“With the consent of G-d, and with the consent of the congregation...” (Kol Nidrei Prayer)
Every year, as the holiest night of the Jewish calendar begins, the chazan (cantor) ascends the bima and opens Yom Kippur not with a plea, not with a prayer, but with a legal declaration:
“With the consent of G-d, and with the consent of the congregation, in the heavenly yeshiva and in the earthly yeshiva, we hereby permit ourselves to pray with the avaryanim, the transgressors.”
What a striking beginning.
We don’t do this any other day of the year. Not on Shabbos, not on Rosh Hashanah, not on Mondays or Thursdays when the Torah is read. We never pause the service to ask, “Wait, who’s that? That’s Clarence Smith... isn’t he the guy with the criminal record?” We don’t stop others from praying.
Yet on Yom Kippur, of all days, we make a public announcement. Tonight, we give explicit permission to pray with the sinners. And this is no casual allowance. We invoke Divine consent. “Al da’as haMakom—with the consent of the Almighty.” We likewise invoke the collective will of the entire congregation—“Al da’as hakahal.” And we call upon both realms—the Yeshiva Shel Maa’lah and the Yeshiva Shel Matah—the Heavenly academy and the earthly court.
Why? Who are these avaryanim? Why do we begin the holiest night of the year by announcing their inclusion?
Historically, many commentators point to the Marranos—also known as the Anusim, the “forced ones”—Jews living in Spain during the centuries leading up to the Inquisition. In the 14th and 15th centuries, Spanish Jews faced overwhelming pressure to convert to Christianity. Some resisted, fleeing Spain in exile, whereas others, unable to withstand the persecution, outwardly converted while continuing to practice Judaism in secret. Some abandoned Judaism altogether.
When Spain expelled its Jews in 1492 on Tisha B’av, many of these crypto-Jews fled to more tolerant lands. Some returned to Jewish communities and joined synagogues, enrolling their children in schools and trying to rebuild the Jewish lives they had lost or hidden.
But not everyone welcomed them.
Some said, “This is not fair. We chose exile, we chose poverty, we risked everything to keep our faith, and they chose comfort and conversion. And now they get to join our communities? Now they want aliyos? Now they want to be on the dinner committee?”
It’s an ancient tension. Where were you when we suffered? Where were you when we sacrificed? Now you want to return?
The rabbis, however, took a radically different approach. They ruled that Yom Kippur must begin with a declaration: “We permit ourselves to pray with the transgressors.” Because Yom Kippur is not about where you’ve been; it’s about where you’re willing to go.
These transgressors—these Marranos, these estranged Jews, these Jews whose external actions betrayed their inner souls—were not villains. They were torn, they were pressured, and they were confused. But in the depths of their hearts, they were still connected. Perhaps they only showed up one day a year, on Yom Kippur. But that one day... was real. That one day, the mask fell. That one day, their soul returned. And so, before Kol Nidrei can be chanted, before we can nullify our vows and stand trembling before G-d, we first open our arms and say: “You too belong here.”
The avaryanim are not just historical. They are alive today. They may be the Jews who only come to synagogue once a year or they may be the Jews who don’t believe, who’ve been hurt, who feel disconnected. They may not know Hebrew and they may not keep mitzvos. But something—something—pulls them into shul on Yom Kippur. Are they here out of guilt? Out of nostalgia? Out of confusion?
Perhaps. But they’re here.
And Kol Nidrei says: That’s enough. Let them in. Let them pray. Let them cry. Let them return.
There’s a story of a man who calls his old friend and says, “Come play golf Saturday morning.” “I can’t,” the friend says. “I go to synagogue on Saturdays.” “You?” he laughs. “You’ve never stepped foot in a synagogue in 60 years!” “Well,” the friend replies, “there’s a man named Cohen who came from Europe with nothing and today he’s worth five billion dollars. He attributes all his success to synagogue.” “So you believe in G-d now?” his friend teases. “No,” he says. “Cohen goes to synagogue to talk to G-d. I go to synagogue to talk to Cohen.”
It’s a joke, but like all good jokes, it carries a truth. People return for all kinds of reasons. But Yom Kippur teaches us: don’t judge their motivations. If they’re here, they’re searching. And if they’re searching, let them in.
Yom Kippur is the day when the deepest, most hidden parts of a person awaken. It’s the day when we are invited to peel away layers of habit, shame, and cynicism, and remember who we truly are. And so, before we begin, before we rise to sing Kol Nidrei, we declare together:
“With the consent of G-d, and with the consent of this holy congregation... we give permission to pray with the avaryanim.” Because maybe, just maybe, we’re all avaryanim in our own way. And maybe Kol Nidrei isn’t just for them.
It’s for you. It’s for me. It’s for all of us, who come carrying broken vows and broken hearts, and are still brave enough to say: “I’m here. I want to come back. Let me pray.”
And together, we will.
