The gates are closing, the long day giving way to night. From inside the window-ringed sanctuary, I watch daylight fade away, shadows of trees extending, brightness succumbing to darkness, the final moments before this day closes and tomorrow begins.
Inside many continue to pray, some take a handful of rose petals from a basket prepared for this occasion and place them inside the Ark, as if an offering. Some socialize, others look at their watches, hungry.
The rabbi begins the closing service of Yom Kippur with a cheerful, upbeat prayer, singing the repetitive chorus louder and louder each round. The Book of Life has been sealed, the awe from the previous night, when the holiest day on the Jewish calendar began, now mixes with joy despite the moment’s seriousness.
It is the same melody I heard at a congregation in San Francisco when I lived there. A little girl, five, maybe six, stole the show as she sang the loudest and proudest of all the children gathered on the pulpit to begin that congregation’s concluding Yom Kippur service. It was a powerful ritual, to have children lead this prayer.
Unbeknownst to me, the little girl got sick and died during the year. Showing up at services a year later the congregation did not invite children up for that prayer, the memories and associations too painful. I hope they eventually brought that tradition back.
Coincidentally, a few moments later, the rabbi led us in a reading composed by the rabbi from that same San Francisco congregation. The last time I saw him I was working at a Jewish organization in New York City; he was brought in as a special lunch-time speaker. It was a series I usually skipped, but I wanted to see. I was in the back and then got pulled away due to some urgent issue that more likely than not was not urgent at all. That rabbi died the following year. We never met, I never shook his hand, I knew who he was but he did not know me, not uncommon, of course, for public figures. Still, I consider him a teacher of mine.
I attended Jewish summer camp for nine summers, five as a camper, four as a counselor. The kids I was a counselor for were freshmen and sophomores in high school. Some I’m still in touch with, others I haven’t seen since the camp days. Earlier this month I found out that, for the second time, a former camper of mine had died. There’s something extra poignant, or painful, about someone younger than you dying, about someone for whom you were a role model, however briefly, not outliving you.
Yom Kippur is not about death, and my reflections are not a sudden realization that death exists, around me, no more or less than it is around all of us.
While the purpose of Yom Kippur is the reflection, of atonement, of making up for the transgressions and failings of the past year, its function is to prepare us, or rather, help us to prepare ourselves, for the year to come.
In the final hours of the holiday, as I literally watch the sun go down and the holiness of the moment evaporate, as I metaphorically experience with others in the sanctuary and Jews worldwide the symbolic closing of the gates, we experience in just two hours what it means to have a last chance and to watch it slip away.
So many times in life we go through this but in frivolous, silly ways. Just minutes left until the movie starts. The grocery store closes at the top of the hour. We must leave now in order to make our flight. I only have until the end of the week to finish this project. I need to return that phone call before it gets too late. These bills need to be paid.
There is much in the literature of the Jewish High Holidays (Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur) that does focus on life and death. The prayer unataneh tokef stands out for its literal questions for the following year: “Who shall live and who shall die? Who will see the end of their days and who will not?”
But deeper in the prayer comes a bit more sophistication: “Who will have rest and who will wander? Who will be at peace and who will be tormented?”
This is the difference between how many days we will live vs. how we will live in those remaining days. The questions posed on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur to me represent less the black and white of life or death, but the grey of time.
How will we spend that time, and for what purpose? Will it be for ourselves, or for others? Will our time be spent meaningfully, or frivolously? During ne’ilah, we watch the time of Yom Kippur disappear.
Unfortunately, by this time of the day, many are fixated on ending their fast and devouring bagels and egg salad. For the record, this year I went upscale with a meal of smoked almonds, romaine salad with jalapeno Caesar dressing and grilled trout with okra and corn. And wine.
In our understandable craving for food, we too quickly forget what we just experienced: a microcosm of the inescapability of witnessing the loss of time. By the next morning, we are back in our office in front of a computer screen with a cup of coffee.
But no. The meaning of the day must last. We need not fast each day of the year, or spend each day in synagogue, or refrain from luxury until next September or October to recall the meaning of Yom Kippur. But to forget it so fast is a mistake.
The purpose of Yom Kippur is not to suffer and endure until the bagels are ready. It’s to position yourself so when (if) you appear at the gates again next year, you (and the community) are not the same.
Look around at the state of our communal affairs: isn’t this something worth striving towards? What a shame it would be if collectively, in a year’s time, we aren’t all in a better place, more at peace than in struggle.
…
But we can’t change the world without first changing ourselves.
That happens by reflection, by recognizing what we did wrong (both individually and collectively).
But that reflection is meaningless without resolving to change, without dedicating the passion and commitment to change.
Whether it’s going to the gym more, or volunteering more, or being more open and honest and direct and sincere with our loved ones, or carving out time for people and causes we love, the change lives within us. Not from without.
Gandhi’s famous saying is “be the change you want to see in the world.” It’s a motivational and inspiring quote, if not a bit intimidating. Can I myself change the world’s biggest problems, poverty, inequality, sexism, global climate disruption? Some systems are beyond our control.
There’s a well-known study in the philanthropic sector that tests which of two stories yields the best financial response.
One version uses statistics and large numbers to describe famine, particularly how it affects children. The other version tells the story of a single young girl, named Rokia, and her struggle to survive.
Guess which one won?
It’s not just the avenue of storytelling that led people to respond more to the story of Rokia vs. millions of starving children. While it’s true, in charitable giving and response, that emotion is a more powerful driver than reason, there is also the connection we can have with one person that we can’t with 11 million.
We are all individuals, so we can relate to other individuals. We, therefore, know we can impact the life of a single person. But we feel overwhelmed and incapable of problems that are bigger than us, which is one reason why endemic, systemic problems like poverty and climate disruption persist.
We know we can help one person because we can see that person in ourselves.
This means we can also help — and change, if need be — ourselves.
…
I can’t stop thinking of the setting sun at ne’ilah. I hung out with a friend last weekend, a new friend, and we got to talking.
“You look pretty good for 45,” he said. I thanked him, and I meant it. I work hard to keep myself in shape and to eat right and take care of myself. Of course, I had just had a buffalo burger and was drinking a heavy IPA, but give me a break, it was the weekend.
Pretty good for my age. Who knows? What I do know is that I consider myself lucky and fortunate to be here. The lessons of recent weeks are not to take that for granted.
And by extension, not to take a whole lot of things for granted. Family, friends and the love I have for them. The opportunity to do good in the world. The chance to have fun, to travel, to work (as frustrating as that can be at times). To have a chance to grow and change and to be, or get closer to being, all that I can.
At a dinner recently with a writer’s group, the topic of happiness came up. We each went around the table and talked about our respective levels of happiness, and even what that means, which is, of course, a far more difficult question to answer than perhaps it should be.
When it was my turn, I said I was not happy, because I was not content. I said I was grateful and have a good life, that I appreciate all that I have, a good job, a nice home, friends, health and the ability to enjoy myself. I have little to complain about, I said, and that makes me, if not happy, then at least for the most part worry-free.
But I think of the setting sun and the closing of the gates. I think of the teachers and campers and loved ones that are no longer here — and their lost dreams and goals and impact on our community. I think of love lost and my attempts to heal and to grow.
I think of the guitar in the corner of my office, still waiting to be learned how to play. I think of the first story I’m waiting (and waiting) to get published, somewhere. I think of Santa Fe and Ireland, two places I’ve never been to but want to see.
I think of the people I can reach out to and help — and I ask myself, what is my share, to give, to offer, to not just one person, but to the world?
“It is not your responsibility to finish the job of repairing the world,” the ancient Jewish saying goes, “but neither are you free to desist from it either.”
I think this applies to myself as much as it does the world, my community, my network. The job of repairing, of bettering myself, will never cease. Nor, as the quote above says, will I stop looking for ways, however small, to make the world a better place.
But the clock is always ticking. The shadows from the day’s sun return and extend….then recede in the gift of another day.
The gates are open, but won’t be forever.
—
Previously published on Medium.com.
—
Have you read the original anthology that was the catalyst for The Good Men Project? Buy here: The Good Men Project: Real Stories from the Front Lines of Modern Manhood
◊♦◊
If you believe in the work we are doing here at The Good Men Project and want to join our calls, please join us as a Premium Member, today.
All Premium Members get to view The Good Men Project with NO ADS.
Need more info? A complete list of benefits is here.
—
Photo credit: By Amelia Bartlett on Unsplash