Rabbi Susan Grossman: 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.

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.

Rabbi Waxman rightly points out some of the cognitive dissonance we confront in the High Holiday liturgy that makes it hard to get the most from services.

Largely written in the Middle Ages for a population who viscerally understood their vulnerability and dependence upon the whims of a powerful lord or sovereign, the liturgy speaks of God as a king who wields life and death, and therefore whom we hope to please out of fear, but also as a loving father who wants our well-being, and therefore of whom we hope to please out of love.

There is another cognitive dissonance as well. I gave up calling God “He” long ago. Yet substitute language seems inadequate. Somehow God as our parent, and sovereign seems too impersonal. God as our mother and queen sounds too pagan to my ears.

Nevertheless, I love the melody for "Avinu Malkeinu," which is Hebrew for "Our Father, our King." Something happens within me when we sing it. My rational and source-critical mind quiets and something else moves me to tears as I chant the words, “Forgive us…write us in the book of a good life…have pity on us and on our children…answer us, save us…”

Rabbi Waxman is right that there is power in community. I feel the community praying, weeping with me, from the depths of their hearts. Such power comes not only from sharing the emotions, the vulnerability. That power is not only psychological. It is also spiritual, an energy that, when released, uplifts us.

It is that energy, ruach (spirit), that is the spiritual high that the High Holiday liturgy was created to offer. It is transformational. When we reach that place, our priorities shift. For a moment, we become clear, deep in our souls, about who God intended us to be; who we want to be. Such highs come when we open ourselves to that experience, accepting that music and mood can overwhelm our rationality to transport and transfix us.

I agree with Rabbi Waxman that hope and fear combined with community can be a powerful incentive for lasting change. But there is also another element. The ethereal connection our soul has with its Maker.

When we allow our souls, rather than our over-functioning intellects, to direct our High Holiday experience, we may find the real high in the High Holidays, the transformational high, we desperately seek.

Does the high cost of membership in synagogues deter membership? Absolutely.

It doesn’t matter that my synagogue is dedicated to never turning anyone away for lack of funds. I personally know individuals who do not want to have to ask for a special consideration, regardless of how confidentially or sensitively it is handled. Other honest souls want to carry their own weight. Not being able to afford the going rate makes them feel bad, and why be part of a group that makes one feel bad?

The problem, my lay leaders tell me, is finding enough money each year to keep the lights on and pay the mortgage. Most American Jews are well off enough to pay much more than their membership fees if they wanted to, they just have other priorities. Would they be generous enough if a set fee were not required? Would more Jews come?

I was invited to preach at a large church last spring. They held three collections: for the tithe, for freewill offerings, and a third for special vows and gifts of the heart. They do this every Sunday. Sometimes I think if we could pass the plate, Jewish communal life would be easier. I briefly rued the mitzvot that prohibit using money and writing on the Sabbath.

To be honest, many synagogues do “pass the plate.” On the High Holy Days, preprinted cards with fold-down tabs are distributed with each member’s name already labeled upon them. What if we did this each week? Perhaps then we (and our local lay leaders) would have even more incentive to deal with the fact that only a small percentage of our membership attends services on a regular basis at all.

The other day, one of my leaders asked me if we could find a donor so we would not have to charge membership fees for High Holiday family services. There are groups who do have such support. Not far from me, a group dedicated to connecting unaffiliated Jews to traditional Judaism received major foundation support for their building and programming. Are we mainstream congregations just not applying for the right grants? I would love to have the money to train or bring in top people to offer similar outreach programs in an egalitarian setting in which men and women, boys and girls, could sit together and be treated religiously as equals (males and females are separated in the programs run by the group I referred to above).

A rabbi friend of mine in California started a synagogue that will not charge membership fees. They are solely dependent upon free-will offerings. I hope she makes it and the synagogue thrives. If it succeeds, then maybe the rest of us will have the courage, and the faith, to try something similar.

I agree with Rabbi Stern that Hebrew is often an impediment to getting the most of the High Holy Days. But I disagree that Luther was right about the vernacular. There is a place for English in the service but seldom as a substitute for Hebrew? Why? Because there is a power behind the Hebrew words that have been recited for hundreds if not, in some cases, thousands of years.

Even for someone who understands Hebrew fluently, High Holiday Hebrew can be incomprehensible, written in a medieval style with allusions and depth that require preparation to understand.

That’s why it is hard to walk into services three times a year and still get something meaningful out of it. Which is a shame, since the holiday liturgy and music is so rich in significance, wisdom, and beauty.

If translating the service into English is not the solution, then what is?

There are ways to make the experience more meaningful.

Studying Hebrew would help, of course, as would reading up before hand on the meaning of the prayers.

But if one doesn’t understand Hebrew, forget the words. Let the music transport you. It is said that the haunting melody of the Yom Kippur eve service of Kol Nidre awakened in Franz Rosensweig the desire to return to Judaism. (He was planning to convert to Christianity.) Someone once said that a prayer book is less important than a box of tissues on the holidays for real prayer, because God weighs the tears of our hearts much more than the words of our lips.

There is also something to be said for sitting through the whole service, whether or not you understand the Hebrew. (Rabbi Stern’s idea of bringing a good book is helpful. I would add Reuven Hammer’s "Entering the High Holidays" or anything by Harold Kushner, such as "When All You’ve Ever Wanted Isn’t Enough" or "Who Needs God?" You may also want to bring a pillow if you have a bad back or feet.) Studies show that something happens to our brains when we engage in prayer long enough.

The High Holidays are a marathon, and it’s hard to run a marathon without training. But the good news is like a marathon, one way to win is making it to the end. (If you don’t think you can last, come in the middle for the rabbi’s sermon and then stay till the end. Most Jews in the know know that coming late is preferable to leaving early.) This marathon can also be won with a contrite spirit and a willingness to feel remorse over our failures and to commit to changing ourselves for the better, which, I agree, is what the holidays are about.