"Listen, you Heavens, and I will speak; let the Earth hear the words of My mouth." So begins the sedra of Ha'azinu.
More on this in a moment, but first:
A tale of two wavings.
It is Erev Yom Kippur. In perhaps the most bizarre of all Jewish customs (certainly to an outsider), I am waving a chicken above my head. Squawking, squirming, it jumps about until its throat is slit; and it is quiet, immobile.
Now, it is one week later. I am singing Hallel and I am again waving. But this time, it is the lulav, the etrog, the hadas and the arava that I am waving in every direction. I recite the words of Hallel as I wave, and the whole shul is moving, doing The Wave along with me.
What's it all about?
Yom Kippur is, in many ways, about death. But not in a morbid way. Even as we pray for life and all its blessings, we contemplate how frail our mortal existence is, how much we depend upon HaShem to sustain our lives and keep the flickering candle of our soul alit. We wear the kittel, we recite Yizkor, we say the vidui confessional at Ne'ilah. All these symbols associated with death add urgency to our prayers and focus us on the import of the day.
And that is the essence of kapparot, as well. Whatever one thinks of this custom, one thing is clear: when you see a living thing vigorously jumping about one moment and totally lifeless the next, you realize how fleeting life can be. And you begin to think about priorities and pettiness. What counts and what is really unimportant in the scheme of things. And you start to put things into perspective. It's a sobering moment.
But then, the court adjourns. Yom Kippur is over and you hope you have been inscribed for good. Now, it is time to live life, to celebrate life.
And so, we wave the Arba Minim. They stand for life and for growth. They remind us that, while it is good to be serious and confront the precariousness of our existence once in a while, it is also crucial that we live life to the fullest, seeking and finding joy and beauty in every direction.
Ha'azinu is read between Yom Kippur and Sukkot. It calls as witnesses Heaven and Earth. Heaven - that's a place we concentrate upon during Yom Kippur: emulating the angels, appearing in celestial court, testifying as to why we deserve another year to fulfill our destiny. Our eyes and hearts are continually turned to the Heavens.
But then, just five days later, it is time to come down to Earth. This, after all, is where we live, where we work, where we build our sukkot. And where we celebrate our lives, not as angels, but as human beings.
(Note: The article entitled "Interview with G-d" was adapted from a piece that has appeared in a number of places [both Jewish and non-Jewish]; author unknown. Thank you for your many responses. - RSW)
More on this in a moment, but first:
A tale of two wavings.
It is Erev Yom Kippur. In perhaps the most bizarre of all Jewish customs (certainly to an outsider), I am waving a chicken above my head. Squawking, squirming, it jumps about until its throat is slit; and it is quiet, immobile.
Now, it is one week later. I am singing Hallel and I am again waving. But this time, it is the lulav, the etrog, the hadas and the arava that I am waving in every direction. I recite the words of Hallel as I wave, and the whole shul is moving, doing The Wave along with me.
What's it all about?
Yom Kippur is, in many ways, about death. But not in a morbid way. Even as we pray for life and all its blessings, we contemplate how frail our mortal existence is, how much we depend upon HaShem to sustain our lives and keep the flickering candle of our soul alit. We wear the kittel, we recite Yizkor, we say the vidui confessional at Ne'ilah. All these symbols associated with death add urgency to our prayers and focus us on the import of the day.
And that is the essence of kapparot, as well. Whatever one thinks of this custom, one thing is clear: when you see a living thing vigorously jumping about one moment and totally lifeless the next, you realize how fleeting life can be. And you begin to think about priorities and pettiness. What counts and what is really unimportant in the scheme of things. And you start to put things into perspective. It's a sobering moment.
But then, the court adjourns. Yom Kippur is over and you hope you have been inscribed for good. Now, it is time to live life, to celebrate life.
And so, we wave the Arba Minim. They stand for life and for growth. They remind us that, while it is good to be serious and confront the precariousness of our existence once in a while, it is also crucial that we live life to the fullest, seeking and finding joy and beauty in every direction.
Ha'azinu is read between Yom Kippur and Sukkot. It calls as witnesses Heaven and Earth. Heaven - that's a place we concentrate upon during Yom Kippur: emulating the angels, appearing in celestial court, testifying as to why we deserve another year to fulfill our destiny. Our eyes and hearts are continually turned to the Heavens.
But then, just five days later, it is time to come down to Earth. This, after all, is where we live, where we work, where we build our sukkot. And where we celebrate our lives, not as angels, but as human beings.
(Note: The article entitled "Interview with G-d" was adapted from a piece that has appeared in a number of places [both Jewish and non-Jewish]; author unknown. Thank you for your many responses. - RSW)