Kol Nidre Sermon: An Invitation to Judaism, Despite it All

Rabbi Daniel Gropper, Community Synagogue of Rye, 5786

Good Yontif. During the time of Napoleon, a boy was born in Poland. His arrival brought his family so much joy that they gave him a name to reflect it: Simcha. It quickly became clear that Simcha was an ilui, a child prodigy, and someone worth listening to. In time, Simcha became a great and influential Hasidic rebbe. One of his most famous teachings tries to get us to balance humility and ego:  “A person should always carry two slips of paper, one in each pocket. “On one you should inscribe the words, ‘for my sake the world was created.’ On the other hand you should write: ‘I am but dust and ashes.’ Depending on the circumstance, you take out and read the necessary slip.”

Life is filled with contradictions and we live in a world perfectly made for Simcha’s teaching. We want more time, but we waste what we have. We long for freedom of choice, but too many choices paralyze us. We chase success to be happy, but often sacrifice happiness to find success. We are more connected than ever, yet loneliness is epidemic. We want meaning, but distract ourselves with trivial games, entertainment, and inconsequential ramblings. We fear change, but also fear the status quo.  

Paradoxes are all over Judaism. Judaism invites us into a ritual practice and a moral vocabulary that is particular to the Jewish people even as it asks us to imagine a world of universal possibilities and to consider deeply our obligations to the world beyond the Jewish people. Judaism constantly fears the end of the Jewish people, while embodying its miraculous endurance. Judaism says: embrace this tribe that feels more targeted than ever while at the same time, feels incredibly safe being with fellow members who will always claim you as family. And of course the greatest paradox of Judaism is that we are compelled to love and support a homeland that is constantly threatened, but whose government keeps making choices that have led  the Western world to view it as a pariah. Leaning into Judaism today is to embrace paradox itself — choosing a people at once vulnerable and resilient, ancient and modern, particular and universal. But maybe Jews know that within paradox is where we find truth. 

Yes, being and doing Jewish is a study in paradox. Our liturgy for these days is but one example. Avinu Malkeinu: “our parent, our sovereign.” Which is it? Intimate parent or distant ruler? Or the Unetaneh Tokef.  “Who shall live and who shall die?”  A stark inventory of human fragility. But then it ends with a reassuring, and contradictory, coda: repentance, prayer, and charity, living a life of spiritual discipline, tempers the severity of what will come our way.” Our fate is largely out of our hands and still, we have the means to mitigate what will come. Even the haunting Kol Nidre lifts up the paradoxical challenge before us. We acknowledge the vows we won’t keep, yet, paradoxically, the act of confessing invites us to renew promises. These paradoxes illustrate why Judaism is not to be limited to a pediatric understanding. No matter how smart a 13 year old might be, it is difficult if not impossible for children to hold two contradictory truths at the same time; yet one more argument for why Jewish learning should not stop at bar or bat mitzvah. 

In her new book, As A Jew, Author Sarah Hurwitz takes up the paradoxes faced by  many Jews today, at least those of us who live outside of Israel: How can we reconcile the beauty of Judaism with surging antisemitism from both the right and the left? How can we even understand the State of Israel, let alone love her? And how do we address my biggest concern, which is that in a world that seems to have less and less ability to hold paradox, many Jews will throw out the baby with the bathwater and abandon Judaism altogether; if they have not already done so. 

Hurwitz observes that in order to avoid the paradoxes that come with living a Jewish life, we often run away from them. In the time of Reb Simcha Bunem, many Jews took Napoleon’s offer of French citizenship and all the rights that came with it. In exchange, they jettisoned their traditional ways. But they still wanted to remain Jews. So they figured out a way. To paraphrase Jewish enlightenment thinker Yehuda Leib Gordon: they would be “ אנשים בצאת ויהודים באוהליהם people on the street and Jews in the home” Hear that phrasing for a moment. “People on the street and Jews in the home.” A paradox? Yes. And also a diminution of our Judaism as a price for “acceptance.” They prioritized  “personhood”, universality, over being a Jew.

The Judaism they came up with, as anyone who grew up in a classical Reform synagogue knows, took on a Protestant shape. We said, they have a church. We’ll have a church. We’ll just call it a synagogue or even better, a temple. We said, They have some holidays. So do we. They have God. We also have God. They have ministers; we have rabbis; but we dress them like ministers. Their ministers give sermons, ours will too. They have an organ and choir. So will we! We even codified it in writing. Hear the words of our movement’s 1885 Pittsburgh Platform, “Today we accept as binding only Judaism’s moral laws, and maintain only such ceremonies as elevate and sanctify our lives.” This Protestent-ization of Judaism was one of the greatest paradoxes of all, especially given Martin Luther’s virulent antisemitism. But interestingly, it worked, at least it did here in America. Or so we thought. You see, instead of being a person on the street and a Jew in the home, many Jews opted to be a person on the street and a person in the home. Sure, we’d have some trappings of Judaism in our homes: a mezuzah on the front door (maybe), a menorah, a kiddush cup that arrived as a wedding gift, maybe a set of Shabbat candlesticks. They’d be on a bookcase or in a cabinet, taken out on holidays and special occasions. But more often than not, they were looked at like museum pieces rather than ritual objects to be used and used again. As Hurwitz puts it, “My Jewish background looked as follows: three boring holidays and one fun one; two texts: the book you currently hold in your hand and the thing on the scrolls called the Torah; three or four universalistic values: Don't lie, cheat, or steal; help the poor. And remember the Holocaust.” Hurwitz adds, “Understandably, I walked away from that as a young person. To me, it was pointless.”

Fast forward to today. If Jews today could be fully and completely accepted in every area of American life, if we had essentially erased the paradox of being a person in the home and a Jew on the street, why, in the wake of October 7th, would so many young Jews reject Zionism, a fundamental pillar of post-war Judaism? Why would our students have joined the encampments on campus? Why would they have chanted “from the river to the sea?” What Sarah Hurwitz discovered blew my mind, for I had never thought about it this way. Simply put, it is all about trying to be accepted by the wider society, to “save ourselves,” so to speak. And it all stems from a response to antisemitism; not an antisemitism like that of Haman or Hitler where others are trying to kill us but an antisemitism that essentially asks us to kill ourselves, or at least, to kill the part of ourselves that makes us different.  

Here’s how this has worked throughout the ages. Between the time of Jesus and Constantine, early Christians sought to Christianize the Roman Empire. The obstacle? The Jews. So we could save ourselves by converting. The Communists dreamed of a classless Brotherhood of Man. The obstacle? The “capitalist” Jews. We could now save ourselves by becoming communists. The Nazis envisioned a pure Aryan fatherland. The obstacle? The “race-polluting” Jews. To the Nazis, there was no distinction between home and street. We were Jews. There was no way to save ourselves. Today in America, right-wing white Christian nationalists long for a restored white Christian civilization. The obstacle? Us; the Jews “importing” Black and Brown immigrants — the lie at the heart of the Great Replacement conspiracy. Like the Nazis in Germany, to these white supremacists, there is no way to save ourselves. But on the left, there is. For progressives, their grand moral project is one of anticolonialism and antiracism. The obstacle? Those racist, colonialist Zionists. 

How then do many young Jews today quote “save themselves” from antisemitism? By becoming anti-Zionists. If you learned about antisemitism in religious school, the focus was entirely centered around the Holocaust. And when you define bad and evil as the murder of six million, you might not even recognize antisemitism in its more subtle forms, especially when it comes from the left. Not on campus. Not in school. Not even among your friends. What many young Jews now see on campus does not necessarily even register as antisemitism. Many young Jews say, “Growing up, my rabbi and my parents told me Israel was great, a light to the nations. I got to campus, and I’m told--in and out of the classroom--that Israel is a settler-colonialist entity, no different than the Nazis, and Nazis are the bad guys. So I saw the light. I had an epiphany. I took anti-Zionism into my heart, and now I'm saved. And their non-Jewish classmates say, “Yes, you are saved.” Like the prophet Jonah who repeatedly runs from his calling to do God’s bidding, we are constantly running from who we are at our core because of fear, because we want to be accepted, or because we just don’t want to be persecuted anymore. 

Yet here, perhaps, is the greatest paradox of all. Being an anti-Zionist and hanging with anti-Zionists on campus will not save you. It will not make you accepted. Antisemitism is the oldest hatred. It goes back to the time of Abraham and Sarah when Abraham was called an Ivri, the outsider, the one from over there which the rabbi’s interpreted to mean that the whole world was on one side while he was on the other.” Today’s anti-Zionism is just the latest iteration of a pernicious, shape-shifting threat that seeks to “otherize” and demonize the Jew, to “otherize” and demonize us. Antisemitism is not going away. Most of us just had a 70-year reprieve which is why we find it so challenging and even unbelievable. 

I want to be very clear to any young people who may be hearing this or reading it later. It is hard to be a supporter of Israel right now, paradoxical, even.  For me, this is deeply personal.  With a son in the IDF, I have found the actions and statements of Prime Minister Netanyahu and many of his ministers over the past months deeply troubling, outright unconscionable and spiritually bankrupt. But we are a people, a family. And Jews don’t abandon their people. You can criticize them. Hopefully you can call them in but as Jews, we don’t abandon our family. Period. The Israelis I know, whether deeply secular or orthodox, are in deep emotional pain right now. They feel abandoned by the world. They feel their government is making them into a pariah state for what, they no longer know, and they are very very lonely. We all know what it’s like to be lonely. In those moments we yearn for someone to say, “you are not alone,” even and especially when the tempest whirls around you.

What then will save us? I know I sound like a broken record but it’s the same answer that has saved us for 2000 years. Learning. Jewish food won’t save us, besides, all Jewish food is just a repurposing of the local food to fit our dietary constraints. Ethnicity won’t save us. Ethnicity wears thin after three or four generations. Culture won’t save us. The borscht belt humor of the last century plays only among a smaller and smaller subset of Jews. Tradition won’t save us. What has kept Judaism moving forward has been our ability to adapt. And God won’t save us at least not in an interventionist kind of way. What has kept Judaism thriving and vibrant for thousands of years is our ability to learn, to teach and to continue making sense of these ancient texts. That’s it. I know that for some, it is more exciting to put out fires than to plant trees - and it feels that since Charlotsville in 2017, the Jewish community has acted as a fire brigade instead of a crew of tree planters. But it’s time to put some oxygen back into the system. So here comes the pitch.

For the last 20 years I have offered a going-away present to our graduating seniors. “Take a Jewish studies class on campus,” I say, “and I will pay for your books.”  I do this because I know that you can’t get Judaism from a tweet or a TikTok. I do this because to really get to know this beautiful tradition of ours you’re going to have to read some books, watch some videos or listen to some podcasts. I do this because I know that if you’re taking a class for credit, you’re going to pay attention. Now, I know that a number of our graduates have taken Jewish studies classes in college. Either they or some of you have proudly told me. But do you know how many have sent me their receipts in 20 years? Two. Clearly college students don’t need the money. (there’s no time limit, maybe you forgot, the offer is still good) Maybe you do. So to everyone here, including those on our livestream, if you read a Jewish book - a real book, a meaningful book - send me the receipt. I will reimburse you. And if you’re wondering what to read, what to watch, or what to listen to, suggested reading, video and podcast lists will be the focus of our Shabbat message tomorrow and will live on our website. 

Some here might want to go deeper, the way Sarah Hurwitz did. In three weeks Our Jewish Information Class begins. It is 14 sessions long running through the end of May. Find out what lights you up. 

There is one group I want to address directly. Those who are not yet naturalized Jewish citizens; that is, those who are not Jewish or who are Jewish adjacent. Eighteen years ago I gave a sermon from this pulpit called, “Honoring the Intermarried.” In that sermon I said the following: “In my time as a rabbi I have witnessed time and time again the dedication of non-Jews who are committed to raising Jewish children – driving carpool, sending them to Hebrew school, to Jewish summer camp, and taking them to Israel. You are, in my opinion, the real heroes of Jewish life. You are raising a generation of Jews often at the expense of your own religious upbringing. As a community we need to include you and to honor you for your commitment and even for your self-sacrifice.” At the end of that sermon I blessed all those who once upon a time fell in love with a Jewish person, agreed to create a Jewish home and raise Jewish kids.

I still stand by those words. But I realize that since that time, I didn’t put the welcome mat out with a real invitation. So here goes: consider adopting this Jewish family as your own. You already know how Judaism can deepen your spiritual and moral life, improve the world, and allow you to join with others who have the same lofty aims. Now consider joining this family for real.

I am aware of the obstacles. Some don’t feel strongly enough about religion in general to pledge their faith to another religion in good conscience. Conversely, others may feel powerfully drawn to Jews and Judaism, but worry that converting would cause untold familial upset. You may still find yourself in possession of a particular faith that you simply cannot deny or give up. I honor all that. At the same time, I am often told that in some cases, the invitation was all that was lacking. Please see this as your invitation. We want you to join us. We want you to be a part of our family, to be a part of this people, to be part of something larger than yourself. Besides, as I like to say about those who choose Judaism, our imports are always better than our exports. 

You might be thinking, “Now!? I can’t think of a worse time to become Jewish.” 

Soon after October 7, a member of this community came to see me. She told me she wanted to become Jewish. I looked at her and said, “you’ve picked a heck of a time.”  She said, “that’s exactly the point. My husband is Jewish. My children are Jewish. How can I be separate and different from them at a time like this?”  She was right. I cannot think of a better time. This might be the greatest paradox of all. It is in the darkest times that we need others to remind us what we have is worth adopting. 

As for the actual process - please don’t worry that you don’t have what it takes. When you want to join a gym, they don’t say, “Get in shape and then join a gym.” They say, “Join the gym and we’ll get you in shape.”  So join our Jewish Information class. See us as your Jewish Personal Trainers. And it isn’t just for those who want to adopt Judaism. It’s for those who are Jewish, those who are Jew-ish and those who are just Jewish-curious. It is our learning, this book that has kept us growing and thriving. So learn a little. And don’t worry, you don’t have to become religious (whatever that means). With Judaism - unlike other religions - God is actually optional. 

So we return to what this night is all about. Tonight is about holding the paradoxes of life - the world was created for my sake and I am but dust and ashes. Tonight we do not seek perfection, we seek belonging. Here then is my invitation: If you are Jewish by birth, through adoption, or still standing at the threshold, come in. The door is open. If you love Israel with all of your heart or If you love Israel with all of your heart or find the actions of her leadership appalling, come in. The door is open. If you struggle with what is in the Torah, the Mahzor, or with God, come in. The door is open. 

To be Jewish is to be a God-wrestler—literally—and we’ve been wrestling with God for 4000 years, ever since Jacob had his name changed to Israel. To be Jewish is to carry the paradoxes of pride AND concern, certainty AND doubt—and still, through it all, to choose this people, over and over and over again. Please, come in. Help us shoulder this story that is larger than any one of us. There is always a seat at the table. The door is always open. Our people are lonely and we feel very alone. We need you all right now. Please, come in. Class starts in 20 days. Amen.