Community
Yom Kippur Morning 5785, Rabbi Sam Cohon, Congregation Beit Simcha, Tucson, AZ
Mr. Schwartz is sitting in his room, wearing only a top hat, when Steinberg strolls in.
“Why are you sitting here naked?” asks Steinberg.
“It’s all right,” says Schwartz. “Nobody comes to visit.”a
“So why the hat?” asks Steinberg.
And Schwartz answers, “Maybe somebody will come.”
“Maybe somebody will come.” I admit that I was struggling a bit after Rosh HaShanah, which went superbly, as far as services go. Our musicians and soloist were universally wonderful, the Torah reading and Haftarah went beautifully, the shofar choir did fabulously, the set-up went quickly and easily, the Rosh HaShanah treats were delicious and elegantly and efficiently distributed, the front door was well coordinated, the sound system worked flawlessly, our security was thorough throughout, even the air conditioning worked great, and everyone helped break it all down afterwards. And yet… I was troubled.
I was wondering about those Jews who choose not to go to Rosh HaShanah services, who don’t come to hear the shofar or the music we spend so much time preparing or the sermons some of us spend much thought and effort writing. It used to be, back when I began serving as a cantor and then a rabbi, that plenty of Jews didn’t come to services except on the High Holy Days. On a regular Shabbat seats were always easy to find. But on Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur you needed a ticket to get in, the seats were full, and there were overflow services held in other locations just to accommodate all the worshippers. In other words, most of the year a synagogue looked like a partially or even mostly empty hall; suddenly on Rosh HaShanah it was standing-room only. On the Yamim Nora’im, on the Days of Awe, every shul suddenly turned into a megachurch. The two-or-three-day-a-year Jews always came out in force for Yomtov.
That began to change about twenty years ago. It wasn’t instantaneous or anything, but gradually it became less of a priority for congregants to come to temple on Rosh HaShanah or even Yom Kippur. The two services we had to conduct on Kol Nidrei Eve to meet the demand became one service; the full hall on Yom Kippur became a partially full shul. I’m not sure what it was that prompted this slow erosion, but rabbinic colleagues throughout the country confirmed that it accorded with their own experience. While attendance was certainly higher on the High Holy Days than during a regular Shabbat or on other festivals, it apparently had become a matter of personal preference whether you attended or not. And plenty of people chose, well, not to attend.
I’m not saying I don’t appreciate everyone who participates in services, and attends, and prays here; I certainly do. And it has always been part of our Beit Simcha approach that we provide the finest services we can no matter who is present, or absent. We always wear a hat.
But even after 20 years of conditioning in lower attendance expectations, knowing that this is a national trend pretty much everywhere, it’s still a little surprising to me that for many Jews today—not you guys, of course; this is definitely preaching to the choir—attending services even on the holiest days of the year is now an optional sort of thing.
I was kvetching about this when my wife, Sophie, reminded me that I often say that being Jewish today takes many different forms; that I teach that Jewish identity is forged from a variety of sources, and expressed in myriad ways. So some people don’t come on Rosh HaShanah—but they may take Adult Education Academy classes, send their kids to Religious School, attend Seder or Hanukkah or Purim events, bake for an Oneg Shabbat instead of coming to the service itself; some stand up for Israel, donate for Religious School scholarships or the capital campaign or High Holy Day Appeal, or help build the Sukkah, or buy Jim Click tickets or ride in El Tour de Tucson for the shul. Aren’t these all ways to meaningfully express Jewish identity?
Isn’t all of that part of being a Jewish community? Yes, I admitted. That was all true.
So, then, just what is it that creates a true community of people? What brings people together into a meaningful kehillah, a congregation?
In one sense, community is about shared experiences: we go to temple together, our kids attend the same school and we see each other at drop off or pick up, we volunteer at the same food kitchen or Habitat House once a month. We sing in the same choir, are in a writing group together, or work with them preparing food for Oneg Shabbat or Kiddush. Maybe we live on the same block, or play on their softball team, or go to the same exercise class, or bicycle or run with them; we are in Rotary Club or Chamber of Commerce together, or maybe we just always invite the same people for holiday dinners each year. Perhaps we work on a community issue on a committee or board or a political campaign. Or maybe it’s just that we see the same folks all the time and they become a kind of habit…
These are the soft ways community is formed, in which we get to know others and see who we like and enjoy or who we wish to hang out with, or whom we end up grouped with the most.
Now sometimes these connections of community are based on shared belief and ideology, or shared religion; sometimes not. But even among similarly-minded people—other Jews, if we are Jewish; or hiking enthusiasts, or dancers, or Wildcat basketball fans, or Swifties, or whatever the connection is—just how those ties of community are built can seem a bit mystical. Is it shared experiences? Respect? Shared responsibility? Liking the same stuff? Disliking the same stuff? Doing things the same way? What is it that ties us to other human beings we aren’t related to, and binds us into a genuine community?
The Hebrew word for community is Kehillah, which is pretty much just an assembly of folks. Hakheil et haAm, the Torah instructs Moses: gather the people together. The larger term for a synagogue is Kehillah Kedoshah, a sacred community or community of holiness. So, does that mean the whole group of people who happen to belong to a congregation at any one moment? I mean, a congregation is an ever-changing thing; people join a congregation, new people are born, people die, people move away, people switch congregations, get mad at the rabbi or another congregant, and so on. Does the current membership of a synagogue—or a church or a mosque—really form a true community?
And how are we to think of today’s virtual online “communities,” the hundreds of “friends” on Facebook, the Instagram broadcasters, the millions of people following influencers on TikTok and YouTube, the Reddit subthreads, and so on? If everyone is watching the same thing, passively, does that make them into a community?
This question of community is not exactly a new challenge for a congregational rabbi. After all, if you are growing a synagogue, something I have been focused on in three different congregations over my career, you seek, always, to build community. At its best, it should be a community dedicated to the same vision, a temple, synagogue or congregation where people care about and respect one another, that seeks to offer the finest religious services, the best and most caring Jewish education for children, inspirational learning and service for adults, social action work, Jewish music, cultural and intellectual experiences, fun, and relationship-building opportunities.
But how does that equate with what really happens?
These High Holy Days are an interesting time to explore this. In some ways, they are a wonderful time to see our Jewish community active and involved. In another sense, they are an exception to what our communities really are.
I remember doing a sermon on Rosh Hashanah back at the beginning of the reality TV craze, over 20 years ago—you know, back when everyone seemed to attend—in which I compared the Jewish Days of Awe, Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur, to a reality TV show; the Yamim Nora’im, the High Holy Days, like “Survivor” or, God-forbid, “The Apprentice.” Here were a few days a year when the entire congregation suddenly appeared, as if out of nowhere, all dressed up in fancy duds, in order to pray, sing, read together out loud in English, and chat with people we hadn’t seen in 12 months, ever since the end of the previous Yom Kippur. On the Day of Atonement we even fasted, going without food and water, some of us, anyway, for one whole day.
And we all acted like this was the norm for our synagogue community, on this High Holy Days’ Island in which we had to survive until Ne’ilah, from Kol Nidrei until the closing blast of the shofar ending Yom Kippur—when, released from the reality experience, we could go back to our normal lives and do none of the things we had just spent those special days doing.
That is, after surviving long services and fancy clothes and elaborate music and sermons and pleas for social action and tzedakah for the congregation and for Israel, everyone got to leave the island, not to return for 12 months.
Ah, but while we were at temple on the Days of Awe we acted as though we all were present like this all the time and would be there for the whole year like that. Like this was real.
Now, we know that reality TV is anything but real; imagine pretending you are living a normal life while film crews tape your every conversation, and an editor assembles it all into something quite different than what you just lived. Not real. Just as we know that TikToks and Instragram posts and Facebook minis and YouTube shorts are fabricated ways to make it seem like community exists between people who have no real relationships. It’s ersatz, imitation community.
Not real.
But you know what is real?
An actual congregational community in which we support each other, care about each other, and pray and work together. A synagogue community in which we come together not once or twice a year on the High Holy Days—I mean, we do need that, of course—but in which we work together all the time to make a difference in our lives and in the world. A community in which we study and learn together, celebrate together, grieve together, cook and eat together, help each other and those in our larger world who need assistance. An actual intentional experience of sharing joys and sorrows, of seeking meaning and understanding, of repairing the damage we see around us.
That’s what community is and can be. That’s what Jewish community should be, based around the congregation. Not limited to services—although surely it would be nice to attend—nor even to studying together. But a true community of connection and commitment.
We have much of that right now at Beit Simcha. This is a congregation that can always be called on to help, to roll up its sleeves, to move tables and chairs and prayerbooks. We are a genuinely generous community, willingly assisting those who are struggling, giving without needing applause. We demonstrate care about each other, and enjoy just sitting and talking and, of course, eating.
Sorry to mention that on Yom Kippur…
But there is always room for great growth here, always the possibility for deeper and more vital community. There are already so many opportunities to join together in prayer, study, social action, and joy at Beit Simcha. And there are at least as many chances to help, to give of time and resources to help shape who we are and who we will become. I can tell you something powerful about the process of giving in this way: the more you give, in a true community, the more you will receive.
There is one more important element, highly appropriate on Yom Kippur, that I believe we can improve upon. Community is made up of human beings. That means we make mistakes, all of us; it means we will, on occasion, cause offense, unintentionally. It means we must have tolerance for our foibles and follies, our errors and accidental insults. Because a perfect community, which always says or does the right thing for all its members, has never yet existed, and likely never will; lo hayah v’lo yihyeh. But a truly good, generous, loving, supportive community? That exists right here, and can only be enhanced by a generous helping of forgiveness. Be kind to each other; everyone is a volunteer, and does what they do out of the goodness of their hearts.
My friends, on this Day of Atonement, of teshuvah, of return and repentance, may you seek and find true community, both give and receive the love and support that we all need. And may you receive a g’mar chatimah tovah, be sealed for a good year of life, of health, of communal dedication and blessing.