September 28, 2025|ו' תשרי ה' אלפים תשפ"ו Carrying Each Other Home: The Communal Teshuva of Yom Kippur
Print ArticleSome suggest that fasting on Yom Kippur is not enough "inui," not enough suffering, to achieve kapparah, or atonement, on Yom Kippur, so a minhag emerged that the rabbi gives a really long drasha on Shabbat Shuva.
If I were to ask you which is the happier day – Rosh Hashana or Yom Kippur – I think most of us would instinctively answer Rosh Hashana. After all, Rosh Hashana feels festive. We dip the apple in honey, we enjoy all the fun simanim, those symbolic foods that we taste with hope and excitement. We hear the shofar, a dramatic and noisy trumpet blast that fills the room with energy. In short, there’s a lot of “fun stuff” happening on Rosh Hashana. By contrast, Yom Kippur feels very different. We sit in shul for the entire day, immersed in long prayers, and we refrain from eating or drinking. To many people, it can feel draining, difficult, even miserable.
And yet, Yom Kippur carries within it a joy that comes not from what we do alone, but from what we do together. It is the day when we are carried home by each other – when communal teshuva lifts us higher than individual effort ever could. And that is the lens through which we must see the day – not as a day of deprivation, but as a day of ultimate spiritual joy.
But this raises a question: how exactly does this forgiveness work? Are we automatically forgiven on Yom Kippur? And if forgiveness is what makes us happy, why wouldn’t Rosh Hashana carry the same joy? After all, isn’t Rosh Hashana also a day of judgment?
The truth is that both Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur are indeed days of judgment, but the focus of each day is very different. On Rosh Hashana, the spotlight is placed squarely on the individual. It is about me, about you, about each one of us, separately. As the mishna says: Kol ba’ei ha’olam ovrin l’fanav kivnei maron – every single person passes before God like sheep passing under a shepherd’s staff. The Bartenura explains that just as sheep are led out one by one through a narrow passageway, so too every human being is judged individually on Rosh Hashana. God’s gaze is laser-focused on each of us, with nothing hidden, no place to run, and no way to avoid His judgment. That level of scrutiny can be frightening, even overwhelming.
But Yom Kippur works differently. On Yom Kippur, we encounter not just personal judgment, but a collective one. The Torah describes the se’ir la’azazel – the goat sent away into the wilderness – which atones for the sins of the entire Jewish people. Unlike Rosh Hashana, where the focus is on the individual, Yom Kippur shifts the focus to the nation. God forgives us not in isolation, but as part of Klal Yisrael. On Rosh Hashana, I stand alone before God. Yes, I gather in shul with everyone else, but the mitzvah of shofar is ultimately a personal mitzvah – it is about whether I, personally, hear the call, internalize its message, and respond with repentance.
On Yom Kippur, however, the entire framework changes. The service of the day revolves around offerings brought on behalf of the nation as a whole. One sacrifice atones for everyone together. My atonement is not earned in isolation, but in the context of the tzibbur – the community of Israel. It is precisely this communal forgiveness, this sense that we are bound together as one people and lifted together in God’s grace, that makes Yom Kippur – despite the fasting, despite the intensity – one of the happiest days of the year.
Our opening assumption when it comes to the teshuva of Yom Kippur is that it is fundamentally communal in nature. We are forgiven not in isolation, but together with the rest of Bnei Yisrael. If you see yourself as part of the community, then you are included in its forgiveness.
However, perhaps there is an even more ambitious way to understand the communal teshuva of Yom Kippur and the expectations of this sacred time. To uncover this, we must take a deeper look into the history of Yom Kippur itself. When did Yom Kippur become Yom Kippur? When did this day take on the character of a day of atonement?
The Midrash famously teaches that Bnei Yisrael worshipped the golden calf on the 17th of Tammuz. On that day, Moshe shattered the luchot, symbolizing the breaking of the covenant between God and His people. Moshe then pleaded with God to forgive them, and after another forty days he worked on inscribing a second set of luchot. Finally, on Yom Kippur, Moshe descended with this second set. Thus, Yom Kippur was established as a day of divine forgiveness for all generations.
Let us pause to analyze this formative moment. We usually think of Yom Kippur as a day when we confess our sins, repent sincerely, and are forgiven by God in response to our repentance. After all, Bnei Yisrael sinned with the golden calf, God threatened to destroy them, and through teshuva He forgave them. But that is not, in fact, what happened. On that very first Yom Kippur, the people did not commit a sinful act requiring atonement, there is no indication that they engaged in repentance, and God had already decided not to destroy them. Let us unpack each of these points carefully.
First, on the first Yom Kippur, God did not forgive Bnei Yisrael for a sinful act they had just committed. The actual worshippers of the golden calf – 3,000 individuals – were killed by the Leviim upon Moshe’s descent. So what was the sin that remained? Rabbi Benjamin Blech suggests a striking answer. He notes the common saying that “silence is golden,” but in truth, he argues, “silence is the golden calf.” The true sin of Yom Kippur was the silence of the majority. Instead of carrying each other home to God, they allowed others to fall. Yom Kippur was born as a response to that failure: a reminder that teshuva must be communal, that we must take responsibility for one another and carry each other back. They allowed 3,000 of their brethren to drift away from God without protest or intervention. The sin was one of omission – failing to prevent others from straying. This communal apathy was so severe that God told Moshe, הַנִּ֣יחָה לִּ֔י וְיִֽחַר־אַפִּ֥י בָהֶ֖ם וַאֲכַלֵּ֑ם וְאֶֽעֱשֶׂ֥ה אוֹתְךָ֖ לְג֥וֹי גָּדֽוֹל – “Leave me and let Me be angry with them and let Me destroy them and make of you a great nation.” Only Moshe’s impassioned plea prevented their destruction.
What followed was Moshe’s descent from the mountain, the shattering of the luchot, his confrontation with Aharon, and the call for the Leviim to punish the idolaters. Then, the next day, Moshe addressed the people, telling them: “You have committed a grave sin, and now I will ascend to God – perhaps He will grant you atonement.” Again, this was not atonement for active idol worship – that sin had already been punished and God had already said that He wouldn’t destroy the people. Rather, Moshe sought forgiveness for their failure to act, for their silence, for their passivity in the face of sin. According to the Ibn Ezra, he wanted to write a second set of luchot which established the covenant between them and God. Essentially, he asked for reconciliation with God.
On December 7, 1988, a devastating earthquake struck northwestern Armenia, burying thousands of children under rubble. In one town, a father arrived at his child’s school only to find it reduced to a pile of stones. Most people despaired, seeing the child’s survival as impossible. But this father refused to give up. He dug tirelessly, calling out, “Armand! Don’t give up hope! I am coming to get you!” Hours passed. Twenty-four hours passed. Still no response. Yet the father persisted, never wavering in his faith or determination. And then, after thirty-eight grueling hours, his child’s voice finally answered. He had survived, and the father’s unwavering presence had saved him and thirteen other children trapped nearby.
This is the same spirit Moshe Rabbenu demonstrated on Yom Kippur. He never gave up on Bnei Yisrael, even when their failure seemed irreparable. Like that father, Moshe’s persistence, love, and refusal to abandon his people secured their redemption.
What, then, truly took place on the first Yom Kippur? It was not the personal teshuva of the people that secured forgiveness. Rather, it was Moshe’s intervention. It was Moshe’s mission to repair the breach between God and Israel, to bring the people back into a relationship with their Creator. Yom Kippur was born not primarily as a day of solitary self-reflection, but as a day that underscores our collective responsibility for one another.
And perhaps this is the more ambitious message of Yom Kippur for us: to model ourselves after that very first Yom Kippur, to model ourselves after Moshe Rabbenu and his tireless efforts to bring others closer to God. If Yom Kippur is about imitating Moshe, then we must ask: how did Moshe accomplish this, and what lessons can we learn from his approach?
First, Moshe turned directly to God with a radical plea: “Forgive them – and if not, erase me from the book that You have written.” Moshe declared to God that if He would not forgive the people, then Moshe himself wanted no part in the book. The Gemara in Berachot understands this to mean that Moshe was literally willing to give his very life for Bnei Yisrael. The Seforno interprets Moshe’s words differently: Moshe asked that God transfer Moshe’s own merits, his spiritual credits, to the account of the people. But other commentaries like the Rashbam take it further still, explaining that Moshe was willing to have his very name erased from the Sefer HaChayim, the Book of Life. What does such a statement even mean?
The Midrash offers a striking interpretation: Moshe told God, “Erase me not only from the book of the righteous, but even from the book of the mediocre.” In other words, Moshe was prepared to forfeit his spiritual standing entirely – for the sake of his people. He was ready to sacrifice not just physically but spiritually, if that was what it would take to keep Bnei Yisrael connected to God. Moshe’s message is piercing: sometimes, in order to bring others back to God, we must be willing to sacrifice a measure of our own spiritual growth.
This value of sacrificing our own spiritual growth in order to help bring others back to God is one that was shared and modeled by some of our greatest leaders. The Chatam Sofer explains that in order to attain the level of prophecy, a person must reach extraordinarily exalted levels of holiness, which typically requires years of intense self-development and inward focus. Avraham Avinu, however, made a different choice. Instead of concentrating on his own personal perfection, he understood that God’s will for him was to devote his life to teaching the people of the world about God, even if this meant doing so at the expense of his own spiritual ascent. As a result, Avraham did not achieve prophecy in the same way as figures like Chanoch, who reached the level of an angel. And yet, in the words of the Chatam Sofer, Avraham was even more deserving of prophecy. For the very reason that he did not reach such exalted spiritual heights – that he spent his days and nights teaching others about God – was precisely what made him most worthy of God’s word.
Rav Asher Weiss relates a remarkable story about the Klausenberger Rebbe, Rav Yekutiel Yehudah Halberstam. The Rebbe endured unimaginable suffering during the Holocaust: his wife and ten of his eleven children were murdered, and though his eldest son survived the war, he tragically died soon after in a refugee camp. In the aftermath, Rav Asher Weiss’s father, who had also survived, yearned to return to yeshiva and immerse himself in Torah study, to lose himself in the pages of Gemara. But the Klausenberger Rebbe stopped him. “You know nothing about mesirut nefesh,” he told him. “When you deprive yourself of food and sleep to learn Torah, that is mesirut haguf – self-sacrifice of the body. But that is not mesirut nefesh. Mesirut nefesh is when you close the Gemara for God.” And so, under the Rebbe’s guidance, Rav Asher Weiss’s father closed his Gemara, and together with the Klausenberger Rebbe, they set out to build Torah institutions for boys and girls – because sometimes the greater sacrifice is not in what you take on, but in what you are willing to set aside.
Another story illustrates this same theme. At the end of a great rabbinic convention, the train carrying many Torah sages stopped at several towns, where the local Jewish communities gathered eagerly to greet the gedolim. The Chafetz Chaim, however, in his profound humility, never went out onto the platform. Rav Meir Shapiro of Lublin, though still young at the time, boldly approached the elderly sage. “Rebbe, why don’t you go out to greet the people?” he asked. The Chafetz Chaim replied, “Why should I go out? What do they want to see? I have no horns on my head. They come only because they think I am a tzaddik. If I go out, I am making a statement about myself that I am someone great.” Rav Meir Shapiro pressed him: “And what would be so terrible about that?” The Chafetz Chaim answered, “It would be ga’avah – arrogance.” Rav Meir Shapiro countered, “And if it is ga’avah, so what?” The Chafetz Chaim answered, “Ga’avah is an aveirah, a terrible sin.” Rav Meir Shapiro then said, “But if throngs of Jews will be uplifted and inspired by seeing you, aren’t you willing to accept a little punishment in Gehenom so that so many Jews will have joy?” From that day on, every time the train pulled into a station, the Chafetz Chaim was the first one on the platform to greet the people.
And this, too, was Moshe Rabbenu pleading with God, mecheini na mi’sifr’cha. This was Moshe Rabbeinu carrying his people home – willing to sacrifice even his own spiritual standing so that no one would be left behind. His plea, mecheini na, was the ultimate expression of what communal teshuva means: I cannot go home to God unless I carry you with me. But beyond the sacrifice, Moshe also modeled radical inclusion. He did not stand outside the camp condemning the sinners. Instead, he descended with the second set of luchot in his hands – a physical gesture of returning Torah into the midst of the people, a symbol that despite their sin, they were still part of the covenant. He declared to God: if You erase them, erase me too. In doing so, Moshe taught us that the deepest kaparah does not only come from harsh rebuke, but from reaffirming belonging: “You are part of us. Yom Kippur is mechaper for you because you are part of the tzibbur.” Sometimes the most powerful way to draw someone back is not through correction, but through love and inclusion.
The sin of Bnei Yisrael was their passivity – they stood by and did nothing while others sinned. Moshe’s tikkun was twofold: his willingness to sacrifice himself, and his insistence on radical inclusivity. Together, these form the model for how we inspire communal teshuva. That is what we are being called upon to do on Yom Kippur.
With this new perspective on Yom Kippur – that its power comes from our standing together as a community – we can begin to appreciate some of the halachot and rituals of the day on a deeper level. We know that there is a mitzvah to ask for forgiveness on Yom Kippur. Why? On the most basic level, the Mishna teaches that Yom Kippur only atones for sins between a person and God, but not for sins between people. It therefore makes sense that before we can receive full atonement, we must seek forgiveness from one another.
But the Gemara pushes this idea even further. In Yoma (87a) we learn:
רב הוה ליה מילתא בהדי ההוא טבחא - לא אתא לקמיה. במעלי יומא דכפורי אמר איהו: איזיל אנא לפיוסי ליה
Rav and other Amoraim made special efforts on Erev Yom Kippur to reconcile with others – even when they themselves had done nothing wrong, even when they were the ones who had been hurt. Why? Because Yom Kippur is not only about my own forgiveness. It is about building shalom and achdut. True unity is impossible if someone has wronged me and has not sought reconciliation, so the Amoraim themselves would take the first step, giving the offender the chance to apologize. That is how important achdut is on Yom Kippur.
Pirkei D’Rabbi Eliezer teaches that when the Jewish people are at peace with one another, we appear before God like angels. But it is more than that: unity is not just an ideal, it is a prerequisite for atonement. Rav Soloveitchik explains that the atonement of Yom Kippur is collective atonement. Only when we come before God as a united community can kapparah take place. That is why the halacha obligates us to seek mechilah from others before Yom Kippur and to do what we can to foster peace. Teshuva only works when we stand together.
And Yom Kippur goes even further. Not only do we seek peace with those around us, but we open the doors of the day to everyone – even those who seem most distant from God. Before the prayers of Yom Kippur even begin, as we usher in the day with Kol Nidrei, we declare:
על דעת המקום ועל דעת הקהל... אנו מתירין להתפלל עם העבריינים
We begin the holiest night of the year by inviting the sinners to join us. We proclaim that it is permitted to pray together even with those who have transgressed. This dramatic opening highlights that Yom Kippur is not about separation but about carrying each other home – tzaddikim, beinonim, and even reshaim, all bound together as one tzibbur. Rav Nachman of Breslov beautifully explained that the very word tzibbur is an acronym: tzaddikim, beinonim, and reshaim. A true community must contain all three.
The message is clear. On Yom Kippur we tell every Jew: we are not giving up on you. You are part of us. You belong to the tzibbur. As we begin Yom Kippur, we extend two invitations to every person: I want to make peace with you. And you are welcome here.
And when we do this – when we welcome everyone back into the fold, back into the shul, back into the community of prayer – we are modeling Moshe Rabbenu himself. For it was on Yom Kippur, thousands of years ago, that Moshe descended from the mountain carrying the two luchot in his hands, returning the Torah to a people who had sinned, declaring that despite everything, they were still God’s nation.
That is Yom Kippur. Not a day about me. A day about us. A day when we stand before God not as scattered individuals, but as one people – united, forgiven, and embraced.
And on Yom Kippur, we do more than make peace with others. We do more than welcome everyone. On Yom Kippur – we pray for everyone. Think about the al cheit. Sometimes, when we read through them, we instinctively try to connect each one to our own lives: “Yes, I slipped up here. I fell short there.” But let’s be honest. There are times when we look at a particular al cheit and we simply cannot connect it to something we’ve done. And yet – we say them all. Why?
Rav Yisrael Meir Lau once described how he had the privilege of davening on Yom Kippur with three of the giants of the generation: Rav Shach, Rav Shlomo Zalman Auerbach, and Rav Eliyahu Lopian. He watched them cry, pounding their chests, confessing sins they had clearly never committed. At first, he wondered why. And then he realized: they weren’t only confessing for themselves. They were crying on behalf of all of Klal Yisrael.
That’s the essence of Yom Kippur. We don’t say al cheit just as individuals. We say it as a people. We confess together. We cry together. We carry each other’s sins. We do what the Kohen Gadol did in the Beit Hamikdash: first he confessed for himself, then for the kohanim, then for the entire Jewish people – every single Jew, righteous and sinful alike. And when we do this, we are not only imitating the Kohen Gadol; we are walking in the footsteps of Moshe Rabbeinu himself, who spent eighty days and nights pleading with God to forgive his people after the sin of the Golden Calf.
This is what makes Yom Kippur different from Rosh Hashana. On Rosh Hashana, we stand before God as individuals. But on Yom Kippur – we stand as one nation. Tzaddikim, beinonim, and yes, even resha’im – shoulder to shoulder – begging God to forgive us, to heal us, to redeem us. That is the power of Yom Kippur.
But if Yom Kippur is about more than just my return to God – if it is about our return together – then the question becomes: how do we practically live this out? What does it mean, not only to repent for myself, but to carry responsibility for others as Moshe did?
The first step is to shift our mindset. You may be thinking, Who am I to inspire anyone? I’m not a rabbi, not an influencer – I’ve got plenty of flaws. But the truth is, every one of us can uplift someone – a family member, a friend, a coworker. Just being here in shul on Yom Kippur shows you already have something meaningful to share. And it’s not about preaching – it’s about living with sincerity, letting your own inspiration spark something in others, spreading the love we have for Hashem. As the Tanya teaches, even those far from Torah, whose only identity is that they are creatures of God, must be drawn close with bonds of love. It is love – not harshness – that brings people back.
Once we shift our mindset, there’s one ingredient we need: empathy. Let me share a story.
A young man once approached an older man at a wedding and said, “Do you remember me?” The older man replied warmly, “Of course! You were my student in 3rd grade! What are you up to now?” The young man answered, “I’m now in chinuch – I became a teacher because of you. Because of the impact you had on me.”
The teacher, slightly puzzled, tried to remember what he could have done that inspired this man. The young man continued: “Rebbe, I’m sure you remember what happened, but I’ll remind you. One day, a boy came to class with a fancy new digital watch. I was very jealous; my family couldn’t afford such a watch, and I really wanted it. During a break, the boy went to the bathroom and left the watch at his desk. I saw my chance, took it, and put it in my pocket. A few minutes later, the boy realized the watch was missing and told you that someone had stolen it. You said whoever had taken it should return it, but no one did. I was too embarrassed. Then you told the class that no one could leave for recess; instead, we all lined up against the wall, eyes closed, and you went through everyone’s pockets to find the watch. When you got to me, I thought, ‘I’m busted. He’s going to embarrass me in front of the whole class.’ But instead, you continued through everyone’s pockets and gave the watch back at the end. That day, you saved my dignity. Instead of being labeled a thief, I was able to continue with my life as normal. That day, you taught me the value and power of an educator – and I decided to dedicate my life to teaching.”
The teacher was amazed. “But Rebbe, you don’t remember that story?” asked the young man. “When you see me now, you don’t instantly recall the watch incident?”
The Rebbe looked him in the eye and said, “Of course I remember. I just never knew you were the boy who stole the watch. You see, I too closed my eyes that day – so I wouldn’t know, so I wouldn’t look down on you forever.”
This is the power of seeing the good in people. Rav Nachman teaches that even the darkest soul has a spark of good. When we look for it and when we believe in others, then we raise them from guilt to merit, helping them return in teshuva.
George Rohr is a prominent businessman and longtime supporter of Chabad who enjoyed a special relationship with the Rebbe. While standing in line with people requesting the Rebbe's blessings before Yom Kippur, he prepared for the Rebbe a gift of good news to balance the endless stream of requests about pain and suffering that people bombarded the Rebbe with. When his turn came, he told the Rebbe that on Rosh Hashanah he had organized a beginners' service in his synagogue for more than 200 Jews who had no Jewish background. "What?" the Rebbe asked, looking at Rohr intently. Assuming the Rebbe did not hear everything he said, Rohr repeated himself. "No Jewish background?" asked the Rebbe. "Go back and tell them that they have a background. They are the children of Avraham, Yitzchak and Yaakov, Sarah, Rivka, Rachel and Leah!” Every Jew is royalty. Every Jew has a background. And when we believe that message and share that message with them, then we draw them back.
And we learned this from Moshe Rabbeinu on the very first Yom Kippur. Moshe Rabbeinu didn’t condemn Bnei Yisrael – he persisted in drawing them back, even when they strayed. And we are called to do the same.
Yom Kippur is not only about personal teshuva. It’s about building a community of return. Just as we make time for poker night, ladies’ night, or other social gatherings, we can make time to connect spiritually: invite friends to learn with you on a Shabbat afternoon, invite someone to shul, or plan a shared Torah experience. Don’t give up on anyone – a child, a friend, anyone. Be present, encouraging, and empathic. Share the joy and love of Torah that you have in whatever form it takes.
And sometimes, that means giving up a little of our own personal growth to lift someone else higher. Maybe we’d prefer to learn a sefer on our own, but instead we patiently explain the basics to a beginner. Maybe we’d rather daven quickly and with kavannah, but we slow down to help someone find the right page. True greatness is not only climbing upward ourselves, but making sure we bring others with us.
Even when it seems impossible, our empathy, hope, and persistence can transform lives. Just like a father who dug tirelessly for thirty-eight hours to save his child after the Armenian earthquake, we too can make a difference – never giving up on those around us.
May we take the lessons of Moshe Rabbenu and what Yom Kippur is truly about to heart. May our fasting, prayers, and acts of kindness bring not only personal forgiveness but communal redemption. May we leave Yom Kippur inspired to build a community of empathy, inclusion, and love – shoulder to shoulder, carrying each other home. For that is the secret of Yom Kippur: not a day of ‘me,’ but a day of ‘us,’ when our greatest joy comes from knowing we return not alone, but together.
G’mar Chatimah Tovah – may you be sealed for a good and sweet year, bound together in forgiveness, hope, and unity.