This is the sermon I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on Yom Kippur morning, September 21, 2026.

There is a strange thing about the word “I” on Yom Kippur. This is perhaps the most intensely personal day of the Jewish year. We examine our choices. We consider our relationships. We confront the places where we have fallen short. No one else can do our teshuvah for us. No one can apologize in our place. No one can decide for us who we want to become. And yet, when it comes time to confess, Judaism takes the word “I” almost entirely out of our mouths. 

Ashamnu. We have been guilty. Bagadnu. We have betrayed. Gazalnu. We have stolen. Al cheit shechatanu l’fanecha. For the sin that we have committed before You. We. We. We. Even if I did not commit every transgression on the list, I say the words. Even if you did not commit them, you say them too. The person who has been here every Shabbat and the person who had to remember which entrance we use on the High Holidays, all of us stand together and say: we. Because Judaism understands something fundamental about human beings: there is no “I” without a “we.” 

This year, we have been exploring that truth through the words Yachid v’Yachad: Every “I” Strengthens Our “We.” Yachid is the individual. Yachad is together. Jewish life lives in the relationship between them. Hillel expressed that relationship two thousand years ago: Im ein ani li, mi li? Uch’she’ani l’atzmi, mah ani? “If I am not for myself, who will be for me? And if I am only for myself, what am I?” 

Hillel does not ask us to choose. He tells us that we must become fully ourselves, but that we cannot become fully ourselves alone. Be an “I.” Know who you are. Know what you believe. Bring your gifts, your convictions, your questions, your story. Im ein ani li, mi li? If I am not for myself, who will be for me? 

And then Hillel reminds us that a life centered only on the self is somehow incomplete. Uch’she’ani l’atzmi, mah ani? If I am only for myself, what am I? Maybe because who we are is always, in some way, a product of who we have been with. 

There is a beautiful verse in Exodus, spoken as the Israelites prepare to build the Mishkan, the sacred space that will accompany them through the wilderness. God says, V’asu li mikdash v’shachanti b’tocham — “Let them make Me a sanctuary, that I may dwell among them.” The Torah does not say, “Build Me a sanctuary so I can dwell in it.” It says b’tocham — I will dwell among them. 

The holiness was never really about the structure. It was about the people. The Mishkan was sacred because people brought something of themselves to create it. One brought gold. Another silver. Another fabric. Another skill. Another labor. No one person could build the whole thing. No single contribution was the Mishkan. But together, something emerged that none of them could have created alone. 

V’shachanti b’tocham. I will dwell among them. Maybe that is what community is supposed to be. 

Not a place where we disappear into a collective, but a place where what each of us brings becomes part of something larger. My voice does not become less important because yours is here. My story does not become less meaningful because yours is different. The opposite is true. Together, our voices become a community. Together, our stories become a people. And together is how Jews have always survived. 

There is an ancient teaching in Pirkei Avot: Al tifrosh min hatzibbur — do not separate yourself from the community. I used to hear that primarily as an obligation: stay connected. Show up. Do your part. I hear something else in it this year. It is also a promise. Do not separate yourself from the community, because you do not have to carry everything alone. 

There are moments when someone else will have strength when yours is depleted. Someone else will sing when you cannot find the melody. Someone else will believe when you are struggling to believe. Someone else will remember the story when you have forgotten it. Someone else will hold hope for you until you are ready to take it back. That is what it means to be yachad. 

There are prayers we simply cannot say alone. Torah cannot be read publicly alone. Kaddish cannot be recited alone. Judaism has built into its very structure the insistence that at the most important moments of our lives, other people must be there. When we celebrate, community celebrates with us. When we are sick, community visits us. When we welcome new life, community rejoices with us. When we mourn, community quite literally counts itself so that we do not have to say Kaddish alone. 

We need each other. Not because we are weak. Because that is how human beings are made. And perhaps nowhere do we understand that more deeply than in the service we are about to enter. Yizkor. 

In a few moments, many of us will speak the names of people who helped make us who we are. Parents. Grandparents. Siblings. Partners. Children. Friends. Teachers. People whose absence still catches us unexpectedly. Some of those relationships were beautiful. Some were complicated. Some gave us extraordinary gifts. Some gave us lessons we learned precisely because we wanted to live differently. But all of them are part of us. 

That may be the deepest truth of Yizkor: there is no such thing as a completely self-made human being. We are made of other people. We carry someone’s laugh. Someone’s recipe. Someone’s stubbornness. Someone’s courage. Someone’s phrase we swore we would never say and now hear coming out of our own mouths. Someone taught us how to pray. Someone taught us to question. Someone showed us generosity. Someone taught us what kind of parent or partner or friend we wanted to become. The “I” sitting in this sanctuary today is already a “we.” 

And perhaps that is why memory occupies such a sacred place in Judaism. We do not remember simply to look backward. We remember because memory shapes who we become. Zechor yemot olam, binu sh’not dor vador. “Remember the days of old; consider the years of generation after generation.” Moses teaches that remembering previous generations is how we understand our own. 

Yizkor asks us to remember. Yom Kippur asks us what we will do with what we remember. Someday, God willing many years from now, someone will remember us. What will they carry? What part of us will become part of them? 

That is not a question about achievement. I do not think anyone stands at Yizkor thinking, “I really miss her résumé.” We remember who showed up. Who called. Who made room at the table. Who believed in us. Who made us laugh when we desperately needed to laugh. Who stood beside us when life became frightening. Who taught us that we belonged. Who we are becomes what others carry forward. 

That is true of families, and it is true of communities. We are not simply maintaining a synagogue. We are building a Mishkan. We are creating a place where God might dwell b’tocham — among us. 

Every time a child feels at home here, we are building it. Every time someone walks through these doors carrying grief and discovers they do not have to carry it alone, we are building it. Every time someone learns something new, sings a melody they remember from childhood, finds a friend, celebrates a simcha, brings a meal, makes a minyan, teaches a child, visits someone who is ill, welcomes someone who is new, we are building it. 

No one of us is the Mishkan. All of us are. And so my charge for 5787 is simpler than I originally thought it was going to be. Bring what is yours to bring. Bring your voice. Bring your story. Bring your talent. Bring your questions. Bring your children. Bring your wisdom. Bring your weird little expertise that you are absolutely certain nobody needs — because I promise you, eventually, a synagogue will find a use for it. Bring your “I.” 

And then offer it to the “we.” Because someone here needs something you carry. And someday — probably sooner than you expect — you will need something they carry too. 

Im ein ani li, mi li? If I am not for myself, who will be for me? 

Uch’she’ani l’atzmi, mah ani? If I am only for myself, what am I? 

This is Yachid v’Yachad. Who we are. What we become. We become ourselves through one another. Soon we will enter Yizkor and remember the people who became part of us. May we honor them by becoming part of one another: by showing up, by giving what is ours to give, by allowing ourselves to receive what others have to offer. 

May we build a community strong enough to carry us when we need carrying, joyful enough to celebrate with us when life is good, and sacred enough that something greater than any one of us can dwell here. V’asu li mikdash v’shachanti b’tocham. Let us build a sacred place. And may God dwell among us. 

G’mar chatimah tovah.

This is the sermon I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on Kol Nidre, September 20, 2026.

There is a strange thing that happens when we disagree with someone. The longer we go without actually talking to them, the more certain we become that we know exactly what they think.

We know why they made that decision. We know what they really meant in that email. We know what they care about. We know what they don’t care about. We know what they would say if we bothered to ask them, so eventually we stop bothering to ask. And somehow, the person with whom we disagree becomes the person we understand least and are most certain we understand completely. 

I don’t think this is just a synagogue problem. It is everywhere. We choose news sources, social media feeds, neighborhoods, and sometimes friendships that make it increasingly possible to avoid people who see the world differently than we do. We have built echo chambers so effective that we can go through much of our lives without seriously engaging a different opinion. 

And when we do encounter one, we often choose one of two responses. We don’t talk at all, or we retreat behind a screen and let our keyboards become our culture warriors. It’s almost as if every part of the country has developed its own political eruv, and you can carry almost anything inside it except a different opinion. And the most painful part – when the invitation to have a conversation is met with a brick wall: NO. I won’t do that.

I am not going to change the culture of our country from this bimah. But we can change the culture of our community. And I’ll be honest: a place where we cannot have reasonable conflict, talk through disagreement, and remain in relationship is not a synagogue I’d want to lead. 

So there are four words I have said a lot this year: “Come talk to me.” 

Come sit down. Let’s have coffee. Let’s actually talk it through. Not because I expect you to agree with me. Not because I think an hour together will magically convince you that I am right. But because something happens when we sit across from another human being that cannot happen in an email, a Facebook comment, a petition, a hallway complaint, or a conversation about someone instead of with them. 

We encounter a person across the table. And somewhere along the way, we have begun to believe that disagreement releases us from the obligation of relationship. We decide what someone believes before asking. We assume we understand their motives. Sometimes we talk about them with everyone except them. 

Perhaps that’s why Yom Kippur asks us to stop. For twenty-five hours, Judaism takes away our usual escape routes. We stop eating. We stop working. We stop rushing. We stop responding and reacting. And we come here, together, to tell the truth. Not the kind of truth that wins an argument. The kind of truth that might repair a life. 

With Yom Kippur being this great reset of the Jewish year, it’s easy to think it’s just a personal reset. It’s also an opportunity to reset the way we are willing to be with one another. 

There’s an organization I have spent time learning from called Resetting the Table. Their work helps communities navigate deep disagreement, especially when the issues touch our identities, values, fears, and commitments. Their goal is not agreement. Instead, they ask whether we can slow conflict down enough to understand what is actually happening between us. Can we become curious about what’s behind another person’s position? Can we name our differences without turning one another into caricatures? Can we disagree without surrendering relationship? 

Judaism has been asking that question for thousands of years. Pirkei Avot teaches, “Kol machloket shehi l’shem shamayim, sofah l’hitkayem.” Every disagreement that is for the sake of Heaven will endure. Notice what it does not say. It does not say the disagreement will be resolved. It does not say eventually one side will realize the other was right. It says, sofah l’hitkayem. It can endure. 

Our tradition imagines people remaining profoundly divided while our relationships remain intact. It imagines a community strong enough to contain competing opinions, fears, and priorities without requiring that one voice disappear. We have become very good at declaring what we believe. We are less practiced at remaining in relationship with someone who believes differently. 

There are, of course, beliefs and behaviors that require boundaries. Judaism doesn’t demand that we remain in relationship with someone who seeks our harm. But discomfort is not danger, as you may recall from my Yom Kippur sermon last year. Disagreement is not betrayal. Being challenged is not the same thing as being attacked. If everyone who disappoints us becomes someone with whom we will no longer speak, eventually our tables become very small indeed. 

The Talmud offers another model in Beit Hillel and Beit Shammai. They argued about nearly everything. Yet Eruvin 13b teaches that Beit Hillel were nochin va’aluvin, kind and humble, and that they studied both their own opinions and those of Beit Shammai. In fact, they taught Beit Shammai’s position before teaching their own. 

Think about what that requires. Before defending your position, understand someone else’s well enough to articulate it accurately. To say: I have heard you. I understand what matters to you. And now I will tell you why I disagree. 

Imagine if that were our standard. Listening is not capitulation. Curiosity is not weakness. Understanding another person’s argument does not require abandoning your own. We can disagree fiercely without surrendering our convictions or one another’s humanity. 

This is where Yom Kippur becomes more than a metaphor. The Mishnah teaches that Yom Kippur atones for transgressions between a person and God. But for transgressions bein adam l’chavero, between one person and another, Yom Kippur does not atone until we have sought reconciliation. You can fast for twenty-five hours. You can beat your chest through every Al Chet. You can stand here until the gates close tomorrow night. And still, there are things God cannot repair for us. Because some repair requires another human being. 

Our cheshbon hanefesh, our accounting of the soul, must include the relationships we have abandoned because disagreement became too difficult. Whom have I stopped being curious about? Whose motives have I decided I already understand? Whom do I talk about more than I talk to? Whom have I reduced to a position? The conservative. The progressive. The Zionist. The anti-Zionist. The leader. The critic. Once I have assigned the label, I no longer have to encounter the person. But Judaism insists that the person is the entire point of the encounter. 

We teach that every human being is created b’tzelem Elohim, in the image of God. It’s a beautiful teaching. You could also make the case that it’s one of the most challenging. Why? Because it’s every human, not some humans. It doesn’t allow us the comfort of labels. 

So how do we begin? Resetting the Table teaches practices that are deceptively simple. First, slow it down. When conflict escalates, our instinct is to speed up. To respond or correct or defend. Teshuvah asks us to interrupt that instinct. 

Then, ask yourself what you’re trying to accomplish. There are arguments worth winning and principles you shouldn’t surrender, but be careful of winning the point and losing the person. 

Next, ask before assuming. “Help me understand how you got there.” “What feels most important to you?” “What are you worried will happen?” Listen long enough that you could tell their story back to them. Can you describe their position in a way they would recognize as their own? If not, you probably are not ready to respond. 

And then name the difference. “I hear you, and here is where I see it differently.” We may leave still disagreeing. That’s allowed. Sometimes that’s what success looks like. We spoke honestly. We listened seriously. But we disagreed. And still, we stayed at the table. 

Stay at the table as long as you can. We cannot reset a table we refuse to approach. The culture of a community is built in moments exactly like these, in the choice to go toward one another rather than away. 

So my charge this Yom Kippur is simple. Think of one person you have stopped being curious about. Someone you have stopped wondering about. Someone you think you already understand. 

And ask yourself one question: What might I not know? Not, “How am I wrong?” You might not be. Not, “How can I agree with them?” You might never. What might I not know? What experience brought them here? What are they afraid of losing? What do they believe they are protecting? And what do I wish they understood about me? 

Then, if it is possible, go to the table. Come with conviction. Come with your anger. Come with your fear. Come with your history and your hurt and your questions. Come knowing that you may leave believing exactly what you believed when you arrived. But come. Sit down. Slow it down. Ask one more question. Listen for the story underneath the position. Say what you believe without denying the humanity of the person across from you. Perhaps the table will not solve our disagreement. Perhaps it will do something more important. It will keep us in relationship. 

The Book of Life is not a book filled with people who agree with us. It is filled with people. Complicated people. Frustrating people. Frightened people. People carrying stories we do not know and wounds we cannot see. People who will disappoint us and people whom we will inevitably disappoint. People created, every one of them, b’tzelem Elohim. 

This year, may we have the courage to meet them at the table. May we have the humility to listen before we assume, the strength to speak honestly without cruelty, and the wisdom to know that disagreement does not have to mean disconnection. And may we remember that sometimes the most sacred words we can offer another human being are not “I agree with you,” but simply: 

Come. Sit down. Let’s talk.

This is the sermon I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on Yom Kippur day, 2025.

Let’s talk about Sukkot. As a rabbi, I like to stay a little ahead of the game, so let’s address the elephant in the sukkah. By the way, that’s the real title of a PJ Library book, no kidding.

Sukkot is not my favorite holiday. Of all the Jewish rituals—wonderfully weird, occasionally random, but always deeply meaningful—the ones related to the holiday of Sukkot are the most cringeworthy to me.

Why, you might ask? What’s wrong with a sukkah? And the answer is, nothing actually. I love building the sukkah and decorating it with paper chains and the fake fruit that once hung in my Nana and Papa’s sukkah. I love the open tent symbolism. I love inviting in our ancestors. It’s the lulav and etrog that make me want to just skip over this holiday and go straight to Simchat Torah.

I know not everyone feels this way, but to me, this particular tradition feels pagan and out of place in a religion that forbids the worship of objects. I didn’t always feel this way. It started when I was in rabbinical school in Los Angeles and the minyan moved outside to the sukkah. When you take the lulav and etrog and then add in a drum circle with students dancing and drumming and chanting a rhythmic beat, shaking said lulav and etrog, suddenly it felt different. This was not my Zayde’s Judaism, and I’ve never been able to shake that feeling, pun totally intended.

Again, this is in no way me telling you to share in my discomfort. I’m willing to bet that each of you has a moment in your life—specifically in your Jewish life—when you’ve felt out of place or off-kilter. Have any of you ever witnessed kaparot, the swinging of a chicken overhead before Yom Kippur to transfer your sins? A bris is a meaningful ceremony, but maybe not the most comfortable for everyone in the room. Well, particularly one person in the room. Or maybe there’s merely a ritual you didn’t grow up with, so it’s not second nature.

Each of us has our own individual comfort level in Jewish living. And each of us has places of discomfort. But here is my Yom Kippur message: discomfort, especially in Judaism, isn’t something to be avoided—it’s something to be explored. And today, on the day that confronts us with mortality, vulnerability, and deep spiritual reflection, it’s the perfect time to talk about it. So let’s get uncomfortable.

There’s a teaching in Pirkei Avot—the Ethics of Our Ancestors—where Rabbi Eliezer says, “Repent one day before your death.” His students respond, “But Rabbi, how can we know what day that will be?” And he replies, “Exactly. Therefore, repent today.”

Yom Kippur, in a way, is that day. Not literally, but it’s the day we symbolically prepare for our death, wearing white like burial shrouds, fasting, removing ourselves from physical pleasure. It’s not meant to be morbid, it’s purposeful. Yom Kippur invites us to be uncomfortable so that we might grow.

The psychiatrist Rabbi Dr. Abraham Twerski was not only a prolific author, his online videos also generated views in the hundreds of millions. In one of his more well-known videos, he muses that we can learn a lot from lobsters. I know, Jews learning from shellfish, it’s weird. But the lobster, whose hard shell protects its soft tissue, cannot grow without the discomfort of pushing against a shell that has become too small. You don’t have to push yourself out of your comfort zone, but if you don’t, you risk missing out on opportunities for personal growth.

Discomfort, in Judaism, has often been the catalyst for transformation. Think of our biblical ancestors. Abraham left everything he knew. Jacob wrestled with an angel. Moses stood up to Pharaoh with shaking hands. None of that was comfortable. But it was holy.

Leaning into discomfort gives us the opportunity to examine our lives without pretense. It forces us to consider how we spend our time, how we treat others, and whether we’re living in alignment with our values. Let’s be real; that kind of honest introspection doesn’t happen on a Tempur-Pedic mattress with a Pendleton Merino throw. It happens in the quiet of fasting, in the ache of regret, and in the uncertainty of change.

With Yom Kippur as our symbolic acknowledgement of mortality, there’s a particular kind of discomfort that’s especially relevant for reflection today, the discomfort of attending shiva.

If you’ve ever walked into a house of mourning, you know the feeling. You fumble for the right words. You wonder if you should attempt to say something profound or say nothing at all. Maybe you didn’t know the deceased. Maybe grief makes you anxious. Shiva offers a variety pack of ways to feel uncomfortable.

However, the mitzvah of nichum aveilim—comforting mourners—is not about saying the right thing. It’s not even about having a close relationship with the person who died. It’s about showing up.

The discomfort we feel walking into a shiva house is a sacred discomfort. It reminds us that presence matters. Our tradition teaches that when we visit a mourner, we remove a fraction of their sorrow. Not all of it, just a little. But that little bit can make all the difference.

Shiva is not designed to be comfortable for the participants. It’s designed to hold grief so that we can process it without distraction, without escape from the sadness. And in that honesty, that rawness, there is deep holiness. Sitting with someone in their grief, even in silence, is one of the most powerful things we can do as Jews and as human beings.

And in many ways, Yom Kippur functions like a communal shiva. A shiva for the soul. A sacred time set aside to grieve our missteps, our losses, and our mortality. We sit together, stripped of distractions, focused on what truly matters.

Just as we would never say to a mourner, “You should be over it by now,” Judaism doesn’t ask us to rush past the discomfort of Yom Kippur. We’re not meant to skip ahead to the break-fast. We’re meant to sit in the stillness. To cry if we need to. To say the hard things, to ourselves and to each other.

You’d think an uncomfortable ritual like this is meant to break us somehow. Not at all. It’s meant to open us. The discomfort of Yom Kippur is not about shame or punishment. It’s about potential. It’s about asking, “What kind of life do I want to live? To whom do I need to apologize? What type of person do I want to be when I exit the synagogue doors?”

We’re not promised comfort in this life. But we are promised meaning. And meaning comes from doing the hard things. From leaning in and showing up when it’s uncomfortable.

That’s why we attend shiva. That’s why we fast on Yom Kippur. That’s why we reflect on death—not to dwell in fear, but to live more fully. We show up for each other in our darkest moments because we know that’s what community is for. And we show up for ourselves on Yom Kippur because we believe that every soul can shine again.

It takes courage to lean into discomfort. To walk into a house of mourning or to walk into a synagogue on Yom Kippur and say, “I’ve messed up. I want to do better.” It takes courage to face the parts of life or the parts of ourselves we’d rather ignore.

But the reason we do it is because we believe it can change us. We believe in teshuvah—in return, in repair, in rebirth. So today, I invite you not to rush past the discomfort. Don’t numb it. Don’t flee it. Sit with it. Learn from it.

Ask yourself: What parts of my life need tending? Who have I avoided showing up for because it felt awkward or hard? Where have I played it safe when I was called to step forward?

And maybe today, as the hunger pangs persist or the confessional prayers grow repetitive, you’ll remember that these moments, too, are holy. They are tools for transformation. They are our people’s way of saying: Life is short. Make it count.

May we each find the strength to be uncomfortable. And in doing so, may we write ourselves into the Book of Life—not only for another year, but for an entire life of meaning, compassion, and connection.

G’mar chatimah tovah.

This is the sermon I delivered on Yom Kippur, October 12, 2024.

Our theme this year as a kehilla, as a community, is “Amen: Be a Blessing.” I wonder if you’ve taken a good, long look at the logo. Have you noticed that “Amen” is on top, and below it, there are ellipses on both sides of “Be a Blessing”? We’ve been saying, “Amen: Be a Blessing,” but you could just as easily say, “Be a Blessing: Amen.” We’re used to hearing “amen” after a blessing anyway. 

Whichever order you put these terms in, there’s no wrong way to express the idea of embodying blessing. In the same way that blessings don’t all fall into one neat category of situations. Yom Kippur is the perfect example of this. How do you greet people on Yom Kippur? Typically you don’t hear “Happy Yom Kippur.” You don’t usually hear “Chag sameach,” although there’s nothing wrong with saying that. After all, it’s not a sad holiday. But the greetings are on the solemn side. You hear “G’mar chatimah tovah” or “G’mar tov” or “Tzom kal.” People blessing each other to be sealed in the Book of Life or to have an easy fast. It’s our way of saying, “I know you’re going through something challenging, and I’m with you.” 

This is the beauty of blessing in Judaism. In the Mishna, in Brachot 9, we encounter a truly nuanced understanding of this. It teaches us that we are obligated to recite a blessing for the bad just as we do for the good. Upon hearing good news or receiving rain, we recite the blessing, “Blessed are You, God, who is good and does good.” 

But there’s also a blessing for bad news. What blessing do we offer after hearing of a death?  

Right, for bad news, the blessing is “Blessed is the True Judge.” 

It’s kind of a radical concept. How can we bless the bad as we do the good? Does this mean that we should celebrate misfortune? Not at all. The Mishna is inviting us to recognize that challenges, pain, suffering – these are also a part of life. When we say “Blessed is the True Judge” in moments of hardship, we’re not blessing the suffering itself; we’re affirming our faith in God’s wisdom and justice, even when we cannot understand it. 

To me, this gives us a much broader understanding of blessing. It teaches us that blessing is not just about joy and prosperity; it’s about finding meaning in every experience, both the light and the dark. Blessing is about acceptance, about trust in God’s judgment, and about finding the strength to move forward despite our pain. 

There’s a ton of ambiguity in Jewish blessing. Think about something as simple as “Baruch HaShem” which is a pet peeve of mine as a response. “How are you?” “Baruch HaShem.” “How’s work? How’re the kids?” “Baruch HaShem.” It’s the Jewish version of “It is what it is.” Is it bad? Is it good? Who knows. 

It’s not that I’m bothered by a phrase saying “Blessed is God.” I just don’t think it’s an answer, at least not if you’re really trying to connect with someone. However, it is further proof of how we bless the good, the bad, and the in-between.          

Here’s another example from the Mishna. Mishna Middot 2:1-2 gives us a vivid image of communal support. It describes the custom on the Temple Mount, where everyone entering would walk to the right and exit on the left, except for those in mourning or those who had been excommunicated. These individuals would walk in the opposite direction, signifying their sorrow or isolation. The community would respond with words of comfort, acknowledging their pain and offering a blessing of restoration. 

“May the One who dwells in this house inspire them to draw you near again,” they would say to someone who had been excommunicated, signaling not just sympathy but a hope for reconciliation and reintegration into the community. 

Being a blessing also means being attuned to the needs of those around us. It means offering comfort to the mourners, supporting those who feel alienated, and working toward healing fractured relationships. Yom Kippur is a time for personal reflection, but also a time to recommit ourselves to communal responsibility. To be a blessing is to recognize when others are in pain and to respond with empathy and action. Blessing is the good and the bad. 

The “amen” part of our theme is just as broad. The word amen, as we say after each blessing, has its own significance. Its roots come from emunah (faith) and emet (truth). When we say amen, we are affirming not only the truth of the blessing but also expressing our faith in its power and significance. 

In the Talmud Brachot 53b, Rabbi Yosi teaches, “Greater is the one who says Amen than the one who says a blessing.” Intriguing, right? Why might the responder be greater than the one who blesses? 

Perhaps it’s because the blessing itself can be a solo act, but saying amen is an act of creating community. When we say amen to someone’s blessing, we are joining them, affirming their words, and sharing in the spiritual moment. The one who says amen acknowledges the blessing’s truth and power, making it a collective experience. On Yom Kippur, when we come together in prayer, it’s a chorus of amens. 

It’s amazing how one word transforms blessings from individual acts to communal ones. It reminds us that no one prays alone. Even in our most personal moments of reflection and atonement, we are part of a greater whole. Blessings are most powerful when shared. 

So, what does it mean to be a blessing on this Yom Kippur? It means embracing the fullness of life, both the joy and the sorrow, and seeing every moment as an opportunity to affirm our faith, to say amen to both the good and the bad. It means recognizing our role in creating blessings for others, whether through words of kindness, acts of charity, or simply by being present for someone in need. 

On Yom Kippur, we are asked to confront both the good and the bad in our lives. We confess our shortcomings, acknowledge our failures, and seek forgiveness. But we also acknowledge the moments of joy, the blessings we’ve received, and the ways in which we have been able to bring blessings into the lives of others. Both are necessary to fully live out our call to be a blessing. 

As we enter the new year, may we strive to embody the call given to Abram: “You shall be a blessing.” May we bless others with our actions, with our compassion, and with our presence. May we find the courage to say amen to the challenges we face, trusting that even in our struggles, there is an opportunity for growth and connection. 

G’mar chatimah tovah—may we all be sealed in the Book of Life, and may our year ahead be filled with the blessings of peace, compassion, and hope.