By Rabbi Lauren Ben-Shoshan
Yom Kippur challenges us to face the truths of our lives with honesty, to release what no longer serves us, and to step toward transformation. In this sermon from Rabbi Lauren, we reflect on the paradox of the day: its solemnity paired with deep joy. Through the practices of teshuvah, tefilah, and tzedakah, we explore how confronting our burdens, embracing change, and choosing hope can turn even the heaviest reflections into profound spiritual renewal.
Every year, when Yom Kippur arrives, we step into a paradox. This is the most solemn day of the year—fasting, confession, awe, and a long journey through the machzor. Yet our sages insist that it is also the most joyful. The Mishnah teaches: “There were no days as joyful for Israel as Yom Kippur” (Ta’anit 4:8). At first, that seems absurd. How could hunger, honesty, and hard spiritual labor be called “joy”?
But despite what I am sure will be absolutely hilarious jokes, Yom Kippur’s joy is not frivolous laughter; it is the deep relief of release. It is the joy of clarity after confusion, of lightness after carrying burdens too long. The work of this day—the soul-accounting, the confessions, the tears—is demanding, but it is precisely this work that makes joy possible. Joy comes not by ignoring what is broken but by having the courage to face it and begin again.
That is why Judaism gives us not just ideals but practices: teshuvah, tefilah, tzedakah—repentance, prayer, and justice. They are tools for disrupting old patterns and inviting new ones. As neuroscientist Lisa Feldman Barrett notes, our brains are prediction machines, running old scripts unless we consciously reset them. Yom Kippur is that annual reset, reminding us that we can do hard things, and that change is possible.
Maimonides put it simply: real transformation happens when, faced with the same situation, we make a different choice (Hilchot Teshuvah 2:1). That is the spiritual challenge of this day. And yet, imagine the joy of discovering — even in one corner of our character — that change is ready to take root.
Rabbi Jonathan Sacks taught: “Optimism is the belief that things will get better. Hope is the belief that if we work hard enough, we can make things better.” Yom Kippur is hope on the clock. The deadline of sundown gives urgency, but also blessing. Judaism tells us: don’t just dream of being better—start now.
And so we begin this day not with seeking perfection, but with one step. One choice. One change. The Talmud reminds us: “It is not upon you to complete the work, but neither are you free to desist from it” (Pirkei Avot 2:16). Each honest step is its own victory, its own joy.
Kol Nidre, the prayer we will experience in just a little while, opens Yom Kippur with release — letting go of the vows and patterns that no longer serve us. Proverbs says: “The righteous may fall seven times, but they rise eight” (24:16). Tonight, we rise again. That rising constructs the joy of this day.
So may we step into Yom Kippur with reverence for the holiness of the work, and with relief that we do not do it alone. May we leave lighter—not only in body from fasting, but in soul, ready to carry forward the joy that only comes from honest transformation.
As we being to engage in the deep and important work of envisioning, renewal, and transformation, I have a few practical notes:
Bodies:
As we enter into this sacred day, I want to remind us that Yom Kippur is both a spiritual and a physical challenge. Throughout the service, you will hear instructions to rise and be seated — but please, listen to your body before you listen to me. Judaism is an embodied tradition, one that calls us to honor not just our souls but our whole selves. If your body tells you to sit, listen to it. If your body tells you that the fast is too difficult this year — especially in such a challenging year — listen to it. There is no one “right way” to move through this day except with integrity, care, and attentiveness to the fullness of who you are. This day is meant to be challenging, not endangering.
Safety:
We are grateful to the sheriff’s department for their presence during this time. It is important that, should we need them, we note the exits. In this era of some in our world who may seek to disrupt our time together, we also want to note that if we need to exit the building together and quickly, we will safely, and with calm haste, exit and join in the auxiliary parking lot following our Board Member greeter and usher _______________.
Youth:
Part of our charge as a people is to ensure our future. We do this by being a community that always welcomes our young people. In designated spaces, we have activities for our young people. Parents – please aid your children, when needed, and do not hesitate to use whatever open spaces are available in the building.
Kol Niddre Iyyun
Kol Nidre is perhaps the most haunting prayer in all of Jewish liturgy. Its melody pierces the heart. But the text is surprisingly technical: it is a legal formula for annulling vows. Why do we open the holiest day of the year with what seems like spiritual fine print?
Because Kol Nidre teaches us the first step in transformation: release. We cannot take on new commitments if we are bound in knots of old ones. Psychologist James Gross, in his research on emotional regulation, notes that one of the healthiest strategies is reappraisal: learning to see things anew rather than remaining trapped by old narratives. Kol Nidre is precisely this kind of reappraisal. It declares: the promises I made rashly, the burdens I carried unnecessarily, the expectations I set impossibly — let me release them, so I can begin again.
We might return to this place and this season, but we each bring the experiences of this past year – the burdens and sorrows, but also the growth and compassion learned. This is the moment, the yearly deadline, for compassion for what has been learned and experienced in the past year and to engage with the renewal and transformation that which this new year offers. As Rabbi Alan Lew wrote, this is the moment that:
Every soul needs to express itself. Every heart needs to crack itself open. Every one of us needs to move from anger to healing, from denial to consciousness, from boredom to renewal. These needs did not arise yesterday. They are among the most ancient of human yearnings, and they are fully expressed in the pageantry and ritual of the Days of Awe, in the great journey we make between Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur. (p. 5, Yom Kippur Machzor, Mishkan HaNefesh)
It is with this in mind that we turn to page 14 as we invite the presidents of our community – past and present – for a responsive reading and the opening of our ark.
Iyyun: Amidah and its logistics
God found my book of prayers.
May I? She asked.
Of course.
God put on Her reading glasses.
May the One who makes peace
in the heavens make peace
for us and for all Israel.
I can’t do all that, said God.
This was like your parent
finding your private diary.
I blushed.
Spread over us your
shelter of peace.
Who wrote this? God asked.
No clue, I shrugged.
God kept reading.
Or praying.
I couldn’t quite tell.
Heal the sick?
Free the captives?
I sat quietly. Praying from memory.
God read all seven hundred or so pages.
She took off her reading glasses.
She sighed.
I waited.
I can’t do any of this stuff, said God,
as She handed the book back to me.
Neither can I, I said.
But I like to believe You can.
It gives me hope.
Then God took out a book
and handed it to me.
This is Mine. Please read it.
I put on my reading glasses.
May my children make peace…
I began to read aloud.
I can’t do any of this stuff, I said,
as I handed the book back to God.
I like to believe You can, said God.
It gives Me hope.
And from that day forward
every time I prayed from my book
I thought of God praying for us
holding onto the hope
that between us,
belief could one day become,
reality.
– Poem by Rabbi Evan Schultz
This poem by Rabbi Evan Schultz expresses the beloved and continuously challenging struggle of our prayers. As our High Holy Day liturgy reads: “as the great shofar is sounded, a still small voice is heard.” It is a voice of despair and hope, of faith and love. It is a voice that softly calls, telling us that despite all that is happening in our world in this past year, and all that might happen in our world in the year that will soon unfold before us, that the prayers that we hold between us – those of teshuva, of repentance and repair, those words of tefilah, of heartfelt compassion, care, and connection, and those of tzedakah, of honest observation and improvement — help to cultivate the hope and, maybe even, reality of a better world in the year to come.
We enter into the Amida – the heart of our traditional prayer service – as we turn to page 46 and rise.
