Yom Kippur 2025/5786: United We Stand, Divided We Fall

I’m not sure what’s harder: confessing to the sins I’ve actually committed, or confessing to those I know I haven’t. And yet our tradition summons us to do both on this holiest day of Yom Kippur.

Over and over again throughout the day we rise for the Vidui and, while beating our chests, we confess to a litany of sins all scripted in the plural:

אָשַֽׁמְנוּ. בָּגַֽדְנוּ. גָּזַֽלְנוּ. דִּבַּֽרְנוּ דֹּֽפִי

We’ve sinned; we’ve betrayed; we’ve stolen; we’ve slandered.

עַל חֵטְא שֶׁחָטָֽאנוּ לְפָנֶֽיךָ בְּאֹֽנֶס וּבְרָצוֹן:

For the sin we committed before You under unwillingly and willingly.

וְעַל חֵטְא שֶׁחָטָֽאנוּ לְפָנֶֽיךָ בְּאִמּוּץ הַלֵּב:

And for the sin we committed before You by hardening our hearts.

And as you know the list becomes quite specific including confessions for improper speech, sexual indiscretions; fraud, scorning parents and teachers, being violent, gluttony, charging oppressive interest, and more.

Have we each committed some of the sins listed in the Vidui? Of course we have. Have we each committed every single one of the sins listed? Of course we haven’t. So why must we confess to them? 

The collective spirit of the High Holy Days manifests in lots of ways. As Rabbi Gordon Tucker wryly notes, shuls everywhere time their membership renewals with Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, praying on (and preying on?) people’s yearning for community this time of year. We make sure to get our seats for services. We care about who we’re sitting with (and who we’re NOT sitting with). We’re reminded of who’s not here this year even as we look around to say hi to those we haven’t seen since last yomtov. 

The shared confession of sins - even to those we haven’t personally committed - is an extension of that communitarian atmosphere during these days of repentance. Rav Soloveitchik taught that while the efficacy of our individual teshuvah depends on our personal work of repair, when we confess sins in the plural and tether ourselves to the community’s teshuvah, when we affirm our sense of shared fate with one another, it assures that we will share in the blessing of Divine forgiveness and collective redemption.

But it’s this very notion of declaring our unqualified identification with all kinds of Jewish behaviour expressed by the collective “ashamanu”s and “chatanu”s, that feels really hard for many of us this year. The bonds of Jewish peoplehood are strained over how to finally bring our hostages home, over the prosecution of the war in Gaza, over the right-wing Israeli government, over annexation of the West Bank, over the Haredi draft, not to mention the clashes over judicial reform that rocked Israel for almost a year before October 7 and that continue to play out. And, of course, they’re strained over the growing Jewish anti-Israel movement. This year, many of us are choking on the words “Ashamnu”, “Bagadnu”/“WE have sinned”, “WE have betrayed” for we refuse to share responsibility for actions taken or statements made by others in our name; actions we deem abhorrent and unforgivable. We feel this way about some Jewish public figures, and about some we only know through the news. We feel this way about some Jews who in spite of their politics are often deeply devoted to Jewish learning, to Jewish observance, to Jewish leadership. We feel this way about some Jews with whom we share a home, a family. We might even feel this way about some Jews who are sitting right here in this room with us. 

So now what?

While every generation thinks they’re living through unprecedented times, many of the crises we’re facing - including this one - we’ve faced in some iteration before. Think of the opening lines in the machzor to Yom Kippur itself, said even before Kol Nidre: בִּישִׁיבָה שֶׁל מַֽעְלָה. Attributed to the 13th century Tosafist, Rabbi Meir of Rothenburg (The Maharam), it goes like this:

“By the authority of the court on high and by the authority of the court below; with the consent of the Divine and with the consent of the congregation; we grant permission to pray together with transgressors.”

The Mahram was inspired by a gemara which teaches that a fast day that doesn’t include sinners is not a fast day at all. Comparing the Jewish people to the incense offered in the Temple which was crafted from both sweet and bitter smelling ingredients, the message is that communal Jewish prayer must be inclusive of everyone - even those who we deem to have made grievous mistakes - and especially during prayers for forgiveness and repair.

This can sound self-righteous and patronizing, of course, to those who think differently than we do. Look at us, how we’re willing to stand in the same place as you who we consider to be sinners! But keep in mind that this line is chanted on behalf of everyone in the room. Including you. Including me. The resentment and disaffection runs in all directions. Maybe this opening, tone-setting line of liturgy summons us all to do better in the work of building a unified Jewish community, a united Jewish people - in all our manifold virtues and vices. 

And then there’s the line that follows Kol Nidre: 

וְנִסְלַח לְכָל עֲדַת בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל וְלַגֵּר הַגָּר בְּתוֹכָם כִּי לְכָל הָעָם בִּשְׁגָגָה:

“Forgive the entire Jewish people and the stranger amongst them; for everyone has sinned by mistake.”

We ask that everyone be let off the hook - even the stranger among us, or those who have become like strangers to us - because we all sinned by accident. Really? Every misdeed, every hard word, every misguided opinion - none of us can claim to have meant it? Yes, part of repenting is acknowledging that we sometimes act rashly and that good intentions can often lead to bad outcomes. But this line of our prayers can also be patronizing to those who claim their opinions with integrity, regardless of how those opinions might conflict with the ones we endorse. 

And so we’re left with the same question: how do I make my collective Jewish home with those whose Jewish identity I find so troubling? How can I identify with those who to me - on the far left and on the far right - have betrayed what it means to be a Jew? With those on both extremes who I feel have compromised my moral and spiritual and Zionist values by acting in my name? Must I really; can I honestly, say “Ashamnu”? 

I can. I must. Here’s why. And here’s how. 

1. As Rabbi Heschel taught, “In a free society, few are guilty, but all are responsible.”

There is a huge difference between personal guilt and collective responsibility; between causing the damage and helping to clean up the mess. Let’s take a page out of history: we often cite the rabbinic explanation for the destruction of the first Temple which was that the Jews sinned by committing idolatry, adultery, and murder, and for the second Temple’s fall which was because we hated each other so much. It can’t be that every single Jew was guilty of these sins. I also find it hard to accept the belief that ancient Jerusalem was destroyed - or that any tragedy happened to the Jews - as a punishment by God for our sins. 

But can I consider the possibility that ancient Jewish society became lax around certain fundamental ethical and spiritual standards which led to a weakening of Jewish unity and maybe even of Jewish resolve, rendering us vulnerable to the attacks of those who sought our destruction? In our own day, can we consider the notion that we are all responsible for the weakening of Jewish and Israeli unity, for the internal chaos and divisiveness which put us at risk from those sworn to our destruction who were just waiting for the right time to strike, regardless of whichever specific sins we may or may not be guilty of? A splintering which continues to make us vulnerable? 

Drawing from another lesson we ought to have learned from previous Jewish tragedies, the Rabbis teach that any generation that ignores its responsibility to rebuild the Temple is considered to have destroyed it. What might those of us who are not interested in a third Temple learn from such a statement? We learn this: hard and daunting as it may be, when we fail to address the fissures in our families, the fractures in our communities, and the failures of our leaders, we become complicit in the consequences. For our dangerous divides and for neglecting to heal them, “Ashamnu”. We have all sinned. 

2. Opting out of Jewish unity is not an option for any of us. 

We can no more take that road than those we blame for choosing it themselves. Even more than the High Holy Days, the most widely observed Jewish festival is Pesach. Why? Not just because its main ritual doesn’t involve sitting in long services and listening to a sermon, but because its core observance brings families and friends together for a great meal and interesting conversation. In that conversation we inevitably come to the part about what it means to be wise, wicked, simple, or one who doesn’t know how to ask. And what is it, after all, that incriminates the rasha, the wicked child? It’s not the question about the meaning and value of Jewish tradition, because the wise one asks the same question. It’s the formulation of the question - מָה הָעֲבוֹדָה הַזּאֹת לָכֶם? לָכֶם – וְלֹא לוֹ/ What does all this Jewish practice and service mean to YOU? To you, and not to them. Their sin was removing themselves from the community to whom they are inextricably bound, just as we are all to each other, in spite of how any of us might behave.

A few weeks ago I heard part of an interview with Rachel Golberg-Polin who we all know is the mother of Hersh, z”l, who was murdered in Hamas captivity. She shared a poignant story about her mother, a woman she described as innocent, as always trying to see the good in everyone. She asked her mother to guess how many of the 68 Knesset Members in this current coalition sent them a personal message of condolence - a phone call, a text, even just one word “tanchumim/condolences” or one simple heart emoji of sympathy? Her mother guessed 68. The answer was 1. Two form letters, but just one measly Whatsapp.

With her inimitable dignity and poise, Rachel shared that she’s not angry; she’s not hurt. What she is, is worried. As she said, “I don’t think they hate me. I don’t think they hate Hersh. I don't think they wanted Hersh dead. So it’s concerning because it’s not proper behaviour. It’s not human decency. It’s not giving dignity to a family that lost a humongous piece of their identity and their life.”

Her story haunts me. We may each feel we’ve found our own Jewish paths as individuals. But we’ve lost our way as a people. I don’t want to sever ties with other Jews - even those I profoundly disagree with - such that when they may hurt one day, I will be immune to their suffering. And I don't want to help create a Jewish world such that when I am in pain, those who disagree with my politics or my beliefs fail to offer me comfort. For distancing ourselves from those with whom we profoundly, resolutely, even furiously disagree, “Ashamnu”. We have all sinned. 

3. Abandoning those with whom we are in conflict is a deeper betrayal of Judaism than any position a Jewish adversary of ours may take. 

On a recent podcast Shalom Hartman President Yehuda Kurtzer described how while it seems like just yesterday we were arguing over Jewish bodies - who is Jewish and who isn’t - today we’re arguing over Jewish ideas - what’s an authentic Jewish position and what isn’t.  And that is not a Jewish argument.

Judaism doesn’t profess to have any theological or ideological prerequisites to being recognized as a Jew. This is the legacy of spiritual and intellectual humility bequeathed to us in that moment on Sinai when Moshe asks to see God’s face and is told,  לא יראני האדם וחי/no one can see God’s face and live. No one, not even Moshe, could ever claim to know exactly what God looks like, or what God is, (or even if God is), or exactly what God wants of us. I once heard Rabbi Sharon Cohen Anisfeld teach that this is the essence of the opening words of our Shabbat morning amidah:  ישמח משה במתנת חלקו -- that Moshe was - and will be - satisfied with the gift of his portion - his piece, his fragment, of wisdom.

Though we may - and by our own tradition’s command we must - fight, and fight hard, for what we believe is right and good, this humility should ideally remind us that no one has a monopoly on God or truth; that all of us are, in the end, seekers of truth, and are only in possession of partial, incomplete understandings; understandings which evolve and often change over time.

It’s not just conflict that threatens the Jewish people, Israel, Canada, the US, or any other nation; it’s not just differences of opinion on war, border security, immigration, gun control, or healthcare that threaten us. Conflict can actually be a sign of a healthy society; one in which people of all kinds care enough to debate and advocate for matters of ultimate urgency. What does threaten us is the broad lack of awareness permeating our politics and our civic life that all any of us have, at best, is a portion of the truth, a limited view, a glimpse of only the back. 

At its core, Jewish unity isn’t about intellectual or philosophical purity tests. It’s about being a caring community. It’s about bringing food to people in mourning or visiting those who are sick. It’s about dancing at each other’s simchas. It’s about picking up each other’s kids when we’re running late. Jewish unity doesn’t demand uniformity. It demands hesed/compassion, from the Latin, compati - to suffer with.

As Yehuda argued, we make dangerous mistakes when we conflate our ideology (what we believe) with our identity (our family, friends, and community). These things can and should live in separate spheres so that our relationships, the essential tool of Jewish unity, can survive and even thrive amidst difference. It is possible to feel bound to one another and not feel implicated by the radically different choices we may each make. For parents who have kids making what might feel like very painful, disloyal, even dangerous, choices - whether about Israel or any other facet of Jewish life - salvaging family unity means seeing our kids as more than mere extensions of ourselves; seeing them as independent human beings who need to understand and take responsibility for their own actions, just as in every other realm of life. It does NOT mean diminishing our efforts to teach them what we believe and care about most. But, as you likely know if you've been blessed to bring life into this world, it also doesn’t mean conditioning our relationship to our children on their acceptance of our beliefs and concerns.

Nothing about this is easy. It’s precisely when our differences with those we love feel hard and threatening that the hard and threatening work of remaining united demands our attention. And sometimes, Yehuda suggested, the work can become the very outcome we seek. For example, if we want to be able to share Shabbat meals and have challenging conversations with those with whom we disagree, then we should invite each other to Shabbat dinner or lunch and have the hard conversations! We have to live the answers, not just dream them.

Professor Deborah Barer reminds us that back when the Sages were far from secure in their leadership of what became Rabbinic Judaism - when the Rabbis themselves were the ones on the margins - they faced fierce opponents from a demographic known as the amei ha’aretz; people who not only disagreed with their values and undermined their authority but whose ritual practices in such areas as food and purity were different - two aspects of religious life with serious consequences for observant Jews. But the Rabbis were not primarily concerned with fighting their opponents. They, like us, were worried about their children abandoning the values they held most dear.

For the most part, the way the Rabbis went about strengthening their vision in the face of these challenges was to keep practicing what they preached in what Prof. Barer calls "boundaried coexistence” with the amei haa’retz. They debated whether and what kind of social interaction was acceptable, and erected certain boundaries that were helpful in negotiating their differences. But mostly they focused on building, not on fighting. As she writes, “Rather than focusing on defending their vision of Judaism, they focused on living it.” To be sure, the Talmud records episodes of the Rabbis getting angry, even vilifying their opponents. But they invested the vast majority of their intellectual, spiritual and communal energies in trying to figure out how a Jew should live, how a Jew should behave.

In our Jewish world today, boundaried coexistence may be a helpful model. There are spaces we may not be able to share with people who feel fundamentally opposed to us. I’m never going to an IJV rally. I will not join a shul where they don’t say the prayer for the State of Israel. That doesn’t mean I don’t believe in or have the obligation to uphold the value of Klal Yisrael - the unity of the Jewish people - despite deep individual or group differences.

Barer argues that those of us who believe in an Israel capable of embodying what we feel are the most noble Jewish ethics and ideals should take a page out of this talmudic analysis. Rather than put our capital into fighting those whose visions of Israel betray ours, whether anti-Zionists or right-wing ultra nationalists, rather than arguing over which ideas are Jewish and which aren’t, we should be doing the hard and complicated work of building the Israel we believe is possible. We should be teaching our children, guiding our grandchildren, and inspiring our friends and communities to realize the dream of Israel; to fulfill the potential embedded in her miraculous rebirth; to support Israel’s healing and safety; and to help ensure that it fulfills its responsibilities, its pledges, and its destiny. For seeking consistency over cohesion; uniformity over unity, “Ashamnu”. We have all sinned.

You might think this sounds naive. That’s your choice. But remember that choice comes with its own consequences. Oy vavoy lanu if we fail once again to learn the lessons of our ancient past - and that of our own times - and let our differences distract us from the urgent work that awaits. “Never again" doesn't only mean that never again should we suffer; it also means: never again should we allow our internal divisions to make us vulnerable to external threats. 

These are the Yamim Noraim, “Days of Awe”, but they can easily be translated as “Days of Fear”. We can’t let fear lead us to make dangerous choices around Jewish unity. Different as some of us may be, angry and resentful as we cause each other to feel, we have to live - and love - from hope. From the singular hope - Hatikvah - that the Jewish people will emerge from this time of divisive darkness into a unifying light; that we will find a way back to a world who cares more about the safety and dignity of all who share this planet more than they wish to blame us for all their ills; that Israel will once again gather the world into a vision of justice, of freedom, and of peace; that we will move from the language of “Ashamnu”/We have sinned” to the language of “anu amecha”/We, all of us, together, united, are your people”.

Shanah Tovah.