This Jewish New Year we sit in discomfort of work to be done

Years ago, right after Yom Kippur morning services let out, a woman walked up to me in the synagogue lobby in great distress. I had given a sermon that pressed on the issues of the day, and it had unsettled her. She told me, in no uncertain terms, “I came here for comfort. And all you did was make me angry and upset.”

That exchange has stayed with me. It raised a question that lingers every year at this season. What is the purpose of religion? Is it meant to comfort us? To offer refuge from uncertainty? To act as an antidote to the anxieties of daily life?

The Jewish High Holy Days arrive each year with a clear answer. No. Religion, they suggest, is not meant to numb our discomfort but rather, to deepen it.

The holidays begin the evening of Sept. 22 with Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, which literally means “head of the year.” Rosh Hashanah celebrates the birthday of the world and reminds us that we are partners with God in the work of creation. The call of the shofar, the ram’s horn sounded on Rosh Hashanah morning, announces that this is not a light responsibility. The message of Rosh Hashanah is simple: So much depends on us.

Then 10 days later comes Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. On that day, we wear white garments traditionally used for burial. We fast and refrain from life-giving activities, we pray with liturgy that bluntly reminds us how some of us will live and some will die in the year ahead. We spend the day confronting our mistakes, rehearsing our mortality, and asking for forgiveness. This is not exactly a recipe for consolation.

The High Holy Days are not about comfort. These days push us to feel vulnerable, to tap into our troubled souls and face our very own mortality. It is not an exaggeration to say that these days reveal the very difficult truth that the repair of a broken world begins with us.

Our world is indeed broken. We live amid polarized politics, and we live with a looming climate crisis. We witness rising anti-Semitism, hatred, and bigotry. We see growing inequality. We face loneliness and isolation. Turn on the television and all you hear about is anger, resentments, blaming and finger-pointing, a steady stream of voices more intent on scoring points than seeking solutions.

Of course, it makes sense that we yearn for our houses of worship to be places of comfort, places where our anxiety is paused if just for a moment. Yes, we need sanctuaries that allow us to rest from the drudgery, to escape from a world that is unsettling. That is a sacred part of what synagogues and churches and mosques provide.

That cannot be the whole story. Because any religion that prioritizes escape over engagement fails its deepest calling. Faith is not meant to distract us from reality but to sharpen our vision of it. Its purpose is to heighten our sensitivity to pain, to injustice, to our own transgressions and then to move us toward increased responsibility.

The woman who spoke to me on that Yom Kippur morning was honest about what she wanted. She asked me for comfort, and she did not find it in my sermon. I still think about her words today.

As I prepare this year to lead High Holy Day services at Congregation Beth Israel here in Austin, I think about the many people who come into the synagogue seeking solace. I think about the many people searching for respite from the weight of a world that feels so heavy.

I understand that yearning. In so many ways, I share that yearning.

But I also know this: Our world will not heal itself. It needs us.

Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel — who escaped Nazi Europe, who marched alongside Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. in Selma, and who raised his voice against the Vietnam War — taught that religion is not an escape but a moral guide. Its purpose, he explained, is to awaken a deeper moral sensitivity, one that refuses silence in the face of injustice. Heschel put it this way: “Religion is not sentimentality. Religion is sensitivity. It is being answerable to the world’s wonder and to the world’s pain.” (Heschel speech on Religion and Race, 1963)

As we enter this season of the High Holy Days, may we carry that sensitivity and that responsibility with us.

Wishing everyone a Shana Tova, a happy New Year.

Brian Leiken is the senior rabbi at Austin's Congregation Beth Israel. Find information about Jewish High Holy Day services at bethisrael.org.