I am overwhelmed by words that define my relationship with God.
I struggle to find my place, hiding thoughts inside my head that cannot be revealed, impatient with a mind-numbing experience, reciting prayers that seem detached from the world and me – the same prayers over and over, as if that would overcome my doubts and restlessness, the fragments of my soul that remain silent.
In shul on Yom Kippur
Next to me, some are sleeping, others dutifully singing, sloshing through words as the chazan wails a familiar tune. I want to scream, not “Where is God?” but “Why am I here?”
Fasting, I know that in hunger there is life, in deprivation there is reward. I turn pages, watching words arrange themselves in shapes and sounds, my breath hesitant, aware of light and shadows that surge across the room.
Quicksand
I am sinking into a quicksand of meaninglessness, accompanied by stale piyutim that follow the alphabet so I don’t get lost (!), inedible crumbs strewn in this forest of “holiness.” I am supposed to be praying, like everyone else, wearing a white gown, the one in which I will be buried, covered by my tallit.
Standing in front of me, a man beats the left side of his chest and cries out. I wish he could pray instead of me, to inspire me with a significant thought, but all I can think about is how much longer I have to endure.
Words are so important in communicating, and now they seem unimportant. I want silence, even a few minutes, but every moment must be filled with words. I am drowning in words. And I am drowning in resentment, anger, and confusion. I feel chained to a wall, helplessly awaiting punishment.
There is no room for silence or dialogue: It’s all monologue. I feel like I am filled with holes waiting to be filled by prayers, by enthusiasm. But that is impossible, and so I am left with a void inside and outside, engulfed in a firestorm of needs – not food but something to free me from myself.
A slave
My routines disrupted, I cannot focus; I’m a slave. I want to write down an idea, but I cannot; I’m a slave. I want someone to listen to all my silly gripes and arrogant judgments, criticisms of myself and others, but no one is there. It’s just me, stuck in a room full of strangers, wanting to escape as I did when I was a child, impatient.
I walk outside. The streets are empty. It’s Yom Kippur; everyone is inside, davening. The air feels good, and I fill my lungs. What does God want of me?
Under a tree
I can talk to Him better here, under a tree. God, show me Your presence. And I know it is all around me, even in that room where everyone is pouring out their hearts, begging forgiveness, worried about who will live and who will die.
I am suddenly a child who is alone, an adult abandoned.
A one-sided conversation with God – or rote prayers with melodies? What am I praying for? Health, peacefulness, and wealth? Okay, but why on this day especially? Why bet everything on a single day?
The “gates of God’s mercy” close when Yom Kippur is over – and we celebrate life again by eating? Is the high priest’s Temple service relevant when it has not been so for the past 2,000 years?
I listen to the silence inside and to my question: How can I serve You?