Rosh Hashanah Sermon 2025 Bread and Roses Rabbi Sandra Kviat
“In the spring of 1936, a writer planted roses.” “...even on that November day [when we visited] two big unruly rose-bushes were in bloom, one with pale pink buds opening up a little and another with almost salmon flowers with a golden-yellow rim at the base of each petal. They were exuberantly alive, these allegedly octogenarian roses, living things planted by the living hand (and shovel work) of someone gone for most of their lifetime”. The gardener was George Orwell, “most famous for his prescient scrutiny of totalitarianism and propaganda, for facing unpleasant facts, for a sparse prose style and an unyielding political vision, had planted roses”. (And for changing his view on Jews).
These roses, writes Rebecca Solnit; ”were questions about who he was and who we [are] (were) and where pleasure and beauty and hours with no quantifiable practical result fit into the life of someone, perhaps of anyone, who also cared about justice and truth and human rights and how to change the world ( Rebecca Solnit, Orwell's Roses, 2022, Kindle edition, chapter one)
Figuring out what to say this year has been incredibly difficult, for it does not feel like there have been many roses. How do we sum up a year like this one? How can we reflect on what sometimes has felt like walking a tightrope; seeing safe ground so very far away from us, while feeling unseen forces pulling us back and forth, leaving us desperately and painfully off balance? This year has seen serious changes in our world;
● the rapid rise of AI and its impact on us, our workplaces and society at large.
● Ongoing climate change and how we are seeing massive forest fires in one part of the world and floods in another.
● A dominant theme of 2025 has been the growing dominance of authoritarianism here and abroad; the very real fears engendered by this, and the turmoil created in its wake.
It has also been a year marked with violent attacks on asylum seekers, continued experiences and incidents of antisemitism in this country and abroad, a very real fear of war between Ukraine and Russia spreading, and on and on.
It's not a cheerful list and it is wearing us down. But, perhaps, the most difficult theme for us here today has to be the ongoing war in Gaza. How it has affected not just people in Israel and Gaza but how it continues to affect us, our relationships and our sense of place and safety in the world.
Rabbis across the world have been debating for months what we can say, what we should say, are there things we can’t say, and what if any, is the outcome of what we say going to be? As a Rabbi, there’s real fear of standing up and speaking about what we personally think and feel, for some because their views contrast with that of their congregations, for others because of the harm the issues are already doing to communities but as we are all also experiencing, how it is causing damage in our families, and in relationships to friends and colleagues.
I can’t help share a little gallow’s humour as one rabbinical colleague from the US wrote, in despair: “I am thinking of walking up to the microphone and saying ‘Well, just like last year: antisemitism is bad, community is good, Israel is complex. Shana tova,’ and then sitting back down” (Joseph Mezler, CCAR 12/08/25). And it is all true, and yet of course that is not enough.
And so deciding about how and what to say this year has been painful, urgent, tiring, and left me worried. Yet I also know that we cannot stay silent today, as some rabbis are choosing to do.
Do I expect what is said to change anything major? For war to stop, for aid to suddenly flood into Gaza, for hostages to be returned? If only we had that kind of reach, to influence events and those in charge. While all of us do have power and agency, the hard lessons of the past year is that it is limited. So today I am going to focus on giving voice to the hearts and feelings of our congregation. To share some of the many emotions and conversations that have taken place in our Chavurah:
Sometimes our conversation has been about the need to do something to help, but of not knowing how or what to do. We have lived with frustration that we are not doing enough to raise awareness of famine, both when it was looming and even more so as it has become so real and the destruction so widespread. “How” as one person asked me, "could we celebrate our community when children were starving and dying in Gaza”?
Some have talked about worrying for young nieces, nephews or cousins who must serve in the IDF, some even inside Gaza. A young member came to me asking “Why are we not mentioning the hostages [more]”. Some object strongly to calling what is happening in Gaza a genocide, while others object strongly to us NOT naming it as a genocide.
Some have shared how they now find themselves unable to trust any Palestinian or Muslim; living with a sense that we cannot strive for peace when there is no one with whom to make it? Others have spoken of a sense of betrayal, having heeded the call during previous times, to go and help the State of Israel; but now left with the feeling that it was all built upon a lie. Some feel an intense sense of shame or guilt over what is being done in ‘our name’ in the West Bank and Gaza, and yet at the same time still feel a deep connection to Israel and its people.
Some have talked about being torn between the Israel of their youth, as a safe haven and homeland for all Jews; as they contend with a sense of the worsening actions of its government, not just over the past two years but also for some time beforehand. Some now refuse to visit, because of what has transpired, and some choose to go and show solidarity with the hostage families or just choose to see their families and show that they care.
And yet others have asked that we not make Israel and Gaza the central part of what we do, focusing instead on our Jewish life and community life. Some just can't bear to hear any more about it, and others cannot bear the silence.
These and much more are the thoughts, reflections and torments we have expressed. The pain we have suffered over the past year. At times it has felt like we are lost, struggling to have clarity. But at any moment, everything can be shaken up, our world turned upside down, and our hearts broken again and again and again. The ground has shaken under us so many times now, and it continues to do so.
But it is also worth remembering the action that we have taken. What we have been able to do, which will hopefully bear fruit in time.
In the WZO elections held earlier this year, the progressive slates, both here and in North America, won the most seats possible, making sure that a strong progressive voice will be seated at the table when decisions about billions of dollars of investment income are allocated. This strength will make sure that equality, compassion, plurality and inclusivity will continue to be a core part of the conversation at the World Zionist Organisation.
When a row erupted in the Board of Deputies and 36 deputies were silenced, our rabbinic body spoke up, though there is still a long way to go before pluralism is properly recognised and implemented there, one immediate outcome has been the decision of the newly formed Progressive Judaism rabbinic assembly to develop a system for minority voices to be recorded and the plurality of opinions not to be silenced.
At the Havdalah outside 10 Downing Street in August, where we called for peace, for a ceasefire, for safe and sufficient humanitarian aid, and for the return of the hostages; we stood together as a powerful testament to how it is both possible to feel a deep connection to Israel AND still protest against the actions of its government over what is happening in Gaza.
Closer to home, in our prayer for the hostages that we have said in every service since 7th October 2023, we continue to adapt the text to reflect the situation as it has changed, including to reflect the ongoing deep pain of the hostage families, and the horror of the death toll, destruction, and famine in Gaza.
As a community and individually, we have completed innumerable petitions, written to the foreign secretary and other local MPs, as well as supporting projects/charities in Israel, in the West Bank and in Gaza; to send food, build bomb shelters, deliver medical aid, supply water and electricity, give clothes and bedding, and provide education, trauma therapy, and so much more.
Some have sent messages of support and solidarity to Israeli communities. Others have visited Hostage Square or attended the permanent demonstration in front of the prime minister's residence in Jerusalem, some have visited the Nova site and spoken to families there. Still others have visited family and friends and held them close.
These moments and collective commitments to a different vision for the future are hard won, but essential to our sense of hope. While we keep being shaken up, as if our lives were like a snowglobe, how can we still find a path to steady ground and avoid the glass and ourselves cracking?
The war in Gaza has opened us to many painful questions about our relationship to Israel, whether it’s the current government, the state, or the country of our childhoods, as a promised haven, or a safe space for all Jews. I have had so many conversations in recent months, reflecting on pain, shame, bewilderment, and an inability to do anything, common feelings that many of us are grappling with. We are planning for some sessions in November to facilitate deeper conversations about our individual relationships to Israel, to give space to talk, listen, and explore.
One question that has really come to the fore is around our personal/individual understanding of what it means to be Jewish. In a post-Holocaust world many Jewish identities and the future of the Jewish people historically became intertwined with the Zionist dream of a land for a people without a home. The past few years may have corroded hope in a Jewish State that can reflect our progressive Jewish values. This may have begun to cloud over previously joyous memories of family holidays, or youth tours, or times lived in Israel. For some the current situation has been a challenge to their core Jewish identity. While for others the last few years may have spurred greater interest in Jewish learning or a newfound desire to be closer to other Jews.
On Yom Kippur we will take the opportunity to think more deeply about what this might all mean for us. But one way we are already planning to respond will be through a Shabbat retreat in March, where we hope to create a wonderful opportunity for exploring different ways of celebrating what it means to be Jewish; including through experimenting with the place of Shabbat in our lives; through learning, socialising and just taking a bit more time to be together. More info will come after the High Holy Days but interest is already high, so please make sure you book and pay your deposit as soon as we release the information.
I’m conscious that there is already a lot of thoughts and information, but I would also like to leave you today with a final couple of reflections that can, perhaps, shed a little more perspective and provide a little solace through these High Holy Days and in the days to come.
How do we hold these difficult and conflicting feelings at the same time? How do we not end up turning on those around us and demand action from them, because we feel so powerless? Or we turn on ourselves, with feelings of shame or guilt, attacking ourselves for taking time away from the horrible news, for doing something else than constantly thinking about what is going on?
I’ve found a surprisingly helpful answer in roses, specifically the term ‘Bread and Roses from Rebecca Solnit's book, which originated in a speech by the suffragette Helen Todd in 1910; “Bread fed the body, roses fed something subtler: not just hearts, but imaginations, psyches, senses, identities. It was a pretty slogan but a fierce argument that more than [mere] survival and bodily well- being [are] were needed and were being demanded as a right”
Bread and roses is helpful reminder/healing balm for us today as we live in a world that is repeatedly shaken, where we balance between work meeting, cooking dinner, gardening, Netflix and coffee dates, and fighting for human rights, for Jewish values, raising awareness of antisemitism, and/or working to combat climate change,
We need both bread and roses to remind us that the world will not always feel like this, and there will come a time soon, we hope, where we can spend more time smelling the roses.
Ken yehi ratzon, may this be so.
