I want, before I begin, to remind us of my practice. It is Yom Kippur, the holiest day in our Jewish year, and it is a moment where I will offer you two things: the sound of an alarm, and then the call of love. As is my practice, here, tonight, having just recited the words of Kol Nidre, I am here to ring the alarm. I don’t wish to frighten you, nor to upset you, it is just clear to me that our tradition asks one thing from me as your rabbi in this moment, to make sure you see our world clearly. That the burning bush does not go unnoticed for another 400 years. Tomorrow, through the holy power of this day, we will build the energy to heal. Tomorrow, I will offer you words of only love. Tonight, I offer my words out of love and a real fear. A fear that as our world burns, it has become too hazy for us to see the path of good clearly. That we have lost our way. And so, with that said, if you’ll allow me to begin...
Shana Tova - Tzom Kal
Words that are perhaps more important than ever this year.
On this day that we fast, some restraining the body, all of us opening up our souls, I want to ask you to first, before we delve into words of Torah, to join me in imagining. And, fair warning, we are going to imagine violence, so please if you need to, if this would be too triggering for you, please mute me while the red light here, is next to me. As we move through our story, when things start to ease up, I’ll change the light to yellow, and when I am done telling the story entirely, I will change the light to green and we ask you to feel safe and to unmute me once again.
RED LIGHT
I want you to come with me and imagine that you and I, along with a few others, that we are officers of the law, camped outside an apartment complex. We have been radioing back and forth with dispatch. It is nearing midnight, we dismiss an ambulance, not seeing the need for this particular night, and then, just past midnight, we move forward, in formation, watching each other’s backs. We approach a door, announce ourselves, or not, and then we lift our battering ram into position, and the action begins.
The door flies off its hinges, wood splinters everywhere, a shot rings out, a fellow has been hit, gunfire erupts, our adrenaline sends our bullets flying in every direction. We retreat, call out for the ambulance, for help, for backup.
YELLOW LIGHT
One could be forgiven for thinking this was a scene from a 90’s TV show, one of countless moments we’ve been shown in our popular culture and our media of this moment, of the police going out to confront the “bad” guys. Yet, many of you know that’s not what this is. This is no fictional tale, rather this moment is all too common and all too real.
A man, crouched inside, only 100 yards away from the ambulance outside calls 9-1-1, “I don’t know what’s happening,” he said, “Someone kicked in the door and shot my girlfriend.”
GREEN LIGHT
This is no story of the police pursuing and capturing a killer, nor them working hard to keep violence off our streets, this is instead a story of adrenaline run amok, a story filled with the horrors of guns and racism, this is the story of the tragic murder of Breonna Taylor.
And, this year as with every year, material to offer you was far far too easy to find. For a rabbi looking to share a story of racism, of power that corrupts, of tools of war being used to try to bring peace to our streets, the stories this year have been too numerous to count. I could spend my whole time, our whole Yom Kippur just listing names and telling you their stories. You’d be amazed, with as many stories as have made the headlines, whose names, like George Floyd’s, like Breonna Taylor’s, have become household names throughout our country and our world, how many others there are. How many other names and dates grace these lists of our country’s greatest pandemic, our greatest scourge. Just look at these names, just look at these faces, these are all our compatriots, our fellow citizens, who have been taken in the name of “justice,” in the name of “the law and the public good.” These fellow Americans died at the hands of our racist system.
And, as sad as all of this is, I know you are not newly shocked in this moment. I know you are already familiar with these names, with this truth. I know you expected me, your rabbi, to deliver these words, to speak about racism this year. And so, knowing that this moment has not wrested you out from your seats and shocked you to action, what is it, that I, your rabbi am to do? How can I get through to you when you’ve already heard the message? How can I implore you to action when this feels like a path you’ve already been walking for a lifetime? I, as always, here turn for help to the words of our tradition.
Tonight, on this holiest of evenings, we have recited three times through the words and melody of Kol Nidre. We have spoken about these words on Erev Yom Kippurs past. I have told you of their history and anti-semtism. I have told you of their power and their charge to us to be better, to start anew. We have discussed how these words free us from the wrongs we have done, restore our souls to ones of perfect beauty and to ones open to love and hope. We have discussed how these words are our people’s song of change, song of new desire at the beginning of the new year. That no matter what has come before, we can make it right, we can move forward, if only we renew ourselves and set our intentions to the Good, to the divine.
We have discussed these words a lot, but here, tonight, I wish to share with you a secret of the words that I have never revealed to you before: These holy words, their power is only manifest, it only works, if you give a damn. The words of Kol Nidre are no magic incantation, no halachic get out of jail free card, they are words of deep intention setting and they only work, they only offer power as a tool in our lives if we give a damn.
I know that deep down you already knew this, but it is so easy to allow ourselves to think the opposite. To believe that there is this magical moment in our Jewish year where all you have to do is show up, say a few words, and then bam, presto chango, your soul is renewed, our world is better, and our progress towards the Divine Good takes a few more steps forward. It is so easy to believe that we are at some magical moment in American history where one shows up to a few protest, a few words are said by the powerful, we vote, and then bam, presto chango, our country is renewed, our world is better, and our progress towards the Divine Good is assured. But, you already know, it doesn’t work that way.
For sure, change is afoot. Protests, powerful words from both the grass roots, the grass tops, and our governing officials, these things have made a difference. New laws have been passed, policies implemented, but none of this is through just the power of showing up, nor from the holy words offered alone. Rather, this change, this move towards the Good, as it always is, is because people gave a damn.
One might ask, “Rabbi, what do you mean? What does it mean to give a damn?” Well, it looks like this, like our holy day of Yom Kippur. To give a damn is to show up and offer words, and then to do so much more. To sacrifice and prioritize. For this day’s holiness we sacrifice food and bodily pleasures, we prioritize our soul over our body, we prioritize time in sacred assembly over time with our family, we prioritize the hard work of reflection and honesty over our daily march forwards. It is these sacrifices, these priorities, that show we give a damn about this holy day, it is these things that give this day its power, not the magic of its words.
And yet, I know we have offered the words of Kol Nidre far too many times without fully giving a damn. We have used these moments and these words as salves to heal us without wanting to truly grapple with their meaning, their demand that we take action, that we change.
And, sadly, seeing how often the story of the murder of Breonna Taylor and ones like hers are told in the media. How often these tragedies sadly occur without ever making a headline, I am afraid too that this “Historic Moment,” will pass us by, simply because we didn’t give enough of a damn. Because we haven’t been willing to sacrifice, because we haven’t been willing to prioritize. And if we don’t wake up, if we don’t do something soon, I’m afraid our words will be empty.
What I am asking here is not easy, and certainly it does not always feel good. To sacrifice, to prioritize, to give a damn about others, and to care about the state of our country and of our world are not actions that will make one feel heroic. They are certainly not actions that will bring calm and peace to one’s mind. Rather, the opposite. To open our souls, to care, should cause our heart to palpitate quicker, for our stress to rise, for our blood to slowly boil. To fight against racism, against bigotry and hatred, unfortunately, feels bad, feels stressful, feels hard… long before it ever starts to feel good.
Years ago, I was studying for the summer in Yeshiva in New York City. I was living, at the time, at Jasmine’s parents’ house in NJ, and as such would need to take the bus home from the city at the end of my day. Now, while public transportation in NYC is a dream compared with Boston, it still took some doing to get from the city back out to the suburbs. And, as such, one night, I was waiting for the last bus out of New York, the 164 that left Manhattan at 11:50. Being the last direct bus home of the night people had a tendency to line up early for the bus to ensure a seat, and, being the last bus of the night, the characters who showed up were in all sorts of different states of repair and disrepair. There were people coming home from work, from their studies, those who had been out with friends, and those who had sat trying to drink their pains away. Families, individuals, many souls just trying to get a few minutes of shut eye before returning back to the bus and a new day of toil.
One night, while waiting in line, I saw up ahead of me, perhaps 20 feet away, a number of white teenagers starting to harass a man who was perhaps 20 years their senior. This man had clearly not had an easy day, was barely managing to stay on his feet, and these boys were poking fun at him, jostling him around, pulling out their phones to make a mockery of the state of this man’s soul and his bad luck at having run into them, the wisest, funniest, group of boys around. As this scene started to unfold, a few people took a step out, to lean out of the line, to see what was happening. A few pulled out their cameras. The mother of one of these boys just looked on, amused. Others looked on, amused. I became enraged.
Here was a man hurting, a man who needed help, who through the circumstances of his life, of this hard day, had found himself barely able to stand, hardly able to walk forward, and those around me found it amusing. Found it to be a moment to wonder, to ponder and think.
Here was a human, a soul, suffering in front of them, tormented by his human siblings, and this was a moment to record, a moment to hold on to, to laugh at with friends at some later date?
I stepped out of line, left Jasmine behind me, walked forward, dropped my voice a few octaves, and in my most authoritative voice yelled, “Stop it, that’s not OK. Leave him alone. Stop it!” The group of boys, their phones, all the others, now turned to me.
I didn’t feel good. My palms were sweaty, my heart was racing, I was checking my peripheral vision, looking behind me, trying to understand who was with me, and who might be against me. I felt scared as I yelled again, “Stop it! Leave him alone!”
Then, from a crowd of people who had stood by silently, someone spoke up, the mother of one of the boys. For a moment I felt elation, I was not to stand alone. I would have another champion here to support me and this man who had fallen so low. What she said shocked me, “Stay out of it, leave my boys alone!” Here I knew I stood for justice, that I had stood up to do the right thing. I could see my human family suffering, this man broken in front of me, and knew I had acted to save him, to heal his wounds, and yet… I was the one this crowd broke out against. She was not the only one who yelled back at me, but I kept walking forward and I yelled louder. I forgot for a moment what I had to lose, my place in the line, my ride back home, my safety and comfort, and I gave all my damns to that man. I cared for him, acted for him, tried to protect him, to lift him back up. And, my friends, none of it felt good.
The adrenaline rush, the racing thoughts, the yelling, none of it felt good. The words I had offered, “Stop it. Leave him alone.” They had no magic no power on their own. It was I who had the power. I had it because I gave a damn.
Breonna Taylor’s story of tragedy and murder is one of corruption, of fear, of bigotry, a story of adrenaline and violent power. The story I shared with you is a story of fear, of bigotry, a story of adrenaline and power. What our religion teaches us in this moment is not that the response, not that the cure is to be found in the opposite, in calm and peace. Rather, the good path still lies in a place of adrenaline, of stress, of power being wielded, but with wholly different intentions. The response is not the opposite, but rather is the resetting of intentions, is sacrificing and prioritizing, is giving a damn. If you take it seriously, this moment is not one of calm reflection, that comes tomorrow morning. This moment, Kol Nidre, is a moment of stress, of adrenaline, a moment where we must commit ourselves to new holy intentions.
So, naturally, you must be thinking to yourselves, “Ok, good sermon, Rabbi. Now, bring it home, give me my take away, what is it that I’m supposed to do?”
I could tell you to participate in our adult ed programs this year. To join tikkun olam as they challenge themselves and our community to think through what it means not just to be inclusive but to be actively anti-racist. I could offer you, once again, the lists of organizations that need your help, your volunteer hours and financial resources. Yet, that’s not what I want to offer you. Rather, I want you to go out and find your path, and to help you know you are on the right one, I today, will simply offer you a tool.
I want you to go out, to together as a community, to find the ways we can support those in need of help. To push our politicians and centers of power to make change and to demand better from those who are entrusted with serving and protecting the community. Once you’ve found a path for yourself, ask yourself a question, “Does this feel good? Do I feel calm and happy?” If the answer is yes, go out, look some more, and do more. Then, ask yourself again, “Does this feel good? Do I feel calm and happy?” If the answer is yes, go out, look some more, and keep looking till you find the work that feels stressful, that feels imminent, that feels like it is life or death, do that and then ask yourself, “Do I feel calm and happy?”
“Rabbi,” some of you will say, “I already fought my battles, I did my work, I now leave it to you, to the next generation to heal us, to help us move forward.” And, I’m proud to say, I know this to be true. Your stories, the fights you fought, are what pushed us forward to progress. It is that work that allows me to stand here today and to ask for even more progress, to demand that things be made even better. And, even though you did the work before, even though I know you are tired, I say to you, “Your work is not done. Your voice, your energy, your power are still needed. Your generation built a world order that we cannot dismantle without you.”
It is not my generation alone who voted this group of white cisgendered men into office. Nor is it my generation alone who allowed the rules to become so corrupted, for the maps to be redrawn so many times that the power of our voices has been lost. We turn to others and ask that they vote, bemoan that turnout is so low, ask ourselves in a democracy that only a few participate in, how can change ever be possible? We ask this in a democracy that votes on a work day, that lessens the number of polling stations as populations rise. A democracy that asks that we prove time and time again that we all are deserving of the right to vote through the elitist means of car and land ownership. These fault lines, these forces that corrode our democracy were perpetuated by your generation and we need you, those whose rights have been affirmed and are now never questioned, those who show up to polling places and vote within the hour, we need your help to push, to fix, to write new stories for Breonna Taylor and our country. Don’t tell me you are done. It is timed to be stressed, it is time to not feel good, it is time to yell.
It is not a fair system that we now stand in. The scales of justice are tilted against us and change and there are no magic words, no ritual, no amount of protests or speeches that shall bring power to this “Historical Moment.” There is only one thing that can power us through this moment, only one thing that can prove to the generations to come that we fought and fought hard for them, for change. You’ve got to be willing to sacrifice, to prioritize, you’ve got to be willing to give a damn.
Lastly, you might say, “Rabbi, why the story of Breonna Taylor?” And here, the answer is simple, and it breaks my heart. The details of this story are too tragic, too stark a view into this pandemic, this racist scourge that has infected our nation. The police show up to a house where they know no suspect will be found, where all they are to do is gather evidence. They burst through the threshold of peace with their battering ram, shots are fired, they retreat, an ambulance is called to mend the officer’s wounds. None of these officers, not a one offered a thought to where their bullets had landed, the souls that lay torn apart inside. Rather, from 100 yards away, able to see the flashing lights of the ambulance outside, crouched with his girlfriend, Breonna’s partner called 911 and said, “I don’t know what is happening.”
My friends, we do know what is happening, what has happenede. Our eyes are open and we see clearly. The police that sat outside tending to their wounded, they didn’t give a damn. The question, on this night of Kol Nidre, on this night of powerful words and the resetting of our intentions, will we who stand in this broken world, will we sacrifice for others, will we prioritize others, will we show others that we give a damn?
Gmar Tov, may we finish well.
Shana Tova