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Part of the 91�첥 High Holiday Webinar Series, “Standing Together: Prayer, Presence, and the Power of Community”

This session is based onthis essayin our currentHigh Holiday Reader.

With Chancellor Shuly Rubin Schwartz, Chancellor and Irving Lehrman Research Professor of American Jewish History, 91�첥 

As we prepare for the Days of Awe, the Book of Jonah calls us not only to repentance, but to responsibility—especially in a fractured and fearful world. In this session, Chancellor Shuly Rubin Schwartz explored Jonah’s reluctance to engage, his desire to retreat, and God’s challenge to him—and to us. The Book of Jonah summons us to engage and build bridges—even with those who may seem distant or hostile. This session engaged what it means to be brave and morally grounded when it would be easier to turn away—and how, like Jonah, each of us has the power to make a difference. 

About the Series

The High Holidays invite us into a season of profound reflection—not only on who we are as individuals, but on how we show up for one another and the world. This three-part webinar series explores the emotional and spiritual heart of this sacred time, focusing on the themes of vulnerability, responsibility, and connection. 

Together, we’ll consider what it means to pray with presence, to engage meaningfully with others—even across difference—and to see these days not just as a personal journey, but as a call to collective transformation. Whether you are returning to familiar rituals or seeking a new way in, this series offers space to reflect, connect, and prepare with intention. 

The centerpiece of Kol Nidre is a confession to having errantly made vows we could not keep, and a prospective annulment of vows we worry we might mistakenly make in those inevitable moments of weakness, rashness, and failure that are the fate of mortals. [2]

There is something powerful yet troubling about the possibility of escaping the trap of words wrongly uttered. Over a long history, Jews have been deeply invested in ensuring that this power be channeled for the good and never abused or misused. This complex legacy contributes to the profound significance of Kol Nidre’s place as the opening service on this holiest of days. To understand the full meaning of Kol Nidre, we must consider both the history of this liturgical annulment of vows as well as the liturgical context in which it appears in our Machzor.

Kol Nidre’s central role in our experience of Yom Kippur and the Days of Awe, is a remarkable story in its own right. The singular paragraph beginning with the words “Kol Nidre” (all of the vows) has been controversial from its conception. While its origins are shrouded in mystery, from very early on, Kol Nidre was subject to deep criticism, both within the Jewish community and from opponents of Judaism. The ongoing centrality of Kol Nidre in our liturgy reflects a deep attachment to Kol Nidre that sheds light on a remarkably different understanding of the meaning of Kol Nidre from that of its critics.

Since the Middle Ages, prominent rabbis have expressed concern that the practice of annulling vows undermined halakhic admonitions against making vows altogether, a safeguard of Jewish ethical and legal norms of truthfulness and honesty. At the same time, from very early on, Kol Nidre served as consistent fodder for anti-Jewish sentiment among Gentiles who marshalled the prayer and its prominence on Yom Kippur to cast Jews as dishonest and unethical.

Many attempts have been made to excise Kol Nidre from the Yom Kippur liturgy or to dramatically alter its language. Despite all this, Kol Nidre has proven remarkably resilient. From medieval Geonim, to nineteenth-century leaders of modern Jewish movements in Europe and twentieth-century American Jewish leaders, attempts to cut the language of Kol Nidre out of the liturgy have consistently failed.

Attachment to Kol Nidre amongst modern Jews, transcending modern denominational and regional divides, is described in a 1996 Yom Kippur sermon at the Liberal Jewish Synagogue in London, delivered by John Rayner (1924-2005), recalling his childhood in Berlin before escaping on a 1939 Kindertransport: “Kol Nidrei. What magic there is in that name! It draws us like a magnet from far and near. It recalls past Atonement Eves, perhaps going back to our childhood. And beyond our memories there lies, submerged in our collective unconscious a whole world of which we have barely an inkling…”[3]

Critics of Kol Nidre have focused exclusively on the negative implications of the annulment of vows, targeting the singular paragraph in the Kol Nidre service from which it derives its name. The meaning of Kol Nidre for Jews, however, has had a depth and significance that exceeds this understanding.

To appreciate the deeper meaning of Kol Nidre, we must take a holistic approach, understanding that paragraph in the context of the complete Kol Nidre service.[4]

For hundreds of years, the confession and annulment of vows in the Kol Nidre service has been prefaced by a poetic statement attributed to thirteenth-century Tosafist Rabbi Meir (Maharam) of Rothenburg, explicitly inviting sinners into the prayer community on its holiest day:

With Maharam’s poetic preface to Kol Nidre, the Yom Kippur liturgy opens with a vision of an inclusive Jewish community. In aiming to improve as individuals and as a community, in seeking God’s forgiveness, in looking ahead to a better year, we include all Jews in the “we” of the community, including those whom we perceive as having made poor choices or gravely erred. The source of Maharam’s poem is a Talmudic statement that boldly states that a fast day that does not include sinners is no fast day at all. The Jewish people is compared to the holy incense which cannot achieve its beautiful smell without the inclusion of some foul-smelling ingredients.[5] By extension, a Jewish prayer community cannot be complete or achieve its aims without including individuals understood, in some capacity, to be sinners or wrongdoers.

The centrality of inclusive community to the Kol Nidre service is further emphasized in what immediately follows. Immediately after the eponymous “kol nidre” paragraph, a biblical verse (Numbers 15:26) is loudly proclaimed six times – three times by the Hazan, and three times collectively by the congregation:

With the emphatic public proclamation of this verse, the prayer community declares that the atonement and forgiveness we seek on Yom Kippur includes both the Jewish community – including our sinners – and “the stranger” in our midst.

Forgiveness and reconciliation have a wide scope. To achieve the aims on Yom Kippur – self-improvement, reconciliation with God, and the hope for a better year ahead for our community – we must see ourselves as part of a broader Jewish and human community to which our fate is intimately tied.

So prominently placed is this verse in our Yom Kippur liturgy, that Jewish philosopher Hermann Cohen (1842-1918) repeatedly declared it to be the “motto” of the entire Yom Kippur liturgy. He focused particularly on the final four words of the verse, emphasizing the unwitting nature of sin and wrongdoing, as the term shegaga came to be understood in rabbinic thought.[6]

So much of human wrongdoing – our own and that of others – emerges out of weakness or fear or even mistaken good intentions rather than a desire to do wrong for its own sake. This is true, as well, for promises and commitments we fail to uphold. This doesn’t make it right, and we must indeed recognize these as mistakes, take responsibility for them, atone for them, and take real steps to avoid them in the future. Nevertheless, recognizing human frailty as a central part of the wrongs we have done and those done to us by others is a crucial step toward making forgiveness and reconciliation possible.

Rabbi Michael Friedländer (1833-1910), famed translator of Maimonides’ Guide of the Perplexed, identified three fundamental messages of the Kol Nidre service: That we should “1. … [A]lways be disposed to forgive those who, in the heat of strife, … have offended us; 2. … [B]e careful with regard to vows… ; 3. … [R]eflect on human weakness, and consider that what we believe to be able to do to-day may prove impossible for us to-morrow. This reflection would… inspire us with humility.”[7]

On this Yom Kippur 5786, let us experience the magic and power of Kol Nidre by recovering the deeper meaning of the full service: The prayer community that seeks forgiveness and repentance for a better future is necessarily always an inclusive human community; and all human communities are irrevocably implicated in human frailty and shegagah. At the same time, we should never lose sight of the complex history of Kol Nidre. Recognizing human frailty can never excuse us from the task of being ever more careful with our words, and never becoming flippant about the commitments we make. This recognition motivates us not to complacency and excuse, but to working ever harder to ensure that our words and our actions always reflect who we are as individuals and as a community.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (z”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (z”l). 

[1] The sixteenth-century melody traditional amongst Ashkenazi Jews.

[2] In the Ashkenzi Machzor, Kol Nidre annuls unfulfillable vows that we may make in the year ahead (based on a 12^th-century emendation by Tosafist Rabbi Meir ben Samuel); in Sephardic liturgy, vows are annulled from the past year and the year to come. The current versions of the prayer reflect complex processes of revision over generations. The earliest formulation we have, in the 9^th-century siddur of Rabbi Amram Gaon, refers to past vows. On the history of Kol Nidre, see Israel Davidson, “Kol Nidre,” The American Jewish Year Book vol. 25 (1924/5684), pp. 180-194.

[3] “The Magic of the Kol Nidrei” / John D. Rayner. Sermon for Erev Yom Kippur, Liberal Jewish Synagogue, 22/9/1996. [Photocopy].” Leo Baeck College Library.

[4] My analysis focuses on Ashkenazic liturgy, but has some bearing on Sephardic liturgy, notwithstanding key differences, including the absence of Num. 15:26, discussed below, in the Sephardic Kol Nidre service.

[5] Talmud Bavli Keritot 6b.

[6] See, for example, Hermann Cohen, Religion of Reason out of the Sources of Judaism (Oxford University Press, 1995), pp. 217, 223.

[7] M. Friedländer, The Jewish Religion (London: Paul, Trench, Trübner, 1900), p. 408n1.

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Part of the 91�첥 High Holiday Webinar Series, “Standing Together: Prayer, Presence, and the Power of Community”

This session is based on this essay in our current High Holiday Reader.

With Dr. David Kraemer, Joseph J. and Dora Abbell Librarian and Professor of Talmud and Rabbinics, 91�첥 

The Amidah for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur presents a striking, even radical, vision: a world where God alone reigns, where all people—Jewish and not—live in peace, and oppressive regimes vanish. In this vision, the Jewish people are neither erased nor centered. Instead, they are part of a broader human hope. 

As we prepare for the High Holidays, this is a thoughtful exploration of this universalist liturgical vision and what it asks of us today. In this webinar, Dr. David Kraemer, Joseph J. and Dora Abbell Librarian and Professor of Talmud and Rabbinics, 91�첥, guided us through the theological and ethical dimensions of the High Holiday Amidah. Drawing on themes from his recent book, Embracing Exile: The Case for Jewish Diaspora, Dr. Kraemer argued that diaspora life—far from being a compromise—is essential to realizing the Amidah’s expansive spiritual goals. It is through living among and engaging with our non-Jewish neighbors, he suggested, that we help bring this vision into the world. 

About the Series

The High Holidays invite us into a season of profound reflection—not only on who we are as individuals, but on how we show up for one another and the world. This three-part webinar series explores the emotional and spiritual heart of this sacred time, focusing on the themes of vulnerability, responsibility, and connection. 

Together, we’ll consider what it means to pray with presence, to engage meaningfully with others—even across difference—and to see these days not just as a personal journey, but as a call to collective transformation. Whether you are returning to familiar rituals or seeking a new way in, this series offers space to reflect, connect, and prepare with intention. 

Download Sources

Part of the 91�첥 High Holiday Webinar Series, “Standing Together: Prayer, Presence, and the Power of Community”

This session is based onthis essayin our currentHigh Holiday Reader.

We begin our High Holiday webinar series with guidance for how to engage more meaningfully in the prayer part of High Holiday services. Famously long and repetitive, services on these days may sometimes feel overwhelming, boring, or even alienating. In this session, Rabbi Jan Uhrbach, Director of the Block / Kolker Center for Spiritual Arts at 91�첥, offered practical strategies for participating more fully, and insight into what these services really ask of us and what they offer—especially in tumultuous uncertain times. Along the way, Rabbi Uhrbach will share some of her favorite passages in the Conservative Movement’s Machzor Lev Shalem, for which she was a member of the Editorial Committee. Whether you’re a seasoned prayergoer or showing up with hesitation, this session will help you begin the High Holiday season with openness, intention, and agency.

About the Series

The High Holidays invite us into a season of profound reflection—not only on who we are as individuals, but on how we show up for one another and the world. This three-part webinar series explores the emotional and spiritual heart of this sacred time, focusing on the themes of vulnerability, responsibility, and connection. Together, we’ll consider what it means to pray with presence, to engage meaningfully with others—even across difference—and to see these days not just as a personal journey, but as a call to collective transformation. Whether you are returning to familiar rituals or seeking a new way in, this series offers space to reflect, connect, and prepare with intention.

Mondays, September 8, 15, 29 
1:00–2:00 p.m. ET  

The High Holidays invite us into a season of profound reflection—not only on who we are as individuals, but on how we show up for one another and the world. This three-part webinar series explores the emotional and spiritual heart of this sacred time, focusing on the themes of vulnerability, responsibility, and connection. 

Together, we’ll consider what it means to pray with presence, to engage meaningfully with others—even across difference—and to see these days not just as a personal journey, but as a call to collective transformation. 

Whether you are returning to familiar rituals or seeking a new way in, this series offers space to reflect, connect, and prepare with intention. 

All of the session in this series connect with essays from our current High Holiday Reader, “To Be More Fully Human: Reflections on Hope for the Days of Awe 5786.” The specific essays are linked below.

Sources for Rabbi Jan Uhrbach’s September 8th Session

We don’t know exactly why these colors were assigned to these directions, but some scholars have speculated that the sun’s path might offer a clue. Since the sun travels across the southern sky, the south became linked with heat—and so with red. The north, being dimmer, was associated with shadow and cold, and so with black. The west—where the sun sets in a blaze of light—was seen as white. And the east, where the sun rises and the sky turns cool before dawn, became green or blue.

These colors aren’t used descriptively, but they aren’t arbitrary either. They reflect an older way of seeing—a symbolic compass, a world mapped by meaning, not pigment. Color didn’t describe the surface of things; it told you how to orient yourself.

And color still does that today—especially in Jewish tradition, especially this week.

The Black of Tisha be’Av

This ancient map of meaning isn’t just a curiosity. It still shapes how we live, feel, and remember. In Jewish time, too, the year has its own palette. And this week, we turn toward its darkest shade.

The Talmud teaches that one who insists on sinning should go to a place where they are not known, wear black clothing, and wrap themselves in black—so as not to profane God’s name in public (Mo‘ed Katan 17a). The text offers no reason for the black garments, but their symbolism is unmistakable. Black, in rabbinic culture, often marks sorrow, gravity, and separation. Here, it seems to strip the act of transgression of spectacle or pride—covering it instead in shadow and restraint.

Black is also the color of mourning. By the sixteenth century, wearing black had become the established Jewish custom of mourning, at least in Ashkenaz. The Rema—Rabbi Moses Isserles—mentions it directly in Even Ha’ezer 17:5, noting that a presumed widow may not eulogize her husband or “wear black” until his death is confirmed. He records it without explanation, as if to say: of course mourners wear black.

The verse in Lamentations says: Yashav badad veyidom—“She sits alone and silent.” I picture a black-clad mourner sitting low to the ground, turned inward. The image isn’t in the text, but it’s the one we’ve come to carry—grief made visible in shadow. We wear black when we are in pain, when a light has gone out. But perhaps black is also the color of honesty—because it marks the moments when we stop pretending. When we strip away performance and sit with what is. And this week—on Tisha be’Av, the 9th of Av—many choose to dress in black or dark colors, echoing the mourning of the day in what we wear.

The White of Yom Kippur

But not all fasts are draped in shadow. Some are wrapped in radiance. To understand the difference, we have to shift from the black of grief to the white of return. On Yom Kippur, we wear white—kittel, tallit, simple linen. We fast not because we are broken, but because we are striving. White is the color of aspiration. The Talmud in Yoma (35b) compares us to angels. We are barefoot, wrapped in white, shedding the trappings of the body. So we fast in black on Tisha be’Av, and we fast in white on Yom Kippur. Both days strip us bare—but one lays us low, and the other lifts us up.

The Fields Are White: Mishnah Ta’anit and the Daughters of Jerusalem

White isn’t only for the holiest day. It’s also the color of joy, of dignity, of shared humanity. That’s what the Mishnah teaches us in one of the most surprising passages in all of rabbinic literature. The last chapter of Mishnah Ta‘anit (4:8) describes a strange, beautiful scene:

“There were no days of joy for Israel like the fifteenth of Av and Yom Kippur. On these days the daughters of Jerusalem would go out in white garments . . . and they would dance in the vineyards.”

The Mishnah insists that these garments were borrowed, so that no one would feel shame. Rich and poor alike in borrowed white. The women would call out to the young men, not with vanity, but with integrity. They said: “Lift your eyes and see whom you choose for yourself . . . but remember that charm is false, and beauty is fleeting; it is the woman who fears God who shall be praised.” Why white? Because it equalizes. Because it purifies. Because it returns us to something simple and shared.

Parashat Devarim and the Cry of Isaiah

Still, the joy of white doesn’t erase the moral weight we associate with darkness. The Torah portion we read this week and its prophetic counterpart both remind us how easy it is to cloak corruption in ritual and forget the ethical hue of our choices. Parashat Devarim opens the final book of the Torah, with Moses recounting the story of Israel’s wandering. But it doesn’t begin with history—it begins with a strange geography: “on the other side of the Jordan, in the wilderness, in the plain opposite Suph, between Paran and Tophel and Lavan and Hazerot and Di-Zahav.” These names aren’t just places; they evoke failure, complaint, disobedience. Lavan (white) and Di-Zahav (enough gold) might hint at spiritual distortion—purity turned brittle, wealth turned idolatrous.

According to Sifrei Devarim 1:1, Lavan (white) alludes to the people’s rejection of the manna, described in Numbers as “white like coriander seed” (Num. 11:7). The people grew tired of it and longed for meat. “Di-Zahav” is interpreted by Rashi (on Deut. 1:1) based on Berakhot 32a as “too much gold,” referring to the Golden Calf, which the Israelites built from their excess wealth. According to the Talmud, Moses rebuked them for the spiritual dangers of material abundance. In each case, the name recalls a sin. But each sin carries a color too: white manna, pale skin, gold gleam. Even in failure, the landscape is stained with hue.

The haftarah that accompanies it is the opening chapter of Isaiah: “Alas, sinful nation . . . They have forsaken the Holy One of Israel.” (1:4) Isaiah is writing in the eighth century BCE. He looks at a prosperous society and sees corruption, hypocrisy, and injustice. The Temple is still standing, but the people have emptied it of meaning. They offer sacrifices while trampling the poor.

“When you lift your hands in prayer, I will not listen. Your hands are full of blood. Wash yourselves, make yourselves pure . . . learn to do good, seek justice, protect the vulnerable.” (1:15-17)

Isaiah speaks in shades as well: light and darkness, red like crimson, white like snow. Not physical color, but moral hue. He demands that we see the world in color—not the color of robes or walls, but of action and consequence.

Color and Orientation: What Do We See?

We see the world through color. We associate blue with calm, red with urgency, green with safety. In ancient maps, color located you. In Jewish law, color signaled category: the “white field” was grain; the “black cloth” was mourning; the “white garment” was purification.

We still live inside these metaphors. We speak of “gray areas,” of “seeing red,” of “black and white thinking.” But Jewish tradition teaches that color is not only what we see—it’s how we judge.

Are we living in red—reactive, impulsive, angry? Are we stuck in black—disoriented, numb, mourning? Are we seeking white—clarity, honesty, peace? And how does color affect us spiritually?  Does the muted green of an institutional hallway deaden the soul? Does the sterile gray of a prison uniform flatten the spirit? Should bright color in hospitals and schools be seen not just as decoration, but as moral intervention? What would it mean to choose color with care—not just in paint, but in time, in ritual, in life?

Toward the White Sea

Tisha be’Av is black. But it points toward white. Isaiah promises: Though your sins be red like scarlet, they shall become white as snow.

White, in the end, is not perfection. It is repair. It is the field after the fire. The garment after the washing. The sea at the far horizon. The one the ancients called the White Sea—not because it was pale, but because it faced west, the place where the sun sets, and where hope is deferred but not extinguished.

May this fast bring clarity. May we mourn in black and reach for white. May we see color as Torah, as prophecy, and as the geography of the soul.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (z”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (z”l). 

Mondays, September 8, 15, and 29
1:00 – 2:00 pm ET

The High Holidays invite us into a season of profound reflection—not only on who we are as individuals, but on how we show up for one another and the world. This three-part webinar series explores the emotional and spiritual heart of this sacred time, focusing on the themes of vulnerability, responsibility, and connection.

Together, we’ll consider what it means to pray with presence, to engage meaningfully with others—even across difference—and to see these days not just as a personal journey, but as a call to collective transformation. Whether you are returning to familiar rituals or seeking a new way in, this series offers space to reflect, connect, and prepare with intention.

Sources for Chancellor Shuly Rubin Schwartz’s September 29, 2025 Session

Beyond the realm of prayer in particular, this elusive “right relationship” between persons and words is central to our ability to have relationships at all. “Words have become cliches, objects of absolute abuse. They have ceased to be commitments. We forget that many of our moral relationships are based upon a sense of the sacredness of certain words…”

What Heschel worried about in 1958 is even more true and even more concerning in 2024. Human communication, the commitment to taking words seriously and to viewing the words we write and speak as serious commitments, has become even more imperiled in an age where our words are mediated through the technologies of social media, artificial intelligence, and the crippling social phenomena of political polarization and widespread mistrust.

Heschel’s sense that there is a deeper ethical significance to the notion of taking prayer seriously echoes a statement found in Pirke Avot (Ethics of the Fathers). Pirke Avot is an ancient compendium of moral aphorisms and a foundational work of Jewish ethical thought. Throughout Pirke Avot, special attention is given to the power of words. In Avot 2:18, Rabbi Shimon bar Yohai, the ancient Jewish rabbi and mystic, turns to the words we speak in prayer, and cautions us to be “extremely careful in… prayer.” Seriousness prayer, according to Rabbi Shimon, is linked to compassion and mercy. He concludes his statement about taking prayer seriously with a moral imperative to be a virtuous person. For Rabbi Shimon, being a virtuous person entails being self-reflective and true to ourselves. Virtue begins with “not being a bad person in our own eyes.” Rabbi Shimon thus connects taking prayer seriously with an ethics of compassion that begins with an ethics of honesty and self-awareness.

Heschel’s 1958 lecture on prayer builds on this ancient rabbinic tradition connecting serious prayer with a deeper moral seriousness. He argues that taking seriously the words in our liturgy is a step in a broader process of reclaiming the gravity of words. This means that we must know what the words in our liturgy mean, and, when we say them, that we “must learn to establish the right relationship between the heart and the word we are about to utter.” From prayer and liturgy, Heschel believed this morally important relationship to words would permeate our lives more broadly.

This High Holiday season is an ideal time to work on reclaiming our relationship with words, beginning with the liturgy in our Mahzor. To that end, I want to call attention to a liturgical poem that appears in the Amidah on both Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur, a series of three paragraphs that each begin with the word “��’v������” (ובכן) Typically translated as “and therefore” or “so then,” I leave the word untranslated, because according to an old Jewish tradition it is a much more significant word: not a conjunction, but a name of God, or, in a similar but alternative tradition, it is the alphanumerical equivalent of a phrase that refers to the divine-human relationship itself.

These paragraphs were introduced into Jewish liturgy in the geonic period, as attested by siddurim from that era. The first of these three paragraphs begins “��’v������ ten pahdekha” (ובכן תן פחדך). It was this very paragraph, where we envision a human world completely united in its awe and fear of God, that inspired the Protestant theologian Rudolf Otto, who spent Yom Kippur in the year 1911 in a Jewish synagogue in Morocco, to describe, in The Idea of the Holy, the Yom Kippur liturgy as “a liturgy unusually rich” in hymns that express his concept of “the numinous,” or the profound and non-rational experience of feeling the presence of God as a tremendous mystery.

In this paragraph, it is the fear and awe of God that leads “all of God’s creatures” to collectively submit to God, and to become “bonded together as one” to do God’s will “with a full heart.” For Heschel, this very paragraph in the High Holiday liturgy reflects the broader essence of all prayer, in general, not just the High Holidays. Heschel sees this as a prayer in which we are trying “to make God immanent,” to bring God’s presence into this world. He writes:

The true motivation for prayer is… the sense of not being at home in the universe. Is there a sensitive heart that could stand indifferent and feel at home in the sight of so much evil and suffering, in the face of countless failures to live up to the will of God? … That experience gains intensity in the amazing awareness that God Himself is not at home in the universe. He is not at home in a universe where His will is defied and where His kingship is denied. God is in exile; the world is corrupt. The universe itself is not at home. To pray means to bring God back into the world, to establish His kingship for a second at least.

Heschel sees the “��’v������ ten pahdekha” paragraph in the High Holiday liturgy as an emblematic expression of the ultimate aim of all prayer, at “the most important moment of the Jewish liturgy.” The payoff comes in the next paragraph, “��’v������ ten kavod.” After we have come together to bring God’s presence back into this world, we feel a sense of dignity (kavod) and good hope (tikvah tovah) for the future; there is “happiness in the land and joy in the city.”

Let this new year, 5785, be a year in which we all learn, once again, to take seriously the sacred value of words. We can learn this value by taking seriously and paying attention to the words we say in prayer, which reflect, in turn, the very essence of prayer. Let us turn to our Siddur and Mahzor and pay attention to the words and their meanings and pray them with seriousness.

When we turn from the High Holiday season back into daily life, let 5785 be a year in which we speak to one another with words that are carefully considered – words that we can truly own and stand behind. This involves engaging in deep and extended conversation – not the kind of conversation that happens in fits and spurts on social media – and with words that are our own, whose authorship has not been outsourced to technology. This involves listening carefully to the words of others, giving them the benefit of the doubt, asking questions for clarification, assuming good will, and when we disagree, expressing that disagreement with frankness and honesty, but also with thoughtfulness and respect, in a way that preserves relationships. When we do this, we can hope that others will do the same for us, and, over time, if we continue to take words seriously both in prayer and in daily relationships, we can become a unified community, even across difference. And perhaps we will experience again that good hope, dignity, and joy that we see in the “��’v������” prayers – for the Jewish people together with the broader community of humanity.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (z”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (z”l).