10. 6. 14
I VOTE TO BRING back the goat.
On Yom Kippur, the mighty Day of Atonement, in the days of the ancient Temple, all sins were symbolically heaped on an actual goat—the original “scapegoat”—which was then sent off to some undefined land called Azazel.
“Thus the goat shall carry on it all their iniquities to an inaccessible region; and the goat shall be set free in the wilderness.” Leviticus 16:21
I needed a cloven-hoofed animal to cart my sins away on Yom Kippur, because carrying them around in my head was taxing. Praying all day was hard for me. Pounding my heart with my fist in synagogue didn’t break it open.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
My Yom Kippur holiday begins at my dining room table with a big meal before commencing the fast at sundown, when the Kol Nidre service begins. Kol Nidre (“All Vows”) is the name of the focal liturgy of the service that happens on erev (eve of) Yom Kippur.
I’ve set the placemats cheek by jowl to accommodate my family clan of thirteen and ordered food from a Turkish restaurant that makes dips and kebabs. I amassed desserts because the pre-fast meal is always a nice excuse to indulge in the treats I try to deny myself the rest of the year: banana pudding, cookies, cupcakes, and—my mother’s favorite: brownies with walnuts.
Dinner is called for 4 P.M. since services start at 6 P.M. My husband, Dave, is home early from work to open the wine and help me finish setting up. Mom and Dad arrive on time; and my sister’s and brothers’ families rush in late from the office and school, apologizing for the stress they know they’ve added to the schedule. We always end up racing to say the blessings and scarf food before the sun sets and the urgent hour arrives when we have to start fasting as we clamber into cabs to get to Kol Nidre services.
The kebabs are laid out. The slivovitz is poured (Eastern European plum brandy, often compared to lighter fluid), two challahs crown the table. It’s a typical year. Except that now I’m not just the dinner host, I’m “The Wondering Jew,” who gets affectionate grief from my extended family, not to mention lots of questions as to how it’s going.
“Are you keeping up?”
“Are you overwhelmed?”
“Do you feel yourself changing?”
“Are you turning Orthodox?”
Yes, yes, yes, and no.
I tell them I’m energized, I’m learning, I’m always looking forward to the next stop on the train. I tell them I find myself feeling a kind of suspense as to where the next holiday will take me. I explain my process so far—that I try to study as many texts and interview as many experts as possible before each holiday; but once I’m in the middle of one, I try to just be in it. But I also have to always be taking mental notes, so that I can remember what I was feeling when I process it later on my laptop.
I’m especially nervous about this big one. There’s so much buildup to Yom Kippur. I’ve read and heard about what it’s supposed to feel like, how we should be wrung dry, face the people we’ve wronged, come out renewed. I’ve been immersing myself—literally (mikveh) and figuratively (books, articles, interviews, sermons)—and I’ve Elul’ed for weeks. But who knows if I’ve prepared enough.
Hosting Kol Nidre dinner is something I at least know how to do. I inherited hostess duties from my mother back in 2004, when I was writing Stars of David and had started studying Torah. Before Yom Kippur that year, I suggested to Mom that instead of her trying to explain the holiday to the kids at the table, as she did using well-intentioned readings each year, it might be more effective to play a game with everyone, or do an exercise that requires participation. She loved the idea. I came up with a Yom Kippur Quiz with questions that taught and tested basic knowledge, such as, “How many times are we supposed to ask forgiveness of someone we’ve offended before we’re off the hook? a. Once, b. Twice, c. Three times?” Answer: c. Or: “On Yom Kippur, some Jews wave which animal over their heads and then kill it and sell it, giving the proceeds to charity?” Answer: A chicken.
One year I put our family’s names in a basket and each of us apologized to the person whose name we randomly picked, for anything we felt we could have done better in that relationship. There was something tender about having to summon a mea culpa on the spot.
I’m sorry I didn’t make time with you alone last year.
I’m sorry I said you should cut your hair.
I’m sorry I snapped at you when I was carving the turkey.
I feel more and more sure that if kids have something to do, they’re more likely to remember. Frontal lessons don’t stick. I know how I felt in my teens—bored and deficient—when Mom explained the holiday basics at the Kol Nidre table. This year, in light of my holiday plunge, I’m more resolute than ever to try to connect the liturgy to real life so that, when the kids are in synagogue, at least one prayer makes sense and feels familiar.
As my family heaps hummus and baba ghanoush in our annual speed-eating ritual, I circulate a bowl filled with slips of paper and ask each person to take one. On every paper is typed one sin from the list of forty-four failings that will be read several times during services. Each line begins with “Al cheit”—“for the sin . . .”—followed by a specific offense. It was easy to find the “al cheits” online:
For the mistakes we committed before You through wronging a friend.
For the mistakes we committed before You by degrading parents and teachers.
For the mistakes we committed before You by being arrogant. . . .
I ask each person to share an example of when he/she committed the “al cheit” in their hands. The personal confessions are unvarnished:
I wished that my friend at school would get a poorer grade on a test we both took.
I lost my temper too quickly with Mom.
I treated that waiter dismissively.
When anyone at our table is stumped about whether an “al cheit” was committed, the rest of the group is eager to produce an example for him or her. It’s an exercise that makes us laugh, but also makes us confess real things. It’s hard to capture the moment when intimacy ratchets up in a room, but this is one of those times. We’re a little closer afterwards.
After cupcakes and brownies, as I start rushing everyone away from the table to get to synagogue on time, my seventeen-year-old nephew, Ethan, suddenly shouts, “Where are our commitments from last year?”
He’s remembered something I’ve forgotten: the previous year, I’d given everyone an index card to write down something they vowed to do better. We’d sealed the cards in envelopes with our names and the date to be opened: 10-3-14. Tonight was the moment of truth. I run to the cabinet where I keep things I don’t want to misplace, and when I open it, there they are: a pile of thirteen brisket-stained envelopes. We rip them open to see what we promised ourselves.
I read mine aloud, because