I’ve always felt the tension between the individual and the collective on Yom Kippur. Certainly, we can’t seriously consider our misdeeds of the past year if we don’t dig deep into ourselves. Yet, that process takes us away from the collective, it inherently removes us from the community, at least just a bit. But we also only confess our sins in the plural, no one being forced to single themselves out and declare the way they’ve done something wrong, alone. It seems that our tradition wants us to do that intense, personal soul work, but it also wants to protect us from the isolation that could happen when we retreat into our own dark corners of how we may have messed up this year.
In this way, Yom Kippur is different than all of our other holidays - it is the most uniquely personal day on the Jewish calendar. Our three pilgrimage festivals are about Jewish history and memory, and they teach us, in part, what it means to be a part of our people. Rosh Hashanah is the anniversary of creation and tries to teach us something about what it means to be a part of the human family. But Yom Kippur wants to teach us something about ourselves. Who am I? What am I doing here? How can I be different? We pray together, we come together to the synagogue in order to support each of our own internal work.
And again, we embody this with our wardrobe as well. The white clothing that we wear on Yom Kippur is reminiscent, some say, of the white tunic that the High Priest would wear as he would enter, alone, into the Holy of Holies. But others say that we wear white to mimic our burial shrouds - the garment that we each will be buried in upon our death. Either way, whatever the reason behind our white garb, it imagines us alone. It pushes us to encounter the truths of our life which we must face alone. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks writes, in his introduction to the Machzor, “On this holy day, we confront God alone. We confront our mortality alone. Outwardly we are in the company of others, but inwardly we are giving a reckoning for our individual life, singular and unique. The fact that everyone else around us is doing likewise makes it bearable.”
And in my own personal prayers, my prayers that dig into only my soul, cloaked on the outside in white reminding me of my solitude on this day, I am bolstered by all of you. I am reminded that though we are in this alone, we couldn’t do it without each other. We couldn’t do it if we weren’t together.
May our prayers go deep. May our prayers be heard. And when we stand at the gates, may we be met with love, with mercy, with compassion.
Shabbat Shalom and G’mar Chatimah Tovah, Rabbi Sarit
