Rosh Hashanah 5786-2025, Congregation Sukkat Shalom
In early June, I stood with Missy and 17 Sukkat Shalom community members in the Synagogue of Santa María la Blanca in Toledo, Spain, where Jews were persecuted and expelled 600 years ago. I could see the pain in everyone’s eyes. For four days we had toured places where Jews once thrived until our expulsion in 1492. Amid dozens of white columns and tourists, I reminded our synagogue group that the words of the Shema, our prayer of oneness and unity, were sung in this sacred space for generations and that our prayers bind us to our ancestors. “Let’s invite them to join us today,” I said. Together we sang Sh’ma, Yisrael, Adonai Eloheinu, Adonai, Echad. In the synagogue turned Church in an ancient city of Europe, tears rolled down our faces.
Am Yisrael Chai, the Jewish people live.
We weave the tapestry of the Jewish people in both space and time; combining the diverse collection of world Jewry today with the wisdom of those who came before us. Every member of the Jewish community brings their own unique thread and adds to this infinite blanket. This tapestry reminds us that “all of Israel is responsible to each other.” (Talmud Shavuot 39a)
We call this tapestry Jewish Peoplehood.
Rabbi Stephen Wise and Rabbi Mordecai Kaplan, prominent American rabbis in 1930’s coined the term ‘peoplehood’ to describe the deep bonds that bind Jews together. According to Professor Noam Pianko, a scholar of Jewish Peoplehood, for nearly a century this term has “engendered a sense of unity that transcends religious differences, cultural practices, geographic distance, economic disparity, and political divides, fostering solidarity with other Jews.[1]”
Judaism has never been monolithic. In the Torah we learn about twelve tribes each with their own central identity. Before the destruction of the 2nd Temple in 70 CE our ancestors were split into 4 factions, and for two millennia, physical separation caused Jews to evolve ever so slightly apart which is why Sephardic Jews, descendants of those expelled from Spain eat rice on Passover while Ashkenazi, whose ancestors resided in Eastern Europe and Russia, do not.
Today in the US we have several sects with different theologies and practices: Reform, Orthodox, Conservative, Reconstructionist and Renewal – and even sects within sects within sects. Yet the power of Peoplehood compels to overcome our differences and binds us together as one people.
We cried in the Santa Maria la Blanca synagogue thousands of miles from home even though we didn’t know the people who were expelled, and they weren’t direct ancestors. But they were still our people. Our shared rituals, traditions, and history bind us together like the fine weave of the tapestry of Peoplehood
The next morning, we stood in the midday 92-degree heat in Plaza Mayor in Madrid. Our guide was explaining the history of the square, weaving in the Jewish history of Spain. We were listening, sweating, and admiring the architecture when our guide said that “the Spanish expulsion of the Jews in 1492 was for economic, not religious reasons.” I pushed back, for historically we know the expulsion was about religion. Then I stopped arguing. I realized that our guide could not understand our visceral connection in 2025 to the Jews of Spain in the 1400’s because she did not know about peoplehood.
Immediately a lightbulb went off in my head, and I realized the source of so many arguments are rooted in this “great misunderstanding of the experience and connection of the Jewish people.” I returned to my hotel room and began to write this sermon.
This great misunderstanding has come into stark focus since October 7. It is why there is a thick, fuzzy, gray line separating antisemitism from anti-Israel speech. It’s why college students who write “no Zionists welcome” are puzzled when Jewish students feel afraid, and it’s why many Americans believe that the solution to the Israeli/Palestinian conflict is easy. It’s why a friend of mine, while discussing the war, once quipped, “can’t we just keep religion out of this?” Our connection to Israel isn’t just about the land, in fact for many Jews it’s not about the land at all. It’s about the people to whom we are connected as though they are members of our extended family. It’s about Peoplehood.
Yet while our shared rituals and history continue to unite us, the idea of Peoplehood is under strain within the Jewish community. Divisions over Israel’s future—especially between generations—have caused fissures that threaten our sacred connection.
Two new sects of Judaism have materialized. Those who believe Israel to be a safe haven for Jews, the only democracy within the Middle East under constant threat, always to be supported, and those who believe Israel is a colonial aggressor a shanda to our people and values. Jews have always disagreed – our sacred texts record arguments, not settled opinion. However, these two groups increasingly refuse to engage with each other and cast the other as immoral or traitors. Just as our ancestors celebrated debate and multiple opinions, we too can fight to maintain unity even when we disagree.
Two weeks ago, Yossi Klein HaLevi, acclaimed Israeli author and Senior Fellow at the Shalom Hartman Institute in Jerusalem, wrote a provocative essay about the importance of wrestling with the complexities of the Jewish State while subjecting ourselves to moral self-critique at the same time. Engaging in these tasks simultaneously takes enormous courage and is essential “because,” he declares, “Judaism demands it.” We have always been a people that wrestle with complex issues.
HaLevi reminds us that “Now, on Rosh Hashanah, we are once again at a moral crossroads. Perhaps the most profound move of the High Holidays is not that God puts us on trial but that we hold ourselves accountable for our actions.[2]”
We gather as a community each year on the High Holy Days to examine our past in order to chart our best course forward. We begin by turning inward, probing our own thoughts and actions, and then we, as a people, pledge to do better as a community. We say many of our prayers as a collective – Avinu Malkeinu – Our Parent, Our Ruler, Al cheit shechatanu – For the times we erred, Sh’ma Koleinu, God, please hear OUR voice.
Our prayers, sung by Jews around the world, form a global chorus of introspection and commitment to each other.
Peoplehood also faces pressure from outside the Jewish community. Like our ancestors, we live among others. None of us, regardless of our feelings toward Israel, is immune from the growing antisemitism in our schools, communities, and world. Others have blamed and punished the Jews throughout our history and today many are using Israel’s actions as a shield for antisemitism.
Yet our sages teach that in order to protect ourselves, we must look inward. Our great Temple was destroyed twice, we were expelled by many governments, we were persecuted, slaughtered, and throughout our history our sages look back and demand we ask, “how strong was our bond with each other?”
Each time our sages conclude that we could have done better to build community rather than tear each other apart over disagreements. We could have embraced love, instead of baseless hatred. It may not have always saved us, or solved our problems, but we always could have done more. We are stronger together, as one people.
Our sages codify this idea in the commandment “lo titgodidu, do not make yourselves into factions.”[3] Yet our American Jewish community is beginning to tear itself apart over the future of the Jewish State. We can imagine ourselves lifting a glistening, polished knife ready to cut the beautiful tapestry of the Jewish people, separating ourselves from those whom we disagree, creating an irreparable tear in the fabric of peoplehood.
Soon we will hear the story of Abraham raising a glistening, polished knife above his beloved son Isaac who is only the third thread in the story of our people. Tested by God, Abraham believes he has no choice, but to slay his son until an angel cries out: “Avraham, Avraham!” “Stop!”
“Hineini,” Abraham replies, “Here I am.” I will commit to building a people, not tearing them apart.
This is our legacy.
Every Shabbat, we, too, raise our hands, not with a knife but with a glistening, polished kiddush cup. Our sages teach us that “when one begins blessing [the wine], one should lift it up with one’s right hand…elevate it… above the table… And set one’s eyes upon it, so as not to lose mindfulness about it.[4]” We lift a cup to remind us of the sweetness and joy of community and connection.
Years ago I was travelling in Italy some friends. As Friday night arrived, I went to the Great Synagogue of Rome to celebrate Shabbat. A synagogue built by the Italian government, reparations to a community they once destroyed. After a beautiful service, I wandered around the Jewish Quarter seeking a place to make Kiddush and Motzi, the blessings over the wine and challah.
I happened upon a storefront. Beyond the locked glass doors, I could see people clearly engaged in this familiar ritual. I knocked on the door and explained that I was Jewish. I asked if I could join them. With full Italian hospitality they welcomed me inside, and after learning that I was a rabbinic student insisted that I lead kiddush!
An old man handed me a beautiful, glistening silver kiddush cup. Slowly I lifted the wine above me, so we could all focus on the joy of our shared heritage. I took a deep breath, ready to belt out the first notes of kiddush, when I realized with a pang of fear that I didn’t know how to lead a Sephardic kiddush – a different than the melody we sing here on Friday nights.
I leaned over to the old man standing next to me, and whispered, I don’t know a Sephardic Kiddush. He looked me in the eyes, and said “It’s OK, we’ll do it together.” I’ll never forget the warmth of his weathered hand as he wrapped it around mine, his fingerprints bearing the mark of a bond that transcends generations, continents, and languages. We blessed the wine together; arms raised in a display of peoplehood.
The Jewish community today stands at a crossroads. We have become less willing to engage in argument and debate: a stark contrast to our 2,000-year-old tradition. Instead of growing closer through understanding, tolerance, and love, we are trying to wrest our tapestry from each other, seeking to lay sole claim to the morality and future of our rich heritage. We have begun to reach for the sword instead of the cup.
As we begin the year 5786, we have a choice. We can grab a sword and sever the fabric of Peoplehood, or we can reach for the cup, drawing others even closer in joy.
When we raise our hands, what will we choose to hold?
[1] https://www.amazon.com/Jewish-Peoplehood-American-Innovation-Studies-ebook/dp/B0143VTG6A/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0
[2] https://blogs.timesofisrael.com/our-season-of-reckoning-israels-moral-crossroads-in-gaza/?fbclid=IwY2xjawMrDjJleHRuA2FlbQIxMABicmlkETFSblBCZ0lpS0hSNTBCQk5PAR5uOdsGlbbXy9Qc1V96dXv2fUjzORkJsjB9fNG4mJ7oRBVaiVYCeP8KdqDm8Q_aem_kip250a_irLxhjVJcwkx5A
[3] Yevamot 13b:17
Rabbi Brian Immerman 