another passage from Rabbi Sharon Brous’s book The Amen Effect: “Tribal attachments can be meaningful and beneficial; a sense of belonging can be a source of strength and purpose… But there is a dangerous side to the tribal instinct. Ironically, the stronger the bonds of connection to those in our group, the weaker the bonds are to those outside the group, leaving us indifferent or even hostile toward those who are not in our tribe….A society devoid of empathy is at great risk of falling into patterns of dehumanization that have, throughout history, led to the most extreme acts of violence, including genocide… It is precisely now, when our instinct is to recoil from one another, that the need for an ethos of sensitive, sincere encounter is vital and urgent.”
Of course, the sincere encounter Rabbi Brous urges us to cannot happen if it requires putting ourselves in danger. When pro-Palestinian protestors— Jewish or otherwise— demand that Zionists on a packed subway car identify themselves, or cheer the shooting of commuters in Tel Aviv, or wave Hamas flags, there can be no sincere encounter. When pro-Israel protestors try to root out and ban those critical of Israel from Jewish organizations, or demand the flattening of Gaza, or call every keffiyah the garment of an antisemite regardless of context, there can be no sincere encounter.
During the Al Chet, we list categories of wrongs in the collective, the idea being that even if we didn’t all commit each one, some Jew, somewhere, did. Rabbi Caryn Broitman writes: “We are all implicated in the personal acts, good or bad, of any individual in our community. Moreover, as part of a community we are all implicated in the acts, good or bad, that our community has done….Wrongs are perpetrated and perpetuated only with the consent of the many, even if that consent is passive. The prayers of Yom Kippur challenge us to take responsibility for acts of teshuvah/turning, real steps as individuals and as a community, to redress communal wrongs.”
I usually translate chet as “misstep” rather than as “sin,” in part because we often hold ourselves to impossible standards, expecting to be able to balance family, work, health, and the list goes on. We miss our visit with our uncle or snap at a colleague, eat too much takeout or bow out of a volunteer gig. These are missteps worthy of reflection and teshuvah— that deliberate turning away from an old behavior and its replacement with a better one. But they are not sins.
The second reason I don’t use the word “sin” often is that it can have unhelpful connotations, from original sin in Christianity to the light, jesting way that people refer to certain foods as “sinful.”
But not every chet is a mere misstep. There are some that are sins— from murder to theft to sexual abuse. And there are other sins that we do not name collectively but should. I’ve hesitated to name some of these overtly because I want to maintain as much open dialogue in our community as possible. But this Yom Kippur we must acknowledge the ways in which we as a people have been taken in by the polarization of our society, have chosen sides like this war is a soccer game, and have been willing to abide and support acts that are counter to everything I’ve been taught about Jewish values.
We Jews often say “Never Again.” It’s an exquisitely devastating and powerful reminder that the horrors of dehumanization, unjust laws, and violence culminating in the Holocaust must not be repeated. These days, I hear a lot of debate between the notion that “Never Again” means never again must this happen to the Jews, and the notion that “Never Again” means never again must this happen to any people.
This is a false dichotomy. We need only look to Rabbi Hillel’s famous words to understand it must be both: “If I am not for myself, who will be for me? If I am only for myself, what am I?”5 We cannot ever allow the Jewish people to be dehumanized and placed at great risk. But nor can we stand idly by while the Jewish state subjects another people— any people— to brutal violence.
If you are a Jew, it is a sin to characterize the kidnapping and murder of other Jews as resistance, whether those Jews are Americans living in New York or Israelis living along the Gaza border. These are our siblings, and even if we do not feel close to them because they or their ancestors made their home in Israel instead of the United States, the attacks they have faced are attacks on the Jewish people.
If you are a Jew, it is a sin to ignore the legal and physical violence of a 57 year occupation, or to continue to use a call for a two state solution as an abdication of the need to advocate for actual change in the West Bank and Gaza right now. The people committing this violence are our siblings, and even if we would rather not see them as our responsibility, we know that the words of Talmud of Shavuot 39a are true, that kol Yisrael aravim zeh bazeh, that all Israel is responsible for one another.
If you are a Jew, it is a sin to insist on support for Israel as a baseline for Jewish engagement. For many committed Jews, it is impossible to express support for a state that has killed tens of thousands of non-combatants in the last year in the name of Jewish safety, while doing little to free the 101 hostages still held in Gaza. And, there have always been Jews who do not believe in Jewish nationalism, for whom praying for a return to the land is metaphorical, a wish for peace and wholeness for the Jewish people regardless of geography.
If you are a Jew, it is a sin to characterize the creation of Israel as a result purely of Jewish colonialist ambitions when after the Holocaust many countries did not want Jews back, many Jews had nothing to go back to, and establishing a Jewish state in the Levant served to tuck inconveniently liberated Jews out of the way. And, even if you genuinely believe that the creation of the state was a mistake, to believe that Jews dwelling there deserve life and safety less than Palestinians do is wrong.
If you are a Jew, it is a sin to reduce the lives, the deaths, the joys, the sorrows, the grief and pain, the hopes and dreams of the 14 million people who call Israel and Palestine home to something you can stencil onto a sign or type into an Instagram post. Saying the situation is complex has become a cliche, but to pretend it’s not is far worse.
In the first Reconstructionist High Holy Day Prayerbook, published in 1948, Rabbi Mordecai Kaplan6 included this prayer:
“The God of Israel is also the God of all mankind. We see on all sides conflicts between nations, between religions, between races. Nevertheless we hold to the faith that God intends mankind to be one. We believe that the day will come when God’s law of justice, peace and brotherhood will prevail on earth and His unity will be manifest in the unity of mankind.”
With gratitude to the evolving religious civilization that Kaplan championed and that I love so much, I’ll update the language a little:
“The beating heart of our tribe is also the heart within all of us. We see on all sides conflicts between nations, between religions, between races, between values. Nevertheless we hold to the faith that our sacred Source intends humanity to be one. We believe that the day will come when justice, peace and familial bonds will prevail on earth and the shared hope of all creation will be manifest in the unity of humanity.”
One day, I pray that there will be a state in what’s now Israel— a state called Israel, or Palestine, or Israel-Palestine, or anything else really— where Jews and Palestinians can live safely. I pray for a calendar based around Shabbat and Juumah, around Eid and the chaggim and Christmas. I pray that the Israeli street signs rendered in Hebrew and Arabic today can be a seed of a society in which Hebrew and Arabic are understood by most citizens, and where both Israelis and Palestinians will be citizens. I pray that in my lifetime a generation of children will be born who don’t need to know where the nearest shelter is.
But continued support for violence — whether war, occupation, or terrorism characterized as resistance— will never get us to that reality. Violence will only lead to the next generation picking up arms because they cannot imagine a life of peace. Our tribe deserves better, and so do the Palestinians.
On Rosh Hashanah it is written and on Yom Kippur it is sealed. The book of life folds into its next chapter, its next compilation of hope and fear and joy and misery and all of the in-between. This Yom Kippur, may we each open our hearts more fully, may we look unflinchingly at the ways in which we are complicit in the ongoing conflict, and may our teshuva turn us into peace seekers.
G’mar chatima tovah. May we be sealed in the book of life, and may we use our lives to help our tribe, and all tribes, be sealed for goodness.
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1- Ansche Chesed is a large synagogue on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Just after October 7, they hosted a vigil for the UWS Jewish community attended by Jews across the denominational spectrum.
2- On the second day of Rosh Hashanah, a congregant of mine spoke compellingly about how when we can’t acknowledge one another’s pain in relationship to this war it hurts all of us.
3- This confession is based on the Al Chet, a collective confessional chanted several times during Yom Kippur. Each phrase begins with “Al Chet shechatanu lefanecha…./For the wrong we have done before You by….” and each stanza concludes with a phrase asking for forgiveness.
4- I happened to also quote from Rabbi Brous’s book on Rosh Hashanah
5- These words come from Mishnah Pirkei Avot (Teachings of the Fathers), a roughly 3rd century CE compilation of legal and narrative teachings following exile
6-Kaplan was the founder of what became the Reconstructionist movement
