My Heart, On a Platter

Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, Shabbat haShabatot. We come together, old faces and new of this community alike, to, as one, ask for forgiveness. For twenty-five more hours we will fast, we will not bathe, we will meditate and beseech our Creator to pardon our misdeeds. Today we try our best to act like the angels on high: we purify our bodies and our souls in our persistent aim of return, of teshuva, return to God, return to a more righteous path, return to those we love.

There is the old Chasidic tale of a man with two pockets in his pants, and, in each one, he keeps a piece of paper. Two pockets, two papers, each separate from the other. On one he has carefully written, “Bishvili nivra ha’Olam. For my sake the world was created.” And on the other he scribed, “Ani afar v’ever. I am ashes and dust.” His pocket reminders teach him daily the dual-reality that is the world in which we live. He matters, he is important, his actions count. He can change this world for the better, or the worse. God cares about him, as an individual, as a person who loves and feels and cares. But, in the face of eons of human history, standing face to face with the Almighty, he is nothing. He is just one little speck in a giant universe of rocks and stars.

This day of Repentance we are torn between these two world-views.

On the one hand, our liturgy pushes us to accept that we are important. We have been given a day apart from all others - one on which we are forgiven, one in which God sets aside our misdeeds and allows us to move on with a clean slate. If we are sorry for our actions, if we truly regret the myriad of ways that we have strayed from the path, then we come forth from this day absolved.

But, lest we forget, our fate has already been scribed. “B’rosh Hashanah yikateivun uv yom tsom Kipur yechateimun. On Rosh Hashanah it was written. Today it will be sealed.” Our tradition teaches us that it is already a done deal, we already have, or have not, found our place in the Book of Life. On this night, are we no different than the student begging his teacher to alter an already-recorded grade? Why bother? Is our existence so pathetic that we must grovel and beg for a change of heart?

No! That second piece of paper cries from our pockets, you don’t matter. “Avinu Malkeinu, chaneinu va’aneinu ki ein banu ma’asim. Our Father, our King, be merciful with us and answer us, even though we have no merit.” We have nothing! We are worthless. So we pray, and we fast, and we plead before God. Ana haShem hoshia na! Please God, save us!

I don’t matter. The world was made for me. I am all that counts. I am nothing.

Two world-views, ever present throughout the year, and tonight and this day coming at each other in an epic battle over the very nature of what it means to be a human. Can I truly make up for the bad things I have done? I’m sorry. I won’t do them again. I’ll try.

Such is the human condition. We made mistakes this year. I am sorry. We won’t do it again. I promise. I swear. The addiction is over. I won’t speak like that anymore. I will let God’s presence into my life.

But, let’s be honest with ourselves, we are going to screw up again this year. And the next. And the one after that. Yom Kippur, 5769 is already on the calendar. Between today and October 9, 2009 we have three hundred and eighty three days on which we will lie, cheat, deceive, and evade. We are locked in a persistent existence of mediocrity. We will never be good enough. We will never be all that God wants of us. We are but pieces of dust and ash floating around in this world trying to act like we are all that matter.

This can leave us feeling very alone. The solitude of regret is painful. We feel stuck in Egypt, by ourselves, while the rest of Israel has gone on to a better place. We imagine ourselves as Moses, standing high atop the mountain in Moav, knowing that he alone would not get to enter the Land of Israel - he would not be forgiven for his misdeeds. He would die on a barren hill in the wilderness, just outside the Land of Milk and Honey, a failed leader. His apologies were not good enough. Consequences for his actions were long-since decreed and sealed.

As were ours.

B’rosh Hashanah ykateivun uv Yom tsom Kipur yechteimun. It may not be too late to change our fates, but nine days ago things were already written down. Today, we remind ourselves that our only solace will come from teshuva, tefilah u’tsdakah - from prayer and repentance and charity - things that will lessen, but not absolve, the severity of our decree. We are all sinners. We are all facing judgement by our Creator. It is a done deal. We have lived this year not as the tsadikim we once promised we would be, but as something far less.

In the face of this reality, I could show up Erev Yom Kippur pessimistic of the worth of the next day’s fast. Sure, I’ll cleanse my soul. I’ll pray, I’ll learn, I’ll push myself to do better next year. But why? If I know that next year will have a Yom Kippur too, if I know that I will transgress again, if I know that my God has already decreed whether or not I am to be forgiven for my wrong-doings, then why bother? Why participate in this last-minute plea for absolution as the gates of Heaven slowly close shut for another year. If perfection is never an achievable goal, why spend one day pretending otherwise?

And yet, deep in my heart, I know just how moving the meaningful the whole process is. I know that, tomorrow night at the end of Neilah, I will feel better. I will feel cleansed. Despite the difficulty that is involved in this twenty-five hour project, it is something that, year after year, I come back to. We all come back to. All of us.

And then I look up. I see a room full of faces of others, my peers, my elders, my students my teachers, strangers, friends, a community of other Jews all looking for the same thing. Just as much as I am pressed to believe on this day that I am alone, that I am worthless, that, just like that piece of paper in my pocket teaches I am ashes and dust, the presence of everyone else in this room provides precisely the comfort that I need to be at ease with this reality. In a Kaplanian moment of clarity, I begin to appreciate so much of the meaning of this day through the community of people that celebrates it. Because everyone in this room was not good enough this year. Each of us was dishonest, each of us did not try hard enough, each of us missed the mark.

The final words of Mishna Yoma, the first rabbinic thoughts on the Day of Atonement, describe a teaching from Rabbi Eliezer: “Aveirot sh’bein adam l’Makom, Yom haKipurim mechaper. Transgressions between a person and God, the Day of Atonement atones. Aveirot sh’bein Adam l’haveiro ein Yom haKipurim mechaper, ad sh’yeratsei et chaveiro. Transgressions between one person and another, the Day of Atonement does not atone, until the offended has been placated.” Rabbi Eliezer teaches us that, for sins against the Master of the Universe, God will always be willing to forgive. But Rabbi Eliezer understands people, and he knows well enough that a community cannot move on, that spiritual atonement is of little use without reconciliation between individuals. We come first to seek forgiveness from other people.

And this humbling act of coming together on this night gives comfort to the afflicted. We stand together and confess that “Ashamnu, bagadnu, gazalnu, dibarnu dofi. We have been guilty, we have betrayed, we have stolen, we have spoken falsely.”

We cry out to the rest of our community - I know you did wrong this year, and so did I.

We say loudly to one another - I screwed up, here’s what I did, help me make up for it.

None of us is blameless, no one here is tsadik.

And in that moment of community, that moment of human-to-human interaction, when we feel so worthless and helpless, we can come together before our Creator; standing side-by-side with our loved ones we can have the strength then to cry out to God: I am sorry, truly sorry. And I should have known what I was doing was wrong, but I didn’t. And I know I’ll probably be back right here in this same spot a year from now, asking again for forgiveness, but I’m sorry. I am human, and all I can do is try.

I will devote this year trying ever harder to be like You God, to be like the angels on high who serve and praise you all day, to be like the tsadikim of lore, the blameless righteous soles. But I’m going to demand something of You God, too. I need you to be here next year, when I feel terrible again for committing new wrongs. I need you to have compassion and mercy, and be slow to judge. In your dealings with me, show me the way to treat others when they hurt me. When I hurt you, guide me to a better path. Help me to make things right.

This is our task this Yom Kippur Eve. To try. To try a little harder than last year. To open up. To let it all out. And to do so within the context of this holy community, to support each other in this difficult process and, in doing so, be ourselves supported.

Tomorrow night we will emerge from this process exhausted and hungry and mentally spent. But so too will we emerge better people - people rededicated and convicted in our passion to live a good life, working to make this world a better place. We will walk down the street each day navigating between the two extremes of those strips of paper in our pockets. I am but ashes and dust: there is more to this world than me and myself, I cannot live selfishly, I must constantly care for others. For me alone the world was created: I matter, I have worth, I have the power to change the world. And we will remember that, as many times as we mess up, as we miss the mark, as we sin and as we fail to meet our own expectations, it is never to early to start seeking forgiveness, never too early to turn to those we have hurt, to turn to God, and apologize.

May this be the labor of our hearts, for the next year, and forever.

May we all be inscribed in the Book of Life, for long life, a life of meaning and happiness and growth, a life of trial, and some error, and a constant labor of teshuva.

G’mar chatimah tovah. Shabbat shalom.