around the stage in white robes, bowing and swaying, singing and then sitting silently, hands in their laps or on their prayer books. The choreography feels as fluid and sacred as it did at BJ, but I am more connected here.
By the end of the service, the hunger rumblings have begun. As we cross Broadway to get a taxi, I calculate how many hours have passed since we finished dinner (four) and how many more remain. I’m already sinning anew, focusing on food rather than contrition.
The next day, Yom Kippur itself, is chilly and wet. I head downtown to the sprawling Javits Convention Center, the only space big enough to accommodate the massive numbers that attend High Holy Day services at what’s known in New York as “The Gay Temple”—Congregation Beit Simchat Torah (CBST), founded in 1973 as a home for LGBT Jews. The presiding rabbi, Sharon Kleinbaum, is somewhat of a celebrity because of her press-covered advocacy over the years, becoming this temple’s rabbi in 1992—in the middle of the AIDS crisis—and, more recently, protesting “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” and the ban on women praying at the Western Wall. In 2011 Kleinbaum was filmed while heatedly debating same-sex marriage with an Orthodox man who called the rabbi and her allies “not Jewish” while Kleinbaum just kept repeating, “I will pray for you.”
I am heartened by the hordes at CBST not only because it affirms the vitality of Jewish practice in general but of gay Jewish life in particular. It might surprise the skeptics to discover how traditional this service actually is. They cover more of the prayer book than many Reform synagogues. It reaffirms my remaining barriers: hearing prayers without elucidation still seems mechanical to me.
But I am moved by watching Kleinbaum make her way through the makeshift pews greeting people, knowing their names and those of their children. I overhear her asking after a sick relative, inquiring about someone’s new job or commiserating over the latest affront to gay people in the news. I’ve met Kleinbaum at various Jewish events, and she stops to greet me, tallis around her shoulders, yarmulke capping her hair. She looks no worse for wear after her latest imbroglio. One month ago, during a regular September service, Kleinbaum read aloud the names not only of Israeli casualties during the 2014 war in Gaza, but also of Palestinian children killed in the fighting. Several of her members resigned in anger, including a member of her board. She was vilified on social media. But she remained clear about why she chose to offer a human nod to innocent children.
I leave the cavernous Javits Center before her sermon begins; once again, I’m eager to return to my family on a holiday I associate with family. I’m also feeling a little of what teenagers call FOMO—Fear of Missing Out.
Once back at Avery Fisher Hall during the “al cheit” litany, I glance at my children to see if the prayer rings a bell from the night before. Molly gives me a side-nod of affirmation. “That’s it,” I think to myself. That’s what matters to me: my kids starting to connect the dots in a way I never did. A repetitive prayer comes to life because you recognize it. Because you unpacked it hours earlier, you now understand its purpose. Something opens up, lets you in. I glimpse that in Molly’s face in that instant—I know what to do with this prayer—and it’s priceless.
Rabbi Buchdahl’s sermon on Israel is a sensitive one, as are all Israel sermons this particular autumn because of the Gaza war. It was a summer of vitriolic Facebook postings and strained family conversations, with many Jews showing little patience for contrary opinions. A New York Times article described the land mines clergy members were navigating as they wrote their High Holy Day sermons, wanting to say something forceful without alienating swaths of their congregations. Rabbi Buchdahl’s sermon walks the line carefully and candidly. “I knew I had no choice but to speak about Israel tonight. I needed to say how high the stakes are,” she says. “I don’t know that any one sermon can persuade you that Israel should matter to you, if it doesn’t already. But I had to try.” She ends her twenty-minute speech by singing a fervent rendition of “Al Kol Eleh” (For All These Things) and as I feel myself choking up, the congregation around me is suddenly standing in a spontaneous ovation.
The worship continues with chest-pounding (we thump our hearts with our fists during the recitation of sins) and, after a small interlude, moves into the afternoon service with Central’s quietly profound custom: “Torah meditation.” It’s a chance for anyone who wishes to go up to the bimah and stand for a few moments before one of three Torah scrolls. Two lines form quietly on either side of the sanctuary.
When my family takes a turn, I am again unexpectedly tearful. We stand wordlessly on the bimah with our arms around each other, facing the swaddled Hebrew Bible—a tangible symbol of endurance. I’m flooded with my blessings. The encounter, however brief, changes my Yom Kippur afternoon, a time I used to associate with endurance.
Later, Dave and I take a walk in Central Park and grab a quick nap before the afternoon Yizkor (remembrance) service to honor the dead. As always during these High Holy Days, congregants amble in and out of the sanctuary all day long, taking occasional breaks from the proceedings. I know my husband too well to ask his thoughts on atonement this year; he doesn’t relish that kind of emotional question on any day, let alone when he’s fasting.
The final service, known as “Neilah” (locking), begins around 5 P.M. back in Central’s main sanctuary. Neilah denotes the moment when the proverbial gates close, symbolizing that we’ve run out of repentance time. It’s an unnerving idea to think that the ten focused days of deliberation are ending and we won’t know the verdict. Have we all been given another year? Can I tolerate the possibility that we haven’t?
In the dimly lit synagogue, when the final imploring prayers build to a climax, I’m simply too distracted by the fact that there are fresh bagels and fried chicken, waiting uptown, to feel duly shaken. Even though I warm to the idea of a big finale, it’s as if I’m already halfway out the door.
Breaking the fast with old friends is a tradition that Robin and I started in our twenties, when we were each newly married (both of us wed in 1993, just eleven months apart) and each tentatively starting Jewish homes. We wanted to create our own annual custom, apart from Mom’s, which would gather all our Jewish friends and acknowledge that we’re connected. So thirty-five to forty friends descend every year on Robin and Ed’s house, where the table is laden with platters and the guests contribute dessert.
Ever since our children were little—and we needed to get the kids fed and to bed—we’ve cheated the starting gun of the first bite. But this year, I want to do it by the book, waiting till the Neilah service is entirely done, even if my friends start eating ahead of me. It would feel like breaking my own rules to flee before the final word, especially because I’ve never seen the ark actually close—the symbolic shutting of God’s book.
As the ark doors slowly close, I feel that cinematic flash of panic: the drawbridge is going up before I’m surely, safely back in the castle. But then I remind myself that it’s a metaphor; I’m already either in or out of the Book of Life. Yes, the doors symbolize the closing of the gates, but my verdict is in. Standing in a pew with my husband by my side, it’s a private, profound moment of defenselessness. Our fate is not up to us.
After one last taxi ride, I’m finally among my oldest friends who are already standing around Robin and Ed’s dining table, buffet plates in hand, chewing happily, or sitting squished against each other on sofas and chairs, plates in laps, comparing lox to nova; recounting the day’s sermons and hunger trials. Kids are running around loudly with cookies in hand, crumbs sprinkling the floor. It’s chaotic and happy.
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