10/01/2026
If you missed Rabbi Ira Ebbin's Kol Nidre sermon (it was a doozy!) you can catch it right here, in full. And for even more uplifting insights, come to our Simchat Torah celebrations this Shabbat and Sunday--you'll have a blast!
BELONGING
I want to start off this evening with an apology. Not an apology from me — an apology from you. And it's okay, I'm letting you know right now: I forgive you.
You see, exactly one year ago, I stood at this very spot and gave my Kol Nidrei sermon. Last year, you'll recall, Yom Kippur fell on a Friday night. What people don't understand is that Kol Nidrei is actually the hardest speaking slot on the entire calendar. People race home from work, shove down as much food and drink as is humanly possible, and then come straight to shul. And you can hear the results…as stomachs start gurgling, people are belching and eyelids start drooping. Now triple that when Yom Kippur falls at the end of the week.
So there I was last year, with my beautifully prepared speech… inspiring, riveting, and of course, as always entertaining. Sure enough, as I really started getting into the speech, I started noticing people…. nodding off. Now, that's not unusual for me. There are always people who fall asleep when I speak. No names. You know who you are. But it’s fine. It comes with the territory. The first time my father, Alav Hashalom, heard me speak, at my shul in Stamford, I noticed that even he fell asleep. And I was particularly crestfallen, cause I had prepared so much and was really nervous of my father hearing me speak at my very own shul. After shul I went over to him and he said, "I think I fell asleep during your speech." I said, "Yes… Dad…I noticed." He said, "Well, you should consider that a compliment. Do you know how many great rabbis I've fallen asleep listening to? This is a sign you're going places."
So I'm no stranger to a few people dozing when I speak. But last year, on Kol Nidrei night, it wasn't just one or two people. As I kept going, I watched, one by 2 one by one, almost the entire room go out cold. And I don't mean sleeping. I mean gone! Like they were in a coma. Let's not even talk about the drooling. I thought someone had slipped sleeping gas into the ventilation system.
Remember, I see everything from up here on this perch. Consider yourselves all under Rabbinic supervision.
So…As a speaker, you naturally hunt for the faces that look like they're paying attention. So I searched for anyone, anyone that was not unconscious. And it was not easy. I finally spotted one woman in the second-to-last row. That was basically it. And then I realized I was only on page four of the speech and I had ten more pages to go.
Anyway, somehow I pulled through and was able to finish the speech. The entire time I was up there, I kept thinking…thank goodness we have a mechitza in our shul. Because over at some of the conservative shuls, no names, now I understood why there are rumors that everyone's sleeping with each other.…Of course…I probably shouldn't have made that joke on Yom Kippur.
So here I am again, on Kol Nidrei night, with a little bit of PTSD, and nearly twelve months of therapy behind me to recover from that ego bruise. But in this season of forgiveness, I accept your apology. And since Kol Nidrei falls on a Sunday night this year, I expect your full attention, since most of you were just busy watching the Jets lose again today. You all should be well rested. Truthfully, I could probably just rerun last year's speech, since practically nobody heard it the first time. But fear not…I've written a new one. And I hope you'll stay awake for this one, because believe it or not, it's about you. This shul. And some of the things you might have missed - whether or not your eyes were closed.
You see, Kol Nidrei is a unique night, highlighted by a unique prayer. Traditionally it was instituted that G-d should annul the vows that we made, against members of the community who had been excommunicated. Oaths were taken not to allow these people in shul again, and Yom Kippur night was the exception. On this night, regardless of what you had done and who you had done it too, everyone was welcomed into the Synagogue. On this night, in Jewish tradition, the Kol Nidrei prayer was the entrance ticket, stating that everyone would have a place in shul. At least this one night a year, it was reinforced that they still belonged to the community.
Belonging…it's actually a funny word. What does it mean to belong to something? There's a well-known framework, first articulated by the sociologist Douglas Marshall, for how religious identity actually gets built: He called it the three B’s: Belief, Behavior, and Belonging.
Belief is what you hold to be true: about God, about the universe, about right and wrong. In Judaism, we call it emunah, faith. Then there is the second B…Behavior, which is what you do about that belief. In Judaism these of course are the mitzvot, the rituals, the choices. Without ritual, belief is a house of cards; it can't sustain itself, and it collapses the moment a real wind blows, or something inevitably happens in your life that challenges that belief. And finally, there is Belonging: which is the sense that you're part of something, something bigger than yourself.
Rabbi Mordecai Kaplan pointed out that most religions build in that order: belief first, then behavior, and belonging follows eventually, almost as a byproduct. Christianity largely works this way - you believe first, and then community forms around the shared belief. But you can not be a part of anything if you don’t start with belief. Last year I was in Washington for a conference and made time to visit the Museum of the Bible…which was really a great experience. As I was standing at one of the exhibits, the Megiddo Mosaic, which are remnants of what is believed to be perhaps the oldest church in history - from 230 of the Common Era, a man came over and asked very politely: "Excuse me, sir — do you believe in Jesus?" So I politely responded, well…I believed he existed, but I don’t believe in his divinity. And the man looked disappointed. But then I added that I respected people who did believe that. He still looked disappointed. There was nothing I could say to change that. Because in his framework, since I didn't believe, I was, as far as he was concerned, condemned. That is Christianity: belief first, foremost, and everything else follows from it.
Judaism, Kaplan argued, flips the order entirely. For us, belonging comes first. You are part of the Jewish people before you've settled any theological question… before you've kept a single mitzvah. It's not a club you join because you passed a test. I once heard it put beautifully: the Torah teaches us that Judaism is a family that became a religion — but still remained a family. That's why a Jew who couldn't tell you the difference between Shabbat and Shavuot will still tell you, without blinking, "I'm Jewish." Not "I believe Jewish things." Not "I do Jewish things." I am. Because Belonging, not belief, is the foundation of our faith.
I want to add that Rabbi Josh Joseph of the OU wrote something recently that added a fourth B - and quite fittingly, for tonight: He called it “Becoming.” Because belief, behavior, and belonging can't just be a snapshot, a place you land and stay frozen. Judaism runs on a growth mindset. We never "graduate". We're always in process. And truthfully, that's what these Ten Days of Repentance and 40 days since the month of Elul…that’s what they are actually about: Are we becoming? Are we better people, better family members, better friends, better Jews than we were last year? Have we improved in our practice, in our knowledge, in our connection to G-d and to the Jewish people. And whatever the honest answer is, what are we going to work on this year to get closer? What do we need to do to “Become” the person we hope to be.
Which brings me to tonight. While I hope you're all working on becoming, tonight I want to talk about belonging. Because I believe it's a crisis of real proportions right now.
I'll keep the sociology lesson brief, because there's only so much data a half-asleep room can absorb on Kol Nidrei night. But we are currently going through a crisis of belonging.
America, and most of the Western world, has spent the last thirty years running one of the largest social experiments in history: leaving religion, en masse. Roughly forty million Americans have left their houses of worship over the last few decades. About 30% of the country now identifies as having no religious affiliation at all: They are referred as the "nones." The promise was that people would trade the structure of organized religion for something lighter: spirituality without obligation, meaning without mandatory attendance.
Did it work?
Well…Not so much. Last year, The New York Times (Cha Tu) ran a piece with a blunt headline: Americans Haven't Found a Satisfying Alternative to Religion. The writer, Lauren Jackson, left the Mormon church in her twenties and spent a decade trying to build a replacement out of therapy, meditation apps, spin classes, and book clubs. Her conclusion: none of it replicated what she'd left behind.
And in 2023, the U.S. Surgeon General made it official, declaring loneliness a full-blown public health epidemic. This epidemic, he said, is as dangerous to your 6 health as smoking up to fifteen ci******es a day. Half of American adults now report feeling lonely on a regular basis. Half. They are quietly starving for exactly what a shul gives away for free, every single week, no subscription required.
We built an entire secular economy - SoulCycle, sound baths, sobriety clubs, Peloton leaderboards — trying to reverse-engineer what happens here on a random Tuesday morning minyan. Turns out you can't crowdsource belonging. You can't subscribe to it. You actually have to be part of it.
And here's the part I find saddest: in the absence of real belonging, plenty of people have let their politics become a substitute. It has become their tribe, their identity, their whole sense of community. That's a dangerous swap, because it doesn't just bind you to people who agree with you, but it also teaches you contempt for the people who don't. I can make fun of MJC all I want, and beating them in the softball championship this summer was one of the happiest days of my year, But of course that's a friendly rivalry. That's not the kind of contempt we see today when belonging gets replaced by politics.
So what is the good news? You're sitting in the actual solution tonight. You might even be sleeping through it. But it's here.
Judaism doesn’t just believe in belonging, but as I said, it’s the foundation of everything. And Judaism didn't just stumble onto this by accident. It built “belonging” into its architecture from day one.
When G-d commands the nation to build the Mishkan, the instruction is: Ve'asu Li Mikdash, Veshachanti Betocham: "Make me a sanctuary, and I will dwell among them." Not in it. Among them. G-d never needed a building. As we learned from the great theologian Uncle Moishy: Hashem is here, Hashem is there, Hashem is 7 truly everywhere. Building the Creator of the universe a physical home is, if anything, theologically awkward. It actually risks the very anthropomorphism Judaism is fighting against. (Yes! I worked "anthropomorphism" into a Kol Nidrei sermon! )
But the Kabbalists teach that G-d performed an act of tzimtzum: He contracted Himself, made room, not because He needed the space, but because we did. The people needed something to build together,… to maintain together…. to belong to together. Even the Israelites, the Non-Kohanim, who never once set foot inside the Mishkan, who never brought a korban, were still stakeholders. It was theirs. He and she belonged to it, and it belonged to them.
That idea never left us. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks put it simply: Judaism isn't only about believing. It's about belonging. It’s about the web of relationships where we learn to show up for each other, trusting that others will show up for us. Ours, he said, is a religion of community.
The Talmud goes even further: Kol Yisrael arevim zeh bazeh — all of Israel is responsible for one another. Not just connected. Responsible. Which is why, tonight of all nights, our confession is written in the plural. We don't say "I have sinned." We say Ashamnu — we have sinned. Bagadnu — we have betrayed. Even if you personally didn't do half of what's on that list, you say it anyway. Because on Yom Kippur, Judaism forces you to stand up and declare: whatever happens to us, happens to me. That's belonging, distilled into a prayer.
And that is why this Shul Is So Special. I've been thinking about belonging especially over these last few weeks, since we kicked off this year's Kol Nidrei campaign. As Ari mentioned, we tried something new, working with a crowdfunding platform and encouraging ambassadors to reach out to their own networks of friends and family to support the shul. Many of you embraced it. A few had concerns. "Why should I ask other people to support our shul?" one 8 person asked me. It’s a fair question. And plenty of people I personally reached out to never responded. That's fine. I mean…there will be no more free Rabbinic services for them. Let them do their own weddings funerals and baby namings. But I’m not bitter. But it’s o. The truth is nobody owes support to a shul they're not part of.
But here's what I want you to hear: Ohav Sholom isn't special because it's the only shul that does what it does. It isn't. What makes it special is much simpler than that. It's yours.
When I spoke at our zoom campaign rally and was asked to explain why people should feel connected to this place, here's what I explained.
Early in my rabbinate, a mentor told me to keep what he called a nachat folder, which the thank-you notes, the cards, the texts, the moments worth remembering from a life spent walking with people through their biggest lief moments. After over twenty-five years serving as a Rabbi, including 16 years here, thank G-d, it's a pretty packed folder.
And somewhere along the way, I realized: none of those stories are really mine. I only get to be part of them because of the people in this room. In the 16 years I have been a part of Ohav Sholom, it is this community that built every one of those Nachat notes. Which means that folder isn't mine. It's ours.
I can't share most of it. As many of them are from personal experiences that people had. But I can and want to share a few.
There's the man who, standing at his mother's unveiling, said through tears how meaningful it was that he could lead the service himself… something he learned by coming to minyan to say Kaddish, and then committing himself to practice. He was so proud to be able to do that in his mothers honor. He learned it at Ohav Sholom.
There's the young Black woman who sent me a photo of her second baby, years after she'd first come to us as a conversion candidate. She told me she came here because she'd heard Ohav Sholom was a place that would make her feel welcome. She was right. The community did help her feel welcome, and supported her in her journey. And when that second baby arrived, she wanted us, specifically, to feel proud…because she knew that this beautiful Jewish baby existed, in no small part, because of what she found here.
There's the boy from our Hebrew school who, after seventh grade, desperately wanted to go to yeshiva, but his family couldn't come close to affording it. Every year, I'd call Mr. Eckstein at the HANC tuition committee, and together we'd work out a number this community could cover, with Mr. Eckstein often chipping in himself. One June, I called Mr Eckstein and he said, "Yes, Rabbi Ebbin, what do you need now?" I told him: nothing, actually. I'm calling to tell you that this young man is finally graduating high school today. And that someday, when the two of us show up at the gates of heaven and they ask what we did to deserve entry, somewhere near the top of the list, we'll be able to point to that kid and say: “we helped put him through yeshiva.” And I have to say…it’s not just Mr Eckstein and I that will be able to point to him, but it’s every single one of us.
And then there's the woman I found sitting right here one weekday afternoon, visibly emotional. I asked if I could help. She told me she was going through something difficult and needed time alone… to think. And out of everywhere in the world, this sanctuary is where she came. "I have so many happy memories here," she said. The truth is that she was not by any means a regular at shul. But sitting in this empty room, she could still hear the melodies of the tefillah, still feel 10 the simchas she'd celebrated here with her family, still sense the joy she'd shared with friends and neighbors over the years. In an empty building, with no service happening and no one watching, she still belonged to something.
Every single day, I get to watch this community show up for itself. The woman who organizes the shiva meals. The man who builds the Torah-reading lineup. The one who rolls the Torah, week after week. The different women who set up kiddush every Friday morning. The man who helps seniors put up their sukkah. The quiet soul who keeps this shul stocked with tissues — and every time I blow my nose, I think of him. The woman who sits beside someone new, just to help them follow along. The team behind our friendly-visitor calls. The man who picks up Shabbat meals every week for families who need them, and the woman who cooks the soup that goes with them. The people who are my eyes and ears, who call and say, "you should check on so-and-so, they haven't been themselves." The couple who, every single month, sends a donation to my discretionary fund with a note that just says: “please put this wherever it can help.”
I could talk all night about the quiet ways this community shows up for itself. But I want you to hear this clearly: these are the people you belong to. And there is no greater blessing than that.
So here we are on this Kol Nidrei night, with whoever still has their eyes open at this point…I’m asking you to do something small. I'm asking you to embrace belonging to Congregation Ohav Sholom. And consider belonging even more. Perhaps answer Hillels second question, if I am only for myself, what am I? Because a life lived entirely for yourself — no shoulder tapped, no name remembered, no nachat folder anyone else gets to share, a life without 11 “belonging” to your shul — is a small life, no matter how many Facebook Friends you have and no matter how busy your calendar appears.
In a few minutes, we're going to stand together and say Ashamnu, Bagadnu, and Al Chet, we have sinned, we have betrayed, These words that don't belong to any one of us individually. That's not an accident. It's the entire Jewish theory of belonging, hiding inside a prayer: whatever happens to us, happens to me. Tonight of all nights, we don't get to be spectators of our own community. We are implicated in each other. And so we chant it together, in unison, with our voice belonging to each other.
All those millions of people who unfortunately walked out of organized religion looking for something better. Most of them are still looking. You don't have to. It's right here, in this room, tonight — half-awake, overfed, and somehow, still exactly where we're supposed to be.
I belong to Congregation Ohav Sholom. Say it to yourself. And then go be it for somebody else this year: the tap on the shoulder, the phone call, the folded piece of paper someone else keeps in a folder for twenty-five years. And Thank G-d…. for the blessing of having such a special community to belong to. May G-d bless each of you, and may G-d bless our community. Gmar chatimah tovah.
