Yom Kippur 1: on not needing to be perfect
"God does not expect perfection." This is a message the universe has been sending me for about two months now, from a variety of Jewish sources: books, web articles, and, last night, from my own Rabbi. It is a message I have needed to hear for decades now, a message that is having a hard time sinking into my poor stubborn head. I cling stubbornly to the perfectionist God that I grew up with, the God of the Protestant Work Ethic and of the famous Gospel verse "be perfect, as your Father in Heaven is perfect," the God who has so little tolerance for my imperfections that "His only begotten son" had to die as a human sacrifice in order to make me acceptable in God's sight.
The thing is, I grew up being told that this harsh, perfectionist Diety was the Jewish God. I grew up in a Christian tradition that had long ago cleansed itself of any remnant of Christian anti-Semitism, or at least told itself that it had, and yet I got this message loud and clear: the raison d'etre for Christianity to supersede Judaism, the reason we had a "new" covenant to replace the "old" one, was that Judaism and its "Old Testament God" (that's the phrase my teachers used!) was so caught up in its system of laws and judgments as to be basically untenable for imperfect people like me. Jesus tried to be a good Jew, I was taught, but he was forced to rebel against Judaism because it was too harsh in its judgments, too strict in its expectations about its myriad commandments, too full of guilt when people inevitably failed to do them all perfectly, too exclusionary toward anyone it found to be imperfect or unclean in any way.
The God revealed in the parables and sayings and actions of Jesus, however, seemed to demand even more perfection, even harder work, even less giving-in to our human tendencies. We Protestants were supposed to try to be like Jesus -- even as we were taught to recognize that we would always fall hopelessly short of his perfect example. We were to work hard at work worth doing: to clothe the naked and feed the hungry and welcome the outcast, to be peace-makers and justice-builders even in our classrooms and schoolyards, to grow up to be upstanding members of our communities and ideal family men/women, to be selfless in our service to others and somehow also sucessful in all we did to the glory of God, to always ask ourselves "what would Jesus do?" and then do that ourselves, to hold ourselves to the highest and strictest moral standards, to live such shining lives that we would bring others to Christ through our example -- we were, in short, given a new version of perfection to live up to.
And, furthermore, to drive home how much we needed "the work Jesus did on the cross," we were constantly reminded of how much we fell short of this new standard of perfection. Our imperfections were rubbed in our face, together with our original and inherent sinfulness, to show us how much we needed "God's grace," which was defined as God's ability to love us and forgive us even though we didn't deserve it. And we were taught that somehow, mysteriously to me, God's ability to love us through this vaunted grace required (a) God to be born as a human, die a horrible death, and then resurrect himself so as to satisfy God's need for divine cosmic justice, and (b) for us to declare our faith, belief, and trust in the "good news" of part (a) so as to satisfy the apostle Paul. I was a skeptic from day one.
And yet, while I rejected all of this Christian "atonement theory" that said Jesus' death on the cross made my imperfection okay, I accepted hook-line-and-sinker what I had been taught about the Judaic alternative: that I would never be perfect enough to be acceptable to the Jewish community or to their version of God (who, somehow, was supposed to be the same as our God, only not so much). Then I met some Jews. They weren't any more or less perfect than I was, they openly struggled as much as anyone else with their ability to do all of the things they thought defined the Good Life, they certainly had more rules to follow (especially at Passover time), and yet they almost all seemed to have less anxiety about their religious life than I or any of my Christian friends did. Actually, more so than most Christians I knew at that point, their religion seemed to make them feel better about themselves and their lives. Huh.
And I think one of the keys to understanding that paradox is the Days of Awe. While the Christian apostle Paul declared that Jesus' death on the cross freed us from "the Law" and from having to go through all of the twists and turns of personal atonement, maybe that timeless truth applies here that "freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose." The God I find in Judaism is no less gracious than the God I was taught about in Christianity, S/He just lets you go about accessing that grace in a personal (yet also communal), ritual way that doesn't require signing-on to somebody's torture and death two millennia ago. Through Tashlich, casting my sins on the water, and Yom Kippur I get to take care of my own baggage and settle my issues for myself. I prefer that.
And that is where one of the most unusual truths about Judaism comes in: that it's holiest days, its "Christmas and Easter" as one Jew put it, are not celebrations of some great victory of God or a prophet in history, but instead are days to set our lives right today. Through Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur, we focus on the idea of admitting our imperfections and then we lovingly, trustingly put words in God's mouth that go something like: "that's okay, I understand, all is forgiven, keep on trying to keep up the good work." In almost every other religion I know of, the holiest days are days of celebration. Judaism has its celebrations, too, mind -- plenty of them! -- but Jews start each year with the realization that we have to let go of our baggage, admit our mistakes, and then accept the difficult truth that God accepts -- embraces, even -- our imperfections and, with them, us as well.
And so, it seems to me both delightful and strange that I have found that truth in Judaism, during the month set aside for contemplating one's imperfections and atoning for one's sins no less, just as I hit a point in life where it feels like I am noting but a mass of imperfections. And, apparently, God is strangely okay with that. (Now if only I can be okay with that as well...)
Which moves me to say, as odd as it may sound, Happy Yom Kippur everybody!
---
Another thing I was given to believe is that Judaism is a closed world -- you are born into it, or you marry into it, or you will just never be a part of it. Given that set-up, I was intimidated to walk into a synagogue for the first time, and even more intimidated to show up (under-dressed in business casual, even) for my first High Holy Day service Tuesday night. And I have been consistently pleasantly surprised by how welcoming the community has been to my presence, my participation, and in this synagogue at least, even to my membership prior to full "conversion". And yet, I still can't shake the feeling of being an imposter sometimes...because I don't know all the rules, all the cues, what to say and do at all of the right times, not just in prayer service but also before and after. Who knew they would say "Gut Yomkip" (and I'm not even sure that's correct) to each other? Not me!
Just one more imperfection I'm going to have to get comfortable with, I guess!
The thing is, I grew up being told that this harsh, perfectionist Diety was the Jewish God. I grew up in a Christian tradition that had long ago cleansed itself of any remnant of Christian anti-Semitism, or at least told itself that it had, and yet I got this message loud and clear: the raison d'etre for Christianity to supersede Judaism, the reason we had a "new" covenant to replace the "old" one, was that Judaism and its "Old Testament God" (that's the phrase my teachers used!) was so caught up in its system of laws and judgments as to be basically untenable for imperfect people like me. Jesus tried to be a good Jew, I was taught, but he was forced to rebel against Judaism because it was too harsh in its judgments, too strict in its expectations about its myriad commandments, too full of guilt when people inevitably failed to do them all perfectly, too exclusionary toward anyone it found to be imperfect or unclean in any way.
The God revealed in the parables and sayings and actions of Jesus, however, seemed to demand even more perfection, even harder work, even less giving-in to our human tendencies. We Protestants were supposed to try to be like Jesus -- even as we were taught to recognize that we would always fall hopelessly short of his perfect example. We were to work hard at work worth doing: to clothe the naked and feed the hungry and welcome the outcast, to be peace-makers and justice-builders even in our classrooms and schoolyards, to grow up to be upstanding members of our communities and ideal family men/women, to be selfless in our service to others and somehow also sucessful in all we did to the glory of God, to always ask ourselves "what would Jesus do?" and then do that ourselves, to hold ourselves to the highest and strictest moral standards, to live such shining lives that we would bring others to Christ through our example -- we were, in short, given a new version of perfection to live up to.
And, furthermore, to drive home how much we needed "the work Jesus did on the cross," we were constantly reminded of how much we fell short of this new standard of perfection. Our imperfections were rubbed in our face, together with our original and inherent sinfulness, to show us how much we needed "God's grace," which was defined as God's ability to love us and forgive us even though we didn't deserve it. And we were taught that somehow, mysteriously to me, God's ability to love us through this vaunted grace required (a) God to be born as a human, die a horrible death, and then resurrect himself so as to satisfy God's need for divine cosmic justice, and (b) for us to declare our faith, belief, and trust in the "good news" of part (a) so as to satisfy the apostle Paul. I was a skeptic from day one.
And yet, while I rejected all of this Christian "atonement theory" that said Jesus' death on the cross made my imperfection okay, I accepted hook-line-and-sinker what I had been taught about the Judaic alternative: that I would never be perfect enough to be acceptable to the Jewish community or to their version of God (who, somehow, was supposed to be the same as our God, only not so much). Then I met some Jews. They weren't any more or less perfect than I was, they openly struggled as much as anyone else with their ability to do all of the things they thought defined the Good Life, they certainly had more rules to follow (especially at Passover time), and yet they almost all seemed to have less anxiety about their religious life than I or any of my Christian friends did. Actually, more so than most Christians I knew at that point, their religion seemed to make them feel better about themselves and their lives. Huh.
And I think one of the keys to understanding that paradox is the Days of Awe. While the Christian apostle Paul declared that Jesus' death on the cross freed us from "the Law" and from having to go through all of the twists and turns of personal atonement, maybe that timeless truth applies here that "freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose." The God I find in Judaism is no less gracious than the God I was taught about in Christianity, S/He just lets you go about accessing that grace in a personal (yet also communal), ritual way that doesn't require signing-on to somebody's torture and death two millennia ago. Through Tashlich, casting my sins on the water, and Yom Kippur I get to take care of my own baggage and settle my issues for myself. I prefer that.
And that is where one of the most unusual truths about Judaism comes in: that it's holiest days, its "Christmas and Easter" as one Jew put it, are not celebrations of some great victory of God or a prophet in history, but instead are days to set our lives right today. Through Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur, we focus on the idea of admitting our imperfections and then we lovingly, trustingly put words in God's mouth that go something like: "that's okay, I understand, all is forgiven, keep on trying to keep up the good work." In almost every other religion I know of, the holiest days are days of celebration. Judaism has its celebrations, too, mind -- plenty of them! -- but Jews start each year with the realization that we have to let go of our baggage, admit our mistakes, and then accept the difficult truth that God accepts -- embraces, even -- our imperfections and, with them, us as well.
And so, it seems to me both delightful and strange that I have found that truth in Judaism, during the month set aside for contemplating one's imperfections and atoning for one's sins no less, just as I hit a point in life where it feels like I am noting but a mass of imperfections. And, apparently, God is strangely okay with that. (Now if only I can be okay with that as well...)
Which moves me to say, as odd as it may sound, Happy Yom Kippur everybody!
---
Another thing I was given to believe is that Judaism is a closed world -- you are born into it, or you marry into it, or you will just never be a part of it. Given that set-up, I was intimidated to walk into a synagogue for the first time, and even more intimidated to show up (under-dressed in business casual, even) for my first High Holy Day service Tuesday night. And I have been consistently pleasantly surprised by how welcoming the community has been to my presence, my participation, and in this synagogue at least, even to my membership prior to full "conversion". And yet, I still can't shake the feeling of being an imposter sometimes...because I don't know all the rules, all the cues, what to say and do at all of the right times, not just in prayer service but also before and after. Who knew they would say "Gut Yomkip" (and I'm not even sure that's correct) to each other? Not me!
Just one more imperfection I'm going to have to get comfortable with, I guess!
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