Timeless Torah

There are moments when an ancient metaphor takes on new meaning. Example: For millennia, our ancestors prayed to be inscribed in the Book of Life. It was no accident that for Jews life was connected to a book. While other religions found holiness in icons, people, and objects, for us, holiness was to be found in language. After all, it was with words that G-d formed the cosmos and revealed His Torah. That ‘words’ were the medium in which the mystery of life was encoded was always thought of as a spiritual intuition. We now know it is more: It’s a fact.
The human body contains a trillion cells containing two sets of the human genome. Each genome consists of some 3.1 billion letters, enough information to burst a library. The full script of the human DNA has only recently been transcribed. It turns out that it is a script of immense length and complexity, written in four letters, eerily similar to the kabbalistic idea of the four-lettered Name of G-d that runs through the entire universe. It is the language of creation, or as a Jew might say, the book of life.
Yet there is a huge difference between the book and the Book. Throughout the genome project, scientists claimed that we were on the threshold of discovering the genetic basis of human behavior. While it has been long accepted that certain diseases are hereditary, now the argument was, so too are personality traits such as aggression, depression, even criminality. From this it is a short step to genetic determinism; we cannot help what we do.
The original Book rejects this idea. True, Maimonides (Hilchos Deos 1:2) describes the various influences on character; genetics, upbringing, environment, and culture. That is what we mean when we say on Yom Kippur that we are, “like clay in the hands of the potter.” We are shaped by influences. But - and it is a fundamental but - we never lose our freedom. We are what we choose. Sometimes it is a great struggle to do the right thing. The inclination to do otherwise can be overwhelming, but never completely so. That is what makes us, “in the image of G-d.” As Nobel prize author Isaac Bashevis Singer put it so wittily: “We have to believe in free will. We've got no choice!”
Our deepest encounter with this freedom lies in the experience of t’shuvah. Complete repentance, writes Maimonides, is when we find ourselves in exactly the same situation as when we committed a sin, but this time we do not repeat it. All the factors are the same except one, our decision. At the heart of t’shuvah is the idea that circumstances do not determine what we do. We can act differently.
It is hard to overemphasize the significance of this idea. It means that no fate is final, no destiny inevitable. That is why Judaism is the supreme argument for hope. The great figures of our history were all capable of change. Joseph transformed from a young dreamer to a man of action. Tongue-tied Moses became eloquent. Ruth the outcast became the mother of our greatest king, and Esther, who thought herself helpless, grew into a savior. Our fate is not written in our genes.
Moral freedom, though, is never easy. We need help, a moral code to remind us of what is right and wrong. We need the support of family and community. We need rituals in which we practice virtue and stories of exemplary lives to inspire us. We need a sense of distance from the culture around us so that we are not swept along with the tide, and the prospect of change, t’shuvah, when we are. These are what the Book of Life gives us.
The unending scandals involving politicians (from the Clinton/Lewinsky affair to the latest Larry Craig bathroom embarrassment) reveals the difficulty many Americans (especially powerful ones) have with one of the central components of t’shuvah, namely confessing and simply saying, “I’m sorry. I messed up.”
Judaism embodies two fundamental and conflicting propositions. The first is that G-d asks us to live a perfect life. The second is that we all fall short. As Ecclesiastes puts it, “There is none so righteous that they do only good and never sin.” The reconciliation of these two truths is embodied in the Day of Atonement. To be moral does not mean never making mistakes. G-d does not expect us to never fail. All He asks is that we acknowledge our flops, learn from them, and try not to make them again. But only a personal G-d forgives. The impersonal gods of the ancient world; the wind, rain, sun, and storm, are all unforgiving.
Though the gods have changed, our perception hasn’t. Today they are likely to be the economy, the environment, international politics, and technological change. Politicians have their own impersonal deities, the media and public opinion, which are much more like the gods of ancient Greece than our G-d. They are relentless and unforgiving. They punish hubris with nemesis. They confer fame, but they demand their share of human sacrifice. In that sense, Washington is like a Greek tragedy. As one pundit wryly observed, “Every political career ends in failure.” This world has no room for repentance. Its rules are: Never be found out. Never admit. Never apologize. Stay in power for as long as possible. Never expose your vulnerability, lest the sharks taste blood. That is the world of contemporary public life, and it is a culture of our own making.
Conversely, Jews believe in a G-d who has faith in us even when we lose faith in ourselves, in which He allows us to make mistakes, asking only that we admit them. To inhabit a world in which we can say sorry and be forgiven is no small thing. This is the central theme of Yom Kippur which is emphasized in the day’s prayers when we confess our shortcomings and our commitment to do better.
Though our prayers are directed heavenward, the real Yom Kippur must take place within us. It is far easier to confess one's shortcomings to an unseen G-d than to ourselves. Our High Holiday liturgy relates that the High Priest entered the inner sanctum of the Temple on Yom Kippur. The Talmud calls this entering “Lifnai u'lfanim,” meaning going deep within. This signifies more than just walking into the Holy of Holies, but penetrating into the inner chambers of our heart, mind, and soul. For without true self-examination, Yom Kippur can be a meaningless charade. That is what the prophet Isaiah warns us of in the haftorah of the day: “Is this the fast day that I ask of you? That you should bend your head to Me like a reed or that you should beat your breast with your fist?” All such public contrition is meaningless if it is not accompanied by a heartfelt conviction for self-improvement.
Yom Kippur allows for such a deep entrance into one's inner self. It is a day of abstinence, an escape from the daily pressures. We are usually concerned about others; family, friends, Israel, the economy, etc. Yom Kippur gives us a chance to think about ourselves - not in a selfish way but in a meaningful fashion so that we may discover the purpose of our existence. This is not simple. It may not be achieved in one day - even if that one day be the Yom Kippur. But, at the very least, Yom Kippur can mark the beginning of that journey. All we ask for is another year in the Book. Not the one already predetermined, but the one we can change.