Next Wednesday evening, Jews across the world will file into synagogues. Some come every week; others only once a year. Some arrive with their mahzor (festival prayer book) in hand, others with nothing more than a memory of a parent or grandparent’s voice. All will be united by one haunting moment: Kol Nidre.
Before Yom Kippur’s first sunset, the hazan (cantor) will stand before an open Ark, Torah scrolls held like silent witnesses, and begin a slow, tremulous chant. The congregation will join in: Kol nidre, v’esarei, ushvu’ei, u’charamei… The words are not dramatic poetry. They are legalese, an Aramaic contract filled with synonyms for oaths and vows. On the holiest night of the year, Judaism begins not with confession or prayer but with a strange formula annulling promises.
Why?
The history and controversy of Kol Nidre
The origins of Kol Nidre are from Babylonia over a thousand years ago. The Geonim (post-Talmudic Babylonian rabbinic leaders) already record it, and not without controversy.
Some rabbis worried it might encourage dishonesty, as if one could casually make promises and rely on Kol Nidre to erase them. Defenders clarified: It only refers to vows between a person and God, not to promises or debts owed to other people. Over time, the formula shifted: In some communities, it annuls the vows of the past year; in others, it cancels the vows of the coming year.
Yet halachic fine print alone cannot explain why Kol Nidre grips Jewish hearts so deeply. The answer lies in history – and in trauma.
In medieval Spain, Jews were forced to choose between exile, death, or baptism. Those who converted outwardly were called anusim – the coerced. Many of them remained Jewish in secret, lighting Sabbath candles behind shuttered windows, fasting on Yom Kippur in hidden rooms, and baking matzah in cellars. These crypto-Jews lived double lives, outwardly loyal to the Church but inwardly tied to their ancestral faith.
Imagine the crushing guilt. Did they betray God? Were they still Jews?
For them, Kol Nidre was more than a legal formula. It was a lifeline. On Yom Kippur night, huddled in secret gatherings, they heard words that set them free: All vows, all oaths, all promises made under duress are null and void. God knows you never meant them. You are not bound to those forced conversions. Your essence as a Jew remains.
No wonder Kol Nidre became the prayer of Jewish survival. And no wonder it provoked suspicion from outside. Antisemites cited it as “proof” that Jews could not be trusted, that Jewish oaths were meaningless.
In truth, Jewish law is unequivocal: Kol Nidre does not annul obligations to other people. But misunderstanding only amplified the prayer’s power; Jews knew it as their secret protest, their whispered declaration that the deepest self cannot be erased.
ANOTHER LINE is less famous but equally powerful.
Before Kol Nidre begins, the leaders proclaim: “With the consent of the heavenly court and the earthly court, we permit ourselves to pray with the sinners.”
On one level, this is a reminder that Yom Kippur is for everyone. No Jew is turned away. But in the age of the anusim, this line carried electric meaning.
It was a formal welcome to those who had strayed under compulsion or who appeared to have abandoned Judaism but never stopped belonging. On the most sacred night, the community declared: We embrace you; we pray with you; you are one of us.
Centuries later, this moment still reverberates. Who among us does not feel like an outsider sometimes?
Who has not made promises they could not keep, resolutions that dissolved, identities they are unsure of?
Kol Nidre says: Even your broken vows can be lifted. Even your fractured self is welcome here.
It is telling that Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, begins not with sin, but with words.
Judaism has always known the power of speech. A vow can change the status of an object and transform the permissible into the forbidden. Words can hurt, heal, bind, and release. Kol Nidre reminds us that speech itself is sacred – and dangerous. We begin Yom Kippur by admitting that our words often outrun our strength.
The melodies of Kol Nidre carry this truth across continents.
In Eastern Europe, the haunting Ashkenazi tune echoes like a violin weeping in the night. In Sephardi communities, the chant is simpler, tinged with Middle Eastern scales. In Morocco, in Italy, in Iraq, each community has shaped the same text with its own soul. Even the German Protestant composer Max Bruch was so moved by Kol Nidre that he composed a cello concerto based on it, now one of the most beloved works in the classical repertoire.
Yet, for all the musical grandeur, Kol Nidre is not a performance. It is a confession of weakness, wrapped in communal strength. When the congregation sings together, the individual no longer feels alone in failure. We stand as one body, admitting our fragility, forgiving each other, daring to hope that God will forgive us too.
What, then, does Kol Nidre mean for us in 2025?
For some, it is cultural memory, a link to parents or grandparents. For others, it is religious awe, the trembling before God’s court.
For all, it is an invitation: You do not need to be perfect to belong. You do not need to have lived the year without blemish. The doors are open. The congregation stands ready to pray with you, even – especially – if you see yourself as an avaryan, a sinner, or an outsider.
In our fractured world, where Jews argue bitterly with each other, where divisions of observance, politics, and identity tear communities apart, Kol Nidre offers an ancient counter-voice. It declares: We are still one people. We are bound not by our perfection but by our imperfection. We need each other’s presence in order to stand before God.
As the cantor begins that long, trembling note this Yom Kippur, remember the anusim who clung to it in hidden basements. Remember the generations of Jews who heard in it the whisper of survival. And remember that it is addressed to you, too.
All vows, all oaths, all promises – may they be lifted. The past need not imprison you. Whoever you are, whatever your year has been, the community proclaims: Anu matirin lehitpallel im ha-avaryanim. Tonight, we permit ourselves to pray together.
The writer, a rabbi and physician, lives in Ramat Poleg, Netanya, and is a co-founder of Techelet – Inspiring Judaism.