I had just begun my final year of Rabbinical School at JTS. That morning, I was on my way to serve on the beit din for the conversion of a newly adopted baby. As I was hurrying to leave my apartment, I heard an early report on NPR about an explosion and fire on the upper floors of the North Tower of the World Trade Center. A few minutes later, I received a call from Rabbi Sharon Kleinbaum,  my internship mentor at Congregation Beit Simchat Torah (CBST). She was standing on Washington Street near the synagogue in the West Village, watching the fire in the North Tower, when she saw the second plane hit.

There was another beit din gathered at the mikveh for the conversion of a pregnant woman. Rabbi Roderick Young, then the Associate Rabbi at CBST, arrived for our beit din, shaken. He had seen the first plane flying too low over the West Village, and when he looked up at the Twin Towers as he descended into the subway, he saw the fiery hole in the first tower. We told him there had been a second plane. No one knew what was happening, but we all knew it was bad. It felt like a weighty day to cast one’s fate in with the Jewish people.

Rabbi Young sat with me and my fellow intern, JTS student Tracy Nathan, and counseled us to be present to celebrate this milestone with our congregant and his baby. When the father arrived, late and out of breath, he told us that he had emerged from the PATH train into chaos at the World Trade Center with his baby, who normally went to the daycare there. The bright blue sky was dark with dust, and bits of paper and ash were raining down. He said to himself, “I have to meet the rabbis,” and went into the subway, getting on one of the last trains going uptown. 

The weeks that followed saw ugly spikes in anti-Muslim rhetoric and violence, antisemitic conspiracy theories, beautiful acts of heroism in the face of tragedy, and people and communities uniting to comfort one another and offer healing. Soon the U.S. would be at war, the New York City skyline would be forever changed, and a previously unimaginable act of violence and destruction would become part of our collective memory.

For days after, we could smell the burning miles uptown. In New York and surrounding areas, Jewish communities gathered to register the shock and the horror and offer comfort and tried to account for every member. That night I joined the gathering at B’nai Jeshurun to sing and mourn. On Rosh Hashanah, Rabbi Kleinbaum invited anyone who had been below Canal Street to bench gomel, and hundreds of people streamed forward to the bimah. That year, the endless sirens felt like cries of the shofar proliferating all over the city, emanating from the burning pile where the tallest buildings in the city used to be.

This year, when the first night of Rosh Hashanah falls on the 25th anniversary of 9/11, we reflect on the lessons from that day, on its inexorable connection to the season of the Days of Awe, and on the days and years since. The images from that day are imprinted on those of us who can remember where we were that morning. Yet 30 percent of Americans living today were born after 9/11. They never had to readjust to the new skyline. They never lived in a world where such horrific acts of terrorism were unimaginable. We have experienced too much horror, too much revenge, too much loss. We also carry the legacy of those who reached toward each other to offer healing and comfort.

September 11 was a global and local tragedy that was mourned in both communities of faith and secular society. I found comfort and meaning in Jewish liturgy and in the popular and secular texts that became a sort of civic liturgy.

Former U.S. Poet Laureate Billy Collins dedicated his poem to the victims of September 11 and its survivors. The poem includes names of victims beginning with every letter of the alphabet, evoking the acrostics of liturgical poems. Its language is akin to the poems we reach for in a Yizkor or martyrology service.

Names etched on the head of a pin.
One name spanning a bridge, another undergoing a tunnel.
A blue name needled into the skin.
Names of citizens, workers, mothers and fathers,
The bright-eyed daughter, the quick son.
Alphabet of names in a green field.
Names in the small tracks of birds.
Names lifted from a hat
Or balanced on the tip of the tongue.
Names wheeled into the dim warehouse of memory.
So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the heart.

The recently deceased singer-songwriter Dolly Parton wrote a spiritual anthem in the wake of 9/11, which echoes many of the deep theological questions expressed and inspired by our High Holiday liturgy. We can imagine her song “” in conversation with Untaneh Tokef or Leonard Cohen’s “,” its contemporary counterpart.

This old world has gone to pieces
Can we fix it?
Is there time?
Hate and violence just increases
We’re so selfish, cruel, and blind
We fight and kill each other
In Your name defending You
Do You love some more than others?
We’re so lost and confused
Hello, God?
Can You grant us
Love enough to make amends?
Is there still a chance
That we could start again?
Hello, God?

Bruce Springsteen’s album The Rising, which included some songs written before September 11 and many written in its aftermath, explores deep themes of loss, grief, and the resolve to rebuild, carrying us through the varied emotions the mahzor evokes.

From “ by Bruce Springsteen:

May your strength give us strength
May your faith give us faith
May your hope give us hope
May your love give us love

In the days and weeks after 9/11, I volunteered as a chaplain in the family assistance center. I joined with multifaith efforts to counteract Islamophobia and anti- Muslim violence.

I found solace and meaning in my Jewish communities. These experiences shaped some of the lessons that I carry with me.

Seek connection. In community, we can find strength, start to digest the overwhelming events around us, and, through acts of love and kindness, start to rekindle hope.

Reach out. If you are worried that someone you know may be suffering or if they are in proximity to tragedy, reach out to them. Tell them they are in your thoughts.

Keep living. Make room for celebration. Seek out beauty and art. Sing. The Talmud tells us that when a funeral procession and a wedding procession meet, the wedding procession has right of way. We acknowledge the suffering around us with eyes open and hearts filled with compassion, and we continue to mark the daily and extraordinary moments in our lives.

The Zichronot section of the Rosh Hashanah Musaf service encourages us to remember in order to strengthen our covenant with God and our responsibility to our fellow humans. This remembering is not to inspire vengeance, but to evoke compassion and tenderness, spurring us to acts of lovingkindness.

As we turn to the texts and music of the Days of Awe on this somber anniversary, we can tuck these civic texts and others that speak to us into our mahzorim to accompany us into the new year

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Part of the 2026 High Holiday Webinar Series, Past and Presence: Encountering the High Holidays

With Cantor Rabbi Shoshi Levin Goldberg, Director, H.L. Miller Cantorial School, JTS

The High Holiday liturgy offers a rich tapestry of words handed down through generations, yet it also leaves room for something deeply personal: the prayers of our own hearts. In this session, Cantor Rabbi Shoshi Levin Goldberg, Director of the H. L. Miller Cantorial School, will explore the quiet prayer recited at the conclusion of the Amidah—a passage traditionally associated with the personal supplications of the sages—and consider what it teaches us about bringing our authentic selves into prayer. How did the rabbis weave their own hopes, fears, and longings into the liturgy, and what might that model offer us today? �鶹ԭ�� the Series What does it mean to prepare and show up for the High Holidays in our own time? This three-part series explores how Jewish tradition has preserved, interpreted, and renewed the themes of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur through sacred objects, timeless texts, and personal prayer. Together, we’ll explore the objects that have carried Jewish tradition across centuries, engage with ancient texts with compassion and honesty, and reflect on how our own voices become part of the ongoing story of Jewish prayer and renewal.

�鶹ԭ�� the Series

�鶹ԭ�� the Series What does it mean to prepare and show up for the High Holidays in our own time? This three-part series explores how Jewish tradition has preserved, interpreted, and renewed the themes of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur through sacred objects, timeless texts, and personal prayer. Together, we’ll explore the objects that have carried Jewish tradition across centuries, engage with ancient texts with compassion and honesty, and reflect on how our own voices become part of the ongoing story of Jewish prayer and renewal.

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Part of the 2026 High Holiday Webinar Series, Past and Presence: Encountering the High Holidays

With Rabbi Naomi Kalish, Harold and Carole Wolfe Director of the Center for Pastoral Education; Assistant Professor of Pastoral Education, JTS

The High Holiday liturgy repeatedly calls us to confront fear while urging us toward hope, trust, and renewal. Yet for many, these texts can resonate in unexpected—and sometimes painful—ways.

In this session, Rabbi Naomi Kalish, Director of the Program in Spiritual Care and Counseling, JTS, will explore how the themes of fear and trauma surface throughout the High Holidays, with particular attention to the banishment of Hagar and Ishmael, the binding of Isaac, and the recurring language of the Psalms. Drawing on Jewish tradition, contemporary understandings of trauma, and the wisdom of chaplaincy, she will invite participants to consider how we can engage these sacred texts honestly and compassionately, creating space for reflection, healing, and spiritual growth.

�鶹ԭ�� the Series

What does it mean to prepare and show up for the High Holidays in our own time? This three-part series explores how Jewish tradition has preserved, interpreted, and renewed the themes of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur through sacred objects, timeless texts, and personal prayer. Together, we’ll explore the objects that have carried Jewish tradition across centuries, engage with ancient texts with compassion and honesty, and reflect on how our own voices become part of the ongoing story of Jewish prayer and renewal.

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With Rabbi Marcus Mordecai Schwartz, Ripps Schnitzer Librarian for Special Collections; Assistant Professor, JTS

What can a medieval prayer book, one of the earliest printed Hebrew mahzorim, and a set of century-old baseball card sized boxing cards teach us about the High Holidays? These three remarkable objects from The JTS Library demonstrate how Jewish communities across the centuries have expressed themes of kingship, tradition, strength, repentance, and renewal. Through illuminated manuscripts, early Hebrew printing, and unexpected artifacts of American Jewish life, we’ll discover how material objects preserve memory, shape religious imagination, and offer fresh perspectives on the spiritual work of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.  

Led by Rabbi Marcus Mordecai Schwartz, PhD, the Henry R. and Miriam Ripps Schnitzer Librarian for Special Collections of the JTS Library, this presentation will also highlight the new JTS Library website, “.”

�鶹ԭ�� the Series

With Rabbi Marcus Mordecai Schwartz, Ripps Schnitzer Librarian for Special Collections; Assistant Professor, JTS

What can a medieval prayer book, one of the earliest printed Hebrew mahzorim, and a set of century-old baseball card sized boxing cards teach us about the High Holidays? These three remarkable objects from The JTS Library demonstrate how Jewish communities across the centuries have expressed themes of kingship, tradition, strength, repentance, and renewal. Through illuminated manuscripts, early Hebrew printing, and unexpected artifacts of American Jewish life, we’ll discover how material objects preserve memory, shape religious imagination, and offer fresh perspectives on the spiritual work of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.  

Led by Rabbi Marcus Mordecai Schwartz, PhD, the Henry R. and Miriam Ripps Schnitzer Librarian for Special Collections of the JTS Library, this presentation will also highlight the new JTS Library website, “.”

Join �鶹ԭ�� this August for a special webinar series to help prepare for the Days of Awe. Through conversations with JTS scholars, we will explore themes that shape the High Holiday season, including fear and resilience, prayer and liturgy, and the enduring wisdom of Jewish texts and traditions. These sessions will offer fresh perspectives, thoughtful reflection, and practical insights to help deepen your experience of the High Holidays.

Featuring:

• Dr. Mordecai Schwartz
• Rabbi Naomi Kalish
• Cantor Shoshi Levin Goldberg

Thank you for joining us. Explore the JTS High Holiday Reader here.

Are we really being set up for success for this whole teshuvah business? We might commit to doing all the preparation—journaling, going to shul, talking to therapists, chatting with rabbis, calling up hurt family and friends, New Year’s resolutions, etc.—and it still feels inadequate. Am I actually morally transformed? I am some infinitesimally small fraction of a hypermodern, global, complex network. My actions bear consequences for people on the other side of the globe I will never meet and whose names I will never even know. I still need to bring teshuvah to bear on my most intimate relationships,  but is this millennia-old process suitable to the messiness and uncertainty of modern moral life?

This seemingly modern plague of angst and cynicism is actually described in ancient Jewish texts, albeit in different terms. A halakhah in reads:

הגוזל את הרבים חייב להחזיר לרבים. חמור גזל הרבים מגזל היחיד, שהגוזל את היחיד יכול לפייסו ולהחזיר לו גזילו, הגוזל את הרבים אין יכול לפייסן ולהחזיר להן גזילן.

One who steals from the masses is obligated to return [the object] to the masses. Stealing from the masses is more severe than stealing from just one individual, because one who steals from just one individual is able to appease that individual and return to him his stolen object. [In contrast,] one who steals from the masses is unable to appease them and to return to them their stolen objects.

This text addresses the severity of stealing from a broader community, which consists of many unknown people. Here are some contemporary examples: using an accessible parking space without a placard, holding onto a library book indefinitely, and riding the subway without paying the transit fare. These cases constitute theft from the masses in the broad sense—I don’t know my victims and have no idea how to make proper amends.

But once we identify the essential quality of this wrongdoing against unknown—and unknowable—victims, we can find more frequent occurrences than these. For instance, active or tacit engagement in political causes that, I’ve realized upon reflection, have actually had adverse impacts on others. Consumption of products that were produced in unethical and harmful ways. Actions taken that led to needless environmental devastation, felt by communities thousands of miles away. In trying to fathom the sheer number of unknown victims of my actions, whether in my own neighborhood or anywhere in the world, I might be convinced that I am truly awful and unworthy of teshuvah, thereby succumbing to an intense moral nihilism about my impact and the broader world.

Another passage from the Tosefta () has something powerful to say about this kind of response:

הגבאין והמוכסין תשובתן קשה, ומחזירין למכירין, והשאר עושין בהן צרכי רבים.     

“Charity and tax collectors—their teshuvah is hard. They return [stolen objects] to the people whom they know, and as for all the rest, they put it toward public needs.”

When this passage is cited in the Talmud (), Rashi makes clear that these are charity and tax collectors who defrauded the public and have no record of who they have wronged. The text affirms that their teshuvah is indeed hard. This simple wording from the Tosefta may be exactly the language we are looking for to describe our own situation: in modern society, our teshuvah is also hard. While not an endorsement of outright nihilism, there is a healthy acknowledgment of legitimate despair concerning living a righteous life in the face of moral complexity. Being in relationship with so many unknown people around the world is unfathomably hard; and despite our most serious efforts, teshuvah in that context is very hard, too.

Without dismissing or belittling this challenge, the Tosefta tempers this despair with a necessary measure of optimism. Even when teshuvah is hard, we must nonetheless return stolen items to the people whom we can identify as victims and give back broadly to public need. Rashi describes an example of the latter in which an individual helps build a cistern to provide fresh water to the community. While it may fall short of repaying the people I’ve specifically wronged, it enables me to engage in a kind of reparative mirror; I can positively and constructively engage in a moral act that will help people I don’t know and will never meet. This is a far cry from the heroic righting of wrongs I nobly imagined when I first embarked on this process. But it is something I can do and a deeply positive action worth holding onto.

In the spirit of these texts, bring this nuanced mindset entering into this holiday season: pursue teshuvah for all your wrongdoing, while being honest about the inexhaustible nature of this work. Be kind to yourself when acknowledging the many constraints and limits that lead to some moral failures and make up for them—however imperfectly—through heartfelt gestures of communal involvement and civic action. In short, turn teshuvah into a sacred opportunity to humbly affirm all the inherent joy and pain of what it means to live as human.

The publication and distribution of the JTS Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l). 

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Part of the JTS High Holiday Webinar Series, “Standing Together: Prayer, Presence, and the Power of Community”

This session is based on this essay in our current High Holiday Reader.

With Dr. David Kraemer, Joseph J. and Dora Abbell Librarian and Professor of Talmud and Rabbinics, JTS 

The Amidah for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur presents a striking, even radical, vision: a world where God alone reigns, where all people—Jewish and not—live in peace, and oppressive regimes vanish. In this vision, the Jewish people are neither erased nor centered. Instead, they are part of a broader human hope. 

As we prepare for the High Holidays, this is a thoughtful exploration of this universalist liturgical vision and what it asks of us today. In this webinar, Dr. David Kraemer, Joseph J. and Dora Abbell Librarian and Professor of Talmud and Rabbinics, JTS, guided us through the theological and ethical dimensions of the High Holiday Amidah. Drawing on themes from his recent book, Embracing Exile: The Case for Jewish Diaspora, Dr. Kraemer argued that diaspora life—far from being a compromise—is essential to realizing the Amidah’s expansive spiritual goals. It is through living among and engaging with our non-Jewish neighbors, he suggested, that we help bring this vision into the world. 

�鶹ԭ�� the Series

The High Holidays invite us into a season of profound reflection—not only on who we are as individuals, but on how we show up for one another and the world. This three-part webinar series explores the emotional and spiritual heart of this sacred time, focusing on the themes of vulnerability, responsibility, and connection. 

Together, we’ll consider what it means to pray with presence, to engage meaningfully with others—even across difference—and to see these days not just as a personal journey, but as a call to collective transformation. Whether you are returning to familiar rituals or seeking a new way in, this series offers space to reflect, connect, and prepare with intention. 

In our present-day communities, where we finish the Torah every year, the section of Leviticus that includes the curses naturally falls before Shavuot. Parashat Ki Tavo in Deuteronomy—where Moshe again offers the blessings and curses to the Israelites before they enter into the Land—also naturally falls before Rosh Hashanah in the calendar.

However, for the Jews of the Land of Israel, who in ancient times completed the Torah in three years, Ezra’s decree must have been quite jarring. Presumably, these communities would have had to take out a second Torah scroll and read the curses in addition to the parashah of the week on the Sabbaths before Rosh Hashanah and Shavuot.

At any rate, Ezra’s mandate presents us with a question: Why did Ezra believe it was critical that the Jewish people read the blessings and curses before Rosh Hashanah? Asked differently, in what ways might hearing this section of the Torah be important for our spiritual work during this season?

On the most visceral level, reading the blessings and curses at a time when we are focused on imagining new and nobler versions of ourselves and our communities highlights the stark consequences of our choices. If we make good choices, good things will happen. If we make poor choices—well, less good things await us. Our behavior and choices really do have consequences in the world. Using the liturgy to confront the darkness that is promised if we do not choose well may keep us on the right path. I think there is something to this, but I believe there is a richer and more meaningful connection between the blessings and curses and Rosh Hashanah.

The Talmud—in the name of Abaye—suggests a more optimistic answer to our question: “So that the year may end along with its curses.” As we finish the year, we read all of the curses—putting them behind us, as if to say, so should our troubles be behind us. Then we can begin the new year with a clean slate, fresh for our new ways of being in the world, without any negative baggage. Indeed, this is a lovely framing for the end of one year and the beginning of another. But I still believe there is more behind Ezra’s insistence on reading the blessings and curses in public as our communities move into Rosh Hashanah.

A curious geonic (7–10th century) tradition referenced by Maimonides provides deeper insight into Ezra’s decree. Most often, when we read the blessings and curses of Deuteronomy we experience them as promises of reward for loyalty to the Covenant and threats of violent consequences for rejecting God. However, Maimonides shares a tradition that conceptualizes the blessings and curses in a completely novel way.

Maimonides suggests that hearing the blessings and curses in Parashat Ki Tavo, which come when the Israelites are about to enter into the Land of Israel before the original conquest, constituted the fulfillment of an actual mitzvah! (Kelal shelishi in Sefer Hamitzvot) This is a startling assertion, transforming the blessings and curses from a series of promises and threats to the level of commandment. But what was this mitzvah?

In a very provocative remark, the Talmud suggests that prior to entering into the Land of Israel, the nation as a whole was held accountable only for the public misdeeds of individuals. If a person sinned in private, only the individual who misbehaved was held accountable. But as the nation prepared to cross the Jordan River, something changed. From that moment onward, the entire community of Israel became culpable for even the private misdeeds of other people ()! We are commanded to recognize our interconnectedness. Blessings would be earned and experienced by the group. Communal calamity would be the price for individual destructive decisions. Thus when the Israelites stood at Mount Gerizim and Mount Eval, they heard the blessings that await those who listen to God’s commandments and the punishments promised to those who disobey—but they also heard a message that transcended all of these specifics. The entire nation was asked to understand itself as radically interconnected and to appreciate the imperative that emerges from this realization.

The mitzvah embedded in these verses of the promises and curses, then, is the mitzvah of arevut: seeing the profound interconnectedness of the Jewish people. Each Jew is the “guarantor” (arev) of every other Jew. That is, each Jew is fundamentally responsible for all other Jews. Through the blessings and curses of Parashat Ki Tavo, the Torah is saying, we are in this project of living together.

Areveut—feeling and acting on a sense of responsibility for those around us—in Judaism does not fall under the category of altruism. Helping someone else is not an act of kindness. It is bound up in a fundamental responsibility that we must all feel toward others. Just as I am responsible for my own ethical life, I am responsible for that of others as well. If my neighbor falls and fails, it is my pain and my failure too. And if I receive blessing, it is not simply because I as an individual have earned it; the group also shares responsibility for my success.

I like to think that these ideas stand behind the reasons for Ezra’s decree to read the blessings and curses before Rosh Hashanah. At a time when many of us are focused on our own individual growth and betterment, we are reminded of the profound interconnectedness of all our communities and lives. I can’t be a better person if I ignore the state of the individuals in my community. This is the mitzvah of arevut that I personally need to hear as I move into this holiday season.

This commentary was originally published in 2017.

The publication and distribution of the JTS Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).