I’ve always been amazed by how powerful music is when it comes to memory. You can sing your favorite song faster than you can speak it. And when that one song comes on the radio — the one you haven’t heard in years — it all comes rushing back. The melody, the lyrics, the feeling. It’s just there.
As I’ve been thinking about this moment — this day — and all the doors we walk through, confront, or close on Yom Kippur, I’m struck by the potential of this day. How much promise it holds. How full it is of yearning — for something new, something better, something different in our world and in our lives.
And while I’ve found myself humming the melodies of our prayers, swept up in the drama of this day, another song crept into my head from the most unlikely of places:
Won’t you help me sing — these songs of freedom
’Cause all I ever have — redemption songs.
Redemption Song by Bob Marley and the Wailers was written in 1979, released in 1980, and ranked #66 on Rolling Stone’s list of the 500 greatest songs of all time. The song urges listeners to “Emancipate yourself from mental slavery,” because “None but ourselves can free our minds.”
Marley borrowed those lines from a 1937 speech by Marcus Garvey at Menelik Hall in Sydney, Nova Scotia: “We are going to emancipate ourselves from mental slavery because whilst others might free the body, none but ourselves can free the mind…”
Marley’s song isn’t just about politics or reggae — it’s about the human soul. And that’s why it belongs here today, in this room, on this day. Who wouldn’t want to sing a redemption song today? Isn’t that why we’re here? Marley’s lyrics echo something deeply Jewish: that the work of transformation begins within. That no one else can do the inner work for us. Not for our souls. Not for our people. Not for our city.
Yom Kippur is, in many ways, our annual “redemption song” — a day to walk through the door to what still can be.
Throughout these holy days, we have been exploring the idea of* Through a New Door: Welcoming What Comes Next.
On Erev Rosh Hashanah, we opened the first door — the door of possibility. We acknowledged that while each of us walks through that door alone, we do so surrounded by community.
On Rosh Hashanah morning* we imagined what a shared future would look like walking through the door to the next 60 years of Temple Shalom.
Last night* we examined the doors we close too quickly and the way we might try and open them with love and trust. Today I’d like to explore this final door* — the door to redemption, as we walk toward what still can be.*
There’s something profoundly beautiful — and profoundly hard — about this day. Right now, across the globe, the Jewish people are praying. Fasting. Reflecting. Using many of the same melodies, saying many of the same words. And yet, for all this beautiful unity — something feels broken in our world.
That’s what journalist Ezra Klein tried to capture in a haunting New York Times piece earlier this year, entitled “Why American Jews No Longer Understand One Another.” He observed:
“It’s hard to even describe what is happening in the Jewish community right now, because we don’t agree on the words. Not the words we use, and not what those words mean.”
He’s right. We say justice, and mean different things. We say Zionism, and it can trigger wildly different reactions. We say antisemitism, and can’t even agree on who the “anti” is.
Even the word Jewish carries competing definitions, depending on who you ask. It’s not just disagreement — it’s disorientation.
We’re not speaking the same language anymore — not because our words are different, but because our worldviews are different. What it means to be Jewish, what we fight for, what we fear, even what we pray for — those meanings have drifted apart. We don’t trust that we mean the same things. And without trust, fracture follows.
We’re in a moment where the Jewish people — who once drew strength from shared struggle, shared ritual, shared memory — are instead falling apart not only over what we believe, but over what we believe the other believes.
And that fracture doesn’t just live in headlines or on whatever version of Twitter you prefer. It’s in this room. It’s in our families. It’s in our inboxes. It’s here, on this day, when all we want is to believe in the redemptive possibility of community — and instead we feel ourselves drifting further from one another.
And when that happens, we withdraw. We retreat into smaller and smaller circles, convinced that only “my group” can be trusted. We stop talking across the table. We stop building across the aisle. And in the silence that follows, hope begins to die.
And when we think about what happens when we give up on one another, I can’t help but remember the story of Jonah — the one we return to every Yom Kippur.
He sees a city filled with people he despises. A city he believes doesn’t deserve another chance. And when God asks him to go and offer them the possibility of redemption, he runs away. Why?
Because he doesn’t want to live in a world where they get forgiven. He doesn’t want nuance. He doesn’t want reconciliation. He wants the door closed.
Jonah’s failure isn’t just personal. It’s civic. He refuses to imagine a city that could be better than its worst day. He abandons the possibility of a shared future. He believes the fracture is final.
And God’s answer is not thunder or lightning, but a question: “Should I not have compassion?” In other words: Jonah, if I can still believe in Nineveh’s redemption, why can’t you?
That’s the test of Jonah. And it’s the test of Yom Kippur. Will we be the people who close the door on one another? Or will we be the people who keep faith that families, communities — even whole cities — can be redeemed?
Because if redemption means anything, it means this: it’s not too late. Not for this community. Not for this city. Not for our people. Not for our souls.
And here’s where Torah pushes us further than Jonah ever dared to go. God doesn’t just say “believe in compassion.” God commands: Tzedek, tzedek tirdof — Justice, justice shall you pursue. Pursue it in the streets. Pursue it in the courts. Pursue it in the life of your city. Redemption isn’t only a matter of prayer and fasting — it’s a matter of showing up, together, to build something better than what is.
That’s why this day can’t end at the sanctuary door. If redemption is real, it must be lived — in our homes, in our congregation, in the heart of Dallas.
Volunteer in the Justice Garden;
become a Shomer Adamah — a protector of our earth, join our sustainability efforts;
join our caring congregation efforts;
show up with our interfaith partners with Dallas Area Interfaith.
Each of these is not just a “good deed.” It’s the Jewish answer to Jonah. It’s what it looks like to refuse despair, to keep faith that cities can be redeemed.
Invite your kids or grandkids, your neighbors and friends. Let them see you act. Walk through the door with them.
In an age of rising antisemitism and anxiety, let us be the community of calm conviction. Let’s speak clearly, act ethically, and never give in to fear. Call your elected leaders and let them know you care about our community and our city; let them know that caring about our city is a Jewish value, as the prophet Jeremiah taught: “Seek the welfare of the city to which I have exiled you, for in its welfare, you will find your own.”
Let them know that we believe in a Dallas where everyone belongs; where bigotry is confronted, not ignored; where we invest in dignity, not division. There is nothing more powerful than showing up. Let’s walk through that door with them.
This beautiful place is not just a building. It’s a remarkable doorway. A threshold. A place where we remember who we are — and who we still might become. A community where redemption is not a dream — it’s a door. And this morning, on this day, in this sacred hour, that door stands wide open.
So let’s not miss it. Let’s not let fear or fatigue or cynicism keep us on the threshold. Let’s walk through — together — with vision, resolve, and heart. Let’s believe again that what’s broken can be repaired. Let’s remember that the gates haven’t closed. Not yet; that redemption is still possible. Hope is still possible. A better future is still possible.
And maybe that’s why Bob Marley’s words echo so loudly today:
Won’t you help me sing, these songs of freedom — ’cause all I ever have, redemption songs.
Redemption isn’t just a song we sing — it’s a life we live, a city we build, a future we pursue.
So may this day move us from prayer to purpose, from song to service, from gates to action. May we walk through this door — together — and may we help build the redemption that still can be.
Amen.
