I Wonder Why I'm There

Sometimes I sit in synagogue and wonder what on earth I'm doing there. I have no strong feelings about God, religion plays little role in my daily existence, and my independent prayer life is limited to "please, please, please, please make everything ok" in circumstances of dire uncertainty. But come Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, there I sit, on Yom Kippur without even the benefit of food in my stomach.

Why do I do it? Why do I fast? Why do I recite prayers in a language I can barely read, let alone understand? Why am I ruining our Sunday morning bike rides by sending my kids to religious school?

I don't know.

The question does not loom on Hanukkah and Passover. Those are holidays that take place at home, among family, plus I can get behind their rationales. While the militaristic underdog overtones of Hanukkah don't do much for me, I'm all about standing up against oppression, which both of those holidays explicitly celebrate. Not to mention the food.

But while I'd like to atone for my sins, or even--now this would be a miracle--get rid of them, I rarely experience spiritual breakthrough on Yom Kippur. Mostly I sit. And wonder why I'm there.

M has just started religious school again, after dropping out in Red State Capital City. Starting religious school means joining a synagogue, and we love our new synagogue. The rabbi is funny and smart and friendly and remarried (which we like, because it means he's human). The cantor is friends with my friend E and has a wonderful voice. The synagogue values community and music and respecting other faiths and social action (I know, because the president said so at Kol Nidre). Two kids from M's class at school are in her religious school class, and half a dozen families from our neighborhood belong. It's synagogue heaven, after years of synagogue alienation.

Still, I wonder why I'm there.

I know what I want. I want my kids to be able to recite the V'ahavta without looking down at the page. I want them to know the difference between l'hadlik nair shel shabbat and l'hadlik nair shel yom tov. I want them to hang out with their friends at services and, when they grow up and live far away from me, to call me up for the red cabbage recipe for their first seders.

But why do I want this? Because I had it? Because it will give them a sense of community and identity? Because they are Jewish and I want that to mean something to them? Yeah, I guess.

Still, I wonder why I'm there.

Yom Kippur didn't do much for me this year; it rarely does. I don't pay enough attention, and hunger is not a conducive state for being my best self. But in the late afternoon, M and I went for a walk, which I like to do to distract myself from the hunger. We ended up down by the pond, and I told her that when I lived in California I used to go for a walk on Yom Kippur and do my own private tashlich. So we picked up sticks and threw them into the pond to throw away things we want to be rid of. We threw away getting fussy and being mean to E and worrying about work and the war and natural disasters and George W. Bush. Then I suggested that we sing the Shehechyanu. M said ok, so long as nobody could hear us, just as I said, there's nobody around, no one will hear us. So we sang it, quietly, and M knew all the words.