Yom Kippur demands more than personal repentance. At a defining moment for Jews everywhere, it asks whether we have truly stood by one another.
Yom Kippur asks us to do something increasingly rare: stop blaming everyone else and look at ourselves. Before we stand before God and ask for forgiveness, Jewish tradition demands a cheshbon hanefesh an accounting of the soul. We examine what we have done, whom we have hurt, when we remained silent, and where we failed to live according to the values we claim to uphold.
The shofar is not merely an ancient ritual. It is an alarm for the conscience, calling us to wake up, look inward, and change. Repentance without honesty is performance. Forgiveness without accountability is empty. Prayers without action cannot repair what we have broken.
Soon, Jews around the world will pray to be inscribed and sealed in the Book of Life. But before we ask God what will be written about us, we should confront a harder question: What have we written about ourselves? This year, that question must be answered not only as individuals, but as a people.
These have been painful years for Jews. The trauma of October 7 did not disappear when the headlines moved on. Families were shattered and communities traumatized. Across the Diaspora, antisemitism has surfaced with disturbing openness. Jewish students have faced hostility, synagogues have required greater security, and ancient hatreds have been repackaged for a new generation.
Jews have also argued fiercely about Israel, Gaza, Zionism, politics, religion, and identity. There is nothing wrong with disagreement; Jewish history is filled with it. But there is a line between disagreement and abandonment, and we should know when we have crossed it.
No Jew should have to pass a political test before another Jew decides whether his or her suffering matters. Yet politics tempts us to condemn antisemitism from opponents while sometimes rationalizing it when confronting it might embarrass allies. That is not solidarity, and it is not courage.
Jewish peoplehood has never required political uniformity. We can criticize Israeli governments and disagree about war, diplomacy, elections, religion, and Israel's future. But criticism does not require abandonment. When synagogues are threatened, Jewish students intimidated, or Israelis murdered because they are Israelis, we should care. When antisemitism is disguised as activism, ideology, humor, or political rhetoric, we should name it. And when another Jew is hurting, our first question should not be, “What side are you on?” It should be, “How can I help?”
Yom Kippur, however, does not permit us to spend the day cataloging everyone else's sins. The harder work is examining our own. Have we strengthened Jewish education? Supported institutions sustaining Jewish life? Built connections with Israel beyond political headlines? Have partisan loyalties become stronger than communal bonds? When another Jew was isolated or attacked, did we speak? These questions are uncomfortable. They should be. Yom Kippur was never designed to flatter us.
There is something extraordinary about the confession we recite on Yom Kippur. We do not say only, “I have sinned.” We say: We have sinned. We have betrayed. We have spoken wrongly. We have gone astray. We confess together because Judaism understands something modern society too often forgets: We are individuals, but we are also responsible for one another.
The word “we” may be one of the most important words in Jewish survival. For thousands of years, Jews scattered across continents understood themselves as belonging to something larger than themselves. That peoplehood survived exile, persecution, pogroms, and genocide. We should be very careful about allowing contemporary politics to destroy what history could not.
The purpose of Yom Kippur is not guilt. It is transformation. If we owe an apology, make it. If we contributed to division, reconsider our words. If we remained silent before antisemitism, find our voice. If we have drifted from Jewish life, reconnect. And if another Jew needs us, show up not because we agree on everything, but because we are a people.
The Book of Life remains one of Judaism's most powerful images because every new year gives us an unwritten page. We cannot rewrite October 7, erase antisemitism, or undo every moment when we should have spoken and did not. But Judaism does not ask us to live forever inside yesterday. It asks what we will do tomorrow.
We can disagree without hatred. We can criticize without abandoning. We can defend ourselves without surrendering our humanity. We can fight antisemitism whether it comes from the political Left, the political Right, or anywhere else. We can rebuild a Jewish solidarity strong enough to survive our disagreements.
As Yom Kippur approaches, perhaps our collective cheshbon hanefesh should begin with two questions: What have others done to the Jewish people? And the harder one: What have we done for one another?
Our history has demonstrated that the Jewish people know how to survive enemies. The question before us now is whether we know how to survive our divisions. When the final shofar sounds and the gates begin to close, may we leave changed, more courageous, and more responsible for one another.
The future of the Jewish people will not be secured only by what we pray for together, but by whether we still choose to stand together when the prayers are over.
(Avrohom Moshe is a California-based civic affairs writer and public policy analyst focused on government accountability, fiscal responsibility, and public safety. He also writes on issues affecting the Jewish community, including combating antisemitism and advancing civic engagement.)
