Yom Kippur Sermon, Saturday, October 12, 2024
By Rabbi Mark Glickman
I have news for you – news that some of you may receive with sadness, and others with great glee: This is the final major sermon I will deliver during this year’s Days of Awe. So far, I have encouraged you to let yourself weep this year, because there’s so much for us to cry about together and as individuals. I’ve called upon you to understand and remain engaged with people who disagree with you about Israel and the current wars it’s fighting with its neighbours. And I’ve called upon you to be curious always because curiosity is so very important.
As a congregation, you have sat through approximately 8,000 words of Glickman sermons during these Days of Awe, and I congratulate you for your stamina.
And I’ll confess, as I prepared to speak this morning, I faced a question that many of my colleagues and I face as we prepare for Yom Kippur morning: What’s left to say? I feel so talked out – so emptied out on this fast day. Is it possible that I’ve just run out of words?
I sat before the computer as I asked those questions during recent days, and the cursor on the blank page in front of me blinked and blinked and blinked, as if to say, Glickman, you’re done, you’ve already said it all, just give it up and let them get to that closing song a little earlier. (Spoiler alert: That’s not gonna happen.)
Of course, mine haven’t been the only words you’ve heard during these Awesome Days. You’ve also heard countless words from other congregants and from the treasure of our Yom Kippur liturgy. We’ve prayed for forgiveness. We’ve faced up to our shortcomings. We’ve acknowledged how limited our power really is in the presence of an awesome God.
And this year, we’ve reflected on these themes amidst the din of a world exploding. There is horrible, violent international conflict raging; there is growing hate here in Calgary and throughout the west; there has been controversy – bitter controversy – here in our own synagogue. There are tensions and struggles in our own families and with some of our closest friends. This has been a loud year – a year of bombs, screaming, and cacophonous discord that makes it difficult to hear anything good.
Weeping, speaking and listening, curiosity, our own imperfections, atonement, the limitations of our power over much of anything. We’ve looked at it all. What more is there to say?
I’ve spent hours thinking about that lately, and eventually, I came to a conclusion: I think I have said what I’ve wanted to say this year. But as I sit with you amid the dizzying vortex of all these lessons and realities, I find that all these themes seem to be swirling around one central idea – a value that comes out of so much of what we have been thinking about these days. The theme is one that our liturgy has mentioned in passing, but it’s so present in so much of what we’ve been focusing on this year, that I’d like to lift it up and highlight it now in this final Days of Awe sermon for this year. The theme all comes down to one word: humility.
The world, our people, our families, and our lives, would all be better if we could all learn to show a little more humility.
I think that’s what I’ve been trying to say during all of these sermons throughout these Days of Awe. And, more important, I think that’s what our liturgy is trying to tell us, and what our Torah is trying to tell us, and, while it may not be very humble for me to say this, I’ll suggest that this might even be what God is trying to tell us at this time, too. We need to be humble.
Especially at times such as these, humility doesn’t tend to come very easily to us. When we feel attacked, we want to show strength. When we see something wrong taking place, we want to fight against the injustice. When we’re angry, we want to lash out. All of these responses are natural and very human responses, and indeed they are important. There are indeed bad things happening in the world, and as a people committed to justice, we need to speak out – loudly sometimes – and fight for what we know is right.
But the problem is that speaking out and fighting can often lead to conceit. Speaking out and fighting, you see, is something you do when you know you’re right and the other guy is wrong. But there are moments – you’ve had them, and I’ve had them too – when we’ve gotten into some sort of argument or discussion sure that we are in the right, only to later realize that we weren’t. Think about your political views now compared to what they were during previous stages in your life. My guess is that you’ve changed, that you’ve grown, that the certainties of years past have given way to other ideas as you’ve matured.
I’ve felt that happen even over the course of the past year. Right after the October 7 attacks, I, like many of us, screamed out at the brutality of what had just happened. And I was right to do so. I knew that Israel would have to fight back against Hamas, and I wasn’t really in the mood to engage in discussions that would call any of my certainties into question.
But then the war started. And then it dragged on. And then the bodies of hostages started turning up. And Palestinian civilians were killed. And Israeli soldiers were killed. And I saw Israel, a country I love, terrorized by the continued attacks. And whereas right after October 7 I wanted to scream, I increasingly found myself wanting to cry. And I found myself wanting to think. And I found myself needing wisdom and comfort. Our community hosted speakers, and some just kept on screaming. And Israel’s enemies here in Calgary keep screaming at us. And as the din grows louder, I find myself wanting to say, ” Everyone, please quiet down. Let’s talk. Let’s listen. Let’s learn from each other, and let’s cry together.”
Weeping, curiosity, atonement. Is it not the case that humility is where these three values and others meet?
Judaism has long called upon us to be humble in all that we do. We see it in today’s Torah portion. It’s set at Mount Sinai, and the Torah could have said, ” You are standing today before Adonai your God.” But it didn’t say that. Instead, it says, “You are standing today, all of you, before Adonai your God – your tribal heads, elders, men, women, and children, water drawers and woodchoppers.” Judaism – pursuing our destiny and making the world right – isn’t just about you. It’s partly about you, of course, but the Jewish experience is something that we share. Rich and poor, powerful and meek, clever and simple, old and young, we all stood before God at Sinai. It is an experience that wouldn’t have been possible without all of us there.
It’s not just about you. It’s about us all. It’s about all of us, and we need to make room for other people, other views, other perspectives. The rabbis say that humility is one of the primary ways that we can achieve the truth of the Torah. We are commanded not only to pray but to pray with koved rosh, heaviness of head. Don’t go into your encounters with the Divine so proud and strong, be humble, and then your prayers will be answered. Jacob and Esau, the rabbis teach, were only able to reunite and mend their broken relationship because of Jacob’s humility. Later, in the Talmud, the rabbis teach that, as a rule, when Hillel and his rival Shammai argue, Hillel’s view is the one that holds. Why? Because Hillel was the humbler of the two sages. And the sages went on to say that it was this very humility – the humility of Hillel – that brought our entire people under the wings of God’s presence.
Even God is humble, our tradition teaches. Before God created the world, Rabbi Isaac Luria taught, that God’s presence filled everything – everything that existed was God. As a result, to create the world, God had to contract. God became smaller so that the rest of us and the rest of the world could come into existence.
I’ll say that again: God became smaller so that the rest of us and the rest of the world could come into existence.
Later, when God created humanity, the Torah has God saying “Let us make man in our image.” Our sages wondered who God was speaking to, and one answer they suggested was that God was consulting with the angels. Even God, as great as God is, took the time to consult with others before taking the big step of creating our world.
And on Pesach, Passover, what are we supposed to avoid? Chametz – leavened stuff. We avoid it, of course, because our ancestors didn’t have time to let their bread rise when they left Egypt, but we also avoid it, the rabbis teach, because leavened stuff represents sin. After all, most of our misdeeds, they teach, happen when we, like bread, get puffed up – too big for ourselves and too big for the good of the world.
I could cite many more texts, but you get the point. The welfare of the world depends on our ability to keep ourselves in check. We must be humble.
Please, I beg you, keep this in mind in the year ahead. Show as much humility as you can. Remember that everyone and everything has something to offer, and something to teach. So, when you argue, argue not to win, but to learn. Listen before talking. Ask lots of questions. Find the truth that your interlocutors can teach you. Give them the benefit of the doubt. And when they make you angry, don’t get angry at them, get curious, instead.
Please, in the year ahead, show as much humility as you can. Like God, step back and withdraw sometimes rather than always making yourself big. For the greatest people are those who leave room for others, rather than pushing them out of the way.
Please, in the year ahead, show as much humility as you can. Don’t always ask what’s best for you as an individual. Ask instead how you can contribute to the greater good. We need you to do that.
Please, in the year ahead, show as much humility as you can. Remember that even when you’re great, you’re also imperfect. That’s why we’re here today – to acknowledge and atone for those areas in which we’ve fallen short. Al cheit shechatanu l’fanecha ...for the sins we have committed before you. You might be good, but you can always be better.
Please, in the year ahead, show as much humility as you can. Try not to yell so much, for there is already too much yelling in the world, and when you yell, you just make yourself hoarse, and the rest of us are deaf, and then we can’t communicate at all. Sometimes, it’s the quietly spoken word that comes across best. Sometimes a whisper can drown out a scream. And sometimes, listening can be even more powerful than that.
I’m not suggesting, of course, that you become a doormat. No, instead, my suggestion is just the opposite. Find the true power of transformation in the art of shrinking. Sometimes when you shrink, you help other people grow, and their growth in the end helps you grow, too.
And please don’t respond by saying what I often hear people say after some of my sermons, ‘”Yes, Rabbi, that’s telling them.” I am speaking to them, of course, but I’m also speaking to you. And, of course, as in all my sermons, I’m also speaking to myself.
I dream of a world with more humility – of a world where we can work together for the shared good rather than only for ourselves; of a world where we listen before we attack; of a world where we try to find the good in others, even and especially the people who make us angry; of a world where each of us honours everyone else by acknowledging that their truths, their stories, and their experiences matter just as much if not more than our own.
Imagining that world helps me breathe easier. A world like this can come to be. Our humility will make it a more peaceful world. Quieter. Calmer. More respectful.
Tears, atonement, listening, curiosity. Al chet shechatanu l’fanecha. O God, we are not perfect. We have sinned. We have grown too large. Let us step down a bit, contract a bit, listen a bit more and be a little bit more kind. For it is in the sacred act of humility that true salvation can be found.
Shanah Tovah.
During the Kol Nidre Service on October 11, 2024
By Rebecca Silverberg, Temple President
Good evening!
It is truly wonderful to be able to be with all of you here today.
As I think all of you know, this is my first Kol Nidre speech as this Congregation’s President.
And while, in years past, your president would stand before you on this most holy of days and celebrate all of the wonderful things that Temple has done over the past year, and encourage our members to donate time and money to the community – some of which I will do later in my remarks – but it strikes me that it would be disingenuous for me to stand here without acknowledging the October 7 tragedy and the horror and pain that many of us, if not all of us, have felt or witnessed over the last year.
This is our first Yom Kippur together since that date.
A year has gone by since Israel went through one of the most terrible calamities in its history, the Jewish people’s worst disaster since the Holocaust. A year has passed, and 101 hostages are still held by Hamas. A year has passed, and almost every day we hear of more people being killed or wounded.
And although the Days of Awe are generally a time of celebration, this entire year has felt like one lacking in celebration in its purest form. October 7 created a deeper experience of our otherness than most of us have experienced in our lifetimes, and the aftermath of that day has rippled into a sense of abandonment by many in the global community.
I am not so naïve as to think that I will be able to, in my words this evening, describe the collective experience of our community and its members following October 7.
But in this time of deep prayer and reflection, I thought what I might do is tell you briefly about my October 7 experience, or my truth, which is a story that I’ve not shared with anyone in this room before.
And then what I want to do is share the two lessons that I’ve learned from this past year.
The first lesson I learned was that I need to ask better questions about every person’s unique October 7 experience – because when the starting point is – how has October 7 impacted you – we find vulnerability, openness and a wealth of shared experiences.
The second lesson I learned was that this group of people in this room, and our larger Jewish community, has been so important to my healing and recovery from October 7.
Now – contextually, important to my October 7 story is that I lived in Israel while I was pursuing my Master’s degree, ironically it seems now, in conflict resolution. I was part of an international, Israeli and Palestinian group of students attending Tel Aviv University. I had the opportunity to travel all over Israel, within the West Bank, and within the larger Middle East. I have visited many of the places in Israel that have been most impacted by October 7 – and – for a time, I considered Israel my home, I have also considered it a home that I will return to because I continue to have strong connections to the people of Israel, an extended family so to speak.
Coming full circle now to my experience with October 7.
I recall vividly the sheer happiness I felt at the end of Simchat Torah services last year. I had not been to a Simchah Torah service in probably decades but felt compelled to be here last year (and not just because I had to deliver announcements). I left feeling deeply connected to this community, to the Torah, and to my own Judaism. I went to bed happy, hopeful, and contented.
Then I woke up on October 7. And it started as a normal day. My friends were throwing me a belated birthday party that night. I took the dog for a walk and I went to the grocery store. I was blissfully naïve, still revelling in the joy of the previous night’s services. I was sitting in the parking lot of that grocery store when I received a text from my husband that said – “Something is happening in Israel.” And I sat in that parking lot for the better part of an hour reading the news and watching video footage of the October 7 attacks.
Although I was numb for a period of time, I swung from an extreme emotional high to probably the deepest depression I’ve ever felt, and still feel somewhat to this day, in less than 24 hours. I spent days in bed torturing myself on social media and by watching the news and texting my friends in Israel to make sure they were okay.
If October 7 wasn’t bad enough, in the days following, we started to see groups of people celebrating the October 7 attacks, which to me and many in this room, was unbelievable. It felt like the ultimate betrayal. And then emerged widespread antisemitism in the West, to a degree that I’ve never experienced before. And everything, in that moment, felt so impossible and ugly.
I lost friends those weeks following October 7. Not only did I lose friends in Israel on October 7, but I lost friends here in Calgary. Friends who didn’t understand my pain, who applauded the terror attacks, who stood on the “wrong side of the street” so to speak. And eventually, as grief goes, my deep sadness turned to rage.
I was angry that I had to go to work and act normal because I didn’t feel normal. I was angry at the people in my life who hadn’t acknowledged October 7 or the impact October 7 could have on me or the community. I was angry at the politicians in this country for not doing enough to support Israel and to support Jewish communities here. I was angry at Hamas. And yes, I was even angry at this Temple for a period of time – for not doing the things I thought might be right or reasonable in these circumstances.
I felt isolated in my trauma and scared, and I withdrew pretty completely for several long months.
Now I’m going to get to the part where I started healing, which is a much more positive part of my story because it very much speaks to the healing and transformative power of our community.
But in preparing these remarks, and in coming to the first lesson I’ve learned from this experience, I reflected on the people who stood by and with me and with us over the last year. There have been many, but I want to highlight one person.
I have a friend. A best friend. She is not Jewish and I’ve only known her a few short years. She has been present with me every day since October 7. She cried with me, she watched hours of Tik Toks about October 7; she stood with me across from City Hall waving an Israeli flag when that is what I felt I needed to; and she attended several Federation events with me. She has celebrated Shabbats, Hannukah, Purim, and Passover with me.
And over the last year, I’ve also watched her teach her two young children about the Middle East conflict, October 7, and antisemitism, so that they understood why they were seeing what they were seeing, and why some of what they were seeing was deeply wrong. More positively she taught them about the wonderful parts of Judaism. Her 12-year-old even made a point this year of wishing me a happy new year – which is kind of a big thing for a kid who seems to be singularly focused on drums and music.
For the first time since October 7, and in the preparation of these remarks, I finally thought to ask her how October 7 impacted her. I’m going to share her response with you all tonight, because it is raw and vulnerable, and is one of many unique experiences that has October 7 at its core.
I wouldn’t say that October 7 was a particularly unusual day in my life, but the last year because October 7 has brought up many emotions.
It’s been heartbreaking that I have no control to protect my friends from the pain and the racism that ensued. I have felt very angry at times. It is difficult to find words to say to my friends because it only affects me in the same way any international conflict affects me, but it affects my friends on such a deeper level that I do not experience. I also have never felt the kind of loss of community or lives in the same way and I likely won’t. For those reasons, I feel like my words are hollow in some sense which is uncomfortable.
At the same time, I am grateful that you have a community to grieve with. I think I would have learned about the Jewish community in any event because you are so open about it, but I think the conflict brought out more Jew in you so to speak.
I will also say that during the last year, I have been horrified at times and scared. In the beginning, I was really scared for your safety in particular. Then I became scared for Jewish students and children as I saw the violence unfold in Canada and the United States. I cried for them…
And although this person is not here with us tonight, I think it was courageous that she could be so open with me, and by extension, all of you. And it has demonstrated to me, with all the ugliness we’ve seen in this world, there’s a huge amount of goodness and compassion left – by both Jews and non-Jews.
So now we turn to my second lesson, which is that the healing process for me really started in this sanctuary and in this building.
As time progressed, my anger has dimmed. I found myself reengaging with our community and the work we do in the larger community. I have started to find happy moments again – moments of connection with many of you sitting here, moments of joy within our larger Calgary Jewish community, and moments of pride at being a Temple member and the President of Temple.
This is where we celebrate all that we have done as a community over the last year. I can’t go through everything that we’ve done, because that, in and of itself, is its own speech, but I want to highlight a few moments:
- We invited the Mayor into our community for a difficult conversation about community connections during troubled times, and took the first step to repairing a relationship that soured after Hannukah last year.
- We made new friends with members of the Al Madinah Islamic Assembly through our potluck and lunch programming this summer, and we are excited about future programming and opportunities to connect with our new friends.
- Our LIFE & LEGACY team continues to make great progress in building an endowment fund. With current pledges, we expect the endowment will amount to $2 million in the future—and that number continues to grow. Thank you to our Life & Legacy team.
- And recently, we converted and welcomed 12 new individuals to our Jewish family. These individuals started their conversion process before October 7 and stood with us throughout this entire difficult year. The Rabbi has described this group as being heroes to the Jewish community, and I agree.
Finally, my predecessor, Michael Clarke, launched the Ner Tamid, or Eternal Light, Campaign at Kol Nidre last year, to ensure that we had the funds to maintain our building for our children and their children. The initial goal was to raise 1 million dollars in 5 years through donations and pledges.
I am happy to announce that, since Yom Kippur last year, we have reached and exceeded our goal of raising $1 million. I would like to thank Betsy Jameson and Michael Clarke who spearheaded this campaign. And I would like to extend the deepest thanks to all those individuals who have donated or pledged money to Ner Tamid, including the most recent pledge from Thorn Walden, and I would especially like to highlight the generous donations by Al Osten, as well as Deborah Yedlin and Martin Moleneaux, whose pledges have substantially assisted Temple in reaching its goal in such a short time.
Now, on a more sober note – a gentle reminder that our dues and rentals do not cover the cost of operations in this building. And for folks who have been contemplating, but have not, made their Ner Tamid pledges, I would request and encourage you to make those donations to assist us in covering our operating budget so that we can continue to provide services and meaningful programming to our large community this year and for years to come.
I want to thank all of our volunteers and leaders for their time over the past year, and I want to highlight several people, specifically: Roz Oppenheim and Caron Glickman for organizing the Boilermaker Bash this past May and all they do for us; Michael Clarke and Josh Hesslein for their long service on our executive and Board and who have provided mentorship to me; Leslie Handy and her work on Caring Community, and Deborah Regner who maintains our flower beds and makes sure there is food at our onegs.
And I would also like to thank the people who keep our building and operations running, who are pivotal to our success – Danny, Jeremiah and Kenny, Patricia and Lana, Ruth, and Emma; the Shabbat school team; and of course the security team that keep us safe.
As well, a heartfelt thank you to our Rabbi for unending wisdom and calmness over the last year, Katie for her wonderful music, and all of the musicians who participate in our services.
So let me leave you on this final note – my heart is still broken. But day by day, in performing good work and acts of tikkun olam with this community, I’m starting to feel the pieces of my heart snap back together. And if you learn anything from my experience, then it is really that this Temple, our Temple, is so important in the healing process from October 7, and I encourage each and every one of you to find time to come together as a community, and to find meaningful volunteer opportunities with us.
This year has taught us that we are stronger together, and I hope that the next year will teach us that we are happier together as well.
G’mar Chatima Tovah.