Menachem Creditor
High Holidays 5760 – Richmond, VA
Kol Nidrei

On vacation a few weeks ago, Liz and I were having a discussion I thought I’d share with you tonight. We were at dinner, discussing the upcoming High Holidays. And this was the conversation that we had:

We were talking about how I had to write these sermons, how we had to get ready to go to Israel for the year, and so on. We did not, however, discuss power outages or hurricanes :-).

-Some things you just can’t plan for.

I had been thinking about what a fascinating day Yom Kippur is. It’s the holiest day of the year, called Shabbat Shabbaton in the Torah- the Shabbat of all Shabbats.

The day is so holy in fact, that today our shul needs to have two parallel services. We need those two services in order to accommodate all the people who show up.

We require a parallel service today because all of us show up, while we do not require a parallel service for the rest of the year. So this message, for some people, might be the only religious message shared for an entire year.

So what do I say?

Do I base my talk on Torah, laying out the drama of Yom Kippur in the Bible?

Do I base it upon the concept of t’shuvah, returning to God, which is the essence of Yom Kippur?

Do I mention the forbidden word- sin?

All these things might be proper topics, but they have one thing in common:

They are only effective in context.

Without feeling the context of these ideas, they remain just that- ideas.

For instance:

If I said the words: Ki BaYom HaZeh Yechaper Aleychem LeTaher Ethchem MiKol Chatotaychem, Lifnei Adonai Tit-haru, what impression would that leave upon you?

Probably none, or a vague idea that it’s a Jewish sentence, perhaps taken from the Torah. The power of the culminating moment of the High Priest’s service only matters if we understand it!

But- if I told it like this:

Aaron, Moses’s brother, had a difficult life. He was born a slave, helped protect his brother, and always played second to Moses. His job was more behind the scenes, and only on one day during the year, was he the center of attention.

This day, this one day, took much preparation and all of Aaron’s attention: He had to purify himself, and practice and practice until the entire service was perfect.

So, you might ask, why did he have to practice so hard? Simply because- If Aaron didn’t do his thing perfectly that day, we wouldn’t have had the chance to repent to God.

“So what?” you ask? I’ll tell you what: If Aaron didn’t do the job right, we wouldn’t live past the coming year. Aaron earned us the right to live through the year. Because without his t’shuvah, we wouldn’t have the chance to do our own.

Aaron didn’t really like his job- would you? Not at all- he got so nervous, every time the month of Tishrei came along, and began studying all night and day to get it just right. Because if he didn’t get it right, we would never get it right.

So- on that day, the tenth of Tishrei, Aaron wakes up early, puts on the special clothing of the priest, made of scarlet and linen and gold, and takes his first step out of his home. He looks all around him, and sees all of you, waiting.

Waiting for him to go repent. He watches us all pray that he gets it right- because we want to live.

He feels the pressure. He must succeed. We need him to. So he enters the secret chamber that only he is allowed to enter. And even he is only allowed to enter once a year. He makes the sacrifice to God, placing his hands upon the sacrifice offers all of our sins, along with it to God.

And then he screams. He cries out with nervous, crazy, energy God’s secret name.

And then it’s over.

But I forgot to tell you one small thing about this service: before Aaron went into the secret Holy of Holies, where even he could only go once a year, they tied a rope around him.

Why? Because not only do our lives depend on the success of the religious leader’s mission, but his own does too. If he doesn’t do his job correctly, he won’t make it either. He goes, as they say, down with the ship. And we- all of us Jews- are that ship.

But if he does it right. If he does it correctly, do you know what he says?

He calls out: “Ki BaYom HaZeh Yechaper Aleychem, LeTaher Ethchem MiKol Chatotaychem, Lifnei Adonai Tit-haru!”

“Because only now, On this day, God forgives you, making you pure again, despite all you sins. You are now pure before God!”

Isn’t the sentence better in context? Of course it is! The context is the flavor! The context is everything!

I could have translated the sentence for you, and given you an encyclopedia definition for the service of the high priest,

but if you can create the moment yourself,

if you can open your eyes to the holiness of the day,

you don’t need an interpreter!

No one can translate an experience- you must experience it yourself.

The holiness of this day is not in the machzorim, the prayerbooks, you’re holding. Those are just suggested paths, and not the whole experience.

We turn to the pages of our tradition to bring us closer to God, but each one of us takes some time during these services to depart from the text.

To pray alone.

To find yourself in the context of the day.

Can you find yourself in the context of this day? Can you imagine yourself standing with Aaron, watching him tremble, helping him practice his own words, feeling your fear rising every time he makes a mistake?

Why are you afraid? You are afraid because his mistakes remind you of your mortality!!!!

The things we do in this room matter.

It’s great to see our friends and families, it’s great to sit together, but let me ask you a question that a rabbi usually doesn’t ask her congregation:

Do you agree with me?

Do you believe that the things we do in this room matter? Or is this an example of paying your yearly dues? Is the context of Yom Kippur irrelevant? Is this something you do once a year? Does anything you do in this room leave with you?

In other words, do the things we do in this room matter?

And I’m not talking about the words on the pages before us. I’m talking about the readers.

You, Me. Us.

We’ve talked about Aaron, the high priest. He had the enormous responsibility of praying for his congregation.

That time is over.

No one prays for us. No one begs forgiveness for us. There is no “Aaron the High Priest” anymore.

The context has changed. Now, we are the ones who should be trembling for our own lives.

Dr. Okun and I are not standing up here do pray for you. That went out when the Temple in Jerusalem was destroyed.

Having someone pray for us is not possible anymore, and we are better for it, or we can be better for it. We can be better Jews, simply because we control our Judaism.

No rabbi, cantor, or teacher controls your Judaism.

For instance: if I were to announce from the Bimah that we all must keep Kosher starting right now ¼ two things would happen:

you probably wouldn’t listen, and

you probably wouldn’t invite me back.

And you’d be right not to!

So now you want to know why you’d be right not to listen to your rabbi telling you to keep Kosher?

Because I can’t make those choices for you- no one can! The rabbi can’t choose for you the things that you must choose by yourselves! When I told the story of Aaron and his service, all I did was place a piece of Judaism into context- but that’s all a teacher can do.

What does the word mitzvah mean?

Good deed? A favor? No. It means “commandment.” But let me ask you something else: Do you feel commanded?

Do any of us in this room feel commanded?

Really- do we feel commanded to give charity?

Do we feel commanded to keep Kosher, to pray?

Do we feel commanded to learn as Jews?

Command assumes commander (metz aveh) and commanded (metz uveh), accompanied by an assumed obligation on the part of the metzuveh. The acceptance of this obligation is the proof of the authority of the mitzvah. For if the definition of Jewish religious authority is religion’s rule over Jews’ lives, then the test by which the existence of that authority may be proven is Judaism’s commanding power in Jews’ lives.

This is a time of radical empowerment, where each of us turn to no one else

Because we couldn’t.

I was being my usual cynical self, and Liz was, as usual, reminding me to open my eyes.