by Tova Mirvis
“Is this your first time here?” a woman on the other side of me asks. She’s in her fifties, with straight brown hair and maroon lipstick, wearing a sleeveless black sheath dress and black leather pumps.
“It is,” I say, and she asks me where I’ve gone to Yom Kippur services in prior years.
“I used to be Orthodox,” I say, as though this can explain everything.
“I’m a convert,” she says, “but my husband”—she gestures to the man sitting next to her—“also grew up Orthodox.”
His eyes meet mine in understanding, and I wonder: Are the synagogues he used to attend ghosted over this one? Does he feel the unrelenting internal voice that won’t stop asking what is true, what is real?
“We wanted to celebrate Yom Kippur,” she explained, “but we needed somewhere we would feel comfortable.”
“How long since you’ve been Orthodox?” I ask him.
He thinks it over. “Thirty years. I left right after college. It’s been a lifetime.”
The service continues with the same prayers, in the same tunes, as the ones I grew up with. Sitting in this place, I’m simultaneously here and back inside the Yom Kippurs of my childhood, when, in the lead-up to this holiest of days, my brother, sister, and I gleefully asked one another for forgiveness for anything we might have done wrong. It was thrilling to have sins for which we needed to be forgiven—a visit to the adult side of the world. To be difficult, we sometimes refused to bestow forgiveness, but this was a precarious proposition. If you turned someone down for forgiveness three times, the sin was no longer on the original offender but on you.
All year, we complied with the rules, the world divided by stark lines. We were to be a separate nation, pure and holy. We were to follow the commandments as set down in the Torah. We learned to classify and judge. Every person, every action, could be plotted on a grid, good or bad. This is what God wants, we were told at every turn, only He wasn’t referred to as God but as Hashem, a nickname reserved for those who were closest to Him. He didn’t exist on high, removed from the daily dealings, but lived in the here and now, inside the most private and seemingly insignificant moments. Every bite of food came either allowed or forbidden. On Saturday night, three stars had to appear in the sky, the sign that the sun had fully set, before Shabbat was declared officially over. On every doorway of every house, we hung a mezuzah, a small decorative case holding a parchment bearing the Shema prayer. If anything went wrong—a car accident, a diagnosis of cancer—we were advised to check the parchments for a smudged letter that had left us unguarded, as though we’d forgotten to lock our front doors. Every night, I said the same Shema prayer, which proclaimed my belief in God, then I recited the list of God blesses, as my mother had taught me. I named all my relatives, then my friends, leaving off only those I happened to be in a fight with on a particular day. I knew that being good could protect you from harm. Only obedience could keep you safe. God, I knew, was like a parent who dispensed soothing comforts with one hand, terrible punishments with the other. My mind constantly fired off a series of what-ifs: What if someone I loved was in a car accident? What if the Holocaust happened again? I had a recurring nightmare that I was driving with my mother and then she disappeared and I had to drive but didn’t know how. The nightmare unfolded again and again, even though I loved the antique-car ride at Libertyland, the local amusement park, thrilled to think I was actually piloting the car—only years later did I realize the car was running on a track, my steering an illusion. When I was too racked with fear to fall back to sleep, I tiptoed into my parents’ bedroom and woke my mother, who walked me to bed and sat beside me as she smoothed my hair. Together we recited a psalm—The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?—words I wanted to hold like a torch that would illuminate the way until morning. I fell asleep trusting that my parents were watching over the house and that God, awake late into the night, was standing guard as well.
At the Memphis Hebrew Academy, which I attended starting in nursery school, the boys wore a uniform of blue pants and white button-down shirts, and the girls wore red-and-black-plaid jumpers, like the Christian girls in the St. Louis Academy down the street. It shocked me, as we drove past their school on the way to ours, that these kids were taught a religion as steadfastly as we were. Had I been born into their faith, would I, too, have believed this to be truth? But the thought was too unsettling. Obviously, they had to be wrong. How lucky I was; of the billions of people on earth, I was among those born to the sole truth. I knew that I was supposed to be proud of who I was, yet when I went out with my brother and father in their yarmulkes, it was hard not to think about the time that a few boys from our neighborhood had yelled “Heil Hitler!” at us. I hoped that any non-Jews we passed might think of the yarmulkes as just some sort of miniature hats.
We might have been a small Orthodox community in the midst of a larger city, but at school, ours was the only one that existed. The seeming anomaly of Orthodox Jews living in Memphis didn’t matter. The Jerusalem of the South, our leaders proudly dubbed the community. A Jewish oasis in a vast Southern desert. Every morning, we stood by our desks and recited the same daily prayers said in every corner of the Orthodox world. Every month, a magazine whose Hebrew name translated as “Our World” arrived from Brooklyn. It contained cartoons depicting the adventures of a yarmulke-wearing mouse named Mendel and invited us to join the army of God. We learned about the yetzer hara—the evil inclination—a serpentine impulse that lived inside us and was in danger of slithering out if we didn’t vigilantly guard against its escape. In first grade, we learned to read Hebrew. In second grade, we earned gold stars if we could recite verses of the Torah by heart, if we knew the blessings for different foods. Having memorized more verses than anyone in my class and having mastered which blessing was said for even the trickiest of foods, I was eager to be quizzed by the teacher. After each right answer I delivered, I took the star—the same kind that God was surely placing by my name in His divine ledger—and stuck it to the front of my notebook, forming constellations. Each star was confirmation not just of my knowledge but of my goodness. There was nothing more important that I could be. Even my own name reminded me of this fact. I was named after my great-grandmother Gertrude, whose Yiddish name was Gittel, which means “good.” The Hebrew word for “good” is tova.
On Yom Kippur, I sat in the women’s section next to my mother and sister, across the mechitzah that divided us from my father and brother and the other men. The walls were purple, the chairs were a speckled red fabric, the ceiling silver-paneled. Visitors from out of town sometimes commented that the décor made them think of Elvis Presley, whose famous Graceland was just a few miles away, but to me, this sanctuary was simply a second home. On Kol Nidrei, the prayer highlight of the year, all the Torah scrolls were taken from the ark. The sanctuary was packed with the regulars, who, because driving was forbidden on Shabbat, lived within walking distance of the synagogue, as we did. Like ours, these families were solid entities, made of husbands, wives, and children. The rare divorced women lay at the outskirts, occasional Shabbat guests who were to be pitied, outsiders who were the near equivalent of the non-Orthodox who drove to synagogue but parked a few blocks down so no one would catch a glimpse of them in their cars. As though they’d appeared magically in the neighborhood, they walked the remainder of the way. These infrequent attendees were marked by the uncertain manner in which they held their prayer books; by the black doilies the women wore instead of hats; by the prayer shawls the men wore, which were provided by the synagogue and were silken and small, like scarves, not the flowing wool capes of the regulars. The papery black visitors’ yarmulkes perched on top of these men’s heads might as well have borne the label I Do Not Belong.
I was curious about these congregants—didn’t they care that they were breaking Shabbat? Breaking was the word we used to describe their infractions, and I had imagined them clumsily shattering something precious and fragile. Or (this idea seemed dan
gerous even to entertain) was it possible that they didn’t believe that by driving to synagogue—just one sin out of what I knew must be legion—they were violating the word of God? “Nonreligious Jews are like babies stolen at birth, not responsible for their trespasses,” our more tolerant teachers and rabbis explained. Our job was to beckon them deeper inside.
I sat by my mother, determined to fast all twenty-five hours of Yom Kippur, staying next to her as we recited the prayer reminding us that on this day, the judgment for each of us for the coming year was sealed: who would live, who would die, who by fire and who by sword. Aware that my very life hung in the balance, I stayed even as the day dragged on, to the sermon and then to the long descriptions of the ancient Temple service. Using the English translation that was printed alongside the Hebrew in the prayer book, I studied the preparations the high priest had made as he readied himself to enter the Holy of Holies, the part of the Temple forbidden on all other days. He ceremonially washed himself and donned his priestly vestments, preparing to offer sacrifices and pray for forgiveness on behalf of the people. He displayed a cord of wool dyed red. If the sins of the people were forgiven, the wool would turn white.
One year at the start of the Yom Kippur service, I discovered that I had a hangnail, which was forbidden to tear off on Shabbat and even more so on Yom Kippur. I tried to ignore its presence, but once I was aware of it, there was no way to make my fingers leave it alone. Unable to concentrate on the prayers, I fiddled with the nail behind my back. If my mother saw me, I knew she would encircle my hand with hers, as both an affectionate gesture and a means of preventing this forbidden act. I tried to imagine what God would say. With all He had to worry about on this day, was He really concerned with my hangnail? The debate raged in my head. If I pulled off the hangnail, I could once again pray undistracted, but if I pulled it off, I would be breaking one of the laws of the day. In this small sliver of nail lay a daunting theological quandary. Finally, guilt-ridden but hoping that God was as slow to anger as our prayers proclaimed, I ripped it off.
“All vows, swears, oaths, promises that I may make from this Yom Kippur to the next are now nullified, voided, ended,” sang the cantor in the synagogue I’d grown up in, as does the leader now in the barn that has filled to capacity.
The words, a second time, louder now for the stragglers, the latecomers.
“All vows, swears, oaths, promises.”
And a third time. “Nullified, voided, ended.”
What we had promised we could undo. What we had committed ourselves to, we could still change.
In my parents’ synagogue, the Torah scrolls, all seven of them, would have been removed from the ark. The parchment scrolls were rolled around wood spindles, cloaked in white velvet robes, and topped with silver crowns. They would be solemnly carried around the sanctuary by a parade of honored men who held them gingerly over their shoulders, as though they were carrying elaborately dressed sleeping children.
In this barn service, there is only one Torah scroll that is taken from the small ark. A poem is read, a song is sung, and it’s time now for the basket of index cards to be passed around and read aloud.
“‘I answer my soul when I reach out to those in need,’” someone behind me reads.
“‘I occupy myself with my passion when I paint, sing, and dance.’”
My voice shakes when it’s my turn to read the card I’ve selected. Even though the words aren’t my own, I feel as though I’m baring my most private secret.
“‘I respond to my soul when I remember that I’m not the only one who is imperfect. I am not the only one who falls short.’”
A woman in front of me turns around to smile in agreement—I don’t know if she’s the one whose words I’ve read or if they just speak to her, as they do to me.
“‘I answer my self when I’m allowed to think what I think, feel what I feel,’” reads a woman across the room, and my face flushes at the sound of words that are mine.
A harmless wish, when read in someone else’s voice.
People are invited outside into the dark yard to recite the silent portion of the evening prayers or offer their own improvised prayers. As much as I too want to stand under a star-filled canopy—to trade the tightness of one world for the seeming openness of another—I can’t go outside. I’m unable to open myself to what’s being offered. So many years of observing without believing has left my soul, if such a thing exists, callused.
I think about my kids, who are with Aaron at a Yom Kippur service like the one I’d always attended. I think of William—maybe he has worked late, maybe he went out to dinner or a movie with friends. For him, this was an ordinary night. Still in my seat, in a room mostly emptied out, I return, from habit, to saying the confessional prayers that I’ve always said. Though I feel the urge to shield myself from every ritual and rule, there is no hiding from this prayer.
Ashamnu, bagadnu, gazalnu.
We have sinned, we have transgressed, we have stolen.
The sins for which we atone are recited collectively. Not even on the Day of Judgment did we have to face God alone. Guilt is communal, but so is penance; no lonely I but an ever-present we.
For the sin we have sinned before You with our illicit thoughts.
For the sin we have sinned before You knowingly and unknowingly, with an outstretched hand, with a hardened heart.
Guilt swoops in, a large-winged bird that can find me anywhere. A flock of impossible questions. Did happiness matter? Did loneliness? Were you allowed to change your life? Were you allowed to change if it caused other people pain? Could you make yourself believe something? Could you make yourself love someone? Could you make yourself not love someone?
The crowing voice: You are bad.
For these words there is no cleansing; no high priest’s red cord shall magically turn white.
Bad; the word is clawed and it grabs me.
Bad; the word beats in my chest.
To atone, we are to cast our sins into flowing water. We are to swing a live chicken over our heads and request that God transfer our sins to this animal. I too want relief from my sins but have no stream of water, no squawking fowl, just my own words, which replace the ones written on the pages of the prayer book.
For the sin we have sinned by harboring doubt.
For the sin we have sinned by trying to make it through with tepid belief.
For the sin we have sinned by trying to hold everything together; for the sin of no longer being able, or willing, to do so.
For the sin we have sinned by wanting to live a life in which we believed; for the sin of acting when we knew this might destroy everything.
Along with each of these words, I should be curling my hand into a fist, as the tradition requires, my shoulders rounded forward in contrition as I pound away at my chest. I make the obligatory fist, but my hand recoils just as it’s about to touch down on my body.
For the sin of fantasy, for the sin of despair, for the sin of hope, for the sin of desire, for the sin of possibility.
For the sin of opening our hearts to someone new.
For the sin of causing pain; for the sin of dishonesty; for the sin of falling, falling, falling; for the sin of leaving in the hope of love.
For the sin of pursuing that which made us feel alive.
Instead of striking my chest, I uncurl my fist and place my hand over my heart, as though pledging allegiance to some other truth.
Home
My father holds out a spoon heaped with sautéed mushrooms—cremini, portobello, and shiitake—which will serve as the filling for the phyllo-dough turnovers he is making.
“More seasoning?” he asks as I take a bite.
“Delicious,” I pronounce. I assemble my own less gourmet dish of stuffed zucchini, mixing unmeasured amounts of bread crumbs, mushrooms, spices, and the zucchini innards that I’ve scooped out.
In my parents’ kitchen in Memphis, where the kids and I have come for Sukkot—the next, after Yom Kip
pur, in the long list of autumn holidays—cast-iron sauté pans sizzle on the stovetop. The room bursts with color. The walls of the kitchen are buttery yellow. Blue frosted-glass light fixtures dangle from the burnt-sienna ceiling. Bottles of balsamic vinegar and olive oil, sprigs of rosemary clipped from the garden, cloves of garlic and shallots with their papery husks scattered around, are arrayed on the countertops. The table holds bags from the latest outing to the grocery store—we’ve made several trips to collect all the necessary ingredients.
As I stir and sample, my father chops and seasons to make tuna tartare. For my father, cooking is not obligation but art. He is a cardiologist by day, a chef by night. Everywhere else, my father is quiet, but bent over a cutting board, stirring at the stove, he comes to life, talking eagerly of whisks and garlic presses, of new recipes and combinations of flavor.
My mother bustles around as sous-chef, cleaning up rinds, cores, and peels. She’s grown her thick, wavy hair long in recent years and it has slowly turned from streaked to mostly gray. She wears bright colors and loose flowing skirts, beaded jewelry and comfortable shoes. She takes tai chi classes; she is a storyteller; she adheres to various self-help philosophies, none of which conflict with her strict religious observance. For her, cooking is utilitarian. Her art forms are the Jewish folktales she tells and her paintings, which hang on the walls around us, portraits of my grandmother, my kids, my siblings, and me. My sister’s bedroom has been turned into my mother’s studio; small tubes of paint cover the desk. She’s in love, she says, with color.