Yom Kippur 5786

Kol Nidrei, Erev Yom Kippur 5786 (2025)

Tonight we begin the holiest day in the Jewish calendar. The day that is called not merely a festival, nor even just a fast, but Yom HaKippurim – the Day of the Atonements. It is plural, not singular, because it speaks to multiple levels: the atonement between us and God, between us and one another, and even between us and our own deepest selves.

Our tradition is profoundly realistic about human nature. The Torah never pretends that we are perfect, nor that we are capable of living without fault. Instead, it recognises that sin – chet in Hebrew – is a part of the human condition. But what exactly is sin in Judaism? And how does forgiveness work? And why does this night, and this coming day, hold such extraordinary spiritual power?

The rabbis, in their wisdom, identified different levels of wrongdoing. The Torah itself uses a variety of terms: chet, avon, and pesha. Each one speaks of a different spiritual state.

- Chet means “to miss the mark”. It is a sin of error, a mistake, a moment of failing to live up to who we truly are. It is when we fall short, often without intention, but still with consequence.
- Avon comes from a root meaning “distortion, or bending”. This is not merely an accident, but an actual distortion – when our desires or habits lead us astray, when we bend what is right to suit our own comfort.
- Pesha is the most severe, and it means transgression or rebellion. It is wilful defiance, when a person knowingly and deliberately sets themselves against what is godly, against truth, or against morality.

Rabbi Moshe Cordovero, the great 16th-century kabbalist of Safed, explained that each level of sin creates a different kind of blemish in the soul and in the fabric of the cosmos. But he also taught that teshuvah – return – has the power to repair even the deepest fracture.

The Zohar, a central text of Kabbalah, speaks of teshuvah not only as a turning back, but as a return to our divine root. To do teshuvah is to realign ourselves with the source of life itself.

Yom Kippur does not atone for sins between one human being and another until we seek forgiveness directly. The Mishnah (Yoma 8:9) states: “For transgressions between a person and God, Yom Kippur atones; but for transgressions between a person and their fellow, Yom Kippur does not atone until they appease their fellow.”

This is a remarkable theological stance, because it posits that God self-limits divine power. God will not forgive us unless we have first reconciled with one another. The vertical axis of repentance depends upon the horizontal axis. The Divine waits for us to heal with one another.

Too often, Yom Kippur is spoken of in terms of fear. The gates are closing, the Book of Life is being sealed, our fate hangs in the balance. But the mystics saw it differently. They called Yom Kippur not only a day of awe, but also a day of love. The Zohar calls it Yoma de-Chibura – the Day of Union. For on this day, the barriers between us and God are thinned. We fast not to punish the body, but to allow the soul to shine more clearly. We abstain from ordinary life not because life is bad, but because we seek to taste eternity.

The Baal Shem Tov once said that teshuvah is not about becoming someone else. It is about becoming more fully yourself. On Yom Kippur, we do not seek to erase who we are. We seek to return to who we were always meant to be.

It takes courage to admit fault. It takes even greater courage to forgive. To forgive is not to condone. It is not to forget. It is to release the hold that another’s actions have upon our soul. Forgiveness is freedom – for the forgiver as much as for the forgiven.

The mystics remind us that God forgives us not because we are worthy, but because forgiveness is woven into the fabric of creation. The prophet Isaiah says, “Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall become white as snow” (Isaiah 1:18). The act of teshuvah is an act of radical hope.

So tonight, as we stand on the threshold of Yom Kippur, let us remember:

- That sin has levels – from mistake, to distortion, to rebellion – but none beyond repair.
- That teshuvah is older than the world itself, a gift created before creation.
- That forgiveness requires us to reach out to one another, not just to God.
- That Yom Kippur is not a day of fear, but a day of love, union, and possibility.

And let us take courage. For the gates of repentance are always open, and no soul is ever too far gone to return home.

May this Yom Kippur bring you clarity, courage, and compassion. And may we all be written and sealed in the Book of Life – not only for survival, but for lives of depth, holiness, and joy.

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Yom Kippur Morning 5786 (2025)

Yom Kippur asks for nothing less than our truth. It peels away the noise, the pride, the little evasions, until we are left with a very simple question: who are you becoming?

Our tradition gives us a compass for that question in the Thirteen Attributes of Mercy—those words that God teaches Moses after the incident with the Golden Calf: “compassionate and gracious, slow to anger, abundant in kindness and truth…” They are usually called God’s “ways”, but perhaps, this year, we might hear them differently—not as a portrait to admire at a distance, but as methods we can practise, habits to build into the fabric of the soul, ways we can work with ourselves and one another.

This shift matters. If the Attributes are only God’s, they console us but do not change us. If they are also methods to work with, then they become tools in our hands. Halting, human, clumsy hands—but hands that can learn.

Let us consider for a moment where the Attributes arise in the story. Moses comes down from Sinai, sees a people drunk on fear and molten certainty, and smashes the first tablets. Then he climbs again. On the second attempt the text gives us no thunder, only mercy. The Torah does not deny judgement; it teaches rehabilitation. The question implied is: what kind of practices can hold a community together after rupture? The Thirteen Attributes are an answer—each one a small discipline that can be learned in daily life.

“Compassionate” (rachum): In Hebrew, the root evokes the womb. Compassion is visceral; it says, “another’s pain concerns me.” As a method, it begins with attention. We can train ourselves to ask, before reacting, “what might this person be carrying?” Perhaps that colleague’s sharp email was written after a hospital visit; perhaps that child’s tantrum is weariness in costume. Compassion is not naïveté; it is curiosity in service of care.

“Gracious” (chanun): Grace is the art of giving more than is strictly owed. It asks: where can I be generous when no one is keeping score? In families, it sounds like, “I’ll take the washing up tonight.” In congregational life, it sounds like volunteering first. Grace is not a feeling; it is a habit of offering.

“Slow to anger” (erech apayim): The image is of long nostrils. As a method, it is timed breathing and deferred response. Count to ten; draft but do not send; sleep before you click “post”. Slowing anger does not deny injustice; it refuses combustion as our default modus operandi. The mystics might say that every moment of restraint creates a bubble in which a better choice can be made.

“Abundant in kindness and truth” (rav chesed ve’emet): Kindness without truth can be sentimental; truth without kindness can be cruel. So, we braid them. We tell hard truths in soft ways; we hold standards without humiliating people; we decline invitations that deplete us without shaming the asker. In a community, kindness-and-truth looks like policies that are humane and clear, and conversations that are both honest and gentle.

“Forgiving iniquity, transgression, and sin” (nosei avon vafesha vechata’ah): Our tradition is realistic about the fractures that need forgiving. It even has a taxonomy. Chet is missing the mark; avon is distortion; pesha is defiance. Each harms differently; each can be healed. But there is a condition: for wrongs between people, Yom Kippur does not atone until we seek one another’s pardon. The vertical axis depends upon the horizontal. Heaven waits for us to do the earthly work. 

And yet, alongside this rigor, there is a daring promise. The rabbis say that “the essence of the day atones”—itzumo shel yom mechaper. Simply reaching Yom Kippur can wash us in innocence, not as a reward for merit, but as a ‘gift’ that makes change possible. That is not indulgence; it is God’s vote of confidence in human potential. We do not begin the work of teshuvah from a pit of unworthiness, but from a platform of worth. It is easier to change from strength than from shame. 

This interplay—discipline and gift—frames the Attributes as methods. They, like much else in Judaism, are not an abstract theology; they are a training programme for the heart.

So, what might it mean to practise them this year?

Firstly, we can practise compassion by attending to the innocents. When Abraham pleads for Sodom, he argues for the sake of the righteous: if there are fifty, forty, ten… spare the city. God, in the book of Jonah, pleads for Nineveh for the sake of the innocent—those who “do not know their right hand from their left,” and even the animals. Abraham’s argument looks back to merits already earned; God’s looks forward to possibilities not yet realised. If we adopt that method, we will ask not only, “who deserves my patience?” but also, “whose future requires my patience?” In our homes and our public life, centring the innocent changes the equation: we protect children from adult quarrels; we build policies around the vulnerable; we pursue peace now because resentment, if left to ripen, will be inherited. 

Secondly, we can practise grace by making the first move. Rambam teaches that apology is not a speech but a sequence: confession, repair, resolve. That method is portable. Before we ask God to forgive us for gossip, we phone the person we harmed; before we plead for a second chance, we give someone else their second chance; before we fast, we feed. Yom Kippur then becomes less about spiritual theatre and more about moral choreography. The day does not replace teshuvah; it empowers it. The gift of innocence restores our footing so that our steps towards change are steady.

Thirdly, we can practise slowness of anger by refusing to make enemies easily. We live in a culture that moves quickly from mistake to malice. The Attributes invite us to ask whether chet, a missing of the mark, is being misread as a pesha, open defiance. That reframe does not excuse harm; it rightsizes it. It makes apology believable and forgiveness feasible.

Fourthly, we can practise “abundant kindness and truth” by holding both past and future in our judgement. Some of us are experts in our own prosecution, and we keep meticulous ledgers of failure. The lesson from Nineveh is that God counts differently. The value of a person is not their balance sheet of merits alone; it is the open horizon of potential. Imagine if we treated one another that way: as beings whose next, best chapter is still available. Imagine how that would change our teaching, our mentoring, our politics. 

Finally, we can practise forgiveness as an economy of freedom. To forgive is not to forget, and it is certainly not to erase consequences. It is, rather, to release the offending act from the right to colonise our future. As one of the Hasidic masters taught, teshuvah is not about becoming someone else; it is becoming more truly yourself. Forgiveness is fidelity to that self in potentia. 

Of course, none of this is easy. That is why the Attributes are methods, not moods. Methods are learned, practised, repeated. They require a framework.

And our tradition supplies it. The liturgy that we will chant again and again—“Adonai, Adonai, El rachum ve’chanun…”—is not an incantation to wear God down; it is a mantra to wear our habits in. Every repetition is a rehearsal. The fast quiets the body so the rehearsal can be heard. The white clothes and the abstentions are not punishments; they are props that remind us who we are becoming.

And because we are human, the tradition is kind in its realism. It knows that our sins come in kinds, missing the mark, bending what is right, outright rebellion, and it knows that our repairs must be as specific as our wrongs. It also knows that sometimes we will not manage it all. That is why teshuvah was, as the sages say, created before the world. The medicine is built into the fabric of things. We are allowed to begin again. 

But let us not leave the Attributes at the level of piety. Let me offer a small, very human liturgy for the year, to make them practical:

When you feel misread: choose curiosity before certainty - rachum.

When you are in a position to be generous: over-give - chanun.

When your fuse shortens: pause, breathe, write but don’t send - erech apayim.

When you must speak hard truth: wrap it in dignity - chesed ve’emet.

When you are asked for forgiveness: require repair, then release - nosei avon.

When you judge another: consider not only their past, but their potential - the lesson of Jonah’s conversation with God.

When you judge yourself: remember that the day itself grants you a clean slate from which to work - the gift of Yom Kippur. 

There is a Talmudic story that the Torah was given only when Israel named its children as guarantors, and there is another that tells that we were the only group of people actually willing to accept it (another story for another day!) ... our elders taught: we stand as our ancestors’ collateral; our lives must honour their hope. I would take the story one step further. The guarantors are not only our children; they are the people we could yet become. On Yom Kippur, God backs that future version of you and me. The Thirteen Attributes are the terms of the loan: compassion, grace, patience, kindness-and-truth, forgiveness, second chances, and the refusal to write off potential. 

Before Ne’ilah, we will speak of gates closing, an image that can frighten us into haste. But remember another image from the mystics: they hinted at today being Yoma de-Chibura, the Day of Union, perhaps when the distance between heaven and human thins to a thread, perhaps when two lovers (or aspects of one soul) can be brought back together. This is not only a day of awe; it is a day of love. The gates are not prison doors slamming shut; they are a threshold we are invited to cross with intention. We pass through by practising the methods we have named. 

So, as the white of the day brightens and the hours lengthen, let us choose to work with the Thirteen Attributes, not as a portrait of a perfect God to admire, but as a programme for imperfect humans to attempt. Let us make compassion our first reflex and truth-with-kindness our house style. Let us do the hard, humbling work of apology before we ask for absolution, remembering that heaven waits upon our courage. Let us measure one another not only by what has been done, but by what may yet be possible. And let us receive, with gratitude and resolve, the astonishing gift of innocence the day bestows, not as an excuse to slip back, but as a springboard to live forward.

May the One who is compassionate and gracious teach us to be so with one another. May the One who is slow to anger tutor our tempers. May the One abundant in kindness and truth teach us to temper our words. May the One who bears our failings help us to bear one another lightly.

And may we be written and sealed, not merely for life, but for lives that practise these methods, so that when we meet again next Yom Kippur, we recognise in one another faces more patient, more generous, more truthful, and more free.

Gmar chatimah tovah.