Congregation Netivot Shalom

Yom Kippur, 5762
Sept. 27, 2001
Rose Levinson Sept. 27, 2001

This drash is dedicated to David's and my chavurah, Judaism Revealed.

The narratives in the Torah that we read generation after generation, century after century, are in response to fundamental questions, ones we ask ourselves and qustions we ask G'd. Behind every story we read, alongside every tale we tell and re-tell, there is the anguish of our questions. The narrative gives us some succor, a bit of comfort before the questions start again. This release we get from narrative is one of the most precious gifts we have. The ability to tell our story is sometimes all that stands between us and a numbing sense of oblivion.

Hamlet's dying words to Horatio "...and in this harsh world draw they breath in pain to tell my story" speak for all of us over time who have told and re-told the narratives of the Jews. Throughout our history, we are exhorted to remember, to tell the story. All the stories over all the centuries, told by all the Jews and those who are part of us, form our collective memory. And we keep on making up additional stories, modifying them as events change for us-- as individuals and as a people.

Now, like Horatio, we draw our breath in infinite pain to tell the ancient stories. On Yom Kippur day there are two in particular we recite, today's Torah reading, Leviticus 16, and the Avodah Service, the Service of the Kohen Gadol, the High Priest.

Before we examine these, let us consider that there is a third narrative being written, one of which we are a part. Over the centuries, Jews have never ceased to be in dialogue with text. Midrashim, rabbinic writings, legal opinions, essays and now Jewish web sites and email conversations-all of thse constitute part of the ongoing conversation betwween us and the text, between us and G'd.

All of us who form today's Jewish world are contributors to this third narrative. We ground our story in Jewish sources and we base our conversation on a shared tradition. But those of us today in dialogue with Judaism look different from our ancestors, and contribute insights and viewpoints that draw upon various wellsprings. We come together under the tent of Judaism, united in our shared commitment to the destiny of the Jewish people. And we tell a revised story, one as old as time and as new as today's technology.

Let us now consider two of our key Yom Kippur readings-the Torah portion from Leviticus 16 and the Avodah Service of the Kohen Gadol. Our Torah portion narrates the instructions G-d told Moses to give his brother Aaron so that Aaron could fulfill the function of the High Priest-to purify himself and by extension the priestly class, the sanctuary and the community of Israel. The instructions G-d spells out are clear: how to dress, when to bathe, what animals to sacrifice, how lots shall be cast over the two goats, what shall be done with the animals' blood and how and where the blood should be sprinkled, the manner in which the scapegoat shall be banished, what is to be done with the sacrificed animals' carcasses, what shall be done with the soiled garments of the High Priest and those who assist him, how the priest's assistants shall re-enter the communal camp.

It is fascinating to note that essentially the very same story is told to us later in the Avodah Service, the service of the Kohen Gadol, which will be read in a couple of hours. The Avodah Service is essentially a recounting of the activities of the High Priests who followed in the generations after Aaron. It contains all the elements of the original story, the first narrative which G'd imparted to Moshe, found in today's Torah reading.

But the original tale, our primary source-G'd words to Moses-has been expanded, amplified, embroidered. In fact, there have been numerous versions of the Avodah Service written over the centuries, Sometimes they have been written in the form of poetry; other times they have reflected a sense of what is occurring in the community.

Clearly, the fact that the same core story is repeated at least twice during our Yom Kippur worship tells us there are fundamental issues in these narratives that are crucial, touching upon themes whose importance over the centuries remains key to us as individuals and as a community.

What themes? Let us acknowledge, first, that along with telling a story narrative helps us deal with liminal states, places of transition-life and death, purity and impurity, to give just two examples.Narrative, as one scholar wrote, is where ordinary language wrestles with myth. Furthermore, let us assume these Yom Kippur narratives are not closed systems; like any brilliant piece of art, they continually reveal new truths. In every age and at every time, when Jews and their fellow travellers gather to repeat and to hear these stories, fundamental questions of the human condition are being addressed. Beneath the clothing and the washing, and the sacrificing, and the scapegoating, the blood and the smoke and the sprinkling, lie universal and timeless issues.

There is, first of all, the question of how close we may come to G'd and how much distance we need to keep. Remember, G'd gave Moses these instructions just after Aaron's two sons were struck dead in the tabernacle. The opening sentences of the parasha acknowledge this: "G'd spoke to Moses after the death of the two sons of Aaron who died when they drew too close to the presence of G'd…G'd said…tell your brother Aaron that he is not to come at will into the Shrine…lest he die."

The Avodah Service does not narrate this; already the movement away from the beginning of the relationship between G'd and Israel has made it unneccessary to contemplate such intimacy. But implicit in both narratives is the notion that by performing certain rituals, G'd will be pleased and the people will be cleansed.

If we understand the history of the Jews, on one level, as an ongoing story of how the distance between G'd and the people is constantly in flux, these ritual acts take on meaning. They are a way of mediating the distance. The Torah portion from Leviticus, for example, needs to be seen in the context of those instances when a breach has opened and steps are being taken to heal the divide. Sometimes the breach is a huge one, as when the Golden Calf was built. In other cases, it is G'd who has shown him/herself to be difficult,, and in an attempt to make contact possible, certain rituals are devised to bridge the gap.

Throughout the two narratives runs the tension between life and death, purity and impurity, sin and repentance, condemnation and salvation. The boundaries between these states are tenous, permeable. The two narratives mirror the ambiguities in which we inescapably dwell. The two goats-one of which will be cast into oblivion carrying our sins and the other which will be sacrificed to G'd-reflect two of our impulses: on the one hand, we wish to cast away all evil from ourselves and the community, thrust impurity far away. On the other hand, we need to acknowledge our impurities and bring them unflinchingly before G'd.

Now what about our third narrative, the one we are constructing which takes place in a world without a central temple, without animal sacrifice, without the large and forbidding desert surrounding us. What kind of house do we build then; where now is our Tent of Meeting?

In our search, we clothe ourselves in linen garments, we importune G'd in some of the same language used by the Kohen Gadol, we deprive ourselves of food and drink so as to more readily do our work of teshuva. We re-enact a story that is both like and unlike the ancient ones we recite.

But we do not know how to pronounce the name the Kohen Gadol used when he entered the Holy of Holies. We stutter Gd's name as we shamble through our transgressions. Not for us the glory of the High Priest who 'emerging from the Holy of Holies...was like the morning star appearing through the clouds, or like the moon when it is full." No, that is not the way for us. Ours is a divergent path, though one illuminated by G'd's words to Moses, illuminated by the High Priests through the ages. We stand upon their shoulders, scanning the darkness.

Our task in our re-telling the narrative is to find the bridge to the past that leads us into the present and onward into the future. In today's Torah reading and the recitation of the Avodah, we are thrust back in time. But it is a time and place that remains ever-present. What, then, are we likely to find on our present day journey?

Perhaps we will be reminded of our own unceasing movement from purity to impurity, from sin to redemption, from condemnation to salvation-and then back again. We will experience our yearning to have G'd amongst us, and realize again that we cannot bear to sustain such closeness. Neither we nor G'd can dwell in close promimity for too long a time. It must be enough for us-- and enough for G'd-- to have our moments of revelation and then to move away again. We shall seek G'd, seek the good, over and over and over again-until we as individuals are no more. What remains is the collective, the community of Jews and our fellow travellers, ever engaged in the struggle to draw near without being consumed, to move away without being banished, to bring language to silent places. At the end of the day, we hope G'd will hear our narrative and help us write a happy ending. We hope G'd will grant us the courage to keep on telling our story.