There in my darkened doorway were two men in black mid-length coats with long, curly beards and black hats; a younger and an older man, with eyes burning so clear and bright that they seemed to be reading from an inner script. There was about their smiling countenances such a sense of purpose, that the word \”messenger\” sprang to mind. They knew and I knew. They had come for me.
The High Holy Days are a time for contemplation, a time to give thanks, to repent for the wrongs of the past year and seek forgiveness from those you may have hurt and especially from God.
I was tired, I was bored and I hated wearing pantyhose. I stood up and sat down at the right times, and even hummed along to the some of the prayers, but in my head, I was replaying scenes from my favorite movies and wishing I was home playing video games.
At sundown on Monday we usher in the happiest day of our calendar, Rosh Hashana, the Jewish New Year. For the next 10 days we\’ll be called upon to reexamine our lives — to wake up and not only smell the roses, but plant them for other people to enjoy.
On Yom Kippur, my wife Sally and I went to shul just around the corner from the Vatican. It was a visit we will not soon forget. The imposing Comunita Ebraica di Roma Synagogue (the Great Synagogue of Rome) sits just off the Piazza del Firori close to the Tiber River and spitting distance from Vatican City across the river in one direction, and Palatine Hill and the Roman Forum in the other.
On any given weekday, Elat Market, the Pico-Robertson supermarket, is already a hub of hustle and bustle for the Persian community. So one can imagine the human traffic on the Friday morning before Yom Kippur – getting ready before Shabbat and yontiff. Standing outside the market on this busy morning, it becomes apparent that Elat is somewhat of a de facto community center, a nexus where friends – young and old – run into one another and splinter off into small congregations of conversation.
It\’s Yom Kippur in Israel, and former Los Angeles resident Eve Harow talks about the atmosphere in her adopted homeland of 12 years.
Yom Kippur – a time of personal introspection – now a time of national reflection. How far have we really come in all these years?
As a scientist and a believer in human progress, I have been concerned about how well the established process of teshuvah (repentance) has worked. Yom Kippur after Yom Kippur – in fact, since the 11th century – we have recited the same confessional prayer, \”Al Chet.\” If we were any good at repentance, shouldn\’t the list have changed in 1,000 years? Even if we don\’t want to change the ancient formula, shouldn\’t we be able to feel that we had eliminated or reduced at least a few on the list? Yet the list of sins remains the same, as does the ritual for expunging them. Why haven\’t we improved?\n
On Sunday, as is the custom in my family, I will receive a Yom Kippur blessing from my father. The image of my father gathering me in his tallis, placing his hands on my head and asking God to grant me a good year is one of my fondest childhood memories. My father concludes his blessing with the words a gut yor meyn kind (a good year, my child).
Having grown taller than my father, I now bend my knees so he can place his hands on my head. When I left home to attend yeshiva, I would call home on Erev Yom Kippur to receive his blessing.Even now, when I hear my father\’s voice, the wool of his tallis brushing against my face, I am transformed from an independent adult to meyn tate\’s yingel (my father\’s little boy).
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