September 2006 Archives

I don’t mean to sound heretical, but if given my druthers, I would rather Jews observe the seven days of Sukkot than the 25 hours of Yom Kippur. (Of course, I would prefer they do both, but this is one of those hypothetical conundrums.)

It is more than an issue of the seven-to-one-day ratio. Yom Kippur is observed in the synagogue, which is important but not sufficient for Jewish survival if Jews do not also observe in their homes. Sukkot is observed in the home, actually outside the home, on the porch, in the backyard or courtyard, or on the roof, in a little homemade hut. In that way, it is like Passover: a time to surround oneself with family and friends.

Yom Kippur is about denial. We wear white and leave our jewelry and leather at home. Sukkot is about finding balance. The hut, called a sukkah, is decorated with homemade items like strings of popcorn and cranberries, paper chains and lanterns, and purchased decorations each of which has a story, like the painted tin birds we bought at the Smithsonian Folk Life Festival a few years ago, or the carved wooden apples my husband found at Yosemite National Park.

Yom Kippur is about afflicting ourselves with prayer and fasting. Sukkot is about eating and celebrating. Tradition refers to Sukkot as zeman simhateinu, the time of our joy. In the olden days, communities would celebrate by having festivals. Today, many Jewish day schools observe this by taking their students to a local theme park. The joy of the festival reminds us that Judaism is fundamentally a joyful religion filled with celebration, and we can all use a little more celebration in our often tension-filled lives.

Yom Kippur is about atoning for our sins, which is transcendentally important. But without Sukkot, the real meaning of Yom Kippur--to focus ourselves on what is most important in life--can all too quickly become transient.

Sukkot, with its emphasis on leaving our home for a hut and inviting guests, is about realizing that what we own is not who we are, and that what we do is not important unless our actions include welcoming the needy and lonely to our tables and otherwise caring for those less fortunate than ourselves.

Finally, Yom Kippur is all about us as individuals, and Sukkot is all about us as part of a historic family that begins with Abraham and Sarah, who we invite into our sukkah on the first night as ushpazin, guests. Each night we invite another set of guests from our ancient family tree, linking us to the continuity of our people and our link to God.

When we observe Yom Kippur and miss Sukkot, we miss fully half of what it means to be a Jew, perhaps the most important half. In my book, Sukkot trumps Yom Kippur any day.

It’s fascinating to see the wide range of intense emotions that fasting has generated on Virtual Talmud, from gratitude and appreciation to distaste, even disgust.

I think one of the reasons we may have such strong feelings on the subject is that fasting stands outside of much of our day-to-day experience of Judaism, with its emphasis on thankfulness, divine service, celebration, and giving back to the world. Fasting draws on another facet of Judaism, one that is generally less pronounced–that of penance.

As Rabbi Grossman reminds us, the Torah tells us that on Yom Kippur we are to “afflict our souls” as a part of the way we make atonement. We don’t bathe, we don’t eat, we don’t drink, we abstain from sexual intimacy. It can feel foreign, like someone practicing self-flagellation to cleanse himself or herself of sinfulness which, in a way, it is.

Perhaps it’s our ambivalence about fasting and other forms of penance that we recognize when we wish fasters a ‘tzom kal’–an easy fast. If the purpose is to afflict our souls, wouldn’t an easy fast sort of defeat the point? It’s clear that we fast for a variety of reasons, and some find it more meaningful than others. But I think the different philosophical bases for fasting may be part of why this practice is harder to get behind emotionally than many others in Jewish life.

May we all have an easy–and meaningful–fast.

Rabbi Grossman seems to fast on Yom Kippur for reasons ranging from something to do with snapping at her son to not being in the Holocaust. This is all very nice. I, too, don't like snapping at children. And boy, am I happy I am not in an Auschwitz gas chamber this September. But what, may I ask, does any of this have to do with Yom Kippur??

Personally, I do not need some 24-hour food shock therapy to make me realize how lucky I am not to be in a concentration camp. And for that matter, I hope no one does.

The truth of the matter is the rabbi doth protest too much. Rabbi Grossman's 1001 reasons to fast on Yom Kippur only point out how absolutely meaningless and amorphous the fast has become for Americans today. There might be a million reasons as to why one would fast, but I can't think of any one better than that's just what Jews do on Yom Kippur.

For Rabbi Stern, fasting on Yom Kippur is sociological and familial. He does it because the people around him are doing it. That may be enough of a reason for him, but it is certainly not for me.

I fast because the Torah tells us to afflict ourselves on Yom Kippur and as far back as we can tell, Jews have understood that to mean fasting.

I fast because it reminds me that I have greater control over myself than I usually give myself credit for. Each year I am reminded that if I can make it through 25 hours of fasting, I also have it within my power to overcome other driving elemental urges, like eating too much chocolate or snapping at my son when I have had a tough day and he is being a teenager.

I fast because it reminds me to be grateful that this fast is by my choice; that I am alive now, and not in 1940s Europe; that I live here in America, and not in Darfur. I express my gratefulness to God, through my fast and by writing checks to Mazon and bringing food to my synagogue’s annual Operation Isaiah food collection.

Finally, I fast because it connects me to the Holy and makes the day Holy.

Rabbi Hayim Kieval, in his book The High Holy Days, suggests that for us to consider something truly "holy," we must be willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for it. He is writing about why the story of Abraham being willing to sacrifice his son Isaac (known in Hebrew as the Akedah) is read on Rosh Hashanah. But his observation is appropriate for Yom Kippur and offers another insight into why I fast: Fasting on Yom Kippur provides the opportunity to experience the holy.

Holiness is not something we can pick up on eBay. We can only attain it through personal sacrifice.

Personal sacrifice does not mean suffering. It means self-control and generosity of spirit. The sacrifice of fasting on Yom Kippur provides us a taste (excuse the pun) of what holiness can feel like.

For most of us, that sacrifice is neither great nor insurmountable. (Jewish law obligates the sick to follow doctor's orders about eating and taking medications.) Nevertheless, fasting can transport us to another place spiritually--a place in which we can find absolution, wholeness, and a sense of closeness to God.

If there's one thing American Jews and Muslims have in common, it's that they share a very similar relationship to corporeal forms of atonement. Roughly half of the American Muslim community fasts in the month of Ramadan. The same number of Jews fast on Yom Kippur. While some think this is a low number compared to worldwide statistics (some say about 80 percent of secular Israelis fast on Yom Kippur!!!), I think it is unbelievably high. And to be honest, I don't understand why so many Jews fast.

The reason Jews have always fasted on Yom Kippur is because, for the most part, that's what they've culturally grown up with. I try to have reasons for most of the rituals I perform, but this one is purely a result of how I was raised. I fast only because that's what my father and mother did and continue to do, and what my sister and her husband do and their children will probably do.

Do I always follow what my parents do? No, of course not. I am just like most Jews; I pick and choose what things about my parents' Judaism I like and what I don't like. I fast because I am supposed to and that is the end of the story.

Yet, starving has never made the day a bit more meaningful for me. I get my meaning on Yom Kippur by closing my eyes and thinking about what matters most in my life.

Let me be clearer. I don't care if it's healthy, I don't care if it makes me appreciate my food more, I don't care if it is spiritually moving or not. There are people who have theories about how fasting makes them be more "mindful" of what they consume, but I don't need starvation to teach me "mindfulness." I don't like emotional, physical or spiritual shock therapy. I don't like fasting or any form of self-mutilation.

For most Jews, fasting on Yom Kippur is one of those big Jewish things that they saw their parents do and they think, somewhere in the back of their minds, they might go to hell if they don't do. And no one wants to go to hell. I sure don't.

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