The Evening of Second Chances©
Kol Nidre 2021/5782
Rabbi David Baum
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| Photo by Jason Rosewell on Unsplash |
When I was 12 years old, my parents signed me up for our synagogue’s first ever children’s choir. I’ll never forget being with my peers on the bimah with our Hazan, the huge empty sanctuary in front of us. We went through some songs, and the Cantor felt something wasn’t right.
Everyone’s voice was really high, as they should have been at that age, but there was one really deep voice that threw everyone off. That deep voice was mine, because, I had this voice when I was 12 years old.
When salesmen would call the house, I would say, let me get my dad, and they would always say, aren’t you the man of the house? Unfortunately, my voice was too deep for a children’s choir. The Cantor pulled me aside at the end of the session and said, “I’m sorry David, I just don’t know what to do with you; your voice is just too deep,” and with that, he sent me home.
I walked into my house that evening with a big smile on my face. My parents asked, “how was your first day of choir?” I proudly answered, “It was great, the Cantor kicked me out! So I guess that’s the end of my music career. No more choirs for me.”
I hit the end of the road for my singing career, or so I thought at the time.
That all changed this summer. During my mini-sabbatical, I spent a month at Camp Ramah Darom, and another Cantor approached me, “Rabbi, want to join our staff choir?” I told her about my short choir career, and she looked at me in shock: “how could your Cantor have kicked out a bass?!? We need you!”
I do need to say one thing though: Cantor Hadash, do not worry, I learned that my voice isn’t the voice of an angel, and I’m not going to Cantorial school.
But my second chance with Jewish singing, something I left behind so many years ago, reminded me of this evening - Kol Nidre, but not just because of the beautiful and haunting tune that we cannot help but sing with the Cantor every year.
On Kol Nidre, we struggle with the promises we make. This service was meant to forgive ourselves for the promises we made but couldn’t keep. But the rabbis didn’t really like this idea, so they changed it to the promises we will make in the coming year.
Kol Nidre is our statement - we believe in second chances, especially for ourselves.
Last week, during the Torah service, I spoke about giving others a second chance - I used Hagar and Abraham’s relationship as an example. Mishnah Yoma teaches us, the sins between God and human are forgiven on Yom Kippur, but the sins between each other are not forgiven until we seek our fellow human out and make amends. That was the work of the last week, Teshuvah, repentance, and we should continue that work every day of the year.
But on Yom Kippur, I want us to focus on something we don’t talk about enough - our relationship with God and our tradition, and the times we swore off parts of our Jewish soul because of a bad experience, or because Judaism can be seemingly daunting and complicated.
This evening can teach us about second chances, especially after this year and a half when we put off so many things for later, or simply gave up on them.
But it hasn’t been just this year. It seems like more and more people tell me, I want to read Torah one day, I want to start coming to shul on Shabbat, but I just don’t know enough. It’s too late for me - you should talk to someone else. My answer to them - I cannot accept the answer that the door is shut forever, but can you at least say, not yet?
I had a profound ‘not yet’ moment years ago when I was a rabbinical student interning at the University of Florida Hillel. The director asked me to sit on a panel of campus religious leaders - a pastor, a rabbinical student, and a rather charismatic atheist.
A young man came up to me afterward. He told me why he was there - his roommate asked him to come to listen to one of his teachers who happened to be the Pastor. The young man was Jewish, but he didn’t really know anything about being Jewish. He told me that he grew up in a completely secular household. He had no memories of Shabbat and holiday dinners or going to synagogue.
When he came to college, his roommate invited him on the first day they met to join him on Friday night at the student union. At the Union, he was surrounded by kids his age, and free pizza! They even went bowling, and then, after that, they sat in a circle and read the Bible. What he didn’t know until a couple of Friday nights of hanging out with his roomate was that his roomate was a very active member of the Campus Crusade for Christ. After a couple of weeks, he was confused - who am I?
After the panel, I thought I failed miserably. There were some answers I just didn’t have, and the other panelists were just so confidant in their answers. I was ready to head back to Hillel, kippah in hand, to tell my new supervisor that I let him down.
But the young man felt otherwise. He thanked me for reminding him of his identity, but he was still confused - where do I belong? That’s when I invited him to Hillel on Friday night. I told him, “I don’t have all the answers to life’s deepest questions; I’m just a rabbinical student, but I do have a place at our table. Do you want to join us?”
He answered, “I don’t know - I’m just so ashamed I know so little about Judaism. I think it's too late for me.” So I told him the following story:
There was a guy around your age who was brought up in a home just like yours. Growing up, he didn’t have Shabbat dinners, keep kosher, or really do anything that one would think a Jewish family would do. He was Jewish, but he barely knew it.
As a young man, he told his parents: “We are Christians in all things, we live in a Christian state, go to Christian schools, read Christian books, our whole culture is based on a Christian foundation.”
He knew something was missing in his life, but he just couldn’t figure it out.
Then he went to University, just like you. At the University, he became friends with people who were so sure they had the answers that he was seeking. His own cousins converted to Christianity and they persuaded him that he would be able to find the peace, purpose and faith he was looking for in Christianity. He was so convinced by the arguments, he announced to his parents that he intended to convert, but before taking this final step, he decided to visit a synagogue on Yom Kippur, and give Judaism one last chance.
In 1913, this young man visited a shul/synagogue in Berlin, Germany on the holiest night of the year, Kol Nidre. As he walked in, he heard familiar tunes from his childhood. The words, the tune, the Jews he was surrounded by who welcomed him in - everything came together for him. He had no idea what was happening to him - suddenly, his heart was opening, and something, or maybe someone, was filling it up.
It was at that moment that he realized that he had to give Judaism a second chance.
He was so sure of his future before that evening. He had an appointment at the local church for a baptism, but he broke that promise.
A few days later, he wrote a letter to his cousin who was to sponsor his baptism: “I am sorry to disappoint you, dear cousin, but I am remaining a Jew.”
I told this young man, “95 years ago, a young man named Franz Rosenzweig walked in your shoes. After that evening, he began a journey that led to him becoming one of the most celebrated Jewish religious thinkers of the 20th century. he published several important books on major aspects of Jewish thought and together with Martin Buber, he translated the Bible in modern German. He changed thousands of lives of young people who were searching for something, just like him, when he created The Free Jewish House of Jewish Teaching, which became a model for reaching out to young Jews like him who lost their way.”
I warned him though, it didn’t happen overnight. During that period of rediscovery of his roots, Rosenzweig realized he had a lot to learn. As he began his Jewish journey, a friend asked him if he was praying with tefillin every morning during those early days.
He answered immediately: “Not yet.”
It wasn't a smart aleck answer. He wasn’t avoiding the question either.
He felt that he was not yet ready to take upon himself the Mitzvah of putting on Tefilin, but he did not rule out the possibility of arriving at that point one day.
So I said to this young man, “you’re not alone - you are a part of a wonderful tradition of young Jews who are searching for something outside, who are intimated by our many books and mitzvoth, but if you can just give our people another chance, if you can give the God of Israel a second chance, if you can give your Jewish soul a second chance, if you can say, ‘not yet’ when someone asks if you can do this, who knows what the future holds not just for you, but for our people.”
Honestly, I don’t know where that young man is today, but I know this - he came to Hillel that Friday night for services and Shabbat dinner.
Judaism can be daunting, but if we can just give Judaism another chance, if we can just say ‘not yet’, then maybe we can change ourselves, and the world.
As we all contemplate the things we swore we would never do again because of a bad experience we had, especially the Jewish experiences, let’s also remember that tonight is about second chances.
And when the task is too daunting, we can say, not yet, but one day.
On this day, I want each of us to think about our Jewish bucket list - the Jewish things we want to accomplish this year, and together, we will help each other with our second chances.
This year, I’ll be starting a new program called Spreading Torah, the Rabbi Hiyya Challenge. The challenge is named after a famous Talmudic rabbi who, when faced with the end of Torah on earth, brought it back by teaching Torah to Jews who knew nothing about Judaism. Not only did they learn Torah, but they also learned how to teach Torah to other children. And that is how they saved Judaism from disappearing.
For those who were told by their Cantors growing up, they just can’t carry a tune, or told by their rabbi that giving a dvar torah just isn’t in the cards for you, this challenge is for you.
I hope you consider being part of this new challenge and giving yourself a second chance.
There is another essential element needed to give others a second chance that I haven’t made explicitly clear.
What would have happened to Rosenzweig had there not been a shul singing Kol Nidre?
That’s why we need you, each and every one of you. Judaism is the only faith that requires a quorum, in other words, a community for the full expression of our prayers.
If we are not here singing together, learning together, living Jewish life together, there is no chance for the Franz Rosenzweig of 2021 to find their second chance.
So, you’re probably waiting for me to serenade you all in a moving Cantorial piece. Unfortunately, I have to say, not yet. But it’s not because I’m not ready, but it’s because, right now, communal singing isn't the safest thing to do because of Covid. But I hope in a year from tonight, we have a singing team, not a choir, at Shaarei Kodesh. I hope that this new singing team, with people who never thought they'd be a part, will lift all of our voices.
I never thought I’d be on that singing team, but after this summer, I realized I can have a second chance.
I’m not the only rabbi who had a secret desire to sing my heart out. We call our greatest prophet Moshe Rabbenu, but on the last day of his life, in his Moses 120th year, Moses wasn't a rabbi - he was a Cantor. The last time he sang was right after his people crossed the Sea of Reeds 40 years earlier. You can hear that song, Moses’s final words, this Shabbat at Shaarei Kodesh when we read parashat Haazinu.
הַאֲזִינוּ הַשָּׁמַיִם וַאֲדַבֵּרָה {ס} וְתִשְׁמַע הָאָרֶץ אִמְרֵי־פִי׃
Give ear, O heavens, let me speak;
Let the earth hear the words I utter!
Imagine how many songs are out there waiting to be heard, how many Jews waiting to be listened to here in South Florida?
May this evening, Kol Nidre, remind us of our second chances. When we think about the daunting future, let us listen to the words of Franz Rosenzweig who said, “not yet, but one day.” And let us all remember our covenant, because we are a community carrying on our tradition, singing, prayer, and living out a vibrant Jewish life, and because of us, there can be second chances for all.
Gmar Chatimah Tovah
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