Strongly Worded

Out of the Gates of Repentance

So Yom Kippur is now officially over, and thus I have parked myself in front of the computer to update you all. Yom Kippur (Day of Atonement) is the only Jewish holiday I observe in any technical sense--meaning, I actually go to one (1) service, I engage in quiet reflection, and I don't go to work.

I went to the Kol Nidre service last night, which is among the most sacred services in the Jewish liturgical year. I always go to Harvard Hillel's reform service, because it lasts 1.5 hours and is near my house. In a reform service, many of the prayers are recited in English, most of the language is gender-neutral (God is referred to "Our Source of Life" as opposed to "Our King"), and instrumental music is incorporated.

Every year, some brilliant Harvard cello prodigy is invited to play the service's central song. It sounds perfect, appropriately wrenching and agonized, and it is, in my opinion, the best part of the evening.

Still, the playing of musical instruments is not permitted in more traditional congregations, and, even though I grew up in a crunchy-progressive Jewish community, which was led by a feminist lesbian rabbi with a tie-dyed tallit, I find the cello novel, and kind of religiously borderline, but I was not prepared for last night's guitar-fest.

The congregation welcomed a new cantor, a large woman wearing a white caftan and a white turban-esque thing on her head (of which I was not a fan. While I'm a full-on feminist, I don't like it when women emulate the traditional male "kippa/yarmaulke" head-covering). To start the service, the cantor started strumming the guitar and swaying and singing, and gradually everyone stopped talking and became hushed and reverent. This cantor has an amazing voice, but her strumming was over the top. It changed the dynamic from a communal spiritual process to a performance. I expected lighters flickering in the crowd.

Anyway, the cantor wrapped up her first song, and turned the spotlight over to Leah, the service leader. Every year, some bright-eyed Harvard chick does her Milwaukee/Cleveland/Miami Sunday School proud. Her name is always Rebecca or Shoshana or Rachel, and she is always incredibly articulate, polished, and devout. She's the kind of girl who can't understand why her roommate makes fun of her.

So this year's model, Leah, welcomed everyone and introduced herself and the others on the bimah. She wore a white suit and a kind of doily on her head. Her speech was so precise that the last syllable of each of her words virtually bounced off the microphone and reverborated through the room. She kept smoothing her white suit and smiling. She did a really good job, even as I secretly mocked her.

Which is not to say I was doing any mocking, or any paranoid thinking about the Former Object of My Obsessive Crush, who I actually passed on the street on my way into the building (in a city of almost a million people ...). Of course I skittered away before Former Object could see me, but I harbored fear in my heart that he would walk into the room holding hands with his girlfriend, and smilingly sit next to me, and make me all self-conscious about the Unflattering Pants I was wearing, and divert my attention away from spiritual atonement and renewal. To this end, I wedged myself into a pew that only had one open side, sitting between two families, such that I was not only inconspicuous but obscured by a large pillar.

Thus safely wedged, I felt confident that I could avoid being seen by the Former Object during the duration of the service, and barely thought about options for quick apres-service exit.

Nor did I think much about the fact that my umbrella was boring into the base of my spine (I was basically sitting against it, because, as I mentioned, I was wedged between two families, which doesn't leave much extra space for umbrellas).

Nor did I think much about the fact that many of my fellow congregants are gawky, geeky first-year college students, their outfits still resplendent from their Bar/Bat Mitzvahs. I didn't even think about how I am ten years older than them.

Anyway. Between paranoia, discomfort, ageism, and random thoughts about random things, I was able to focus for brief periods, and feel (also for brief periods) a connection with my people and my faith. There are many impressive elements in this particular service, including the recitation of an alphabetized, itemized list of sins (from adultery to zeal for false causes), for which everyone collectively asks for forgiveness. The idea is not to put anyone on the spot, to acknowledge that all of us sin whether knowingly or unknowingly, and to cover our bases in case we've left anything out. I find it genuinely powerful when the unkept vows and promises from last year are deemed null and void, during the pronouncement of a religious clean slate.

After the service and the announcements, I darted out of the building, escaped contact with the Object, and felt (somewhat) spiritually cleansed. I wanted to go home and watch The West Wing, because on Bravo there's a marathon of Season 6, but I felt that would be inappropriate, even though my snacking/secular/atheist mother urged me to do it. Instead, I read quietly and went to bed early.

Then this morning I was seized with the desire to check email/watch TV/do other everyday things and somehow I managed not to, and spent the day very quietly although not very spiritually.

So now I feel good, ready to herald in a New Year, inscribed as I am (I'm pretty sure) in the Book of Life.

Posted by Dori at 7:02 PM