Kol Nidre 1993
A RITUAL SIMULATION
Again and again, year after passing year, we join together on this night of nights, this evening of wonder and awe. It as if a Jewish recessive gene kicks in on Kol Nidre ... a gene that transforms us into a suddenly congregating people ... a gene that informs us that we need each other right now ... that we have to be either here, or somewhere, with other Jews on this most sober and sobering of sacred times.
There is a mystique to Yom Kippur – a magnetism – that like some cosmic centripetal force compels us inward toward a core ... toward a personal, a communal, a spiritual centering. Why do we gather together at this particular time? For sure, we didn't come expecting to have fun! And while the music is beautiful, soulful, unique ... it's not the stuff of rock concerts or pop culture entertainment! We didn't ready ourselves tonight for a ball game! And for certain, we're not here for the refreshments!
What, then, is so compelling about this Holy Day? What is the underlying message that we need to, that we have to, that we absolutely must rehearse and relive year after year without fail? With a bit of thought, each of us could probably offer several possible answers – each no doubt well reasoned and quite plausible. In fact, why not make this the topic of your break-the-fast meal tomorrow night? I'd very much enjoy hearing about the suggestions you develop.
Now, having given this issue a bit of thought over the past many months, I've come up with one such reason. But actually, I hesitated sharing it because what I say could easily be misinterpreted. But it's potential is profound and I think it will resonate ... especially with those who enjoy unusual perspectives.
As Jews, we gather together year after year on Yom Kippur to celebrate ... or better still ... to rehearse ... our death! Think about it for a moment. The High Holy Days are especially unique and powerful because, in essence, they are in part a dynamic simulation experience. Rosh Hashanah introduces us to a profound scenario, which we Jews alone are privileged to enact.
"On Rosh Hashanah it is written and on Yom Kippur it is sealed ... who shall live and who shall die ..."
That is the setting of the simulation, the premise, the plot, if you will.
Now, there are three main characters involved in this simulation. The first is each of us as individuals – you and me, each one of us. The second character is all of us together – the collective we, Am Yisrael, the corporate body of Jews worldwide. You see, all of the words of worship we pray tonight are in the plural as if to say the community bears responsibility for the individual just as each individual Jew bears responsibility for the entire people. Not only are we responsible for one another ... we are one another! And that's why we're all here tonight, because if we were off on our own alone somewhere, we could only play one role and that would be only half of the simulation after all.
And the third role is played by God. But God has a relatively small part in this drama and doesn't really have to be here. For sure, it adds to the drama if God is present ... and God is always as present as we are willing to allow God to be. But, we are the main characters ... because it's our simulation.
The words for this simulation have been written and its customs developed over the past 2000 years by Rabbis and Sages, by congregations and communities of Jews from all over. It has become what it is because of our respect for self, our love for one another, and our commitment to our heritage.
Think with me for a moment. On Rosh Hashanah we celebrate the beginning of the New Year. Better still, on Rosh Hashanah we celebrate the creation of the world. Rosh Hashanah is genesis – it is about origins and about coming to be. The Torah portion traditionally read on that day is the account of Creation in the Book of Genesis. Rosh Hashanah is birth ... it is a birthing experience. It is heralded in with the “Shehechiyanu” blessing over newness and with blasts of the shofar as if in birthing jubilation. We also read in Torah about the Akedat Yitzhak – the binding of Isaac – about Abraham's spiritual rebirth – his growing awareness of the divine command. Rosh Hashanah is anticipation. In spite of it being a sacred occasion, Rosh Hashanah has an upbeat air about it. The day is redolent of sweetness and newness, of apples with honey. Its liturgy is mild and unhurried. It praises God much and often, while reminding the Sovereign of the universe of our mutual Brit – our covenantal relationship.
After the fashion of childhood, our prayers on that day addressed God as parent: "Avinu Malkaynu" – our Father-Ruler-Sovereign. Softly, politely, humbly, we requested of the Creator of life a good year of health and peace. We asked for divine protection, for safety and security in this new life-year of ours – this new beginning, this new-time. And we listened to the shofar so as to open ourselves to assessing our faults and limitations, our character assets and liabilities, and to steady ourselves and ready ourselves for the challenges ahead.
So, as it were, on Rosh Hashanah we were born, and we as individuals and we as a people celebrated that birthing process. We were cautiously optimistic, reflectively polite, humbly ... serious. And for ten days since Rosh Hashanah, we have lived. And life has been good. And we call that time Aseret y'may teshuvah – ten days of repentance. And, one would hope that during these days we did some personal inventory-taking, and we spoke a bit softer, and perhaps we even reached out to others a bit more.
For us the ten days might be considered as if a microcosm of life. All of life ... an entire lifetime in just ten days – imagine that! Three days longer than a mosquito; nine days longer than a mayfly. Indeed, what if our life was only as long as that of some insects – half a score days and no more? The thought is stunning! Born on Rosh Hashanah; died on Yom Kippur. Just ten days and life ends; one, two, three ... eight, nine, ten, over and out. Gasp ... and gevalt! And that is why the simulation is so profound. For now it is already Yom Kippur and the experiential "what if" reaches its crescendo.
Think about the traditions associated with this sacred time. On the day before Yom Kippur, we are enjoined to seek forgiveness from friends and family and even from enemies for any wrongs that we have done them during the past year, because God cannot forgive the pains that one human being causes to another. That is our work. And the apologies proffered must be accepted. The process is analogous to creating an ethical will, of leaving behind no unfinished inter-personal business.
As Yom HaDin nears, a ritual that dates back to the Babylonia of 1300 years ago takes place. Men holding live roosters by the legs and women holding hens swing the fowl overhead while reciting these words:
This is in exchange for me; this is my ransom; this is my atonement. This fowl shall meet its death, but I shall attain a long, and good life, and peace.
That such a primitive concept, the attempt to avert death by providing a substitute, and that such a seemingly primitive act, to schlug kaporus, should endure the ages is proof of the power of the simulation.
And now, as Yom Kippur approaches, our death simulation becomes even more dramatic. Some attend a mikvah, the ritual bath ... symbolically much as a body is bathed by the chevrah kadishah, those who deal with the deceased. Men garb themselves from head to foot in a pure white kittel reminiscent of the color and shape of a shroud. Traditionally, on no other night of the year is a tallit worn in the congregation; yet on this night on which the world ... our world comes to an end ... on which life as we know it ceases ... dafka on this night the tallit is worn ... just as a tallit with tzitzit cut off is the burial garb of the deceased. Leather walking shoes are replaced by cloth shoes – the community is attired as if for burial!
For the entire day we will act as if we are dead. Like the dead we will not eat nor drink nor smoke; we refrain from all manner of productive work as well as from intimate contact with spouses; there is no further washing or bathing or anointing with oil. These are the age-old customs of the day.
Quiet and somber, we assemble in synagogue to listen to the "Kol Nidre." Strange that a worship service should begin with such a melancholy melody. No other worship service throughout the year begins in such a way. Strange that the words of the Kol Nidre should be the ones with which we begin our Sabbath of Sabbaths. Yet, even stranger are the words that we speak just before the "Kol Nidre." Listen to them closely.
B'yeshivah shel ma'alah, u'v'yeshivah shel matah, al daat HaMakom v'al daat ha'kahal, anu matirim l'hitpallel im ha'Avaryanim. With the knowledge of Jewish sages in the heavens and on earth, with the consent of God and with the consent of this community of Jews, we hereby give permission to worship with the Avaryanim.
What or who are the Avaryanim? I might offer several guesses. The root of the word has to do with "going over" – ayver. From this root also comes the word for Hebrew/Jew – Ivri. Since many think that "Kol Nidre" dates to the Spanish Inquisition when so many of our people were forced to renounce their faith in public while yet practicing Judaism in secret, Avaryanim may be a code name for those who have (you should pardon the expression) crossed over, converted, yet still want to join with us in prayer. Or, for certain, and surprisingly so, Avaryanim may mean, the Iberians. And if that is the case, then the entire peninsula, Iberia, Ivria, literally means land of the Hebrews! Is it time to form a JLO – a Jewish Liberation Organization to reclaim Spain?
But, I think the term as used here is much more apropos our theme. Let me retranslate the phrase: "With the awareness of those both dead and alive, and with God's knowledge and our own awareness of what we are doing, we hereby give each other permission to worship with those who are as if Avaryanim – as if passed over to the other world; with those who are as if dead." Before the "Kol Nidre," before the official beginning of the service, we give each other permission to act out this simulation – to pray with one another as if the "the dead" are among us. As if we in fact are the dead.
Interesting, yes?
And now to the "Kol Nidre" itself. It's words are a request that God forgive us for any vows and oaths that we might make between this Yom Kippur and next Yom Kippur? Does it not seem strange that we ask God to forgive us for the future and not for the past? Is it not just a bit odd that we are hedging our bets on what we might do in the year ahead as opposed to what we have already done in the year past? Well, not if one is already as if dead. How can one ask forgiveness for the past if one is no longer alive? And, since we cannot know about the time after death ... and what we will face then ... it isn't so odd to hedge our bets ... to ask forgiveness from death on. In fact, it makes very good sense both psychologically and theologically.
We are taught that on our deathbed, with our last breath, we are to recite "Vidui," the confession of sins. If we cannot say it ourselves, another may read it for or with us. And then with our last breath, we are to recite the final "Shema." In keeping with the simulation, the Yom Kippur liturgy is dotted throughout with recitations of the "Vidui," and the "Ashamnu," and the "Al Chet" -- listing our sins in alphabet order so as not to omit a single personal or communal failure ... as if recited before the divine judge. Indeed, we are dressed as if, and we act as if, and we speak as if, and we ready ourselves as if ... the simulation was real!
The Kol Nidre service ends. In some cities at certain times in history, worshipers spend the night in the synagogue ... buried there, as it were, away from family ... the first to greet the rest of the congregation at first light to begin the long day of Yom Kippur. There is a fatigue to the morning ... exactly ... a lifelessness. And yet, there is also a certain urgency, a certain air of hurry ... a semi-panic ... as if to say "surely this can't go on much longer." How do I come to grips with life much less death!
The Torah readings for Yom Kippur emphasize the theme. You have been as if dead. Is this the way you want to continue? You do have an option. Here is the morning Torah reading from Deuteronomy 30:
See, I set before you this day life and good, death and evil in that I command you ... to love the Lord ... to walk in God's way ... to observe the commandments and statutes and ordinances; then shall you live and multiply, and ... God shall bless you in the Land that you go in to possess ... therefore, choose life ...
But what does it mean to choose life? Immediately, the Haftarah from Isaiah 58 follows.
This is the fast that I have chosen ... loosen the chains of wickedness, let the crushed go free, break all yokes of tyranny. Share your food with the hungry, take the homeless poor to your house, clothe the naked wherever you see them; never turn from your own flesh.
Questions about the meaning and purpose of our lives germinate. Have we lived well? Have we done right? Have we done enough? Answers begin to bud forth. The afternoon Torah reading from Leviticus 19, the Holiness code, reiterates the theme.
You shall be holy for I your God am holy ... Don't stand idly by the blood of others ... Don't lie, steal, cheat ... don't be corrupt ... Insist on justice ... Love your neighbor as yourself.
And all the while the strains of the "Unetaneh Tokef” play in the background. Who shall really live and who shall really die? Who by the fires of passion and who by the waters of indifference? Who shall be poor in good deeds and who exalted?
And teshuvah, and tefilah, and tzedakah ma'avirin et roa hagezerah – repentance, prayer, and just acts ma'avirin the severe decree. And there is that word again – ma'avirin – bring us back over, return us to what was, revive us, renew us to be among the living!
Who shall live? That's not the point. For indeed, all of us shall live ... and none of us shall live. What is life? That's the real question. What is living all about? That's the essential question ... and it's a question that can only be asked of someone who has a particular perspective – the perspective of one who has already experienced the end of life. And, that is why we simulate our own demise ... so that we can actually ask ourselves the ultimate, the most significant human question – "What is life and what is its purpose?"
If we knew the answer to that question, think of all the time, energy, and anguish we'd save. Think of all the social and political structures that would immediately become either less important or obsolete. You see, in death, we gain perspective for that question. Is it our goal as Jews, as human beings, as individuals created in the image of the divine to spend ourselves, our energies, our talent, our days and nights in the pursuit of amassing things, of gaining fame or power, of building estates, of taking territory? Is that what we’re here for? Or does life's meaning rest in amassing friends, in gaining loving relationships, in building a solid family, and in making a good name?
Life is not exclusively one or the other, of course, but priorities will be served first. Only from the perspective of death can we even begin to understand the question much less the answer. For wisdom comes late in life, rarely at the beginning. Perspective comes toward the end of the road, rarely with our first steps.
So Yom Kippur does have a purpose, and this simulation does have a point – the meaning of life comes to those who work their way back to life. One who has been critically ill knows this. One who has watched a loved one pass away knows this. One who has experienced a painful separation or a bitter divorce knows this. One who has been greatly disappointed in life knows this. One who has suffered under-employment or financial failure knows this. One who has been betrayed or abused socially, sexually, or politically knows this, as does one who has lost the way.
And we who gather year after year on this Yom Kippur of ours also come to know this. The purpose of this day is to toughen us, to inure us to death. The purpose of this day is as if to inform us ... "O.K. you've already died ... so now you can stop focusing on death; fearing death; revering, glorifying, venerating, and obsessing over death. Death isn't the issue, it never was the issue. Life is the issue. Now, knowing that, what are you going to do about it?"
Life is not automatic, our tradition teaches, it's an option – it has to be chosen. It has to be chosen over evil ... over death ... over sin – those words are Jewish synonyms. Sin is that which robs us of choice. Avon – the sin of doing damage to others; pesha – the sin of doing damage to things, to the world, to the environment; and chet – the lightest and yet ultimately the worst of sins, the sin of doing damage to our self.
Sin is a failure to understand what life is all about; it is a failure of perspective. That is why we simulate our death so as to gain perspective ... so as to awaken ourselves from the death of living as less than our selves ... so as to enable us to opt for life with dignity, with connectedness, with meaning.
In the afternoon service we will read about Jewish history, about teachers and martyrs, leaders and Sages. We will reconstruct our ancient practices and review our dreams and goals as a people. The way back to life for the individual Jew is often through a connection with peoplehood.
And then comes the afternoon Haftarah reading from the prophet Jonah. It takes our breath away with its relevance to 1993, for today.
Go to the PLO, God tells Jonah, and tell them to repent of their ways lest they die. But Jonah cannot stand the thought of aiding in the redemption of his lifelong enemy. He runs and hides ignoring the waves of terrorism and the potential overthrow of the ship of state.
Thrown overboard, he is eaten alive by conflicting goals and dichotomous choices – status quo or change, control or cooperation, continued hatred or reconciliation. Unable to escape the mission thrust upon him, he offers a solution to the conflict. The pain of its being accepted by the enemy is unbearable. Jonah wants to die. God offers perspective. It’s not a comforting perspective, is it? Not comforting at all in the light of past grievances, pains, deceptions. "Hey, Jonah,” (God offers) “they are people, too."
What an anomaly. Jonah, whose name means dove of peace, is embittered about having to offer the olive branch to his enemies. And the book ends with a comment about the people to whom Jonah went:
... and God saw their evil ways that they did repent of them."
And with a handshake, the PLO renounces terrorism ... no more teaching their children to hate Israel ... no more encouraging their children to throw stones at Israelis ... no more despising neighbors ... no more of that which for so long has been their way.
And with a handshake, Jonah is transformed. The old neighbor as enemy was normal; but the old enemy as neighbor is an uncomfortable premise. How do we the Jewish people, so often in the past the victim, the underdog, now summon trust from the ashes of animosity ... compassion from the embers of old wars ... cooperation from the tinder of distrust?
Torah plays with our minds and hearts: "Choose life that it will be good for you on the Land which the Lord your God gives to you." Whatever land, greater or lesser, the object is that it be good for us – for life and not for death.
Ever so slowly the message of life vs. death begins to take hold. We start to understand, to "get it." The worship words and the music and the sitting with each other and the hunger work their magic ... perspective unfolds. And now, having been as if dead, Yizkor comes ... and we recite Kaddish. Only now we understand that it is not only for our loved ones that we say "Ayl Malay" and Kaddish, but also for ourselves – the selves that have been as if dead all this day. And that is the particular power of this Yizkor service. For now we praise God for two things: the privilege of living despite the reality of death, and the privilege of dying on this Yom Kippur while yet remaining within the realm of the living.
The simulation comes to an end with the beautiful Neilah Service. To miss Neilah is to miss the denouement, the resolution, the end of the drama. For this is the re-birthing, the emerging back unto life. "Open the Gates," we shout, "open the gates of life to us once more." Perhaps now we understand a bit better ... perhaps now we understand a bit more than we did just hours ago. So please, O God, open the gates and bring us back to life ... to life with perspective ... to the only kind of life worth living. Bring us back to life again.
And now, at last, God enters, having taken the day off (as it were) while we ... were sorting things through.
You have been at the simulation many hours, My children. What have you learned from the experience? Have you overcome the death of expecting too much – and the death of disappointment that life doesn't always bring what you wish for, hope for, pray for ... that ideals are in your mind ... but the essence of life is in Mine?
Have you overcome the death of needing so very much and the death of disappointment at receiving less than you deemed appropriate ... less that you saw as your entitlement ... too little health or wealth, too little power or control, too little success or love?
Have you overcome the death of pursuing goals that may be futile or harmful or vacuous? Have you realized that you have promised much but not given enough ... of your time or your means or your energy to worthy causes and to study and to caring and to sharing the best that is within you? Giving too little is also a death of sorts?
Have you overcome the death of not being what you intended to become ... of not living up to your principals, values, expectations?
If so, then "Shuvu, B'nai Adam," return, O' children, return to life once more. You have played well. We shall see in the days ahead, what you have learned, shall we not?
And we, in relief for having re-established a relationship with our inner self and with our community of worshipers, proclaim in relief and in thanksgiving: "Shema Yisrael ... Adonai Hu HaElohim – Hear, O Israel ... Adonai is indeed God."
Tekiah Gadolah concludes the drama. It is the shofar sound of ultimate redemption, the sound of the resurrection of the dead in the end of days, and ... like the cry of a newborn, it is the sound of this life renewed. And we who have gained perspective all this day emerge refreshed from the simulation to begin to build the sukkah. Yes, life is fragile, but we choose to continue to live; yes, life is tenuous, yet, we choose to continue to build!
For that is what we do. That is what life is all about. And we who now know so well the alternative ... we who now know what it means to be un-alive ... we who have spent this sacred time in simulation ... we choose life!
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