We need each other
On Rosh Hashanah, we began the tale of the royal archer. The greatest archer in the land, admired by all — yet plagued by disappointment. Because no matter how steady his hand, the wind carried his arrows off course. Inches away from the target felt to him like miles. He reminded us that no matter how carefully we prepare, life introduces winds we cannot control.
On the second day of Rosh Hashanah, the story continued. The archer came upon a barn with painted targets, each with an arrow dead center. Surely here was a master greater than himself. But no — it was a painter, not an archer. He loosed hundreds of arrows, and when one struck the barn, he circled it with beauty. He celebrated what was, instead of despairing over what was not. The painter reminded us that sometimes we discover meaning not by design, but by honoring what life places before us.
And tonight, Kol Nidrei, the story comes to its deepest point.
The archer and the painter meet. At first, each marvels at the other. The painter cannot believe the royal archer is in his humble doorway. The archer is stunned by the painter’s joy. They sit together, drink tea, and in the morning, they go out to the fields — bows and paints in hand.
The archer teaches the painter how to stand, how to breathe, how to let the target draw the arrow. The painter teaches the archer that even when the arrow strays, it can still be redeemed, circled, celebrated. And they realize: though their ways are different, their goal is the same. Both seek meaning, wholeness, purpose.
One through precision.
One through celebration.
But both seeking truth.
And that is exactly what Yom Kippur asks of us.
Because tonight is not about perfection. Tonight is about wholeness.
And wholeness is never achieved by erasing difference — but by honoring it.
Think of the liturgy we have just sung. Kol Nidrei — perhaps the most haunting, beloved melody of our year. What is it about? Vows that we have not kept. Promises broken. Oaths we meant to honor but could not.
In a sense, every vow is like an arrow. We release it with hope and intention. This year, I will be more patient. This year, I will be more present. This year, I will not lose my temper. This year, I will not forget what matters most.
But the wind blows. We stumble. Our arrows land wide of the mark. And Kol Nidrei acknowledges the truth: our promises do not always hold.
But here is the miracle: God does not reject us because of it. Instead, God circles our misses with mercy. Kol Nidrei is the painter’s prayer. It is the music that redeems our failed shots by painting around them.
And yet, Yom Kippur is also the archer’s prayer. The day calls us to realign, to focus our aim once more. Teshuvah is not passive. It demands intention. It demands striving.
Which is why both voices — archer and painter — are needed.
Judaism has always known this.
The Talmud teaches: “Eilu v’eilu divrei Elohim chayim” — “These and these are the words of the living God.” In other words, sometimes two very wise people can disagree on almost everything, and yet both perspectives are valuable. The rabbis Hillel and Shammai, who lived over 2,000 years ago, often had completely different opinions about Jewish law and life. Rather than declaring one right and the other wrong, the tradition preserves both voices, showing us that truth often emerges not by silencing one side, but by holding the tension between them.
At Sinai, the rabbis say, God’s voice divided into seventy languages, so each person could hear Torah in their own way. Revelation itself was not uniform.
And in our daily prayers, we say the Shema: Adonai Echad. God is One. But God’s oneness does not erase multiplicity. It weaves multiplicity together.
So too tonight. We do not confess as individuals. We confess as a community. Yom Kippur is not about “me.” It is about “we.”
And tomorrow, when we read from Parashat Nitzavim, we will hear this truth again: Atem nitzavim hayom kulchem lifnei Adonai Eloheichem — “You stand this day, all of you, before Adonai your God.” All of you: your leaders and elders, your children and strangers, even the woodcutters and water-drawers. Torah insists that the covenant cannot exist without every person present, without every voice included. Not some of you. All of you.
And if there is one truth our world is starving for, it is this: difference does not make us enemies. Difference is the way to wholeness.
But the temptation is strong. It is easier — so much easier — to say, “The painter is a fool.” It is easier to look at the one who lives differently, thinks differently, votes differently, prays differently, and dismiss them. To see only the distance between their arrow and ours.
Yet Yom Kippur resists that impulse. It begins by declaring: “With the consent of the heavenly court and the earthly court, we permit ourselves to pray with the transgressors.” In other words: this night cannot even begin unless everyone is included. Not the pure without the impure, not the righteous without the sinners, not the archers without the painters. All of us, together.
And tomorrow morning, this truth deepens with Unetaneh Tokef.
We will chant words that shake us to the core: “Who shall live and who shall die. Who by fire and who by water. Who by hunger and who by thirst.” It is the archer’s prayer in its most piercing form. Life is fragile. Our aim matters. Our choices matter.
But then, in the very same breath, comes the painter’s voice: “U’teshuvah, u’tefillah, u’tzedakah ma’avirin et ro’a hagezeirah.” Repentance, prayer, and righteousness transform the harshness of the decree. The decree itself may stand — life’s winds will always blow — but its severity can be softened, circled, painted with mercy.
Unetaneh Tokef teaches us what the archer and the painter discover: precision and forgiveness, striving and grace, judgment and compassion — only together do they make life whole.
And so we come to the image that closes this story, and this sermon.
At the end of the day, the archer and the painter stand before the barn together. The archer has loosed his arrow — it flies straight, but the wind nudges it off center. The painter takes up his brush and circles it. Together, they create a perfect target.
This is what God does for us tonight. We aim with intention. We miss. God circles the arrow with forgiveness. Together, we make something whole.
And so my prayer for us, on this Kol Nidrei night, is this:
May we have the archer’s courage — to aim with focus and intention.
May we have the painter’s joy — to celebrate what is, even when it is not what we planned.
May we hear in Kol Nidrei the music of mercy.
May we hear in Unetaneh Tokef the balance of justice and compassion.
And above all, may we have the wisdom to know that the circle is never complete until every arrow, every person, every voice is included.
For the Book of Life we pray to be written in tonight is not written in solitary script. It is written line by line, hand by hand, by all of us, together.
It is that sense of togetherness, of resilience and unity across generations, that moves us into our sermon anthem. The melody of the song Belz carries us back to a vanished shtetl — but more than that, it carries us forward, reminding us that even through loss, we endure; even through dispersion, we remain one people, bound by prayer, memory, and hope.
Shanah tovah. G’mar chatimah tovah.