Shalom shalom lekarov velarachok, as Isaiah says, Shalom shalom to those who are close and to those who are far. I’m grateful for this opportunity to talk to you today, and I thank you for being here as we share holy time, and spend hours together in the great castle of time, in the castle of Yom Kippur, which we are building together with all the other Jews in the world.
Our services are made possible by many minds, hands and hearts: Cantor Re’ut Ben Ze’ev, our prayer leaders Ruth Borsuk, Richard Kamins; Leah Adler and the ritual committee, the board, Joanna Schnurman, Julio Ramos, Honor Edmands, officer Dave with security outside. Each has played a fundamental role in bringing us together yesterday and today.
On Rosh Hashanah I spoke about faith, and I hope to have gotten the message across that faith cannot the same as certainty.
Faith is not a blind allegiance to tenets.
Faith is trust, sturbonness, courage all rolled into one. Faith is about staying in relationship even when things are hard, even when we can’t explain it all. Jewish faith is always aspiration: the hope for a different future, for a different way of bring, for yourself and for the world. None of those, some of you may say, is a truly intellectual approach. It is all faith based in emotions, it does not define God. And you’d be right.
Yet even intellectually, there is a strand in Jewish thought that says that the more you know about God, the less you actually know, when we arrive anywhere, we arrive at a position of ignorance. Just like a child, who knows nothing and is trying to understand the world, some Jewish philosophers understand that after years of studying, debating and questioning, we arrive at the same place: the not-knowing place. Faith as the embrace of the mystery.
Today is arguably the holiest day of the Jewish year. The vortex of Yom Kippur draws in people who would not be caught dead in a synagogue the rest of the year. As the Kol Nidrei prayer says: anu matirim lehitpalel im ha’avarianim – we all pray together. We all connect today, observant people and transgressors, believers and non-believers. Everyone is here, in this castle we build with time, this castle named Yom Kippur, built by generations past, by Jewish communities everywhere: some are approaching the end of the fast already, some have just began. Everyone is here – even those who are not.
A friend of mine from high school looks every year on the calendar for Yom Kippur. And then, precisely at midday, he orders, pays and eats a bacon cheeseburger. I’m not pulling your leg. He doesn’t know, I think, that he is here too – in his devoted practice of opposing what he learned Jewish tradition is.
He thinks he sits outside of the gates of the castle, but clearly he still needs the gate to know where to sit.
A few of you approached me this year to know exactly where, politically, I sit, because, confusingly, you have not heard me speak from the pulpit about my political stance. One said, “I don’t really know where you stand in anything, really, rabbi”.
So let me come out. My political stance is faith in our people. And in humanity. And in Torah. And in mitzvot. And in kindness. And in compassion. And in understanding. And in empathy. And in a better world. And in peace.
And I have faith that every single one of you stands for those same things, because I know you, and I know that your soul is aligned with goodness.
There is a wonderful story about the Kotzker rebbe, who is approached by a Jew who is in a crisis of faith. Rebbe, the student says, I don’t know if I believe in God. The Kotzker says “what do you care?” The student says “what do you mean, what do I care?! If there is no God, what is the Torah anyway?” The Kotzker says “nu, what do you care?” The student says “what do you mean, what do I care?! If there is no God, and I don’t know what the Torah is, what am I doing with my life?” The Kotzker says “ach, what do you care?” Finally the student starts screaming: “Rebbe, if there is no God, and I don’t know what the Torah is, and I don’t know what am I doing with my life, and I don’t know what the meaning of anything is, what do you mean ‘what do I care?!’ I care!!!!” The Kotzker says: “ah, do you care? Du bist a kshrer yid, you are a kosher Jew. You are a fine Jew.” Meaning, it’s not about having the answers and having certainty, it’s a passion about caring.
Because we have this infinite capacity to care, we can be easily swayed by what we see, read, and hear. We live in a reality where our attention has become currency — and keeping us cycling through anger and anguish, keeps us coming back. Those who create the feeds and articles aren’t just giving us information; they’re shaping our emotions. We need to embrace the difficult reality that what we know is filtered through someone’s interests. We need to be aware of that precisely because we care.
The Mishnah teaches us that Yom Kippur atones for sins between a person and God, but for sins between one person and another, forgiveness must first be sought from the one who was wronged. It has become easy to wrong people without even noticing. This world pushes us into our corners, demanding we take sides and have strident opinions about people we’ve never talked to and situations we’ve never experienced.
We can log onto social media, become beasts biting people’s heads off, log out, and continue as if nothing happened. Behind fake names and profiles, we forget we’re speaking to real human beings. And this year we have seen photographs curated to show a specific reality, one that exists, however, one of which the iconic photos were not really depicting. AND the furor they caused was real. The newsplatform did issue an apology – hidden somewhere in the internet. And now AI has made this worse – there are videos so convincing you need to remind yourself that a six-month-old cannot actually speak.
We need healthy skepticism, but emotions arrive first. And hate doesn’t only hurt those who receive it — it hurts those who put it out into the world.
The words make a mark. The anger seeps into our lives beyond the screen. We’ve been conditioned to see the world as binary, and when we feel impotent to change things, we lash out in big and small ways. We pass along the hurt – some with words, some taking violent action.
Now our tradition holds disagreement for the sake of heaven, the “machloket l’shem shamayim” in very high regard. It is an enduring value. The classic example is the debates between Hillel and Shammai, two great sages and schools of thought who rarely agreed on matters of Jewish law, yet whose disputes enriched our tradition immeasurably.
On this Yom Kippur, I invite us to reflect on how we can disagree, work towards finding common ground and return to each other with love.
Today, as we gather as a community seeking forgiveness and renewal, we carry forward Jewish wisdom: one that reminds us that we are bound together not because we agree with each other, not by uniformity of thought, but because we care. We share deep threads that weave themselves through our shared story: our commitments to continuity, to justice, to our responsibility to one another, and to our hope for a better world.
Israel – Eretz Yisrael – occupies a unique place in Jewish consciousness. For thousands of years, it has been the focal point of our prayers, our dreams, and our longings. “If I forget you, O Jerusalem, may my right hand forget its cunning” – these words have echoed through generations of Jewish hearts, from Babylon to Brooklyn, from Spain to Stockholm.
This connection transcends politics. It lives in our liturgy, in our holidays, in the very rhythm of our spiritual lives.
When we break the glass at a wedding, we remember Jerusalem. When we celebrate Passover, we declare “Next year in Jerusalem.” Those same words will be said tonight before break the fast. When we mourn on Tisha B’Av, we recall the destruction of Jerusalem.
Today, Jews all around the world hold different opinions about the State of Israel – about its policies, its future, its relationship with its neighbors, its government. Some see it as the national liberation of the Jews from European antisemitism, as even before the Holocaust there were Jewish people striving to live in that land. Some see it as a miracle and a refuge born from the ashes of the Holocaust. Others view it as the fulfillment of ancient prophecies. Still others focus on its role as a center of the renewal of Jewish learning and culture.
From our love of that land and our despair of antisemitism came six different strands of Zionism, and there is still a seventh that says ‘who cares about ideas, beit yaakov lechu venelcha, let’s just go up already.’ And yes, many of us struggle with aspects of its current reality while struggling to maintain deep love for its promise.
These different perspectives don’t make any of us less Jewish or less connected to one another. Every single idea is rooted in our ability to care – for the 7.2 million Jews that live in Israel, for the 8.1 million Jews living in Diaspora. All those opinions about Israel reflect the complexity of being a people scattered across the world, yet bound by common memory, shared destiny, and our comitment to continue the light of the Jewish people. If you care, Du bist a kshrer yid – you are a kosher Jew.
In 70 CE, when Jerusalem was under siege by the Romans, Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai saw the many political divisions inside the Jewish people. He knew – the unbending quality of each political camp was going to bring a destruction so profound that nothing would remain if he did not do something. So he asked for Yavneh and its scholars – he understood that Jewish continuity depends not on unanimity, not on carrying just one voice, but on our commitment to learning together, questioning together, and building community together.
The Mishnah teaches us about the students of Rabbi Akiva, who died because “they did not treat each other with respect.” The lesson isn’t about not having disagreements – it’s about maintaining honor and dignity in our disagreements, it’s about caring. If you care, Du bist a kshrer yid – you are a kosher Jew.
On Yom Kippur we ask: What does this mean, maintaining honor and dignity while we disagree? As we beat our chests during the Vidui and confess our shortcomings, we must also examine how we treat each other when we profoundly disagree with them. Do we label them and close off dialogue? Do we despair of ever changing their minds and therefore do not even try? Do we try, for a moment even, to see and listen to what they see and listen? Or are we so certain of our own positions that any disruption to our system is dangerous, so we refuse to see and listen, content in our certainties?
Maintaining honor and dignity while we disagree means we can hold different views about Israeli policy while celebrating the revival of Hebrew as a living language. We can debate politics while taking pride in Israel’s contributions to medicine, technology, and human knowledge. We can dispute the responsibilities of power and powerlessness while embracing Israel as a center of revival of Jewish dance, theater, music, sports and spirituality. Precisely because Israel is not only war: Israel is the creative impulse of the Jewish people in all its glory, in all its creative tension.
I have seen too many families destroyed by conflict – and I am not talking about the war raging in the Middle East right now. The war I am talking about is the war I see in families, conflict that breaks apart familial bonds. It always begins with forgetting that we are all coming from a good place – we are all, with no exception, rooted in goodness.
Every generation has had conflicts. It used to be the place of women. It used to be interfaith marriages. It used to be LGBTQ acceptance.
Do you remember how bitter those fights were, and in some communities, still are? Families who survived those survived because of their faith on their relationships, their deep commitment to love, and were able to work their positions because they assumed that all involved were steeped in commitments to continuity, to justice, to responsibility to one another, and to hope for a better world.
There is a profound teaching in our tradition, in which when we die we will be asked six things. Each and every one of these questions represents a probing not just of our accomplishments, but of our overall character.
- Nasata venatata beemunah? Did you deal justly with other human beings in business? Meaning, would we define ourselves as givers, or takers? Were we generous with what God gave us?
- Kavata zman letorah? Did we fix set times for studying Torah? Meaning, did we establish a discipline of life, whereby human needs, ours and other people’s, were intertwined with our spiritual pursuit?
- Asakta befriah urviah? Did you participate in the commandment to be fruitful and multiply? Meaning, did we see ourselves as a finite end in and of itself, or rather as a link in the ongoing, eternal chain of the generations? Were we only for us, or were we genuinely concerned for others and their welfare? Did we restrict ourselves to self-indulgence, or did we find a way to make a difference in the world at large? If we personally were blessed with offspring, did we also lend a hand, a shoulder, an ear to others who were not so fortunate? Did we make life easier for the needy, so they would be able to maintain their families?
- Pilpalta LeChochmah? Did you engage in the pursuit of wisdom? Meaning, did we engage in pursuing that which challenged our intellects, or did we spend too much time in mindless pursuits? Did we ask deep and important questions to ourselves, seeking answers that would give meaning to our life?
- Yirata et hashem? Did you hold God in awe? Meaning, did we live with a daily awareness that this world in general and our existence in particular is perilous and precarious, held together only by divine kindness? Did we stand in awe and appreciation of the magnificent world which God provided us on a silver platter?
- And finally, Tzipita le’yeshua? Did you antecipate redemption? In many translations, the last question is ‘did you wait for redemption’.
But Shai Held translates it differently: did you make pockets of redemption around you? Meaning – did you create a better world where you are? Did you help those around you? Were you able to seed this world with kindness? Were you able to have faith in those whom you love, and if you weren’t able to find common ground, at least treat them as fellow human beings rooted in goodness, just as you are? Were you able to fight the urge to scream your righteous position from the rooftops?
Now we know that seven is the “magic number” in Judaism. So I would like you to figure out what the seventh question should be. My seventh question would be: did you care about people’s suffering? Because I believe that the Torah, by opening with the idea that every human being is created in the image of God, betzelem e-lohim, commands, begs, reminds us, that we do care – about human suffering. All suffering. Jewish suffering, Palestinian suffering, human suffering. And in our current moment, even saying this — even saying I care about all people — can feel like I am taking sides. [lament] That itself is a real tragedy.
In our Shabbat morning services, a couple of months ago, we had a moment. Someone brought up Gaza in the discussion, someone else objected, emotionally and loudly. The discussion was dropped. All who were present saw that. What most did not see is that both of those involved hugged afterwards during kiddush. And on the next Shabbat, they hugged as well. I, personally, had not seen them hugging ever before.
The Talmud tells us that Jerusalem was destroyed because of sinat chinam – baseless hatred between Jews. The antidote isn’t enforced agreement; it’s cultivating ahavat chinam – baseless love, love that exists simply because we share this remarkable journey of being Jewish. This is the power of this community.
My greatest wish for all of us is that we see and embrace Adath Israel as a place for all Jews, one in which we are here to use the creative tension in conflict to grow.
As we seek forgiveness today, it means recognizing that the Jewish woman in Tel Aviv worried about her children’s safety, the Jewish student on campus facing antisemitism, and the Jewish activist concerned about justice are all part of our story. As is my religiously Yom Kippur bacon cheeseburger eating friend. Their experiences may be different, but their Jewish hearts beat with the same ancient rhythms.
On Yom Kippur, we acknowledge that we are all equally in need of compassion, understanding, and mercy, both divine and human. Our community’s strength lies not in thinking alike, but in caring about each other deeply enough to engage in these difficult conversations with respect and love. When we sit together at Pray Eat Sing, when we comfort each other in times of loss, when we celebrate each other’s joys – these moments matter more than our political agreements or disagreements.
I will close with a story. About a year ago, Clive Ch’itiz, father of fallen soldier Yaron Chitiz was traveling back to Israel from Heathrow. He was told that his Thursday night flight was delayed to Friday morning. When he showed up for the flight on Friday, as he was being checked in by the ElAl security representative, he told her that he really needed the flight to leave on time so he could make it back to his synagogue in Ra’anana for Shabbat so he could say the mourner’s kaddish for his fallen son. He explained that he promised himself that he’d say the kaddish at least once a day and because he was staying at a random hotel after the flight was delayed, he couldn’t say the kaddish, so he needed to be back on time. The representative explained to him that she’s only on the security team and she had no say or information about the flight’s departure. Clive thanked her and started walking toward the gate. A few minutes later, he got a phone call.
“Hi, this is Jasmine from security. To be honest, I didn’t even know what kaddish was, so I Googled it. I learned that to say the kaddish, you need 10 men above the age of 13. So I asked a few men to meet me by the gate so you can say kaddish before you board; at least that way you will fly with the peace of mind knowing that you already said kaddish today.”
Clive began to cry and ran towards the gate. When he got there, he did not find 10 men. He found EVERY SINGLE man above the age of 13 who was on the flight waiting for him at the gate. Religious. Ultra Orthodox. Secular. All waiting for him. They recited a few chapters of Psalms and he was able to recite the Kaddish for his son. If you know anything about the profound disagreements in Israeli politics today, you know how even more beautiful this story is. It is a reminder that we are all family. We may disagree, dispute, but we are all in this together.
The Talmud tells us that on Yom Kippur, Satan, the Accuser, has no power to accuse. On this day, we are given the gift of seeing ourselves and each other with new eyes, free from the harsh judgments that can divide us throughout the year.
As we face the complexities of our time, let us remember that we are part of a people that has survived and thrived precisely because we learned to hold multiple truths simultaneously. We are a people of questions as much as answers, of debate as much as consensus. And on this day of return, we commit to returning not just to God, but to each other. Let us use our holy time in the castle of Yom Kippur to commit to creating spaces where all members of our community can express their hopes and concerns about Israel, about Judaism, about our future. Let us listen to understand and to build, not just to respond. Let us assume good intentions even when we disagree with conclusions. This is the teshuvah we owe each other.
In Ne’ilah, in a few hours, we ask God to open several gates for us and all Israel: “light, blessing, joy, gladness, splendor, good counsel, merit, love, purity, salvation, atonement, kindness, pardon, consolation, forgiveness, help, prosperity, righteousness, uprightness, complete healing, peace, repentance.”
Today, let us also commit to keeping the gates of conversation open, the gates of compassion open, the gates of listening open, the gates of community open to all who seek to journey with us.
G’mar chatimah tovah – may we all be sealed in the Book of Life, together.