Atone of Voice (and Deed)

A Christian friend asked me recently why, if we Jews know our slates will be wiped clean on Yom Kippur, nobody has ever invited him to get in on the action. A reasonable question, I suppose.

Naturally, my first instinct was to get defensive. I get defensive when somebody asks me what time it is. Not wanting him to think I would ever try to keep the secret to everlasting life to myself, I explained to him that I don't really believe slates are wiped clean on Yom Kippur, as if by some heavenly "delete" key. "It's the day of atonement," I told him, "not absolution."

"But what about the people who really do believe?" His religious convictions are so powerful he considers his beliefs to be knowledge, unassailable fact. We've had this argument many times; he will never accept my position, that beliefs are a matter of opinion. I envy his certainty.

Synagogue sanctuaries burst at the seams on the High Holidays, and even the most secular Jews believe strongly enough in the power of God to seal their fate for another year to fast on Yom Kippur. The promise of forgiveness is worth even the price of admission to temple that day, which is steep. If I were terminally ill and somebody charged me an arm and a leg for some alleged (but as yet unproven) miracle cure, I'd be reaching into my wallet faster than you can say chopped herring on a bagel. (I may not make it to the Book of Life, but I always make it to the "break fast.") I'm a cynic but I'm not a complete idiot.

For me, it's more about hope than belief. And though I may possess way more than a scintilla of doubt about the whole story, there's a piece of me that thinks it couldn't hurt. I know that good people who have fasted and apologized up the wazoo die every year while unreformed sinners live on, but it's only human to try to increase your odds.

I don't fast, I don't recite Hebrew prayers all day, and I rarely even go to temple any more. But I reflect -- a lot -- and I make lots of mental lists of my sins -- real, imagined, or even unimagined. And I silently apologize to God -- wherever she is -- and sometimes I even repent out loud to folks I believe I have offended. Whatever the case may be, I know full well that the sincerity of an apology can only be measured by the behavior that follows, and as arduous as a day spent in temple while on the verge of starvation might be, the real work lies ahead.

When I see my Christian friend today, I will not invite him to temple (that would be like inviting him to a stranger's house). But I will share with him my own secret to, if not life everlasting, a life that feels more right. Acknowledging sins, reflecting, and apologizing are positive steps. And if your intentions are good, you can at least let yourself off the hook, even if God or the folks you've offended don't.

Which is, as they say, not chopped liver.