Yom Kippur, which we typically call the “Day of Atonement,” actually has the literal meaning of the Day of Forgiveness or Pardon. We are taught that forgiveness comes when we have done an act of atonement. But just what is atonement, and how do we know if we have attained it? Jewish Tradition has a very simple litmus test for atonement. If someone has committed a transgression, whatever it might be, and seems to have repented, the atonement is real if, in the same circumstances, the offense is not repeated. Yet, if it were really that simple, why is there so much that we must do, and why does Torah command us to afflict our souls? Perhaps because we can be so easily distracted from dealing with the task at hand. Just ask yourselves what you would rather do: Watch Monday night football, or search your soul looking for faults? Would you rather play bridge than seek out someone you have wronged (on purpose or inadvertently) and try to apologize? Would you rather sit down to a nicely prepared meal which delights the sense of vision, the sense of smell, and the sense of taste, or would you prefer to abstain entirely from all bodily pleasures? Each of these questions has an easy and obvious answer. So no wonder the Talmud in Pirkei Avot tells us that we humans have much work to do, little time to do it, little inclination to do it, and a Boss Who is impatient, and urges us on.

The affliction of the soul which is required of us on this day, is designed to make us let go of the things that ordinarily fill our lives. On a normal day we might be consumed with work, driven to achieve, to produce tangible results. On this day we are asked to refrain from work, to step away from the joys of external accomplishment, and from its distractions as well. On a normal day, a major activity is eating. Meals have to be planned, prepared, served and eaten. Or a place to purchase them must be found, and a break cut into the routine so that they can be consumed. On this day, at least for the adults, that is not supposed to be a concern. And so it goes in each area of our lives, the Tradition places restrictions on us which, if observed, change the rhythm, the pattern and the very essence of our lives. Yom Kippur attempts to have us let the world exist without interference from us. It teaches us that the world will continue to exist, even without our intervention in its processes. But most of all, Yom Kippur, if observed, strips us of the normal patterns of life, of all of the things which we take for granted, and forces us to evaluate each of the elements from which we compound ourselves. Which of the things we do, perhaps without even thinking about them, make sense, are of value? Which of them are simply unproductive, or even counter-productive?

When I walk into our home, and look around, I see an incredible assortment of things. Coffee cups, stoneware pottery, wood carvings, posters, metal sculpture, Jewish Ritual Objects, paintings, and lots of books. It seems that each and every item comes with a story. Oh, that menorah? It was a gift from congregants in Cincinnati. They bought it at the Smithsonian in Washington D.C.. It comes from an Islamic country, and notice the crescent moon and the star and the top. And, it has a design flaw that only shows up if you try to use it. Oh, that rug? It comes from the Old City of Jerusalem. Let me tell you about Ali Barakat the rug merchant who used to serve me tea with mint.... And so it goes.

Each item in our home reminds me, vividly of some particular time. Where we lived, what we were doing, even the dreams we dreamed of a future yet to unfold. This seems to be a paradigm by which we construct our lives, from small, almost insignificant pieces. One adding to another to another until, the pile has become so large that it takes on characteristics of its own. We no longer seem to be in control. Our life just flows along, taking us in which ever direction it happens to be going.

Yom Kippur, though, rips us from our typical daily schedule, and divorces us from our physical needs. It fills the day and wrests control from the mundane world. In doing so it gives us a unique opportunity to evaluate our lives, ourselves, and our world. It does so against a backdrop of striving. Not for material success, but striving to get in touch with, and close to, the Divine image in each of us. It challenges us to seek and define what is of real meaning in our lives.

There is a "values clarification" question which I think many of us have heard in one form or another: If you had to leave your home immediately, and could only take just one suitcase, or just 3 items with you, what would you choose to take? This question is a way of shocking us into thinking about what is truly important in our lives. Our hope and prayer is that this question will always be just an intellectual exercise, but there are people around the world in war and strife torn countries that face these decisions everyday. I am sure that many of you remember when the people of Los Alamos had to evacuate in the face of a forest fire. The question of what to take as you leave, was no mere exercise for them.

This question became very real and immediate to me when I spoke to my cousin in Houston as hurricane Rita was closing in. He described to me how he stood in his closet to pick out clothes to take for the sojourn following the evacuation. He asked himself the question, “Do I take clothes with me for the three days we plan to be away, or should I take some suits with me because when we do return, I might not have any clothes left in the aftermath of Rita?”

If you were in a situation like that, what would you take, to save from destruction? Often the first answer is photographs. The pictures that chronicle our lives, our experiences, the history that makes us who we are, are precious. And we cannot go back and take the pictures of family at the Bar or Bat Mitzvah or Wedding. When those photographs are gone, they are gone. Sometimes though, what comes next on the list can seem frivolous, or at least they evoke a nervous laugh. Jewelry. I'd go for the gold. Yet, this is not such a bad answer. First of all the gems, like the photos may have great sentimental value. I would hate to lose the ring containing my birth stone which my grandmother originally gave to my father for a birthday present. There is a practical side as well. Jewelry can be a key to survival. In spite of the sentimental value, a diamond in the proper hands can be food, transportation, a hiding place and even protection. And so it goes. Think about it. What would you try to save in a five minute dash through the house on the way to the car to escape a fire, a flood, an invading army or an approaching hurricane?

Now, let us turn this question slightly and reshape it in the following way: What if you suddenly were given notice that you had to, not leave your house, but your life. You have five minutes to vacate your body. If you could take some memory of your life with you, what would you want it to be? In that five minute frantic dash through memory, brain cell, and spirit what would you find most dear? What would you least like to lose, to give up, to never see, feel, taste, or touch again? For that matter, what would you be willing, even glad to leave behind?

Yom Kippur, like these questions, is supposed act as a slap in the face. The sound of the Shofar on Rosh Hashana was meant to rouse us from the stupor of complacency in which we find ourselves most of the time. Yom Kippur is the culmination of that awakening. Open your eyes, and look around. Open your heart and look inward. See yourself in the stark contrast which a true contemplation of life (and death) casts upon us.

I wonder how well I would do if I had to grab things in a mad dash out of my house. But I do know the things that I would miss if I were given notice to vacate my life. And I do know the things that I would want to take with me. Little things, basically simple things.

For starters, I want to take the sensation of a burning orange sunset with me. You know the kind. When the sky is clean and crisp, and the sun begins to hide behind a tree. The sky is painted with a luminescent orange that fills the soul with sweetness and longing and awe. Or, the kind we see here in the high desert when the clouds catch the light just so, and they themselves seem to be on fire while the mountains are bathed in a yellow glow. Or perhaps I would hold onto a sunset in Jerusalem. The kind where the sun slices in at an angle from across the Mediterranean Sea, and the whole city is bathed in warm yellow light. The stones that make up the buildings shimmer in waning light, and it is clear that no other city on earth could be as filled with Kedusha, with holiness, as Jerusalem.

I know something else I would want to take. The sight of Hashi, my late black lab, running on the beach, ears flapping, legs stretching out for the next stride, with the crash of the waves as a backdrop. Likewise, I would want to take the memory of Teddy, our late golden retriever, running across the backyard. The feathering of her tail caught in the wind as she bounds in the gate of a classic retriever in the field. It used to take my breath away. The pure beauty of these things fills my heart with an ache.

Of course, I would also want to take with me the memory of Janet asking me how much I love her. If a life has been touched by love and caring, it is too sweet a sensation to leave behind. And I realize that I have already mentioned my limit of three things to take, but there is more.

I want to take with me the feeling that I had last night, as I was leaving, after the service. I looked at the bags of food we had collected, and was struck by the amount of hunger our fast, and our caring, will alleviate. I was hit too by a sense of what the word compassion means. And this I also want to take with me. The warmth that comes of one person helping another, caring about another, of seeing, if you will, God’s work in the world. Of us being partners with God in creating a world which is better than the one which was given to us.

And what about the feeling that overtakes me when study yields some new insight into Torah, our origins, or our traditions. Or the feeling of absolute pure pleasure I get when I see the light of understanding shine in a student’s eyes. Can I please take these with me?

And I would want to take with me the sound of my late Grandma Rose's voice in recognition on the phone, "Oh, Marvie, a gesundt off dine kepaleh. You made my whole day." And, a memory of her laughter. Can I take with me one last taste of her home made from gefilte fish, the only gefilte fish that I have ever really found to be edible.

The list is still not complete, and it is not in order, and maybe it is silly. But I know if I were deprived of all these things, it would hurt, and that ache would be beyond bearing.

So what will I do about all this? When the service is over, when the final Tekiah Gedolah echoes fade away, and with it Yom Kippur for another year, I will break the fast and finally go home. I can no longer simply pick up a phone and talk to my grandmother as I used to. My father likewise is beyond the reach of Alexander Graham Bell’s invention. However, while there is still time, I can call my mother and my in-laws and tell them all how much they mean to me and that I love them. I will pet the Sprocket, our so sweet golden retriever and feed him a special treat. I will marvel at the beauty of the evening sky, and to borrow a favorite line from the Moody Blues, I will breathe deep the gathering gloom, and for just a moment I will try to allow myself to be at peace.

Yom Kippur pulls us out of life, that we may plunge back into it refreshed, renewed, and appreciative of the gifts we have been given. And what will you do when this day is done? Will you simply go home and eat? Or will you take the time to savor it, to enjoy it as the feast of survival which it is? I hope you do savor the meal, and life itself, moment by small moment. To do so is to seal your name in the Book of Life for blessing.

G'mar Chatima Tovah. May it be so.