Yom Kippur
Well, Yom Kippur was yesterday, and so I feel reasonably assured that, since I'm still here, I have been inscribed in the book of life.
Yom Kippur, for those who have never observed it, consists of 25 hours of fasting, 500 pages of prayer, 14 hours of praying, and four other afflictions: no leather shoes, no washing, no anointing, and no sex. Fasting is considered the fifth affliction, and they very well could have added a sixth: being in shul with cranky Jews.
Me, I just get loopy when I fast. I giggle at inappropriate things, and on occasion, have to bring myself back from flights of fancy while the Rabbi is talking.
I have to say, though, that I observed something curious. There were two kinds of people present: those that are observant, who are there every holiday, every week, and so forth, and those who were non-observant Jews, showing up on Yom Kippur to atone for their copious sins. That's not curious. What is curious is that the people who were regulars, who were observant, were by and large just going through the motions, saying the prayers, following the laws of the holiday, doing what they were supposed to, as they pretty much always do.
The people who were not regulars, who were your standard "Rosh Hashona and Yom Kippur" Jews, were not only far more fervent in their prayer, but kicked off a lot more energy. They were far more emotional and sincere about their repenting. When I turned to look at them, some were beating their chests in earnest, and others were sitting with their eyes closed, in silent meditation, but none among them was just going through the motions.
The most intense Yom Kippur service I have ever been to was almost entirely composed of sinners.
I have two analogies to explain this, one that is traditional, and the other that is entirely my own.
The traditional answer compares a minyan to the eleven spices of the temple incense. Ten of those spices, of course, are sweet smelling (three of them smell like cinnamon), and one is a piercing, awful, bitter scent. That last is Galbanum. It is said that a minyan must, strictly speaking be any ten Jews. However, ten righteous Jews are a poor minyan. Their prayer does not truly rise like incense before God unless there is also a sinner among them. Some say that this is because the elevation of the lowly is sweeter, in God's eyes, than any prayer. The ten exist for the purpose of elevating the eleventh.
My personal interpretation is that, when being EXTREME is a part of your daily practice, you have a hard time getting excited about anything in your religion. When you do your very best to follow the law, it is difficult to feel guilty. When you feel like you are in the top 10% of Jews, in terms of your observance (which is not hard, considering that 90% of all Jews are reform or non-practicing), it is difficult to feel like those prayers for repentance apply to you. "I busted my hump for You all damned year," reasons the observant Jew, "If You don't inscribe me in Your book, then shame on You." The non-observant Jew comes in, thinking, "OH CRAP I ARE A SINNER OH NOES!!" Which is what the angels themselves are described as doing in heaven, and what all Jews, not just sinners, are supposed to be doing. And so, understandably, the unique energies of the holiest week of the year rest entirely on those Jews who, like the King, are only there during that time.
In all this, there are two things to be mindful of: that those who are holy have no purpose in the community if they do not argue for the rest of the community based on their own merit. And secondly, that no one is perfect. Sure, you kept kosher all year, but maybe you made someone feel bad by giving them a dirty look when they made a mistake in their observance, and maybe (or, in this country, probably,) you made some hurtful comment, or were engaged in gossip about people behind their backs.
I thought of this solution during the service, to add as my own personal devotion, that if there was some way in which I was righteous, that another was not, let my merit count for them where they lack strength. And likewise, where I am weak, let the merit of another count for me. The idea itself is implicit in the service, but making it explicit, for myself, helped to bring the concept of community teshuva into sharper focus for me.
Also, I made sure to spend a lot of time thinking about those lesser considered sins in Judaism, which are not the things that one automatically considers when searching ones self for Jewish sins. Like being a douchebag, or being arrogant, or even sticking your foot in your mouth, which I do a lot, and will probably always do.
Yom Kippur, for those who have never observed it, consists of 25 hours of fasting, 500 pages of prayer, 14 hours of praying, and four other afflictions: no leather shoes, no washing, no anointing, and no sex. Fasting is considered the fifth affliction, and they very well could have added a sixth: being in shul with cranky Jews.
Me, I just get loopy when I fast. I giggle at inappropriate things, and on occasion, have to bring myself back from flights of fancy while the Rabbi is talking.
I have to say, though, that I observed something curious. There were two kinds of people present: those that are observant, who are there every holiday, every week, and so forth, and those who were non-observant Jews, showing up on Yom Kippur to atone for their copious sins. That's not curious. What is curious is that the people who were regulars, who were observant, were by and large just going through the motions, saying the prayers, following the laws of the holiday, doing what they were supposed to, as they pretty much always do.
The people who were not regulars, who were your standard "Rosh Hashona and Yom Kippur" Jews, were not only far more fervent in their prayer, but kicked off a lot more energy. They were far more emotional and sincere about their repenting. When I turned to look at them, some were beating their chests in earnest, and others were sitting with their eyes closed, in silent meditation, but none among them was just going through the motions.
The most intense Yom Kippur service I have ever been to was almost entirely composed of sinners.
I have two analogies to explain this, one that is traditional, and the other that is entirely my own.
The traditional answer compares a minyan to the eleven spices of the temple incense. Ten of those spices, of course, are sweet smelling (three of them smell like cinnamon), and one is a piercing, awful, bitter scent. That last is Galbanum. It is said that a minyan must, strictly speaking be any ten Jews. However, ten righteous Jews are a poor minyan. Their prayer does not truly rise like incense before God unless there is also a sinner among them. Some say that this is because the elevation of the lowly is sweeter, in God's eyes, than any prayer. The ten exist for the purpose of elevating the eleventh.
My personal interpretation is that, when being EXTREME is a part of your daily practice, you have a hard time getting excited about anything in your religion. When you do your very best to follow the law, it is difficult to feel guilty. When you feel like you are in the top 10% of Jews, in terms of your observance (which is not hard, considering that 90% of all Jews are reform or non-practicing), it is difficult to feel like those prayers for repentance apply to you. "I busted my hump for You all damned year," reasons the observant Jew, "If You don't inscribe me in Your book, then shame on You." The non-observant Jew comes in, thinking, "OH CRAP I ARE A SINNER OH NOES!!" Which is what the angels themselves are described as doing in heaven, and what all Jews, not just sinners, are supposed to be doing. And so, understandably, the unique energies of the holiest week of the year rest entirely on those Jews who, like the King, are only there during that time.
In all this, there are two things to be mindful of: that those who are holy have no purpose in the community if they do not argue for the rest of the community based on their own merit. And secondly, that no one is perfect. Sure, you kept kosher all year, but maybe you made someone feel bad by giving them a dirty look when they made a mistake in their observance, and maybe (or, in this country, probably,) you made some hurtful comment, or were engaged in gossip about people behind their backs.
I thought of this solution during the service, to add as my own personal devotion, that if there was some way in which I was righteous, that another was not, let my merit count for them where they lack strength. And likewise, where I am weak, let the merit of another count for me. The idea itself is implicit in the service, but making it explicit, for myself, helped to bring the concept of community teshuva into sharper focus for me.
Also, I made sure to spend a lot of time thinking about those lesser considered sins in Judaism, which are not the things that one automatically considers when searching ones self for Jewish sins. Like being a douchebag, or being arrogant, or even sticking your foot in your mouth, which I do a lot, and will probably always do.