Thoughts on Yom Kippur

Yom Kippur may just be the most literary of Jewish holidays. Yes, there's Simchat Torah, a celebration dedicated the five books of Moses, but most of the Simchat Torah festivities are marked by drinking, singing, and dancing rather than an exploration of the words on the page. (If you ever want to see Orthodox boys gone wild, visit a synagogue on the eve of Simchat Torah.)

Yom Kippur, by contrast, is a day dedicated to the brain, and especially to words. It's a day to remove yourself from everyday concerns like eating or drinking or working or getting dressed up in your fanciest clothes (which is why you'll see Jews in suits with tennis shoes). And it's a day to reflect on stories of atonement and loss. The Yom Kippur service is filled with stories of martyrdom from the days of the first rabbis down to the Holocaust and the founding of Israel. It's also filled with stories of the high priests purifying their bodies and minds to atone for the sins of their people.

One of the creepiest of these stories is that of Aaron, the first high priest, brother of Moses, (yes, my namesake), whose two sons died on the spot for daring to enter the holiest part of the temple without God's permission. The Torah dispenses with them in half a sentence.

I'm also fascinated by an explanation I once heard for why the story of how the high priests used to prepare for Yom Kippur is filled with such drama. During the late years of the Second Temple, the post of High Priest was sold to the highest bidder, often to men who were far from holy and sometimes completely ignorant of religious practice. And yet on Yom Kippur this so-called High Priest had to learn how represent the entire community of Hebrews to God and to carry out the rituals without one mistake.

One of my favorite parts of the service is a recounting of a prophecy by Isaiah, in which he talks about people who went through the rituals of fasting and mourning but without reflecting on the meaning behind those rituals. "Is this the kind of fast that God wants?" Isaiah demands. (I'm paraphrasing here.)

These three stories illustrate how difficult faith was and is. There's a tendency among religious fanatics to think nostalgically of the good old days from the Bible, and to see our own time as one of horrific iniquity. They wish we could behave more like the characters of the Bible, in a time when questions of gay marriage or legalizing abortion didn't exist.

Yes, those were the good old days all right, when upstanding men like Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob engaged in polygamy, kept slaves, cheated, lied, and swindled. In our time, we believe that each person should have a free choice about the kind of sexual relationship he or she wants to have, as long as that choice doesn't interfere with someone else's choice. But, no, it was far better in the old days, when women were bartered like cattle.

At the same time, we shouldn't indulge ourselves in the illusion that we are entirely more enlightened than we used to be. Isaiah's harangue about people who go through the motions of faith still rings true to us today for a reason. Sure, it's easy to point out the flaws of any number of characters from the Bible. But how many of us have the courage Abraham had, to abandon his homeland, his family, and the beliefs he'd been brought up with, in order to follow his ideals?

I don't have that kind of courage, and lately, I don't have that kind of faith, either. This morning, as I sat in synagogue, and read responsively, and stood, and sat, and even reflected, I found my attention drifting out the windows, at boats gliding across the river, and the miracle of a helicopter swooping down on Manhattan. And just outside of the large room where we prayed and wept as our stomachs rumbled, three construction workers stretched themselves out in the sun and enjoyed their lunch.