What It’s Like To Be Me On Yom Kippur (Part 1)

There are as many different types of Jews as there are Jewish individuals, so my Yom Kippur is both shared and unique.

Yom Kippur is the spiritual peak of the Jewish New Year. Our tradition is that at the beginning of each year, G-d decides what the next twelve months hold for every individual in Creation. If you have been righteous, charitable, good, G-d inscribes you in the Book of Life. If you have been wicked, selfish, or cruel, you will face the consequences.

No one can escape the consequences of his or her poor choices; some actions have consequences that can’t be undone. But we can escape punishment by admitting we were wrong; by making amends for what we’ve done; and by resolving to do good in the same situations we once did evil.

Traditionally, we start this process in the final month of the year. We continue it through Rosh Hashanah, our celebration of the new year. And it culminates ten days later with Yom Kippur.

On Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, observant Jews fast from before sunset one day to after dusk the next. No eating, no drinking, no ingesting anything except necessary medications.  It’s forbidden to wash your body unless you’re dirty; to indulge in skin creams, lotions and perfumes; to wear items like jewelry or make-up; to wear leather shoes; and to engage in sexual touching.

All these things are comforts and luxuries — things whose purpose is to give pleasure — and on Yom Kippur, we refrain from comfort. Our minds should be on the purpose of the day.

Despite the month to prepare, Yom Kippur springs on you. You’re going through papers, and suddenly, whoops, it’s not morning anymore and you have, like, an hour to do all the things you won’t be allowed to do tomorrow.

Technically, the cut-off for your pre-holiday meal is right around when the first service, Kol Nidrei, begins: sunset. But you have to get to shul on time. So six becomes five-thirty… no, five, just to be safe. And if you’re cooking at home, you have to prep the food, and if you’re eating out, you have to get to the restaurant. But you need to brush your teeth before the holiday–you can’t do that at a restaurant. So at home it is. But there’s nothing in the fridge. You should have thought of that two days ago, but, you know, work. Also, you shouldn’t have had such a heavy lunch, because now you’re not hungry, and–

You know what? Pasta. Screw “filling” protein and “healthy” veggies.

How did there get to be, like, fifteen minutes to shower and dress before you have to leave? Ugh. Pantyhose. Stop it: the point is to not feel comfortable.

It feels strange to slip feet sheer with nylon into sneakers, the only footwear you own that isn’t made of leather. Kind of missing the point of the original tradition, isn’t it? Cross-trainers are way more comfortable than stiff Oxfords.

Did you turn off your phone? Shit, turn off your phone. Don’t forget your keys.

Or your tallis bag for carrying the dozen skullcaps you have from various relatives’ bar mitzvahs and the prayer shawl you got for your own.

Or your tickets (you need those tickets to get into the service).

Or your coat, stupid!

Did you notice there are ads everywhere on the streets and the subway? And that so many blast photos of delicious-looking food?

You think of that, and you already start planning how you’re going to make up the day of missed chores and work. Then you remember you’re supposed to be concentrating on spiritual things right now. It’s difficult to feel ashamed with your stomach full and your nerves still jangled from rushing. The service. The liturgy will make you feel the way you’re supposed to.

At the front door of the shul, a police officer and security guard greet you, which is normal for major Jewish holidays. The older you get, the more you understand what it means.

Because you’re not a member of this shul — like so many others, you bought your tickets for the High Holidays only —  you have to check in with the volunteers at the folding table out front. Your tickets have paper tags cut on one side, like a flyer on a telephone pole, so members can fold them down to indicate the amount of the donation they wish to make for the shul‘s charity drive or what denomination of Israeli bond they pledge to purchase this year. You can’t write or use computers on yom tov.

“Have an easy fast,” someone wishes you. It’s a stranger. No, it’s someone your mother’s cousin’s children know. No, it’s someone who knows someone who went to Hebrew school with you. No, it’s someone from work who you rarely speak to except right now you’re both Jewish.

You say it back.

If you’re lucky, you figure out where to go so you can sit beside the family and friends you know. You ease into the seats behind them and tap them on the shoulder. If you’re not, you sit in the back so you can see what everyone else is doing and figure out the norms for this congregation.

It smells like shul — like wool of suits and prayer shawls and like special High-Holidays prayer books that get opened only once a year.

Everyone is still energetic; they’re talking. They’ve just had dinner. Fasting hasn’t sunk in yet.

The service starts ten minutes late because of course it does, Jewish Standard Time. You stand in silent prayer. You sit. You repeat the prayers. People are still arriving. People are still talking, bending their heads to whisper together as the rabbi welcomes everyone. You stand for the beautiful Kol Nidrei liturgy, for whoever has the nicest voice to sing the same words and the same melody Jews around the world will hear tonight. You wonder how its meaning, its pre-emptive release from vows in the coming year, should be considered in a time and place when Jews no longer have to swear to their faith in other religions to survive. Or are there still other things everyone finds themselves swearing to for reasons nobody should make a promise?

You flip through the book to see how many more pages there are left in tonight’s service.

You wonder whether this congregation uses the tune you know for this prayer. They don’t. You find yourself singing another to the tune of a 1960s Israeli pop song. Oh, hey, the final prayer is in the tune you learned in first grade that you haven’t sung in years. Heh.

OK, let’s slowly make our way toward the exit. G’mar chatimah tova. G’mar chatimah tova. Have an easy fast. Are you coming to services tomorrow? Yeah, I never know how fasting will strike me either. G’mar chatimah tova.

You think of your non-Jewish friends and the invitations or commitments you turned down to be here. They’re probably having fun. You hope. You get home, lips dry, and remember you can’t drink anything until tomorrow night.

Even so, you don’t feel that different.

Not yet.

(TO BE CONTINUED)