One Tribe

Sermon delivered at Temple B’nai Abraham, Livingston, Yom Kippur, 5785

In this Midrash, Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik saw not destruction though, but potential. He taught that as God creates and recreates, so must we rebuild when creations collapse—starting over with resourcefulness and faith. Rabbi Shai Held, interpreting Soloveitchik, wrote that “to be tasked with being God’s partner… is not simply to be presented with raw materials and [being] told to build… It is, at least some of the time, to be confronted by horrible loss… and to somehow manage to choose life instead.”2

These losses—these moments of destruction in our lives—they seem to occur more and more frequently. They most certainly have been plentiful among our people. Even just over a year ago, there were many fault lines within our community. We were, for example, deeply divided over Israel’s proposed judicial reforms. Yet in the aftermath of October 7, Israelis and Jews around the world united in joint efforts, embracing achdut (unity) and showing that there is still hope, that broken ties can be rebuilt.

I wish I could say that since October 7, we had fully set aside our differences and put our people—our community—first.

The Mishnah3 teaches that Yom Kippur atones for sins between us and God. But for sins between people, there is no atonement without tikkun—without repairing relationships and finding forgiveness. Even at the end of this holy day, much work remains and must begin now.

While many of us have united, significant divisions remain. As our congregational president Jay Kooper mentioned earlier in his remarks, the political rift in this country is enormous, playing out in our community—not just on domestic policy, but on Israel too. Sometimes, our conversations are civil. Often, however, political posturing is simply a massive wall, preventing meaningful relationships and creating barriers to our empathizing with one another.

I’d suggest that there’s something playing an even bigger role in rupturing community than disagreements over politics, or religion, or even Israel. Many of us have forgotten what it means to live as part of a larger extended family, as part of a synagogue community. Some of us have never had the opportunity to experience it.

We live in an age of hyper-individualism, where everything—even truth—is curated. Religious and civic participation has declined for decades, as Robert Putnam lamented in his famous work, Bowling Alone. Our days, stretched thin by flexible but long work hours and constant digital tethering, leave us little time for communal activities. Society has shifted from larger networks of trust and support to micro-communities limited to a few close families—something COVID only exacerbated. There are many who still prefer High Holy Day service watch-parties over being present with the broader community. While these micro-communities are important, thousands of years of history have shown that we need more. We need our broader Jewish community—a network of people with shared experiences and history, with different perspectives and strengths. In a culture that pushes individualism yet overflows with loneliness, our tribal community—our synagogue—is more necessary than ever.

A synagogue provides the essential middle ground, a place where we can be in relationships with each other despite fundamental disagreements. We may feel that the other’s views will destroy what we hold dear, and we may be right. And without this communal space, we might never speak to each other again, holding our disagreements and hatred across aisles, campuses, and even oceans. Or, we can embrace a paradigm that has served our people and humanity through history: choosing community over division, choosing to accept differences without letting them get in the way of being one people, with one shared destiny.

The fact that we’re here in synagogue, in person or online, shows that we feel that calling—some to connect with God, but more often to connect with our tradition and each other. As the old Jewish joke goes: Schwartz comes to shul to talk to God, and I come to shul to talk to Schwartz.

Showing up is just the first step, it lays a foundation, but community requires more. It requires active effort, vulnerability, and a willingness to open ourselves up, again and again. As a community, we need everyone coming, to be participating, as often as they can, so that we can be here for each other, whether it’s adding to the joyfulness of a celebration or ensuring that we have a minyan for kaddish. We need to be practicing heimish hospitality: inviting in those who need a Shabbat meal or a seat in the pews or a friend with whom to chat. We need to be willing to share of ourselves and ask for help, love, and prayers when needed. And it means taking risks—connecting with someone new, even if they hold opinions we find challenging. They too are part of our extended family, waiting to be seen, heard, and embraced.

A recent study4 found a troubling trend: more Jews are returning to synagogue, but many are leaving soon after, feeling that they haven’t found community. Why is this? One answer might be that people instinctively seek comfort among familiar faces, particularly in times of trauma, overlooking those don’t know. As a result, people who are new to the community and don’t already have familiar faces leave just as lonely as they came. Without active, intentional efforts to be truly welcoming, the divisions among us only deepen, and our sins of separation, of looking away while our brothers and sisters stand alone, continue.

This is not who we are as Jews, and it’s not who we are at Temple B’nai Abraham.

What is it makes our community special? Why do people join and stay? It’s not just our history, though it is certainly something to be proud of. It’s not just our services, classes, or programs, as meaningful as they are. It’s the people. People come back because someone welcomed them, took the time to get to know them, even checked in when they didn’t see them on a subsequent week. Someone demonstrated that they matter, that they’re wanted. Our mission statement says that we are warm, welcoming, and inclusive. We are, and that’s what makes us stand out. And, we can do better.

A colleague shared a story about a rabbi who suffered a devastating family loss. His congregation showed up en masse for shiva, offering comfort and food. When he returned to shul, he thanked them, but shared his real wish: that they would show up for each other in the way they showed up for him. How often is it that we see shiva houses filled, not just with friends, but with fellow congregants? Not often enough. I heard that in another community, congregants showed up after a birth to help with every need, even doing laundry. (Personally, I prefer to do my own laundry!) The point is, we must show up for each other in times of need, doing what’s necessary—even if it’s just being present. Not because we’re close friends, but because we’re one large family. No one should fall through the cracks when we understand that we’re here for each other.

So how do we get there?

It starts with each of us being intentional about building community—reaching out, and being willing to be vulnerable. We need to be ready for opening ourselves up to others, no matter who they might be.

It’s going to take seeking out opportunities to speak with people we don’t know—even when we don’t feel like it. Behavioral psychologist Nicholas Epley noticed while taking the train to work that while social connections are the “number one source of happiness, success, good health, and sweetness in life,” commuters rarely talk to one another. So, he ran an experiment, encouraging participants to speak with fellow commuters during their rides. When reaching their destination, participants reported overwhelmingly positive experiences—regardless of whether they were introverts or extroverts. Why don’t we do this more often? He suggests it’s because we’re bad at predicting how much we’ll enjoy these conversations. We underestimate how much others want to talk and how much we gain by connecting with those around us.5

Here at Temple B’nai Abraham, we may not be commuting, but when we show up, we often gravitate toward those we know. So, take the first step: when you’re here, make a point of connecting with someone new. Introduce yourself. If you’ve met before—no big deal, it happens—just apologize and keep going. Get curious. Learn who they are, not just what they think or believe. Three minutes of genuine conversation can go a long way. And when you see each other again, each of you will see not just a familiar face—but a new part of your tribe. For those who cannot come in person and instead join online, consider calling a fellow member who you haven’t spoken to in awhile. Reconnect, rekindle that relationship, continue building up this network of support.

Let’s take it a step farther. Officially, we’re the people of the book, but unofficially, we’re the people of the meal. Our sacred days often center around gathering at the table. Sukkot is just days away. When most of us think of Sukkot, we think of the temporary shelters we build, perhaps the lulav and etrog. But it’s not just about the Sukkah; it’s about what happens inside it. We eat—and we eat with others. We invite people to join us. There’s even a mystical tradition called Ushpizin, where each evening of Sukkot, we symbolically invite in spiritual visitors from among our ancestors. And we’re supposed to invite in those in need as well.

Sukkot encourages us to embrace vulnerability—to sit out in nature, exposed to the elements, and open to all. It’s a reminder that there’s joy and peace in connecting without barriers. Yom Kippur lifts us to a place of wholeness and openness. And then, Sukkot asks us to extend that openness—to expand our circles, to bring others in, to open up our spaces and hearts, because that’s where true community begins. So, before the end of this festival season, regardless of whether we have a Sukkah, let’s invite someone new for a meal or for coffee. If not that, even a phone call!
Finally, while we may strive to accept people as they are, we don’t have to agree on everything. In Judaism, we believe in objective truth, and we also believe in the power of argument and debate to uncover that truth. Sometimes we’re right, and sometimes we think we’re right. Rabbi David Wolpe once shared a story about speaking with an Israeli entrepreneur.6 He mentioned that at synagogue meetings, no one was allowed to criticize ideas during brainstorming. The Israeli responded, “In Israel, if you don’t criticize other people’s ideas, everyone thinks you must be stupid.” That’s not just the Israeli way—it’s the Jewish way. Just look at a page of Talmud, where disagreement is the norm, and not always expressed gently. But the key is, when we argue, we know we’re engaged in a shared project—of life, Torah, family, and community. When we recognize that we’re disagreeing with real people who are part of our tribe, the fault lines dividing us begin to fade. We may not agree, but we know we’re in this together.

Today, let’s commit to doing t’shuvah for the rifts we’ve allowed to form—for the sins we’ve committed in letting our disagreements turn into divisions, for letting anger and frustration harden into resentment, for turning away from a neighbor in need of connection, for neglecting our own need to reach out and belong.

Today, let’s challenge ourselves and not waste another moment. I urge each of us, before we leave this sacred space, to have a conversation with someone we don’t yet know. In fact, in a few moments, I’m going to ask that we take some time, right here, to meet someone new. We get bonus mitzvah points if the encounter results in a future meal or coffee date! If you’re joining us online, pick up that phone and call someone you think will be home too, in need of some connection. The goal is simple: create as many opportunities as possible to connect, build, and rebuild our relationships with fellow members of our synagogue community. If we find a point of disagreement, we embrace it. Through engaging one another, even with our differences, we become stronger and more united. One community, one people, one world.

We, human beings, part of this extensive, inclusive Jewish family, are God’s agents in creation and re-creation. Where there has been destruction, it is our sacred duty to rebuild. It’s time to put a stop to the disintegration of our communities, to see the divine spark in each other, and to wake up each day with the intent of connecting meaningfully and building each other up. In choosing life, we must choose each other. So, let’s stay connected, let’s continue showing up, and let’s make some connections. Let’s take a few minutes, right here, to make a new friend. Our time start now.

Gamar Chatimah Tovah.

1B’reishit Rabbah 3:7
2From an email from R. Shai Held, October 7, 2024, in a Hadar Institute mailing, subject “A cord of hope.”
3Mishnah Yoma 8:9
4From a 2024 JFNA study on Jewish community
5David Brooks, How to Know a Person, p. 213.
6David Wolpe, “Respect your opponents,” in ed. David Hazony’s Jewish Priorities: Sixty-Five Proposals for the Future of our People.