Inspired by Yom Kippur services in 5778, this poem reflects one writer's view of the most holy day in the Jewish year.
Yom Kippur, 1965, I was a Navy medical officer stationed aboard a destroyer off the coast of Vietnam.
As we begin the year 5777, let us commit to putting greater inclusion, equality, and acceptance of all God’s children front and center.
I have a hard time believing that, however good the intentions may be, typing "Please forgive me if I hurt you" into our browsers can create change.
If posting an apology online serves as a starting point for follow-up conversations, I say go for it. How could that ever be a bad thing?
I vowed that if Israel survived, I would never again abandon my people, never again be indifferent to Israel’s fate.
Each year on Yom Kippur, I join my congregation is reciting the Ashamnu, an alphabetic acrostic of sins for which we repent. And each year, it occurs to me that most of the sins named in the Ashamnu don’t hit me in the heart I’m beating – and so, I wrote my own version of the prayer.