How I Used to Loathe Yom Kippur

“The most solemn religious fast of the Jewish year, the last of the ten days of penitence that begin with Rosh Hashana (the Jewish New Year).”

It’s a long ass day.

It all begins with a feast to ensure nobody starves to death during a 24-hour famine. The religious trek off to synagogue for evening prayer called Kol Nidre (translates as All vows).

The next day, Yom Kippur, thankful the 24-hour fasting began overnight, you return to the synagogue to begin your epic journey of repentance. During this period, you abstain from anything that gives you pleasure including fun showers and wet kisses.

The day is filled with prayer, followed by prayer, followed by more prayer. In the end, the Rabbi, or a man with huge lungs, blows a ram’s horn for an extraordinarily long time and then everybody returns home to gorge their faces on the biggest meal possible to break the fast.

I hate Yom Kippur.

Considered part of the holy trinity of high holidays for Jews, every man and his dog suddenly finds religion in order to repent to G-d. The usually quiet spaces found in the synagogue are now occupied by the once-a-year-rent-a-Jew crowd harangued into attendance by the older members of their family. G-d will forgive all your sins for the year if you show on Yom Kippur.

It’s a fast on a fast.

And now I’ve become one of those people I used to mock for their annual pilgrimage. Life happens. Family grows. Work gets in the way. A question of faith will also arise at some point in every person’s life preventing them from regular attendance.

This year it felt different.

In Christchurch, New Zealand, the community is tiny. The last census had 234 people identifying as Jews. There are an astonishing ten times more Jedis than Jews in this city. It’s hard to keep a community alive when there are so few.

I’m reminded of the last Jew in Cochin, the ticket-seller, Yaheh Hallegua, the last female Paradesi Jew of child-bearing age. How does she feel knowing she’s the last in line? Has she given up hope? As Ted Lasso would say, “it’s the hope that kills you.”

And yet our culture continues to stay alive despite the numbers. A regular influx of Jews arriving from England or the US seeking familiar ground. They arrive with hope and full of zest, willing to emerge themselves back into Judaism. The old-timers have seen people come and go before disillusion sets in. The newcomers drop off when they realize how much effort it takes to maintain a community.

You don’t miss it until it’s gone.

This year I thought about my Dad.

It still feels like yesterday I attended his shiva (week-long mourning period). He was a thrice-yearly Jew until he discovered a community with the Chabad. They made him feel welcome. They celebrated his bar mitzvah at the age of 70. They encouraged his learning. He would soon pledge allegiance to the Chabad House rather than the local synagogue. At least they knew his name.

We would walk home together on Kol Nidre. Over an hour’s walk in the dark, wintery night. He was often in pain from his dodgy knee but that wouldn’t stop him. When the cancer was too much to bear and it felt like he was on a continuous fast, he would insist we pushed him in his wheelchair to the synagogue. Nothing would prevent my Dad from attending.

Sometimes we would talk and discuss life. Most of the time it was in silence, happy to be in each other’s company. Pleased that someone was sharing the journey.

I miss my Dad.

The next day would be Yom Kippur and it was a trudge. I know a Day of Atonement isn’t meant to be fun but…it’s quite a commitment.

Our little Christchurch synagogue only had a morning service this year, run by an American. A progressive service with large chunks delivered in English. My wife loved it. I prefer not to understand a single word of Hebrew and lose myself in the rhythm of prayer. This was our first year attending the service.

All the excuses I used to make felt insignificant.

Today I wanted my children to experience some semblance of Jewish life. Today I prayed and thought about my Dad. Today I hoped my children will remember this time together with fondness.

It’s taken me a very long time to realize Yom Kippur isn’t all about atonement, it’s also about family.