Whenever people ask me what Yom Kippur is about, I always tell them it’s the Jewish holiday for feeling bad about yourself. Every religion has one of these, seemingly; often they involve not eating or giving up some small luxury (see Lent, diet coke, in the case of my old boss). If you watch public television at odd hours you’ll see travel shows featuring strange rituals in Pakistan where young men whip themselves with razor-tipped chains. Giving up Coke, razor-tips, same diff.

Yom Kippur started last Friday evening, and I got off to a pretty good start; I went to services and thought long and hard about all the sins I had committed. Fortunately, the Torah has some tips for those people who aren’t predisposed to feeling bad about themselves. On Yom Kippur, the old book says, you must account even for those sins you committed unknowingly. “Trust me, you’ve been bad, I should know,” God says.

But not knowing about them make makes repenting for those sins a little hard; the most you can say is, “Um…sorry for all the bad stuff I didn’t know I was doing.” Or you can take some educated guesses: “Let me think…oh, I know! When I ordered General Tso’s Chicken at that bad Chinese place! That was a sin, right?”

It’s tricky. Almost anything can be a sin, if you think about it enough. And God wants you to say sorry for all of them, or else you’ll DIE! Well, maybe not die, but you might not get inscribed in the Book of Life, which seems like kind of a downer, at least.

At this time I’d like to point out that while I am Jewish, and I am vaguely qualified to talk about the importance and meaning of this holiday, this has not been and will continue not to be in any way an accurate or truthful description of the Jewish holiday of Yom Kippur. If you are writing a term-paper on the subject and have arrived here via wild and thoughtless Googling, please turn around. I am joking. This is a better place to look.

So.

Friday was OK. I went home a little tired and pensive. “How can I be a better person?” I asked my girlfriend.

“What?” she said. “What are you talking about? Is that a joke?”

It was, sort of. But I couldn’t decide. She fell asleep and I lay awake thinking how I could improve. Most of my answers involved me doing something exciting and getting super-famous. Somehow I don’t think becoming a professional sky-diver is what God has in mind.

Saturday it was impossible to feel bad about yourself, or anything, for that matter. It was the most beautiful day so far this year (calendar year, not Jewish year). Cool, but not cold. Warm, but not hot. Sun and breeze and air so sweet you wanted to run with your mouth open (but only if you could cover your mouth with bug-netting first).

I tried hard to be solemn, but the weather was uncooperative. So I just gave up and decided to be happy. “If this is a sin,” I thought, “I don’t know about it.”

Fasting was no big deal, as usual. When people hear that I’m fasting they always seem shocked. They ask if I’m really not going to eat all day. But not eating for a day is like not going to the bathroom for a day; it’s easy if you just forget about it. In college there were times when I wouldn’t eat for more than a day and not even realize it. That had more to do with being on a 10-meal-a-week meal plan than religion, but still.

Evening came, and I went with my family to the Jewish student center, Hillel, where we always go for services. It’s not really a synagogue; it’s much smaller and less formal, but I’ve always felt comfortable there. The only bad thing is that it’s on the University of Minnesota campus. Actually, it’s right on fraternity row.

The fraternity brothers weren’t feeling too bad about themselves, as far as I could see. Then again, maybe they were actually repenting for their sins while at the same time having a few beers with bikini-clad co-eds in the hot tub on the fraternity lawn. It’s possible. People talk to God in many different ways.

But probably not in that way. It must’ve been homecoming, or awaycoming, or just a football game, or maybe just Saturday, because the -farts- frats were filled with people. It seemed like all of them were having parties. And the one next to Hillel was definitely having a party. The hot-tub was well-stocked with water, alcohol, and people of opposite sexes. Also they had loud music. Such loud music.

On the way in, I thought, “Oh, ha, that’s funny. Bet it won’t be a problem once inside, though.”

Once inside, I thought, “Oh, ha, that’s funny.”

It was a problem. Even with the windows closed tight and the blinds down, the bass-thumping was easily discernible. While I couldn’t pin down the songs, I could clearly pick out the genre. For example, during the first Amidah (The Great Prayer), I am certain they were rocking some East Coast shizznit. Perhaps Jay-Z or Puffy. Then, during the Neilah, it was pretty obvious Slim Shady was up in that mug. Well, not Slim himself, but one of his albums.

Yom Kippur prayers, despite the recent modifications by the reform movement, are not known for having much low-end. You can chant Neilah pretty loud, if you try, but you just can’t get it to bump. Y’know?

So it was tough. During the communal prayers when everyone was singing you could sort of forget the party next door (or at least try to pray in time with Biggy, or whoever). But when it was just the rabbi talking or the cantor sounding a few high, lonesome notes, it wasn’t much of a contest.

By the end of the service, I was pretty ready to get out of there; I hadn’t eaten all day, I’d been standing up and praying for the last half-hour, and I kept having to resist the urge to shake my thang. So as the last prayer concluded, I was pleased to see a nice young woman going up to the front of the room, shofar in hand, ready to mark the end of the beginning of the new year (see here if you don’t know what I’m talking about).

Somehow, the merry-makers outside found a moment of peace; the music went silent and, briefly, the random moronic yelling ceased. The ba’al tokea (person who blows the shofar) took a deep breath and then let out a long, impressive blast of ram’s-horn-sound. It lasted almost a minute, and it ended in the traditional way, with an abrupt, shrill note.

We were all pleased. “This will be a good year,” I thought. “I will work hard to be a better person.” If only God could give me a sign, something to show me that my sins had been atoned for, that I was on the right track…

And then from outside came a tremendous sound. It rumbled and thundered in an awesome way. There was no doubting it. It was unmistakeable.

It was the Dave Mathews Band.

This entry was posted on Monday, September 27th, 2004 at 9:12 am and is filed under Minnesota, Religion. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.