Soul Food

Michele Marr

Yesterday the sun went down on erev Yom Kippur, the eve of the Day of

Atonement. Today is Yom Kippur, a day of fasting, repentance and prayer

for forgiveness of sins.

Its origins are recorded in the book of Leviticus. A high priest

sacrificed a bull, rams and goats during a day of elaborate temple ritual

to atone for his people’s sins accrued over the previous year. The

command that God gave to Moses is written in Leviticus.

“This shall be a statute forever for you, you shall humble yourselves

and do no work at all, whether a native of your own country or a stranger

who sojourns among you. For on that day the priest shall make atonement

for you to cleanse you that you may be clean from all your sin before the

Lord.”

The first time I heard of Yom Kippur was during Rosh Hashana 13 years

ago. My husband and I had been living in Tel Aviv for nearly four months.

Michael had come to work in Israel at the request of his employer. I had

come with decades of accumulated doubts about God. I was sure that Israel

was just the place to clear them up.

It was this most holy of Holy Days that did just that.

While Yom Kippur is no longer practiced as it was described in

Leviticus, with a high priest sacrificing animals at the altar, Jews

everywhere keep the command that God gave to Moses by gathering in

synagogues starting on erev Yom Kippur.

They chant the Kol Nidre, an ancient and solemn prayer of repentance.

It marks the start of 24 hours of fasting, confession, repentance and

prayer for forgiveness -- forgiveness of promises broken and neglected

throughout the year.

Our fourth-floor apartment on Ha Yarkon, one of the busiest streets in

Tel Aviv, looked over a clutter of hotels, restaurants and discos that

hugged Ha Yarkon on one side and the Mediterranean coast on the other.

Tel Aviv is a 24-hour city. It never sleeps. It never naps. Taxi horns

blare. Tires screech. Drivers curse. The junkman presses his ancient cart

along the street loudly hawking his wares above the clamor. Disco beats

and kaleidoscope lights throb. City buses snort to stops, taking in their

passengers, then rumble off again.

The city never stops to take a breath; at least not until the sun goes

down on erev Yom Kippur. At first it was a rich, sweet dream -- the

forgotten sound of silence.

But hours into the night I was so edgy I couldn’t sleep. The silence

was like a bad song I couldn’t get out of my head. I paced across the

apartment. I made some tea. From the window I watched plastic grocery

sacks flying like untethered kites in the wind.

The song in my head droned on. I am not a Jew. I was at a loss for

what to do in this silence like no other silence. The song in my head

droned on. It began to take on words.

“No. You are not a Jew. Does that mean you have nothing to atone for?”

I picked up my Bible and read the words, “You shall humble yourselves,

whether a native of your own country or a stranger who sojourns among

you.”

That was me: a stranger sojourning among God’s people. I looked at the

ceiling as though it could be a window into heaven. “What do you want

from me?”

The song in my head was getting louder. “An outward and visible sign

of an inward and spiritual grace, it was singing. The words were

familiar, but old. I tried to think where I’d heard them before.

I watched the grocery bag kites flying down Ha Yarkon. The song grew

louder, “A sacrament is an outward and visible sign of an inward and

spiritual grace.”

A sacrament. My catechism. My first Holy Communion.

The words of the song changed, “What is required?”

“What is required of who?” I asked.

“What is required of those who come who come to Holy Communion?” the

song replied. And I knew the answer.

“To examine themselves, whether they repent them truly of their former

sins, steadfastly purposing to lead a new life; to have a lively faith in

God’s mercy through Christ, with a thankful remembrance of his death; and

to be in charity with all men.”

Here was my broken, neglected promise.

The last hour of Yom Kippur offers a final chance for repentance. This

hour is called “Ne’ila.” It is the only service of the year when the

doors to the Ark, where the Torah scrolls are stored, remain open. It

signifies that the gates of Heaven are open at this time.

The service ends as the congregation says seven times, “The Lord is

our God.” Seven -- a number that signifies wholeness and completion.

The shofar, a ritual horn used in ancient and contemporary Judaism,

sounds once and the people proclaim, “Next year in Jerusalem!”

I say, “Amen,” so be it.

* MICHELE MARR is a freelance writer and graphic designer from

Huntington Beach. She has been interested in religion and ethics for as

long as she can remember. She can be reached at o7

[email protected]