Text of Rabbi Noah's Yom Kippur sermon 2024

The Wolf We Feed: Anger, Compassion and Prophetic Judaism.
Congregation Shalom Rabbi Noah Chertkoff Kol Nidre 5785/2024

Yom Kippur is a time of confession, and tonight, I have a confession to make. Since October 7th, I have been furious.
I was furious when, after dancing with our Torah Scrolls on Simchat Torah, we received the devastating news of the unprovoked massacre of our brothers and sisters.
I was furious when, on that very same day, there were those who celebrated and called for even worse violence.
I was furious when campus protests erupted, where young Jewish students were intimidated daily, simply for being Jewish—and especially those who believe in the right of the Jewish people to self- determination in our ancestral homeland.
I was furious when statements from religious and humanitarian organizations showed little compassion for our victims, with some even scolding Israel as Israelis still gathered their dead.
I was furious when, in interfaith settings, I witnessed a denial of the sexual violence against women on October 7th, and as I lifted my voice, I was met with silence from our interfaith partners.
I was furious as I stood in the Gaza envelope and saw firsthand the destruction—the burnt-out homes, the stories of slaughter, the Nova Music site where the ground itself seemed to scream with the injustice of it all.
I am furious at how our politics have divided us in incomprehensible ways, how people spew vile words
from the safety of their keyboards, saying things they’d never dare utter aloud.
I am furious at the misinformation, the pettiness, the partisan divisiveness.
I am furious at the increase in antisemitic incidents in this country and beyond.
I am furious at the deaths of innocents no matter what side of the conflict they may be on.
I am furious that hostages still languish underground in Gaza, that babies mark their birthdays in darkness, and that elderly—survivors of the Holocaust and other atrocities—are now suffering anew, taken from their homes and their families reliving the hell that they had survived.
I am furious that the Magen David, the star of David was turned into a symbol of hate on the side of a building right here in Milwaukee.
I am furious that just days ago, on October 7th, when gatherings to mourn our losses and pray for hostages were met with protests and defilement in cities and on campuses around the world.
I am furious at the silence from those we call friends and neighbors.
 
Worse still, I am furious that their silence reveals they don’t understand—or have perhaps even abandoned us. And I am furious at their absence when we needed them to stand with us.
I am furious. But this isn’t just any anger—it’s a relentless, simmering fury, burning like a furnace that refuses to be extinguished. It sits just beneath the surface, fed by a steady stream of injustices and heartbreaks. I sometimes find myself numb to it, until I hear yet another piece of troubling news, see another soul-searing image, and suddenly, my senses are engulfed in rage again.
How many of you have felt this same fire this year? How many of you have wrestled with this unyielding anger?
Today is a day of confession, and I confess that I have grown too comfortable with this anger. I have held it close, perhaps even nurtured it, because it feels justified, because it feels righteous.
However, there are moments, this moment included, when it also feels like I am pouring a cup of water into the ocean. Our society today seems to be flooded with this anger. It’s as if each of us, carrying our own righteous fury, are only adding to the stormy waters around us—an ocean of resentment, of indignation, of rage that threatens to drown out any sense of peace or understanding.
We see it everywhere. On the news, in our social media feeds, in our conversations, and even in our own hearts. We live in a world where anger has become the default reaction. We are quick to call out, quick to condemn, and quick to divide.
This anger is manifest in the way minor inconveniences on the road now lead to confrontations that dangerously escalate into road rage. It’s in social media exchanges that devolve into insults, and in retail settings where frustrated customers bully employees. Our political landscape reflects this anger, as discourse focuses on vilifying the other side instead of finding common ground. Even in hospitals, signs now remind us to treat healthcare workers with respect—reminders needed more than ever in a time of constant hostility.
We stand ready to defend our beliefs with a clenched fist, yet we struggle to extend an open hand that invites understanding and connection.
I realize today that there is a struggle within me. Perhaps there is a struggle within you too. But we are not alone in this struggle. We are never alone.
I want to share with you a passage from the Talmud (Brachot 7a), a discourse on prayer that contains a surprising message—one that has captivated the minds of rabbis for centuries. It begins with this teaching: Rabbi Yochanan said in the name of Rabbi Yose:
ִמְתַּפֵּלל הּוא ָּברּוְך ֶׁשַּהָּקדֹוש ִמַּנִין? "From where do we know that the Holy One, Blessed be God, prays?"
holy My to them bring will 'I written, is it For "ֶׁשֶׁנֱאַּמר: ַּוֲהִביאֹוִתים ֶׁאל ַּהר ָּקְדִשי ְוִשַּמְחִתים ְבֵּבית ְתִפָּלִתי
mountain and make them joyful in the House of My Prayer.'" ֶׁאָּלא ְתִפָּלָּתם ֵּבית ֶׁנֱאַּמר לֹא - ְתִפָּלִתי ְבֵּבית ְתִפָּלִתי ֵּבית"Notice, it does not say 'the house of their prayer,' but rather, 'the house of My prayer.'"ִמְתַּפֵּלל הּוא ָּברּוְך ֶׁשַּהָּקדֹוש ִמָּכאן" From this, we learn that the Holy One, Blessed be God, prays."
Ok let me decode this a bit, what we learn from this passage is simply that God prays.
 
This raises a practical and profound question: ? מצלי מאי, What does God pray?
Rav Zutra bar Toviyah offers an answer in the name of Rav, a simple yet stunning prayer:
ַּכֲעִסי ֶׁאת ַּרֲחַּמי ֶׁשִיְכְבשּו ִמְלָּפַּני ָּרצֹון ְיִהי ”May it be My will that My mercy conquer My anger."
When I first studied this passage—and quite frankly, every time since—I have found it absolutely stunning. Think about this: even God wrestles with anger, and even God prays for compassion to overcome it. This passage speaks directly to us, especially on Yom Kippur, as we confront our own struggles with anger and resentment. If even the Divine seeks to temper anger with mercy, how much more so must we strive to let compassion in?
I want you to know that this sermon I am giving tonight is as much for myself as it is for you. The anger is still within me, even now. Even now. That’s why I’ve written these words, why I’m speaking them to you. Because there’s a part of my soul that resists the idea of compassion, that questions the possibility of a “better angels” approach in a world that seems to offer too little of it.
And the anger I feel—it scares me. It scares me because I realize how easy it is to drown in it. And I worry that you can drown in it too.
But here, on Yom Kippur, we are reminded that even God prays for mercy to overcome anger. If God can wrestle with these emotions, perhaps we can find the strength to do so as well. We can choose to let compassion in and to fight against the currents of rage that threaten to consume us.
Today, I confess that I have stood with my cup in hand. I have poured my own water into the flood, adding to the anger and the hostility that have come to define our times. But today, on Yom Kippur, we are asked to pause. We are given this one day to step back from the ocean of anger, to look within ourselves, and to ask: What would it take to drain these waters? What would it take to reclaim our capacity for compassion, even in the face of this unyielding fury?
While anger can feel like it gives us strength, it can also make us prisoners. And Yom Kippur calls us to freedom—a freedom that comes not from clinging to our anger, but from directing our anger to something different. From choosing to look beyond our own pain and finding empathy for others, even when it feels impossible.
So let us wade into these waters together, to confront the anger that has filled our hearts, and to begin the process of release. For only then can we hope to transform this ocean of fury into rivers of compassion, that can bring healing and peace to ourselves and God willing to our broken and bitter world.
Just as we considered how even the Divine seeks mercy over anger, I’m reminded of a story that has guided my own life, one that comes from the indigenous peoples of this land. It is a beautiful story that I have told to my children on more than one occasion when they might feel the pull to anger and hostility.
An elder from the First Nations sat with his grandchild by the fire one evening, sensing that the boy was troubled. As the flames danced, the elder spoke, his voice steady and calm, yet carrying the weight of many years.
“My child,” he began, “there is a battle that goes on within me. It is a fierce struggle, a battle between two wolves. One wolf is anger, envy, sorrow, greed, regret, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment,
 
inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego. This wolf burns hot with the fires of rage, always ready
to lash out, to take more, and to destroy.”
The elder’s eyes softened as he continued. “The other wolf is different. This wolf is peace, love, hope, humility, kindness, empathy, generosity, compassion, and truth. It is the wolf that understands, that offers forgiveness and finds joy in the happiness of others. This wolf is patient and seeks connection.”
The grandchild was silent for a moment, pondering the image of these two wolves locked in a struggle inside every person. Then he looked up and asked, “But Grandfather, which wolf will win?”
The elder smiled, placing a hand gently on the boy’s shoulder and replied, “The one we feed.”
On Yom Kippur, as we reflect on our anger, we must also ask ourselves: Which wolf will we feed? Will we feed our anger, letting it grow, or will we choose to feed our compassion?
In Jewish tradition, there are Midot, attributes that we cultivate. Rachmanus—compassion is one of the finest that can be attained. And how we get there is by engaging in acts that soften the heart, that feed the noble wolf. Even when anger permeates our being. It’s in moments of compassion that we begin to transform our anger into something redemptive.
Yom Kippur reminds us and challenges us to transform ourselves into something better. It’s a day that calls us not just to acknowledge our anger but to wrestle with it, to peel back the layers and ask ourselves: How can I channel this anger in ways that heal rather than harm? How can I, in the face of such anger, choose compassion without surrendering my sense of justice or at the expense of our safety?
Because, anger, can be justified, even necessary. Like Moses, who smashed the tablets upon seeing the Golden Calf, and like the prophets who railed against injustice, we know that anger can be an essential reaction to a world gone wrong.
On Rosh Hashanah, I spoke about turning from fear to hope. On Yom Kippur we recognize that just as fear and hope are intertwined, so too are fury and compassion. And as much as I am afraid and I am hopeful I am grappling not only with my anger but also with what to do with it and I know I’m not alone in that struggle.
So, today, as we reflect together, I want to invite us to find that balance. To recognize our righteous anger, but also to open our hearts to the path of compassion. Because if we let our fury consume us, we risk losing sight of the kindness, empathy, and love that Yom Kippur calls us to renew. And just as we call on the Divine to look upon us with compassion and not anger, so must we find the way to do the same. This is the way forward—not in abandoning our anger but in tempering it with the compassion that connects us all.
While righteous anger propels us to speak out against wrongs, it’s compassion that ensures our actions
bring repair, not more destruction.
But we can’t be only Merciful or only filled with Anger. For if we are all anger, that will destroy us. And if we are all mercy, we wouldn’t be human and there are times when mercy falls short. But perhaps there is a third way. A middle path where anger and mercy meet. This is the way of prophetic Judaism.
 
Our reform movement of Judaism is deeply rooted in the vision of Prophetic Judaism. Prophetic Judaism teaches that while righteous anger can fuel our fight against injustice, it must be paired with rachmaniyut. The balance between the two is essential. Because that balance demands that our pursuit of justice remain rooted in empathy, not animosity. That we may fury at those who would destroy us but that we don’t become those that would destroy us. It’s not that our prophets weren’t driven by a sense of moral outrage. Think of Amos, who denounced those who "sell the righteous for silver, and the poor for a pair of sandals." His words were a searing condemnation of a society that tramples upon the vulnerable. This anger wasn’t born from hatred; it was born from love for humanity and a fierce desire to protect those who suffer.
Consider too the story of Jonah that we will read tomorrow afternoon. He was sent to deliver a warning to the people of Nineveh, and initially refuses, preferring to see the city punished for its sins. Yet, when Nineveh repents, God forgives them, sparking Jonah’s own anger. He struggles with the compassion God extends to those he sees as unworthy. God responds, however, by reminding Jonah of the city’s innocence—of the many lives within who know no better, of the children, even of the animals. This reminder is a call to see beyond transgressions and to recognize the humanity in all people.
On a personal level, we might think of times when we’ve been wronged or betrayed. Perhaps we’ve been angry at a friend or family member or a community member. It’s tempting to let that anger fester and grow. But as the prophet Micah reminds us, what does God require of us but “to do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly”? Rachmaniyut calls us to recognize the frailty and fallibility in others, just as we hope others will recognize it in us. It invites us to transform our anger into an opportunity for action and growth.
As we leave here today, we may still carry the weight of our anger and pain. I am still furious:
I am furious at the violence that tore through our communities, but I will stand firm in my commitment to peace and justice for all.
I am furious at those who deny the suffering of our people, but I will lift up the voices of those silenced, ensuring that their stories are heard.
I am furious at the divisions that fracture our society, but I will strive to build bridges of understanding and connection, even when it feels impossible.
I am furious at the rising tide of antisemitism and hatred, but I will respond with unwavering resilience, ensuring that compassion, not hatred, shapes our world.
I am furious at the innocent lives lost in darkness and captivity, but I will keep the light of hope burning, advocating for freedom and dignity for all.
I am furious at the silence from those who should be our allies, but I will continue to speak truth to power, and I will work to inspire others to stand alongside us in the pursuit of justice.
I am still furious but I will resolve to transform that anger—not into bitterness or despair, but into a commitment to act with purpose, integrity, and compassion. May we all take the passion that fuels our
 
anger and channel it into prophetic action, standing up for justice, healing divisions, and creating a world where compassion prevails.
The prophets remind us that anger, when tempered with mercy, becomes a powerful force for good. It is not enough to be angry; we must be righteous. And as we stand here, on this sacred day of Yom Kippur, we acknowledge that while we may be surrounded by anger, we are also surrounded by love, by hope, and by the power to change our world.
When we think of next year, let us think of it not as something to wait for, but as something we build— together. Let us look to a future where our hearts will break open to love, where our actions reflect the justice and compassion we hold dear and may it be our will that our mercy conquer our anger.
Kehy Yehi Ratzon May this be God’s will and so too may it be ours.
 

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