Most Jewish communities, whether Orthodox, secular, or somewhere in between, silence something key to my mind or my soul. I dream of a place to call home.
You went off to some island. You spent all day speaking in tongues to a king. There was plenty of food and too many people. Now what?
I regret those words as soon as I think them. But it’s true.
But why can't every day with G-d be a chag? A holiday. If G-d is everywhere then why can he only enter the field one month out of the lowly year?
It was the last chicken in Brooklyn. Well, the last one that was still clucking.
On Yom Kippur, we're handed a clean slate. Possibly the greatest gift that cancer gave me was a renewed desire and ability for forgiveness regardless of who was at fault.
We are not a joke. Your ethnicity is not a joke. Your religion is not a joke. Because Yom Kippur isn’t about fasting.
We are fish benumbed by the commonplace of our individual bowls.
Seven years later I could tell you that I’ve found the same venue for joy within observant Judaism, but I haven’t.
