Yom Kippur 2010/5771

By Susan Esther Barnes

Blogger Dov Bear posted a recap of five different kinds of Kol Nidre (Yom Kippur Eve) services he has attended in the past, and invited others to write about their Kol Nidre experiences. I wrote about one of my experiences from previous years (since it was not yet Kol Nidre this year).

Then he posted about his most recent Yom Kippur experience, and several of us posted about ours.

My previous post was about my Kol Nidre experience this year. Below is my Yom Kippur experience, somewhat modified from what I posted on Dov Bear’s blog.


9:30 am: Services start at both the synagogue and the local Civic Center auditorium, since our congregation is way too large to fit into the synagogue all at once. I choose to attend the synagogue service, which is mostly run by lay people (Senior Rabbi and Cantor, with choir, are at the auditorium).

I greet people at the front door until I can’t see anyone else approaching from the parking areas. I walk in and find a seat, but Marc comes over to get me, saying he and his wife have saved a seat for me. This is so cool. Usually I don’t like to sit alone for services, but sometimes it’s hard to find a spot next to someone else who’s sitting alone when I come in late from greeting.

Morning service is incredibly moving. Many of us are crying by the end. Highlights include confessions written anonymously by congregants, and beautiful music. Service is over around 12:30.

From 12:30 to 1:30 I greet those coming to children's services, and direct them regarding where to go with kids under 7 vs. where to go with kids 7 and over. There is a worker from the JCC who is standing nearby drinking a soda, which I find a bit rude since the rest of us are fasting, but I assume he's not Jewish and probably has no idea.

Frankly, I’m not being the world’s best greeter, because I’m still emotional from the morning service, and Donna comes over, notices, and doesn’t let me get away with “I’m fine.” What a mensch! So I get a chance to talk again about Rose, and how it’s hard being at the first Yom Kippur without her. On a regular Shabbat some part of my mind can pretend she just didn’t make it to synagogue this week, but on Yom Kippur it’s obvious she is missing, and I am missing her.

Around 2 I head over to the Civic Center for the 2:30 discussion with Rabbi Kahn. There are good number of people there. As his topic he chooses the Park 51 project. I am deeply disappointed by the number of congregants who speak out against the project, or who feel conflicted about it. It seems so clear to me that it’s wrong to say a whole religion should be banned from building something near where a handful of extremists did something horrible.

I gather from Rabbi Kahn’s remarks that he'd say I feel this way because I identify myself as a member of a minority group, which I do. I find it unfathomable that we don’t all, as Jews, recognize that we are a minority group, and that we need to stand up for the rights of other minority groups. I know it doesn’t help that there are Muslims who are virulently anti-semetic, but that doesn’t give us an excuse to be Islamophobic. This discussion does not contribute to the feelings of Sabbath peace and wholeness I want to experience on Shabbat.

I leave early and walk back to the synagogue for Yizkor at 3:30. Another Yizkor service is also happening at the Civic Center at the same time. I’m a bit disappointed that the service is not more participatory. One congregant reads aloud what was probably a lovely bit of prose, but in several places it mentions food, and I’m distracted. The fast has been easy for me so far, but I still don’t want to be reminded about food.

The synagogue service ends a little early so we can all walk together over to the Civic Center for N'eila and Havdalah. The plan was for all of us to walk into the Civic Center singing together, but somehow that didn’t pan out. I find a seat on the right side in the front section, and sit next to a couple of congregants I see on a regular basis.

I enjoy the service, until near the very end, when the rabbis read a long selection in English. I don’t remember them doing that before. We’re all standing up, my feet hurt, I’m starting to get a headache, and I find myself wanting them to just move along already. I don’t feel hungry, but I’m certainly getting grumpy. Dan Nichols makes up for it by singing, “May I Suggest,” and I sing along with him.

Immediately after Havdalah we have the break-the-fast. I don't get in line for food. Instead, I head to the doors and direct people to where the tables and chairs are outside where they can sit and eat. It's still light outside. I continue to direct people and chat until the sun goes down.

I call my husband, and he meets me at a local Mexican restaurant. This is our tradition because I love Mexican food, plus they give you a bowl of chips and salsa right when you sit down, so you don't have to wait to eat something. I indulge myself by ordering the nachos for dinner (no meat of course).

Sunday morning I get up early and go to the synagogue to help build the large sukkah in the back and the small sukkah in the front. I enjoy hanging out with the guys. This year, as last year, I am the only woman there. I think the guys are starting to catch on that they don’t need to treat me differently just because I’m female. At least I hope they are.

Once again, I’m reminded how much I love this community, and how much I feel I belong here.

Confessions and Forgiveness

By Susan Esther Barnes

Because our congregation is so large, we have two services on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. One is at the local Civic Center auditorium, and the other is in the sanctuary at the synagogue.

It has become the custom at the sanctuary service on Rosh Hashanah for congregants to write down, anonymously, things they have done about which they feel guilty. A selection of these confessions is read aloud by other congregants ten days later at the sanctuary service on the morning of Yom Kippur.

This is a particularly moving, and sometimes brutal, part of the service. It is heartrending to hear of members of one’s community berating themselves for feelings which are only natural, or confessing to alcoholism, or blaming themselves for being molested as a child.

I can’t say I’m immune. Sometimes I catch myself beating myself up for things which, intellectually, I know are not my fault. This public reading of confessions on Yom Kippur certainly places my petty self-grievances in stark contrast to those that deeply matter.

It also reminds me that even though we might feel it’s appropriate sometimes to say, “There is nothing you need to be forgiven for,” there is great importance and power in transcending logic and engaging in an annual time for us all to hear, simply, “You are forgiven.”

Repentance

I'm not a poet, but here's something I wrote last year, less than two weeks after my husband was hospitalized for a couple of days with an infection in the sack surrounding his heart. It was a scary time, and about a month before Rosh Hashanah, so I was feeling a bit dramatic.

Repentance
By Susan Esther Barnes

On Rosh Hashanah it is written, on Yom Kippur it is sealed
Who shall live and who shall die

Each year I fear death will come
Before Rosh Hashanah
When I sit down to ask you
Is there anything I have said or done
In the past year
That has hurt you
I say the words and hang over an abyss
I fear the valley of the shadow of death
How could I have hurt you
So much worse
To have hurt you and not even notice
But how can I breathe if I have hurt you
And not only have I not noticed
But have committed a far greater sin
By not providing a safe place
For you earlier
To tell me what I have done
And instead allowed it to root in your soul
To fester there

If somehow I live through it
It is for this I shall repent

After S'lichot

Last night I attended a beautiful S'lichot service. If the blowing of the shofar during the month of Elul has not yet prepared us for the High Holy Days, S'lichot, which occurs on the Saturday evening before Rosh Hashanah, is meant to give us a good shove in the right direction.

The High Holy Days, also known as the Days of Awe, are usually my favorite time of the year. I enjoy the majesty of the services, the music, the drawing together of Jews all over the world. For me, it is normally a time of forgiveness, in which I strive to forgive myself and others. It is a time of renewal and a time for hope.

Somehow, this year is different.

Although I rarely have nightmares, last night I dreamt of torture. Not torture for the sake of eliciting information, but torture with the goal of keeping the vicitms alive so they could suffer as much and as long as possible.

Then I dreamt I was with friends on an island utterly unfamiliar to me. I joyfully explored the island, until I turned to look for my friends and found they were departing on the last transportation out, leaving me alone, lost, confused.

Why are my thoughts turning to these images at this time of year? Is it because, as we approach the day when our names will be written in the Book of Life or the Book of Death for the coming year, I reflect on this past year, when for the first time in a long, long time, people I know have died? Is it because I see the rise of anti-semitism in Europe and elsewhere, and it frightens me? Is it because I see the Jewish people fighting amongst ourselves about Israel and about which Jewish denominations are superior to the others, and I know it's this kind of in-fighting that contributed to the destruction of the ancient Temple in Jerusalem?

To what extent is my inaction responsible for the things that are troubling me? Perhaps this year I need to seek forgiveness not for the things I have done, but for the things I have not done.