From the WSJ Opinion Archives
HOUSES OF WORSHIP
A Sacred Sacrifice
Fasting helps to give us a true accounting of the soul.
Some of my Jewish friends will approach Yom Kippur next week a bit as if they were running in a marathon. Once a year, they gear up for the big race: an all-day service at synagogue along with a fast that calls for no food or water for more than 24 hours.
Even among the most secular of Jews, fasting on the Day of Atonement is one religious tradition that has somehow managed to survive. It is as if this fast were a bridge linking old-world religion with New Age devotion to health and fitness: Even those who lack religious fervor will approach the prospect of not eating or drinking once a year as a kind of extreme work-out--a treadmill of the soul.
But of course for many Jews fasting has a profound religious meaning. This was certainly true in my own immigrant Orthodox home, where early on I was made conscious of the sacred nature of fasting. And not simply on Yom Kippur--but on at least a half-dozen other occasions during the year.
Judaism is not an ascetic religion. On the contrary, "it celebrates the senses," remarks Rabbi Gerald Skolnik of the Forest Hills Jewish Center, a Conservative synagogue in Queens, N.Y. Fasting as an act of self-denial, he notes, is "a relative rarity" in the Jewish calendar. Those fasts that are mandated--and Yom Kippur is the most important--are "a legitimate Jewish expression of atonement."
During the days leading up to Yom Kippur, a person is supposed to reach out to friends or to family members that they may have offended the previous year and ask for forgiveness. But the fast itself concerns a person's relationship with God. "Denying basic human needs helps a person to do a true accounting of their soul," explains Rabbi Rafael Konikov of Chabad of Southampton Jewish Center in Long Island, N.Y.
Not everyone is required to fast: The sick are exempted, as are pregnant women and young children. I remember that, as a child, I wanted to fast. The ritual was a kind of status symbol, the passport to adulthood that I and my young friends craved. Yom Kippur meant an extra prayer--not to God but to my family. May I please go without food and water for one more hour? I would beg. I couldn't wait for the day when I'd be old enough to fast.
I had a perfect role model: My Egyptian-born mother, who approached fasting with a passion and abandon that I haven't seen before or since. Even when there wasn't an official fast on the horizon, she would sometimes make one up. That was not uncommon among Jews of the Middle East, where faith was tinged with a sense of mysticism. Some great rabbis the world over and even ordinary folks, fasted on certain weekdays, believing it led to a greater state of holiness. One Jewish tradition has it that you can change the outcome of a bad dream by fasting. The illness of a loved one is another occasion: When I became grievously sick at 16, my mother fasted regularly, as if God would listen more closely anytime she made a plea on an empty stomach.
My mother taught me to regard every fast, even the ones that were not biblically mandated, as sacred. The Fast of Tammuz. The Fast of Lamentations. The Fast of Esther. The Fast of Tevet. Even the relatively minor Fast of Gedalia, which comes one day after the celebration of the Jewish new year.
My mother had a special passion for the Fast of the First Born. Held the day before Passover, it recalls God's final plague against the Egyptians, his decree that the Angel of Death go from house to house and slay all of their first-born children. The fast, which is only observed by the first-born in a family, is a way of expressing gratitude to God for saving the Jewish children from this fate. "There's a little bit of 'There but for the grace of God go I'" to the ritual, says Rabbi Skolnik.
Of course every fast must end at some point, and the ending is part of the ritual and its meaning. Rabbi Marc Schneier of New York notes that "Yom Kippur has become a social fast," attractive to people almost as much for the lavish food served at its conclusion as for the actual atonement. But the joyful party atmosphere is firmly grounded in faith, he says: "It is a celebration of God's inscribing us in the Book of Life."
One or two hours before the end of Yom Kippur, my mother and I would sneak away from synagogue and head home. She would stand in the kitchen squeezing lemons into a large bowl and then adding spoonfuls of sugar and fresh mint leaves. Her task completed, she placed the pitcher in the refrigerator. Then she would take me by the hand and together we would walk back to synagogue. I longed for a glass of the lemonade right then, but she shook her head. Our traditional treat would be waiting for us when the fast was over.
On this coming Yom Kippur Day, as I fast, I will try to approach it with my mother's old passion. I'll picture that chilled glass of lemonade waiting for me in the refrigerator, the intense rush and euphoria that comes with finishing a fast and taking that first sip--cold and tart, delicious and rejuvenating--marking the end of atonement, the return to life, to celebration.
Ms. Lagnado, a Journal reporter, is the author of "The Man in the White Sharkskin Suit," a memoir to be published in 2007 by Ecco/HarperCollins.
