Against the haunting swell of a pipe organ, cellos harmonize with the voices of choralists, their melody reverberating through the sanctuary on Sherbrooke Street. The instrumentation may be unique to Temple Emanu-El Beth Sholom, but the cantor’s words – and the palpable emotion they carry – echo across the Jewish diaspora as they have for centuries. This declaration is called Kol Nidrei which marks the beginning of the evening service of Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the Jewish year. Through a history shrouded in mystery and controversy, Kol Nidrei has evolved from a legalistic formula to the stirring ritual we recognize today.
Despite its prominence, Kol Nidrei, which translates to “All Vows”, is not a prayer, but a legal declaration. Its origins date back to ancient times and the earliest written version appears in the Siddur of Rav Amram Gaon in ninth-century Babylonia. At that time, vows made against God were considered violations of the commandment against taking God’s name in vain.
The Talmud prescribes a process of annulment of vows, hetarat nedarim, which requires reciting the Kol Nidrei text before a beis din - a court of three judges. The adoption of Kol Nidrei on Yom Kippur eve was met with immediate controversy in the ninth century, when leading yeshivas dismissed the practice of vow annulment as foolish and problematic.
Yet Kol Nidrei endured. To the day, its echoes of hetarat nedarim remain: three Torah-carrying congregants surround the cantor as they chant, forming a symbolic beis din. The original Hebrew text, which is still used today in some Sephardic communities, annulled vows made “from the past Yom Kippur to this one.”
Rabbeinu Tam, the grandson of Rashi, the famous biblical scholar, strongly opposed the retroactive nature of Kol Nidrei. He altered the tense of the vows to be “from this Yom Kippur to the next,” serving to cancel future vows rather than past ones. His intervention shaped the Aramaic version now used in Ashkenazi synagogues.
Outside Jewish life, Kol Nidrei has also been weaponized by anti-Semites. In Medieval Europe, its association with cancelling vows fuelled suspicions that Jews could not be trusted to keep promises. This false charge gave rise to the humiliating “Jew’s Oath,” forced upon Jews before testifying in a Christian court of law. Importantly, Kol Nidrei only applies to vows between an individual and God; it has no bearing on promises between people.
Despite centuries of criticism, within and beyond Jewish liturgy, Kol Nidrei has not only survived but taken on profound emotional weight. To give context to this emotion, some interpret its poignancy through the lens of the Spanish Inquisition, when conversos – Jews who publicly converted to Christianity under the threat of death or expulsion – secretly practiced Judaism. Popular myth tells that conversos began hidden Yom Kippur services with Kol Nidrei to annul forced declarations of faith taken in the year prior, and enter the holy day with a clean slate. Although it is uncertain whether conversos shaped the ritual’s development, the myth endures as a symbol of resilience and longing.
Contemporary interpretations of Kol Nidrei often emphasize its place as the first utterance of Yom Kippur rather than its legal significance. Rabbi Menachem Mendel of Lubavitch, the third Chabad Rebbe, taught that Kol Nidrei’s true power lies in its plea for divine forgiveness, which requires regret and therefore accountability.
At the Reform congregation where I observed Kol Nidrei this year, accountability and human fallibility remained central. As Rabbi Lisa Grushcow of Temple Emanu-El Beth Sholom reflected in her sermon, “our brokenness makes us human.” How fitting, then, that Kol Nidrei is so imperfect; rooted in tradition, yet marked by conflict, controversy, and myth.
Kol Nidrei’s meaning is found precisely in that imperfection, where it strays from its ancient legal significance. On Kol Nidrei, we gather as a community and as a people, to reflect on our failures and dwell in our regret. What could be a more powerful way to begin a day of atonement than unified in our imperfection?
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