I wonder if you have ever noticed that the tradition of Kol Nidre is the strangest any people ever had. Other people generally solemnify their New Year by making resolutions and reinforcing their old promises. We Jews, on the contrary, celebrate this evening, this climax of our New Year season, by announcing that we hereby break our promises and abrogate our vows. כל נדרי… לא שרירין ולא קיימין. All vows shall not be binding and shall not have power. A strange way indeed for religious people to observe a Day of Atonement and look forward to a new and fruitful year!

And yet, in a way, this is a very important condition for the observance of Yom Kippur. Of course, according to Jewish Law, Kol Nidre releases a man only from those vows made between him and G-d, not from those in which any other individual is concerned. But in a broader sense, this abrogation of vows is really significant. It means that we begin this holiest of holy days by each personally divorcing himself from his past. We begin this on a new slate. We know from experience that the past has been a grievous one, not too good, perhaps sinful, something of which we might not be too proud if it were completely revealed. There are certain vows which we have made, silently and even unconsciously, which we must annul. Some of us, in the privacy of our hearts, may have decided to pay more attention to business and profit, and less to reading and study; more to sports and less to synagogue; more to personal advancement, less to community progress. On this Kol Nidre night, then, we absolve these vows. We break clean with the past. We begin a year totally fresh and new. We will not allow the dead hand of the past to slap the face of the present. We start with a clean slate.

Now, why is it so important that we begin anew? Because this day is the day of great decision. It is the day when every man and woman must choose their course, and with the knowledge that upon this course depends the future of an entire year and perhaps an entire lifetime. And in such a time, one does not want to be burdened by the misdeeds of yesterday. This, my friends, is a time of uncertainty when heavy hearts are called upon to make up their troubled minds. It is a period of transition, and the future depends squarely upon us. Jewish Law directs that the Kol Nidre services be held bein hashmashos, at twilight, during that time which is neither light nor dark, between the passing day and the oncoming night. It is in this bein hashmashos, ‘twixt dusk and dawn,’ and in this bein hashmashos of a year, between an old year gone by and a new year coming in, that Man is gripped by the Twilight Mood, that troubled uncertainty when the uncharted future lies before him like a blank diary waiting for him to write in the entries. בראש השנה יכתיבון וביום צום כיפור יחתמון, “On Rosh Hashana it is decided and on Yom Kippur it is confirmed; during this transitional period it is determined: מי יחיה ומי ימות – who shall live and who shall die; who is at the end of his days and who is not; who shall become poor and who shall become rich; who shall be brought low and who shall be upraised.” And man knows that these matters are not solely the works of a whimsical Fate or Destiny, but dependent upon him and his actions and his conduct. For in this Book of Records, חותם יד כל אדם בו, appears every man’s and every woman’s personal signature. Man signs the Heavenly Decrees. What his future will be depends, therefore, on what Man is willing to commit himself to, on what he is willing to sign to, during this very short transitional period.

Psychologists tell us that the most critical days in a person’s life are those of their adolescence. This stage of life is fraught with dangers of all kinds; a wrong turn during this time can make a criminal of a boy, it can pervert his sense of morals, instill in him a hatred for society, and lead him onto the path of ultimate destruction. At the same time, however, great and wonderful possibilities lie dormant within him. During his adolescence, he can bring out untapped talents and develop latent genius. A parent can help an adolescent onto the right path, or, by neglecting him, allow him to step into the abyss of an evil and unrewarding life. This adolescence is the bein hashmashos, the twilight and transition period of one’s life.

Our Rabbis must have had that in mind when they declared that although most of the universe was created during the first six days, some work yet remained to be done, and so ten things were created at the last moment, ערב שבת בין השמשות, on the eve of Sabbath during twilight. Two of these twilight creations of G-d stand out as particularly meaningful: luchos, the Tablets on which were engraved the Decalogue or Ten Commandments, and mazikin, destroying spirits, or as we would call them – demons. During a bein hashmashos, a transition period, our Rabbis mean to tell us, G-d gives Man the choice: he can create either luchos or mazikin, Decalogue or Demons; he can turn creative or destructive; he can build his life solidly about the Ten Commandments and its ethical precepts, or he can abandon himself to the mazikin of life, live unethically, lose contact with his G-d and his fellow-men, surrender to temptation and unrest.

Tonight is such a bein hashmashos. Tonight, each person decides his future. He must choose between luchos and mazikin, between Decalogue and Demon.

How much depends upon this grave decision in the troubled times of twilight and transition! Take, for instance, a young couple in the first year or two of married life. It is a time of instability and adjustment, but during this short time, a lifetime can be determined. During this twilight era, they can succumb to the mazikim, they can assert their egos, refuse to compromise, leave G-d out of their lives, and end up in the divorce courts with so many thousands of others. Or they can build their lives about luchos, the Ten Commandments way of gentleness and goodness and faith and morals. The choice is clear and must be made: luchos or mazikin; Decalogue or Demons.

History offers ample evidence for this assertion. The French Revolution was such a period of uncertainty and unrest. The Age of Feudalism was on its deathbed, and the Industrial Age was being born. It was the twilight of a new era, the bein hashmashos of a new chapter in history. What was fashioned from this cauldron of discontent and revolution – luchos or mazikin? For a time, the Decalogue and the Demons were in a neck-to-neck race, and the outcome was doubtful. Here were the luchos: “Liberty, Equality and Fraternity”; and here were the mazikin: the Reign of Terror, the guillotine, the bigotry, the sadism. Ultimately, the mazikin were vanquished, and France gave the world its political luchos.

But why dip so far down into the barrel of history, when we have similar cases in our own time? After the last war, people all over the world looked forward to a new and greater era in international relations. The world was in its bein hashmashos, in transition from war to a new era, from the Machine Age to the Atomic Age. Prayerful eyes were raised to the Great Powers in the hope that a new dawn would break across the horizon. “Peace,” cried Humanity, “give us Peace.” Hands joined across continents in a cooperative effort to hew the luchos of international welfare, luchos on which would be inscribed the prophecies of universal peace of the Isaiahs and the world government of the Wilsons. What a chance for luchos! And yet the Big Powers fumbled the ball. Instead of heralding a new dawn, they announced the setting of the sun and gave us mazikin. Never mind whose fault it was – the Twilight produced no Decalogue; it did create a horde of ugly Demons. It gave us Korea, it gave us a Cold War, it gave us revived German nationalism. Mazikin were created, Mazikin which now control our destiny.

But on the other hand, take Israel. And let me tell you a story I was personally told by a member of the Knesset, one which is little known today. It was May 13, 1948, two days before Israel was declared a sovereign state. As a people, we had never had a more important bein hashmashos. Ben Gurion was meeting in Tel Aviv with what was then the Vaad Haleumi, later to become the Cabinet. A great problem was before them. All those present had dedicated their lives to the establishment of a Jewish State. But a warning had just been received from the American Secretary of State that if they would dare declare Israel as an independent state, all Jewish funds from America would be stopped, and Israel would not receive one cent from its greatest financial source. The debate that raged was heart-rending, and the prevailing mood was that independence must be postponed, for the loss of American funds meant certain starvation and a massacre at the hands of the Arabs. Ben Gurion himself argued that the Secretary of State would not keep his threat; that even if he would, it was “now or never” in the matter of statehood; that he did not intend to preside over the death of a 2,000-year-old dream. When Ben Gurion saw that he was going to lose, he put in a hurried call to Rabbi Maimon, that staunch old Zionist who later became Minister of Religion, who was then in Jerusalem. When Rabbi Maimon was apprised of these events, he decided to make his way to Tel Aviv immediately. The roads between Jerusalem and Tel Aviv had been cut by the Arabs, so the old Rabbi put on his hat and coat, took along only his טלית זעקעל, and in a matter of minutes was flying to Tel Aviv in a two-seater airplane, braving Arab ack-ack fire all along the way. The rest is history. That grand old man persuaded the assembled delegates to proceed with the Declaration of Independence. The State was declared; Israel was born.

Imagine what would be today if, during that hour, 3½ years ago, the delegates at that meeting had lost heart and an old man had not asserted his courage. Mazikin, destruction, would rule over Israel today. There would be no Israel. Of course, in that dark bein hashmashos the decision was difficult, fraught with danger to over a million people. But the decision was right. For out of that twilight came not Demons, but a Decalogue. The State of Israel today is the result of a choice made in that twilight hour.

Tonight, my friends, is that sacred but uncertain bein hashmashos when each and every man, woman and child starts anew, unburdened by the Past, and is bidden to take a long deep look into his or her own soul and determine once and for all: which will it be, luchos or mazikin? A year of good or of evil; of advance or retreat; of Decalogue or Demon?

Tonight, the young Rabbi who speaks to you, addresses himself as well. He knows that he is in the bein hashmashos of his life, at the dawn of a career; that he has left his studies and rabbinic training and is soon to occupy a pulpit of his own; he is between Preparation and Action; between School and Career. And I ask myself: which will I choose: luchos or mazikin? When I occupy my pulpit, will I sacrifice my ideals in order to please and placate others? If I believe in Kashrut and Sabbath, will I refrain from mentioning them and maintain a respectful silence because I do not want to offend the sensitivities of some of my people? In my sermons, will I let the principles perish and preach the platitudes? Will I dedicate myself to the Decalogue or defer to the Demons?

Tonight, there is possibly some man or woman here who is weighed down by a sense of guilt. Perhaps during the past year, he has insulted a friend or a neighbor, an insult which on the surface is harmless but which may have caused the other person to suffer secretly in anguish. Perhaps he has besmirched someone else’s reputation, which our Torah compares to שפיכת דמים, to spilling blood. Will he make amends to that person, or will his ego prevent him from apologizing? Will he bring a שה לעזאזל, the sacrificial goat symbolizing Sin, or will he offer up a שה לה׳, the kid offered to G-d? Will he abide by the luchos, the Decalogue, or will he make way for the mazikin, the Demons?

Tonight, some parents may search their souls and ask: Who will take over after I am gone? When the last generation passed away, we were there to carry on their tradition and heritage and faith. Who will follow us? Like Moses, who wept at the funeral of his brother Aaron, crying, “When our sister Miriam died, Aaron and I were there to mourn for her. Now that Aaron is gone, I weep for him. But when I am gone, who will cry for me?” We, too, wonder: Have we sufficiently prepared our children for full Jewish living? And what of the future: will we undertake to build and better our Day School? Will we bequeath to them luchos, or will we give free rein to the mazikin of ignorance and cynicism? – Decalogue or Demons?

Jewish preachers of old, those venerable Magidim, used to tell a parable which bears repetition here. An old man of Jerusalem was known over the world for his great wisdom. It was even rumored that he was as wise as Solomon. A skeptic heard of this Wise Man and decided to test him. So the Skeptic came before him, and in his hands was cupped a small bird. Said the Skeptic to the Wise Man: “Tell me, if you are so wise, if the bird in my hand is dead or alive.” And the Wise Man, living up to his reputation, answered: “If you close your hands, you will crush it and it will die; if you open your hands, it will fly away and live.”

The words of the Wise Man of that parable are addressed to us this evening. In this Twilight of a new year, the choice is in our hands and hearts: Life or Death; Good or Evil; Decalogue or Demon. Tonight, we have broken those vows which linked us to the Demons of yesteryear. We must now choose for next year.

החיים והמוות נתתי לפניך, הברכה והקללה… ובחרת בחיים.

“Life and Death have I given before you this day, the blessing and the curse….and you shall choose – Life.”