Post-Yom Kippur Thoughts on Honesty, Courage, and the Call to Return

Today, I completed my first Yom Kippur outside of the United States. While I observed the fast in Buenos Aires and did so in the spring instead of the fall, the imagery of Yom Kippur does not change. One of the most vivid images is depicted in the liturgical poem Unetaneh Tokef. The imagery of the Book of Life grapples with the ultimate question who lives and who dies. Not all of us make it another year. No matter how hard we try, there is a chance this year could be our last. There are things that we cannot control, whether they are natural disasters, pandemics, traffic accidents, or simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time. While we live in a world where plenty is out of our control, this poem also reminds us that we are meant to do what is within our control. 

The poem Unetaneh Tokef gives us three interrelated tools: praying, giving money to worthy causes, or making up for previous mistakes. It is this last one, teshuvah (תשובה), that I would like to focus on today. While commonly translated as "repentance," it comes from the Hebrew verb "to return" (לשוב). We return to our truest, best selves: who we are meant to be. How in the world do we do that? In order to know where to go in any journey, whether physical or spiritual, you need to know where the starting point is so you can head in the right direction to your destination or destinations. In this case, to understand your starting point, you need to know where you are emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. Without that, you simply end up wandering. 

For teshuvah to work, you need to remove the mental fog, which includes the ego. As I explained last week for Rosh Hashanah, my former rabbi described this phenomenon as the "Avimelech Syndrome." This syndrome was his way of saying that excuse-making, shifting blame, and rationalizing behavior get in the way of this internal work. As long as one succumbs to the Avimelech Syndrome, it will be impossible to move forward spiritually. It is akin to having the brakes on a car or an anchor on a ship and expecting to make any significant movement. 

At the Chabad house where I attended services for Yom Kippur, the rabbi told a Chassidic story about the Rabbi Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev. Rabbi Levi Yitzchak saw a man smoking on Yom Kippur. When asked why he was smoking, the man replied that he knew it was Yom Kippur and that he knew that Jewish law prohibits smoking on Yom Kippur, but he was doing it anyways. The man who was smoking was not lying or making excuses. He admitted the truth plainly and honestly. It is not a story told to excuse inappropriate or morally problematic behavior. Rather, it is a stark contrast to the Avimelech Syndrome because we need that level of radical honesty to open ourselves to spiritual growth. Why? Because to reiterate, if you do not know where you are at, how do you know where you are going or how to get there? 

Once you remove those spiritual blinders, you have to take inventory of your failures and shortcomings without deflections or excuses. To quote G.I. Joe, knowing is half the battle. While it is common for Jewish tradition to go through the errors, I had expressed concern two years ago that focusing only on one's mistakes can lead to despair or paralysis. That is why it is important to also focus on our strengths and the good that we did in the previous year, especially given the human tendency towards negativity bias. By holding contrition and celebration in tension, we can have a balanced view and the motivation to do the work of teshuvah. 

However, to paraphrase and infer from the G.I. Joe quote, there is another half of that battle. If teshuvah is to be complete, it cannot merely be Yom Kippur service performance. The goal of teshuvah is transformation, and that takes even more courage than facing what your emotional baggage is. That transformation does not happen by mere confession that is then put on the back burner for another year. Real teshuvah involves acknowledgment of wrongdoing without excuses; making clear commitments to change; structural repair and recompense (if one harmed another); and finally resolving not to return to the same patterns that resulted in the initial error, mistake, or wrongdoing (Maimonides, Hilchot Teshuvah, Chapter 2). 

As I pointed out last week, the beauty of teshuvah is that we are not defined by our worst moments and that our past does not dictate our future. We do not have to succumb to old patterns and our futures are not predetermined. The spiritual capacity to change and to return to our truest selves is within our grasp. The question is whether we will seize the moment or not.

Ahavnu Vidui: Why Yom Kippur Could Also Use a Confession of the Good We Have Done

Yom Kippur, or the Day of Atonement, is considered the holiest day on the Jewish calendar. The central part of Yom Kippur liturgy is the confessional known as Vidui (ודוי). This confessional is divided into two parts. The first is a summary version of one's wrongdoings called Ashamnu (אשמנו). The second is a longer list of sins referred to as Al Chet (על חטא). This confessional is so essential to Yom Kippur that it is recited ten times throughout the course of the Yom Kippur services. The purpose of this confessional is to recognize our wrongdoings from the previous year to inspire us to do better for the next year.

I grew up Catholic, which had its own forms of self-flagellation and guilt. In that respect, you would think having converted to Judaism would make the Vidui a natural fit. I have both Catholic and Jewish guilt metaphorically running through my veins. Reciting this prayer should be a no-brainer for someone with my background. At first, I did like it because it played off of both Catholic and Jewish guilt. As I got older, I confronted my perfectionism and realized how unattainable it is. As such, it became more difficult to deal with the traditional Vidui during Yom Kippur. "Why take a day out of my calendar to be hard on myself when I already do it year-round," I asked myself. I reflect on this part of my life because a friend of mine sent me something shortly before this past Shabbat began (see below).

The text above called the Ahavnu Vidui. It was written by Rabbi Avi Weiss over ten years ago. R. Weiss was well known for his activism for Soviet Jewry in the 1980s (along with other forms of activism), as well as for starting the Modern Orthodox yeshiva (seminary) called Yeshivat Chovevei Torah. Some might take one look at this confessional and think of it as frou-frou, pop psychology that has no basis in Jewish tradition. I will say that I have met R. Avi Weiss and I know that this Vidui is coming from a good place. Second, this newer confessional is based off a Vidui Ma'aser attributed to the famous R. Avraham Yitzchak Kook (more on that momentarily). 

This brings up a legal and philosophical question about what you do when you create new rituals or practices. Tevye the milkman grappled with this theme throughout the musical Fiddler on the Roof. As important as tradition can be, it's not an end-all. Plus, there was a point in time which traditions were once new. As we create new traditions, the question should be whether such a practice, ritual, or belief lines up with the overall arc of Judaism. It is a question I asked about any custom or tradition created post-Talmud, whether it is the orange on the seder plate, the electric menorah, mourning on the Omer, adding the Matriarchs to the Amidah, shlissel challah, tashlich, or wearing a kippah. 

And let's not forget the long-standing tradition of adding prayers and blessings to the siddur (prayer book) over time, including Ein Keloheinu (9 c.), Unetaneh Tokef (11 c.), Aleinu (12 c.), Yigdal (14 c.), Lecha Dodi (16 c.), Modeh Ani (16 c.), and Yedid Nefesh (16 c.). While confession has its origins in the Torah, the Al Chet was not formalized until the 8th century. The more elaborate form of Ashamnu that we know now came about sometime in the Middle Ages. Trying to dismiss the Ahavnu Vidui by saying that it is new would ignore centuries of tradition in terms of making the prayer book longer and longer with more prayers. 

I understand having the traditional Vidui with the Ashamnu and Al Chet as part of Yom Kippur liturgy. Only focusing on our good aspects could lead to haughtiness, self-absorption, an inflated sense of ego, and virtue signaling. I would surmise that is why Jewish tradition places such emphasis on wrongdoing during a time such as Yom Kippur. If we are not aware of our wrongdoings and shortcomings, how can we fix them? Ignoring our flaws is contrary to the underlying premise of personal development. It is why I do not advocate for removing the traditional Vidui. 

Conversely, I think that having an Ahavnu Vidui is a good idea. This is in part because our foibles and flaws are not a complete view of ourselves. We have a tendency to be our own worst critics. There is a need for balance. Maimonides went as far as saying that everyone should view themselves as an exact balance between guilt and acquittal (Mishnah Torah, Hilchot Teshuvah, 3:4) in order to make sure that that next action in life was a good one. There is also a negative psychological effect of all negative all the time. To quote R. Avi Weiss:

Repetitive Vidui can also have an opposite effect: it can bring one to despair, to loss of confidence, even to loss of belief in one's capacity to do. After so many Ashamnus, one may be left overwhelmed, wondering, "Is there anything I've done right? Do I have the capacity to make positive contributions to the world?"   

R. Kook did believe in having a more positive Vidui. He said that "a person should also be joyous concerning the good they have done and being able to confess one's good deeds (Commentary to Mishnah Ma'aser Sheni 5:10). The catch with R. Kook's version is that he was the opinion that a positive Vidui should only be recited twice every seven years. The reason to recite the positive version less frequently is to "avoid smugness and complacency." 

I understand the need to avoid those negative tendencies. I also have to ask if twice every seven years is adequate. A researcher named Marcial Losada conducted mathematical modeling on the number of positive to negative interactions necessary to make a corporate team successful (Losada and Fredrickson, 2005). The Losada ratio showed that about three positive statements was needed for one negative statement to maximize productivity. This research did come under scrutiny, including the retraction of that specific Losada ratio. In 2013, a Harvard Business Review article pointed out that the ideal ratio between praise and criticism is about 5.6:1. 

It is tough getting at an exact praise-to-criticism ratio because human beings have a wide range of personalities in which a one-size-fits-all approach is not the best. What might be an acceptable ratio for me might not be for you. We each have our own tendencies, traits, strengths, and flaws. Regardless of whether there is some magical ratio, one thing that is clear is that you need both constructive criticism and praise if you want to be a better person. 

That is not only for professional relations, but also for our spiritual lives. If we solely keep focusing on our wrongdoings, we will not find the confidence or the motivation to mitigate our shortcomings. If we solely focus on our positive aspects, we get off on our hubris while potentially having our flaws get more flawed. What the exact ratio is I cannot say. Like with any recipe, it is about proportions. What I can say is that having the traditional Vidui alongside with a newer Vidui in the spirit of R. Weiss would help us in a more holistic spiritual practice in which we can truly be our best selves.

A Yom Kippur Lesson on the Stoic Dichotomy of Control and How to Take the Reins for the New Year

We are currently in another year of the Jewish High Holiday period, which starts on Rosh Hashanah (Jewish New Year) and ends after Yom Kippur (Day of Atonement). It is within this ten-day period (עשרת ימי תשובה) that Jews traditionally lean into introspection, reconnection, and improving oneself. There are a sheer amount of services and prayers that take place during this holiday period. There is one liturgical poem (פיוט; piyut) that is read both on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur that I want to focus on today: Unetaneh Tokef (ונתנה תקף).

The premise of this liturgical poem is that G-d is Judge and He is judging our actions. He has a Book of Life and a Book of Death. On Rosh Hashanah, it is written in which Book we will be inscribed. On Yom Kippur, the Books are sealed. As we see in the poem, the Books act as a metaphor of who is going to live and going to die in the upcoming year. When I analyzed this piyut nine years ago, the framework presented in Unetaneh Tokef is figurative because, well, this is a poem. As we will see, this poem has great insight, even though there are not literal Books. 

This is a poem that helps us to come to terms with our own mortality. One of the ways it inadvertently does so is by using the dichotomy of control. The dichotomy of control, which is most commonly associated with Stoicism, is the idea some things are in your control and others are not. This is true when you divide a task, goal, event, or occurrence into small enough pieces. The dichotomy of control framework has us categorize things into either being in our control or not. We are then to focus on what is within our control. This concept exists in the well-known Serenity Prayer:

G-d grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. 

This dichotomy plays out in Unetaneh Tokef. The piyut list a series of ways that people die, including by water, by fire, by hunger, by earthquake, and by plague, e.g., COVID-19. It also says that it will be determined who will be at ease and who will suffer, who will become poor and who will become rich, and who will be cast down and who will be raised high. We have no control of whether death comes from us. It is not a matter of if we will die, but how, when, and where. As for becoming poor or rich, that one is trickier. We can have control over our performance at work, but we cannot control whether economic conditions shut down our place of employment or certain other dynamics in the workplace. There are many external events over which we do not have control. After this list of events over which we have little to no control, the poem creates a "but" statement to counter a feeling of fatalism:

ותשובה ותפלה וצדקה מעהירין את רע הגזרה

But repentance, prayer, and charity avert the evil [severity] of the decree. 

While there are a myriad of events and actions outside of our control, Unetaneh Tokef reminds us that there are things we can do to help mitigate the circumstances, whether they are our fault or not. The poem provides us with three solutions. As the Lubavitcher Rebbe aptly illustrates, the English translations do not capture the profundity of what these options actually entail:

• Repentance (תשובה). What is interesting about the Jewish concept of teshuvah is that it has the same root as the verb "to return" (לשוב). Rather than become a new person, one is "returning" to one's original self. In Judaism, that original nature is deemed good. I have theological qualms believing everyone is good deep down. I think being human means that there is potential to be good, but that is not the same as being fundamentally good. Perhaps that is what we are returning to: actualizing our potential to be good in the world. In any case, I still like the concept of teshuvah. Whether it is Greek tragedies, Calvinist predestination, Marxism, Freudian thought, or genetic determinism, there has been many schools of thought that believe that we are puppets of fate. What is great about teshuvah is that with effort, discipline, and will, we have the ability and freedom to change for the better. 
• Prayer (תפלה). There is a separate verb that means "to pray, request, beseech" (לבקש). The word comes from the reflexive verb "to judge oneself" (התפלל). While there is an element of interacting with the Divine, there is a major aspect of self-evaluation and self-judgment. This is not about a process of asking for what we need. This is about developing the self-awareness to become better people. 
• Charity (צדקה). The idea of charity comes from the Latin word caritas, which means "from the heart." The closest Hebrew gets to this idea is the word חסד. In Judaism, the word צדקה comes from the root of צדק: justice. We give not because we feel warm-hearted, but because it is the right thing to do. It reminds us that we have a responsibility to help out other human beings. It also reminds us that nothing ultimately belongs to us. While the concept of צדקה is traditionally about how one gives money, I believe that giving one's time or effort, or even extending a kind word, is also an extension of the concept of צדקה. Rabbi Eliyahu Dessler said that the extent to which we love is the extent to which we give. 

Through the actions of self-reflection, changing our behavior, and doing acts of kindness, Unetaneh Tokef teaches us that we turn abstract values into the fulfillment of what Jewish values are supposed to exemplify. By becoming better people through our thoughts, speech, and action, we can bring about a year of sweetness, joy, and abundance. 

Going from Yom Kippur to Sukkot: A Transition from Repentance to Joy

The Jewish calendar around this time of year (the Jewish month of Tishrei) is one where a Jew almost feels like a chicken with its head cut off. Within one month, there are four Jewish holidays: Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Sukkot, and Shemini Artzeret/Simchat Torah. In addition to our normal lives, Jews have spiritual preparation, meal preparation, and sukkah building to contend with. Within the craziness is the time between Yom Kippur and Sukkot. Normally, that is the time to make sure the sukkah is built and that meals are lined up for the first days of Sukkot. Within the commotion, I find something else more spiritual when looking at this craziness within the context of the High Holiday structure.

Elul is our spiritual preparation to get us geared up for the holidays to come. Rosh Hashanah is our time to get that initial spiritual jolt by listening to shofar blasts. Yom Kippur is a spiritual spa day: no food, no drink, no worry about comfort as is represented by not wearing leather shoes. Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur have a few common themes. They act as a reminder of our limits and imperfections, as well as our own mortality. The chest-thumping and the guilt trips cannot go on indefinitely. If they did, we would be debilitated. That is why Yom Kippur only lasts one day, and that is why there is a change of tone within the holidays. The switch does not begin at the end of Yom Kippur when we say to ourselves "Thank G-d we can eat again." It happens during the Ne'ilah service towards the end of the Yom Kippur services.

R. Israel Salanter taught that as a minimum, one did teshuvah (repentance) between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. If you want to take it up a notch, you start during the Jewish month of Elul. However, if you really want to take the concept of teshuvah seriously, you start at Ne'ilah services. Why? Ne'ilah represents the turning point in which we act on all the spiritual work we did between Elul and Ne'ilah in the hopes of a better future.

As my Rabbi, R. Shmuel Herzfeld, discussed this Yom Kippur, our past does not define our future. That is the essential lesson of Yom Kippur. Judaism is not a fatalistic tradition in which we believe that we are condemned by genetics, environment, or G-d Himself. We take those efforts from Elul, Rosh Hashanah, and Yom Kippur, and we transform ourselves into something more.

There are many reasons to be joyful for Sukkot. R. Shlomo Wolbe expresses the view that Yom Kippur and Sukkot are juxtaposed is that we received positive judgement from G-d. Our ability to have another chance to work on ourselves, our goals, our teshuvah, are all reasons to be joyful.

Another reason to be joyful is to be thankful for what we have. The sukkah is a temporary structure that is flimsy relative to an actual house or building. That sukkah is a metaphor for life: ephemeral, fragile, uncertain. One thing we realize is that we become thankful for all that we have in the simplest of settings because life does not come from material fulfillment, but spiritual fulfillment. Additionally, the joy of Sukkot comes from becoming at peace with our environment and who we are (R. Yitzhak Berkowits).

Speaking of being at peace with ourselves, my Maharat, Ruth Friedman, brought up a certain tension that exists during Yom Kippur. On the one hand, we are meant to be our most spiritual selves to the point where we act like angels on Yom Kippur. We wear white, we don't eat or drink, we say "Baruch shem kavod malchuto l'olam va'ed" out loud, and we wear our tallit in the evening. On the other hand, we are meant to bring our most honest selves to Yom Kippur: confess all of our imperfections from the previous year and figure out how we can be better next year.

Going off Maharat Friedman's words and R. Berkowits' interpretation, I think that we are meant to find joy in the paradox of striving for perfection while realizing our human limitations. As Maharat Friedman brought up during Yom Kippur, we need to find a way to accept our non-angelic humanity while still striving for our best. Coming to terms with both our humanity and our expectations not only helps because it helps optimize goal-setting, but it helps bring us closer to G-d since we can feel the joy of Sukkot, as well as life, all the more so.

Teshuvah Is an Ongoing Process, and It Is Not Just for Yom Kippur

'Tis the Jewish season...for repentance, that is. We are currently in between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, which is known as Yamim Noraim (ימים נוראים). During these ten days, we are meant to reflect on the themes and motifs of the holidays while making amends for wrongs we committed in the past [year] by doing teshuvah (תשובה). Although teshuvah is commonly translated as "repentance," the word is related to the Hebrew verb לשוב, "to return." Teshuvah is more about returning to your good self. The teshuvah process for the High Holy Days reaches its climax during Yom Kippur. With regards to sins that are committed between man and G-d, they are forgiven, as is illustrated by Kol Nidre. As for sins committed between other people, the teshuvah process is meant to have taken place by the time Yom Kippur reaches its end, at which time, forgiveness is hopefully given because the individual who did the wrong has made amends.

This next bit is strictly from my personal observations, but it seems that after Yom Kippur ends, teshuvah is set aside. When I say "set aside," I don't mean that people aren't doing teshuvah during the rest of the year or that it never gets brought up again. After all, asking for teshuvah is in our daily prayers three times a day. On the other hand, it is one of many blessings and prayers recited in daily liturgy, and it can easily get lost among so many other motifs. In practice, there is a de-emphasis during the rest of the year to the point of "thank G-d I don't have to do this again until next Rosh Hashanah." I don't mean to say that we need to emphasize it year-round the way we do during the Yamim Noraim. At the same time, we have to remember that teshuvah is not reserved only for the Yamim Noraim, and I think as such for a few reasons beyond the daily liturgy.

At the Ne'ilah service during Yom Kippur, we are meant to gear up and shift our thoughts and actions towards the teshuvah that we were supposed to work on during Yamim Noraim. R. Israel Salanter even said that those who are really religious are those who start doing teshuvah during Ne'ilah instead of waiting until Yamim Noraim of the following year. This mentality helps us keep teshuvah at the forefront of our thoughts instead of being at the back-burner.

The idea of integrating teshuvah as a constant in our daily life is important. As Hillel said in Pirke Avot (1:13), he who does not increase [his Torah learning] decreases (ודלא מוסיף יסף). Although there are certain constants in life, the truth is that life is also in flux. You learn to adapt to the change or get stuck. You learn to improve or you will regress. There is no staying in one place. To quote Frida Kahlo, "nothing is absolute, everything changes, everything moves, everything revolutionizes, everything comes and goes." That is reality. As we develop our characteristic traits and our Torah learning, we have to keep teshuvah ever so in mind so we can grow. Growth and teshuvah go hand-in-hand. They also help shape our purpose. R. Yonah's commentary on Pirke Avot 1:13 is that one who feels no need to learn more is spiritually dead, and that the gift of life is wasted on that individual. Keeping teshuvah at the forefront is not just good ethical advice: it gives our life the fullest meaning possible.

There is another reason we need to keep teshuvah as part of our personal development, and that is the nature of the yetzer hara (יצר הרע), or the Evil Inclination. In Pirkei Avot 4:1, Ben Zoma says that a strong person is one who subdues his Evil Inclination (הכובש את יצרו). In Midrash Shmuel's commentary on Pirkei Avot 4:1, he reminds us of how the yetzer hara differs from an enemy of a physical war. One is that the yetzer hara can successfully pass itself off as your friend. The second is that physical war is about physical security, whereas the yetzer hara is a fight for your spiritual life. The third aspect, and the one that is most apropos to this conversation, is that in a physical war, once the enemy is vanquished, the enemy won't come back. That is not the case with the yetzer hara. Even if you manage to subdue or mitigate the yetzer hara at a certain time, that does not mean the yetzer hara cannot "come back from the dead." It can always make a reappearance. The idea of such relapse is regrettably all too familiar with those dealing with addiction, and that notion plays out in Jewish thought. Midrash Shmuel's comments imply that we need to be so alert about teshuvah that we need to be mindful of things that we might have thought were already resolved.

The process of teshuvah is not for the fainthearted because it makes us confront our ego and pushes us outside of our comfort zone. Teshuvah goes well beyond feeling bad for past actions or saying "I'm sorry." It is about making some major changes to our character traits, or at the very least, our behavior. As such, it requires constant reflection, introspection, and alterations to maintain a certain level of behavior. I believe that the story of Jonah and Nineveh is not read on Yom Kippur because it shows us an exemplar of teshuvah. Quite the opposite! If anything, the people of Nineveh managed to undo their teshuvah by the end of the Book of Jonah. My take on why the Book of Jonah is read on Yom Kippur is to remind us that even when we do teshuvah initially, we can always drop the ball and relapse later. The Book of Jonah reminds us how fragile our humanity can be, and how we need to be mindful of it for our teshuvah to have permanence. May our teshuvah be sincere and everlasting this Yom Kippur!

Why the Extra Ne'ilah Service on Yom Kippur?

Yom Kippur is not only a day of fasting, atonement, and introspection. It is a day for a whole lot of religious services. On normal days, there are Shacharit, Mincha, Ma'ariv. On Shabbat and the holidays, there is the extra Mussaf service. But with Yom Kippur, there is an extra service on top of Shabbat: Ne'ilah (נעילה). Literally meaning "locking," Ne'ilah comes at the end of Yom Kippur. Why do we need an extra service at the end? I know that there is not much to do on Yom Kippur aside from praying, but I would like think there is more to the Ne'ilah service than having us kill time at the end of services because "there's nothing better to do." So what is the significance of Ne'ilah?

For many traditional Jews, the Ne'ilah service is about having one last chance to repent for what one has done in the previous year. Through G-d's mercy do we get an extra opportunity to do teshuvah. A verse that makes its way into the Ne'ilah service is Isaiah 43:25, "I, just I, am He who wipes your transgressions. For my own sake, I will not remember." This notion is in alignment of the traditional understanding of the Hebrew word נעילה, which has referred to one of two things (Jerusalem Talmud, Berakhot 4:1).

One is that it refers to the locking or closing of the Heavenly Gates. That argument falls short since the Gate of Tears is never closed. The second closing could correspond to the closing of the Temple, but as R. Arthur Green brings up in Yom Kippur Readings, that correspondence is not impressive. It would be more accurate to say that what is closing is our hearts. The High Holy Day season takes a lot out of us emotionally. According to R. Green, Ne'ilah is that time where we realize that we move from supplication to making peace.

What we can glean from R. Green's interpretation is that Ne'ilah is not just about what we have done, but also about the potential we can achieve in the upcoming year. I think the forward-looking focus is another way of looking at this service for three reasons:

1. Going back to the Isaiah 43:25, the following verse (43:26) gives us some context. G-d is asking that we "reason together" (נשפטה יחד) in order that we may be justified (למען תצדק). According to this interpretation, G-d does not just want us to be penitent for our wrongs, but also ask how to make things right. Per these passages from Isaiah in the context of the Ne'ilah service, it is a reminder that G-d wants to forgive us. If G-d is capable of forgiving us, shouldn't we also be able to forgive ourselves? When we reach that stage, we can better move forward. 
2. R. Yisrael Salanter pointed out that most people do teshuvah on the High Holy Days, while the more pious do so on the month of Elul. R. Salanter went as far as saying that we should do teshuvah right after Ne'ilah services are over. R. Salanter's main point was that teshuvah is a year-round endeavor. To take R. Salanter's words a step further, Ne'ilah is supposed to be that extra push that gets us going in moving forward for the upcoming year. 
3. In each of the Yom Kippur services is a Viduy (וידוי), a confession. In the Ne'ilah service, we read through the Ashamnu. However, unlike the other services, the Ne'ilah Viduy does not have an "Al Chet," the longer confession within the Viduy that mentions specific sins. The "Al Chet" is replaced with two new paragraphs: "Atah noten (אתה נותן)" and "Atah hidalvta (אתה הבדלת)." Within these two paragraphs, the only specific sin mentioned is theft. My rabbi, R. Shmuel Herzfeld, mentions this in his book Food for the Spirit. Why, according to my rabbi, is theft the only specific sin mentioned? As R. Joseph Soloveitchik explained, every sin we commit is really a sort of theft against G-d. When we err, we violate our purpose on earth. R. Herzfeld expounds upon this by saying that when we steal from G-d, we have lost our focus and forgot why we are here. We read this passage to remind us about our responsibility in this world and what we are meant to do (Herzfeld, p. 92). Reciting this towards the end of Ne'ilah is meant to bring our focus on what is to come. 

The Ne'ilah service is important because it is that segue between the High Holidays period and the New Year. It is what connects our past to our future. Yes, we are meant to look back and make up for our shortcomings. However, looking back only does so much good if we do not take it in the context of looking forward. Amend for past mistakes to be sure, but also learn from those mistakes to propel yourself forward. As R. Jonathan Sacks brings up in his Yom Kippur machzor, Ne'ilah is not about asking "Are you perfect?" but "Can you grow?" That is what Ne'ilah is about: take that lesson and be the best version of you that you can be!

How Saying Yizkor Enhances Yom Kippur

I find Judaism to generally be a life-affirming religion, but there are moments where death becomes a motif within the Jewish religion. On Sukkot, we read the book of Ecclesiastes, which reminds of our frail mortality. Tisha B'Av is a time to lament all the calamity and death that has befallen the Jewish people. When loved ones pass away, there is a relatively extensive mourning process for the mourner.  Even with those occasional reminders that life is fleeting when you compare yourself with the eternality of G-d, the motif is most pronounced during the High Holy Days (ימים נוראים), especially during Yom Kippur.

In Jewish tradition, the High Holy Days period is auspicious because G-d metaphorically has two Books in front of Him: the Book of Life and the Book of Death. In these books, everyone's names are inscribed. On Rosh Hashanah, each name is written in one of these books. On Yom Kippur, the books are sealed, meaning that the ten-day period is meant as an opportunity to atone for one's misdeeds. The poem Unataneh Tokef illustrates this idea of there being two Books, and determining who lives and who dies. I do not believe that there are literally two Books. I don't even believe that G-d literally determines who lives and who dies this year, but I do believe that one of the purposes of the High Holy Days, and Unataneh Tokef specifically, is to remind us that death is inevitable. It also reminds us that we are not in control of everything, including our own mortality.

And this brings us to the practice of Yizkor (יזכר). What I find interesting about Yizkor is that it is not mandated under Jewish law, yet so many people show up for the Yizkor service. Yizkor, which is an Ashkenazic minhag (custom) that became common practice in the thirteenth century, serves as a memorial service for the departed. The Yizkor service is recited four times on the Jewish calendar: during Passover, Shavuot, Shemini Artzeret, and Yom Kippur. However, the custom of Yizkor was only practiced on Yom Kippur until the eighteenth century, which lends me to believe that there is something special about the tie between Yizkor and Yom Kippur.

In a way, Yom Kippur is quasi-mimicking death. We don't eat or drink for a day. We wear a white shroud, which is also part of burial. We metaphorically approach that tipping point between life and death. And assuming that we do Yom Kippur correctly, we metaphorically die and are reborn through teshuvah in the hopes to become new and better people.

The Yizkor service enhances these motifs by putting life and death into perspective. By thinking of those who have since departed, we realize that while people do not live forever, they live through our memories, and their past influence affects how we shape the future. Yizkor is a time to remember how those from days past have positively impacted our lives. As my rabbi states in his book about Yom Kippur, Yom Kippur is an opportunity to transcend time and space to relive past wonderful moments with departed love ones and to have just a few more minutes with them. Even with the inevitability of death, it reminds us how wonderful life can be, and how much more so that is the case when we give to others and share our greatest moments with others. It is the reminder that no man is an island, and that without the help of others, we would not be the individuals we are today.

We remember and honor the past so we can create a better future. We live through the examples set by those who have since passed. As we approach Yom Kippur, let's ask ourselves how people gave to us and influenced us. That way, we may focus on what truly matters in life and return the favor by helping make this world a slightly better than when we found it.

What Modern-Day Jews Can Learn From the Scapegoat Ritual

Judaism is not immune from that which is seemingly bizarre. Since we're approaching Yom Kippur, the practice that I have in mind is the scapegoat ritual. In the colloquial sense, a scapegoat is someone who blamed for the faults or wrongdoings of others. The modern-day concept of the scapegoat has some basis in the original scapegoat ritual that is in Leviticus 16. Essentially, the scapegoat ritual entailed using two goats: one for G-d and the other "for Azazel" (לעזאזל). The goat for G-d was sacrificed in a purification offering (Leviticus 16:9). What happened with the goat "for Azazel"? The High Priest would lay his hands on that goat, confess over it the sins and transgressions of Israel, thereby [symbolically] transferring the Jewish people's sins to the goat. The goat is then set free into the wilderness (Leviticus 16:20-22).

There hasn't been a Temple for over two millennia. Even when there was a Temple, the passage comes with a bigger issue: vicarious atonement. The fact that one can sin all year and have their sins transferred to a goat is, in all honesty, un-Jewish. I'm not saying that simply because Christians like using this passage to make some unfounded parallel between the scapegoat and Jesus, although if the sacrifice were that powerful, why would it need to be done every year? But I digress.

The scapegoat ritual is perturbing upon first glance because if taken literally, it means we don't have to care about the moral or ethical implications of our actions. "Why be good if the goat can absolve me of my sins?" It's the same reason I have an issue with the "Jewish" practice of kapparot (כפרות). Much like I do with other practices, I have to wonder whether the goat was literally supposed to atone for our sins or whether the ritual is an action-based meditation (e.g., tashlich) in which we are supposed to be motivated to something else.

Maybe the ritual symbolizes that instead of life being dictated by fate or random occurrences, we are meant to live a life with meaning and moral imperative. Maybe it symbolizes that while we have to pay a price for our sins (i.e., the first goat), we still need to confess our sins and do our best to uproot them from our lives. That is why interestingly enough, the most of the steps of teshuvah (repentance) are in the scapegoat ritual. In the scapegoat ritual, we realize we have sinned. We have to offer something to [do our best to] reverse the effects of the sin. We also have to confess our sins. The trick to this is that last step of teshuvah, which is that we make sure we don't commit the same sin again. Perhaps the fact that the scapegoat ritual was done every year, instead of as a one-time ritual, is to remind us that keeping ourselves in check and not screwing up is not a task for the fainthearted. Whether we revert back to a sin or shortcoming is up to the individual, not some goat dispatched in the wilderness. Even if the goat literally was meant to absolve us from sin for the previous year, we decide our own fate in terms of whether we choose to err in a certain fashion.

The great rabbi Maimonides (Rambam) viewed the scapegoat figuratively (Guide for the Perplexed, III, xlvi). In the Guide for the Perplexed, Rambam says that it's literally "not a sacrifice to Azazel, G-d forbid." For Rambam, the purpose of the ritual is to be a powerful allegory that impresses upon the mind of the individual that sins lead him to a wasteland. Ultimately, it was to be a spiritual wake-up call and turn back to G-d in teshuvah. Although we don't have a scapegoat ritual anymore, I hope we can all find that something that can wake us up and engender real change to make us more spiritual, more morally upright, and better human beings.

גמר חתימה טובה

Why Apologizing Isn't the Same As Doing Teshuvah: A Yom Kippur Lesson About True Change

Tis the season......for doing teshuvah, that is. We are currently in the middle of the Days of Awe, the period between between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur in which Jews are to make up for inadequacies, ask where we are right now, and where we're going. It is the epitome of spiritual introspection and awareness in the Jewish religion. One aspect is to atone for wrongs committed in the previous year. How do we go about that in Judaism? By doing teshuvah. I would surmise that there are many that think that making up for one's mistakes simply means saying "sorry." Simply saying "sorry" is not teshuvah. Well, why not? You've recognized your wrongdoing. You feel a sense of remorse. You even muster the courage to confront the person you have wronged and you utter the words "I wronged you" and "I am sorry." Why isn't it enough to simply say "sorry"?

Let's start with a simple question: How do I know you're sorry? Just because you say it doesn't make it so. Let's take an example that is unfortunately all too common: domestic abuse. An individual beats their spouse. The abuser says "I am sorry," but returns to abusive behavior shortly thereafter. What good does saying "I am sorry" do when your fist is still striking the person you supposedly care about? We don't even need to go to such extremes to realize that superficially saying "sorry" is all too commonplace. The individual expresses remorse, but reverts right back to the same behavior. The words "I am sorry" go from being a step in truly making up for one's misdeeds to becoming a social nicety.

Yes, it is absolutely true that confronting the person who has been wronged is a step in the teshuvah process, but it sure isn't the last step. If you stop at saying "I am sorry," you haven't truly mended your ways. You have simply absconded from taking any responsibility from your actions. If you are truly sorry, you will end up doing two things: 1) doing your utmost to undo the damage done, and 2) working on not committing the same shortcoming. What does this look like in practice?

It depends on whether you have wronged G-d or another human being. According to the Mishnah (Yoma 8:9), "For sins between man and G-d (e.g., eating non-kosher food), Yom Kippur atones." Although that might sound easy, it's really not so much because remember, G-d is omniscient, so He will know if you are lying or not. Looking at the rest of the Yoma 8:9, it's even more difficult if you have wronged another human being because "Yom Kippur does not atone until you have appeased one's fellow" (ibid). After you have said "I am sorry," you have to recompense the individual who was wronged. For instance, if one stole or defrauded, that individual has to return the stolen goods and then some. Even if the damage has been undone, the offense is not forgiven until he asks for the victim's pardon (Bava Kamma 8:7). This does imply that even if the victim forgave you without you apologizing, you still have to verbally confess. Why? Because it's not simply about undoing the wrong done. It is about transforming oneself in the process.

That is why the final step of teshuvah is working like mad to make sure you don't commit the same offense again. How do we know the penitent is resolute in re-committing the shortcoming? "If the opportunity to commit the same sin presents itself on two occasions and the sinner does not yield to it (Talmud, Yoma 86b)." I don't think the Talmud literally meant after two times, because "What if you do it again after being tempted for a third time?" Rather, there is some sort of tangible action to illustrate that one is serious in not screwing up in that fashion for yet another time (Lechem Mishneh on Rambam, Hilchot Teshuva 2:2). Another way we can show our repentance is by taking that particular shortcoming and running in the opposite direction by doing good (Sha'arei Teshuvah 1:35). For instance, if one were previously a terrible gossiper, they should not only study the laws of Jewish speech ethics, but also put that into action and work on speaking words of loving-kindness. If it's too much to go in the opposite direction in this particular shortcoming at the moment, then increase your good deeds in other areas until you can improve upon the shortcoming (Maimonides, MT, "Laws of Repentance," 2:4).

Talk is cheap unless you back it up with action. Teshuvah comes from the Hebrew word lishuv, which means "to return [to one's good self]." The beauty of this time of year is that we are not pawns of the gods or subject to "what fate has in store for us." Although it comes with its fair share of obstacles, we have the power to make ourselves into better human beings. The time is upon us to change for the better. Are you up for the challenge?

Post-Yom Kippur Thoughts on Technological Teshuvah

Most actions or objects are not inherently bad, wrong, or evil. Fire can be used to destroy, but it also has positive uses such as heat, light, and a way to cook food. Money isn't evil either. It can be used for greed or it can be used to help those who are less fortunate. How we use our technology also comes with a similar conundrum.

As I pointed out a while back, whether it is our Facebook accounts, our iPhones, or e-mail, technological progress is very much a double-edged sword. On the one hand, technology is a great tool for me to keep in touch with those who do not live in close proximity. If it were not for Facebook or e-mail, I would have to handwrite letters to family and friends far away, which would be quite tedious. Social media, the Internet, e-mail, these can all be instruments to enhance our lives, particularly in terms of communication.

Conversely, technology has downsides to it, and since we're all too human, it has a way of getting the better of us with its allure. For many of us, technology is not so much as life enhancer as it is an extension of ourselves, or even worse, a form of enslavement. If someone sends a text message, many of us would feel very compelled to answer it immediately, and if we don't, it eats us up inside. The amount of time spent on social media or in front of a screen can be mind-blowing. As I was reminded of while sitting in Yom Kippur services yesterday, one of the biggest casualties of using technology as a crutch is with our social relations. Texting, Facebook messaging, and writing e-mails are no substitute for having an actual, personal relationship. Although our real friends are also Facebook friends (unless they don't have an account), that certainly doesn't mean that anyone who is a "Facebook 'friend'" is an actual friend.

What does any of this have to do with Yom Kippur?

One of the fundamentals of Yom Kippur is teshuvah. Although it is commonly mistranslated as "repentance," it literally means "return." When we talk about returning, there is always an indirect object, even if the indirect object is implied. So to what is it we are returning? In essence, we are returning to our good essence. We realize that we are more than our mistakes and errors because the potential we have to perform good acts is quite astounding. In this instance, we have to realize that we are more than our Facebook accounts or [text] messaging interfaces. We are social creatures that need authentic social interactions and intimate relationships to truly live. We are told to choose life over death (Deuteronomy 30:19), and that applies here because when we gravitate towards technology, we have opted for the virtual world instead of the real world. Instead of having a live interaction with another human being and develop intimate relationships with other human beings, it has become simpler to use technology as a form of escapism.

Since a vital part of teshuvah is about examining our lives and relationships, now is as good of a time as any to apply that to technology. A recent study about Facebook shows that one of the primary reasons people are on Facebook as much as they are is because of boredom. Going with the definition that boredom is a pervasive lack of interest in one's surroundings and perceiving them as tiresome or tedious, then one has to deal with this ennui in order not to get sucked into the abyss of technology. With all the pastimes out there, knowledge and subject material to study, and all the forms of live, social interaction, it makes me wonder how anyone can ever be bored. In order to get past this sentiment, we need to be committed to saving ourselves from ourselves. What is the first step? Much like any addiction, the first step is admitting there is a problem. Realize how precious time truly is and make the best of it instead of wasting it in front of a screen.

In this context, "making the best of it" starts by making a concerted effort to limit time on Facebook, on the Internet, and in front of a screen. I'm not advocating to completely remove oneself from technology because in this day and age, that is unfeasible. Nevertheless, there should be some time we should set aside some time to disconnect from cell phones and computers. I find one of the best ways to have a digital detox is Shabbat. Think of it: a whole day where you're not bombarded by e-mails and text messages. Instead, you get to spend that time having authentic interactions with real people. I find that non-usage to be such a tranquil, liberating part of my week--really helps with my blood pressure. If you haven't tried it, I highly recommend it.

After Yom Kippur services, I decided to make a commitment for the year 5774 to spend less time in front of a screen and more time with people. I hope that you join me in choosing the real over the virtual, the authentic and profound over the superficial. In short, I hope that we can all choose life by returning to our true selves.

This blog entry was heavily inspired by a Yom Kippur morning sermon given by R. Taron Tachman. Todah rabah!

Ashamnu: Confronting Sin and Forgiving Ourselves on Yom Kippur

Yom Kippur is the holiest day on the Jewish calendar, during which one fasts and intensely prays. According to Jewish tradition, Yom Kippur, also known as the Day of Atonement, is the time which one appeals G-d to be sealed in the Book of Life. During this appeal, one of the repeated facets of the Yom Kippur service is the Ashamnu (אשמנו), which is an alphabetic acrostic prayer acting as a confession of one's sins. While going down the acrostic list of sins, one beats their chest while communally reciting one's sins, which includes verbalizing such confessions as "we have betrayed" (בגדנו), "we have stolen" (גזלנו), and "we have rebelled" (מרדנו).

[For a list of all 24 of the sins in Ashamnu, as well as interpretations on each sin, check out the insights from Aish HaTorah, Orthodox Union, and a translation of Chayei Adam (18 c.)]

What's so special about Ashamnu? What makes it such an important prayer?

Before answering that, a bit on the Jewish notion of sin. Judaism conceives sin differently than Christianity does. Jews do not believe that Jesus died for our sins or in Original Sin. To quote Genesis 4:7, "Sin crouches at the door, its urge towards you, but you can overcome it." In Hebrew, the word חטא is commonly mistranslated as "sin." When taking a closer look at its usage in the Tanach (Hebrew Scriptures), the word is better translated as "error" or "mistake." For a Jew, "sinning" is much more akin to the idea of an archer missing his target. Even righteous people still err (Ecclesiastes 7:20); it does not make them bad people. For Jews, humans are neither inherently evil nor inherently good. We are born with a strong inclination towards evil (Genesis 8:21), but nevertheless have the potential to become good by performing good deeds because we have free will.

With free will comes great responsibility. We do not live in isolation. Our actions affect others, which is one of the reasons why the confessions in the Ashamnu prayer are written in the first person plural. Although many of the sins in Ashamnu are actualized on an individual level, and while we need to view our spiritual selves on an individual level, we are still a community and as such, responsible for others in the community.

Let's briefly contrast Ashamnu with Al Chet, the longer confessional prayer that proceeds Ashamanu, to provide further insight. The reason that Al Chet is longer because it goes into further detail with more concrete examples. Concrete examples are what makes it easier to connect to something like Al Chet than Ashamnu. How so? When one reads Al Chet, one essentially recites symptoms of a given חטא. In contrast, Ashamnu is a list of root causes. Root causes might be more difficult to examine, but if we are to truly improve upon ourselves, we need to confront them at their source. This is the gift that Ashamnu provides, which is important because knowing is half the battle.

Every time we thump our chests during the recitation of Ashamnu, the thump acts as a heartbeat. We need to be reminded of our conscience, our good inclination (יצר הטוב) because if we don't, our confession would look something like this. However, the Ashamnu prayer is a reminder that we can only beat ourselves for so long, both literally and metaphorically. After reciting the Ashamnu and Al Chet, we ask that "for all these sins, G-d of forgiveness, forgive us, pardon us, and grant us atonement" (ועל כלם אלוה סליחות סלח לנו מחל לנו כפר לנו). If we keep beating ourselves up indefinitely, we get exhausted, disillusioned about life, and lose sight of what is important. Ashamnu tells us that yes, we need to remember the wrong we did and figure out what caused it. Even so, we need to stop beating ourselves up and realize that not only we need to ask G-d for forgiveness, and then we need to forgive ourselves. The text doesn't explicitly state to forgive yourself, but how do we know that we need to do so? Because if we don't, we cannot move forward.

Most of us are hardest on ourselves, which makes sense. We know ourselves better than anybody else does. We also have the greatest amount of control over our own actions.  But if we are to "love your neighbor as yourself" (ואהבת לרעך כמוך; Leviticus 19:18), we have to remember the "כמוך" bit and realize that we need to love ourselves first because that self-love and self-confidence is what helps us actualize our full potential. And at the same time, we have to come to terms with what it means to be human. Looking at the list of sins in Ashamnu, odds are that we did not break every single one. Nevertheless, we are supposed to examine the entirety to remind ourselves which ones we did not commit (i.e., our strengths) and which ones we committed (i.e., our weaknesses, the ones upon which we can improve). We cannot live a life of perfection, nor does Judaism expect us to.  Everyone screws up at some point. When we fall, we need to get back up. All we can do is our utmost to make sure that we personally confess to less sins next year than we do for this year. May this be a year in which we not only forgive others, but we forgive ourselves.

גמר חתימה טובה!

Unetaneh Tokef: Coming to Terms with Reality on Rosh Hashanah

Rosh Hashanah (רוש השנה), also known as the Jewish New Year, commemorates the creation of the universe. Although Rosh Hashanah is a time of great celebration, it is also a time of unease because Rosh Hashanah begins the Ten Days of Repentance (עשרת ימי תשובה). During Rosh Hashanah services, the liturgy is based on the motifs of G-d's sovereignty and judgement. One of the most controversial and powerful liturgical pieces during Rosh Hashanah is a poem (פיוט) known as Unetaneh Tokef (ונתנה תוקף).

The structure of the piece goes as follows: The heavenly court is assembled and G-d sits at the head of the court as the Judge. What is G-d judging? He is judging our actions. In front of Him sit the Book of Life [and the Book of Death]. On Rosh Hashanah, it is written, and on Yom Kippur, the Book of Life is sealed, which determines who lives and who dies. We are then reminded that no fate is set in stone, which is why Unetaneh Tokef states that tefilah, tzedakah, and teshuvah can avert the severity of the decree (Midrash Genesis Rabbah 44:12). G-d wants us to repent and return to His ways, hence why He gives us second chance. Finally, the poem calls attention to the fact that our origin is dust and our end is dust, and that G-d's existence is eternal.

After reading this piece, I can see why many Jews, myself included, have a problem with reading this piece. At first glance, Unetaneh Tokef illustrates a Deuteronomic view of G-d gathering the names of everyone, figuring out who has been naughty and who has been nice, and adjudicating a simplistic version of punishment and reward that makes me wonder about the role of free will in Jewish thought, especially since the poem states that G-d determines "who will enjoy tranquility and who will suffer," "who will be impoverished and who will be rich," and "who will be degraded and who will be exalted."

A literal reading of the poem forces me to question some things in the poem. G-d is infinite and incorporeal, so at the very least, G-d is literally not writing in a book. Additionally, if we are to read the poem literally, does this mean that G-d actually predetermines who lives and who dies within a given year? I cannot imagine G-d would grant us the gift of free will, the very thing that makes us human, only to take it away. I also find it troublesome that tefilah, tzedakah, and teshuvah during these ten days would merit another year of life, although the Talmudic precept (Rosh Hashanah 16a) applies year-round. How is that tefilah, tzedakah, and teshuvah can prevent earthquakes, cancer, or airplane accidents? But let's say that performing tefilah, tzedakah, and teshuvah can actually avert the decree [of evil]. What about good people who do these three actions and die? Did people who died in the Holocaust, in a hurricane, or in a car accident "get what they deserved?"  And what about evil people who completely ignore all of this: is it G-d's way of saying that evil people deserve another year of life?

How can one accept the poem literally? Poems aren't meant to be taken literally. That is why they are poems. Poetic license undoubtedly means usage of figurative language. Furthermore, given G-d's infinite nature, I feel compelled to read Unetaneh Tokef figuratively, much like I would with any other prayer. On some level, we have to read Unetaneh Tokef as if it were literal. However, we ultimately have to realize that Unetaneh Tokef has to be understood figuratively. So what is Unetaneh Tokef trying to convey here?  

When the poem says G-d determines "who lives and who dies," this is not literal. G-d is omniscient. G-d's omniscience is not the same thing as saying that He is micro-managing, e.g., G-d is not literally determining judgment on Rosh Hashanah. What G-d is writing in the Book of Life [or Death] are not His rulings. Especially considering the line of "who [will die] in his due time and who before" (מי בקצו ומי לא בקוצו), G-d is metaphorically exerting His omniscience and merely describing what will happen in the upcoming year.

The imagery of the Books of Life and Death, as well as Unetaneh Tokef as a whole, are to convey a sobering message: "We are not in control of everything. Life is ephemeral. You do not have forever. Repair that which is broken in your life and return to a sense of wholeness." Unetaneh Tokef reminds us that there are certain things that are within our control and certain things outside our control. We cannot change when or how we will die. We read this poem realizing our own mortality and how frail life can be. The strong language and literary devices that Unetaneh Tokef utilizes make us cognizant of this message.

Even with this frightening imagery of G-d determining who will live and die, the poem proceeds on an upside, mainly that our fate is not determined. We can do something to counter whatever wrong we have committed. Unetaneh Tokef shows us three paths for spiritual transformation: tefilah, tzedakah, and teshuvah. Tefilah, commonly translated as "prayer," is our attempt to communicate with G-d. Since G-d is omnsicient, and G-d is not a vending machine, our role in prayer is that we are vessels for blessing. When we realize G-d's existence and the blessings He bestows upon us, prayer has the powerful effect of changing that which is around us because prayer changes us. Tzedakah, which is mistranslated as "charity," is an externality involving material wealth and shows how we relate towards others through humility and generosity. Teshuvah, which comes from the Hebrew verb "to return" (לשוב), is much more of a repentant process than saying "I'm sorry." It is a process of truly changing oneself for the better and returning to our true essence.  

Performing the actions of tefilah, tzedakah, and teshuvah do not literally change whether we live or die in the upcoming year. G-d is constantly judging us (Talmud, Rosh Hashanah 16a). What changes is the effect of one's current spiritual condition. There is a personal transformation within us by performing these deeds: the blessing we receive, the forgiveness, the drive to become better human beings. The free will that we exert is a response within the confines of the events that are outside of one's control. G-d is a loving G-d, which is why shortly after the line about "tefilah, tzedakah, and teshuvah averting the decree", the poet reminds us that G-d does not desire death, but rather that one comes back to His ways and lives a full life.

The poem then continues on a more lowly note. "He [Man] is like a broken shard, like grass dried up, like a faded flower..."G-d exists and He is eternal. In comparison to G-d, we are "like whirling dust." Compared to G-d's existence, human existence is but a blip on the radar. Even in spite of human transience, the poem ends on a positive note: "[But] You are King, the Living and Everlasting." G-d makes it possible to connect with Him. G-d wants us to connect with Him, which is why He gives us the opportunity to do so.

This poem is not meant to cheat death or try to beg G-d for another year of life. Given the somber time of the year, it is also not meant to make us feel as if everything were hunky-dory and that the world is made of sunshine and rainbows. Unetaneh Tokef  is supposed to scare us and make us think in a profound manner. The poet wants us to recognize our humanity, as well as our vulnerabilities and frailties, at that given moment. Upon grappling, dealing with, and accepting our mortality, we are reminded that living a spiritual life means positively interacting with ourselves, with G-d, and with other human beings. Ultimately, the message behind Unetaneh Tokef is to come to terms with what it means to be human and to have that realization awaken our souls.

Why I Bother Fasting on Yom Kippur

Not being able to eat food or drink water for twenty-five hours is an arduous task. Fasting is a self-deprevation of some major essentials for the human body. So why is it that when it comes to Yom Kippur, I actually not only bother to fast, but I actually enjoy it? It transcends the reason of "because the Torah (Leviticus 16:29-30) says so."

The primary reason why I use the words "enjoy" and "fast" in the same sentence is that I view Yom Kippur as a "spiritual spa day." Yom Kippur is a day I don't have to worry about the physical. I get to put aside work and even eating in order to be solely focused on the spiritual. Removing the distraction of eating and drinking provides me a day's worth of serious downtime for self-searching and to think about the past year and figure out how I can better myself for the upcoming year without being rushed.

Although I have fasted more than once on Yom Kippur without getting hungry, I also realize that the body is not always resilient enough to handle such self-denial. I find the aspect of self-denial to be another good reason to fast because it reflects the important fact that we are human. We can be hungry and choose not to eat. We can choose to be angry and not lash out. We can have a long day and not lull ourselves into procrastinating. The fact that we can choose to do something like "say no to eating and drinking" shows that we have the ability to resist giving into instinct, which is what makes us human. Humans are the only beings on this planet that can curb appetites and choose discipline over instinct in order to affirm mastery over oneself, and I think that is something worth remembering while fasting.

Based on Jonah 3:10, the Talmud (Ta'anit 22a) reminds us that our actions is what G-d sees when dealing with forgiveness (also known as תשובה). Fasting is supposed to be the means to repentance on Yom Kippur. Judaism is not an aesthetic religion, and it takes the physical and intertwines it with the spiritual. What is hunger? Although hunger is primarily associated with food, hunger is an emptiness that desires to be satiated. When one hungers, they yearn for something that they lack. The idea of inducing hunger is to be able to take that yearning and translate it to the spiritual realm, mainly to crave G-dliness in one's life.

That is an interesting idea. Let's take the idea a step further, as reflected in the Haftarah during Yom Kippur. In Isaiah 58, the Israelites mistakenly think that the purpose of fasting was for the sake of fasting, as if that's what G-d had wanted. In verse 3, G-d chides them for seeking personal day on the fast day. The sort of fast day that G-d wants is well beyond self-affliction. One is supposed to do things such as undo the bonds of injustice, feed the hungry, clothe the naked, and actively help with eliminating wickedness in this world, all of which are ethical in nature. From this passage, we learn that the sort of fasting that G-d expects from us is the sort that invokes us to be compassionate and actually care about others because that is what real piety entails.

In summation, the purpose of fasting on Yom Kippur is twofold. The first is to get your spiritual house in order. But even getting your spiritual priorities in sync still require a purpose for doing so in the first place, and that is to be a compassionate, sympathetic individual who does acts of loving-kindness (gemilut chasidim). To be able to internalize and actualize these ideas is why I ultimately make the decision to fast on Yom Kippur.

גמר חתימה טובה!

When a Scapegoat Doesn't Cut It

This week's Torah portion (Leviticus 16:8-10) has a peculiar practice that is referred to as the "scapegoat ritual" (עזאזל).  Essentially, the sacrificial ritual of two goats is supposed to cleanse one of all sins, thereby bearing off all their iniquities (16:22).  My Christian friends see this and attempt to extrapolate this practice to the cruxificion of Jesus since that, too, allegedly did away with all iniquities. 

I never liked this ritual.  Sacrificing two goats is too simplistic of a solution towards repentance.  Much like with kapparot, it doesn't create a sincere sense of repentance.  The fact that the ritual had to be done on an annual basis is all the more evidence that the ritual was not as effective as one would have hoped.  As this D'var Torah points out, there's another issue with the ritual.  In verses 29-30, we're still told to celebrate Yom Kippur.  If the scapegoat ritual was supposed to cleanse the people of Israel of all their sins, why would there be any need for Yom Kippur? Michael Carasik provides an answer:

In the ritual metaphysics of sin and its removal, perhaps they have been. Figuratively removing sin from the locale continues to be part of Jewish observance; on Rosh Hashanah, New Year's Day, Jews throw bread into the water in the ceremony known as tashlikh.....Like the scapegoat ritual, this serves (if only symbolically) to carry sin away from the sinner and into the void. The solemn ritual of animal sacrifice—meant, as some of the traditional commentators explain, to shift the punishment the sinner himself deserves to an animal—must have worked similarly. But neither ritual is enough to complete the job.

A scapegoat, as we use the word today, is someone who takes the fall for the person who is really responsible for the crime. But when what you want is not to shift the blame but genuinely to cleanse yourself of your misdeed, neither a scapegoat nor any other kind of vicarious punishment, even in the form of animal sacrifice, is sufficient. You must afflict yourself—not because G-d desires such affliction, but because you might not feel truly cleansed unless you, too, feel some of G-d's distress at the existence of sin.

A point I like to bring up time and again is that ritual is the means, not the ends.  The ritual may or may not have the intended impact of sobering the individual to not sin in the future.  However, by making Yom Kippur necessary even though their is a scapegoat ritual teaches us something more.  True repentance comes through realizing what you have done, making up for it, and vowing never to do it again.  That has been and will always be the prevailing message of Yom Kippur.  Although it's not the High Holidays, it's still always a good time to realize what we have done wrong, compensate for it, do our best to make sure we don't do it again, and thereby grow in the process.  G-d didn't create us to have a goat wipe away our sins.  He created us so we can grow as individuals, and that's what repentance is all about.

The Decidedly Anti-Jewish Jewish Practice of Chicken Flinging

There is a practice in which you fling a rooster around your head three times, utter the phrase "This is my exchange, this is my substitute, this is my atonement. This rooster will go to its death while I will enter and proceed to a good long life and to peace," sacrifice the rooster, and give it to the poor. It sounds like some ancient, pagan practice that is either made up or no longer practiced.

I can tell you that this practice is not made up and is still practiced. It gets even better. It is a practice of Jewish origin called kapparot, which is interestingly neither mentioned in the Bible nor the Talmud. When I first heard of this ritual, I surely thought that someone was pulling my leg. It truly seems like one of those practices that was a part of the past, but much to my amazement, it is still practiced by Orthodox Jews, most of whom are Haredi.

There are multiple reasons to oppose such a practice:

1) Just think about what you are uttering in this practice. "This is my exchange, this is my substitute, this is my atonement." This is a clear-cut example of vicarious atonement. Vicarious atonement is a Christian belief, not a Jewish one. Jesus did not die for our sins and the death of a chicken does not negate one's misdeeds, even if you try to argue that the Hebrew word גבר means both "man" and "rooster." To believe as such would be a violation of some of Judaism's most basic tenets, mainly that prayer and sincere repentance, i.e. teshuva, bring about forgiveness.

2) This practice violates the Jewish value of tza'ar baylei chayim, or the prohibition of being cruel to animals. During Yom Kippur Services, we read G-d's Thirteen Attributes of Mercy. If G-d's mercy is what we emphasize during this time of year, and if being "created in His Image" is done through imitating G-d, doesn't it seem a bit hypocritical to treat chickens in a cruel manner? Normally, I am not one to show PETA propaganda, mainly because I know they have such an axe to grind. However, this footage below best illustrates the practice. Viewer discretion advised.





3) Much like tashlich, the purpose of this practice is to bribe Satan (Machzor Vitri). The Lurian notion that the rooster is Satan himself, and the slaughtering of the roost weakend the demon, does not help. Even if you substitute the chicken with coins wrapped by a handkerchief, which many Orthodox Jews thoughtfully do in order to not violate tza'ar baylei chayim, you still have not removed the superstition from the ritual. Many rabbis, such Rabbi Solomon ben Adret, also known as Rashba, recognized the practice as such, and opposed it for this very reason.

4) Unfortunately, those who hold superstitious beliefs most likely have a low level of education. The reason why I bring up this correlation is because the people who practice this rite will most likely take the practice literally. If one sees this practice as an actual form of vicarious atonement, then one will think that they are cleansed from their sins. This would lead them to believe that they get off scot-free, which means that they think they do not have to do any actual teshuva. This vulgar mentality will detract people from introspection and sincere repentance. That means no personal growth and no progress, which is a true violation of the spirit of Yom Kippur.

Conclusion: Rabbi Yosef Karo, the author of acclaimed halachic text Shulchan Aruch, called this practice a minhag shtut, which is a "foolish or stupid custom that should be thrown out." Maimonides realized that this rite was such a minhag shtut that he never added it in any of his legalistic texts. Customs (minhagim) such as these should be examined with scrutiny. If the practice fits the definition a minhag shtut, such as the practice of kapparot, we not only should take it off the books, but we are halachically able to do so (Tosafot on Talmud Pesachim 51a; Maimonides, Mishneh Torah, Hilchot Issurei Biah; Be'er Heitev, Orach Chaim 182 in Hilchot Birkat Ha'mazon, Orach Chaim 653 in Hilchot Lulav, Orach Chaim 551:4 in Hilchot Tisha B'av).

If I wanted to take an alternative view to make the rite at the point where I would practice it, I would ask for the following modifications: a) make sure that the kapparot is done with money, b) take out any idolatrous elements, and c) make sure the utterance focused on the actual themes of Yom Kippur rather than vicarious atonement or the bribery of Satan.

Since I don't see the "traditional establishment" taking on innovation such as this, I will leave with the following thought. Rather than rely on a chicken to atone for your sins, I ask that all Jews to do the Jewish thing this Yom Kippur by sincerely repenting for what one has done in the past in order to improve on oneself for the upcoming year.

גמר חתימה טובה!

Guilt versus Shame: Why I Love Yom Kippur

When I tell people that Yom Kippur is my favorite holiday on the Jewish calendar, I get the strangest looks. Between the fasting for twenty-five hours, being in synagogue all day, thumping your chest repeatedly, and the Jewish guilt, it comes off more as the ultimate form of Jewish masochism than anything else.

And if that were not weird enough, I tell people that I actually like the guilt. I can hear you screaming "Masochist!" from the top of your lungs.  However, after reading an article from Sir Chief Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, he made a very important distinction between guilt and shame, something which has bearing on why this holiday actually means "like Purim," the most festive day on the Jewish calendar.

First, Sacks' comments on guilt:

"Guilt enters the world hand in hand with the spirit of forgiveness. G-d forgives: that is the message emblazoned all over Yom Kippur........a guilt culture separates agent from act, the person from the deed. What I did may be wrong, but I am still intact, still loved by G-d, still His child. In a guilt culture, acknowledging our mistakes is doable, and that makes all the difference."

He then contrasts the notion with a shame culture:

"Today's environment is a shame culture.....When shame is involved, it's us, not just our actions, that are found wanting.....The only way to survive in a shame culture is to be shameless. Some people manage this quite well, but deep down, we know that there's something rotten in a system where no one is willing to accept responsibility."

That is why I like the Jewish notion of "repentance." The word teshuva comes from the word "return." To what are we returning? Our essence, which is goodness. Unlike in Christianity, when we screw up, it's not because of "Original Sin." When we sin, the Bible calls it a "chet," a mistake.  It is analogous to an archer missing the mark. He might have not hit the bulls eye, but he always has another opportunity to be spot on.

Let's face it: none of us are perfect. Ecclesiastes 7:20 makes that crystal clear. If we view our sentiment as guilt, as opposed to shame, we can take responsibility for the fact that we can and have erred. It makes us stronger. It helps us grow and progress. That is the reason for the fasting. It is not that fasting is necessarily good unto itself. It is because I can take a day where I don't have to focus on the physical. I can focus on self-improvement. I can focus on growth. In short, I can actualize the potential that G-d has instilled within me.