Day of Atonement engages personal acts of prayer in public communal settings, in a faith with traditions of smaller gatherings.
The Republican photo by JANE KAUFMAN A detail from the cover on the Torah table in the chapel at Sons of Zion in Holyoke. Today one’s judgment is sealed, as Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, begins at sundown.
Yom Kippur is about engaging in a personal act, the act of prayer, in a public communal setting.
High Holidays have a majesty and grandeur that is unparalleled the rest of the year. Rabbis and cantors have their day in the sun. In fact, Yom Kippur used to be the only day of the year when a rabbi engaged in a sermon.
The contradiction can sometimes feel palpable between the public setting and the yearning for privacy.
Traditional Jews wear white as a reminder of purity and of mortality. It is a day to listen, to hear, to sing, to think and to feel.
“Who shall live and who shall die.” These are the traditional words.
Parts of the day are exhilarating, parts exhausting.
On Yom Kippur, I envision the turn of the Earth, and the Jews throughout the world engaging in similar rituals during this flow of time. And yet, time seems to stop.
It can be uplifting to sit in a crowded sanctuary, surrounded by thousands of voices praying together ancient words to haunting melodies. It can be comforting to stand in the presence of others, and feel the embrace of a large community.
There is also power in being part of a small group singing traditional prayers in a friend’s living room.
There is a long tradition among Jews of engaging in communal prayer within a home.
It springs from the seder, from Shabbat and festival meals, including Sukkot, from the value of hospitality, and from the tradition of shiva.
Shiva is the period of intense mourning following burial. During that week, the community is invited to the house of the mourner to engage in evening, or morning prayers, sometimes both. Visitors are not obligated to speak, only to pray.
It’s traditional to face East at these gatherings. Along with a couple of suitcases loaded with prayer books and yarmulkes, Congregation B’nai Israel’s beloved gabbai of blessed memory, Melvin Prouser, used to bring a compass to these services, so there would be no dispute about the correct direction to face. And sometimes that means praying in the direction of the stereo, or the refrigerator, rather than an ark loaded with Torahs.
But the experience is cozy.
While the community reaches out to the mourner by attending services within the home of a mourner, the mourner is expected to reach out to the community on Shabbat, the day of rest. Even in that first week, it is traditional for the the mourner to attend services at synagogue on Friday evening and Saturday. The obligations of mourner to community, and community to mourner are delicately balanced.
Separate from the widely observed tradition of attending services within the home at shiva and at seders, or at holiday meals, a pray-at-home movement has been building since 1968.
Somerville’s Havurat Shalom, a group of lay-led Jews, was made famous by the Jewish Catalog.
Since then, havurahs – small groups of unrelated Jews gathering to pray together in their own homes – have sprouted organically by word-of-mouth, and by tug-of-heart.
Groups of friends, often living far from their families of origin, have come together for meals and self-led services, forming closely knit bonds that can last for decades.
The models for these informal, non-institutional gatherings are as diverse as their membership.
However, it’s safe to assume that meals are integral to most and that some level of observance or celebration takes place.
I have been fortunate to be a part of one of these groups.
Together we have gathered in each other’s homes to welcome Shabbat, and enjoy a potluck dinner on Friday nights. These gatherings have felt safe, warm and filled with laughter.
We hold a service, and then share fare. Sometimes we sing Israeli songs after dinner, engaging in a lovely Shabbat tradition.
Often wherever I am and whatever I’m doing, I have a restless desire to be somewhere else.
But at these gatherings, I feel I am just where I am supposed to be: at home.
Jane Kaufman is editor of The Republican's forthcoming book, "Our Stories: A History of Jewish Immigration in Western Massachusetts." It is one in a series from The Republican on different ethnic groups that debuted last fall with "The Irish Legacy: A History of the Irish in Western Massachusetts." Other books due out this fall include "The Struggle for Freedom: A History of African Americans in Western Massachusetts" as well "Nuestra Historia: A History of Latinos in Western Massachusetts." The forthcoming can be pre-ordered, at discount, through the newspaper.
Jane Kaufman can be reached at jkaufman@repub.com